Evernote Goals 2016

Irascible Art

The tiny slip of pink, a hint of a bite, a bit of a smile before muscle is made fluid and her liquid mouth slipstreams, her eyes slipstream behind the rest of her as she pirouettes; the celerity casually disobeying the physics of conservation of physical conversation. She pirouettes, and is simultaneously a wave and a particle and I’m scared of staring too much. Sinew made sensual, every smile a skirt.

The stray slap of a guitar, betraying the riff and the rhythm, sparking between the twin flint stones of thrill and impatient skill. Stings and bounces, in between, in the interstices of the beat, an insolent court dancer under the tyranny of a musical scale.

Irascible art in complete control of itself, exuberant with the confidence of competence. The most purplishly beautiful thing in the world.

...

Writing, on the other hand, is art extracted under torture.

2084

Tar myself with days.

Twenty eighty-four swore and

Is in; golden spring.  

Meter

Night coffee at Tim Horton's discussing Moxie would be sweeter
Now that I discovered your name is in iambic dimeter.

To the Uber driver who drove me to the New Delhi #IWillGoOut protest

This is the problem: when it is most essential for us to keep our wits and deploy our arguments in the battlefield of debate, our tongues fail us. The time and place of crucial skirmishes are never to our choosing. Caught wearing our airport brains, reluctantly shuttling between our air-purified bubbly bunkers, we splutter in righteous ineloquent indignation, and fail to defeat in conversation the very person we most need to convince into submission. Untouched by our ideas, a billion people with voting power vote into power the powerful while we shout slogans and articles at each other.

“If girls dress the way they dress (every day, less!)
how can young men not want to cop a caress?”
“But should they not possess the Freedom To Dress
 that you and…” “Nonsense, young man, you're a pawn in the chess
political parties play every day, sway
kids like you who should be studying not shirking;
these protests prevent people like me from working"

In similar rhyme and with similar reason my fellow citizen, this 5 foot 8 inch long summary of everything my blue-and-white opinions oppose went on until he begrudgingly dropped me off at my protest march against the New Year mass molestation of women in Bangalore.

Lotus Temple

This entire atrium seems to be stuck inside a wobbly 30 year old soft white silica-gel silence. Every action, every thought relaxes into existence. Every sound persists, trapped, fades rhythmically down to the floor until all that remains is a far-off roar — like that of the sea — undercurrent to the quivering silence. A girl behind me coughs; I hear her cough a thousand times. A boy beside her swallows, and I hear the two sounds mate over and over again, the friction achieving resonance. This dense lake of sound is the anchor to the silence superstructure, the rock upon which this temple is built. The silence is merely an airy ideal.

...

The girl coughs, louder this time, and everyone chuckles at the loudness.

Nests (haiku)

Inspired by Tagore's letters to Victoria Ocampo.

...

Hard to kiss mothers
Goodbye; nest is a worthy
Rival of the sky.