Just an I

And i read my mind, the letters vague and jumbled. Curtains were drawn over some letters, some were overwritten, some...peeping from a distance to get into my sight. I read my mind murmuring. Only i could listen to what i was reading. i read my mind slowly so that i could pronounce correctly what was trying to read. Covered most of the letters were, i tried to DiScOvEr them. There was another cover of dust, i broomed that. Somewhat clearer they appeard. i read my mind. The letters were still there. i must tell you, those letters were not in an alphabetical order, my mind was perhaps unaware of the sequence. i read them non-sequentially. Just like that. Just in the manner they were found. Just in the sequence i was dusting them, brooming them.

So, i read my mind, the letters non-sequential. Tiny i, the BIG BOLD letters. Vague was my vision or the Big Bold letters? "opthalmologist', the word struck. i had read it in "Word Power Made Easy" by Norman Lewis. If i remember it well, it means an eye specialist. shoul i visit one. I would tell her/him that i see vague letters. What would i say? that i can't read my own mind!?! Does the doctor read his/her mind? Am i sure the doctor can see those letters or for that matter any once else? or would i be the first one to complain about my poor vision? Poor vision?!? But i can very well see the blue sky, the green plants, the faces, the buildings, the scriptures, the everything but it is also true that i can't see those letters. Should i wash my eyes?

...The letters are clearer now. But i don't read my mind. The letters are no more vague, the letters shiny and clear, the letters in a sequence now. i did not even murmur, i did not read them slow, i did not read them aloud seeing that the world surrounds me.

But i tried to. i read my mind inside my mind and took care that no one listens to it. May be i was ashamed of it. Probably. Probably for sure. Because, it was not in a sequence a dictionary says. Because it was not defined as Norman Lewis does. Because they were not the same letters, i was taught.

So i unread my mind. Don't tell this to anyone.

And i read my mind, the letters vague and jumbled. Curtains were drawn over some letters, some were overwritten, some...peeping from a dis...

at 7:27:00 PM

And then I imagined further …Now I was my own. I had bought myself from my owner. It is true that I got myself finally but… but in pieces. Small and big pieces. And I got a pair of hands, a pair of legs, a pair of ears ,a pair of heavy breasts, a stomach, a gall bladder, Kidneys, liver and a few more organs (which were supposed to keep those pieces alive), a no head (much of it was sold and rest was fatigued) and a half heart( the other half was with my owners).

I bundled those pieces, tied them up with the rope of my hair. I was walking with the weight, with the heavy weight of those pieces and was empathetic to my last owners. Then I reached a corner of the earth, sat there with the pieces, counted their accuracy and then started examining those pieces. One by one. Seperately. Those legs were mine. They wanted to move in many directions, in all the directions ,in all possible directions and I cut them into pieces with the help of a knife and threw them in many directions, in all the directions, in all the possible directions directing,” Walk! Walk away! in whatever way!’’ mmhh! An assignment over. Next was a pair of eyes. They always wanted to dream. They always dreamt. I had to do something for them and I made airy wings for my eyes but after soaring in the blue large sky they preferred to swim safely in a pond. They kept swimming for years, for million years in the cold- warm water. Another assignment done. Then came a pair of ears. They wanted to listen to the heart. So I kept them with the half heart that I possessed. It kept listening to the whispers, to the loud whispers, to the sobs, to the bubbling jests. It is listening to the half heart.

My stomach, liver, kidneys, lungs, bones always wanted to rest. Now they don’t have to work as they were supposed to work for the whole not for parts. Their work done and happy they are.

Next was a pair of heavy breasts. They did not want anything. Many others wanted them. I thought to keep them on exhibition in a museum but many pairs were already there. So I burnt them .They kept burning for some time and now happily burnt they are. Happily over. Happily non existent.

Now only a pair of hands remain fulfilling their wish to write. They write they will keep writing for years, for million years. And I am done with my duty of ownership. Whole lost. Pieces happy. And I owned myself to lose. The separate pieces were already dead when I owned them. I just tried to cremate them by fulfilling their wish, for the sake of salvation. So that they don’t need to exist ever in future.

And then I imagined further …Now I was my own. I had bought myself from my owner. It is true that I got myself finally but… but in pieces. S...

at 7:39:00 AM

I imagined something yesterday, something disturbing and pleasing simultaneously. I imagined a market, a small market. Useless things were on sale such as tattered clothes, old books, broken glasses, wrappers of chips and I. The owners of each item were standing near their possessions, the possessions they were tired of but wanted to squeeze out even the tiniest of profit possible from them. The owner of the old books was the proudest of all as many people wanted to buy them to keep in the library, to learn from them, to criticize them, to be knowledgeable, to learn to catwalk and to use their pages for eating bhelpuri. Tattered clothes were being bought too for mopping, for making door mats and for tying things with. Some thieves had come to buy the wrappers of chips (honest thieves, I must say) to brand their non branded products.

My owners were a bit disappointed. They brushed my body trying to remove the dust. They were disappointed again as I was made up of dust. They tried to exhibit the softness of my cheeks and hands. The customers touched them but were not convinced. Poor owners of mine. First day of sale was over, no body bought me. My owners did not want to take home as I was too heavy to be carried. I waited there for the next day all alone in the market. To while away some time I started to think. I started thinking of history when my head was just too big. I was reminded how I used to distribute some pieces of my head in exchange of paper currency notes. People liked those pieces of my head and I kept earning.

An idea visited my head (the part I managed to save, the part I didn’t sell) that why shouldn’t I buy myself from my owners? The idea was pleasing. I started waiting for the morning. Eagerly. Impatiently. The starry night, the soothing moon, nothing attracted me anymore. I was waiting…and waiting in the open field of a closed market. Mmmhhh. My owners came finally. I dug some earth. Took out the currency notes. Handed over them to my owners. And bought myself. The amount was not very handsome still not less for a useless item. I was my own. I owned myself. Wow!

And so far I had imagined. I don’t know why?

I imagined something yesterday, something disturbing and pleasing simultaneously. I imagined a market, a small market. Useless things were o...

at 12:36:00 PM

at 9:09:00 PM

at 11:28:00 AM

NOTE: This post has no intention to hurt anyone’s emotions. It is meant for people who are habitually and not genuinely sad.

I faced a good failure recently and, honestly, tried hard to be sad but failed again. After offering two and a half minutes of grief to it, my concentration shifted from failure to grief and truly speaking/typing I found it extremely funny to be sad.

Last time I was sad for a complete month. Well! Now when I think of it, it was interesting. I had to do nothing but be sad. It was an assassination of a month which had 24 hours each day. I confess, I killed that, destroyed that completely. Some ash/memories are remaining which I would like to share.

My siblings had panipuri from my favourite stall and I was busily sad.

My friends enjoyed a get together party and I was again sad.

My sister was having a chocolate cake; I did not snatch that from her as I had to be sad.

It was raining once…no I think…thrice, and I preferred to stay in room with windows closed (the idea goes with the mood), not to forget I was sad.

One of my favourite comedy shows was on and I did not laugh (this was something unusual), it means I was seriously sad.

I avoided listening to SUD on Radio Mirchi as I could not dishonour sadness.

When the sun was beautifully awake every morning in the same blue sky –I was sad.

Stars glittered around the moon almost every night in the same sky but my blurred vision with eyeful of water could never appreciate its charm- Really SAD! (It is getting poetic now)

Well! The list is long…

When the whole world was enjoying its share of life…how funny! I was sad.

So, a post- sadness advice to everyone, please don’t miss the chocolate cake. Don’t be sad. After all we get nothing out of it. Let the loss lose and failure fail. We won’t be sad. Coz it is really very funny to be sad.

(Concept: Prasun Saurav)

NOTE: This post has no intention to hurt anyone’s emotions. It is meant for people who are habitually and not genuinely sad. I faced a good...

at 11:14:00 AM

Lacan insisted that I think this way or rather I do not think this way. To be more precise he insisted that I do not think at all because we think in words, in language, in linguistic roundness. So, I thought not to think and from there emerged the Lacanian thought that, “We are where we think not”. I did not want to encounter myself and thus began to think, what actually I am. (irony intended) And it is good to do away with time, with the time that does not pass…away. Anyway. So, Lacan persuaded me to think of the father, the symbolic father, which reminded me of my real father but ignoring that thought, I began to think of the symbolic father which makes me away from my mother (here symbolic mother), the mother who created me, the mother who defined me, who declared my existence, who is my real self, the “I” in me, the “not thought of” part of me. Fathers appeared before my eyes (the symbolic eyes). Arched eyebrows- my doubts, frowning nose- my anger, thin ears- to misbelieve, my blabbering mouth. Symbols spoke to me. I heard them with my eyes open (actually my symbolic eyes open and the real one closed). I saw those fathers in me and myself in others…same doubts, same anger, same misbelieve, same blabbering. I was perhaps in the MIRROR STAGE then (a unified being separate from the rest of the world)

Moulded with language, moulded in language, I did not like anyone, any of the symbolic fathers for separating me from my symbolic mother (the myself).

In the realm of symbols the reality is merging or rather demerging. Away from my real father, real mother, here I am with the symbols. My endeavour is to become the/a symbol…the no symbol…the no language…the no thought…the no pain…the no tears…the no something…the nothing, with no realization of separation or union. Here I am thinking of the “not thought of” part of myself in no language. Away from the reign of semiotics and semantics (none of which is convincing).

Here I am trying to get back to the Imaginary stage.

Thought less

Meaning less

Separation less

Emergence less

Sense less

A little less RICHA…

Lacan insisted that I think this way or rather I do not think this way. To be more precise he insisted that I do not think at all because...

at 10:48:00 PM

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Just an I

Split E N D S...

IN YOUR MIGHTY ARMS

UNREAD THE READ

Just imagine again

Just Imagine

Abhimanyu

A FEAR

How funny it is to be sad!

Getting back to the Imaginary Stage

PROUD TO BE A FOOL!