twirl-swirl

twirling, twirling. magic fingers, or so they say. displacing atoms and creating patterns. twirling.

he stumbles out of the library, wielding ancient wisdom. a momentary glance and spin-spin-spin goes his mind-eyes-heart. she's twirling a stick, he's just watching.

a new story.

a gentle drop, a furious lashing; a soft, wild, tireless drizzle. the curtains sway, the lone window rattles. somebody steps on broken glass: a suppressed scream. it's bloody rainy, somebody says.

jerk

convinced that his life was boring, not being able to belong to a subculture, bickering with his grandmother, reading the same sentence a few million times before realizing he didn't want to read it, stuttering before his new crush and dropping the test-tube when she glanced at him, getting average marks and dreading justifying the same to his parents, going out to play football and being laughed at, taking out his new bicycle and being laughed at, trying to laugh along and wanting to cry, eating the same food every night, not being able to understand and reproduce the hep lingo, not wanting to wake up any morning, bullied in school, cheating once and getting caught, dreading justifying the same to his parents, lightly bumping his head into the mirror, screaming fucking screaming when his parents were out, picking up a rusted blade from somewhere and trembling head-to-toe and looking at the mirror and wanting to do the only thing that would save his life, screaming at his reflection, throwing the blade into the dustbin, banging his head into the mirror, screaming and banging and screaming, getting tired and sleeping off, waking up and overhearing his parents discuss about his incompetence at pretty much everything, dreading justifying the same.

the bell was about to ring. we both disdained curfews. just then, and forever. i was looking into old-red brick, fading and burning under moonlight, walls and walls and walls, my fingers grazing her wrist. you , i said. she stood up and faced me. - the warden's calling my name, can you hear?

**

the usual hustle-bustle and horn-blares and layers of sound dissolving into smog. there was a lump inside my throat. a wordless hour. a long walk. i dropped the last cigarette, half-finished. she turned around and faced me. - i will go now - okay. there is fury beneath her smile. she waits for a moment. - go.

**

dirty-jeans and ash-smears. a conversation on anna karenina and the sexiest way to hold a cigarette. the first conversation. her accent is not american, but american-english. as the joke goes. daughter of a diplomat, multi-country hopper, imperfectly polylingual. she's pretty and i wonder what she is thinking. i stop discoursing on peasant-prototypes (who's bored?) and look at my cellphone-clock. eight fifteen. - it's been five hours - yes, um, listen, you want to go somewhere tomorrow? - i will be a little busy, not tomorrow, sometime later? - yeah, sure - and i have to go now - yeah, okay, and.. - i will bump into you soon enough - yeah, okay, and.. - see you, then - yeah, okay, and..i won't ask for your number. - what? - i won't ask for your number - ..and i won't ask for yours?

**

sleep-deprived and sweaty, i open a cigarette-pack and ask her, you like science fiction? her beauty hits me sharply. she is my best friend's girlfriend. our knees are touching, my fingers brush her thighs as i turn towards her. she thinks it is accidental. what else can she think? not friendly, no. images swirl inside my head, possibilities bound by the promise of friendship. nothing is implicit. she roars, she sneers, she is alternately sarcastic and goofy. no, i think, not really.

**

aisle seat, sure, but my legs seem to grow inside an airplane. i rise to let her pass, she mutters a thank you. the next two hours have to be passed anticipating a meaningful glance or a tangible gesture or a word, but since nothing will happen, i will soberly imagine a realistic hello-goodbye story, with zero improbable twists. the story begins from the second glance.

**

sharpening the pencil and drawing the most preposterous face in the history (and geography) of child-art. adding a little hair and surrounding the half-dancing body with a name. smelling the paper and waiting for the real body (with face and hair) to emerge from the drawing. afterthought: adding a love-poem, with violets are blue serving as the penultimate line. hiding it inside a random notebook, along with a two-out-of-ten and red ink screaming poor performance. after a few minutes: taking out the piece of paper and kissing it embarrassedly and getting caught by mother and crying like a baby and feeling the injustice of the world and tearing the paper into two and crying still and throwing it into the dustbin and running away to recuperate.

**

looking at the moon and smoking a joint and looking at the moon. looking down and feeling giddy. hand on shoulder. - this way.

she noticed the dark patches under her eyes and thought God-one-more-day-to-survive.

he noticed the dark patches under her eyes after having bland sex and thought Goddamn-it.

she noticed how he had to put in effort to satisfy her and still couldn't.

he noticed her dissatisfaction with him and consequent want of younger, healthier men.

she noticed how it took him a few seconds extra to get off a chair.

he noticed the same.

they separated. they gave up what defined the past, because the future does not get any better because of that. obviously the solution to pain is not gain.

A New Story

A, four years old, five years old, six, seven, eight, nine...nineteen. B looks at A. B says: Oh damn I didn't notice you were growing up. A looks at B. A says: Fuck you B, you have been growing up too, you are..

B, five years old, six, seven...seventy.

..seventy and you don't even know it. B looks at the mirror. B says: Oh damn I didn't notice now I will wither and die since I'm conscious of my age and doubly conscious of the mortality of man. A looks at the mirror and says: Shut up B, I will take care of you and I will love you and all will seem timeless and beautiful, just wait and feel, but you won't be deluding yourself anymore. B looks at A and says: Oh fuck you A. A grimaces and frowns and cries and smiles. B cannot react otherwise. The mirror is the space between A and B.

A New Story

She stared at me and I said Hello. I said Hello and she said Go away never come back please stop pestering me. Everyone is looking at us can we go to your room and talk? Go away please please. Just a few minutes just one conversation we still don't know what we want. Please go away. I took her hand and pulled it hard and she stumbled forward and did not resist when I put my lips to her lips. A lifetime of distance and ignorance will not lessen this moment in my memory your memory the memory of the people who are looking at us. It is over go away now? I will stay. You pestering idiot. I pestering idiot. You absolute ass. I absolute ass. Don't play with me. You are playing with me. Shut up. Only if you don't tell me to go away again. You little little what are you doing with me? I am staying with you. I don't love you. So you concede? Stay you idiot. Thank you and you didn't return my greeting remember? What? Hello. Okay hello for the heck of all those who are still looking at us. Let's eat something I feel hungry. Okay. Hello hello hello I feel like pestering you so much. I told you to shut up. Hello hello hello

A New Story

Fingers curled gently touching palm bottom thumb placed over forefinger: a skin telescope. Pretend pretend. Left eye closed and the right eye hurtling through infinite space the right eye slowing down and brushing against bird wing. Right eye riding bird back gliding towards mountaintop in search of nothing. Off back now spiralling through blue white air here there here there. Losing focus focus back the eye moves downwards into pits of history the core of the core of the core of the core. Nothing to see. Up again and down again and nothing to see anymore.

A New Story

Say, there is a character with a silly name, almost graspable hair, yellow fingernails, bruised knees, wearing a blue T-shirt with nothing written on it, and say, this character is a forty year old college professor. Say, we encounter him on a Sunday evening, under a blue moon, sitting in a park, blankly staring into a patch of grass and writing a suicide note inside his head. Here's the interesting bit: This is the first time he is writing one inside his head, the previous ones have been paper-recycled. It is 9-o-clock. Ticktockticktock. A lady in a blue dress enters the park, slightly drunk, humming a song. We don't see her face, however, but we get the feeling something exciting is going to happen. The lady clumsily navigates through the grassy terrain and reaches the bench on which the professor is sitting, and after what seems like a deliberate pause, collapses to the ground. Her head falls onto the professor's lap and the professor instinctively holds it, his right hand cupping the middle of her face and his left hand clutching her long dense hair. He gently puts her head on the grass and lies down next to her. They are looking at the blue moon now and smiling. Say, we leave them there.

Note To Self

Poetry, pah! You pretentious ploop! Get a life.

Not.