epiphany 04162011

The great thing about writing is that a lot of writing changes on the second look although at the time of writing it looks like shit but the train of thought has a weird way of illumining itself on the second read and if it happens then that means you are in business and that the material is rewrite-worthy.

Note

Note to self:

I am writing again ...

Sunlight on a Broken Column - pg. 253

No one took them seriously. The smooth-spoken, superior Ghulam Ali could not be associated with such crudity. The servants were obviously indulging their innate love of the dramatic.

idea: dialogue based servant assault story

something to happen

that it's not enough
when big glorious horrible yuks
get the morning drizzle
in your coffee and slurp
the world refulgent in blue
the brain-numbed, be very dumb
afraid of all the splendor
it creates as the word fucks
seeks out every hole
in your argument
neatly wrapped around
wishing a bit of luck
wearing that suit
head out the door
never to make the central promise
come back to haunt you
last night when you dreamt
about fishes in a sea of piss

Malbec Verbs

Malbec Verbs

a bottle of malbec - in  your hands,
this is the moment - we know
kyle and sara love to be here
but now there is a smile on
your lips,
maybe it's better this way!
laughter, instigator:
bottle bleeds the work,
the mustard seed
in your hair
shines like a fleck of gold
it's been this way forever
....like the sand of the ocean
in the hollow of your knees
and million little suns glowing -
little honey-discs -
on your skin, licking
the blue skies moving
under your eyes closed
while your sleep lay heavy
on my chest
... these waves come very close
till they sweep us
agitating, swirling -
maybe sara likes to be here
or is it better this way?
listening to Destroyer crying
his british columbianness
in the malbec-heavy red-blur
that cannot save the
scintillation of aching
time-splinters,
gravitating into a vortex
of a little deathly pain:
the pleasure that
we abide by
into letting words
suck our breath:
our gathering song

Surely, it's over Sr. Bolano

Surely, it's over Sr. Bolaño
since you're dead
and the numbers of letters
in the streets of Mexico City
can't say -
"this is about my liver, you fucker!"
or my Spain -
that never was
in five years of chill that's
going to crack my spine under this mud
and all the ghosts of the Andes
marching lockstep in my dreams:
those two poor Allendes in Ciudad Juárez
will they run to the Yankee border when
The Savage Detectives come after them?
but surely, this is not the dream
you'd wake up to find
that you can't sit up straight anymore
and it's been five years now
since you're dead -

Imaginary wonders of the world ...

There are many ways to look at a thing. The most pressing and habit-forming would be to look at it with the slight nudge and thrust of its memories. Or maybe to reject its shape, its form, its way of coming in your way day after day, to reject its existence completely and replace it with a new vision of the thing. Completely new. Still being represented by the concrete block of that thing that you come across but destroy it in a creative way that makes up for that new vision. This is sounds like a call for indulging in delusions of one's mind. But most of the reinforcements and experiences that shape this thing are rooted not in the actual physicality of the thing but in the many different ways our mind has been affected by it. This whole thing projecting it self on the mind is a very specific barrier of habit and our past. This is how the whole things connect us, keep us grounded, make us safe from being disoriented. But to reject it and transplant a new vision in its place requires an act of faith, requires something more than auto-suggestion perhaps. To really channel the powers of imaginary onto what it means to be in the actual painted with the glue of ironic detachment top keep this magnificent moment of visionary impulse intact in place of the destroyed reality. This is an act of faith, as act of daring, a way to escape the boundaries and explore what is truly possible.

Getting the urge to write... break the world into million little words

It is annoying when this urge rise up to write something... at 9:30 in the morning when the research paper that needs writing is sitting waiting on the table from the last night's half-equipped arguments for the main thesis, Metric plays the too little, too late on the speakers in a loop, trying to find all the choruses and half-vocalized lines, conversational reading is talking about Malcolm Lowry's un-Under The Volcano writings, visions of Oaxaca, Sonora, mescal, Colonel and his tequila breakfast at 7 in the morning, Ulises Lima and Arturo Belano drunk on mescal and Roberto Bolano is dead still.

Untitled

you deserve to die
my secret heart
living inside you is
her blood; on the trail
jets zooming past
leaving twilight-rays
on wide-open, blue skies;
her sinuous raptures,
grand gestures;
not enough to deliver
eternal grace,
that unriven trace;
so kill - what's after all -
a little secret to
end it all

a thought...

Writing a Novel is about creating a system of ignorance of a subtle kind...

Ode To Jameson

Dear Jameson, come back to me
this is not without reason
the words pouring themselves on
memories in a shot-glass
look, Jeremy's got a fancy one!
and Elizabeth's moving in on you
little drops of piss always love you

spirits lit up the whole scene
you came out electric-yellow
because Green didn't become you
the suit I wore had flaming cuts
but Jeremy's got a fancy one!
and Elizabeth's moving in on you
little drops of piss always love you

you go away, oh why?
was that old-Irish in you, killing you?
red-birches went up, out of her spine,
leaves that were burning; burning my head
but, Jeremy's got a fancy one!
and Elizabeth's moving in on you
little drops of piss always love you!

Train

"I thought we were both below average... together, no, no,... above average when we were together I mean", the flickering flame tried desperately to hold on to the wick. Then the next second, the train pulled over at the station. It got darker. People were sitting like robots inside looking out. There was so much space and the seats were bigger. I didn't get inside but I think I did. I looked around. There were people staring at me, looking sideways studiously ignoring me. I took a seat right at the edge of the door. But then I stood up and got out. The station seemed empty now. There was no one waiting anymore. Perhaps, the train I didn't take was the last one running on the lines tonight. Grainy white tiles on the sidewall had a black slat of burnt wax. It must have been cold to go up and into the city but I did anyway and forgot about the burnt thing on the wall, I saw, the next second.

regarding: Rain.

Ran into David R. outside Starbucks on my way home. Had a ten minutes of brainstorming with him about the plot of a story I'd been working on. I liked his idea of taking the main thunderstorm scene at the end - the crescendo effect at the end. Let's see how it pans out.

Detective Bureau 2-3: Go To Hell Bastards

is a film by Seijun Suzuki and like every movie by Suzuki has one of the best titles. I can literally think up a plot involving chase-murder scenes, blood splattered walls and forced-fucked level-beaters looking for one last escape from the "Agencies" on the streets of Karachi. This is a plot worthy to come back to.

the lost song

later, we meet at a bar
so, bats leap out of the walls
the ring comes - shines in neon
whoever you are

our drinks taste of tar
your eyes blind me: a curse
Ishwars casts a shadow
wherever you are

on our minds: a door sits ajar
you leave; distance goes away,
I sign my name, I look away
knowing: you are.....

- © Khan Boha

Sinai

the wandering armies of Nimrod
find no battles to win,
seek no mercy to score;
grins, the horizon baked in glass
Sinai crawls on its back everyday

men left with claw-hammered retorts
their humor becomes their armor
sights burn in the distance, unattended;
Hope lay inverted beneath the weary:
Sinai crawls on its back every day

sands savor the Blood of Lost
specks of dust invade the senses
a slit tears open the Eye of Yahweh;
towers of hot-air rise up: a storm!
Sinai crawls on its back everyday

- © Khan Boha

Norma -

a squirrel jumps over the window...
there comes the chill of a season-lost, (in the air)
my breath feels heavy, tongues feed on smoke-steel
"Vincenzo Bellini has what it takes...!"
and again, the jump!
thunder comes, steps go easy: in-love and unaware;
strand of hair resting on the sink then the light darkens
to a shade of blue,
your eyes; the
. . . faint rustle of dried leaves. Look!
Penelope stays up in bed tonight,
radio static inside: pointe-shoes hang forever,
time stops on the glass,
lightning cracks - in the distance
over there beyond the seasons -
and the world starts humming on the dial, again.

- © Khan Boha

[Notes: i just noticed that the poem wraps itself around the occurrence of thunder
which time-wise go ahead and then comes the lightning instance which should have
preceded the thunder, neat! hehe]

Framing device

Before I forget, an idea came to me today. How about using a novelist as a protagonist who writes long realist (accessing Tolstoy and Mumtaz Mufti and all the progressive urdu writers) novels who is trying to find an anchor on a story or a novel about something. And using him and his writing as a framing device.

Khan Boha

Khan Boha was a character that appeared in only one of the pulp detective urdu novels that used to get published on third-grade brownish paperbacks. The novel was a middle of the road story of one country-side feudal whose shady dealings brought the two heroes of the detective series together. Along with their entire troupe of brave, mad-retarded do-gooders including their kids; they went inside the estate of Khan Boha and about five hundred pages later managed to come out after administering a thorough ass-kicking to Khan Boha. Khan Boha was later apprehended and brought before justice and everything started looking promising again while you got your little thrills worth 3 Rupees.