The Innermost Tactility

Take a moment to silence your being.

What ignites a feeling?

A rhyme, a crime

A rush for knowledge, a rush to forget

A cadence, a baritone

A hustling city, a breathable sky

Something raw, something creative

A green lawn, some silty fragrance

An unease of home, a rest of travel

A random banter, a contemplated thought

Familiarity, a cruelty of the unknown

Shabbiness, organisation

The satisfaction of morality, the gnashing of rules

The sweetness of desserts, saliva gushing due to flavoured spices

A cup of strong coffee, a tepid milkiness of sweet curd

The hidden tears in goodbyes, the excitement in hellos

The colourful joys of festivities, the relaxation of a twelve houred sleep

The relief after finishing an essay, the disappointment while editing it

A notable experience, a forgotten time

A hazy memory, a detailed visualisation

Learning a new language, letting a few words of the old one slip

Draping a new piece of clothing, discarding an old one filled with memories

A song that flashbacks into time, a rhythm you lose yourself into

A scorching summer afternoon, a chilling winter morning

A beholding sunrise, a breathtaking sunset

The feeling of drifting away from, getting to know — someone

The urge to change, the distaste of having to change

A peaceful walk, a long road trip

Seizing an eventful evening, wasting a day in unproductivity

A mother’s hug at the end of a bad day, the sadness of letting her down

Displaying a talent, forcing a job

An unending amount of time, a duration that feels like nothingness

Some warming soup when unwell, the healing of an ailment

Identifying a reference, remembering a quote

Or think of any one of the million things that make you think about how you felt when you experienced them. For identifying a feeling is one of life’s many a great virtues.

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Conundrumming

“I wish I were a bread-seller in Algeria so I could sing with revolutionaries”

– Mahmoud Darwish

I wish I were a dancer in Iran so I could rebel for artistry;

I wish I were a prequel of greatness,

I wish I were an indelible witness.

I wish I were a wound gnashing non-living blade,

I wish I were used for my power — oh how my reputation would cascade!

I wish I were a sequel to upgradal,

I wish I were in my apparition’s cradle.

I wish I were in the Epitaphs of War, in Kipling’s verse —

I wish I were dealing with the scars of either the Pelican or the Hindu in France;

I think I wish I were the trademaster of power and survival,

I really just wish I were strengthening enough to guillotine the rival.

Superpowers

Superpowers, superheroes, special abilities, extraordinary things and massive fiction makes one go: (!!!)

As a fellow fan of all of the above I was rushed to write/rant about it. Popular, in-game flicks of the various cinematic universes (be it the DCEU, MCU or the Unbreakable-Split-Glass trilogy I recently discovered) have always portrayed spectacularity in their content, approach and delivery. These movie/series experiences wholly try to replicate graphic novels or comics, where the roots of these rather massive branches have originated. A type of art imitates another type of art but in its own nature. By comparing these vast measures of storylines, characters and action packed extravaganzas to a whole Universe is implying its status-quo in itself.

I used to think of this genre of fiction as the most distant phenomena from reality. I was grappling with the thought of its relativity with reality. After watching Unbreakable, the perception that — superpowers are exaggerations of our instincts — stuck with me. M. Night Shyamalan hasn’t created a universe full of superpowers and “unrealistic” elements, he has tried to incorporate the importance of a higher reality — one that we may seem oblivious to but one that settles in every one of us. We are what we believe we are. His characters believe that they have instinctual enhancements, those that make them stand-out from normalcy. We see those characters take centralised control over their instincts and see them turn that into a “super” power. Now tell me, exactly how different is that from reality? It’s just in rosier storylines and greater fictitious contexts. But it actually reflects what we as individuals need to do to achieve a greater meaning in life. We need to take hold of our instincts and take a step towards a higher level of self reflection. Superpowers aren’t just a thing to folktale about. They are self-inheritences in the form of beliefs and understanding that has opened my senses a little. Maybe I’m trying to find the whereabouts of my own superpower. So should you.

I think I’m a little too excited about Glass. And not to mention how amazing any trilogy-crossover seems. Before I go onto a higher level of gaga, adiós amigos.

Thank you for reading!

The Great Gadsby

Had that title coming!

I watched Hannah Gadsby’s stand-up show Nanette yesterday and I’m beyond glad that I sat through an hour and seven minutes of such qualitative experience. A woman from a small town named Tasmania in Australia, she has come a long way.

Hannah Gadsby delivers some pivotal messages through her own experiences and she does so with great oratory precision, mostly because she strongly believes in what she has articulated. This stand-up transcends the power of comedy to get through a story — one that blends the fundamentals of jokes and stories — and touches upon a dynamic stretch of issues relating to gender, sexuality and an elemental surprise of art history! However as the show canons with hilarious riffs on gender stereotyping and how she “doesn’t lesbian enough”, it steadfastly leads into her announcing why comedy isn’t the best platform for her to tell her story. She believes that every joke has a set-up and a punch line; the comedian has to build tension amongst the audience and then has to free them through a surprising liner that transforms their tension into laughter. Although, she holds a larger purpose in life — to tell her story because she would give anything to have heard a story like hers. For various people who identify with her and her struggle, her and her storytelling.

Do you understand what self deprecation means when it comes from somebody who already exists in the margins? It’s not humility. It’s humiliation. I put myself down in order to speak, in order to seek permission to speak. And I simply will not do that anymore. Not to myself and not to anybody who identifies with me.

So powerful. And how beautifully the fact that she wanted to quit comedy descended into her monologue.

Something that altered my perception was a harsh reality, a truth so brutal — that we reduce an artist’s worth of life into something as mere as “from rags to riches” — she speaks this in reference to Vincent Van Gogh. It’s so sad to realise how blatantly we trace the legacies of these accomplished artists as if their creativity was limited to their mental vulnerabilities and how we treat their imaginations to be something that is so far away, so distant from reality. It really isn’t right to portray their lives that way. They were as real as you and I are. In fact, as the saying goes, art doesn’t imitate reality; reality imitates art instead. Maybe it is this saying that we’re battling, a way to deceive the goals of our realities.

She roots for the stories of people like Monika Lewinsky’s to be heard, because she herself identifies with it and believes that such an arena requires varied voices. She argues why men like Pablo Picasso, Woody Allen, Bill Cosby, Bill Clinton and Harvey Weinstein get to have their reputations protected. Has reputation gotten more important than humanity?

We think it’s more important to be right than it is to appeal to the humanity of people we disagree with. Ignorance will always walk amongst us because we will never know all of the things.

This truth couldn’t have been stated in a better way.

On account of the Pride Month, she also states how the flag of pride isn’t appealing enough to her. The six colours stacked on top of each other seem shouty and assertive to her. In her opinion, the colour blue is the ultimate option. Not because it “promotes masculinity”, not at all. In fact, because it’s a colour of unabashed contradictions. It’s at the end of the cold spectrum and still strives in the hottest part of the flame; they say if you’re feeling blue, you’re feeling sad but blue skies are of course optimistic; a blue print is a plan but something that doesn’t happen in the plan comes out of the blue! This was specifically a lovely anecdote filled with light-hearted ideals.

She concludes that laughter isn’t the medicine, but so isn’t anger. The real cure lies within stories to which laughter only adds a honey-like sweetness. And this is exactly what describes her entire monologue.

This stand-up was something that affected me in many ways and that’s why to pay an ode to it, I decided to write it down and share whatever my takeaway from it was. I hope everyone reading this will give this powerful narrative filled with hilarity and honesty a try.

P. S. – my idea of the title was original, yes. Although it’s a pretty obvious chuckle, I take pride in coming up with it — haha.

Oral Histories

Here’s an introductory line which would probably not hook you onto reading this — I mean I should probably write something that could — haha.

I’ve been thinking what I could blog about as all I’ve been doing is reading about issues, histories, stories, matters, anything that the internet has to offer and catches my interest. There’s this interesting topic – that of Oral History – that struck a chord of thought in my mind.

History is a subject that analyses and defines human perspectives, those which succeeded, failed and/or those which remained relevant even if for a short period of time. Time. Another beautiful and significant aspect of History. I love how the two concepts intertwine their way into relating and comparing the cultural and traditional abundance of the legacies of any place, people and/or thing. It’s really just enough to satisfy the wonderance of our curious minds in terms of exploring our own ancestral precedents. A large part of the Legends and Myths we’ve been taught have been imparted to us by the means of storytelling and elaborate discussions of family traditions and cultures. That is – what we’ve heard and what we’ve been told – Oral History.

Although, as beautiful and bonding as the concept of Oral Histories may sound, it’s no ‘solid evidence’ for what may or may not have taken place in the history of the respective topic being taken into consideration. Many people might agree saying a lot of it has been interpreted one way, manipulated throughout the generations of it being storytold, may call it too hearsay for a subject as elaborative in research as this. However, in my most humble opinion, that shouldn’t let us diminish the value of what oral histories have to offer. I think listening to how our previous generations have perceived a particular story/legend/myth is massively endearing and to be able to understand that from a perspective of their understanding is an interesting way to comprehend that respective piece of discussion. Even after understanding, the morals and values that they derive from that piece of story may be wholly different from what we do and this is what defines any generation of thought. Age and time matter again.

Oral histories are a great way to express personal opinions and there’s nothing wrong with that as long as it targets another school of thought or league of belief or arises any unnecessary discordance.

P. S. – a particular profoundness of oral histories is that of the tales of how certain superstitions came into being, a topic I’ll research more upon (and probably write on here). Till then, thank you for reading!

Slightly Mighty

I try my hand at poetry whenever rhythm and rhyme play with my senses. A poem can add such wholesomeness to life, its power js impeccable.

I present to you a facet of my life:

And the day silently retires,

Brings back memories of the perfect attire,

My mind running across the shore,

Distracts itself in its whole.

 

The frog’s cacophony,

Sitting on a surface turned stone-y,

The butterflies fly so high,

My foot stumbles and hurts, sigh.

 

The brain’s distraction plays deep and deprived,

Taking, still, everything in its stride.

 

A tangerine coloured sky appears,

Makes my senses all hail and disappear,

Now my smelling aid conspires,

As the fragrance of serenity perspires.

 

The aura of a placid lake,

All my guilty pleasures start to shake.

 

Now starts a drizzly tone,

The surface water ripples and dares to have grown,

In a poetic daze, there comes the starry night

As I hum a song say – Neon Knight.

 

The dark brings along a tensile decision strength,

I let my innate energies flow over a length,

As I walk away from this visual dream,

I go back to a town, not the same as was this stream.

The First Rain

For a kick-start, what better to write about other than the dangling mood swings of this rather indecisive weather.

Hello, I’m a sixteen year old trying to write more often than, oh well, not.

A day or two ago, I was awakened scared by a terrifying wave of noise. Thunder. Some consistent, especially loud, unpleasant to the ear, frequent thundering. The current went off and the room felt overly humid. I ran outside seeking a coolant only to be chased by a heavy downpour of rain. The air felt definitely cooler and it was a relief from the scorching heat this summer had produced hitherto. Normally, annoyance is what I strongly feel when the rain plans to hit my face and keep my eyes from opening. A change of temperature, respective of the weather, always alters my perception about the rain a little. I enjoy rainy seasons, I also don’t. Guess the weather isn’t sure of its varying moods as well, considering the fact it has been just two days and the temperature has already risen to its usual – sweaty and dry. The day, anyway, resumed to be nice and cool while there was no sign of any complaint from my side (about the weather, at least).

The first rain of the season was all in all a pleasant surprise. Also, the thunder and lightning were probably compositions that Thor was working on. It’s best to let him do his thing.

Footnote: This was just a muse to keep me going further as I will try to expand my writing territory with every piece, hopefully. (Even if not, I can keep writing about the weather you know).

P. S. – I remember promising word-play. Time will bring with itself, promised brilliance.