EP02: Soft Minds Read Softer Subjects

Yet, if the cruel summer hasn't hit you, spare me some few more words and I promise I'll be done. My child brings a notebook home. I make his ear red for the fact that there's absolutely no difference if you choose the cover with a guitar on it or a maserati. Why can't it get in your fucking head that the ultimate purpose is to write in it, you idiot?

My little princess dances so well. I think no one knows better than her where exactly should her feet touch and leave off the ground. But, I make her quit or I'd whisper in a bed time story that dancing was a ritual back then when the world was gloomy and cold as an ice sheet. That pretty ladies had to thaw the ice until their hands got swollen just to fill up some ice cubes into the clinking wine glasses. It was those "Pretty Ladies' Burden'' to warm up the world before them. And tomorrow when she wakes up, the music would burst her eardrums and dancing would be hated more than anything in the world. The world would be colder.

When asked why she doesn't wear those jingly anklets anymore, all that could be taken out of her sweet mouth is: Nada, I won't 'cos my breasts bounce and hips move and the music, the music is exactly like the clinking of the wine glasses. It's hateful. Now, I presume you wouldn't ask how the tongue went so bad, so foul.  

This experience of attaching art to extremities is the main problem at stake. There is this unusual obsession with straight lines, neon lights, smell of paper currency, quick barters and absolutely a male god making them dance like puppets on a string and what you do, you go and watch and call it entertainment. People  who blame that there is this inherent sadness in me that it almost kills them, tell me now isn't it all so tragically funny? I sure do laugh about it.

     

Does it look to you like a serene landscape? Or, you still couldn't sense how many graves we'd buried to make it look like that in the name of some organic, sustainable way of manuring the earthy smell? Trust me I conjure up all my spirits and all they could sing in chorus is that this has to stop. They call out for me: I do not have it in me to see it go on like that. Sorry, but I have always been a rebel kid.

So, even when you are half woken up in the middle of night, I didn't sit up next to you to hear figures go on like mantras on a Ouija board. Any layman down the street would tell me that and I may call all your tarot card readings, mantras stupid but I do fear the ghosts lest they let all hell loose. I did sit up next to you 'cos I really wanted you to tell me who gave those scars to you. How are you scared to death too? I believe maybe then, maybe then alas we fall a little bit more shorter from the next apocalypse we're going to witness just around the corner.

Strip Tease(to fella bitches): Multitasking is fun, I guess and so is it's negation. Just own it up. Same old ghost- Why should boys have all the fun? Huh?

Further Readings:

1. Prologue, Anne Bradstreet

2. "Under Western Eyes" Revisited: Feminist Solidarity through Anticapitalist Struggles, Chandra Talpade Mohanty