Posts Tagged STORIES


“I felt the beginning of a passion, hopeless in the long run, but very nourishing, for identifying myself with people who were not my own, and whose lives were governed by ideas alien to mine.” V. S. Pritchett in A Midnight Oil

In-between, there’s always a space. Whether between places, words, and people. Everything has its own space, even water is being divided with water bubbles, and nights including its  dense darkness is littered with glitters. These spaces allowed us to breathe, and think, and do things in transition.

A couple of months ago, i lost more than images of childhood, memories of summer, and time spent uncaringly putting rolled tobacco on my young and succulent lips. Those secret travels i made with cousins, friends, and acquaintances, hunting for spiders, fishes, and monsters that came alive one dreamy afternoon, when every kitchen in the neighbourhood blackened with soot and festivities become pregnant with cooked sweet potatoes, bananas, and laughter.

Most of these memories were interspersed with finding love on a bicycle i used to pedal around the city- in quaint streets, in hidden passages, and in secret lairs where fierce red ants and psychotic bees reign supreme, this is where love are tested waging little wars of attrition. The love i found, i share it with the sweetness of banana cue and curled-up sugarcane molasses. It was long ago, where everything is about adventure, where the world is a big playground, and our poetics rhyme with sweets peddled in the streets.

Sweets are important to remembering.

On all souls day, sticky rice cooked with coconut milk and brown sugar is our way to remember the lives of those who left us, differently, or Dad said so. This manner of cooking to summon memory left me together with the departure of my father.

I only have a few important leavings – September 2010 and February 2011, in-betweens are trysts.

October is a good promise, your eyes they disappear when they are delighted with the idea of drifting, but still you are a  puzzle. Today, i no longer have the patience to solve puzzles or anything that has similarity to finding solutions to a puzzle, i don’t want to think too much. i would want to think of things outside puzzles, as it is the planet is a puzzle.

Tonight it’s going to be different. Something else blared from the beat-box

It’s ahum, hoo, ahum haa, aho ahoooooo, hooooo, howew.

it’s a soft jumpy and jittery music playing in the background.

Let me tell you a story of a horse, that most people mistook for a lot of things. Last week my neighbours’ child who came home late with all the dried-up puddle on his face, cried out loud even during meals, the kid who developed the talent to cry and cry while chewing his dinner gained the ire of the horse, whom the child called the greatest living painter ever for solving the class assignment the boy took from school, as a punishment for singing without any reasons and continuously after the flag ceremony. The assignment known as the greatest punishment since, is a conversation in colors that varies in tones and hues.


White-absence-of-strokes-thickening-like-a-melody-of-distant-song-coming-to-life-on-the-canvass-of-your head.”

Or as how the village gossip got hold of the conversation.

The horse became a cow for plowing the wind as if it’s a ricefield, anticipating the coming of hunger. jumping, running as a melody – tom tom toom, tooom tom tom tom, pam poom taam. Paaa paaa pa pa ra pa pa paaaaa..

Last night somebody died, the horse became a holy person – an intercessor of God, a holy lawyer, a spoke-person of the recent dead, collecting money in bundles from the pockets of believers, the starry eyed redemption of the heavens.

It became a pusher for the chemically loaded, a gun on the temple of the head of the desperate.

Like a horse, our state in transition will assume names, weathers, and phenomenon, we will gallop. The horse is a story of transition, a story in transition, transient stories, the space between here and there, the significant pause before we continue our conversations, it’s the nose-bridge between our eyes. It’s the wrinkle that divides your palm in many chambers

Boom booooom booooom boom bombooom booooom.

travelling has it's own horizon that it keeps wherever it goes.

travelling has it's own horizon that it keeps wherever it goes.

One day the horse disappeared, and we dive into forgetting. What is color? what is distance? what are lies.

We became pure. No more music or the pounding of melodies. We lost everything.

How will i retell our stories?

A couple of months ago, i went on running hoping to catch the past the left me suddenly, i rode my bike and got lost in corners, i went after the breathing that left you. I went after the stories.

A couple of months ago is in-between, a stone i nibbled on my waking.

“The world is my country, all mankind are my brethren, and to do good is my religion.” Thomas Paine


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Rain Dancers Wear the Colors of Bruises.

After several days of contempt the clouds finally revealed its watery secrets.

I haven’t been musing for a long time, fates have been conspiring to prevent me from taking note of how people in real life interacts. Gestures have become mere gestures, it doesn’t have motives, it doesn’t have history.  I don’t even know what a specific color  a person is wearing represents.

Today it came back in deluge. rain makers are done.

A garden suddenly appeared before me, it has all sort of flowers, vines, and spices. The aroma stings my eyes and made me think of heaven. At the center is the chico tree of my youth, it is where i curved myself when breathing becomes heavy in anticipation of a juvenile meet-up, while the rain etched it’s tattoo on my back, like maps of lost treasures, overlapping each other trying to misled those who are on a long and short hunt.

I will then start to unlock meanings, and i will create new meanings from situations, events, and conversations.  I will also share naming the world in half, one for me – a continent founded on rivers, where houses will rise on books, stories as stilts, and one for your dreaming and drifting one that has wheels on it and  a pedal attached to it so you can roam around with the world you will name, when and where ever you want. Our world will be translated over and over.

This creature

Has hairs of summer

With delicate sorrow on her eyes

And communed in songs

To those that inhabit the underground


Bursting from nowhere like a sudden river, the tortured nights before me will stop, i will not grind my teeth to sleep, and i will not be as reckless as evenings induced in rhum, brandy, and all that’s bitter sweet. I will looked at my toes, and delight on the mud under my nails – i’ve been trailing foot paths without my slippers i only want comfort negotiated between my feet and the earth. I will linger in the sensation between my fingers every time they are about to clasp your frail hands. You should know your palm has lines that measures distance in touch.

I will murmur degrees of colors

To harvest the offerings

Of the street clinched

In our fists

It will snake like roads

To where dreams are relocated

Between our eyes.


Our quarrel is abundant as our questions that we would want to ask each other.  example our coming together is a conspiracy of the universe – our vocabularies are subservient to the wishes of the stars.

These are protracted speculations,  that cannot be settled anytime we are eternally distant and dislocated.

Last week i let go of my possessions, i let go of stories hidden between book pages. i concealed fragrances, and stench in papers and neatly placed them in my collection of fictions and intellectual ranting of dead poets, disturbed intellectuals, the cynical geniuses, brillian junkies and the freaks.

Las week i let go of myself, in whim. then i center a storm in this country that i also call my own.

Tomorrow, we will call on those who were absent, those who have been pushed to forgetfulness. We will remind them that after all that our revisionism is nothing but ordinary, of orders going against the tyranny of comfort.

To end this, i will slowly fold the envelope where you hide letters, i will delete numbers, i will clear my browser history. i will forget, how one evening i saw you surrendering laughter to strangers, as you whistle by the stairs, and click and click and click.

i will write on papers and send them out slowly.

I will take flight and fall like stones from the sky when i am old.

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between us is a space, as immense as the ocean

from the sewers, stories came marching in like a revenge, with their huge flags, in bold letters, they’ve found me, and i became their unwilling target, they pushed  me in the corners, violate me relentlessly, and tied me to a table, and offer me to the void of the planets.

they read before me irritating verses, enumerated my sins, and spoke lengthily of the obscurity of my silence.

These stories in vivid colors, i retorted – i did not seek solitude for religious purposes , but solely to avoid people and their laws, their teachings, their traditions, their ideas, their clamor, and their wailing.

What are the laws that kept me silent for a long time? the poetics of anger? or the poetics of poverty? the night just caught me somewhere.

The night became O

enclosing us in an eternal embrace


you spread your feet wide as your name, it is immense even in abbreviations. 

pardon me, sometimes incoherence is an anthem that would want to stick its nose on your skins.

1. remember those months when hunger came like a delayed menstruation

2. think of all those who left you because poetry is a lie and a tragedy

3. think again and allow yourself to be lured again by the promises of words becoming flesh like a bladed weapon that cuts your chest open so the world can see how inglorious the beatings of your heart looks

4. count how many times you were made to believe that longing is alcohol induced and is manufactured by those who made us believe that we can don wings when remembering is a lightning – sudden and without notice

5. smile and recall the conversations you had with friends in onw hurried afternoon, and how everything was shared unabashedly without fear that tomorrow, all those kneeling around you will be inundated with grief , as if it is a gift that christmas failed to deliver

There is this white wall, above which the sky creates itself—
Infinite, green, utterly untouchable.
Angels swim in it, and the stars, in indifference also.
They are my medium.
The sun dissolves on this wall, bleeding its lights.
-Sylvia Plath


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