Salt and Pepper

This world is made complete
in its polarities
north and south
cancer and capricon
spades and hearts
fairy tales, heavy metal
desire and aversion
walls holding light
darkness falling apart
chaos seeking decorum
the disillusionment
in method
sleep burning fuel
wakefulness firing dreams
all world’s a stage
and on the table
is one such world
salt and pepper
pepper and salt
this world complete

this world is all
we’ll ever hold
this all tangible
make believe
this state of
trance stumbling
over decisions
preoccupied with subterfuge
prejudiced, perplexed
to the point of paranoia
restless reasons
running to a renegade
the point of no return
the point of
no tipping over
only the emptiness
to float into
until everything
is acceptable
its all happening
and all at once
the universe
stars getting consumed
watching over
taking aim
mutating microbes
schools of fishes
climbing trees
laboratory mice
and here we are
part culture
part savage
running on our scripts
aggregated on natural selection
craving, fulfilling
going home to
our beliefs
going to
our temples
sitting down to
our humble meals
exercising choice
yet ending up
with only as much
salt and pepper
pepper and salt

this world is all
we will never be
we seek black
and white
imagine blue
but to all appearances
all we are
is turning grey
a feeling yellow
a sisyphean
neon vision
that will
eventually be replaced
by a different
shade of
we are
the gods
in our obsession
to details
we arrive, observe
and pronounce
we aim for
the absolute
our thought is
our speech is prophetic
if only our actions
could show up
to the occasion
if only there maybe
a truce between
expectation and reality
if only compromise
was a virtue
if only forever
was a destination
if only life
were shore and surf
no secrets, no serendipity
life cut out in
whole measures
predefined, prescribed
to the point
of austerity
square pegs
and square holes
modesty served
in eternity
pulverized, dissolved
salt and pepper

Silence in Sounds

the cosmos comes
together in a sparkle
a tumultuous hurray
of sinking spirits
unfurling wings
a rising spectre
breathing flames

artillery fire
tumbling into
the primal pit
where mutiny was
first conceived and
given shelter to until
it was it’s own persona

a blinding light
disorienting senses
put to bed
and in it’s stead
the climbing flames
the diabolic
humour, passion, misery
blowing flares

slurry speech
like molten wax
climb the walls
crawling across the ceiling
falling drops of absinthe
on seared tongues
the busy motorways of dogma

this moment
a supernova
exploding on your face
radiating eminence
the devil
has found the one
who now for him
will wield the mace

dense rising fumes
that billows and bleaches
at the innards
and has no escape
for such steam
is only for the devil to
smoke his fishes
and fumigate
his toenails perhaps

yet the man has
an urge
a necessity to
show his smoke
even though
a rather beta to the
original fumes within
however with which
he may draw rings
from the mouth
and tell the world
the stuff of his dreams
and peel powerful
images of dusting ash
off his knees
to play god

over this world
a deafening silence descends
stifling, swallowing
the days
laying them out
upon the beating
of a metronome
the cold breath of the devil
watching over
the speech
of the tongue-tied
voiceless whispers
the silence in sounds

What it means to be a writer in the age of information

What is elemental here is the study of the arts and how it may be elevated to the next level with the help of technology and information. Here is case of trying to convince the self of an argument, which one may extrapolate that logic may meander through devious geographies of the mind in order to reach at the summit of conviction, however there is no denying the distance traversed, the questions asked, the skins adorned, the minds borrowed, and explanations, oh dearly explanations that show the way to this summit of conviction. With distance comes the weight that makes the mass, drive that pushes ahead, undercurrent thinking otherwise, surface tension holding it together, and whatever forces that may be, and there is only as much dousing your own apprehensions.

While I’am trying to plead the case of a writer, my own thoughts somehow circle back to the musician, or the painter telling me – ‘ its all the same’, and there again goes a trail of necessary self argumentations that pleads for the writer. There’s a sense that coyly catches up to me, like a rumbling motor pulled over for speeding, that the writer is in need of help, more so compared to the musician, or the painter, to make a mark in this age of information, and this help considering this to be a common serviceable commodity,  is all the more difficult to come by.

Beyond the client requirements, target audience of the employer, an egotistical editor, or even an unreasonably vindictive critic, one cannot help but overlook a slew of judgements on a generic plane – prove your sanity, social acceptance, intellectual relevance, contemporaneous sustainability, commercial feasibility. Before my mind throws me the proposition of all the suffering and poverty of Van Gogh, I quietly tell myself that we are talking of the information age here. Consider him on Instagram, and then Nietzsche or a Kafka on twitter, garnering an audience for their craft.

The writer in the information age is simply at the gates of El Dorado of information. There are fortresses, galleries, museums, libraries, universities, marketplaces, dark alleyways everything for them to reach out. There are gates that will open, there are doors that will allow passage, yet there is the otherwise. The writer not only has the variety at disposal, but pursue the depths that they may seek. Easier said than done, because with choice comes the surety of getting lost, even your own backyard can be a labyrinth of indecisions, all you need is sprinkle of choices. Depth in pursuit can simply be marred by Search Engine Optimization algorithms. You may never hit the page that you want to be at, or that information you are looking for may be too widely scattered, further made inaccessible through payment gateways, simply not worth the money if you don’t have it. There is no all-knowing librarian who can tell you the alley and shelf as they indifferently adjust their reading glasses. What you can to have, or rather become because in most cases, as a writer you would not have the resources to employ one – a search engine wizard, with all the contacts in dark net and what nots.

Then my dear writer, you are not just the only person at the gates of these hallowed grounds. There is every other honourable or otherwise, god fearing or not, with intentions questionable or philanthropic, nonetheless citizen of this cyberspace, with all the accesses, and rest assure much more resources, for the writer is self-assured in his trade, and over his head to forage such for base tricks of the future, when his chosen vocation has stood up to the test of time for eons. However, these aforementioned citizens, with the resources that will just suffice and the skillset to put a paragraph together, and the added technology to even be a critic to your work, will do the job, minus any obligations to the spirit of creation, move ahead in life making the way for countless others to follow suit. There you have a generation of writers in the age of information.

A writer today, who has turned his back to world, and doing it all over again is not very much different, when you think of the — censorship of Doestovsky in Tsarist Russia, or Bulgakov desperate for acceptance in the age of Stalin, Ginsberg pleading for the brightest minds of his generation, and the right to be queer of course, Emerson in his belief of the limitlessness of the ‘private man’, paving the way for Thoreau. The countless revisions made on Leaves of Grass, the immortal collection of poems of Walt Whitman, even as he reached a grizzly old age, Tennyson and Dickens in their Victorian charm or the lack of it, Virginia Woolf pioneering instant prose, which later Kerouac made relevant to his time, Faulkner in his celebration of America, Hemingway with his disregard for context or Rushdie in his exile, or some personage of the future when Elon Musk has occupied Mars and made language as relevant as camp fires. They all had had to, or would have had to fuel their fire, channelize the steam, prove their relevance, and keep doing it, and this is true across the arts.

The artist has always been faced with the infinite, in the scope of possibilities in expression, the consequent expansion of the mind, the perils to the upkeep of mental health, the ways one can deviate from their true calling. The writer one argues forms the vanguard against this infinitude, because one the evolution of the craft is very idealistic per se, more technical and less paraphernalia, as you can only think of a keyboard, or a speech to text app, and at best a grammar checker, an e-dictionary that also tells you synonyms and rhymes, and that is as much of technology in 50,000 years of language. Two – the age old filters that the work must go through like coherence, or censorship, has undergone not a very steep evolutionary curve. We humans are never short of imposing restrains on all inhabitants of the planet, more so on our own kind. So the awkward writer is not much displaced from the first of it’s kind, not as much as a choice, as he may like to believe, but that is where the state of trade is at. The coming of the age of information has only meant for the writer, that this gaping abyss of infinity just opened its arms wide open.