little comes to those who prepare, those who preconceive the idea of readiness.
you ought to wither through the faults and gain the experiences as life plays it your way.trip on the cracks and stumble through the wilderness, fall and fall but laugh louder again for albeit you fell you pushed onward again.
forget your norms, ignore the crowd and seek that mysticism that you will follow around.
you have it within you, that unquenchable thirst; you have it within you that incorruptible dream,
lose yourself while you take you on and on the way there, you will find your peace.
no version of this where you find the perfect path, no tale where the knight flies on the horse.
take the blow, joust about, for all that pain is worth and after all, ’tis but a scratch.
be consumed by the uncertain as you wander down the stream, the crimson tides shall frighten at first but so familiar they shall seem.
broken paddles, sinking holes and sleepless nights, but none of that in vain,
as you drowned and swam through and through, winding up at a desperate shore,
at home, at peace, where the gold awaits. inching closer to your grasp, the moment is near.
you look back at your way and smile for having persevered.
learn a little, lose a lot and while you play notwithstanding the odds, remember to hold on to what matters and let go that naught.
that which does not ache for want, is not worth having; that which purges your last ounce of courage leaves anon the purest joy.
Tag: Writing
A Romantic’s ode to 27 rue de fleurus
27 rue de fleurus
Amidst the facade of the roaring 20’s and the allegedly “Lost Generation”, there was one building masked under the beauty by the side of La River Gauche that hosted a certain crowd, who then in their lives had an unprecedented acknowledgement and admiration of each other, which in many ways has perhaps altered our perception of history. On a typical Saturday evening one would have found Gertrude Stein at her post in the atelier, garbed in brown corduroy, sitting in a high-backed Renaissance chair, her legs dangling, next to the big cast-iron stove that heated the chilly room. A few feet away, Leo Stein would expound to a group of visitors his views on modern art. In the very room, abandoning any cruel co-incidence would be Ernest Hemingway, sipping away on wine unsolicited, nor unwelcomed. On the other side of the house would be Picasso, Pablo; re-inventing modern paintings while articulating his subtle sexualities of whomsoever the maid he chose for that evening. Often times, this little party would have the almost insignificant honor of hosting the Fitzgeralds who need no introduction nor a claim to fame to associate with such an ensemble. This little room boasted some of France’s finest, having Henri Matisse and Picasso’s works lying around corners while wineglasses clanked between Fitzgerlad and Hemingway; all too non-chalant, too lost and never truly realizing their influences in time. It could be unquestionably agreed that the gatherings in the Stein home “brought together confluences of talent and thinking that would help define modernism in literature and art.”
Perhaps it was what Paris offered then, not just a City that shone like pearls under moonshine, not just the Siene flowing and dancing around during the daytime or the streetlights that make midnight paradise. Perhaps it was the promise that in a place that holds such unreal beauty, that feels so ridiculously tangible, there might be hope for dreams to come true. Paris held together a mirage of this intellectual occult that would gather about, influence the modern ways of lifestyle, Prais took this mirage and made it real. This was not just true in case for the events at 27 rue de fleurus but many times in the past, there has been change that roots back to fine offerings of heavenly, albeit humble Paris. “If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast” said Hemingway, epitomizing the wonder within the capital of France.
What would it take for all of the world to recreate this? What would I not give to spare a few moments in that space, to breathe in same vicinity as them? All this is but meagre rhetoric trying to encapsulate the prowess of a room full of artists. How something so seemingly minuscule, a room with painters and poets, could hold it’s place in history as something more than just a fine co-incidence. It kills me to not know if others as significant, past this period, used to look back and ponder if they could too accompany these folk. What would have happened if Gandhi was in there? Would Hitler be who he was if he too could be critiqued by Stein? It’s these historical hypotheticals that keeps people awake or ties about what wonders this world could hold. It certainly takes more than just a con-incidence to create anything of such a magnitude but a co-incidence looks like a good start.
How often do we look back to such times and wonder at how gracious we are that it happened? Are we at least acknowledging the immaculate significance of not just this, but any particular such incident. Are we not, in some way, a product of their thought and thus in a loose way, their creation? The very idea of my senile reasoning having in an any way originated from that room being true would and could be the greatest happening in my lifetime. So, if I reflect and look, it takes me not long to ponder, not that in what way I benefit from their thinking but in what way that I could either acknowledge or honour their achievement. Of course, I could just pour my thought into words but perhaps that is all it takes. After all, even they were merely thinkers who gathered to share and learn. It takes only a group of committed intellectuals to bring about a change, we all know that can invariably happen but when some magical occurrences, such as that which happened at the Stein’s Salon, take place, it brings about an understanding of why there is a mysticism to our world. An understanding, for the lack of a better word, that when there are thoughts of an open mind, flowing away around those of as capable and creative psyche’s as the ones shared in that room, can together go about to create or even recreate new chapters in our world. Art, a resounding medium capable of inflicting thought like nothing else is the product of that creation. Art, that hold unparalleled feats in pushing our race forward and art that seems invaluable for it not only holds the creation of an intellectual, but binds together the future perceptions and the present articulations. Art, as beautiful as thought could get.
Confessions
“Forgive me father, for I have sinned.”
Bob was here again, the father knew. Years in a row, in that monotonous tone without a shade of remorse or despair, Bob had been coming to confess, or maybe just talk. Bob liked this silence. Bob liked other noises, little and innocent screams. Muffled shrieks. As tidy as ever Bob was dressed today; with rims and lens, bald head and the bow tie. Bob was an everyday folk. Nothing special. He’d be an anonymous citizen, lost in the bustle and busy crowd. Bob did not like attention. Notwithstanding his habitual Sunday sermons and not to forget his penetrating eyes, Bob was still a nobody. His secluded, and questionable lifestyle wasn’t of interest to the preoccupied townsfolk. Bob was just a somebody over here, he was the last someone you’ll ever suspect to be a maniacal Paedophile. Bob wasn’t the one they’ll search when a child disappears, Bob did not exist to them. Bob made the most of this, like his submissive. Bob was tired of it now. Every other child was unique and satisfying but how many can he possibly keep burying?
Bob had issues. Bob didn’t like pre teens, Bob didn’t like loudmouths. Bob loathed gingers and the blacks. He wanted perfection and he took it, he possessed them, obsessed over them and as he got tired, he disposed them. Bob liked to be meticulous. He still took pride over how long he’d run with his last one. She was almost 11 now and still fresh below his porch, buried under those cucumbers. ‘Cucumbers’, thought Bob to himself. ‘Who’d have have thought 28 little corpses could be lying beneath a cucumber plantation’. Albeit, Bob was tired now. He felt like ending it, once and maybe forever.
As he sat quietly, pondering in the confessional, he recollected his collection. He thought of how ice cream could simply bring them to like him. He remembered how much he liked undressing them. His retrospection seemed to arouse him. His methods were utopian. The way he licked down their bodies and how slowly and slowly he would reap their benefits. Bob was the ultimate sensual beast. Their filthy noises couldn’t disturbed him. Their precious tongues were severed much before he would begin. Bob was perfection. As he recollected and felt his hunger grow, Bob finally decided to leave. He knew that today was not the day and began to speak as he left
“Forgive me father, for I will sin.”
– Yours Falsely,
The Skookum.
Simon says
Simon says
Simon says I must now hide,
they’ll find me and know otherwise.
Simon says time is of the essence,
I will obey for I cannot lose now.
Simon says that she will hurt me,
I’ll need to let go; now and forever.
Simon says I must not pay,
he dares me to steal it away.
Simon says he’ll be there for me,
it’s me and him, against the world.
Simon says he loves me now,
I can’t act on my own no more.
Simon says everyone can lie,
I wonder if he’s telling the truth.
Simon says a lot these days,
I can ignore him but not their judging eyes.
Simon says they’ll always hate me,
all I have is my Simon now.
Simon says they want him to go,
I’ve told them that he is all I have.
Simon says they’re lying when they say,
that Simon is going to kill me someday.
Simon says he will kill them all,
but my dear Simon, you don’t exist at all!
– yours falsely,
Hariharan Sriram
Kiss of luck
The kiss of luck
A monotonous plead, I’ve heard all week.
An everyday sight, on the corner of the street.
Under the streetlight, transfixed at his bleak,
a victim to curiosity, I began to speak,
“O poor old sod, I’ve paid my alms, what now do you seek?”
He wept at first and then laughed aloud.
He met my eye and pointed at the crowd,
“Nor you, nor them, none of you deserve to be proud”
The next encounter was with more than some spite,
as he began to weep and shriek under my sight.
I couldn’t help but ask, “are you alright?”
He told me the tale of his existential plight.
He was no beggar, he was nowhere near poor,
although he had lost something more than just dear.
He’s still in pain as he’s been through his gravest fear,
“I’ve lost her, I’ve lost my luck” he whispered, under his tear.
Now he lives in the gutters, aghast and soulless.
All he wants now is a kiss from her,
to end his unquenchable thirst; he wants his child.
He doesn’t need kiss of luck, her charm or her smile.
He’ll do with a kiss, a final wish, he wants her to say goodbye.
Empty without a soulmate
So this was what I had texted my friend, to whom I was making an argument about why there exists something on the lines of true love and how everybody can have a perfect soulmate. The basis of my argument was how empty our lives are without having one undeniable obsession towards somebody we love unconditionally
.
I, for one, feel that a person is not complete unless they literally have something of their own.
You cannot be 35 and say yo bitches i got my mum. nor can you pledge a job, a car, a house, a chopper or be dan bilzerian for all i care. you are not your wallet or your mattress or the car you own or your fucking chanel or prada. they are materialistic and come and go.
your only condolence, your most prized posession, yours truly until death will do you apart will be nothing but your family. find the right people and live for them as they do for you, then, my dear, you are complete.
so you will live all by yourself, incomplete and lost when you know what has to be done yet you deny the possibility and seem to find happiness from what each man suffers or wants to avoid most? you really think you have things to do when your friends have a family for themselves and you will just live through enjoying life? maybe, you climb the everest. maybe you run marathons. maybe you can afford monthly vacations at Bali but is it all worth it when you look back at your life? would you be content to see that mere strangers with just respect and not love attend your funeral? would you be happy to see a life where you survived and regret the one where you could have lived, when you depart? is it all worth the struggle to find the right people? of course. if it had not been so, i am afraid you would not have been born at all.
macha, have you heard or John Lennon and Yoko Ono? they were the couple. THE couple.
i agree it is a real pain in the ass and much more toward the fictional side of the world that people have soulmates and stuff. but the real thing is to work out a chemistry inbetween all those perfections and live as though nothing could be bad and stick together. compromise, love and understanding is all that it takes.
oh and if you wonder how fucking lucky you would have to be to find that perfect one?it is rather simple. just somewhere between optimistic and adamant.
fine, you might disagree and have your own say. but, just make sure i do not telk my kid of how you died a virgin; that is one tale i do not fancy.
– Yours Falsely,
Hariharan Sriram
Gray
Gray
HOW?
stuttering, morbid
and shapeless cretins
thrive on; ceaselessly marching
by vandalising the straight repeatedly.
Living within a spiritual contest, humans
outdo themselves becoming fools time and again.
A mere validation to survive; no real purpose.
A mere lie to live, perhaps a false satisfaction.
A meagre existence in randomness but only to naked eyes;
for a true seeker sees beauty in multitudes that unfold later
and not in minuscule lives of the puppets who come to go.
For that’s how it works and that’s how unimportant you are and were.
The puzzle needs you as another piece; pieces see you as just another piece.
Live and die as now you know; you only come so that you go because
that’s how it works and you should know. That’s how it works, and you should know.
Atlantis
the men set sail with the winds and the tide
on the voyage to seek an utopian land
as three alone, an oddity and not so even
the hopes of mankind lay in their hand.
days passed by as the salts had changed
gust blew at scourned lips and while the hair grew more
prayers bore no fruit and no land in miles of sight
three men lost hope and the dreams of yore.
after the seventh full moon, the sun shone hard
down upon three scrounged and hopeless
the stomachs were empty, hopes had sunk
the boat was afloat, wet and ignorning the sun.
a fortnight later, the youngest had a dream
the lust of lamia had charmed his thoughts
by the light of dawn had chewed his fiest mate
and the third relished while he did not even flinch.
that day onwards, two men set sail
searching for utopia with food to avail
whilst swinging between unknown waters
the youngest fell deep asleep
looking at him with eyes of avarice
the third decided to quench some thirst.
as the youngest was pushed out
and the third left alone
both met their end with paths of their own.
the man who sailed lost his life to hunger
while avarice made him push for more.
the man who drowned had lost the least
but landed dead, at the foot of atlantis.
Chocolate
Lost somewhere between paranoia and reality, still unable to gather her senses, waiting was her only choice.
The clocked ticked on, awkwardly filling the silence;
whilst she lay beside the corpse.
In that pool of warm blood, now running out of temperature,
she faced her gravest sight.
Staring right into those liquid pools of desire, she could see,
what now seemed like lifeless eyes, screaming of innocence.
As the twelve year old lay beside her mom in that dark hall,
with nothing but cold blood that glowed under moonlight,
a child had lost the love of a mother.
She could blame nobody but herself, she couldn’t let go
yet she did what she wanted.
Sometimes, more often than you like, ambiguity can kill.
It can even stab, not once but eleven times.
Just as how she had done it, eleven precise, cold and
satisfying stabs; eleven stabs for those eleven years.
Eleven years of misery, anguish and rage all within but now, not anymore.
Tonight, just as the twelfth year had begun, another life had ended.
Now, as all the sins were reprimanded, there was still huge void.
The child decided to get up, as blood dripped whilst she walked.
She went toward to get some help.
Once she was back, she looked down at the corpse;
finally judging her mother for stabbing herself to death for torturing her child,
judging her, as she relished on a bite of chocolate.
Spectrum
It was a damp Thursday evening, I was past the peak of my boredom and I couldn’t control my inner Socrates so I ended up calling a few colours on virtual canvas as “The Spectrum“.
As evident and childish as it could get, it’s with utmost sincerity that I would like to indulge your disruptive attention towards my masterpiece, if I may.
I have, at my regretful shame, stolen the concept of Yin-Yang, the Chinese or Japanese (one could never know) superstitious philosophy and embedded it along with some colours into what I’d like you all to believe is the Spectrum of Life.
The conceptualists would be theorising without my go and for those who haven’t formulated thy opinions, I’d like to help you before you misunderstand.
What you are witnessing is a shame and embarrassment at the articulation of my ideology, but will not hold be back. (I love you if you disagree.)
The colours first. The euphoria of emotions that flows into an artists’s cerebral is what inspired the use of the vivid and light textured shades. These hues are more than just an optical pleasure. A sight beyond the naked eye and sophisticated soul. It’s for the psychedelics. The round pegs in the square holes. I, for one, really fell for that.
It’s not dark as its elegant. It’s not too bold as its pure. It’s not perfect because nothing is, and that’s what makes this imperfect plethora of tints, the spectrum.
The spectrum reminded me of life, straight away. It began to mix the nostalgic sentiments along with the inner satisfactions that arise by predicting a ceremonious future. Midst these sentiments lies the reality.
That reality is what those black marks are. Circles because the concepts of life as round or circular are profoundly ingenious and something I’m very much interested in. But, the main question would be why is it black? Well, if your perceptions are all rainbows and sunshine, then the reality is gloomy, dark and some would say unpleasant.
Why do I have two such symmetrical figurines? I’d like to call that as balance. Among the plethora of said happiness and pleasantries, there cannot be one singular epiphany of sorrow. Therein comes the struggle thus called life. To bring about a balance in between what’s pleasant and what’s otherwise, one needs to realise it, acknowledge it, apprehend it and move the fuck on.
Cheerio.
Yours Falsely,
-Le Skookum.
The Skookum 