Laughable Loves.

I walked in shadows of,

Doubt- “would i ever meet someone interesting?” , “would there be another S?”.

Fear  – “would she find me funny?” , “would she find me attractive?” .

Premonition – “i shall be alone, forever.” or worse, “settle for something less than special.”

long odds then, that by quirk of fate,

I chance upon her – A.

human vessel to my dreams.

Doubt — vanquished, Fear looms large.

And then there is that Sunday, when things come crashing down.

what a lovely demolition that was,

sipping cold chocolate with long straws,

clutching at half-words, kind compliments .. those grasping flails of love

those cold comforts.

breeze billowing, sun shining .. all mocking witness to my fate.

In sadness, there is beauty. And beauty was spilling over that day — sadly.

one drop, one word, one glance at a time.

And evening made it worse,

a side of her .. i hadn’t glimpsed

the girl, never in full cry …

had come out to play.

And toy she did, with me.

Where I met N.  — and faced that awkward past

a tale of hurried words, unsaid meanings

of gardens shrinking in embarrassment,

at the “forward” nature of this boy.

N, manipulative, deceptively encouraging,

me– caught like a deer in the headlights of amorous desire!

All was well between us, so we said.

we are friends.

Just that,

so we thought.

fate had other ideas, far more nuanced,complicated ideas.

grieving, sad, pining-for-love,

was my state.

Tragic does not begin to describe

my cup of woes.

And i found a fellow drinker.

Such a parched throat she had.

I obliged, gladly.

Sorrows shared, hearts revealed,

fantasies explored, insecurities discussed.

and we wonder how could “this” happen.

fellow passengers on the bullet-train of emotion,

rushing headlong,

not past the “Past” .. but back towards it.

thoughtlessly.

intimacy, such a cruel seductress –

and dysfunctionality — forever ceasing to matter.

We arrived at the Past.

Confronted it and said “Fuck Off, we don’t care.”

A. will know, N. will tell.

I still have doubts, fears and premonitions.

But I also have Love.

The light shines brighter than before,

And I don’t walk in shadows anymore.

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A Song of Ice and Fire.

This was supposed to be in lyrical verse. But the constraints of both, the form and my creativity, force my hand. The song of ice and fire should be unfettered by meter or propriety. It should be just every bit as unshackled as the dysfunctional people it is about.

In the beginning, there was a Jester, a fool –

and like all fools, vanity was his tool.

The Jester had just graduated and as is common among that tribe, he mistook the world for an oyster.  And, as you might have expected, he crossed paths with a self-appointed “Archaeologist of Anomalies” (A.of A. ..for brevity), a purveyor of everything that’s weird, which most-of-often ended up being herself.  A.of A ‘s penchant for absurdity made her, let’s just say, interesting. The Jester was quite taken aback, affront, asunder ..with her.

Jester down. (911, we have a Jester down!)

Enter the Dragon.

She came in a blaze of indignant fury, irreverent energy and incongruous humanity. The Jester’s juvenile jousts at flirting had him in a fix. It is undoubtedly hard to heal when faced with a torrent of harsh words and brutal honesty … but it did happen. Dragon-tears have remarkable putative powers. (JK Rowling was lying about phoenixes!)

And so we ended up in this soup. May it boil over! May the sparks fly!!

 

With Love,

From Jester.

Le Mot Juste

I have been trying to find the right word, the right expression, the “le mot juste” , for everything I feel.  Wittgenstein famously argued that private language is impossible. So what is this notion of exactly capturing your thoughts and emotions in language ?

I think everyone will agree that experience is entirely subjective. Even though humans are more alike than different, every individual brings his own subtle hue to the palette of emotions. So when experiences are different for every person, is there hope for actual “communication” between two people ? Can someone truly understand what another person feels ? We may get close, but is utter comprehension possible ?

A private language is a language whose signs are intelligible only to the speaker of the language. And they do not exist. So even in the hypothetical universe where they thrived, my private language (for the sake of argument, call it Desiree ..cool!) can not be faithfully translated in English, or for that matter, even French. So when I feel a particular potpourri of affection, desire and angst, I am sure nobody can ever know that is what I feel. There is a limit to language and that limit is the impossibility of a logical framework of syntactical rules ever capturing the irrational neural electricity of thought. Godel’s incompleteness theorem which states that some truths will always escape any logical set of axioms – only reinforces my belief. Some truths will remain inutterable.

Wittgenstein mystically advised  — “Wovon man nicht sprechen kann, daruber muss man schweigen.”  (Whereof you cannot speak, thereof you must be silent.)     … and here I am blogging about it. Silly me!

So, in the absence of my private language, understanding is pretty much impossible. I just can’t find the right word. It’s like Milan Kundera’s “litost” which only he can ever comprehend. No one can understand me. I am alone.     (a real existential crisis here!)

Nevertheless, some people may get pretty close to comprehending the “le mot juste” — the essence of what I mean. They just have to listen. And keep trying.