The Pursuit of Isness

There are two ways to look at this. There are always two ways to look at everything. If you're indecisive, there might be three ways to look at it, or four or seventeen. But more ways aren't going to help you decide, so there really is no hope for you. And stop interrupting me!

So, there are two ways to look at this. You are here, at this point in life. You are trying to break free and live your life the way you want to. You are tuning in to things you feel are important and giving them the focus they deserve. You are also feeling miserable about turning your back on everything else happening in your life. You feel guilty and you feel scared because if you do screw up, it's all on you. Your screw up and the way it impacts everyone else in your life; it's all... on... you.

Do you feel scared yet? Good. You should. It's better to deal with these things now than to jump in and let the guilt of it all screw up everything you are trying to do.

What did you say? What are the two ways to look at this? I'm getting there. You really need to be more patient.

So yes, there are two ways to look at this. It's all on you. Or it's not.

I know this might be difficult to process. So I'm going to say this slowly. It's... not... all... on... you.

People are responsible for their own lives. They'll figure it out. It's not your burden to bear. It's not your responsibility to sit around and fix everybody's life. You have your own life, and they have no right to make you feel guilty about living it.

But what if... It doesn't matter. Don't swoop in and try to fix everything all the time. Focus on your life and what you need to do. And remember to be nice to yourself. You're stretching yourself out a bit too much and your self-abuse is beginning to show. Your guilt is making you bitter and your misplaced energy is beginning to run out.

You just get this one life. It's never too late. It's never too much. It's never a good idea to make a compromise you live with for the rest of your life. Go out there and do exactly what you want, and as long as you don't wantonly destroy other people's lives, don't apologise for it. Indulge your impulses and revel in them.

Remember when life used to be fun? Yes, I think it's time to bring that back.

The Great Fantasy Renaissance

This millennium has been far more fantastic than the last one. I’m talking about the Fantasy genre here; in books, movies, games, and other media. Fantasy has crept into other genres like action, comedy, and even romance. Superheroes have never been more popular, each with millions of Facebook fans. Even long dead politicians and religious messiahs are being resurrected to fight vampires and zombies.

                            

    

Our heroes are truly becoming become heroes… axe, baseball bat and all!

What happened and how did this insane glut of the hyper-real and super-normal invade our lives and imaginations? I hereby propose my theory of the Great Fantasy Renaissance.

The Birth

Opinions and accounts vary, but for me, the beginning came at the turn of the millennium with a cult movie directed by the Wachowskis (no longer brothers)… The Matrix. I speak merely of the first movie and not the controversial sequels. Apart from the myriad influences and allusions that made the movie oh-so-profound, what really fascinated people was the concept that reality was negotiable. It could all be a simulation, and anything is possible in a simulation.

If you could see the world, you could reprogram it!

We were awestruck by the possibilities as we watched Neo kick, punch, leap, and fly through the movie, defying physics, belief, and even death. It captured the imagination of the masses, beyond exclusive basements of nerd clubs. It inspired writers, artists, and designers new to sci-fi fantasy to unleash their creativity beyond the constraints of reality. And thus it began!

The Awkward Adolescence

Fantasy was beginning to stir again, it was still mostly for kids (‘childish’ nerds included). One literary phenomenon changed that. Joanne a.k.a J. K. Rowling’s Harry Potter built an everlasting bridge that blurred the boundaries between children’s and adult fiction. Other, less noteworthy but still very successful writers blurred those lines some more and soon enough, it was OK for anyone to read anything.

That’s close to half a billion copies worth of sales right here!

On the movie side, special effects were coming of age, allowing directors to paint greater and more splendid canvases. Peter Jackson showed the world how to make epic fantasy with The Lord of the Rings, designing a world of swords, wizardry, and dragons that one could take seriously. Apart from that series though, movie maturity was still very PG rated, and the first couple of Harry Potter movies proved that. Movies still felt cartoonish, but some series like Spiderman and X-Men still became more popular than superhero movies ever had. DC’s Batman franchise was a joke though (the shameful age of the nippled batsuit) and it looked like the Fantasy renaissance would sputter out before it ever took off.

Why!

But times were a changing, and a new breed of writers and filmmakers were taking a long, hard look at a vision of grown up, serious fantasy.

The Glorious Youth

Much as I hate to admit it, the second author to follow Rowling’s act and make Fantasy even more popular was Stephenie Meyer. Polarising and critically slammed, but undeniably popular and successful, the Twilight series worked in tandem with the Harry Potter movement to spread the word that monsters can be human too. A whole legion of authors rode the wave and found encouraging if not comparable success. The inspirations and trends on the other hand were quite disturbing.

Sparkling vampires… Buff werewolves… Need I say more!

The movies were growing up too. The Prisoner of Azkaban was complex, scary, and a lot better than the first two. Batman grew dark and brooding in Nolan’s series, evolving into an epiphany with Heath Ledger’s Joker in the Dark Knight. The words ‘gritty reboot’ became the mantra for introducing fantasy to a whole new generation of fans. What these movies accomplished was incredible. They humanised fantastic powers and made them relatable. They focused on the logic, science, and history behind these quirks and gave fans a world that felt natural while still being incredibly awesome. Marvel took charge of their movies with their own studio. Iron Man, Captain America, and Thor paved the way for the blockbuster Avengers and their success is proof of how well that worked.

That’s 7 blockbusters in 1… one of them Hulk sized!

The Golden Age of Fantasy

We are truly poised on the verge of a revolution. Fantasy has become the mainstay and, along with its cousin Sci-Fi, it is becoming the foundational premise for non-fantasy stories. Movies like Let the Right One In and Under the Skin actually look at relationships and conflicts; sure the central characters is a vampire or an alien, but that’s incidental. Creative license does allow you to roam free with your setting and characters, and that is exactly what writers, artists, and designers are doing now. They’re having fun letting their characters power up and go wild in a world where anything is possible. The implications and consequences are exhilarating. What is to come in the next few years, will be utterly enchanting and fantastic!

The Cipher

“I love you,” she said. Her face was damp with tears and the misery made her look ugly and old. She was young and pretty; at least she had been an hour back. When she had believed that I loved her back.

I looked across the café at the barista. She was decorating a cream topped beverage with bright pink sprinkles. The moment warped and grew sparkly as everything became razor sharp but tinged blue, like a great TV screen going bad. I could see the sprinkles reflected in the barista’s eyes.

I turned back to her to see if it changed the way she looked. Her face grimaced with misery as she saw my dead eyes. She could see the effects of the warp, but she couldn’t understand it. No one could.

I looked down at my hands. They were bathed in blue, streaky fire. Little sparks jumped from one finger to another and bounced between my hands. I raised my hands and looked at her. She looked miserable and confused. She was just reacting to my vague gesture. It wasn’t oh-my-god-your-hands-are-on-fire confusion. She couldn’t see it.

“I have to go,” I told her. She let out a sob that quickly plummeted into a wail. My hands flared, covering my arms and then my entire field of vision in a flickering blue hellish haze. It was out of control.

“You can’t leave,” she screamed. “I love you! I cannot live without you! You have to tell me you love me! Say something, damn it!”

With each scream, the blue haze flickered more intensely. I was vaguely aware of everyone in the café looking at us. I didn’t have to look around to know that a portly man in an overly embroidered beige jacket was demolishing the pink-sprinkled, heavily creamed beverage… behind me. I could see the barista frowning at me and I could see her thoughts spilling out of her mind in strange purple words… Jerk! Cheat! Liar!

None of it was true, but it didn’t matter. It was too late for all that.

“Say something,” she shrieked. I felt all the glass in the café tremble a bit. So it really happened, given enough pitch. I raised my hands again and saw that they were now an intense, tightly packed band of blue energy. All it would take is one word. But this time I had waited for too long, let it build too much. I had no idea what would happen. It was time to find out.

“Boo,” I said.

 

 

“We should have got here earlier,” the strangely tall woman said.

The man shook his head, stopping to tap his pipe out over a smoldering trashcan. “He was too old for a cipher, too dangerous. We couldn’t have saved him.”  

“But we could have saved a city block full of norms,” she said, looking at the still smoking pile of rubble and the desperate activity around it.

“It’s alright,” he said, refilling his pipe. “They’re just norms.”

 

The Dream

The mind is cruel
It toys with you
It makes you think
You think you want
It makes you believe
You believe you need
It makes you dream
But it's all in the mind
It sets you off, chasing mirages
It convinces you that they're yours
Personal, irreplaceable dreams
It leads you on a merry chase
It makes you doubt
It makes you wonder
It makes you bitter
And a bit of a cynic
It might even make you crazy
Till that incredible point in your life
When you actually catch a dream
And hold it, fluttering in your hands
When you look upon it
Willing yourself to believe it's real
When you taste it
And breathe it in
That moment when you realise that
The mind wasn't lying
It was just waiting
For you to grow up
For you to be ready
For you to be wise
For you to get over yourself
And the rest of the world
For you to be willing
And desperate enough
For you to take chances
And get lucky enough
Enough for the dream
Because the dream is real
And it starts now

The 5 Stages of Brotherhood... and Life!

My best friend and brother-from-another-mother just got married, exactly two months and one day after I did. The entire experience was strangely cathartic and took me down memory lane. It also brought on this slew of long dormant philosophical outpouring. This one though is dedicated to all the bros!

Boys will be boys and girls will grow up into wonderful, complicated women. Boys do grow wise too, but we also manage to stay stupid. We celebrate our victories and failures with delirious mirth and suicidal inebriation. We act grown up, thoughtful, detached, brave, irresponsible, and vulnerable based on the situation's demands. And it is these very patterns of thought and behaviour that brings us bros together, forging friendships that stay strong through the years, enduring far better than obligatory familial ties.

Here, I pick my favourite 5 bro-ments. They might seem stupid and juvenile to the uninitiated, but hey, most bro-haviour does seem stupid and juvenile to the uninitiated!

First Strike - Last Man Standing 

It's one of those sessions where they're falling like flies. Cries of bottoms-up drown out the sounds of another poor soul throwing up as the drinking becomes a serious rite that all comes down to finding out who will be left standing... or sipping. Soon, the spew settles down and just two are left. The contest is over. Last man standing is a lonely and stupid game anyway. The two newly bonded brothers lean back to enjoy their next drink... Cheers!

Second Strike - Bro Against the World 

There are decisions and there are decisions. Every once in a while, you come across one that will alienate everyone else. Parents will disown you, friends will shake their heads disapprovingly, and even the chai wallah will wonder what's wrong with you. Your bro though will stand by you. There will be only one question asked--Are you happy? That is all that matters. We'll figure this out.

Third Strike (this isn't baseball, nobody is out!) - Relationships 

The bro has a girlfriend, or a wife. What does this mean to the brotherhood? How do things change? Do things get weird? Does the wife approve or at least understand? What happens when the other bro gets a girl too? What are the odds of two women who didn't pick each other getting along? These are tough questions, and they need to be answered and figured out. Too many brotherhoods have been disbanded to this deadly third strike. (Ha! Gotcha! Third strike after all!) This round though goes to the lovely women who accompany us bros; for understanding us, for respecting our bros, and for getting along with each other. We couldn't stay bros without you.

Fourth Strike - Success and Failure

The true test of brotherhood lies in this ultimate strike. One bro struggles to find his feet while the other soars. The closely bonded relationship has two conflicting aspects murkying the waters. There is frustration and men being men have egos. But this is the beauty of brotherhood. All it takes is another cricket match with some six packs in the fridge and the joy of an undisturbed evening to scream and shout with an entire country cheering and bursting firecrackers in the background. Actually, the six packs alone will do too!

Fifth and Final Strike - Distance 

Bros will grow up and move away. Family, work, and life will take them to distant shores. Keeping in touch on a regular basis is not a bro thing. Time goes by and responsibilities weigh the ever-youthful shoulders of the bros as they lose their carefree joie-de-vivre sans each other. Grey hair or no hair strike too and the slouch and the paunch weigh the posture down. Capacity for alcohol and late nights goes down and laughter becomes hesitant and confined to socially acceptable volumes. Till one fine day when the bros reunite. Time is confused and doesn't know whether to rewind or fly past as they get right down to the business of being bros. Nothing has changed and the boys will indeed always be boys.

Let's drink to that one... Cheers!

Back and Forth

Is it beginning or has it ended

You’re hurt and aren’t yet mended

You might have let go

You don’t want to know

Looks like your life’s been upended

With flipping tummies and vertigo

Gravity does push, pull, and throw

You plunge and rise

With misery and delight

Life’s scary if your phobia’s an acro

Your winter’s full of your cries

Still not over summer’s surprise

Gets better from here

Nothing more left to fear

Truth’s worse than the worst of lies

Lots more to come, my dear

Laugh insanely or shed a tear

It doesn’t matter

Former or latter

It’s scarier when the end isn’t near

Is it beginning or has it ended

The Tale of Everend

Her eyes grew large as he said the words she was waiting to hear; once upon a time…

She knew what was to come. She had heard this one a million times. Each time, the story was the same, and yet so different. She had so many memories, and she didn’t know how Papa did it; her favourite parts never changed; and still, there was so much new detail in every retelling. Papa had a way with words, and his stories had so much more life that her little crayon men had ever had. Each time the story started, she held her breath, letting it out in little gasps that punctuated the many wondrous events in Everend.

It was a beautiful place, was Everend! She liked it better than all the other places he made up or borrowed, including Peter Pan’s Neverland. She got Peter; he didn’t grow up, neither had she. But then, she couldn’t imagine running away from home to play Injuns and Pirates for eternity. And it wasn’t that she wasn’t bloodthirsty enough! With a wooden sword in her hands, she had made the boys scream like little girls! But running away from Papa had never crossed her mind! 

And yes, Everend was the best!

Oh, but Sir Dunnohoo was in trouble! His horse had the runs, and a runny horse doth not gallop!

She burst out into peals of laughter! That line always got her, especially the way Papa said it. A runny horse doth not gallop! Sir Dunnohoo was a scream, and she loved the way he blustered through the advantage. The real hero was of course the heroine! Everend was her kind of place, where the heroine was always the hero, and the knights were in distress because of their runny horses!

For a while, she rested into that soft glow that came so often with these precious moments. She could see the animated expressions on Papa’s face, his eyes widening in horror as he described the troubled knight’s climb up 542 stairs. Papa didn’t like stairs, and while she gladly skipped over them, she made a moue of dismay at Sir Dunnohoo’s plight. Papa then flailed his arms around, describing the knight’s exhausted triumph at the top of the stairs, and his confusion on seeing the princess he had come to rescue skip past him! Ah, the princess! She sat up, riveted, waiting for the delightful narrative of her favourite character!

Princess Li’lness, the only heroine to ever have an apostrophe in her name (she remembered the day she found out what an apostrophe was in grammar class; how much she had laughed, much to her teacher’s disapproval); Li’lness was the perfect princess. She wore pink, and kicked bad men on their shins with her dainty, pointy shoes. Her best friend was an ogre… oh, Papa was coming to the place were Sir Dunnohoo would hang his helmet on the ogre’s nose!

Sir Dunnohoo saw the pretty princess looking at him, and decided to turn on all his charm.

Papa stopped here, as he usually did, to smooth his hair down and lick his thumbs before shaping up his eyebrows. She went eww, which of course sent him into another round of spit and polish! She playfully punched his arm, which finally got him to continue with his narrative.

He yanked off his helmet, taking care not to let the chin strap mess up the moment, and in a carefree manner, tossed it onto the nearest hooked object… Ohgoaaargh’s nose! (Ohgoaaargh’s dad saw him and started with ‘oh god’, which halfway turned to aaargh; yes, that’s him in that photo with the bitten-off nose!)

Her eyes widened, her hand stifling her giggles as Papa hammed his way through the utter chaos that followed, his hands becoming ogre claws and his voice becoming that of a strangled squeaky knight. Oh, this was the best part ever!

But soon, things got more serious. It was not all laughter and games in Everend, and this is where Papa got inventive. Depending on what he had been reading and what was on his mind, Everend faced a slew of inventive hazards. Today, the evil witch was going to choke on a poisoned orangeberry (a little orange with freckles and lots of personality!) To make matters worse, the worker gnomes were going on strike because someone gifted them a mirror—now, why would someone do that—and they didn’t like their own faces! Everend’s economy was collapsing, and soon would come a time when Everend would be sold to Walt Disney who would just turn it into another theme park! There were so many to save (the evil witch had to be saved too; after all, she was essential for fairy tales and shouldn’t be bumped off!) and it was up to the brave princess to do it all!

She gasped, sighed, and laughed her way through the princess’s brave antics (her favourite part was the orangeberry ending up in Walt Disney’s potpourri and causing a sneeze-a-thon, especially amongst all the grown men in cartoon character suits who worked for Walt Disney!) At last, the story came to a satisfying ending, with Princess Li’lness putting Sir Dunnohoo to sleep and going into the hall to join her Papa for a post-dinner drink.

She clapped heartily, and got up to hug her Papa. She hadn’t heard the story in years, and today, she had begged Papa to do it, with bell and whistles, for her son. Barely a year old, her son listened with rapt attention for all of two minutes, before nodding off. But Papa had gone on, for his little daughter. As she hugged his frail frame, she wondered if she would ever get to hear about Everend again. After Papa was gone, what would happen to Princess Li’lness and Sir Dunnohoo. She held on, squeezing him tighter as she teared up. She could see Everend’s biggest enemy coming closer with every year, and there was nothing she could do. As her Papa held her, she could sense him smile, comforting her as only her Papa could. He patted her head gently as his mellow voice sang out the little rhyme he had always hummed to her as she fell asleep… 

Everend, oh Everend

Sleep tight, you’re safe tonight

All’s well, and everything’s right

I can’t help but wonder

Everend, will you ever end…

Staring into Space

I've been staring into space
It's dark out there
I see things
Swimming in the murky depths
Thoughts melting into fears
The future clawing its way up
Out of the past's long-dead grave
The same old stories
With the same old endings
And it's all still as scary
I've been staring into space
Seeing if I can spot myself
A happy me in a happy morrow
It's dark out there
Maybe it's night there
But then the shadows I see in the depths
Do not comfort, do not ease my worry
I've been staring into space
The moon's bright as ever
Its dark side is still the darkest
It's still scarred all over
Beyond its numbing light
Things do swim in the dark
They might be quiet, but I see them
Beyond the moonlight, in my morrow
I've been staring into space
I've been thinking too much
It's all coming together
It's all falling apart
It's dark out there
What remains does swim by
Dismembered, tentacled
It does not comfort
It does not ease my worry
And still, I stare into space
I can't help but stare into space

30... 31...

One year, and so much has changed. I hit 30 with a sense of panic and desperation. With most important life's goals unattained, (I just typed gaol instead of goal... wow, talk about Freudian slips!) I was at that juncture where the mortality of life hits you and you realize that you might never get to live the life you always wanted. My book was still unpublished--a much-edited manuscript collecting digital dust and self-doubt. I was still in a full-time job and was still working late nights and weekends, spending what free time I could get catching up on my sleep backlog. My relationships with various significant others were all beginning to suffer the neglect I was inflicting on them.

The imaginary nervous imp representing my life expectancy gulps as it examines the statistics: I smoke, I drink, I'm overweight (thanks to my love of food in general and red meat in particular), my work, life and relationships are wrought with stress, and I have a genetic legacy that's pure murder (two granddads lost to heart attacks before they hit the big five-oh, and one grandmom lost to cancer before I grew up enough to remember her face; the other grandmom died a slow, agonizing death and just passed away at 90-something... I'm not sure what I prefer any more) I might have a few years left, but that's more luck than anything else. Not much time left to do much in, and given how much is left (EVERYTHING), not much hope for getting much done either!

Perspective is the great purifier. One thing can change, and everything can look so very different!

I hit 31. My book is still unpublished, but I have an incredible literary agent who was kind of enough to sign me on, and is cheerfully optimistic that we'll soon taste success. Based on that one event, I took my life and turned it around. I quit my full-time job for a consulting role, just so I would have more time to write. I took some risks and created opportunities that would get me closer to my agent, the publishers, and a writing career. The divorce came to a (relatively) painless end (unrelated, but fortuitous). The relationships are better, overall; ambient de-stressing, I guess. The imp is no less nervous as the statistics still seem ominous, though I've started toning down the excesses in some, if not most, departments. The genetic legacy I can't change. When grandparents gang up on you, there's little you can do. The rest of my unattained wishlist still deals with status quo, but the items on it glow with hope, beaming up at #1 who's slowly coming to life.

I might still kick the bucket in a few years, but now I can joke about the projected Mayan end of the world (that's one joke with an expiry date). I'm going to die a published author (or at least an author with recognized potential), and that's better than dying with a neglected manuscript no one knew about. Alternately, I might live the whole big life (marriage, bestsellers, world travel, kids, cynicism v2.0, arthritis etc.) and might die a slow, agonizing death at 90-something. I don't know that I want to lose my senses, motor skills and bowel control before I go. But then, such is life. You never know what the end's like and you can't really flip the pages to find out (point is, if you could, would you?)

Am I happy? On some days, yes. Does 31 feel better? With the new perspective glasses, yes. Is 32 going to be even better? I hope so; better is always good (is that an oxymoron?) Is this what's called growing up or can I just not deal with failure? I don't know. Am I overthinking this? Probably. Should I stop? Yes.

Think Write

To die will be an awfully big adventure

Fly away, Wendy bird, fly away  

How terrible it is, to be bound in this way

Our choices and our perception define us, limit us

No, I do not agree

I can make it possible, anything possible

What about… No, we’re not going there

God, my head’s such a mess

I was simple enough when I was born

Then, life happened

Halfway through and so much left to do

I have to build a totem pole

The sheer joy of working with your hands

Wet mud, wood shavings, paper

Writing… always writing

Trying to find ways to keep the flame alive

Nothing else matters, nothing else will stop me

You can get used to just about anything

But does it make sense to live this way

When the next big adventure is death

The Want Rant

From the first outraged wail you emit as a filthy, wrinkled baby to that last whispered sigh of ‘if only’ as you feebly kick the bucket, it’s all about what you want. You’re a relentless need-machine that needs to be fed, clothed, sheltered, coddled, reassured, and admired. A need goes wanting, and you turn into a miserable, insecure crib-fest. You make others around you even more miserable and you throw a tantrum a mile-wide that is like a vicious net, cast wide to capture anything thrown your way to appease your hungering need. It satisfies your ravenous being for a while, and then you start all over again.

You are wrecking feelings, lives, just by unleashing the expectation of your wanton desires on everyone and everything that crosses your path. You don’t care what others want. Oh, you pretend to. You take perfunctory note of another’s odd, convenient wish and make it happen. Then you sit back and wait for the appreciation and the gratitude. It’s all about gratuitous payoff; and if it isn’t instant, we have another tantrum coming right up. 

What is this trail of destructive self-indulgence that you leave behind? Why do you need company when alone and solitude when surrounded by people? Why do you crave what you don’t have and demean what is yours for the taking? Why can you not just accept what is and build on it? Why can’t you just be, damn it!

But no, you want what you want. You’re not going to let it go. If you can fulfil that void within you by yourself, then you will. If it needs to be done at another’s cost, then you will do that too. If not, you will reduce yourself to a blabbering, pathetic beggar looking for sympathetic alms and will not let up till you have what you need. You machinating, sanctimonious excuse for a human being! You will continue to cannibalize your life and those ill-fated enough to be caught in your selfish kamikaze dive till you’re sated.

With these final, damning words, I look away. I’m done with my conversation with my reflection for today. Tomorrow, it will be something else. I just hope it’s a tad more pleasant. 

Writing in Character

I think the toughest thing a writer needs to do is to write as another person. It is a well-known fact that most writers trying out a first-person narrative for the first time always stumble into an autobiographical character. Always. It is the easiest thing to do, and not having to worry about the character’s tone, conviction, or consistency leaves the field wide open to concentrate on other stuff like plots and tale twists.

But then, if you’re a self-respecting writer with pretensions, or a successful one who has to write a second book with a different voice, or both, you’re stuck! Because you come upon that dreadfully unempathetic exercise of writing a narrative that belongs to a completely fictitious character. Most writers descend to more desperate tricks now. Their better halves, alter egos, close friends and family, all become foils that this narrating character wears. In these familiar shadows, the writer plunges his character’s tale, hoping that his view of his significant others is deep enough to make for a consistent character.

So far, so good. But there are only so many significant others. And so many more tales. And some tales need some really twisted characters to narrate, the type who wouldn’t feature in a self-respecting author’s friends-and-family calling group. Not unless said character had come to life, clawing his way up through a metaphorical grave to become rotting-flesh-and-trailing-blood, come to this world to wreak his revenge on an uncaring author. No wait. That idea has already been done. And we’re not talking about that kind of stuff here anyway. So, where was I? Twisted characters, yes!

So you need this borderline psychotic character, with an anticipatory insanity plea if you ever saw one, working his way (or her way, if that’s your kink) through an ever-deteriorating perspective, downward spiraling all the way to unnamable acts of despicable horror. Which friend or family member are you going to base this one on? Right!

This is where the writer enters the true unknown. Complete creation. Become someone and speak as him (or her, yes, I haven’t forgotten you). Live a life as you figure out how your character would feel in so-and-so circumstances and how your character would react. Making that difficult choice between a gas-powered chainsaw or a double-edged axe. What does your character really feel like hefting while giving way to all that incredibly raw angst?

Tough call. That’s what separates the big boys from the little ones, the contenders from the pretenders, the writers from the wannabes. Live your characters through in your head and you will tell a tale worthy of them. Or you might as well give your unfortunate psychotic a letter opener. A plastic one. With a lace-decorated handle. She wouldn’t be able to handle anything else. (Or he wouldn’t, sure! Everyone has an opinion!)

Cogito Ergo Finito

On Whimsy

It has been a while since I’ve succumbed to the seductive call of my oldest and most faithful mistress. She calls every once in a while, as persistent as a wooing adolescent with cratered cheeks and the eternal-hope springing breast. She has much more grace though, and her technique is more akin to that of an erudite and accomplished Madame. Her whispered words used to send a hot flush up my cheeks. She paints images no decent man should ever see. She used to croon to me, teasing me, taunting me. She still does, the words always the same.

Do you have it in you, love, to take the plunge all over again into the intoxicating waters of whimsy?

Memories come back. Memories of deliciously irresponsible escapes from the ennui of everyday eventuality. Memories of breathlessly reckless acts that derailed the careful plans of years and their predictable tomorrows. Memories of her, always whispering, always leading me on a merry chase away from everything else, away from everyone else.

Whimsy. She always comes back. It doesn’t matter where I am, what I do, or how settled in my groove (rut!) I am. She always has a spiel, and it is always intoxicatingly intriguing and attractive. She does not try to reason, though. Never! She advocates against it! She does not promise happy tomorrows for everafter or even a moment’s gratification that is somehow worth a lifetime. There is nothing guaranteed but the act of indulging in her, in Whimsy. Everything that follows is delightful chaos.

The clock ticks and as grey flecks my hair and crows sinks their claws around my eyes, her trips become more poignant. It is more difficult now to just give in. it is more difficult now to turn her away. As my age nears her immortal appearance, our relationship matures. Her words are the same, but they make me smile now and not blush. Her tricks are still clever and completely unanticipated. But they make me applaud at the illusion; I’m a spectator, not a victim. I’m an outsider, not one of her lovers anymore. And still, when she leans forward, her wanton perfume filling me up with the lust to live outside the boundaries of what is acceptable and right, when she brushes those lips against my reluctant ears and whispers…

Do you have it in you, love, to take the plunge all over again into the intoxicating waters of whimsy?

I wonder. I can’t help but wonder.

Cogito Ergo Finito

Poetic License Revoked

Many a time I’ve found myself at a complete loss

With a piece of prose labeled delectable and divine

Critics ooh and aah even as the writer weaves up a mystery

In a piece that is neither a whodunit nor a what’s-the-corpse-wearing

Nay, the convolutedness of the prose goes deeper than that

Its devious machinations are a plot unto themselves

The goal of its damning complexity seems merely to perplex

And belittle the reader perspiring his way to sophistication

Every twisted metaphor contrives meanings profound and obscure

Or it might not be a metaphor even, just delusions of authorship all along

A roaring lion in pink pyjamas set the fondue on fire on a nocturnal jaunt

See what I just did?

With a bit more finesse and bare-faced pretension

I could have passed that piece of twaddle as literature

Just like I toss aside meter and rhythm

And call this assortment of rambling raving rants

Poetry

Cogito Ergo Finito

The Wordscapist

I do not exist
I was who I was told I was
I was who I was expected to be
I was… Was I?
No!
I am who I want to be
I am a myth, a story, a ghost
I am flux that can be shaped anyhow
I am me, I am you, I am anyone
Words capture the form
Fleeting though it is
In these ephemeral scapes
I exist
I am
The Wordscapist
Everything you say is true… somewhere. How artful your truth is (no, there are no lies) and what you make of it determines how real your wordscapes are.

You shape your reality; consciously, through actions, and unconsciously, through means you do not realise, far less understand. There are some though, who know more, do more, say more. They use words. They weave reality with words. Wordsmiths.

It is part gift and part rigour. It is half discovered and half tutored. It must be absorbed and harnessed. Somewhere between the lore of magic and the abstractions of sub-atomic resonance, lies the art of weaving wordscapes. It is a powerful art, one that binds and one that destroys. And yet, it is not infinite. Its boundaries define it as much as they limit it.

There is one who can weave beyond these boundaries… the Wordscapist.

Reaching the pinnacle is a journey, a tale of becoming, realising. Power comes in reasonably, and at times frustratingly, small increments. He didn’t have that luxury. Power came as a tornado, brought on by insanity and sheer chance, sweeping him up and throwing him into a melee of warmongers. A con artiste suddenly found himself the genuine article and then had to live up to the reputation. The world would have to wait while the one man with the power to destroy it waged a personal war to save himself.

It is a world made of words. The written, the spoken, and even the thought… all words, little bits that define reality. It is a world that you and I live in, today, now. It is all going to change soon. Buckle up. Hang on. And yes, careful what you say. Everything you say is true… becomes true… somewhere.
Cogito Ergo Finito

The Death of a Story

Someone has to die for it to be a good story. But what if I do not want to kill anyone. What if the characters I create are not meant to be sacrificed at the altar of the story’s supposed greatness. What’s the way out?

Why not kill the story itself? Let me build this story’s end within itself. Let’s brew a murder that will achieve sweet fulfilment in the very inevitability of every story’s destiny; the end.

For every murder, there has to be a plot. So does every story need one. In this strange pun, let’s weave in the swirls and twirls of the happenings that will lead to this story’s end. Let’s cook up a character who walks the pages, and slips between folds, who hides behind serifs, and seduces ellipses effortlessly. Let’s write up a character who is beyond the power of the author, of words, of the story itself. Let him be a shadow that needs no wall, no light, no being… just pure essence. Let him be the beginning of the end.

Feel the story quaver already? What next? For the plot to be executed, there has to be a motive. Why would the character want to do the story in? Perhaps the story plans to knock him off. Perhaps there’s glory and power in bringing down the world that limits him and threatens to knock him off with a heavy exclamation. Perhaps the character is a sequel killer, lurking in the twists of many a story, responsible in secret for many an untimely finale. No. Our character goes beyond such petty clichés. His motive is art in itself. The sheer poetic justice of doing unto the doer what is due to him. Doesn’t make sense? Wait, dear reader. The end will reveal more than the inevitable chalk outline.

The story does not give in so easily. It resorts to its most dastardly trick, the twisted tale. It ushers in a series of events that cripples the character, challenges his very essence. It changes the rules, gives birth to deadly new predators, and even shatters the fourth wall. As the debris comes crashing down, I shudder at the implication. Has my perfect murderer been mowed down by the sheer scale of events, by the complete disintegration of the world around him?

I realize I’m not alone in my horrified fascination. The story watches too, gasping at the damage it has wreaked on itself in its hunger to root out its doom. I quell my distaste at sharing a moment with my adversary as I wait for the dust to settle. It eventually does. I see a chasm has opened up. And on the edge is a pair of hands that hang on doggedly. A powerful heave of metaphorical shoulders reveals my character hoisting himself up. Wiping streaks of tattered sub-plots from his grim visage, he pulls out a board, and plugs it in right over the chasm. PLOT HOLE, the board announces. The story and I gasp, horror and wonder melded together in one sound. The story overreached and laid itself open in its quest to vanquish its hunter. Alas! Its end was written within itself. And right then and there, everything vanishes into the void. Not even a measly Fin remains.

I burst into applause, that quickly peters out. I see him standing in front of the void. He is not done cleaning up the mess. The story is done with. The author remains. No, I cannot...
Cogito Ergo Finito

The Fight

There is hope, they say. Things will change. For the better. Hang in there. Wait. Have faith.

Listen carefully, and you can hear the clang of empty words, the whisper of inanity, the snicker of well-meaning nothingness.

There is hope…

For every you that is battered, there’s a you that fight backs. For every you that falls, there is a you who struggles back up. For every you that breaks down and cries, there is a you who lets out a defiant scream and carries on.

What’s keeping you going? Hope? Faith? Momentum?

It doesn’t matter. Find peace in the exhaustion brought on by the end of the day, and greet the beginning of the next day for the bloody struggle it might well be. All that matters is that you’re still fighting. If you fall tomorrow, you will be remembered for the fight. For your defiance. For your spirit. . Because, it was a good fight.

Redemption? There is none. There might be a bonus for you, as much controlled by chance as anything else. If there is Someone watching and He or She has a plan, it’s too damn ineffable for you to figure out what to do to get it right. Don’t weaken yourself with hope. You will only crane your neck to catch sight of wisps, setting yourself up for the next sucker punch.

There is hope… Sure, hiding in a box filled with the nastiest company this side of Harlem. Things will change… You bet they will. For the better… Definitely. Someone will benefit, even if it is only the undertaker.
What is definite is that there is a fight on. You’re not lucky enough to be a spectator. You’re one of the bloodied pieces of meat swinging it out in the ring. So glove up, brace yourself, and let loose. Irrespective of the outcome, know that I’ll be cheering for you. Somewhere in between my bouts.Cogito Ergo Finito

Grolshynch Bluesowen

Grolshynch Bluesowen was a name spoken in a pristine moment of insanity. Names have power. So does insanity. It was inevitable that Grolshynch became a real person, warping into reality with no attempt at coherence. And with a name like that, he was a frightful person. A sad, frightful person. Why sad, you ask? Read on.

With a snarl for a whisper and sheer terror in the most benign looks, there was nothing salvageable in his character or redeemable in his nature. Grolshynch was one of nature’s bad guys. He had never hurt a soul or carried off a woman. But he did not need to. His destiny was to be the villain, the monster, the beast. He came into being like an action figure, with a clichéd profile sketch sealing his existence.

What did he look like, this Grolshynch? Did he have bloodshot eyes with the fires of hell glowing in them? Did his diabolic smile reveal sharp canines that seemed to grow even as you watched? Nothing of the sort. Grolshynch didn’t have an appearance. The man that spawned him had not bothered with visuals, merely a name and an intent. Grolshynch lurked so well that you would never catch sight of him. And if you did, what you would see was anyone’s guess. But it would be sure to stop your heart. Imagine, a sight that went with a name and personality such as that, springing at you out of the shadows.

What did Grolshynch do? When he was not lurking, that is. Say, on a Sunday morning. Did he read the newspaper on the pot? How did like his eggs?

Do you really want to know? Do you care? Wouldn’t that spoil it for you? Giving a Caliban like him a life, human traits. How could you justify the delicious terror that you would otherwise feel when you whispered his name? Let’s say he used an ultra-soft toothbrush because he had sensitive gums. Wouldn’t that just destroy the entire concept of Grolshynch forever and ever? Would you rather not have his shoving a rusty wicked-looking pick into his void-like mouth to dislodge that shard of rotting bone left over from his last meal, a meal you would rather not imagine?

What’s this rambling piece about? Who is Grolshynch Bluesowen? Grolshynch is a monster, more precisely, a social monster. With a personality that is a perfect match for society’s picture of a nightmare and origins lost in the mists of a twisted man’s insanity, he never did stand a choice.

By the way, he likes to read the Times on the pot. Especially when he has white bread the previous night. It constipates him. Meat, you ask? No way! Grolshynch is vegan. He can barely stand the whiff of milk, leave alone meat. So he doesn’t like eggs, any which way. And despite his sensitive gums, he has quite a neat set of teeth with regular canines. And once you get past his inevitable exterior, he’s quite a nice guy, actually.

What was that, you want to add him on Facebook?Cogito Ergo Finito

Flirting with Insanity

An experimental piece, written just to see if I can simulate paranoia. It's still too coherent. I'll give it another shot some time later.

The beginning was the end. The end is beginning. I’m playing with words. I’m delaying the inevitable. I cannot dally. I must make haste. I must escape. I cannot. But still, I must try. Like a terrified hare, I will terrify myself to death as I streak through the jungle with the predator right behind me. But I will not be caught alive!

I am a seasoned sprinter. I dash for obscurity, I race towards anonymity. I make a mark and scrub violently to erase it. I cannot be caught in the act or the aftermath. I must not be located. I cannot be locked up. That would be the end of me. Run, I scream to myself!

I look around desperately, for cues, for messages, for signs. Never for help though. Every hand that reaches out seeks to grasp, clutch. They are all in it. They whisper, conspire, coordinate so that they can creep up on me. I won’t let them. I’ll be gone. Ha!

I have the jitters. I twitch incessantly as I drum my fingers and chew my nails to ragged bits. I clasp and clutch my fingers, trying to calm myself down. My breath is reduced to whoops and gasps. I haven’t even started the race yet, and still, adrenaline fills up my veins, stoking my body, preparing it.

I toss baggage out. Everything that cannot be carried must go. Everyone who will slow me down must be left behind. Chunks of objects, memories, and relationships go hurtling through my window as the room becomes bare. All that remains is what will accompany me on the run.

They are here. Time’s up! I dive out, landing hard. Blood trickles through abused skin, skin that stings as sweat starts pouring freely. Trivialities. I race through narrow alleys, my shoulders ramming into strangers, bits and pieces of outlying identity knocked off in the chaos.

My stomach knots itself up as my lungs scream for air. My legs are on fire as they pound the path, my hands reaching out for anything that will support, that will help me hold on and lunge forward. I can feel them. The chase is on. There isn’t much time now.

The beginning was the end. The end is beginning. I’m out of time. They are here. They will have me soon. I’ve been running forever. I can run only for so long. I only hope they do not disappoint me. I have been preparing for this all my life. I stop. I turn around, half tottering. I can hear them. A moment away. Their stench fills up my nostrils. I clench my fists. The running is done. It is time for the last stand.

I brace myself, take a deep breath, and launch myself at them with a scream! Moments later, it is over. The end. Peace.

Cogito Ergo Finito

I remember, You forgot

A random piece of verse, built on the title, which I believe is the name of a Persian poem and an Iranian game as well... That's what a dear Persian friend of mine tells me, at least. The words rang a bell, and the words flowed. The rest is a blog post...

It was a game at first
Hide and seek one day
Tag on another
We ran and we gasped
We laughed and we screamed
Life had stopped awhile
To watch us play
Our innocence freezing it
For a sliver of eternity
I remember, you forgot
Life moved on
And so did innocence
Games became more serious
As laughter trickled away
We went our separate ways
We passed each other
I turned back
You turned back
We missed each other
I remember, you forgot
We became characters
From demented sitcoms
You in a corporate comedy
Me in an angst-ridden drama
We played them for a bit
And then exchanged roles
We moved cities
We moved lives
We met, we said good bye
I remember, you forgot
Somewhere between midnight and dawn
I sit and write these words
I know tomorrow won’t be different
I know nothing will change
You will live your life
And I will live mine
We might meet, we will part
Nothing will change
Except for a promise that fades away
I remember, you forgot
Cogito Ergo Finito