PDA

View Full Version : Funndeath writes



Funndeath
01-08-2010, 05:33 AM
Ok, I'm going to be stupid and post this thing again. I made a thread in the last forum, but I think it sort of disappeared into a cyber black hole. I haven't written anything for a really long time, except in my journal. And this is also sort of like something out of a journal, it's self indulgent, it's really unruly and pointless. Point to be noted is that I started writing this years ago during my class 12 exams, during my night time smokes. And I kept adding to it. I guess I wrote it just to write. I understand if you don't want to read a big mass of words, but if you do, take your time and you can keep abandoning it and coming back to it, that's how I wrote it. If anyone at all appreciates this, maybe I'll post something more. The only thing I seem to be writing these days is little notes in my cellphone or random scribblings in my journal. I'm not all that interesting. Anais Nin, I'm not.


I used to call this Ramblings from the fag end (*cough*pretentious*cough) but now I think I'll just call it The Blob because that's what it is.




Drip.
Another drop of water falls on her head, she clenches her fist and swears at the bollocky buggery ceiling. Insolently, another drop shows her the finger while descending onto her nose. She wipes it off and begins the task of moving her desk another 10 fucking inches ahead. Now she's trapped. Its like painting yourself into a corner. You can't do anything but curse and wait. And she does.
Drip.
Yet another drop of water pierces the silence of the night. Its like Chinese water torture. She puts on some death metal to drown out the defiant, drippy ceiling. She imagines a battle taking place. The tiny droplet battling a growling, hammer wielding viking in another universe. He meets the drop halfway, stands over the quivering, restless little fucker and brings his hammer over it with a roar that sends the Scandinavian mountains trembling and the crystal of the water shattering in all directions. This demented little fantasy makes her smile.
She slinks into her chair and recedes deeper into her fantasies, embracing the comfort of the white noise in her mind. Her ability to exist in two places at once is something she's proud of. When forced to be part of a conversation most unengaging, such a skill is a saving grace. They're so real, her escapist creations. And they seem to be doing a lot more good than anything she's encountered so far in the "real" world. She reflects on the nature of the parallel words inside her head. Could they not be wished into existence? Like the Australian idea of Dreamtime. What if all the lives, all the people and all the places she'd created could one day be given flesh, colour, a tangible expression? A narcissistic idea, yes, but not nearly as narcissistic as what "god" must have been thinking. After all, she wasn't creating others in her image, rather her image in other people. Her purpose was not to control, but to get lost in her creation and become one with it. In a moment of humanity, our omnipotent creator desperately longs for a cigarette, of which she has run out.


Eyes shut tight, her body curled in fetal position, she sank into the warmth of her comforter. The day, it seemed now, rushed past her as quickly as she was recounting it. The rum smoothed her descent into sleep and she soon found herself sliding down a spiral as evolution unfolded before her dreaming eyes. A giant fish snapped at her and out of its jagged form a cyborg army of Lilliputian proportions marches out and lifts her up, their steely arms like pinpricks on her back and they launch her headfirst towards the aurora emanating from the distance. She stirs in her sleep as the very real sensation of falling transcends dreamscape and causes her heart to sink to the bottom of her chest.


5 pm on Sunday afternoons are her least favourite time of the week. When she steps into the kitchen, the orange tinged sleepy sunlight streams in through the side window. It refracts through the crystal fruit bowl, sliding its way down the tips of the potted plant on the cabinet and stares into its own reflection in the mirror making her change her mind, if only for a second. 5 pm on Sunday afternoon is her least favourite part of the week because like the rays of sunlight, she could see through each moment crawling along at a snails pace and being aware of the mudaneity of the next moment before it even happens is enough to drive anyone mad.


On nights when she's alone and nicotine and whiskey guide her movements, she wanders out, crawling along the fire escapes and merging with the shadows in the musty smelling staircases, trying to find amusement from the snippets of middle class existence she gathers. She drinks in the smell of food and the conversations from the kitchen window. The building is a beehive and the worker bees are content with their seemingly dronish lives, unaware of the many worlds to be discovered or rather, created, if only they chose to resist the comfort in their mindless drudgery. The children cackle and squeal and their stray tennis balls cause her to dart to the next floor to avoid them. Privacy is a luxury. The park is crowded with men playing cards and women whose tidal laughter sweeps her with a sinister feeling. The building is crawling with construction workers, defying gravity and all safety regulations.
She sits on a rather precarious looking wooden crate marked to "S.K Singh". Through the rusty grill she can see the city before her. The frenzied speed of the vehicles below does little to change her perception of the world around her as one that is constantly sedated. It seems like the world has lost interest in progress. Progress not being equal to fancier looking buses, more flyovers or better buildings. She dwells on the buildings for a second, she hasn't seen a building that was made in the last 10 years that looked interesting, creative or impressive, just undifferentiable blocks of concrete. Thinking of the dilapidated shitpile she's in now she imagined the progress that was promised 27 years ago, almost on cue, a chunk of the scaffolding breaks off from said shitpile and shatters 4 floors below. Indeed, the world seems to be in a lull. It eerily brings to mind some dystopian science fiction novel where the entire population is hooked onto a giant screen that feeds them constant entertainment so that they never open their mouths, or their minds for that matter.
"How am I any different?" she thinks to herself. The uncertainty and of her future is frustrating, simply because it was just that, uncertain. Every time she observed people floating through their lives, managing on as little independent thought as possible, she would wonder whether that was what she would ultimately resign to. "Lets face it," she thought, "my will is not something I can depend on to stop me from becoming an intellectual zombie" in fact, she didn't seem to have much "willpower" at all, as remarked on all too often by her parental units.

Funndeath
01-08-2010, 05:34 AM
Reading from a line in her history book, she thought of how much more accessible information is now, than ever before and whether people are actually using that information. Personally, the tool that has given her the most exposure to culture/subculture/counterculture - living, growing, interactive culture is the internet. She was always disheartened by the pathetic excuses for art, literature, music in their curriculum. "If I had had my view of the world limited by the CBSE, I'd probably had to have become an accountant or engineer too. Or go into "hotel management" since I have no talent in either Math or Science". She respected all professions, really, having a career must be hard work, its just that she never liked the thought of cubicles and data, she felt smothered just thinking about it. She wishes she were more optimistic, hopes that she can retain her "idealism" and translate that into a difference, not just in her own life but in the lives of others who face similarly bleak options.

"Bonsai". The country was like a bonsai. A beautiful but minuscule version of all that it could be. Carefully sheared and kept in check. Its growth stunted by a handful of gardeners who swoop in, wielding shears every time they see some the tree growing out of their design, so that in time it learns to obey and grow in a certain way. The bonsai outwardly paints a beautiful picture but it is just a crippling imposition of order on something that has so much potential to grow , to decide its own course and shape.

Her shoulders are drooping and she has her hood over her head, she takes in a large drag. The sounds of a perfect bassline float out of her little tinpieceofcrap speaker and appear before her, spiral like her smoke rings, they play with the smoke, tease it and disturb its form, float in the air and envelop her for what seems like an eternity before rising up and disappearing. Her eyes follow the smoke and she realizes for the first time that the sky is entirely empty, the moon which usually stands impaled by the buildings has disappeared, there are no stars but the sparks from her cigarette which she ashes with a flick of her thumb. The windows are open after an extended winter, the occasional breeze parts the curtains inviting the summer in, although she knows all too well what separates her from it. She smiles serenely as she hums "Enter Sandman" and crawls into bed.
Outsider.
She's staring out of her window as the thumping drums and gritty bass are beating over her head. Outside is a completely different type of noise. Cars at rush hour, a child's fucking annoying squeaky shoes which she would gladly like to shove down its throat, boys playing cricket.
The sliding windows of her room are the plane where the two worlds separate. And she's disconnected from them both. That's why she calls it "outsider". Viewing that moment as an outsider, but aware of the fact that its you perceiving all those things. "Depersonalization" was the technical term but "outsider" summed it up better. Disassociation from the "self" and viewing the situation as a detached observer.


The couch took her shape as she lay upon it, cradling her. The sky was a strange cliched shade of deep blue, as if stolen from a picture drawn by a child. She'd pulled the curtains over. She turns her face away from the source of the faintest light emanating from her window. She's now pulls the headphones over her ears, "Holy fuck!" she thinks, "this sounds so fucking good! Its like an orgy in my ears!". She imagines a muddy mosh with men and women being tossed up and swallowed by the thrashing bodies, a woman on stage is barking out lyrics about how women poets are put down as destined for suicide - "the Sylvia Plath story is told to girls who write". She thinks its absolute bollocks, but the sincerity that this woman is putting into her music makes her forget the bullshit and focus on the wonderful noise. A line strikes her "We are turning cursive letters into knives", finally something she could relate to. A lot of the feminist politics of Bikini Kill seems to her to be misguided, but they make a lot of sense sometimes. Huggy Bear come on, as always bringing with them their unabashed sexuality and confrontational sound. "Boy/girl revolutionaries" makes sense to her. She'd always thought of men and women as being synergistic components of one species. They were humans above all and gender was just a socially created distinction. She felt that males and females obviously had certain inalienable physical and psychological characteristics that made the experience of being male or female unique but apart from that, the distinctions between masculinity and femininity existed only in people's minds. She thought that if everyone was raised in a gender neutral environment, you could be anything you want. Anything you want, that's what truly appealed to her. "Strawberry Julius" is one of her favourite Bikini Kill songs, its like a musical kick in the nuts, but sweeter. She plays the song 5 times in a row. The guitar is fast and driving and loud as fuck. Kathleen Hannah at once yodels, pleads, screams and gets inside your skin and just makes you want to destroy things. "I wanna burn baby, burn". Breaking things in your mind is a very good outlet.


She's sitting up on her drawer. Her cat's favourite place to perch. She can understand why he likes it here so much. Its peaceful. Looking out at the "world" down below. The world is just what's outside the window for him. And in this moment it is for her too. Her feet rest on the frame of the window. Its been very long since she's performed this ritual of night-time smoking and just letting herself be part of the picture. The opposite building, the trees, the park, the distant buildings and herself are part of the same scene. She's inside the picture, contained within the metallic window frame. The metal is cool on the sole of her feet. The smoke and the vapors from her breath are indistinguishable. Ten cars parked below, where a sign says "Scooter and bike parking ---->". The fourth car from the right with a red L on it. She closes her right eye, then her left. The aluminum awning has a soft golden glow, her eyes follow it as it disappears with a sharp point towards the left and leads her into the dark. The view is shrouded in fog, she can't make out any buildings, just red and blue lights hanging low in the sky. No stars, no moon, no clouds, just a fog that hangs over everything. A single insect makes sweet but abrupt sounds, more like a beep than a chirp, it and herself seem to be the only living creatures in this world. And they're suspended in this landscape, completely in harmony with the inanimate objects, the only thing that tells her she's a living being is her breath. She wonders if the bug knows if she's out there and can hear it. This creates an unintended state of dhyana in her. Its not meditation, its just that no thought can arise in her now. For 5 minutes, "she" ceases to exist. In this lulled state of loss of oneself, she can believe "Tat Tvam Asi" ... Thou Art That.


The man walking downstairs bothers her. He's invading her privacy. He's butting into the conversation between her and the star. She waits for him to be swallowed by the darkness and resumes telling the star about her "child". The child is the lit end of her cigarette. She gives birth to it by striking a match and letting the flame engulf the cigarette. With the first deep puff, the orange flame is born. She nurtures it with her breath. It grows by feeding on the paper. The alternating warm and soft glow of the flame is the evidence of its life. She knows it will die out and she'll have to let it go, let it cremate itself, but for now, it is a part of her, it owes its existence to her, her breath and its breath are the same. The ash accumulates like a mop of grey-black hair on the tip of the cigarette. She can hear dissonant jazz piano sounds floating mysteriously into the foggy early night air, playing hide and seek. With the screech of a bus halting, she stubs her cigarette and severs her connection with the orange, parasitic ember.

Shangri-LIE
01-08-2010, 11:51 AM
This peice deserves an insightful response that I am incapable of giving at the moment. I have read it twice, and I'll contrive something sooner or later as to what I have drawn from it. All I can say is...that is how I felt last night. But I wasn't smoking cigarettes, baby.

Ada Veen
01-08-2010, 11:55 AM
I liked it. Keep writing! :)

Funndeath
01-08-2010, 01:07 PM
Thank you both so much for reading it. :)
And Shangs, somehow I knew you'd know where I was coming from. It seems a "you" type of piece.

Funndeath
01-09-2010, 01:59 PM
So, I was just having another 2am smoke, everything was so still and my mind was just empty, looking at the shadow of the tree on the wall. Sadly, no ideas. However, I do have something I wrote in my phone on the bus to McLeodganj. Just for reference, a dhaba usually looks like this: http://www.beyondmaya.com/images/locations/hires/DhabaH.jpg it's a roadside eating place. And Kumaon is the part of India, the hills where I am from.

Some songs are meant for the road. 'America', 'The Passenger', 'Riders on the Storm', most Pink Floyd songs. The bus races through the highway, lights flickering through the trees, the sleeping passengers bounce from the movement of the bus. I'm the only one awake, besides the driver, I hope. Airtel informs me that we're in Haryana. We're passing through a town. Petrol pumps, mechanics, neon lit dhabas, engineering schools. The Air Near My Fingers. Everything looks so much more beautiful when you're a passerby. The 'bleak' Indian highway towns that Kaveri and Kavya have discovered through their windows look enigmatic and full of life shrouded in fog and blurred by our speed. To those who live there, the same fog must be oppressive. The rickety bus jolts on, sleep is no longer an option. Music has been exhausted, a book has been read. Just being thrown around violently by the road like you're in a washing machine. Dust is now billowing into our lungs like smoke. At 3 am I thought I saw the hills, with the lights of the houses glowing. I think it's now safe to say that was a wishful creation of my sleep deprived mind.
A chai stop at 6am. Two dogs and some "Camels". My Kumaoni blood has failed me and the chill seeps into my bones. Kumaoni blood needs the wisdom of Old Monk to get by.

CellarOwl
02-24-2010, 07:56 AM
Way late to the party here. Don't stop writing, miss. There's a nice, really natural language to your writing.

Funndeath
02-25-2010, 06:15 AM
Better late than never. :) Thanks a lot, man. I'm really glad you liked them.

S.Hal0mega.B
03-04-2010, 07:35 AM
Way late to the party here. Don't stop writing, miss. There's a nice, really natural language to your writing.

She said it, i second it :)

Alexandra
03-04-2010, 07:41 AM
^ And I third it! ;)

Funndeath
03-06-2010, 01:46 AM
I wrote something last night. I dunno, I was listening to Zero and something just clicked. I'm calling it "Not My Kind Of Girl", simply because that's the song I was listening to when I started writing it. If you look closely you might see bits of some songs in there, not because of any particular "influence" but just because.

Maya opened the door and walked out into the blinding light, her silhouette being enveloped by the white hot sun is the last thing he saw before it all turned into indistinct white noise. Dead fish white, upturned eyes, cold sweat hanging on his brow, head bent backwards in an unnatural contour. The police photograph captured something sensual in the sand dune of his neck. The smoke smell still hung heavy in the room, his last breath of curling smoke was still trapped in this room. The walls refusing to let go of the love that had quite literally, died. There was very little blood lost, red velvet streaks meandered from his nostrils and met the stream at the corner of his mouth.

She traces the pattern of the morning sun seeping in through the curtains along his bare spine. “Why’d you do it?” she said. “Because I knew if I didn’t then you would”. He’s propped up on his elbows now, face half swallowed by a deep blue shadow, right eyebrow raised at the minutest, searching angle. His gaze is so steady that she looks away, can’t touch him anymore.
“You didn’t need to do me any favours”
“It’s a parting shot”
No more words.
He swallows his bitter pill, fills his lungs with smoke to help it go down smoother and watches her from across the room. Her face is flushed; you can see the burning on her cheeks. In the warm glow of the room he sees her long fingers hesitate while putting the black plastic bag into her purse. He’s fading now, all he can feel is resignation. She can’t bring herself to look back.
Like morphine haze it all comes flooding in. He yields.
Sleep.

Funndeath
04-02-2010, 06:11 AM
Here's something I wrote last night. Something about sneaking around, desperate for a fag seems to inspire me. Please do tell me if I suck, I have serious suspicions that I do. Just a few translations, I didn't want to add it to the thing (I can't call it a poem, really because I can't write those): chowkidar = watchman. Lathi (laa-thee) = a long bamboo stick often carried by watchmen and policemen. Payal = anklet. Dabe Paon = an expression meaning to sneak in stealthily, basically tip toeing.



Nicotine Buzz, the first after a long time
My thief's feet have fallen asleep, tip toeing around my own home.
Silence broken by the sound of the chowkidar's whistle,
Lathi clacking along in the dead of night.
I'm alive, the shadow of the tree with it's nerve endings hanging, on the opposite wall.
Exhale, the smoke disappears into the orange light.
Stub out the conehead cigarette.
Back into the dark, my tinkling payal gives me away.
Dabe paon, I return to my own softly lit, air conditioned hideaway. Blue.
I'm under floral sheets.
The chowkidar is still out there.

MArshall
04-02-2010, 06:04 PM
I used to call this Ramblings from the fag end (*cough*pretentious*cough) but now I think I'll just call it The Blob because that's what it is.

.

lol i like the title. i also like your writing! i enjoyed it. more please!

Alexandra
04-03-2010, 04:27 AM
I like your writing style, too. It was easy to imagine the situation, which means that you described it graphically and that's not easy to do.

Funndeath
04-03-2010, 01:10 PM
Thanks a lot guys.
Marshall, quite a literal title that is, since most of it was written after contemplative 3 am smokes. :P

Funndeath
05-04-2010, 01:59 PM
Pairs of three pronged lasers emerge from the lights of the passing cars, filtered through the screen that separates the conductor and I. Our driver, the motorist hating Haryanvi maniac swerves past another bike and yells at him for being in the wrong lane. Raindrop leopard print dance past on the screen now. The buzz of anticipation has already got us seeing things. Lightening shatters the sky and illuminates the fields, eucalyptus trees and constant construction that are a familiar feature of all travels in the north. A beautifully sinister moon peeks through the dark clouds never fully revealing itself. Cars disappear like apparitions fromthe rearview mirror in a phantasmagoria of fog and smoke. Now we've stopped because the kid with the fucking weak bladder needs to piss again. The driver is exasperated. J-hop star whispers "inhale exhale" into my ear in a bass gruff Japanese accent. 320am. Bus winds through foothill tow, the cluster of lights like constellations upon the hills curved back Below the bridge, the inky river snakes lazily by. 430am, in the distance I see a massive, brightly lit construction that looks like a rocket launch site but is probably some electricity generation station, unfamiliar to my Kumaoni eyes. Our side of the hills must be the windward side, we don't often see such dazzling lights. My instinct of hills rivalry has kicked in, the Himachalis have the tourists, the Garhwalis have the rivers, we have the silence.
Local stud boy with WWE shaved into his head wearing a straw hat and shiny earring is trying to chat us up. Blinding green light bounces off leaves, Tyndall effect through the Lord of the Rings forest. Pink faced children eye us curiously.

Written on my cellphone on the ride to Kasol.