Billy Joel all the way

"... And the waitress is practicing politics
As the businessmen slowly get stoned
Yes, they're sharing a drink they call loneliness
But it's better than drinkin' alone."

 

Dear Stranger

Dear Stranger

With the trend of writing letters slowly fading away in this urban chaos, I find it almost silly to the point of being childish, to write something to you. Maybe I could just pick up the phone and say what I feel. But then again, this is better. It is a little bit more private, as if I am sharing very intimate bit of myself to you, whispering crazy nothings and silently praying it reaches your ears.

I am a little Quixote-ic, as it appears; I am at the fault of being an archaic romantic fool. Then again, why not?

When I was small, I used to sit by the window all day long; being a timid child I found it more suitable to look at the world from the confined security of my room. The street was a strange place; the people stranger. I liked to feel that there was this shadow just like me doing the same, somewhere out there. As times would have it, I grew bold more curious and ventured out. In search of stories, a story that I felt everyone has it in them to tell - men and women all around with their own insights and trinkets about life. I became a listener. I listened to all that they had to say and share. Then came the period of mood swings. I used to go back and forth in my memories and try to find a sense in the story that I am saying. It was like having an identity crisis. I still have them. Moments of sheer loathing agony or euphoria depending on the story that is me. The shadows danced by my window as I looked inwards. Then also I liked to believe that somebody outside this confined space was having the same story in another world. We are all strangers here, some to others and some to ourselves. I am writing my story as it comes to me and probably crossing out two out of every three lines that I have jotted down in my untidy scribbling.

Stranger. What is your story?

With love,

Another stranger.

Dear Macbeth

"I am in blood stepped so far, that should I wade no more returning were as tedious as go over".

I would like to believe...

I would like to believe.

There are no certain things that are going to be added to put weight into this line. No emotions or poignant discourse on the human condition. No promises of a better future or something better than what things are.

I would just like to believe.

When, who, what, how is all subjective

Just like I breathe

Just like I have a smoke at the end of the day reflecting on the day

Just like there is....

I would like to just believe.

Waiting.....

This part of my life is called waiting.

This is similar to that feeling that made me have sleepless nights just before the exam results would be there.

Do I do decently? That normal expression for those average students out there who may be excellent students in their own right and could tell you amazing nuggets of knowledge that was not in the school curriculum?

Do I do fine? That expression for those students who have aced the exams but couldn't find a place where they were promised by their parents, that fabled place of happiness which they bartered guitar lessons and football sessions for?

Do I fail? That expression where I have just passed through like the countless cattle of people. Who will never matter according to their parents or society because a piece of paper has written in on stronger markings than the birthmark I have on my left thigh or that hamstring after the cricket match that let me tell you I won.

This part of my life is called waiting.

Waiting to fit into the shoes of a male because my father led by example.

Waiting to fit into the role of a son because my mother did not have me 9 months in her stomach and I can never forget about it.

Waiting to be the perfect loyal man to the perfect girl because infidelity or sporting a bit of male chauvinism in any way would give rise to the idea that I am a despised being.

This part of my life is called waiting

For things to churn out between the days that go by and will pass by.

Waiting for that illusion of happiness that I think is mine but has thorns planted around it.

~|~

Jack Napier a.k.a Joker

Look into his eyes and tell yourself he's just a man.
Tell yourself he can't know the things he says he does. He can't know your fears. But he has Alfred. he has your friend. And his eyes....
     .... you have studied the human eye. There are six eye movements that reveal motive, then fifteen variations of each one. On everyone you face -- even the most hardened criminals -- the pupils contract or expand depending on emotion.
     Happiness, laughter, affection. The pupils open.
     Fear, anger, hatred. The pupils close.

But not his. His pupils stay fixed, tiny points of blackness, the eyes of someone who hates everything, everyone.
Eyes that let in no light, that see through the darkness, stare into you, each pupil a tiny black pearl fixed in space.
A bullet coming at you. Eyes that say he's more than a man, eyes that say he knows you.

No.... you know what he is. Tell yourself the truth. He's just a man who fell in a vat of chemical waste. He's just a man... like you, made of bone and tissue and blood.

Should we have an Emoji for the 'Bard of Avon'

Shakespeare's plays rendered in text-speak and separate "text walking lanes" in the Antwerp city centre for the citizens absorbed in their smartphones show how technology evolution might alter the past as well as the present. 

Language, especially in its use in everyday communication, is an essential aspect of being in the world. It is a temporal medium that is prone to being fluid, though quite as often used as a force against change - to put down what endures and abides. So linguistic and literary conservatives might feel that the seventh seal of the Apocalypse was being opened when they read the rewriting of Hamlet's dilemma as -

"2 *bee* or not 2 *bee*,   that is the ? "          {*bee* as in the bumble bee emoji on whatsapp)

Shakespeare is, after all, the father of immortals. Yet in his own time the plays of Shakespeare, who was far from being a linguistic purist, spoke a language that was brilliantly in flux, vitally enlarging the scope of spoken and literary English.  The nicest thing about Shakespeare is his ability to be a contemporary in every century. 

A tribute to Pete Seeger(1919-2014)

When some of the greatest musicians in the world gathered five years ago to celebrate the ninetieth birthday of the musician who inspired them all, Bruce Springsteen told Pete Seeger: “You outlasted the bastards, man.”

And so he did.

This man, who died at the age of 94, was blacklisted by some shitty American Committee and sent for a time in the late 1950s and early 1960s to the sidelines of what was becoming an entertainment industry for the oft-neglected final verse of This Land is Your Land—“Nobody living can ever stop me, As I go walking that freedom highway; Nobody living can ever make me turn back, This land was made for you and me” 

But did that stop him.? NO.! He went on with his singing, kept on writing songs like Where have all the flowers gone, kept playing his banjo inscribed with the message  “This machine surrounds hate and forces it to surrender,” and kept traveling across the country and around the world—for every cause from labour rights to civil rights to environmentalism to peace.

He sung folk songs of America and other lands to people everywhere. He was proud that he never refused to sing to any group of people because he might disagree with some of the ideas of some of the people listening to him. He sung for rich and poor, for Americans of every possible political and religious opinion and persuasion, of every race, color, and creed.
That sense and sensibility was stronger than the forces that sought to silence him. The son of privilege who lived for a good bit of time with his dear wife, Toshi, in a cabin that had no running water or electricity but offered an exceptional view of the Hudson River he loved, never lost what everyone hailed as a “stubborn, nasty, defiant optimism.” And the radical singer of radical songs about radical notions like loving one another, talking rather than shooting and singing rather than surrendering, lived long enough to engulf a rather bigger portion of my heart.
And so it went. Decade after decade. Singing and agitating and inspiring the children and the grandchildren and the great-grandchildren of those who heard him singing. And this is how we all see late Mr. Seeger.
                        But he did so much more than that. He showed us how to do our time with grace, with a sense of history and honor, with a progressive vision for the ages and a determination to embrace the next great cause because the good fight is never finished. It’s just waiting for a singer to remind us that “the world would never amount to a hill of beans if people didn’t use their imaginations to think of the impossible.”

"A time to be born, a time to die
A time to plant, a time to reap
A time to kill, a time to heal
A time to laugh, a time to weep

To Everything
There is a season
And a time to every purpose, under Heaven" 

Thank you for the sacrifices and great and memorable music, RIP

Porphyria's Lover by Robert Browning

The rain set early in to-night,

The sullen wind was soon awake,

It tore the elm-tops down for spite,

And did its worst to vex the lake:

I listened with heart fit to break.

When glided in Porphyria; straight

She shut the cold out and the storm,

And kneeled and made the cheerless grate

Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;

Which done, she rose, and from her form

Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,

And laid her soiled gloves by, untied

Her hat and let the damp hair fall,

And, last, she sat down by my side

And called me. When no voice replied,

She put my arm about her waist,

And made her smooth white shoulder bare,

And all her yellow hair displaced,

And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,

And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,

Murmuring how she loved me — she

Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour,

To set its struggling passion free

From pride, and vainer ties dissever,

And give herself to me for ever.

But passion sometimes would prevail,

Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain

A sudden thought of one so pale

For love of her, and all in vain:

So, she was come through wind and rain.

Be sure I looked up at her eyes

Happy and proud; at last I knew

Porphyria worshipped me; surprise

Made my heart swell, and still it grew

While I debated what to do.

That moment she was mine, mine, fair,

Perfectly pure and good: I found

A thing to do, and all her hair

In one long yellow string I wound

Three times her little throat around,

And strangled her. No pain felt she;

I am quite sure she felt no pain.

As a shut bud that holds a bee,

I warily oped her lids: again

Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.

And I untightened next the tress

About her neck; her cheek once more

Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:

I propped her head up as before,

Only, this time my shoulder bore

Her head, which droops upon it still:

The smiling rosy little head,

So glad it has its utmost will,

That all it scorned at once is fled,

And I, its love, am gained instead!

Porphyria's love: she guessed not how

Her darling one wish would be heard.

And thus we sit together now,

And all night long we have not stirred,

And yet God has not said a word

DOES ANYONE KNOW ME

Does anyone even know me?
Does anyone really care?
You say you want to take that ride
But can you afford the fare?
I know not where I’m going
I have no fucking clue
So if you want to tag along
Be warned, it is a trek you soon may rue
I am not normal, in fact some would say strange
Some days I am nice
Other days quite deranged
It is a fact I don’t play fair
Only by my rules
So do you dare to take the chance
To face a fate so cruel
You see, no one really knows me
Not even myself...

I WISH

I wish I could just curl up and go to sleep
Leave this cold world without so much as a peep
I wish all the heartache and pain would end
Getting so tired of having to defend
Everyone says be patient, that eventually it will work
But still all I see in the mirror is me, the same old jerk
They ask if I ever contemplate suicide
I say no, but it is yes deep inside
I know you will say those thoughts are wrong
But I have given up trying to be strong
I still act tough and rise above
But it is a charade for the ones I love
Sleeping pills I count every night
But still I take just one, knowing for now it is right
Maybe soon I will close that door
And then finally there will be no more
I wish I could just curl up and go to sleep
Leave this cold world without so much as a peep.

Who Will Listen?

My heart is heavy from carrying this story. It is a story of sad events in a sad place.  A story about violence where there is no happy ending.  Where every day life is transformed viciously into death and someone picks up the pieces - pieces of a young life. A man I had known before…another place and another time.  And I remember the smile.

     As I looked around, bullets rang out from dark places and invisible people.  The search had to stop and we were ordered to leave.  But leaving felt like abandoning my own blood, like leaving my own child in the path of evil. When we returned later, vehicles had traveled there, erasing the trail.  Vehicles tainted with the blood of my friend.  I searched until the others finally pulled me away.  They said there was nothing more; we had done all we could.

     A piece of my body was also left there as I cried.  Tears and blood spilled on grains of sand and lost forever. Later, washing down the vehicle, I wanted to capture the red water and put the pieces back in place.

     One story was worse than the rest.  This one was real, real to me.  This story was different because I knew this man.  We fought together once…stood side by side in harm’s way…laughed and cried together.  He ran out into the bullets that toppled me and pulled me to safety.  I owed this man my life and loved him as my brother.

     A year passed with time at home and simple everyday things.  I chose a different duty, one equally as honorable. And the time came to return again to this place where life blows away like the powdery dirt.  I remember jumping down once and laughing at the puffy cloud of dirt that rose up, and for a moment I felt like a child playfully jumping in a puddle.  But now the dirt seems like a huge deafening dust storm laying in wait…waiting for a moment when it will rise up again and take another life.

     Now, in this place, I thought I would be able to share some of my burden.  This one story I wanted to tell you about the sadness and to feel that you cared.  But you didn’t hear me and the story was lost. Buried deeper in my soul, I know how to smile and be strong, but this was a moment when I reached out.  This was my story and the story was me.

     So who will listen?  Someone said, “Tell your stories.”  But tell them to whom?  Who will listen and not turn away.  Who will help me carry this burden?  Who will share this sorrow?  Who will see this pain?

     I carry this story alone again now - a story that will never be heard and pain that will never be seen.  I can only write and hope that the pen will hear me cry and feel my pain.

     And I wonder…who will listen…who will write about me?

.

I will,

Corporal B.A. Dexter

WHO AM I

Where did I go
What have I become
Who is this person in my body
I used to be so full of life
I used to preach hope
Ride the highs, ride the lows
Never get rattled for they always balanced out.

Where did I go
What have I become
Who is this person in my body
I used to be the eternal optimist
I used to be "that" friend
Never faltering, always there.

Where did I go
What have I become
Who is this person in my body
I used to be so positive
I always used to care
I always had a smile.

Where did I go
What have I become
Who is this person in my body
I always had a joke to cheer someone up
I always had a hug for you
I was love!

Where did I go
What have I become
Who is this person in my body

THE CANDLE

As I settled into my place on the porch one late evening with the intention of drinking a soothing mug of frothy cocoa, a flickering light from the window next door caught my eye. My thoughts drifted to my hermit-like neighbor, Terri, who at one time had been a graceful, vivacious, and generally amiable young woman. Unfortunately, God had other plans for her that would ultimately change my life forever.

Her fire red hair had always been an origin of conversation, and her wide chocolate almond eyes an avid source of admiration. As a child, she won a statewide baby pageant. It was not until she entered elementary school that her disorder emerged. At first, her involuntary twitching seemed like a fetish, but over time doctors concluded that her problem was more serious. "Growing like a weed," she reached five foot six by the beginning of her teens. She had always been mentally slow, which, coupled with her other difficulties, hindered her from pursuing any education beyond fifth grade, and also separated her from her peers and many of the townspeople.

Common knowledge had it that God had shown His displeasure with her by marking her with these aliments. To demonstrate loyalty to the Creator, others ostracized her. I too believed in this popular myth, until a sweet old neighborhood cat wandered into her yard, and instead of eating it (which as the local children gossiped was her custom with stray animals), she proceeded to tenderly feed it and display affection upon its wretched soul. Yet, others did not see this episode, nor would it have been kindly received. Often it is more comfortable to nurture the pernicious form of a lie than to face the humbling eyes of the truth. Therefore, at her brother’s urging, she attempted to redeem her family’s reputation by teaching herself to dance.

Terri practiced her version of a classical dance while humming her rendition of a Brahm's concerto. With a hand-me-down sky blue tutu, a pair of faded pink ballet slippers, a sequin wand that glittered in the afternoon sun, and a plastic tiara, others remarked that she resembled a rag-tag clown recently departed from a second-hand store. While the rest of the neighborhood scoffed, I watched with wide-eyed wonder, and instead of seeing a woman flap her snow-white arms wildly in the air and haphazardly twirl about, I saw a glowing ballerina. To my eyes, the yellow weed-infested yard transformed into a mahogany stage ­- the sun metamorphosed into the precise and brilliant lights of a theater - Terri’s grass-stained tutu a delicate billow of thin lace - her shoes doeskin heels intended only for the most skillful dancer - her tiara a spun glass crown bestowing glory and honor on its wearer - her wand a gem-studded scepter which dealt grace and wisdom - and her amateur humming the beating heart of a voluminous orchestra. The fact that her hair was dirty and unkempt and her fingernails encrusted with mud never registered with me. I caught a glimpse of her spirit, which seemed invisible to the rest of the world.

Each night, I scrambled to my window and watched her amble down her dusty walkway, stand in the middle of her yard and pause. Then suddenly and with such force, she leapt, soared, dived, and flew through her routine. Abruptly, as the record in her mind died, her erect figure collapsed into the grass like a handful of limp towels. Unheard, I clapped and cheered her from my upstairs window. Her hidden agility encouraged me to enter the nationally acclaimed Nevada Ballet Theatre in the hope of becoming a prima ballerina. I also included several "classical" movements of hers in a ballet I recently co-wrote.

Returning from a trip one weekend, I happened to hear that Terri’s only living relative - her brother George, had recently been killed in an automobile accident. He had been Terri’s only link to the outside world and, in many cases, her protection from it. From a distance, I began to watch her crumple and fade away. Haggard and disheveled, Terri seldom surfaced. Her youthfully limber form slowly withered to become hard and unyielding. Dark blue circles developed around her once lively eyes. She must have stopped eating, because I noticed her formerly delicate hands shrivel into bony masses.

Like a dandelion after the bloom when its once radiant puffs leave the flower an unrecognizable mass of its former glory, so did Terri’s spirit blow away. Instead of dancing every night, she hid in dark corners and never strayed far from the house. She evanesced like a restless soul - uncomfortable in this world, but powerless to leave it. Although my heart longed to comfort her, never did I venture into her yard. The stares and smirks of others kept me from trying to fill the hole in my inspiration’s life.

I longed to speak with her, to give her the one gift the human race had never bestowed upon her - ­­a friend. On this night, I watched her shuffle through her gloomy house with a lone candle. The light stopped at the window and began to flicker. It seemed to lose its strength and fade ever so slowly. My heart pounded wildly, as the magnitude that Terri's loss would cause dawned on me. The thought that she would die without realizing that she had left fingerprints in my life weighed heavy on my soul. With renewed purpose, I raced across the yard as the candle fluttered and went out.

WAR - A Blood Bath, Nothing More

We, of the human variety, are considered to be intelligent,

We’re the biggest species, "gracious" and "elegant" 

But is this something that makes us better than

     everything else we see?

As I am here wondering, "would I rather be stupid and free?"

Mankind is at a dead lock, from which we cannot progress

We compare ourselves too much to others,

     and think that we are best.

There is one thing we do, more than other animals;

    that is to take more than we need,

You see my fellow people; with intelligence there came greed. 

Due to the presence of self-indulgence,

   we’d get what we want by way of force.

If this means to take out others, no matter,

   as we get what we want of course.

It started with us just taking small thing, and then we wanted more,

It wouldn’t go any further is what our leaders swore.

Next due to a mutual situation, we started seeing others as a threat,

Then we started fights with other people, the ones we had just met.

The worst of course was not yet here but it was sure to come,

We thought it good to take land from others; the concept of war had begun. 

For many years and for all sorts of reasons fights have taken place,

But none like that which we experience,

    between those in the human race.

People often sit and wonder, if this "almighty" species will ever die,

The answer is "yes, it will end in war" and I sit here and

    ask myself why. 

Then I see its because of greed and war, "a blood bath, nothing more." 

WC in India.!!

In the days when you couldn't count on a public toilet facility, an English woman was planning a trip to India. She was registered to stay in a small guest house owned by the local schoolmaster. She was concerned as to whether the guest house contained a WC. In England, a bathroom is commonly called a WC which stands for "Water Closet". So she wrote to the schoolmaster inquiring of the facilities about the WC. The school master, not fluent in English, asked the local priest if he knew the meaning of WC. Together they pondered over possible meanings of the letters and concluded that the lady wanted to know if there was a "Wayside Chapel" near the house . . . a bathroom never entered their minds. So the schoolmaster wrote the following reply: Dear Madam, I take great pleasure in informing you that the 'WC' is located 9 Miles from the house. It is located in the middle of a grove of pine trees, surrounded by lovely grounds. It is capable of holding 229 people and is open on Sundays and Thursdays. As there are many people expected in the summer months, I suggest you arrive early. There is, however, plenty of standing room. This is also an unfortunate situation especially if you are in the habit of going regularly. It may be of some interest to you that my daughter was also married in the 'WC'. As it was there that she met her husband. It was a wonderful event. There were 10 people in every seat. It was wonderful to see the expressions on their faces. We were able to take photos from different angles. My wife, sadly, has been ill and unable to go recently. It has been almost a year since she went last, which pains her greatly. You will be pleased to know that many people bring their lunch and make a day of it. Others prefer to wait till the last minute and arrive just in time. I would recommend, your ladyship, to plan to go on a Thursday as there is an organ accompaniment. The acoustics are excellent and even the most delicate sounds can be heard everywhere. The newest addition is a bell which rings every time a person enters. We are also holding a bazaar to provide plush seats for all since many feel it is long needed. I look forward to escorting you there myself and seating you in a place where you can be seen by all. With deepest regards, The Schoolmaster The Woman fainted reading the reply........ She never visited India!!!!