I believe that my life has reached a point were I have to choose a different path, in order to move forward in life.I am planning to take up a job in kerala, with less salary than what I get now in mumbai. My reason for moving back is that,I dont feel like I belong to mumbai. I am totally outside its culture, which, for me is slow death. I realized that Kerala is were I belong. If there is anything I have to accomblish in this life , it is from Kerala. Only time will show the consequences of this decision.

I can hear the sounds of a river. I can feel the sand under my feet at Sivarathri ManaPuram.
If I close my eyes I can see the big Banyan hissing after swallowing the wind. There, in the middle of sand, sits Sivan, lonesome and eyes closed. Thousand cows graze at the edge of the river. The big river (Periyar) is green and is flowing seawards, throws a flirty glance at the silent one. No response. With a sigh she moves on.


I will be there soon. Swim in her green coolness.
slcw

"We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars" : Oscar Wilde.
slq

one of my earliest poems. Almost eight years now.

Amoung the first written lines
were a viper coiled in anger
Its blunt head wounded
In place of faded words
silk glowed
in a snails track
words thrown out
hung strangled in the cobwebs
growing in the courtyard.
In the dark while I was humbled
over the crumbling paper
Inside the corroding pen
with vengence
waited
the black scorpion of the ink.
slcw

Ridley Scott’s latest opus is on at Shenoys. That reminds me of the films I’ve watched over the last few months but didn’t find time to mention here.

The best of the lot has to be Martin Scorsese’s bio of Howard Hughes: The Aviator. Obsession, creativity, genius, madness, money and power are the big themes in this big film. The master director delivers a polished work. Scorsese is one the American filmmakers who takes pride in the grand filmmaking tradition of Hollywood, making no secret of his fascination for the glory days of Hollywood – the grand starry days of MGM and the other mega studios. Though his early oeuvre which established him as the most talented of the new generation of filmmakers in the seventies was marked by a rawness in radical contrast to the genteelness purveyed by the traditional Hollywood studios, Scorsese has now become an establishment figure in American cinema. In some ways, it appears that the rebel of yesteryears has come to be the fatherfigure of today. Thus, The Aviator exudes the characteristic qualities of a Hollywood product. Only, the master has shown how the system can still be used to produce films that has all the sparkle and magic of its earlier classic products – how an artist of integrity can produce a work of art not just in spite of the millions of dollars pumped in, but, does one dare say it, because of it.



This paradox enriches the experience of the film itself in that it is reflected in the narrative of how one man – whose motivations are fascinatingly complex – throws away money like garbage in order to realize his dreams, one of which is, again paradoxically, to make more money. Leonardo DiCaprio etches a surprisingly powerful portrait of the driven, eccentric Hughes. However, the standout performance among many splendid ones is that of Cate Blanchett as Katherine Hepburn – effortless and charming, an inspired performance. It was also a pleasure watching old pro Alan Alda; and Kate Beckinsale is glowingly beautiful, all dolled-up and made-up old Hollywood style, as Ava Gardner.

Fobbin’s asked for comments to be enabled on Salon. That would be a momentous change for this li’l blog. Salon means a room. And that was what this place very much was for this long. Now it’s like we, who’ve been sitting in conversation by ourselves in the room, get up and throw open the windows, if not the door. New voices shall make themselves heard; perhaps new friends shall be discovered. Fingers crossed.

A booem that popped up today....

Jailbird's song

Three walls that bleeds
and an iron gate with long shadows
Keeps me here
amoung the rats and urea fumes.
you jingle the keys and say
your freedom is here.

I dont want your fucking freedom
freedom to run along the traffic
freedom to move from cubicle to cubicle
I ve renounced freedom
I would rather sit in this knotted bed
in the unmoving black steam
and perfect myself
my art
sharp my claws and my fangs
brew the black poison of my heart.
Every night before I go to rest
I see what I've made of myself
and say everything is fine.

Beware
I 'll be out to desrupt your freedom
derail your candy train dreams
shake your plastic trees.
I'll steal your gold , soil your women
My claws will bruise
the perfumed breasts of your trophies
Run, shit scared morons to your homes
and lock up the cunts you own.

I will kill your cronies and buddies

only the jingling keys around your neck

make you stand naked and alone
in the maddening eddies of my roar.
Then, shred by shred
I'll rip the skin of your goodness
till your black bones of sin are bare
I will expose you to the sun, moon
and the stars
They will cover their face in shame
seeing your real self
the child they raised from dirt.

Then I'll be back to were I belong
to the walls that bleeds from heaven
to the iron's careful shadows.
slcw

Hey Dottor

wha dis matter wid dis bloggah.
I writam one way an di bloggah shoam in di oddar way.
Plees make you do sumthin fo dis one, I beg.

As a painter and a boooet I use my Intellect sparsely when I deal with art.

Ive always looked at art through my senses.
As I experience more art, my senses get educated( thats a bad word to use here)
and keen. So after some time I started to see that certain works of art dont impress my
senses. I started calling them bad art and the artist who make them bad artist. Some
cunning artists will look at good art of others and pick up some common styles and looks,
and imitate in their work. I call them pretenders. That is the worst you can become.

My art comes from my heart, from my guts and from my tissues. But what ever comes from
the heart, gut or tissue cannot be called art. It should be anointed and filled with the blood of truth. It should have the backbone of my life experiences as well as the experience accumulated by my senses which are processed and refined by the Intellect. Yes 'the intellect'. He is the
good friend of mine who helps me out to make good art.

some poeple have said that my art is ugly. These poeple will look at a gnarled tree trunk and say it is ugly. They will go to southern India and cry 'ugly!' when they see a coffee black, shirtless, sweating farmer. They will call their parents ugly when they are old and crumbled.

As always fobsie blooms in the scorching summer.
Booems are flowing. Scrap books are full of wannabe masterpieces. Like always, Picasso is my only guide. (My search for the last 16 years tells me without doubt, that in the last couple of centuries he is the one artist who could be addressed a master.)
I am saving to buy a scanner so that I can put some of my work in salon.

Absence of woman is killing me. It is affecting my art too. when working on a painting or a booem I become black. My words are black. Figures I draw turns black and they squirm inside my head in great suffering.

Yesterday I tried to draw a female nude from memory, but failed. I wanted to cry. I ran down to the nearest bar and drowned my sorrow in whisky , and slept. In sleep I Had several dreams
of women. Women who were in my life. women I never seen. When I woke up I was tired as if
I ran a marathon. But my heart was floating in the memories of sweet voices and warm lips.
Today I will draw again from my memory.