Disingenuous discontinuity

My last few posts towards year end always tend to reflect on the year gone by; kind of like a taking stock of things done, the to-do list checked off and a retrospective meander through the mind. It doesn't take much to muster the courage to make these notes of course: data gladly presents itself, just as it did this weekend past. There's nothing like a friendly, family social event (such as a wedding) to stir one into a mix of familiar faces. A mocktail of sorts in which I found myself in Alice-like charm, drowned in some contentious, other bemusing fluid moments of a ping-pong game gone awry. My writing is almost as dizzy as I feel. There is one certainty I should make note of: the past, if left like a weeded plot untended, will crawl over your garden wall and make its way into the present. That's a given. Weeds. The kind that can kill roses, if you're not too careful. Okay so life is still fragrant, but I am left thinking, reflecting, with words like disingenuous swirling in the murky waters of my mind. And I'm wondering about life as some supposed sort of continuum, the dots and dashes I see instead, the adoption of a process of broken steps, the inheritance of the discontinuous. It's been a while since I free wrote a load of cryptic hogwash. It feels really good. I'm still upset by the findings that landed in my lap, though. But they won't alter my course.

Free imaginings

The way we live our life seems to be a function of our imagination. We imagine that we are at a certain point, measured only by our relative perceptions. And we make our way along a path that we deem is wrought with difficulty or strewn with rose petals, often to our own detriment or perhaps a precursor to little bouts of disappointment and some level of joy upon discovering that we have far exceeded our own expectations.

So. Most of all, the relevance of life is measured by how we prioritize matters, beliefs, people and things in general. How deeply we felt something, only to have it washed aside in a moment of disparate agitation, speaks much of the frivolity with which we might splash emotion or withhold it, even.

Above all else is the dire need to foster this growing, thriving fuel of imagination.
It's the foundation for everything that we delve in, the inspired gas of our oblivion, the grease on the the wheels that pull a cart of memories and the glue that holds us together in times of trauma and distress.

Imagine a world without this essential element?

;)

rotten potatoes

potatoes left to rot on the rack
always feel like
a waste
of carbs,
a waste of
good energy
a waste
of
time
and earth
and sunshine
and water
and
a waste
of
life.

tomatoes still have a use
ever after
but potatoes,
well,
they're just
a rot
of life
on
the compost heap.

wholesome
gone
rubbish.

Top 50 Blogs: in humanity

I'm having a pretty random day. And so a random search for my blog brought me to discover this:

Apparently, SoapBox Shafinaaz makes some random list by NetworkedBlogs as number 19 on the Top 50 Blogs: in humanity.

I had no idea that such a thing existed. Nor was I notified.
But it's obviously some part of the Networks way of marketing readable blogs at various stages; making blogs known to the rest of the blogosphere, and to pretty much the rest of the virtual surfers out there... What I am curious about is the criteria involved in making this assessment. The social scientist in me wants to know :P

In related news, "Memoirs For Kimya", the blog-to-book, is having an inspired new year so far :D

I'm the one that's at a loss for words, for the most part.
Yes, stranger things do occur.

Peaceful thoughts to all...

S

stress

I cannot remember being as stressed out as I was today.

I hope that its over for the most part.

There's always tomorrow.

Please God. Don't test my Love, so.

I'm only human.

And I am being human.

Mercy, please.

i got a tan. well done!

i got a tan. on a roadtrip.

im tired.

tired of these

and those.

but super-exhilarated

super duper so

because the view,

the sun, surf and sand

the company of loved ones

and the faces met

were all

so...

exhilarating

:)

a thousand helpless pieces

boredom is...

that moment between

contemplating and creating

when nothing gels

for long nail-biting hours

and the hole wears thin

along that carpet path

in the artist's hiding place;

the midnight lamp sucks the last of its oil,

and then suddenly

a lightbulb flickers

its almost daylight,

the moon shatters bits of glass,

my window lies at my feet in

a thousand helpless pieces

windiness howls into the gaping space between

random articles of furniture, paper, skin and cartilage.

all is silent now,

-my heart skips a beat-

a pen finds its way between bedraggled fingers of my writer's hand,

and then it bleeds for me,

once again.

fools gold

in a land of milk and honey all we ever seem to find are mounds of clay covered in powdery sand, an obstacle course of sticky tar waiting to capture and cover, then feather and debone to near perfection, a skewered lump of stuff. then theres that journey to be made along the rainbow of imagination, with the promise of great things at the end of much strife that pretends to be great fun. in a land of honey and milk all we are left with at the end of the slippery slide is a handful of fools gold. no rainbow. only more mounds of that clay from which we came. and the smell of nostalgia forming clouds of de ja vu and veils of contention and even more mirages of that milk and honey as was revealed in dreams long forgotten. and when the mist has cleared and u pick urself up, and dust off the grime of joviality (i darent say mockery!) - the pot of glittery remnants awaits in consolation - that ultimate collection of gold for the fool that was fooled for the gold.

Die. And be quiet.

I'm not writing at the moment. It feels like a lapse of words in a way, almost like I have abandoned, neglected my ultimate need to be a part of the greater circle of creativity. Dryness. Aridity, a newfound state of being. Thirst arising from all of this.

It's quite a scary, empty feeling. Especially because I have been writing almost non-stop for a few months now, mostly August to Feb... And now just silence. The words rotate in a careless spiral in some kind of literary vacuum, waiting for a way to be strung together in a more ordered chaos.

Still, nothing.

That's when all the cryptic poetry becomes necessary, almost, in a mock effort to alleviate the constipation.

And ramblings such as this one... more mediocre verse and prose struggling to make words look like they know what they're doing on this dance floor, even as they serve only to step on toes and form lumps of lard in the mouth. At least still something to chew on, not so?

Bite. Munch. Chomp. Gulp.

Choke.

Splutter.

Die. And be quiet.

WebComic

PS: No Idea how to make this smaller. Its the smallest that blogger allows. Please click on image to see full cartoon.

Tag- You're It!

I have been tagged by Azra. The last time I did the tag thing wassss a long time ago. I remember it was something about the last ten songs we heard or something like that. Anyway, if you want to read my comment and engagement, its the first comment at her post: Scattergories.

Crazy weather, weather crazy

I love the rain... it reminds me of being born.. again and again... of the cycle of life, and the ways in which the innocence of children can be a storehouse of learning for us adults. I love summer, because of its warmth, that eternal feeling of being embraced with the kiss of sunrays leaving you just a little pink... and I love the breeze that works its way into my room when im writing... playing a little distracting game with me and the muse... teasing just enough to get some amount of free writing out in a mere five minutes.

I love my freedom. My family. My books. My car. Yes, that too. I love being a girlie girl. And I love being South African. Oh and jelly tots. But for now, I love the rain. Its great for writing. And painting. And baking, believe it or not. My shortbread biscuits just came out superbly today!

This rain has memories for me. It reminds me of coffee shops and colourful umbrellas. It reminds me of yellow butterflies. It reminds me of spontaneiety. It reminds me of me...

energy

energy

thrown about carelessly

ocean

swim or die

words

piercing wanton bodies

made of clay only

but memories stay

because thats what

manufactured the energy

then;

now it's nothing.

so dont worry, cos

energy...

thrown about carelessly,

no more.

amsterdam is

amsterdam is the colour of naples on a yellow summer afternoon when the rain has just washed my forehead clean of the anxiety that last winters brush scratched across it.

amsterdam is fine, oil, colours of warmth.

amsterdam is where i am.

with a canvas, palette and brushes.

and all the colours of my imagination
working their way around my head -
sometimes as a wreath i can touch;
othertimes a halo that touches me.

A Post About Nothing...

pearls of life

pearls, floating in my mouth,
are like speedtraps on an open road..
like when i gargle and
they pop about aimlessly,
of no use to the everyday workings
of my body;

but to my heart and mind from whence they
came as clots of the blood
and thoughts,
Oi, what a Sight?!

they cause havoc!

i think its time they
were rolled out
into the
streets

some will trip
slip
fall

as i have

and some will
catch their
brilliance before
they disappear into
the gutters of bitterness..

and some
will be fashioned in glory
to be worn around loves neck.

aah, these pearls!

pearls of yesterday
making me choke on them today,
waiting for a rather
embellished tomorrow.

waiting.

mint memorium

Mint died.
Which means that Lindt is mint-less.
And she says that even Lindt's days are numbered.

They did good together,
that Lindt and Mint.

But nothing is forever.
So.

Experiments.. Writing 1st person - present

I look the hijacker in the eye. I am not afraid. I am the one with the gun. I have read and heard people talk of a scant few minutes seeming like an eternity. This moment might be just one or two. I will never know for certain. But the energy between us is noisy almost. Eye to eye. Soul to soul. His eyes reveal the uncertainty in my hands. The lack of fear makes me feel oddly numb. I have never held a gun before. I marvel at the strange sense of power I feel. I savour it. Until my eyes reconnect with the unspoken words of this other human being. Two people suspended in a moment in time. The attacker and the attacked. The predator and the hunted. A finger fumbles the trigger. I feel like the victim as the gunshot echoes in my ears.

Durbans always eventful, often arb

And so last night I attended premiering of Mission Istanbul, saw the Oberoi character in the flesh and a rather well-tailored suit, unlike in the movie; and got home again to perform rituals of hot chocolate and evening handshakes with the goldfish who have replaced me, namely lindt and mint. But of course, its all in good faith, and so today was more refueling of the sunshine tank :) Interesting how a trip to the mall can turn pretty spontaneous and awesome at the same time. And so it did, in good ol fashioned kiddy fun style at Milky Lane. Must be the weather.
Waffles, anyone? Imagine, having political and philosophical debate with two reknowned thinkers of the east coast, over waffles and creme soda floats. Yep, it was the weather!

I am begining to enjoy these random short posts.
They delve into daily life more than my cryptic (or maybe not so cryptic) rambling philosophies about everymans guide to absolutely nothing.

So this is value-driven :P

Or something.

lindt and mint

cousin fati bought goldfish. im not sure why. anyway so they were meant to be called salt and pepper. apparently.
but then their globular fishbowl cracked. then it broke. and pandemonium ensued. but theyre ok. they now live in the vase from my office. potentially traumatised by the strange space. and when it finally came down to naming them, they became lindt and mint. just seemed happier. i hope they are!