Updates

I have made some updates to my blog Dose and if you are interested you can check them out ^_^

A Clean Wound

There is no way to cut a clean wound
nestled in a body exclusive in a pensive 'anywhere'
'anything goes' pinned up with serenades
like water hardwired electric I see it

your ass
yeah I know
I'm not talking sense
'cause baby my heart was supposed to be here

it's a clean wound see?
Shylock's curry
Antonio's soulmate
Portia's butt
all up some shit
of tangled stupidities

There's nothing like a clean wound ok
better than ecstasy drug
better than anything cute

oh wait
I'm really bleeding to death
ok
which page was I on again?

Swelling

I guess for a long time I had a friend – a best, true kind of friend – whom, I recognized as I wanted to write a piece of writing from my own life which we call non-fiction. I had always had a sense of satisfaction from this best friend of mine – mind the word always because you see I am not using it in its generic design – by always we usually mean something simultaneous and something frequently – but seasoned people know that simultaneity and frequency can vary and that joy exclusive and always to that generic label may not always be wrought. But by always I do mean in the sense that even though it did not take my breath away all the time it did so most of the time. That friend is: the sky.

To be frankly honest, I do not have many friends. As long as I can remember (and this is one place where my memory serves accurately a 100% or let’s say, if we minus that perfection which still has its flaws, a 99.9 or 99.5 %) friends was a subspecies in the life taxonomy I had not read upon with great variety, space or acceptability. In quite brief terms – I was the outcast of my class and one of those many people in school who were rejected as stupid/different/abnormal thus not suitable for friendship. I was always teased and ousted. No one wanted to sit with me. No one wanted to sit beside me. Once a person also stated that if I went to a sanatorium it would better than me staying here in school. I bet that statement was one that was just said and not meant fully, however, at many moments in time it hurt tremendously when I remembered or maybe even a little.

Well, as I had no friends I decided my best choice of action would be to love my own company which I can say was a success. Many parts of me enjoyed me, subtracting egotism in its most megalomaniac and narcissistic sense because parts of solitude do make sense to any human creature. But it would be a lie to say that many a times I did not long for company for I had thoroughly wanted it as one wants water in a desert. However, isolation did not deprive me of imagination or the comforts of a pen. True that the latter being was founded later in life and isolation was decreased by then with some friends at hand.

I must return to the sky for he is the friend I had decided to talk about. She is of different talents this sky friend of mine. To say she is inorganic would be quite insulting and those who believe this to an extremity would never understand the beauty of the sky and it would be pointless to discuss this with them. Inorganic in the generic sense maybe because in the sense that human beings, plants and animals perceive things the sky does not show evidence of such perceptions. Like rocks, stones, water and other minerals it is quiet and unnerving – it does waste and grow – but its growth and waste are nothing like the way we grow and waste. But I cannot think it is totally inorganic as an element of death – I cannot refuse it like that.

The sky can be grey. It can be colourful. It can be glum. It can be quite interesting display of patterns and/or it can even be quite alive with its warmth and blue flavour. The sky soothed me. He kissed me and she resonated into a beautiful paradigm-paradigmless entity of clashing, sailing, homogeneity and heterogeneity. She is quite friendly and open. She is quite vast and expansive. He is open and friendly. He does not have any perilous secrets nor does he be pathologically secretive. She is quite bounteous in her way of sharing her clothes and skin. Lovemaking with this She-He is quite good as the dynamic sex allows you your preferred hetero-homo-bisexualities without judgment.

This definition, this understanding and this belief of the sky came to me after a thought that I had regarding a day. A couple of days back I had wanted to blog about a day that was quite memorable. It was not memorable in the generic senses of events occurring and being so intense that I classify them as memorable – well, as I said, not in the usual sense. It was a day I came back home and did the most normal things I do as I do every single day.

I came back from my university. I probably ate something. I was going to loaf around like I do the entire day. In case you are wondering than yeah, you probably have it right, I am a procrastinator though I do not enjoy this occupation. I am a thesis student who could not buy her books as of yet so, I do loaf around. There are multiple apartment buildings to my right. A few years ago, in actuality, ten years ago when the millennium just began these apartments were not there. There was a normal house and a field cum garden. The house was made of brick and concrete as most houses are made of here in Dhaka. I recall that the house was a two floors shorter than ours. On its roof-flat hair I could see that the wall that attaches itself to the entrance had wickets drawn on it. Children used to play cricket on the roof. When I use to go to my own in-house verandah I used to see flower pots next to the white walls smoky now due to time with ash marks upon it. Sometimes a woman, who I recollected once wore a white sari and probably a yellow blouse, or maybe it was never yellow at all but I want to remember it as yellow – used to be near the pots. I couldn’t see their garden cum field probably due to tall trees that worked as curtains to their own world. That garden cum field had recently been turned into another multi-storied apartment. I feel like I have no privacy. My curtains are mostly drawn. I don’t like seeing rows of windows who also have a clear view. Before there was space there. Air was there. Breezes would come and go. It was an open party.

These fortifications make me weary. They do not provide any clean sheet to which I can lie down and make a canopy out of to rest – my hammock has been stolen by monetary profit and been replaced by the feeling as if jars of thick cloth has been pounded into your lungs. In one word it is hot. In more definite sense it is humid. The air clusters with a temperature. No relaxation. As though some diseased mammalian has decided it would die upon the sky. It’s rising in its death but not like a phoenix. It’s deaths are multifarious and occurs with waves of discomforting heat. The heat paralyzes any vistas. The trees that have seen me grow – who were maybe over hundreds of years old – are no longer a sight to enjoy. I can see them as ruined scenes after a war – embedded into the ashen fires of development and urbanization. It wearies the soul which hops into a cauldron of festering suffocation – claustrophobia is its fire – dwelling deep between the gashes of the flames – those fingers of non-stop combustion of illness.

However, these days the window has become my enemy and the air conditioning his pathogens. No longer do I wish this slide of glass and her arm-curtains to put me into that state of anxiety of feeling lost from air. I surrender myself to the natural views and dominate over glass and the views who love my reign of appreciation: paradoxical states of being controlled and controlling are but in the human creature. The day does not always improve. It does not shine. Summers of childhood had seemingly become extinct. The rays no longer a honey brew but an insane bee hungering for the sting to my lungs. I can see my internals weep. My viscera inverts on itself and coils into a form of reclusive illness. I can feeling my insides and outsides hating those tall mutants who have no originality. Those extremities of clay and cement: who rape the pluralities of nature as he too cries for decency.

I feel lost in a labyrinth of bricks and glass. The idea of such loss of direction creates a death of its own kind.

That day the window was open and I lay still in bed. There was a warmth in my sheets. A love that I drunk and felt intoxicated by. I cannot see much of a view whilst I am lying for there is none to be seen. There is another window – a projection in my own house’s design – from this angle – that does not provide much scenery but it is comforting as it is not an antagonist to my nature. It is not too high and allows me to bond with my sky. I can see it. It looked blue that day. Cerulean honesty. With white freckles. However, I thought it was still humidity galore. I dared not look at the steaming mass of festering heat outside. Dhaka had become a disaster. It’s asphyxiation was imminent and intensely felt. But then I felt the chase of breezes. On top of my mattress my toes were like buds feeling the sensuousness of air. Nostalgia cracked its yolk upon it or was I now the phoenix bird of lost unearthing myself out from the ash-shell of disintegration? I could feel a bliss as the sword air cut my bonds and was my womb of soul growth. I can see this womb cutting the bad diseases of congestion. The sun was hot but it made love with breeze. It seemed long lost their marriage was restored.

I felt like a restoration piece myself. I looked upon the trees swaying. Were they liberated as well? Could they not be like me? Disgusted by meaningless urbanization? Maybe. They had grown too with me even with if they were my elders. Even if they have seen hundreds of years past – there were like my kin – they have seen changes vaster than my own and to them dislike would be sterner as it was more well known. Their hearts encyclopedias to my own one-liner. My zygote body to their whole evolutions. I waved at them. Looking then at those watchful windows. No people there but still my eccentricity is my secret. I had said “Hi” to the trees – my own “Assalamualaikum” I didn’t want others who do not understand to bear witness.

Nostalgic swam with the yolk of the sky. It is a serene yellow mixed with the oil cerulean. I could not see the grand poach of a sun from this angle nor did I try to raising my head up. I only saw my elders dance to the wind but I had taken a break. I was in my usual spot – doing random stuff on the computer. However, I felt the summers of old bathe me. Swelling in me was the breeze, warmth and sky soaring of years before. I felt like the innocent child marveling the trees swaying and getting intoxicated by their dances. It was the vintage feeling again. Warm, lucid, overwhelming and so poignantly true and beautifully elegant. The wind mated with the sun and their lovely kisses melted the leaves of trees into golden-dark-velvet-green entities. The world felt like a known heaven again.

The open window had all of God’s promises.

The Dull Flame Of Desire - Crossed Hearts' Ballad

Well after years of seeing others create videos I have finally done one! ^_^

This is my very first video I HAD EVER MADE AND I AM SO GLAD THAT IT WENT WELL AFTER HOURS OF EDITING, PROGRAM HANGING, SCENE SPLITTING AND TINKERING!!!!! I MEAN THIS IS A HARD VIDEO TO DO DUE TO THE INSTRUMENTAL NATURE OF THE SONG

I want to THANK ALLAH ALMIGHTY (ALLAHHUAKBAR, SUBHAHANALLAH, ALHAMDULILLAH, MASHALLAH - thanks to God Almighty) for making me able to make this.

Do you know God was kind enough to let me make accidents that turn out to be serendipitous to my whole project? It was really AWESOME and I was smirking and THANKING ALLAH ALMIGHTY 'CAUSE THIS IS THE FIRST EVER VIDEO I EVER, EVER MADE

Ok, The Truth is I tried. It may not be great, good or ok even but I tried. I WANNA THANK EVERYONE WHOSE VIDS I'D SEEN TO GET INSPIRED BE IT ANIME OR OTHERWISE - ESPECIALLY KUSOYARO FOR THE UTENA BACHELORETTE WHICH INTRODUCED ME FIRSTHAND THE JOYS OF MAKING VIDEOS AND THE GREATNESS OF BJORK - ALLAH ALMIGHTY BLESS YOU MAN

Ok

The Song: The Dull Flame Of Desire

Artists: Bjork and AntonyHegarty

Anime: Paradise Kiss

The Video FanSubs are not done by me neither am I claiming to have done them - this is done for solely fan reasons and I give everyone who did all the necessary original formatting their credit. I only made the fan video. So Thanks to you guys for your great work.

The song's meaning is very much explanatory to those who has seen the anime - if not this is a spoiler to the series.

Yukari's and George's Dull Flame of Desire is very prominent - so is Miwako and Hiroyuki's - Isabella is on the middleground and Kaoru, George's friend, understands this too.

Basically a video of tormented love, lust and of course desire.

We have a lot of thorns in our roses - thorns in which we step - predictably or unpredictably - the ballad of life is danced on paradoxical shoes more deadly/enchanting than Karen's - thus we blossom - thus our petals dance to the air...

And Lilith spoke

Last night I envisioned a retelling of the tale of Lilith

She was no women but the first Androgyne

Man withing the female casket of bones and flesh

Women within the masculine bosom and the looks so entwined-ethereal

Feed me not with the sinner's apple but with the leaves of that knowledge wood

that scarred humanity - let me dance with sin in a periphery

but never drunk with its hollow dances of a tale too cut with chaos

Let me know man as a single; the woman as a double

Let me know woman as a single; the man as a double

Let me see the one called Azazel fallen for that which he constructed

Oh Allah let me see to know the bounties of sin and grace

To know Eve's purity and satan's malnutrition

Oh Allah the One who wrote the book by which Cosmos prays

Let me be embedded with the voluminous alphabets known as stars

Let me read as I make tea of these leaves

For You who knows all

Knows me

Let their fingers have blasphemies

I shelter no sainthood...

Vein Explusion

That which was done to improvise - impoverish the necessity

came into the mouth of the apocalyptic - dreaming vices in a riddle

your corrupted semblance resemble those of biblical destructions

your lies crafted as but the poetic of bone-bound bondaged machine

you are called the threshold of nightmares and romantic disabilities;

why

why

oh

why

oh why

oh why

why

oh

why

Did you understand so little you mechanism of ill-trusted design?

Why was it not enough to cradle a love-enzyme enabling gestation?

You are so coil for striking a madness of pragmatism-dogmatism

Is this the cause of a resolute being? Or, the cause of a dominion of you?

I reject
I inject

cross veins

My madness

My Kingdom

My dominion

is of my own

Myriadic

You blind denizen who has lost his slipper
I recall Solomon's scenarios

of streets visited by a paramour seeking

beau lost

The art that which emits me now

is warmth

Ai Wa Umi

on my mind

listening to it

dreaming

oh what a nuclei in the midst

like oiled up cells

bursting with life

maybe so

who knows anything

But then we might be sleeping

in a cocooned off-filled comfort

progression in regression

life twisting

an earth inside

an earth external

too many mouths talking

in a beautiful water

of me - whole.