Friday, April 18, 2014

Cease, cows, life is short!



It is difficult for me to put in to words what Marquez has meant to me. More than a writer i admire, though, is the least I can say in honor of the man who, without even really trying, taught me how to give voice to the melancholy that has always both defined and destroyed me. 
Every word I have ever written has been written in an attempt to emulate the effect his words have had on me. I have never quite managed, of course, that genius was his alone to claim, but I have come close. And in doing so have justified to myself that the yearning within is not a curse. Its not a waste, its not delusion but a strength. Perhaps my only one but even so, enough. 
I wished to have met him, and although it may seem impossible now, he has taught me that to believe in the fantastic is to realize it and so I shall believe that we will meet some day so I can display my reverence to him. 
As a writer, I know that what really drives us to write is immortality. Through our words, through the elaborate half truths we tell under the guise of stories, what we strive for is to live on beyond what our bodies are capable of. I think there can be no doubt that Marquez has achieved this goal rather spectacularly and therefore, even though his mortal coil has snapped, he will never cease to be. We will know him, introduce him to the generations to follow and we will never ever forget. 

And so, a man with more quotable quotes than all other men combined, for me must be remembered for the following paragraph that I have read a hundred times and have wept at, been terrified/seduced/exhilarated/made to tremble by, every single time:

“Before reaching the final line, however, he had already understood that he would never leave that room, for it was foreseen that the city of mirrors (or mirages) would be wiped out by the wind and exiled from the memory of men at the precise moment when Aureliano Babilonia would finish deciphering the parchments, and that everything written on them was unrepeatable since time immemorial and forever more, because races condemned to one hundred years of solitude did not have a second opportunity on earth.

What a way to end a book! 

Wednesday, August 28, 2013

Seven years, to the day, since my father passed away. And it still feels raw, the wound, still bleeds stifled tears and chokes me every time, all the time I want to hug him. That warm papabear hug which could always/never save me.

Sunday, October 28, 2012

Independence 2.0



Now this is funny! 

So funny in fact that it has somehow made me relent long enough to let me rise up, up, up to the surface again. 

It’s also somewhat… weird, to be honest. And not the good kind of weird that makes you raise an eyebrow in wonderment. It’s the other kind, the almost unpleasant one. The one that makes your ears ring and your heart sink and your throat go dry. 

But, it’s also familiar. Very, familiar. Like an ex who was more a friend than a lover. The one who knew you and who you still know. Like a memory .The best one.  

And perhaps it’s that last bit right there which is why I am here after longer than it would seem to most... because here is still where I come to feel. 

The weather outside is delightful. Its autumn in Lahore and from the third story window of my new ‘home’ it could almost pass for Houston; that is, if one were to stab his/her eyes, one by one, with an ice pick and look through the blood and mutilated membrane. But as gruesome as that may sound, understand that it’s the closest that Lahore has EVER been to passing for Houston, and it’s enough.

Saturday, March 17, 2012

One could, for the most part, be forgiven for thinking that Love would be enough to guarantee happiness. One could, technically. But only for the most part. For the rest of it, however, the minor part, the more clandestine part, the less tangible but far more insidious part, there is no one else to blame.

Husband.

Its a far heavier title to bear than the mere seven letter constitution suggests. There are dimensions within dimensions within dimensions that no one can foresee and no one can issue warnings about. There are hidden potholes that are so devious that in order to be discovered you must fall in them. But once you do fall, and frankly, there is no way will not, it will hurt far more than you would have dared imagine.

Thursday, May 19, 2011

untitlable

It was the autumn of my discontent. A time when the ghost of Midas, condemned to forever roam the living world, had come to roost in me. The eternity of aimlessness has mutated him, I can assure you, and instead of gold, which despite the moral of the story would actually have been rather nice, everything I touched during those beknighted months would turn instead to shit. And not regular shit either, massive Mastadonion shit. Shit so voluminous and so smelly that even though it was only allegorical it still managed to drive all the sources of happiness right on out of my life. They were dark days, desperate days. Days so heavy with the burden of despondence that waking up was more unpleasant than dreams of having died.

I have never fully recovered, to be honest. Life is probably better than it has ever been, in strictly socially viable terms, at least, but the sense of invulnerability is never coming back. This is a good thing, I’m sure I’ll be told, and in all earnestness too, I know we are basically helpless shapes just floating aimlessly within our own illusions of control, but it’s not. Not really. Not even for a minute. Invincibility is the greatest of all highs, you see. It’s the best of feelings. It’s top of the charts and will never ever be displaced. When you feel invincible you look at the world like it’s a puzzle you can solve, as opposed to one that you can’t even begin to understand. You know shit, when the feeling of invincibility is upon you, you believe shit. And belief, my god, is the strongest of all temptations. Belief, ultimately, is the root cause of all good and evil in the world, and the feeling of invincibility, both good and evil, much like the perfect woman, is ultimately a product of belief. But whatever it is, it was quite clearly upon me just when the mutated ghost of Midas the cursed king chose to hole up where my soul used to live.

Arguably, it was gods way, or the world’s way, or fate’s way of setting me straight and/or extracting the pomposity out of me. But one would have to believe in all those fancy things to subscribe to such an easy interpretation. I don’t know why it happened or to what end… I just know that it did come to pass and almost a decade later I’m still reeling from the assault.

There were lessons learnt… for better or worse… lessons that define whatthefuck I now am. I have no way of knowing whether I drew the right conclusions or not, because the lessons don’t really ever stop coming as long as you live, but one of the lessons itself is to make a fucking decision and then fucking stick to it because whether it works or not is not really up to you anyway and indecision is one of the worst weaknesses a person can be afflicted with. Also learnt that love mustMUSTmust always be embraced with your eyes open wider than your heart. And also that you can’t really help but be blinded by love. How the two can go hand in hand is a mystery to me, but believe me when I tell you, they can. And although even then love is 70 parts pain to 30 parts pleasure, once its chosen rather than assumed, it’s a lot more meaningful.

But most important, and perhaps also the most powerful of all the worms of wisdom Midas planted in me before he finally, mercifully left, is that we are not invulnerable, we just are not. Maybe we aren’t meant to be maybe we are incapable of it, but the bottom line is that the shit will hit the fan and it will catch us not only without an umbrella but with our pants down in a pool of quicksand which we will be unable to get out of ourselves and so we mustMustmust sink in, be submerged, drown and die and be absorbed in order to survive and get back up on our feet again. But none of this, none of the lessons/worms of wisdom can ever actually help because once the stupor of invincibility has been experienced, the rest of our lives our spent hung over from it. You will never ever stop missing it, or craving it, and you will never ever be able to experience it again because as soon as you do, the worms of wisdom will make you weary and clip your wings before they can even fully sprout and you will live the rest of your days in a state of Psuedo-existence, where you can never have what you want and know it too.

Saturday, May 7, 2011

the return of the whothefuck.

For at least the past 15 years (sniff) i've literally been producing words at will (sniff) to write stuff for other people (sniff). And i mean important stuff (sniff) from college admission essays and full blows speeches (sniff) to love letters and fake doctor's certificates (sniff). But when it came to writing my own fucking wedding invite (sniff), I'm completely stumped (Sniffs, sobs, dies).

How the hell can one be different without coming of a pretentious retard? And once you've mastered the walima invite how the hell do you deal with the mehndi one? Why is there a fucking mehndi taking place in the first place? why can't it be just one fucking event that everyone dresses up for and has a ball at and then goes home after instead of bunking at my fucking house so that i don't even have a room available to sleep in and must stay at a fucking hotel? (stomps, kicks, bangs, dies)

The marriage part, i realize, for all the horror stories one hears, is much worthier of being looked forward to than the wedding part. In fact, if it wasn't for all the bullshit that one must go through in order to BE married, marriages probably would be far happier experiences then they are. But you are forced to go into it measuring each others inputs into the whole wedding (i'm winning by many a mile, btw, my lazy ass bride, just sayin) and how well who's friend came through and whose aunt is toooooooooo fucking paindoo to be invited. Also, did you know, if you want 300 guests at the event you don't give away 300 cards, you get 600 printed! 600 ppl are to be invited in order to yield a paltry 300??? how does that even equate? Is this a fucking wedding or a deep sea fishing expedition in the dead fucking sea? I am so fucking ready to just fucking elope with who fucking ever is fucking willing to fucking make a go of it than go through all this crazy shit. The worst fucking part is that my dearly beloved isn't into all this shit either, she just wants the diamond... but we both mustmustmust go through this whole shebang because well when your parents accept the indignity of having borne love-marriage-ing progeny, the progeny mustmustmust accept the indignity of being treated like fucking centerpieces on a fucking buffet table.

Fuck! I hope i make it through without losing all my hair and/or turning into one of those middle shelf cynical 'husbands' who take inordinate amounts of pleasure in the misery of others just because it makes them feel vindicated.

In other news, I am Back and oh boy oh boy oh boy, do i have stories to tell...

Friday, April 1, 2011

mem-o-ree

Riptearshred out of place to make space for a new face but she fights back she has the knack for lasting and casting shadows so long you will never belong to any one else.

Its all in my head, its all in my head its all in my head its all in my head its all in my head its all in my head.

No one else will ever see or know or do what is expected of you to spare you the horror of failing and feeling like you could ever belong to anyone else.

Potentially, life is fucking beautiful. And god is mercy incarnate. The shit has turned to rose water right before hitting the fan and there's a downpour of fragrant benediction which you don't need an umbrella for. Divided and united and divided in an instant of intense ecstasy with someone i could become but its no good to me Goddamn it, its no fucking good to me because when you aimed your love soaked spear you were aiming at who i used to be...

Saturday, March 19, 2011

here we go again

i am compelled to say i'm going back to america but this time around it seems/feels a lot different. A lot different too are the dynamics. Either way, i am off, for better or worse. Let's hope this time around i get what i am going for.

Monday, February 14, 2011

The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.
What the fuck is up with that, yo?

Thursday, December 30, 2010

What do you do when love seeps in through the pores on your skin so slow you almost didn't feel it happen ?

Love is easy to qualify and/or quantify when it smacks you like a sledge hammer to the nuts or a poisoned arrow in the ass. It bamboozles you, obviously, sending your being into shock, incapacitating your fight or flee instincts, rendering you wholly helpless and at the mercy of the after shocks of the unforeseen assault.

Falling in love by degrees, by choosing neither to fight nor flee but submit instead , however, is a completely different kind of disease. Its no less potent, mind you, but its infinitely better than accidental love.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

6

years old: my blog.

14 years old: my email account.

20 years old: my car.

I'm not one for letting go. Learn to deal.

Saturday, October 23, 2010

i can't tell you what it really is, only what it feels like.

There is an empty space where grace used to be no forwarding address just a bad taste in the mouth, now, where did the melody go, now who ate my song?

Losing in love is hard on the ego, falling in love is hard on the knees. Being in love is hard on the heart, don't fall in love please.

A man's gots to do what a man gots to do and this man gots to survive.
But by the time i'm done making my peace, will you be alive? Will you be alive?

This is not for you. This is for me. And your failure to understand is also perfectly planned.

She fucking hates me and I love it so you can judge me but you'll never know what i've seen and done and gone through cuz you always think its about you. Don't even know who you are anymore you only think you do. I could be talking to myself it all the fucking same.

"Winston, If i were your wife, i would lace your tea with cyanide."

"If i were your husband, Nancy, i would drink it."

And they lived happily ever after. Unloved, unscarred and regretlessly.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Dil to chaha per shikast-e-dil nay mohlat he na dee


You don't deserve to be loved, she said.
But seeing the frenzy in her eyes, he strangled his heart. And for the rest of his life his heart never loved him again. This granted him the gift of verbal poignancy of divine caliber and cynical insight as sharp as a diamond blade but when years and years later the child asked her what his eyes were always apologizing for he understood that he had failed. As much today as years and years earlier and every day, every moment between now and then he had consistently, continuously failed and so despite his judicious reasoning and cynical insight as sharp as a diamond blade, he had ended up proving her right.

And now as he sits duly bundled up in two blankets and a fur cap that covers his ears entirely, slowly sucking on the stem of his pipe out of the habit of sucking more so than the habit of smoking he has run out of things to say or verbal poignancy of divine caliber to offer because it was only when the news of her death reached him two years after she had died that it became clear to him that love does not exist. He then had an answer for the child who was no longer a child but a young woman capable of believing in love herself and thus now blinded to the stark truths she could so deftly find amidst the flawless lies that it caused a man much oldersmarterwiser than her to understand the true nature of his crime.

And so he summoned her through the necessary agents of communication between them and despite the rancor she came for she had learnt one lesson well that regret ought be avoided whenever possible.

The answer is, he spoke for the first time since the nicotine had claimed his throat, for breaking my heart.

She remembered the question even after the years and years and every moment within those years that she had struggled to understand the nature of her crime which had warranted such a hefty punishment that she believed she would never ever stop paying for it. But his answer instantly released her from her guilt. Like the soul departing from a corpse, the guilt accumulated over years and years of wondering why travelled up and out of her and her heart welled up with as much emotion as her father's had back when he'd been told that he doesn't deserve to be loved and her father noticed the violence erupt on her face in flashes of crimson across her pale cheeks and a splash of red across the white in her eyes as he learned how it felt to have your own eyes well up with frenzy.

She either failed or chose not to heed the her father's silent request and without letting the chance to go by unheralded she permitted the tears to fall and the words to flow and I didn't think you had one, she said, i don't think you do.

Saturday, October 9, 2010

And for every head severed, two spawn anew.

Don’t stop comin’ up, don’t stop comin’ up, you don’t stop comin’ up, don’t stop comin’ up, you don’t stop comin’ up don’t stop comin’ up, you don’t stop.


Hydra. You've become your favorite monster. I hope you notice. But i know you won't.

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

The devil giveth and the lord taketh away. nema.

Choose. Wisely. Love.

cock

Are friends still friends even though they feel less like friends and more like an itch you can't quite scratch or quite get rid of?

Are friends ever friends at all?

Monday, August 23, 2010

Chai chahiye. Aur soota bhee :(

As civilizations go, ours sucks.

Look at it this way, what artifacts are we leaving behind for the future of mankind to find? I don't mean the gigantic buildings, they most probably will not survive the calamity that ends it all whether it be a global flood or a nuclear war but even if they do they won't be too different in grandeur and the information they provide than the pyramids, for instance, or the Easter island heads… huge things made by man for reasons that make no sense a millennium later. Hard drives are sturdy, they might make it.

But then who knows if newman will have invented electricity or choose to go a less dubious route? Then what will they be to them, our hard drives full of memories? Paper weights? Weapons! Yes, head bashers! Our violent history will continue to be used for violence and so we will continue to fulfill our own prophecy long after we have ceased to be. But what else… the time capsule with a coke bottle and a playboy won't really help much. Maybe newman won't like the taste of carbonated caffeine, maybe tits won't tickle his fancy quite like they do ours… I mean if I was going to put my money on it, I'd expect newman to be at least as different from us as we are from oldman, or what we know of oldman and we don't know much, really, not much at all.

And so I suppose newman will also be in awe of whatever he will find of ours, wrecked buildings and titty mags… noxious air and nuclear waste… maybe there should be a manual etched into the very heart of the earth or the sky or something, anything that can withstand the tests of time. Cockroaches! Yes we should write the story of our follies in Roach DNA and at least try to warn the ones who will become the unwitting heirs to our rather miserable legacy. Sure it's never been done before and humanity has been left unto its own devices to figure out how to get where we are headed. But never before has the legacy of a civilization to the ones to follow been the power of killing the world itself. We can, if we wanna, you know, right? We can kill the world in a day or two, totally annihilate it and prolly upset the balance enough to take the whole universe along. Maybe that's what god wants (If there is a god). It sure as shit seems like what humans want. And since we are supposedly created in his image, is it really too far fetched to assume that the almighty is starving for a little global destruction? We are created to destroy. We are Destructoids! Human is too pussy a word to express what we are. Human is for little furry animals and fat short aunties with big big smiles. The human race is not human at all, it's actually Alien. We are the extraterrestrials who have landed on this earth of plant life and animal life and harmonious life and gorgeous life to grow nukes out of its bosom to destroy it. We are certainly poetic in our violence but violent is our nature and so, yes we will, as we have before, bring the world to a ruin, the earth to its knees and God, perhaps, God to his feet in a frenzy of applause and even as we ourselves rather poetically get destroyed by the very thing we ourselves created, we will, I am sure, I am absolutely fucking certain, find comfort in knowing that if our creations can destroy us than we perhaps can destroy our creator.

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

It has become important to erase myself.

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

excerpt

...Not nearly enough words to change a man of his age. Or at least would not have been had they not been written in that flowing script which is the legacy of a Sacred Heart education. Or if, perhaps, they really were as meaningless as they may appear to one who does not know better. Perhaps if they had not been in reply to a much longer letter, penned by the recipient of this note, so infused with the desperation of a shunned beloved, so enthused with his unrequited passions that it became less a love letter and more a dissertation on the waning senility of the writer himself. But still, to change a man not once but twice? To send him hurtling down paths as contradictory to each other as pain and pleasure?

No, to change him first into a stranger and to change him now into an estranged beloved it would take much more than a few lyrical words. And it did, for it were not the words themselves or the words at all that changed him, then or now, it was that unforgivable underline put in place to emphasize a last name that he did not need any assistance to recognize as not his own.

And so, as he read the note over and over again he recognized the phantasmagoric nature of true love which, by granting meaning to the most inane, the most banal, and the most innocuous of things creates an insufferable, incurable fissure between two lovers which both divides and unites them. The words of admonishment now seen freed from the oppression of circumstances became not a rebuke at all but a summons, and so insolently did they demand his compliance that when the news of his daughter in London becoming a widow well before she deserved such a tragic title reached him, though his very first thought was undeniably of his daughter, his second, inexorably, was of Rehana...

Monday, May 17, 2010

almost is almost never enough.

I have loved you, my dear torn up stranger. I must have or else it wouldn’t feel this good to be rid of you.

Nor would it ache, quite as much.


Friday, December 25, 2009

Things we learned from the fire.

It is important to be slow. Slow and deliberate. Your motions cannot be haphazard, or meaningless. When you push forward it cannot be just to probe deeper beneath the dying embers. What the dying embers signify must be understood. When you trace a circle in the ashes you must know what the ashes mean and what the circle implies.

It is important to know.

And to remember.

Nostalgia, like weed, can be found in the silliest of places. Stuck to the bottom of your underwear drawer, for instance. Or inside the cassette playing part of your childhood stereo. Secret stashes which you don’t even remember but you keep because you know you never know. You never know when you will need it, you never know when it will want you. Underneath the ashes of a happy bonfire, glowing orange/gray, fizzling, sizzling, threatening to die, unhappy nostalgia. Unhappy and unforgiving… particularly unforgiving. When it rises up to face you… it’s not the smoke that makes your eyes water.

She used to be loved. She still is, but that was different, you see. Different. And that does, sadly, make all the fucking difference. This is good. This is safe and this is comforting and this is calm but that… that was unreal. That was smack dab stolen out of the fucking movies, man. There was blood involved. Love letters written in blood. Pigeon or human was never clearly established but fuck! Love letters written in blood! There was anger and there was passion. This is great, this is very very nice and comfy, but that… that was fucking different. Running away was seriously considered an option… taking on the whole fucking world was seriously considered an option… dying for it was seriously considered an option. This is very very wholesome, very healthy, hygienic and socially acceptable, this is great, really, I swear this is. But that… damn! That was different.

That was different and that is why that is what she sifts to as she sifts through these ashes of the first bonfire her son ever built. That is what glows orange/gray, fizzles, sizzles and threatens to die. But never does. It simmers slowly always beneath the retinas of her eyes, like image-burn on a TV screen, permanently scarring the view. This is better… Lord, so much fucking better… this is rewarding and fulfilling and so damn perfect… but that was different.

That was different and she will never ever know how different her life could have been no matter how many bonfires she sits by and pokes through. That was different and the strength it takes, the stubbornness to let it be, let it lie and yet not die, to let it slowly simmer beneath the retinas of her eyes is breaking my heart.

It is important to be slow. And deliberate. I grab a stick and poke the other end of the ash-pile. I watch her draw a semi-circle around the pile and I watch her stop and I watch as she lingers uncertain before slowly, deliberately, cutting back across and severing the circle in half. I see her hand tremble for a portion of a second. Just long enough to blame it on the chill December night.

This is bloody brilliant, I tell you. This is happiness, the epitome of happiness, the very fucking soul of happiness. This is going to be a legacy, this going to be everything she is ever going to have and this is enough, this is more than enough, this is benediction, this is blessing, this is god’s own warm and tender fucking embrace. But that was different. That was different and for all that this may be it will always be that which she will look for and it will always be that which she will bury beneath every ash-pile of every bonfire that she will ever sit by.

It is important to know, you see, what the embers imply. It is important to remember.

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