Sometimes serious

Given some time to yourself you will go back and remember in detail all the things that were painful, how they were worded how was abuse constructed how some things were unfair and some that broke you for days, not so long ago. You thought you were formed now thought you were clear on who you were but you find yourself unwrapping or layering up [you can't tell which] into a new complex as someone who has been far from done. Your jokes don't work here all the well rehearsed lines don't sound others appear as lies and some as a farce Slips of tongue are not cute you see, nobody knows you and nobody can be sure. You know not anymore how you were who you had what you did Or how old you are supposed to be and how to act that age and what that means the experiences you've had, have prepared you for other things but not these and those things didn't come but these others came instead and are here now teasing.

love saves only when nothing else threatens it saves from an imaginary death from loneliness beauty is right at the skin, inside the skin is gore outside the skin is an irreverent universe that is the trap the promise of eternal enjoyment on the other side of being able to learn and hence habituate and hence lose by semantic satiation. and at the skin there is a delicate balance of convicts who are wronged and free murderers. type 1 and type 2 errors in equal measure at the skin, a great wall of self protection with measurable happiness.

When I miss a place I mainly miss its trees. The प्राजक्त or पारिजात at our neighbors orange stems on tiny white flowers fallen on the entire road. तगर and other pretty white flowers with dark green leaves False Ashok, whose leaves were the colour of chillies (I made fake भाजी with them as a child) My mother showed me how to make the flowers of the Cork tree (बूच), into a braid. My grandmother taught me to love the wash of an orange Gulmohur the brightness of tea leaves against it, a purple jacaranda And the crooked strange orange of the पळस, पलाश The bright shamelessness of Ghaneri the elusive toxicity of pink weeds that we used to call ice cream flowers My brother showed me the canopies of Bangalore and infinite shade. The giant delicate Neem, its flowers वटवृक्श, its own ecosystem of sorts I would casually meet some बाभूळ or बबूल with its selection of thorns The most important summer tree was अमलतास Its yellow flowers signifying an unrestraine...

It seems like only a few days ago that we were crouched upon my father's forehead trying to iron out the wrinkles born from his day upon day Now we sit explaining how we were and all of us are born into a world where nothing can be changed anymore left only with a fleeting illusion of control the wrinkles on the landforms and the fleeting seasons can explain what is going on. We are talking, meeting, discussing, and allocating funds and sanctions budgets and assets taking reports Persecuting and hating on people assigning blame where we think it's due finding what exactly is wrong as if we know As if we know anything from graphs and sheets and networks. Data and models. Did they fear - the people from Harappa, what was the end of the world to them? And the ice agers? What were they born into? Maybe we are the only ones who have lost touch with calamity. Only everyday expression matters. Only that matters which lifts the spirit gives spa...