UK’s Capital Children Choir’s Choral tribute to Lily Allen’s ‘Chinese’
Promo for the new Thomas Pynchon book. Soon I’m going to read it.
…Fortunate Son
What is the reason we have history? This is a qusstion I’ve
heard asked so many times and each these occasions those
who asked the question and those who were asked all had
different answers in mind. Some said it is so that we have
a reminder of the errors that our forefathers had done so
we do not repeat them. There are those that said it is so
that we know the reasons of why it is as it is in our present.
These are some of the politically correct reasons on why
we have history. What is unspoken but truly experienced
by everyone is that we have history to keep score of our
deeds to others and the errors others have done to us so
that we may claim retribution and justify anything we might
want to do to others so that we can take pride of what our
forefathers had done even though we have no right for the
credit. History is the construct of the collective experiences
of of human society, A sort of shared memory of the species,
though as a society, we forget as an individual would forget
the happenings of a previous day.
Time and space could not contain this urge and yearning to walk the crowded streets in the sweltering day or the silent and lonely backlanes in the dark night.
This explosion of thoughts and desire to grasp the burning collars of reality with my dirty bare hands and shake what I want into existence.
This burst of longing for complete understanding comes in two forms to me, delayed and sudden.
of course the song that we sing now must end someday but until then, it will be the most beautiful of all. Garnished with sorrow and joy, pleasure and pain. A hot day ending in rain.
our heartbeats and footsteps are the rhythm and the constant hum of thoughts in our head as the current melody signifies the presence of each other
we complete each other’s song and none is leader of our dance.
we are a singularity of two.
I wrote that inspired by the song ‘A Slow Dance’ by the band Explosions in the Sky from their soundtrack album of the film Friday Night Lights.
Actually I wrote that with the intention of turning it into a short story but honestly I lost interest because it was hard to sustain the melody and theme of the first few sentences to the end.
I might try though one day.
I am certainly sure that if I had finished it then and there when I had the energy and interest, it would certainly look different.
In short what actually I tried to write was a story of a married couple who through cybernetic means became conscious and aware of each other’s thoughts, like the real story of the British researcher that inserted a chip into his wife and himself. They did this in order to feel each others’ environment.
The frame of the short story was thus:
Everything was to be written in the first person combined, meaning the voice of the narrator telling the story would be actually be the combined voice of the couple.
This was because in my reality of the story, they had lost each of their individual identity and assumed the identity of their combined self.
So, my gift to you is that; I give liberty in using the material i had put down here to do whatever you want with it. do a poem, a story, write a song, make a painting, a movie, an animation, anything . go nuts!
Put me in the credit and and give me a link to your work in the comments. and don’t forget to whatever you did with mine public. M<ake it shareable like i did if you want to, make it not if you don’t want to.
Go Nuts!
current favourite song
There is a plum ,firm and round, in my pocket. It was given to me by my love but I had forgotten about the fruit. Sitting in the packed minibus, I felt something slipping out of my pocket, caught it before it fell out. At first I thought it was a stress ball from the office. But with the knowledge that with each feel I’m making the plum less firm and round, I decided to leave the fruit be, and sipped my bottled tea. Each swallow of the now tepid liquid on my harsh throat was like a plot of neglected land with flowers growing wild, budding, blossoming and then wilting.
Could not drown the noises of the bus as my walkman had no power. So I listened to the rhythmic sounds of the chatting Bangladeshis. First I listened to find any repeating words that would be a way for me to know the topic of their discussion, a place, a name, anything that would help, alas no, the language was opaque to me. Everything sounds like the repetitions of the same syllables, just in different combination. Then I remembered snatches of the bits of what I knew of Bangladesh’s history. How wanting to make their language the official language of their country actually started the secession of their country from Pakistan’s rule at the cost of three million lives. So let them talk in their language all they like, they have earned it.
Got off the bus, waited for my ride, ate the plum and played some New Super Mario on a loaned DS lite, trying to remain inconspicuous among the crowd.
Six foot me with a portable game machine, leaning on a column, eating a fruit. Like a fruit among vegetables, the same but different. Leave the fruit be.
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