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]

Time And The Broken Heart [a sonnet]

His boy said: "I'm bored of you! It's time to end!
The story's lasted long enough, goodbye mate!"
He felt the crack in his heart, that he'd have to mend:
"I'll be brave," he thought, "And get my life straight."

He called up his friends, in humbled state:
"I feel distressed" he said. "Seeking words of advice."
All of them replied that, he had to wait,
For time heals it all; time will suffice.

Yes... Time healed it in the past: once, twice, thrice.
He saw hopes ticking a clock on the wall;
Heard the broken heart-- a detonating device.
Waited, till he realized : "Time does not heal it all!"

Along with time, he needed pancakes and maple syrup-- lots!
Plus bitching, crying, smoking and a few vodka shots.

This IS Overwhelming! [a video]

A friend of mine sent me the link to this video some time back, and I must say, it is very overwhelming, close to the most beautiful thing I saw in a long time. As I woke up the other day and watched it, I actually cried throughout the duration of the clip. It just touched me so much, like one of those things that I can't describe, but I ought to share with you, so here it is. Is it the dance? Is it the joy in it? Is it that man traveling the world? Is it just the beauty of the act? I don't know... I think I went through my life crying of grief, crying of pain, crying of stress, crying of dejection, but really rarely did I cry of beauty, and that's what I did when I watched this video.

Let me know what you think and also, do check this website [link here] which explains the entire project-- fascinating stuff!

Small Poem For All Those [Saintly] Work-oholics Out There

When I was a kid,
One thing they did
Say: "Work is worship!"
So I worked, crazy shit!

Now as an adult,
I think of the result:
May be I should
Apply for Sainthood?

The Pink Chaddi Blog!!

I can't believe this! There actually is a Pink Chaddi Blog! I mean, I have been reading about it over the past weeks, and I know that it started as a Facebook group, but that they actually have a blog deserves advertisement! Click here for the link to the blog!
A Consortium of Pubgoing and loose women! :D I feel good and happy about the Campaign. I think it's very emancipatory, but above all, come on, that kind of protest is barely ever seen in India. Cheers to the Pink Chaddis!

The World's Most Famous Video

I think this video is the world's most famous video! It was posted on the 30th of January 2009, and 6,892,881 people so far, rated 24,772 times, commented 16,286 times and above all, favourited (yeah, there is such a verb!) 64,652 times! It's just crazy! I discovered this video last week when Yani (who sometimes shares my office space) showed it to me from somebody who had sent her the link. And today, I had somebody else sending me the link. I can't deny it's hilarious and Yani and I rolled like balls all over the floor and literally cried with laughter. So I thought I should share it: It's a good laugh (though I am sure NONE of us would want to be in that kid's place when he grows up!)