The Somersaulting Heart

I think of leaving all this behind

but the furthest that I’ve got

are peremptory boasts (a wish) that

my heart lies somewhere better.

Still, slow retreating steps’ll do;

hold me in better stead I guess

than going forth where I’m never true

a penny-counting half-witness.

A few days ago, a stab of jealousy -

like a poisoned dart - enveloped in me

a nice, deceiving warmth, you know

almost what they call ‘inner glow’.

It was at first, a fling with Art;

tho now I’d like to be committed.

The asylum’s not far, but my heart is flung

somersaulting away, all song and drama.

A Not Unraveling

Let me get to the heart

Of the matter at once;

My deepest darkest secret fear

Is that I will let myself down

And crush those that I love,

Through actions that betray

a pathetic lack of courage.

Not uncommon, I know.

Not even unfounded, it’s true.

But the hole in my stomach -

-the dryness of my mouth -

the derailment of thought;

Confer a unique experience

Each time the penny drops

I realized this some time ago,

And that more out of curiosity

About my own internal process

A wonder at my surrender

At my acceptance of paralysis

Will it always be so easy, so familiar

these patterns of failure

I search for my inner Ivanhoe

propelled by a greater fear, of course;

Of time unaccounted; sunken costs –

Standing still – and yet getting lost.

Will I survive not being constantly gratified?

If I split into two, I might see this through

But I can inhabit the future only when it’s now.

why I rejected your friend request

This one is for my friends

Who wonder where i’ve been

Hiding – just out of their sight

Or deep in the funkhouse

I measure my worth like I

Measure my days – sometimes

I don’t fully inhabit the person in

the images I show to the world

On such days when it takes a little more,

I turn to tea or toast or poetry

But sometimes I must sit down and

Confront some dizzying questions

I think my face rather ugly then

I look lost and slow and chubby

So my focus shifts to better expression

As soon as I am reminded of this

It is not for me, not, certainly,

In this lifetime, to live up to your ideals

But maybe once I start controlling

My facial expressions -  I’ll say hello

Carpe...damn.

Wake up calls work for

those who are asleep, and not

for us who keep our eyes closed

wilfully explaining away

every lost opportunity

as one that never was found

what does it mean to

stand up for myself

and discount the doubt for a minute

to take a clean confident plunge

into the unknown depths

it could be beautiful

it could mean wishing i’d

done it sooner and better

it could mean learning a lesson

but what i will never know by crawling

back under my own oppression

i will never know at all.

Carne

I ate half a bird yesterday

and it (the eating, not the bird)

led me to contemplate,

if poems are gentle, compassionate?

Let me explain, I stake

no claim in kindness banks;

but death is not always,

a matter of unkindness

And we are trapped in 

bodies flawed. The goat it

bleats, the cows fidget

And I will never figure out a widget.

Are we vulnerable to precision?

The killing machine is the same for me

and you and all the animals

(do you think they think they're free?)

I've toed the line of agency to 

practice the art of the possible.

Still the world has failed to well show me

how bacon can be the smell of evil.

scene

Trust slipped loose, and the shingles

sprinkled like salt on the open wound.

One by one all day we hear

the faultlines crack and wait, look around;

for the crash that will always take you by surprise.

Outside The Box

It gets stranger in the night,

a time of cold, suspended sight.

the nub of my wrist in your strong embrace,

and the taste of summer rain.

We burn by the candle's wick,

drown in the swirling intrigue.

You hold me by the nape of my neck

and fear chokes my gullet.

Strangers love like stowaways,

hungry and funny by turns.

Hysterical. The red is from the wine.

Oh, but some of it is mine.

I bear no scars from secret trysts;

I play well known outsider's tricks.

I go where strange friendships are found,

and return like clay, unmade.

Break your own heart and mourn it well;

the love of self is a lesson in hell. 

And tortured souls arrive at the place, 

none too soon and a little too late.

The Business of Theatre in the Attention Economy

Last weekend I watched a Hindi play. Although I’m very interested in theatre activity, my work hours and time management prevent me from watching all the plays I would like to. But last weekend, I watched the same play, twice, Saturday and Sunday.

***

Several years ago, or what feels like it, I could contemplate the world for hours, drifting between incomprehension and acceptance. But it doesn't really bother me that I can hardly sit still without having to resort to using the internet, or a phone to constantly re-engage and connect with other living elements of my world.

***

Somewhere I read, a guy had correctly pointed out that we now live in the attention economy where human attention is a scarce commodity. Our reserves of attention and attention spans are getting shorter and shorter, the further we’re exposed to instant gratification and an assault of data and information every way we turn. So something that holds our attention for really long is what will be prosperous in this economy.

***

So when the internet is where-its-at, when your marriage is validated when you update your facebook status, and most of these public and data-rich activities are performed for the public eye, it behooves one to hold the precious and rare away from the scrutiny of jaded, cynical eyes roving through the cesspit these beholders believe the internet to be.

***

I have been living without a functioning computer at my flat for a few months now, and I find that while I’m sorely missing out on the music I want to listen to, I am getting so many other things done that I would never get the chance to do if I would be glued to my twitter timeline every night, or bouncing off the wikisphere or blogosphere drowning in a flurry of hyperlinks. Cooking, reading, talking to friends on the phone once in a while. Yeah, this is not a bad deal.

***

Perhaps at a time like this, an art form like theatre is the most relevant. For art to exist, for artists to survive and interest in art to sustain, it must adapt. But maybe the inability of an art form like theatre to adapt to this age of easy accessibility, unavailability in a virtual form like an e-book or a music album or a film turned into bits, keeps it real. And pure. Theatre remains something to be experienced, in the moment, and is no less visceral in its approach and execution than it was a thousand years ago on the ancient Grecian podiums.

It's been a bloody long time since I blogged, but I'm not going to dwell on that.

I'm not going to dwell on much, actually. Except to say that I have come back here, because it reminds me of a time when I looked into myself to understand my thoughts and to find sense in what I did, and so, who I was.

Even if I am not that same person any more, as would be the case with anyone after 5 years living an unchronicled, pretty much unhinged existence - I want to reconnect with this dear old identity I had. One I may not entirely recognize, or appreciate all the time, but certainly, this is still me. Somewhen.

And, I have been gripped with a fear that I will slowly, but surely, start losing my voice. Literally and metaphorically. I intend to seek out a music teacher over the weekend, (does anyone in Bombay know who's a good hindustani vocals teacher anywhere in central or south bombay?) and to find what I want, and say it the way I want to, with the words I used to covet as mine. If it is my opinion, and an interesting one, it won't just go on chat windows or into a ear and out the other.

And hopefully my writing will improve as well. It will feel good once I hit publish. But then, I should get down to changing the template and all that shizz. You'll be seeing more of me. :)