Wednesday, September 28, 2011
- Valerie Martin, "The Confessions of Edward Day".
Monday, September 26, 2011
The last time this happened, I leapt out of my seat, approached the cafe manager, who looked at my (unusually) excited approach with apprehension.
'What's that song? Do you know the name of that song?'
He moved across the counter to where his vaio laptop was pumping music into the sound system.
He shook the mouse and motioned for me to come around. I did, and we both looked on. The name of the tune as shown on the player was a generic 'Track no. X'. I thanked him and walked back to my seat, slightly annoyed that my out-of-character act didn't yield results.
I'd heard of Shazam before, rhe music recognition app (application). I wondered if it worked for Arabic songs as well (or non-English songs). I downloaded it anyway. My plan was to wait for the song to come up on the sound system again (I was too embarrassed to request the song specifically), and then hold the phone to the speakers (high on the ceiling), and wait for technology to do its wonders.
Out of sheer curiously, I'd tested Shazam a few times on the way to the cafe and found, to my pleasant surprise, that it could recognize Arabic songs. However, after a few trials, it asked me for a paid subscription to continue to enjoy the service bla bla bla. Upon which my immediate reaction was to delete it.
When I got back home, I was determined to find the song by hook or crook. I spent an hour online, during which I'd listened to not less than 30 songs on youtube and rummaged through countless lyrics and play-lists, relying on bits and pieces of words I could extricate, with difficulty, from memory. Lo and behold, it's there:
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
and the looming doom
Tomorrow is a vacant bungalow
on the lake of endless gloom
A variable camouflaged from us
By a hundred spikes of denial
A camera slung on slumped shoulders
The crooked smile of the knowing
An expose for the rascals
And candle lit basilica, with depth
And the way you learn to hedge your bets
With each passing step
There's comfort in knowing that you care
There's lust in the way you long to share
You busy yourself with details
The room is stuffy, dark and bare
And the elephant that broods, in the corner, there
Quarantined in your hope of escape
A scientist puzzles
over the invisible,
The magnetic pull
Copious notes are made,
for posterity: beware!
And the journal of passion
With its wet periodicals,
and juicy scoops,
And love affairs
A flight across the gulf
Will get you, there
A border run
Despite the guards
for those, who dare.
And I simmer, here
Like a coiled spring
Waiting for the sign
the clue, the hint
That the road ahead
is bright, and clear
That all you wished for
is present, here.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Behold the scenery as it unfolds, my friend. Here’s a peek of the brown eyes that snubbed snobbery and socialized with god’s apostles. Here’s the familiar look of promise that dragged your soul through the mud of time and the sludge of heartbreak. Here are the old scabs, blossoming anew. And your recidivism at the matters of the heart. “You are the repeater“, these two glimmers of brown gloss are telling you, “You are a repeater, you just never learn”. Here’s the barb wires and partition lines. Here’s the search for a homeland you found in the droopy eyes of a refugee. Here’s your hometown, with no respite for the weary, no break from the searing pain. The leftover of joy you were never able to collect, the hairpins discarded on a dance floor. And the volcanic ash that settled over the rich terrain and smudged your judgment and blurred the postmortem. Here is uncertainty and its derivatives. Here, my friend, is a land where the only thing you dread more than loneliness is companionship.
Those who paid no attention to Noah’s arc, those who hadn’t heeded his warnings, are no longer with us. The rising waters and its challenge held more promise for them than the safety of the ship. Those who couldn’t read the signs, or distinguish the shifting colors of the macadam on the way to wasteland, they are no longer with us. But we envy them nonetheless. They just shuffled along happily. Those who couldn’t read the writing on the wall, couldn’t decipher the text nor interpret the murals, are probably the happier for it.
For now, you continue to indulge in your selfish dance of catharsis. You try to emulate the arrogance of those who pick wild flowers for the sole purpose of depriving the sun of their beauty. You wish you could own the gloss of that postcard, morph it into an energy of your liking and convenience. But alas, unlike your fantasies, those colors are real, and they shall remain beyond your grasp for as long as you dared them to come close.