lamenting friendships

I think for the past few days I have been feeling a certain alienation from people. People are not logical. This is something I have learned both the easy way and the hard way. But, this is not a treatise glorifying emotions either. Emotions can be pretty messy and difficult to express so we use shorthands of violence, anger even lust and betrayal to compensate our lack of syntax and our lack of right verbs and nouns to talk about these things. It does not have to be English. It happens in every language. It happens pretty much in mainstream cultures. We are not really taught to cultivate language. We are taught to cultivate solutions and information. The latter is not a bad skill. It is also needed. However, emotion and logic going hand to hand makes more sense.

People can be brutally honest and hurt someone and that is a valid reason to critique emotions. You know why? Because unless someone is being a douchebag I don’t think we have enough of their life picture to be over exceedingly mean to them. Especially, if they are our friends and we posit some value onto them. Friends can demand things — it’s normal and it shouldn’t exceed a limit either. There are basics, we have our own etiquettes. I think what we don’t understand is that even when we are coldly logical it is a painful surgical procedure without anesthesia. We can logically tell people their shortcomings, or why we don’t like them but have no clue what their positionality is. Most of the time when we dislike people we are also subconsciously, but logically, trying to overcompensate for some lack in ourselves. We feel jealousy that they get it, or, anger that they not getting it reflects our own propensity for not getting it. Our lacking.

Going back to language and skills of deduction, the reason I skirted on emotions and logic is that people aren’t 2+2=4 nor are they (a+b)²= a²+2ab+b² nor are they (a+b)³=a³+3a²b+3ab²+b³ they can all of this and none of this on the same line. It is hard to accept that but it’s true. You can give your level best to people to have them turn on you at any given moment. I noticed why. People are either ungrateful, scared, jealous or insecure. And, when I say people I am not pushing me away from that. I am not putting myself on a pedestal because I am a person as well. I am sure that I also come across as brash, small minded and stupid at times. However, I think over the years, I have tried to be patient with people. The sad thing is, people are not necessarily patient with me. When there is a one sided dialogue on patience: meaning you are being patient and the other person is being mean or you are showing them they behaved badly and instead of being responsible they tell you what you said meant nothing and sums up nothing, it becomes pretty frustrating.

A good way of showing these sides of frustration is social media. People nowadays also abuse social media to make a point that they are disappointed or angry with you. When they unfriend or block you, it does become problematic. There is no way to contact them or tell them you are sorry. Usually, it also makes you feel like a creepy stranger when you were not. Even at times it makes you feel as though they are treating you as they would an abuser. It becomes really sad because when you haven’t been toxic with them or vitriolic with them it becomes an issue. I come also from times when stuff like this was hard to do because basically when you before had fights with friends you could be absent from each others’ lives for a while and then make it or break it with perspective. Nowadays, I think that also goes out the window. People get mad at you and make a statement about it which is hard to overlook and may add fuel to fire and make a hot mess.

The thing is we are not math problems or fragments of syntax or pixels on a screen or even a sum of hormones alone — we are people. We need to work on ourselves and others constantly and consistently. Yes, there can be fluxes but we are meant to fill them with other things. It is imperative we can be a bit more compassionate, open, loving and empathetic with people who deserve it. We gotten down our boundaries, how to be alert for creepy people, how to zone out in places we don’t need to be and we also got down how to be aggressive when required. However, we haven’t gotten down the other end. We need to master or even try to balance out both.

There is a reason I speak of balance in particular. We cannot always unleash our rage and jealousies on our friends who are not intending to hurt us or trying to make us feel low. This is one thing I tried to do. Stress and helplessly in today’s societies comes through work but also through social interactions. We are sometimes forced to be with people we don’t wanna be. We can’t always make a situation feel good even if we try. I get that, personally, I get that so much and I gotten angry and sometimes tell my Mom in a bit of a loud voice how tired I was of it all. Work can be brutal, horrible and also ungrateful. You can give your soul to a career, hours of excruciating brain and brawn power and not get a promotion or even have your pay reduced or even discourteously fired. But, I don’t think putting that on your real friends will actually help you in the long run. Rather, I think it would hurt you.

I talk today about personal experiences. I think I have faced a lot in the last two years that has made me pretty cynical about friendships. I realised the more older you grow up people look at friendship like a hierarchy or something that is just there. People have tried to use me and take me for granted. I don’t think I have ever made  a person feel so low that they questioned their self-worth. However, people do this all the time. After a while, it becomes like as though they are just angry at who I am and how I behave. Maybe, they hadn’t expected me to be successful or even able to write these things coherently in a blog. The fact that I surpassed their assumptions of me may make them feel pretty angry and unhappy. Perhaps, they liked me being in the gutter, or being miserable or even being hapless because that gave their lives “more meaning”? When you think about it people can think like that. They usually are taught life is a competition of living good, making successes and playing hard some game of attraction. When people fail in those areas it makes others overwhelmingly happy because then when they look at the mirror they can Other you. They can tell themselves they are not you.

I just don’t really ascribe to this way of thinking. Maybe, that’s why people don’t always value me and do not want to be my friend to begin with—

forgotton, write

I have forgotten how to write; I borrow from words of favourite authors or poets, online, offline, in print — I stalk, in a friendly way, the vocabulary emitted by friends in the ozone as my side of the world looks at needing patches of effusions on that crystalline-dark matter of a magically scientific field that puts us under some other feelings like the six degrees of separation; I lust after knowledge, under both the labels of the arcane and the modern: a suddenness makes me me feel unhappy, a preparation makes me unhappy.

I have forgotten how to write. So I look at wordpress pages, tumblr posts and reblogs and quotes to feed this appetite in me whose parenthesis seems to be only craving but non-sustainable; my eco-green planning turning to urbane shanty — I look for verdian pots in fanfiction oeuvres and cul-de-sacs of myself and others. I read old work of others, and new, revisit old haunts and seem to find new. I write fanfiction myself because a novel is not for me now though a fanfiction with my own ideas is writing especially if the story of the original is filled with ambiguity (fanfiction on all genres, shows, formats is writing even if it’s 50 shades of practice).

I have forgotten how to write. That is poem seems so bad. I am sorry if I am not witty. But I have never truly boasted intelligence unless it be boasted for me. And all the mathematicians and physics majors and physicians and doctors and lawyers and engineers whose crafts matter more than mine I wonder how in that quantum googolplex do my profession really counts? To the modern mind I may be dumb and pretty obsolete like a cartographer sailing seas using the stars when there are radio shacks and lighthouses on a whimsy. Yet I cannot be a cartographer for the moon, for that would probably be a cartographer for billetdeaux.

I have forgotten how to write. Yet I imagine faces of the moon as one large phasic typewriter. And somewhere along Mars neophyte water sprites may be becoming molecules for new, imaginary oceans.▬

Perhaps, I have forgotten how to write…▬

Abbu, my Father, passing away.▬

Yes.  That is the reality I am made to  accept.  Yes. The reality is my father passed away. Abbu/Abba — the words in my language for “Father” — has passed away on the 24th  of February, 2015. Then a  friend in way of conversation had brought up something I forgot; I finished my education, gave my thesis presentation on the 24th of December, 2014. My Abbu was so happy he said “I will buy you what you want.” because I did well and I got a new desktop. I couldn’t even use it for a month.  My Abbu died before even a month happened I was able to use. He died exactly two months after I finished my thesis.

The word “Father” means a lot of things. We have our denotations, our connotations, our narratives — the word “Abbu” also entails the same concepts only “Abbu/Abba” allows formality of the title and the casualty of expression to coexist. Father does not entirely. Father has an absence and a presence demonstrating a distance either out of respect, fear, handling of authority, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera (My Abbu loved The King and I and he loved the actor’s acting of the king).  “Abbu/Abba” allows that Patriarch’s respective dues but allows an open narrative kind of like open source fonts. It is a fusion terminology that elevates the stature already pre established. The word equivalent to “Father” in Bangla is “Pita” but this is more of the vernacular’s written script and not a spoken concept. “Baba” can assuage its capacities and I hardly ever called Abbu Baba unless it was in a jokingly tone of endearment.

Like the mixed languages and syntaxes of how I spoke my  Abbu and I had this weird netting of a relationship. At times I became his counsel, other points (mostly, most of the times) he became mine. We became each other confidants. Assuring each other. Of trivialities, of seriousness, of chances of comedies and ironies that would iron out the banalities of life.  My Abbu had a bypass surgery 9.2 years  ago; this November would have marked his  10th year. Post-surgery and even pre-surgery my Abbu lived a healthy and active life — more healthier and active than his sedentary, daydreaming daughter. He exercised and ate well enough but also  gave more restrictions on himself than his doctors did. He was not happy that he had a bypass. He had diabetes before but did all that could be done humanly possible to exercise and eat with reason and combat his disease. He wanted to keep some of his life in his control knowing that all life is dictated and ended by Allah Almighty he also understood that Allah Almighty rewarded patience and perseverance. That Allah Almighty allowed some chances of our life in our hands as Allah Almighty is kind like that. At age 40 he also  developed pressure problems, before his bypass, and this additionally made him sad. Truth is both his mother and father side of the family has an umbrella of cardiac diseases and weight related diseases. My Abbu was the youngest in his  family.  I am too the youngest of my family (concerning cousins and even my only sibling). My Abbu had a younger sister but she died after 40 days due to my Dida (paternal Grandmother)  having developed high diabetes and unfortunately she inherited it via birth. All these genetical issues are a metaphorical cancer that kills you from the inside, gradually. My Abbu was at times heavily depressed that he had diabetes and said he wouldn’t wish it and this lifestyle on his worst enemy.

That is how beautiful, kindhearted, generous, open minded, benevolent, creative, intellectual, cerebral  and honest my Abbu was and is.  I am proud to know a soul, a man, of such caliber, who supported people, who wasn’t chauvinistic in the slightest, who had feminist but also masculinist ideals, who  cared for people socially and hated injustices and bigotry. My father was a great Muslim. He hated extremism, he  hated hegemony and useless hierarchies.He was also a just and great businessman. Who payed for some families entirely so they could support their households. Gave Zakat (religious mandatory charity for the well-off) and more than the prescribed amount. Helped orphanages and madrasas by not only feeding those children but also  buying them clothes. He never stole from anyone. He liked small businesses and hated the internalised duplicity of corporations. When I think of my father I think warm as honey and sun; not stern  but encapsulating stars of a million different nebulas. My Abbu is a diverse spectrum of light that could make envy many cosmos. Now  he is with Allah Almighty and surely all the angels think he is a large chunk of cosmic integrity, sagacity and warmth with the cool zephyrs of an universe in dance.

When I think of Abbu I think warm. Like the  blue you feel when you see a slice of sky half-asleep or after a well-rested sleep, where your consciousness feels complete. That warmth. My Abbu loved blue. I do too.  I also love green which is said to be Prophet Muhammad’s (P.B.U.H.) favourite colour. It is also  the colour of prosperity, verdian landscapes and all things in abundance. I hope my Abbu is  experiencing blues that our eyes can never see in this plane  of existence; that his immortal life of the Hereafter is so beautiful that no want is ever left incomplete or no desire is left only full but goes beyond completion, to an apotheosis that cannot be understood by us who still talk with mortal tongues and stand on mortal spines. I hope my Abbu is experiencing the Zenith of his Being and that he is enjoying time with Allah Almighty and many others.

Abbu is comfort to me. So all my nostalgia of him is comfort. He bought me things. He knew what I wanted to buy; no, it isn’t always  expensive things. Last vacation he insisted before I could say it, “Why don’t you buy those Hello Kitty plushies.” (not verbatim but what he said) That is an honest,  clean rib-caged hearted thing. He bought me the set because it was cute and something fathers like for their daughters.

You know what I will miss. The twilight-glowing late afternoons sitting with Abbu and us enjoying tea. Abbu and me. Juxtaposed like some alphabets in proper or messy tangible order. Perfectly written and spoken that no handwriting or font or vocal capacity can ever hope to fully replicate. Either he was awake or napping after the tea. Me on the  laptop.  Loving that day can be both bright and subtle. That is how Abbu was too.  And that is how  we are, together. It is just too intense at the same time so faint like  a sunspot that lands and flutters on a butterfly’s symmetry.

I was sitting on my Abbu’s chair a day or two ago. Reminiscing, in pain, palpitating, and this scene from one of my favourite movies and my Abbu’s  came… it is from The Yearling by  Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings:

somewhere beyond the sink-hole…
…past the magnolia, under the live oaks…
…a boy and his yearling ran side by side, and were gone forever. (https://prezi.com/ibu8eniu621c/the-yearling/)

That somewhat describes my feelings. It is  both sad but beautiful. I felt that come, and go and come back. The feeling of pure love transposed and transcendented time.

I actually had a experience in real life like that with my Abbu. Past 8pm in my neighbourhood when it was still non-cosmopolitan and more residential. Abbu coming out. Young and fit. I am but just a small fawn of around 6-8  years. Abbu asking me he is going to Filmfair: do I want anything? I say Beauty andthe Beast — he got it for me in VHS.

But as he was leaving to go. I saw his back walking.  Receding but also strolling. Into a darkness not dangerous. Canopied and veined by trees,  whose shadows chase each other as lambs in an open field. I was cycling in my bike  away.  Yet, I saw him disappear. Waiting for him to  come home.  With the tape but the tape is also his love personified. When he came back  we entered the house together.  Or a bit within some minutes.

That is a powerful memory Allah Almighty gave me. It is a beautiful thing that a language cannot fully explain so you must open all your heart, mind, soul and spirit to understand it.

May Allah Almighty Give My Abbu Jannat ‘ul Firdous (Highest Heaven,  the 8th Heaven). AMIN.

Abbu, one day soon, hopefully, under Allah Almighty’s Mercy, we will walk those silhouetted trees together again…▬

hoarding boredom

walked on crosshairs of boredom for too long
my ennui, my identity lapsed into one
like some landslide caricatured into thin lines
of a fleshy personality; yet I smile in tides
now I know why prisons wore straight lines.▬

Not me (anymore?)

 

why is it easy to  curse someone; than to praise, a given context?
is everything a label of nothings except virile pessimism?
thinking about Ariel and Caliban — the two possibilities
the two thrones of thought; one a good worker other an obstinate self
were they not mirror images, true identicals presented as opposites?
when Ariel cooed, Caliban cursed and grew wings the better…both were
emperors of their identity; both have more control than they had pondered…
both are supposed to be more in a person than a dominant stangler —
when I think of my so called self and how people around define it
one tends to realize it’s  not fair, one wants to fight as a Caliban
but is told to be an Ariel  because that is best but the best support
to get rid of awful tags is a noble goal  — shamed as an individual —
detailed fake incompetence, you can’t be sexual, it’s such a shame
to have erotic goals or wants even if they are entitled in a marriage blanket
you can’t breathe without a small hair out of place facing criticism…

my confidence has been burned, bent and broken that even a rust tears for it
as a bag of inept charcoal shadows a person; outlines the paper mache of my
so-defined unclean heart which has been judged so much that it has forget and
had deigned to be numb and kiss tiny ennuis that face the truth of wounds and
abuses — massive as the great deluge, massive as the star-death, massively turning
on slits and not toes; not permitted to walk a zigzag or a straight line; I am nursed
by apathy and I am losing a balance that I once emitted. Each word a tear in my lung,
a scar on my heart a myopic damage to the brain. I am becoming self-conscious again,
becoming bereft from my own being…

— and you still want to captain this capsized vessel into oblivion, you treated me worse than
your dogs, your cupboarded cutlery and your enormous works of decorative art — I am a person
still and I will still remain a person; your acknowledgment doesn’t define me, your cruelty may expire
bits of me, in a smothered pillow way yet I refuse to asphyxiate, my dribbling, strangling, tongue still
write alphabets of me…▬

some architectures…

 

as architects of sounds and silence, we ourselves have persisted in the architecture
of our own limitations — our own virtuoso lies in virtualness as we trample and cramp
into thin bellied equators of reason and doubt; where each law of rule turns into
law of exclusion and ‘defense’ and it brings out that some lives are stamped
as ‘cheap’ and ‘herded’ into neat barcoded shelves where the products of flimsy
consumerism are eating away at the intellects and sturdiness of the rooted helms
in which humanity rests. Where each dining on 3D binoculars make us lose our sense
of even 1D optical vision and 2D samples of acceptance and rejection. Patriotism
became the parasite to humanity. It wore it uggs and its sitars and its pretty flags
and danced and danced in the vertigo of its own narcissism using our flesh as the
ballroom its shiny skeletal heels could dig and pince and pinch and we let it
consummate our ignorance with our avarice hoping that bleakest hope in a dead
house of no reincarnation or incarnation solemn that we get wasted into a full
narcotic shower and perform narcolepsy into us. We euthanised our souls, wore meaty
suits with planned diets though our vessels hungered neither feeling any true corporeal
satiation or spiritual enlightenment. Yet we democratically vote for monarchies who run
as banks and institutions and we think it’s okay; we pat our backs as we shove crumbling
bricks down our throats and stay happily muted through we suffer all the diseases of filth,
abnegation, persecution and robust indifference.  If I became a withered flower too early
maybe the  soil, a base, a foundation was already ruined and butchered in a scrap that
denatured me.▬

nutshell boredom

 

my life, my life, where are you hiding oh my life?
cut the crap — fuck, you oh fuck you and cut the crap!

it hurts when I swear for no valid reason and that in turn becomes
a valid monstrous reason — I am  a shell, like an abandoned crustacean’s home —=— like the crust that Gaea abandoned or some spirit abandoned because God said it’s time for you to be all supernovae or just some scheduled apocalypse on that street of a system and I am a raging pulsar fighting a battle that has already been
scheduled to end — only, I feel God did not schedule this random catastrophe this apostrophe that has made bed and bedlam with destruction and a bedfellow of ennui and a particle dark matter of elusive nimblings like some erotic orgasm you had while asleep with
lovers a and b gone into a recess shrapnel of ‘I will explode later’ or “inappropriate gag sex reflex’ or something and I am hoping to understand what the fuck did I do to deserve this ragdoll of a boredom to hump and fuck and then just feel the humping and fucking again…. what poised poetry of a life do I have?

I can breathe well. Good. God Bless. But I want to breathe in too. To know aromas here exotic and away familiar and that is bombarded by a barricade of ‘no friends’, ‘no good job or preferred job’ or  ‘pure classic paranoia’ — I am hating it feeding boredom and lethargy when I should forever be moving; gravity’s center has laid me as its egg — I told you an apostrophe was involved —

— and here I am venting to a venting system where rage will be broken down even if its heard because people prefer the cool, indifferent, ignorant air than realizing the capsizing of an individual madness….