The Crocodile's Back

I moved into that mad salvador dali world around 1 at night with a tired back and a near-numb head.

It was a trip to a familiar corner of the mountains that frequently features in my night trips, only this time I was driving my ol beat-up baby 8503.

The colour of the air was an orangish something and the frame of the world was a little tilted. I drove up to a many-storied house, curiously empty. The verandah was familiar and I felt a funny feeling in my head.

And then I slept in a large room, on a large bed, under a large fan. It was strange. Everything there. Like when you watch TV with the mute button on.

I turned on my side and realised that there was someone sleeping INSIDE the thick mattress under me. The mattress was transparent, jelly-like and inside it was a corpse, stiff and nude.

I jumped off the bed feeling revulsion and vomitish. Ran out and jumped into my tired cranky car and drove off. And the mountains were all barren and lifeless. There were no humans, no animals, no trees. Just mountains, large and bare and dusty.

And at a pass, narrow like a woman's word, the car came stuck and wouldnt move. I shifted gears and pressed the pedal muttering please please please please - and I could still feel the skin of the corpse on my skin. The car didn't move but a black dog floated out of the air and stood staring at me.

And thats how I remember the night.

A picture from a distance:
The car in the mud, the dog staring, the memory of a naked corpse in the mattress and the mountains stretching on all sides, grim like a crocodile's back.

Diamond Merchant

I play the fool usually and keep quiet. I only speak when I write. Truly, that is.

So most bright souls think I am the village simpleton and can be had. That's a disadvantage to me because I have to suffer- a little. But it is also an advantage because though they do not know, I observe and note and weigh, and never reveal what I have seen and heard and known - the slyness of the in-between hour. And I am patient. When I laugh, I am quiet inside.

My secret room in the head has a large shelf with a board on it that reads ARISTOCRATS. It was a board I had put up when I left school. And each time I write a name on it, I make sure it is written in chalk, so that when the truth about people comes spilling and adds up, I can walk up to it and wipe it clean with a damp cloth. And wait.

Every name I write goes.

I remember having read once that - Treason is like diamonds; there is nothing to be made by the small trader.

I am a diamond merchant not a small trader. :)

If I am quiet, dear names, it is because I know more about you than I show.