It was the latest poem he penned till then ... very lately of course.
And as I immediately started reading his poem, I felt the living souls of my dead ancestors, blessing and cursing, me and my pen respectively.
I felt like bruiting myself for being the mentor (was I?) of such a poet, though I knew it well that a poet is always greater than a poet’s mentor.
I understood that my existence sans my cerebral entity would be very much like a corpse which could neither be burnt, nor be buried.
As soon as I finished reading the poem, I perceived myself surrounded by my three voluptuous concubines --- Death, Sex, and Solitude --- all very eager to whisper something to my ears.
Solitude muttered first : All mine-labourers are essentially proletariets.
Next mumbled Sex : A bourgeoisie suffers a volcanic family-life.
Death now maundered : The epitome of elitism is the pyramid as cenotaph.
I felt like a marooned coprolalomaniac ... sipping purgatorial suet, in a bowl of skull.
As if, lurking at the exit of my infernal private lair, I grabbed with one hand the ablazed ladder made out of my own steamed bones tied tight with bundles of my nerves.
And my other hand, reached for my tie’s knot.
Now, in order to tease my three MILF(1) mistresses, I silently shouted my respective answers to each of them :---
“ i ~ h ~ a ~ v ~ e ~ n ~ e ~ v ~ e ~ r ~ e ~ n ~ t ~ e ~ r ~ e ~ d ~ a ~ m ~ i ~ n ~ e ”
“ i ~ h ~ a ~ v ~ e ~ n ~ e ~ v ~ e ~ r ~ e ~ n ~ t ~ e ~ r ~ e ~ d ~ a ~ v ~ o ~ l ~ c ~ a ~ n ~ o ”
“ i ~ h ~ a ~ v ~ e ~ n ~ e ~ v ~ e ~ r ~ e ~ n ~ t ~ e ~ r ~ e ~ d ~ a ~ p ~ y ~ r ~ a ~ m ~ i ~ d ”
The three nudiustertian(2) sluts seemed all greedy greedy greedy now for my nuts.
They went oblivious to the adage that pulchritude possesses solely cutaneous profundity.(3)
And that cadavers are incapable of rendering any testimony.(4)
And that it is fruitless to attempt to indoctrinate a superannuated canine with innovative maneuvers.(5)
So ... scintillate, scintillate, asteroid minim(6) ... Solitude metamorphosed into Seneca : “There is no great genius without a touch of dementia.”
Sex began to sing an Irish folk-song : “Don’t dance with your toes pointing skyways. / They will do that when you are dead.”
And Death started dancing like Nijinsky : “The earth is the head of God. God is fire in the head. I am alive so long as I have a fire in my head. My pulse is an earthquake. I am an earthquake.”
I never cared a fag for any sort of neophyte’s serendipity.(7)
It was my turn now to expose to these aphrodisiac hardcore hussies, mine hesternal(8) inclinations.
I initiated a saunter --- up, not down --- memory lane, resuscitating one after another, in flash-back, those half a dozen penultimate text-messages sent to my mobile phone by Purnendu, during the last five-and-half months, since 26th September 2010 till 28th February 2011.
And after remembering each single one, I also recollected in my mind those respective replies for every individual message he sent, though I never sent him even a single one of them.
Well ... very much a dialogue ... between a Sagittarian and a Gemini.
S : Oskar Schindler saved so many Jews from the Ghetto; yet he felt that had he saved more, it could have been better --- an industrialist becoming a saviour.
[26/09/2010; 01:18:28 P.M.]
G : It is impossible to lick your own elbow.(9) Not even Spielberg can do it!
S : Just watched ‘The Bicycle Thief’. Post-war Rome. A bicycle, the only hope of a family, is stolen. A man, with his son, searching for the thief finally becomes a thief.
[01/11/2010; 06:10:16 A.M.]
G : Among the 4 kings of the cards, only the King of Hearts does not have a moustache.(10) Nor did Vittorio De Sica!
S : Michelangelo Antonioni’s ‘Cronaca di un Amore’ (‘A Love Affair Story’). A married woman meets her former lover Guido, but their relation is marked by tragic events.
[19/11/2010; 06:52:32 A.M.]
G : A most ordinary black & white drama ... methinks. Once Joyce dismissed the much hyped term, as well as the movement ‘Celtic Twilight’ with an ironic scornful phrase --- ‘cultic twalette’. I’m afraid ... !
S : Jean-Luc Godard’s ‘Alphaville’. A dystopian science-fiction and film-noir. References to Jorge Louis Borges, ‘Nosferatu’, George Orwell & Paul Eluard are found.
[03/12/2010; 03:46:16 A.M.]
G : In 250 B.C. Confucius’s work was banned by the Ts’in Emperor for its political viewpoints. In 35 A.D. Homer’s ‘Odyssey’ was banned by Caligula for inappropriately expressing Greek notions of freedom. 14 centuries later all of Dante’s work was burnt by Savonarola, the reason being --- ‘vanities’. Since 1911 till 1953, works of 39 authors were victimized for various reasons --- (such as being ‘immoral’, ‘irreligious’, ‘obscene’, ‘subversive’, ‘politically unsound’, ‘occult’, ‘erotic’, ‘impious’, ‘semitic’, ‘heretic’ etc.) --- by different authorities in countries like America, Australia, Britain, Canada, Czechoslovakia, Germany, Greece, Hungary, Ireland, Italy, Palestine, Poland, Russia, South Africa, Spain, Yugoslavia, as well as by the Papal Index. Ain’t I living amidst an inhuman, alienated society of mindless drones ... like that of Alphaville!
S : Sergei M. Eisenstein’s ‘Battleship Potemkin’ (1925), a revolutionary silent-film has so long stood as a textbook example of montage editing. His way of narrative editing is innovatively poetic.
[19/12/2010; 05:29:38 A.M.]
G : Strindberg wrote in his ‘A Madman’s Diary’ (1985) : “I loathe people who keep dogs. They are cowards who haven’t got the guts to bite people themselves.” I think that’s why Eisenstein never owned a dog!
S : ‘13 Tzameti’ by Gela Babluani. A worker steals an envelope containing instructions. Following them, the young man becomes trapped in a dark situation.
[28/02/2011; 02:45:28 A.M.]
G : Burroughs’s alternate occupation was that he was a marijuana farmer; T. S. Eliot ... bank clerk; Faulkner ... post master and school teacher and farmer and night watchman; Genet ... thief; Greene ... spy; Ibsen ... chemist’s assistant; Joyce ... school teacher and bank clerk; Kafka ... bureaucrat for insurance agency; Nabokov ... tennis & boxing coach and chess instructor and pioneering lepidopterist (moth and butterfly specialist); Steinbeck ... field labourer; Vonnegut ... teacher of emotionally disturbed children --- etc. etc. etc. Here, Sebastian becomes a victim of the sadistic blood-lust in an attempt to get-rich-quick. Yeah ... he never tried to seek an alternate occupation!
As soon as the conversation in my brain paused, I at once returned first to the ‘very beginning’ (for sake of the readers’ convenience, let us identify this point of time as TWEEDLEDUM) ... when at the thought of reacting to my beloved Sagittarian’s poem, I penned the three primitive sentences now resting at the head of this very flapdoodling.
And eventually to the ‘very very beginning of that very beginning’ (once again for sake of the readers’ convenience only, let us identify this point of time as TWEEDLEDEE) ... when immediately after finishing reading his poem, I remembered the immense substance-less-ness of a certain cheap-spectators’ cheap-clap-provoking one-liner from the popular 1997 Bond flick ‘Tomorrow Never Dies’, and penned in my mind --- (as the counter-statement of that Bond movie dialogue) --- a noir sentence, which in turn provided me with the idea of titling this piece as ... ‘The Birth of a Sentence’ --- of a very very noir sentence.
Now (as TWEEDLEDUM is born) at that ‘very beginning’ ... when I felt the living souls of my dead ancestors blessing me and cursing my pen ... and when I felt like bruiting myself for being the mentor of such a poet like Purnendu though I knew it well that a poet is always greater than a poet’s mentor ... and when I understood that my existence sans my cerebral entity would be very much like a corpse which can neither be burnt nor be buried; I remembered the opening sentence of David Markson’s ‘Wittgenstein’s Mistress’ : “In the beginning, sometimes I left messages in the street.”,(11) and unpremeditatedly I unloaded my proximate meditations against the most formidable philosophic question that started haunting my grey cells since the very inception of my life as a penman.
I didn’t have a name when I was born.
I didn’t even know then about my namelessness.
I was like all those
Nameless centuries, ages, legends and traditions
Which though nameless, are still remembered
Only because they were and are true.
I first learnt of my name
From my mother,
And then from my father.
They made the sound of my name familiar to my ears.
Even then, I didn’t know the meaning of my name.
But ... thank you ...
I was lucky ... to have a name.
I cannot remember
When I first felt about myself,
I mean ... my own self.
Was it when I saw me in the mirror
For the first time in my life?
I don’t know.
Memories are what they are.
They have their own ‘MAYAS’ ... the nostalgic affinity.
I am lucky I have a name
Although I was not born with a name.
We always have to re-learn.
I was hearing many voices,
Telling me I was changing.
I didn’t understand what was happening.
--- DON’T TRY TO UNDERSTAND ---
Those voices told me.
And (as TWEEDLEDEE is born) at that ‘very very beginning of that very beginning’, just after finishing reading Purnendu’s poem and just before beginning to think about the Bond film utterance --- in that interregnum --- in the flash of a millisecond, I sensed the premonition of the birth of an ominous sentence --- an ‘enfant terrible’ --- in the offing.
First I remembered what Bond was told by Elliot Carver, the fictional antagonist (modelled on Robert Maxwell or/and Rupert Murdoch or/and William Randolph Hearst) who serves as a satirical warning of the power of the media and its ability to manipulate, coerce, misinform, incense and even terrorize population : “The distance between insanity and genius is measured only by success.”
It inadvertently reminded me of a statement made by Marx in his ‘Theses on Feuerbach’ where he declares : “The materialist doctrine that men are the product of circumstances and education, that changed men are therefore the products of other circumstances and of a different education, forgets that circumstances are in fact changed by men and that the educator must himself be educated.”
And thereafter following all these aforementioned preposterous boisterousness of my cerebral omphalus, this ‘enfant terrible’ was eventually brought to birth : The capitalist media which continue to mislead the mass to believe their hegemonic propaganda that ‘The distance between insanity and genius is measured only by success.’ must not forget that a genius may and often generate success, but only success can never create a genius.
This is the way a sentence is born ... this is the way a sentence is born ... this is the way a sentence is born ... not with a bang but a whimper.
1. I think we are all very acquainted with this popular porn term --- Mother I’ld Like to Fuck. So far as the symbolic connotations of the usage of it, here, in this text, are concerned, my readers must not be so stupid so as not to comprehend it themselves.
2. Having to do with the day before yesterday; (Adjective).
3. Beauty is only skin deep.
4. Dead men tell no tales.
5. You can’t try to teach an old dog new tricks.
6. Twinkle, twinkle little star.
7. Beginner’s luck.
8. Having to do with yesterday; (Adjective).
9. The funny fact is that 90% of those who read it, try to do this! Haven’t you too just tried that?
10. Have you ever noticed that so far in your life? Reader! Take a pack of cards, and check this out for yourself.
11. Ah! David Markson!!! Please ... please ... please ... read him readers. Chew him ... swallow him ... digest him. Do all --- what Bacon said --- to him. A reader is incomplete until Markson is read. A reader never becomes a reader unless Markson is ... ohh ... I’m running out of words!
PARAPHERNALIA : Ideas began to germinate in my subconscious on 15th September 2010 at around 2:35 mid-day. The embryo was fertilized amidst my grey cells on 16th March 2011 at around 3:34 in the afternoon. Eventually, after 209 days of severe cerebral labour-pain, today, 8th April 2011 at 2:11 in early morning, this my ‘enfant terrible’ is born. Hats off ... all hats off ... to the flair of extraordinaire with which my poet pal’s pen is fraught, and his mind imbued. Here is his masterpiece.
Success is still elusive,
People call me names at times,
Sky is murky
And sore is my heart climes;
But I love a woman who’s a poet.
I dream dreams which break,
A woman loves me whom I don’t,
People all around are sullen,
I may die but I won’t
For I love a woman who’s a poet,
In a known crowd I feel lonely,
Festivals little hopes give,
I smile to hide my tears
For as long as I live
There’ll live a woman who’s a poet.
The other day when I sauntered
Through an avenue forlorn,
Blossom laden trees hid or half-hid
A damsel in the mist of that morn;
And I knew she’s my woman who’s a poet.]