What He Meant By 'A Broken Heart' [fiction fragment]

"He broke my heart" he said, "In a million little pieces."

Heads lopped down necks like drops of melting cream; lips stretched to the sides colliding with cheeks but the teeth remained hidden; others merged their eye-brows on the top of their nose, making way for a third-eye; his own mum took a deep breath and licked her lips like bitter lollipop; his best friend didn't adhere to the awkward silence and shot:

"Well, your crystal heart is still here sweetie. Awwww... Here, feel it, beating, in good shape."

The others joined in: "Awww... Give it time, yes, give it time! Men are bastards in any case!"

What he couldn't say and what formed itself as a silenced cancerous lump in his throat was that it was not so much about his heart. The latter was indeed still there, in one piece, blistering like red coal. But it was his spirit that was broken-- his optimism, the joys of waking up to a new day: the feel of the pillow cover against his cheeks, the swooning aroma of green tea in his nostrils, the buckling sound of his belt with a last glance at the mirror...

No, his heart was not a crystal piece that was shattered and would grotesquely be glued back together. No... It was his spirit that had whiled away, in a million little pieces, like invisible forsaken ashes to the whims of the gray winds.

The White Wall [a poem]

I closed my eyes and looked at the white wall.
It sunbathed in light; ten feet tall.
The two sides: eighteen meters long;
It stood: bright, robust, proud, strong!

I was angry at the white wall.
Cat-instinct, bundled-up in a squall.
I wish I could jump over, besoil it,
I desired black blood that I could spit.

I saw a huge stain on the white wall,
A shapeless loathsome spot, a grotesque mole:
Child's imagination? Poetic fancy? Rage? Ire?
I blotched a graffiti of miff, filth, choler, mire.

A Poem [that doesn't have a title]

The reason why I didn't really fill up this space over the past week is that I did not want to impose more rant upon you. It's been an eventful, hard-working, stressful, sleepless, caffeinated week. The drama queen in me was shoved in the wings, while the Christ figure solidified itself centre-stage-- so I carried the weight of my work all alone. And come on, I am capable of better things than just cribbing! Proof: I wrote a poem last week whilst I was submerged under books and books.

--- The Poem: (It doesn't have a title)

Rustle, rustle, of the turning page,
Hard-covers against my rib-cage.
On my toes, under my nails, in my hair,
Paper, ink, print and words tear
Each other to the profit of my mind:
Tautologies, oxymorons and nonsense combined.
I lick the words, swallow the argument:
"But what is it, that de Certeau meant?"
I turn on my back, head on my pillow,
Under my neck, the complete works of Pirandello.
I tattoo my skin with all those words:
Meaning nest in my mind like herds
Of philosophers whose fingers are hammers
That go about hitting in army-like manners.

(I haven't written a poem in a long time, so comments/feedback phuleez.)

Mourning the Death of Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick (1950-2009)

I don't think I'm good with deaths, I don't know whether I am good with mourning either. I barely ever had to experience death. Ghosts is what I am interested in, trace and haunting are what fascinate me.

Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick died last night. So I heard. Suffice it to say that she's been a very inspirational figure in my academic (and social/life) interests? Suffice it to say that if it wasn't for Between Men: English Literature and Male Homosocial Desire (1985) and Epistemology of the Closet (1990), I wouldn't have managed to write my major research paper that allowed me to obtain my M.A. last year? And suffice it to say that if I hadn't read her, I wouldn't even have called my blog The Queer Behind the Mirror?

I thought that coming to North-America would allow me to meet her at a point of time. I thought I would travel to a conference in NY and bump into her there to tell her about my work, and how much she influenced my work and life. Vivek had met her in Amsterdam last year and he told me of the great figure she is. He had also told me that she was fighting cancer though.

Well, I am now left with Tendencies (1993), A Dialogue on Love (1999) and Touching Feeling: Affect, Pedagogy and Performativity (2003) to read and discover. May be it suffices to say her ghost will be haunting queer studies for generations and generations to come...

An homage to Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick: An Inspirational Figure, for many.

Her Clandestine Bed [fiction fragment]

He called and said he'd come tonight. So she busied herself the whole day:

She started by cleaning off the room-- books back on the shelf, crumbles and left-overs disappeared from her table and gave way to an empty vase that she might later fill with the flowers he would probably get her. She got rid of the coffee stained mugs, washed them while putting the chocolate wraps in the bin. She then removed the bed sheets and the pillow covers, washed them and let them dry in the sun.

And what about herself? She cut her nails, painted them pink (the way he likes them), washed her hair that she dried and brushed. She checked the fridge for the bottle of wine, the cupboards for scented candles, and dropped by the bakery for croissants the next day.

Then she sat reading without registering, restless on a couch as time whiled by. In the evening, she took the sun-soaked linen off the line and smelt lavender as she made the bed and diligently placed the six pillows she always kept. As she made the bed, she sighed remembering the feeling of crisp linen on her skin, a contrast to the warmth of his body, a paradox in this square bed that she looked forward to, along with their passionate love-making.

That's when he called to say he wouldn't come, for he couldn't come. His wife had a harsh week and he needed to be there by her side.

That night she went to bed thrilled by the feel of sun-soaked lavender on her nakedness. That night, she also went to bed thrilled that she had put an end to their clandestine meetings.

A Picture [that speaks for itself]