How do you write without memory

I have always thought that meaning is the memory of a word.

But I never knew how true it was until now.

As i attempt to write the 2nd chapter, I fumble and falter and try not to draw upon my teasures of meanings - they are too hurtful.

So if there is no memory of word, just the word, how would my story mean?

The Fabulous Crossroad-interrogative 6 Worder

The disintegration is near complete. Emotional, intellectual, moral, artistic and now financial too.

So when all goes, comes a kind of anaesthetised consciousness. Like looking at the world from the wrong end of the telescope.

It's class X all over again.

Shut the door. Shut the window. There is no high and no low. Life's got even.

That's when Hamlet posed the fabulous crossroad-interrogative 6 worder- To be or not to be?

Which meant, to feather and blow or to rock and chip.

To stand and do. Or to lie and be done.

And it is amazing, how the solitude of pain is as singular, as forlorn as the solitude of pleasure.

Sepulchural.

Terra Infirma, I Turn 35

Terra Infirma.

Such things as a day caught between two seasons. I love you darling but. I think you got me wrong. Leme get back to you. No, nothing. And the eyes shifting for a nano second to an unnamed corner of the room.

Terra Infirma.

A face caught between two thoughts. A thought between two faces. How much? Lots. O please! Drown the sop and talk shop. Draw up a budget. Plan. Keep it simple. We can even talk about quick ways to cure your freak pimple.

Terra Infirma.

Such things as bushfire in a forest of memories, smells on a winter night, and wondering which house will it be this night? And will it be at all?

Terra vera vera Infirma. Hic!

Such things like a body that is changing and a body that is not. And names and language that are stuck between what they meant and what they don't anymore. Such things, as you. Especially you, and the odd, unconvincing, talk-interspersed - I love you.

Terra Infirma. I turn 35!

Rip Van Winkle

What does one write at 2.54 in the morning? And what does one remember?

MK used to say, a mask worn long enough becomes the face. Fine, but what becomes of the face?

Phoebe is getting married on the 23rd. Hasn't sunk in. Nothing seems to sink in. As if there is no 'in' for anything to sink in.

Everything has changed as if I was away for a century. Everyone has changed, as of they are all reborn as somebody else.

I feel like Rip Van Winkle. God! I had just dozed off in the hills. When did all this happen - back in the village?

A love letter

My dearest song,

Go away. GO AWAY. GO AWAY.

For you are of no assistance in this wee hour of the day, and you are of no assistance at night. You are such a disappointment, eh song, you spread-legged bitch of a poet's wrong. And your words are but a pissour of marble, stained in yellow and with the stench of strange skins that I cannot recognise.

Sonnet, ode, couplet, ballad - Ah I have seen all of your curves and so have everyone else - isn't it? Yeah? Between the lines I scrawled in long hand on your thigh and your back, you got graffitis by other hands. And you - free verse - you are the worst. You neighing mare in heat! You catnip sniffing feline poetic fart - ha well and so there is no wrong! and there is no right after all! Hahahaha! Hahahaha!

Yeah song, get lost and do not let me remember. Anything.

Street Truth

On my way home, turning the wheel this way, I suddenly spied Aamil Dehli. I could see him grinning in my rear view mirror, sitting behind in my old beat up 8503.

I shook my head and wondered why he was sitting in my car. So we talked a bit. I asked him about his life and he asked me about mine.

When I heard his story, I yawned. There was nothing much in it.

But when he heard mine, he roared with laughter, shaking like a needled balloon, this way and that. And when he was over the fit, wiping the tears from his eyes, he bent forward and said,

Maar diya papar waley ney! hain?
Muft huey badnaam...Maya mili na Ram!

And I joined him in his laughter.

I am going to tell stories

Though I know in the corner of mind I will hurt for you Gatsby, ol sport, and the grass that grew wild in your well kept lawns and the graffiti that the kids scrwaled on your white marble steps after all the parties were over and the women were gone,

I will tell nobody about you.

I will tell nobody about how tender was the night. I will tell nobody about the beautiful and the damned.

I am born with a mind filled with little coloured bangle shards like they used to stick into cycliderical cardboard kaliedoscopes that sold for a few rupees on the railway station in the early 80s.

I got it all in here between my ears. The big cars and the dirty gutter, the desperate love and the meaningless fuck, the daze of disc lights on the floor and the walls and the slowly sinking sun behind the Aravalis.

I will tell nobody about you, Gatsby, ol sport because I am going to stick my tongue in the mouth of the world and I am

going to tell stories like never told before.

Watch me.