I'm transmitting frequencies. Are you receiving?

The Wrestler

I wrestle the sun
while you possess my words before I run.

I sit within a sphere of shame and cry
while you buy time 'cos all you do is try, try, try.

I explain the meaning of a moment
while you see the end of a vintage torment.

I hold onto a tinted glass of joy
while you treat the universe like a toy.

body, body, body, body, body run

A lie: My first composition on piano.

Dirty Facade

This background is so vague
This falter much too strong
A slew of reluctance
Makes the focus warble on
For every laden vein
Is a grim pail of prey
The true are open
They wrestle with this state
What a dirty facade
The coming of an ugly file
Every guide is ill-timed
Purely lit for the lofty kind
What a dirty facade
The coming of an idle qualm
And everyone is so still
No one ever is pure

----

And talking of brains, Shannon Wright's taking over mine. This is exactly the kind of music I want to play. Waiting for Christa, then. :)

What's inside JP's brain: "A group of tranvestities made a killing on the stock exchange, cats now control the government by means of brain implants and the moon has been conclusively proven to be made of phlegm from smoker's lungs."

Cut

What a thrill ---
My thumb instead of an onion.
The top quite gone
Except for a sort of a hinge

Of skin,
A flap like a hat,
Dead white.
Then that red plush.

Little pilgrim,
The Indian's axed your scalp.
Your turkey wattle
Carpet rolls

Straight from the heart.
I step on it,
Clutching my bottle
Of pink fizz.

A celebration, this is.
Out of a gap
A million soldiers run,
Redcoats, every one.

Whose side are they on?
O my
Homunculus, I am ill.
I have taken a pill to kill

The thin
Papery feeling.
Saboteur,
Kamikaze man ---

The stain on your
Gauze Ku Klux Klan
Babushka
Darkens and tarnishes and when

The balled
Pulp of your heart
Confronts its small
Mill of silence

How you jump ---
Trepanned veteran,
Dirty girl,
Thumb stump.

----

Suicidal but lovely. Plath, all along. Oh, and on another note, I saw King Kong yesterday. It blew me away completely. What a brilliant piece of work. Ooh-rah. And it was very touching towards the end, I almost cried. :(

I am an overfloater, a puzzle, a 13-page diagram, a man-made machine, a cropduster, a legless frog, a blackcat, a villain, a photograph, a fairytale... I know you too well, I will eat you alive.

How do you like my new "eye"? - - >

This is a precursor to a brand new 100hands, Jan 1st reboot. Dye my rage.

In the words of Diane Arbus - "A photograph is a secret about a secret. The more it tells you the less you know."

So...

...I saw another set of films at the film fest. Firstly, "Sringaram" (Dance of love) on Tuesday. I have no words for this piece of junk they call a film. The performances, the storyline, the music, the photography, everything. The female lead, Aditi Rao Hydari, I must say is gorgeous. And she was there at the screening. So, there I am, sitting with Nura completely blown away by this goddess. Dont remind me. I am trying to get over her. :) They had a shortfilm called "Reflections" before that. And it had top South Indian filmstar Mohanlal in it. I dont know what anyone on the set was thinking when they made this. Absolute garbage, for lack of a better word.

Then I went for Wong Kar Wai's secret sequel to "In the mood for love". Tony Cheung, as Mr. Chow again. But this time a more flamboyant character - a ladies man, totally. The visuals and the music were brilliant. But I somehow seemed to miss the storyline. I have, in the past, liked movies sans plot. Tarkovsky's "The Mirror" is only visuals and dream sequences. Very little plot. But I consider it genius. Its just the touch.

Then there was "Kosovo: the hand of friendship" and "The wretched life of Juanita Narboni". The first one's a documentary on the UAE helping Kosovo from the war. Sheikh Zayed and all. Very touching, some of the images. But all in all, it was just average. Nothing spectacular. Bad typography is something that puts me off completely. The latter had some good performances but I slept for about twenty minutes. Erm.

And, ps, I dont write film reviews for a living. So, spare me. I am just a little man with a few things to say.

Shannon Wright

I have discovered a new Goddess. Shannon Wright. Her earlier work was released by Tough & Go, the guys behind THE RACHELS. It all makes sense now. Apple, Amos and Harvey can take a coffeebreak. I was at THE ONE store buying a gift for a friends wedding. I saw this cd with a very simple cover, dark grey type on a white background. I wanted to know what's inside. The friendly sales guy plugged it in. It sounded fantastic. I bought it. One step forward. I am covered. This is gorgeousness. The album is a collaboration effort between Shannon Wright and Yann Tierson (the guy behind the Amelie OST). Driving back after the reception, 4 vodkas down, 200kmph, this sound was too beautiful. It must be the similarity to P J Harvey that's making me feel this way. Music never sounded this good (it did, back in 1999). Now my sensibilities awaken again and I am touched. Its so beautiful to hear a new sound. So real.

We chase misprinted lies, we face the path of time.

----

Miss you, Layne.

BARAKA

So, I saw BARAKA last night at one of the venues of the Dubai International Film Festival. It was an out-of-this-world experience, a film without words. Visuals and music. Stripped of everything, down to reality. Tribes, chants, traffic, people, nations, clouds, mountains, animals, sacrifice, death and so many more things beautifully shot on 70mm. I sat there on a bean bag in a pretty lawn with a fantastic large screen overdosing my senses. Gorgeousness. Go soak.

Ascend me aimlessly.....
from days before....
such a stunning image...
uplift me. take me where ever it may be...
bring me higher
discover me my the most high self
ascend me deeper...
but an extension of deep
closing in to a bright, bright day
when the nerve responds
the hand tires
and in utero the light descends
reminiscing in tunnels
damp, dark, warm,
eyes closed, lights glaring
breathing livelihood... in gurgles
the sweet rhythm of a mother's hum
within surfaces living in routine
waiting to exhale
and penetrate through
into the fickle fingers of fate
emerging nude, innocent and pure
gurgles become whispers
whispers become sweet nothings
sweet nothings dissipate
becoming lies, nothing more than
exaggerated truths...
and in the end a world unfolds
a buttons activated
a stones thrown
alt.end until the end, the very end.

dead beyond belief.

----

Tennis match. By Nura and Prem. :)

In your house

i play at night in your house
i live another life
pretending to swim
in your house

i change the time in your house
the hours i take
go so slow...

i hear no sound in your house
silence
in the empty rooms

i drown at night in your house
pretending to swim...

----

Robert Smith is driving me insane today. I'm cured.

Inconsequential

I dreamt of you yesterday. But its time to move on. And move on. I think of all the white, pearly-white, fuchisia-white. Fragile-white. Let me relive November 1996 once again. Just once. I miss you, A. I really do. Those clouds looked so real. And my hands held the promise of truth. So real.

Remind me

It's only been a week, the rush of being home is rapid fading. Prevailing to recall, what I was missing, all that time in England. Has sent me aimlessly, on foot or by the help of transportation, to knock on windows where, a friend no longer lives, I had forgotten. And everywhere I go, there's always something to remind me, of another place and time, where love that travelled far had found me. We stayed outside til two, waiting for the light to come back, but hid in talk I knew, until you asked what I was thinking. Brave men tell the truth, a wise man's tools are analogies and puzzles, a woman holds her tongue, knowing silence will speak for her. So now I'll never know, as you will only sleep beside me, and everywhere I go...
It's only been a week.

----

Royksopp. Draco and me thought he said "Ascend me aimlessly". Wouldnt that be hot? I wish, I wish. Toptune, anyhow!

Grey, grey, dark grey

The sounds getting louder. The waters becoming thin. The air's getting foggy. Grey, grey, dark grey. The fingers turning into fists. The nights becoming grey, grey, dark grey. The situations becoming uncomfortable. The mechanisms out of order. Sit me down and turn me into a statue. I love living in a minute like an hour. This metamorphosis is too much for me.

Serif my "i", I need to grow bigger brains. :)

Final stretch, corduroy + cotton, eleventh sketch, surviving but rotten. Puget sound, slowclimb + motion, forever bound, black & red ocean.

Pale September

Pale september, I wore the time like a dress that year
The autumn days swung soft around me, like cotton on my skin
But as the embers of the summer lost their breath and disappeared
My heart went cold and only hollow rhythms resounded from within
But then he rose, brilliant as the moon in full
And sank in the burrows of my keep

And all my armour falling down, in a pile at my feet
And my winter giving way to warm, as I’m singing him to sleep

He goes along just as a water lily
Gentle on the surface of his thoughts his body floats
Unweighted down by passion or intensity
Yet unaware of the depth upon which he coasts
And he finds a home in me
For what misfortune sows, he knows my touch will reap

----

Fiona Apple, please marry me. I promise I will water the plants.