Narrative

Herself a carnival, a masquerade, her performance ripped
her off. Doubling, weaving, unravelling a marvellous Ariadne spool, dreading
Jason and grieving the Minotaur, the magic realism did not take off. Like the
plastic-fed albatross, her wings were crow, splendour doused to black branches,
and she was a tree.

 

She remembered:
“She was a tree of the earth
Unable, unether, heavy as sand
She could not fly, effortlessly transsubstantiate
As sparkling energetic sunshine.

Man cannot live without a root to grasp.”

This disturbing sense of return…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On the NY Times article “Vindicated by DNA, but lost on the outside”

The sense of colonial legacy is like depression–canker closely held at the core. Wrongfully incarcerated in bar or body, put away by systems accidentally encountered, when released, the ‘thing’ is left unfit to survive. Redress is a fallacy as long as time is considered linear.

And in the man’s story cited above, the lure of the simple cure. The conversion to a
strict system of belief is not as hard as, say, making money. The high road to the summit is easier with guy ropes, teamwork and oxygen. Further, the test is simple, the culling automatic, and the
prize inalienable. One owns one’s goodness in a perfect moral democracy, you see.
Liberty, equality, fraternity, then, has been the call of all world religions. Come to me and you shall be free because when the horizons are invisible, one may consider oneself the master of all one surveys.

 

 

 


Roughly translated: “What to do?”

What should we do now? Ki kori? That ‘ki kori,’ I have found, is a different thing to the mythical East and the mythical West. To one it is predicament, to the other it is call to action. Further, consider the masculine, capable, “Ki kora jaye?” in contrast to the feminine consternation of “Ki kori.”

 

 

 

On Avatars, Pink Floyd and career tangents

Arthur Clarke’s Rendezvous with Rama is a magic, magic book, like cotyledons sleeping.
It opens to thought and stimuli like a plant to the triggers of life. A man, writing on careers, quoted Pink Floyd, “set the controls for the heart of the sun.” As the world Clarke christened Rama did, before humans existed, after they will, heading with calm precision for the heart of the sun where it will sip from the fire and, in a curving arc of change, head out to unimaginable futures, to tempt other worlds with the possibility of salvation and examples of change. In a perfect parabola lay the meaning of ‘avatar’: that
self-sustaining thing, partially recognizable by the observer’s world, potent enough to be threatening, which flashed through the observing heavens on its own pre-determined course, bringing into fruition a perfection of life and form out of its own belly—a perfect dream of order unachievable, untouchable. Its
coming to life again is reincarnation, its perfection the definition of avatar.

Daily bread

Those people are attuned to their necessity of putting the daily bread on the table, she said. If you take away that necessity and give them money they won’t know what to do. I agreed.
So. Work is tied to necessity, acquiring dimension by relief against the canvas of supply and demand. The Left and Right begin to make sense and take flight.
And the poet is beseeching, wants to put both hands into the moist earth for he has heard that that will make his writing smell like bread.

Recapitulating a post against those who attacked an old artist

And still we confuse faith with religion and
conscience, confuse a man’s profession with a man’s calling, and attempt to
regulate the personal as we censor the public. We still tend to force art into
a binary with morality, metaphor into a binary with realism, out of a lack of
depth and insight into the roots of art, human endeavor, and the signifier that
a civilization like India’s could be. We do not understand the difference
between each of sex, sexual acts, sexuality, sensuality, pornography, identity,
cultural artifacts, the philosophical import of the metaphors which are gods,
and the role of human integrity in artistic endeavor. Pity. No wonder we could
not understand the difference between Sita and ‘Chhaya Sita’; no wonder we
don’t understand the ungendered point of the lakshmanrekha–the boundaries of
form and material must be transgressed if great things must be enacted/created.
We have not understood the interplay of form and content, veil and gaze, nor
the difference between naked and nude.