Sometimes serious

my grandmother used to spot in us a hereditary anger the chest learning to well up blood learning to leap and breath learning to crawl foreheads burning with heat of little children the attempt of anger to become disgusting raging energy that will occupy every living stream. nobody wants to hold an angry person rage drunk, getting bigger and bigger until other people are invisible like ants and you can dissolve them in your hot blood and things around you break and shatter at this point she would hold. a violent hand shaking her away Ya I remember my grandmother used to spot it in us as children already And hold our hand "until you get over your rage I will not let go of your hand"  hold VERY TIGHTLY "I will not leave your hand until you learn how you should calm down" i would fail despite that gesture  to understand what was happening and i could not receive love at that time because i have so much anger But the act she is doing is still that of HOLDING

 it begins at some point your first ever time to have the lonely thought 'these new kids, the children of today' they.. they are not your familiar crust the ratio indifference and posing that you could read in your contemporaries the sound of their sway is certainly not the world today, it feels lonelier somehow it was nothing you did except grow  older not by insistence or by desire but happenstance novelty marginalizes you now you thought you were standing by a changing river but you were getting sucked heinously all this while through the  tubes of a cruel, indifferent vacuum cleaner

 i used to think the transitivity of verbs was like romance i (a subject) take you, or you take me (as an object) defined already through transitivity. i take you (there) or i take (missing) (missing) or i play (the piano) then i thought transitivity of verbs was like valence missing electrons in individual shells,  filled up by an incomprehensible spdf rhyme-scheme then i thought transitivity of verbs was illusory i present (you) with (thing) i present (you) to (infinity) i shower (you) with (love) i pointed (it) at (you) and that i could say i sleep you to dreams or otherwhere illusory. or the sevan kaarak classes i could fit any construction in a new logic i play (you) to (infinity) through (trees) in order (to sleep).   we can just use language however we please really and things that aren't understood now can still feel like something. a new action-class is always just around the next turn from use

 Today i spend time with a child watch their cartoons - their stuffed baby animals their mixed race dolls, their female pilots their pink fluffy bears their coding of social reality and wonder about the discourse of their time. the generational ache of their era that i know will be gazed at, spotted correctly, and  narrativized using the material i see today as text. or as whatever has analytical currency then. i try to peer through my futuristic corneas at the back of my eye, where seers are supposed to see the future,  their gaze aiming at their own minds, try to look at todays material with tomorrows hindight but my eyes aren't in the future.  and what hasn't happened really cannot be told and so we live as fools hoping to string beads of sweat in a garland that we can chant passing, as time goes and our mind looks further and further back trying to find roots for something that was never a tree.

 i am jealous of the seven plant cuttings that i got from my friend one sunday afternoon - a succulent called vicks that smells like a camphor some spotted snake like leaves a chain like cascade with cardoid leaves some needed to be cut exactly somewhere for the severed roots to understand they cannot sprout as leaves on the underside that they are needed to draw water that they used to be something that function is something to perform not something they were. all this for houseplants that wouldn't survive a day in soil outside i perhaps send my hands in this soil hoping they will become roots and my ears someday become leaves.

i remember the day i realized advertising had poisoned everything that i knew the memetic microplastic of my time and decided to stop feeling emotions to stop being touched from one minute of people meeting at airports the garish climaxes of love and loss and then when my friends left a rube goldberg machine of going away and i decided to stop feeling emotions to stop being touched by departures at the chaotic trampoline made of  weak elastics of relationships and then the day that i realized  what i read in books is lies and decided to stop feeling emotions to stop being touched by characters that haven't existed in entirely made up worlds like a fever nightmare when you wake up with  your stomach pitted like a peach or an avocado and then the day i realized how inexpensive it is to feel and to cry and decided to stop feeling emotions  or getting attached to my own sorrow which spread occupying my whole sky every time i looked up and the day i realized every choice ...

An unknown heaviness in the air as if each gas was a loaded isotope as if every little bit of water vapour were made instead with deuterium as if your arteries were clogged but  with lead instead of innocent fat. I go into a classroom. A wall of various faces detesting how the idea of education itself is premised upon hope even the criticism premised upon an imagined reuptake of the utopian flavor of control and how teaching criticism feels like an exercise in astrology when all fears come vaguely true in a vague amount of time for a vaguely coherent set of persons. the impossibility of knowing if THIS is dystopia today. is it today at 16.21 o clock? Are we failing to see or seeing too much, and who is scaffolding seeing? Is THIS specific imagination of the end true or is far and how likely would it be for us to survive and where and how far away and how far away from exactly what? Such a time that whole years are like nuclear isotopes of normal minutes loaded with extra neutrons i...

I come pre-hurt pre-horrified, pre-saddened I am safe that way all the ways to cope I have already operationalized What you think, is preempted I am safe to love. Pre-tested pre-terrified. Quality controlled. I come pre-disgusted antagonized already no shock, no surprise can i suddenly find. I come pre-dead. There is nothing here to look at.  This is how it shall be I come pre-stunted.

i do not want to listen to tiny soundscapes tickling my cochlea to the unexpected as if to suggest as if to suggest, literally anything imploring me to listen dumb brushstrokes and blocks of colors figurines and silhouettes evocative of evocation a feeling of some times or place or both a voice, a thing that sounds like language trying to place me in the mysterious words to describe the shitpudding of today a reinvention of an artist and their voice a recapitulation of names namespaces a melody you can barely remember an emotional stamp buried in the heap of emotional stamps of the oppressive nature of today. in fact i don't even want this thing im writing right now just to be left alone a naked mind under a bare tree being nothing, but not Pessoa's stone, not Ginsberg's emptiness, just one that is not referential PLEASE i beg of you.

“ this is the age of rampant computing and of quantitative mania and of  search algorithms running on GPUs looking for a person shaped piece missing dead perhaps? but with a digital trace. leave it to the hypertext of imagination ”

There is a place not so haunted, that has remained, bearing the sound of a muted rain lashing on car windows, on a long street without sharp angles, and several red stop lights the low monotony of wipers going left - up - left - up I have been walking around waiting, for the bells I hear to mean revolution, and the prisons of strong cars To not be in my mind, but with everyone inside not too close to not breathe. I see the blobs streetlights, in watercolor yellow, and midnight white No matter which street this is, or which day, or what festival we are decorating for, or what turn of the seasons, has brought us here To buy a ride is anonymous disappearance in an unnamed city. No matter how I hold your hand, or whose hand it is i hold, and what questions you ask, about the dredges and trails of the days memory, What kind of times are these, where to be in these fifteen minutes of false safety must be, as, to be in motion?

one day you might realize that you are an extra a cog, a burnt out piece of equipment in the rube goldberg world that is planned by no one an entirely replaceable piece of window dressing as an ode to strangers, withholding immense suffering in their beings fighting immense indifference on the outside we're all trying to be more than window dressing even on that day a stray runner looks into your house after nightfall at your mundane activities watching tv, and arranging flowers for a sense that there's at least someone that's at home a colleague might walk by your desk seeing you gaze at amazement, at your instantaneous boredom a sign of life, and engagement of energy flowing around them your laughing at a dog video in a bus your irritating sneezing in a concert your presence in a party as nobody your terrible stroke in the pool your dumb tweets your things are truly better expressed than not and when we all speak together, aloud fortiss...

if you ask me today: HOW ARE YOU? and ask me again in 3.5 hours and then again in two weeks and a month again, over text messaging. How are you? :) I might have to keep telling you: like shit. just as many times. But that a question was raised. A QUESTION WAS RAISED about how i was. is enough to trigger uncertainty that i feel like shit. Heisenbergs microscope trying to measure something despite knowing that the answer is: SAD. BUT AS LONG AS WE CAN ASK, WE WILL NEVER BE SURE THAT IT ALWAYS IS.

I tried to hurt myself using you  weaponizing you  turning your care ballistic  and my softness into weak armor  i tried to use the hollows of your lower back as landmines  your words as small sharp blades that fit into old razors and broke in twos  your lips as quagmire meant for drowning  i used your attraction as fission a devastating proxy for the  surplus destructive energy in  my own mind when your love was not enough  i used your presence as war horns  alerting formations of my hearts cavalry  into attacking your defenseless desire  your scattered battalions that were only looking for me  when I waged this war, i even used your indifference to hurt me  a blunt injury sustained under my very living skin  a slow passage of bloodclots into a series of hurtful colors  why?  why do we cut ourselves?

i trusted you with my name when i taught it to you you, the you in the second person that has become my dialogical self irritatingly speech that is either self directed or directed at the Other our stories could be anyone's with enough empathy but our name and our skin are only ours, and our skin dies with us but our name it can be flung around as nebulous identity and it can be hidden and thereby forgotten as would be in death. i should not have trusted you with my name when i taught it to you.

in marathi, we say that a depression has come, it has arrived, been welcomed. taken its slippers off, having tea watching television in your living room. in english we say that we are depressed, that use of copula, equation symbolic castration of its tyranny as identity a mental state may or may not be an externalising force 'my depression' we call it our ownership of our darkness our right to assert the sweet sweet depths of black darkness our power to let it bend at our will, knowing that it doesn't. every time we forge a relationship with a mental state like unicellular organisms achieving mitosis not as clones, but as a twisted splitting of a dicotyledon i don't speak all the languages but in some there must be a gentler way a kinder alternative for our own minds.

for all of that which is sub-liminal under the margins waiting to snap but hasn't already the pressure under the bubble the steam under the whistle the clot under the rupture we must suffer under the margins, the allocated scale for reparation starts when you gain 50 points, and not 49, and so for 49 - you must suffer you are sub-liminal to be helped and must help yourself, the world is divided most often into two (2). and not more.

i see a woman sitting next to me go over and over again reading the chat messages between her and her hot and cold lover 'do you even read me?' she asks 'i do miss you' and every so often, like breadcrumbs to a sparrow he throws a little heart sign back she's at a safe distance to always be had, i'm snooping over my shoulder, at a sad romance a theater of dishonesty built from small cowardices and then larger ones. 'it's 2019', we're all yelling at each other; tokenizing small and large pieces of respect that we forget to give to our selves, suffering indignities at the hands of love, or desire, or to repeat the indignities that we thought we deserved. i snoop shamelessly into this chat. gazing in second-hand horror a third person perspective of my own self.

abandonment is the natural order of things shipwreck aesthetic new fish swimming with the rust old corpses deep in the sand dunes by the bed of the sea where organic matter doesn't even compost to leave, look back, your history streaming from your own materiality abandonment, to leave and be left, forever forgetting, and the heady current of melancholia to revisit, renegotiate question: if all of those things were love or none of them were

i found a burnt letter by the river today about the time they met and the bridges they saw in the city that will drown that had linen hung by every window to dry just like the little flowerpots of springtime façades the corner that they hid in, seeing the boats by the canals, carrying amazon.com delivery preserving the wild city formed completely of stairwells the secret pathways to golden, romantic era architectures, tiny streets towards unseasonable beaches, the relaxing strangeness, the handwritten menus, the soft towels, the warm showers, the tiny kitchens - the very details of intimate acquaintance - burned strewn by the side of the river delicate monochromatic singed paper with tiny handwriting in black ink burnt. fuck this nonsense, they must have said fuck the details. there is no contradiction between being poetic. and ugly.