Ward-3

Seated in this chair;my mattress
now breathing,reimbursement
in the fact that not one person
died in my room this week.There
was the unusual flailing of the
arms,and some difficult groans
by the man who shits by his bed.
But ward-3 made it through
last night as well.I hear there
were 2 next door- you wouldn't
really call them neighbours. Because
for once they are unwilling to
receive your mail,or hold your
keys.You don't want postmen
making mistakes at the hospital.
It is midnight;men and women
dart in opposite directions,other
side of the window.The random
appearance of a person who
looks like-isn't scooting to save
a life,is actually,relieving.For two
hours that has not happened,and
I think it is awfully unquiet elsewhere.
Besides,you do not find aggressively
apathetic visitors,outside a bar,
in the middle of the night.Here,the
moon,the night,the dawn matter only
in a passive sense.Mornings in
ward-3 will see attendants,return
to their jobs.Hopefully,from exile.

Ship Of Theseus

I rarely ever let my other-world life leak into my blog ,but I have been overwhelmed by a recent Film.The first of its kind made in India.Here is a short rant about how this is something I had been waiting for a long long time.

That Indian cinema has been for years,even decades, treading a fine seam,unfolded by its own sense of directionless is a mere understatement.The coming of age for this industry has been now ,for an eternity an ever dropping sun on the backside of years of darkness.In a country where an art-form is often objectively summarized in terms of the artist and not the piece of art itself,something of a breakthrough has been made. Anand Gandhi's Ship Of Theseus has made nearly a century of history in the Indian film business look like a popcorn gummed,tearfully spun,inanely bubbling bowl of soup,the deli at the corner of the street might serve to earn the vindictive buck.
It is no point in mathematically dissecting the film for its title,subject and conclusion(available elsewhere).That is of course, at least in this case, for the now 'fabled'Indian cinema goer to consider and construe.Ship of Theseus presents little in terms of a chumming opinion one would prefer to form of nearly two and half hours spent,didactically learning,and eventually unlearning their well placed terms of moral coherence.Cinema,especially in this country,has for years driveled out stockpile after stockpile of transversely discontinuous waves of emotion,doing so much so as momentarily flip self-associating burgers for the transfixed man sitting in the front row,having coaxed himself into accepting 'promoted' realism as his fast food for a fast life.What Ship of Theseus offers is completely different from anything that has ever been accessible to the Cinema fan aside the perplexity at the sheer inaudibility, of the voice-over one may get to hear any time between the evolutionary handover from generation to generation of this art.Of course there are un-relatable minor threads in the film and even a broad dissonance in what is infectious about films in a personal sense. But then nothing really captures the essence of the film in one word other than 'strength'-in the sense that probably for the first time the Cinema goer shall feel empowered about his own sense of purpose,or the lack of it, even in something so 'hippie-shly' mundane as watching a thoughtful motion picture.Visually astounding,elegantly written,seamlessly intelligent,this film surpasses all its descendants if ever there have been any,to the extent that their one lasting impression of 'chance' by the end may have been otherwise, considered as unfortunate.Only, if compared with the international arena does a sense of perspective arrive in eliciting flaws in the film,otherwise unblemished,mainly for its courage to be prudently different. Thus has been delivered ,some retribution for our metronomic endurance of this trade,if and that is if you consider yourself a connoisseur of the music now reluctantly playing(inside the myriad theatres of the country),and not the instruments.

And..

Midnight,half-way
through,caressing,
her side of the bed

Potatoes 3

         chimes
Wind            
           -less  attic

Eulogy,
Men read
from their palms

Polished boots,
wearing the right
one,in the left

Heaven's door;
he says,it's the
mood swings

Subway,
Faces paler
than recent death

Starry night
before I woke up,
I'm told

Moving past
the showers,the
sky in folds

Rising with
an elevator,
the reflected sun

Beach side,
old lady
builds her first house

Back exit
of a theatre, tears
and crumpled tickets

The redundant anaesthetist

I relish bad memory:an off-putting
  retailers trick, to sell me cud
 as with little repairing effect of my own
I come and go;see people in a shameful daze
  in a centre of the hue situation
where from the craziness begins
   the glove in hand bleakness
i have to drink to every night.

Horizontal gravity

It is a little like the middle of the week,
    of the month, of the year ;
  most accurately, the middle of your life,
      and precisely midway the length
              of a funeral..

Written on the back of an ice cream truck, probably by a psychopath

I feel near death situations
are resolvable,with a little grit

I feel sorry for writing this
only now,but I find that

caution has plagued me; I am more
like a poet with absolutely

no idea of what safe imaginations are,
of things that are unearthly,and convenient

for that sort of thing, and I
feel sorry for myself,why not ??

feel wronged by the shape of my hands,
knowing that some of the best poems

could have been written on the back of them,
for what is a poem if not some mucilage

to stick your tongue to, and continuously
taste that terrible feeling

of relishing pain ,and its pleasure
at the same time;nuanced with

a presumable misfortune to come,
because really, if nothing can be written

about the ice cream truck ,like the world
gone ahead, you already hate getting to or

the world like the ice cream truck
honking in your intestinal voids

you may not consider this the impasse,
there is no turning back from