Who is T-chen

I am really good at keeping secrets. Sometimes, I keep secrets from myself, never accepting some or acknowledging some fleeting truths, and conveniently forgetting secrets about myself that I have chanced upon.

T-chen is a secret I have kept for about 2 and a half years now. However, he occupies a few recesses and perhaps even the hypothalamus of my brain. We have been together since sometime in August 2012 . He is a nice guy. a kind sensitive soul. a curious bear. with a loud uninhibited laughter. infectious happiness. He says that the guiding force of his life is love. and this makes him a very special person. He has supported me through several bad phases. even now, prodding me to shine, while still allowing me to enjoy a lull. T-chen shares my sorrows, holds me when I am sad, listens to me earnestly when I have no words, and lets me enjoy his undivided attention when it is not occupied by books. He tries constantly and succeeds well in understanding what it is like to be female on this planet at this time. He is politically environmentally socially conscious. And the universe is a better place because he is here.

His eyes are dark blue with a tinge of grey, which twinkle and become smaller when he smiles. His hair is dark brown but gets lighter in summer. He has this habit of brushing back his hair with his hand that keeps falling to his forehead like he is one of the Beatles. He does not like this at all. He is very tall and I have to go on my toes to kiss him when we are both standing up. He smells and feels like home.

I love my T-chen.

Who is T-chen? I keep finding out each day, even now, when he has gone away for a while. I realize what his presence did to me when he is absent, and this way, I note something about him that I hadn’t before. I also learn things about myself, in this life with him. I would like to continue finding out who T-chen is.

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Bluerider

Yesterday, he used the word love to define what is between us.

He said that I am going to get knotted up , I won’t like it. I will break it one day and burn everything around me, and fly away.

I wonder at this. Huddled close on that winter night, I wondered at it from afar. It is always far. I am. far.
Is that why I always shy away from the knots? or often compelled by the fieriness of them do I knit them myself, like a puppeteer nimbly tracing wisps of air, pulling to secure a knot. and then light a match to see everything explode, myself burn slowly, only to be found already present somewhere else. Fully covered in wax.

I would like to allow it be peeled away. Not by him, not him at all. Although he believes he has it.

Flowers found/left in between the pages of books

They had fallen in between the sheets from one’s hair. Before that they were on found under the trees that give less shade.

Highways. The sounds heard on them. As one is riding, a huge truck passes by, a high pitched sound far away. Eyes open to glimpse a dim light on the horizon, it warms a villager. the light then, of the loud bus stop, is shocking.

Bluerider, riding in cold winters, in warm summers, always.

***

Keep riding, my friend.

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Writing about dance : Pina

It was a long time back that I watched Wim Wenders’ film PIna on the late German choreographer Pina Bausch (1940-2009) who created new vocabulary of dance through her creations at Wuppertal TanzTheater.  Inspite of it being so long back, and I have seen several performances before that and ever since, the images of Pina’s choreographic creations refuse to fade away from my memory and mind. The human stories that she evokes and that are performed so beautifully by her dancers, leave lasting impressions on one’s mind, making one slowly realize that any movement, even one performed with apparent ease, can possess a quality of enormity and terrific meaning.

Pina Bausch, dancer and choreographer

Pina Bausch, dancer and choreographer

Here is an excerpt of one of Pina’s creations Le Sacre du Printemps which was first performed in 1975, to t Igor Stravinsky’s orchestral composition.
Before you watch it though, it would be great if you read this small review written in 1997 by Nadine Meisner (for The Times, London), that so beautifully ekes out the physicality of the performance, almost bringing the dancers to life through her words. Writing about dance is indeed an art.

The women stand hunched and shuddery, near naked in flimsy beige shifts which they draw up with childish, ungainly immodesty. They are gripped by terror because they know one of them will be the sacrificial victim to mark the end of winter – the Chosen One who dances to the death. The red dress she will wear is passed among them, a rag both fearful and fascinating. They huddle together for comfort, then disintegrate into panic-stricken scurries as destiny stirs under the surface. And when a woman is chosen (Aurelie Dupont) by the male leader, the music briefly unleashes the colossal power of its drums, like the cracking of the Russian ice in spring. It signals the release of pent-up sexual longing, the men and women flying like shards into each other’s arms.

What makes Bausch’s Rite so extraordinary is the balance between visceral realism and intervals of vivid, orchestrated geometry: the phalanxes of unison dance, the circle of dancers revolving with stately vastness to the music slow’s section, like the cycle of the seasons, like life. And then there are Bausch’s emotional images: the crowd waiting before the victim like spectators at a bullfight; the girl’s frozen terror as she is forced to walk by the man, who pushes her, half holding her up, her feet resisting hopelessly against the loose soil.

Nadine Meisner
The Times (London)
18 June 1997

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The day after

This is an attempt at a poem about the day after something significant or insignificant.
Its as yet incomplete and am not even sure if is at all meant to be one single poem.

The day after

The day after the night
when the first raindrops fell
everyone saw that the drops had
placed themselves gingerly on tips of green leaves,
and on the edges of crisp blades of grass.
One had arranged itself on the spot on the car windshield
so that when they looked from the front
it made look like a brilliant luminous diamond
had etched itself on the crease of her smile.

The day after their examinations ended
the excited kids woke up far too early
although they had decided that they would sleep till noon.
They made plans about all the candies they would eat
all the games they would play and all the films they would watch.
But by eve they had split into factions of Iago and Othello
and thus began the trysts of adolesence that weren’t resolved
until they had children of their own.

The day after the road was fixed
everyone still walked as if the road was not fixed.
They drove around the ghosts of potholes
and stepped aside from non-existent pits.

The day after she first spent the night at his
she woke up forgetting this very fact
because she had dreamt very realistically
that the war had ended and that her dad
had returned.

The day after she first spent the night at his
he stopped kissing her and it broke her heart
while his was seized by fear
because the day after
she first spent the night at his
he realized that he liked men.

The day after their friend died
they woke up raw with dry eyes
grieving at their inability to weep
for ther tears did no justice to their sadness.

The day after the war ended
the soldiers packed up their rifles
and retraced their tanks
but had forgotten to make the
Ivorian child forget how to use a gun.

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Feelin’ Good

Nina, proclaiming, owning, shaking free, seizing, holding aloft, declaring, breathing, flying.
Being alive, Feeling Good.

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June 27, 2014 · 12:19 am

“WAR IS PEACE” (Orwell Manuscript)

In India, certainly, we have arrived at a 1984esque world where the past sinister deeds of murderous Ministers have been conviniently forgotten for a new fabricated past, that overrules the value of lives of fellowmen for the ideal of a “development”. It is nation where the media and materialism turns the tide of the minds, casting away truth and justice for the sake of new roads and continuous electricity and unlimited water supply. This continuous electricty supply, although will illuminate houses, but will not bring light to the voices that speak of freedom. From the high rises, those living in the shadow and underbelly of the cities will not be seen, as they are trampled and discarded. One will not even know of them as truth will be hidden, morphed, disguised and soon banished. And in this bliss of ignorance, those in the highrises will continue to rise in strength, and ultimately allow the cycle of hatred to go on turning.
This is the world we must shun, call for freedom, truth, quality and social justice.

Biblioklept

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a spooned mango between my tongue and my throat

there is nothing
as blissful as
realising exactly what you want to do
in that moment
and doing exactly just that.
Otherwise it feels like a spooned piece of mango
stuck vertically
between the tongue
and the throat.
It refuses to go down and even if it does
doesn’t leave a sweet taste behind.

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