Tuesday, April 17

Circus Of Fostered Notion

Usually this isn't so stressful to think. Except for moments like now. No. I'm not talking about an emotion, a feeling or a joust. I'm talking about rapture. Stark. Naked like expression, flowing in the wind, roaming about frenzy in a will to be embraced by any damned that extends his hand.

I don't have any idea what to write of these days (on blog). Social commentary, no matter how raunchy and interesting, but still becomes lifeless. Moving over to short story, well mum says that my sense of expression (streamline of thought or a cynical diatribe) is a bit too dry (as it is meant to be) and hence devoid of the true essence of expression, which she believes is emotion (I do not agree to that, though). So, I think I'll start commenting about random things (that's what I do on twitter (@NeetziDelta. if you'd like to know), and it works there) and silently wait for criticism and judgement.

I believe we all have an idea, which is from an external factor. It influences you, ONLY if you let it become an inspiration, if you let it enter your mind through other ways. It's like those few things which you can't get out of your head. As if, this child possesses a key to your house and comes and goes and roams about his/ her own will.

Once, in the middle of a concert, such an idea came to me. That band (my favorite, POTF), had put up their show, but as usual, they spoke in poetic yarns, and most of their songs focus around carnivals, circus, and wonders (in a diatribe of the kind of lives we lead, moving about a yarn for our own selves). So, that's where the idea of circus was firmly planted in my head. Coming to think of it, a similar experience was there when we were studying this poem by Shakespeare, "All the World's a Stage". A minor character, Touchstone gives this jest where he compares human life to characters of a long term play.

The poem was somewhere when I was thirteen and the concert was in November '11. But, that feeling, that eternal carnival remains... I don't know. I wrote two poems on it (I never share poetry on blog, so don't even ask), I wrote a diatribe (not really worth a post) and went on about a rant. Now, I think I'll rant about an eternal circus here too. PAY CLOSE ATTENTION!

GREETINGS my audience and I your humble entertainer, the light above me shines brighter than my own bright tone of adress to you! And Jesuits, among other bards, you are welcome to be entertained as well! Yes, step right up folks; be prepared, for everyone's on to be entertained!

Here stands the Ring Master! THE ONE WHO HAS POWER O'ER THE LION! The Circus works at his command! He is the one, and the all, his pride and his noted over the top laughter!

If you look over that corner, the world is feigning with laughter (and delight), the mirror of madness, and colorful tresses of the clowns, the jests, the fools! Ay, no show can beat that wonder of the clowns, my friends, and hope you won't agree more...

There's more to today’s evening, as the clowns proceed, to your entertainment, the mimes have agreed! Devoid of color and full of expressions, yes dearies, they are the meaningful dementia! They move silent and rampant, among you in riddles, figure-it-out or what? They are the moral sins, for how quiet and deadly and addictive they are... A ROUND OF APPLAUSE!

But look above and look up wide! The acrobats, my audience! Yes, up there, doing wonders, and down here, twisted and bent and smiling, and pleasant and full of awe they are...

Together this circus puts up a great show...

It's just like any other conversation, right? Waiting for someone to decipher it. Got the guts, my audience?



Friday, April 13

On Feminism

Step raaaaiiiiiight up folks, we got some business coming up. Don’t miss this show for anything cuz you’re eyes are all there to see the clown with the poise, NEEEEEEEEEETZI!

I kind of like circus and clowns. =P

Hello folks,

Why I like clowns? Because they are entertaining, they don’t care how ridiculous they are and what not? So, a friend and I were having this conversation. She was kind of sad that I’m on my writer’s block side, again. Of course, it’s the lack of content that drives me to this side of the line. So she says feminism. Alright, the first thing which comes to my mind is “female chauvinism” because that’s the take it becomes at many annoying moments, but yes, this issue is still strong.

I mean, well, I’m not a feminist. In the lines of the gender race, I don’t support anyone. I’m supportive to whose write, because everyone has a right to a valid opinion. In fact, in most cases both are right. However, it’s kind of exasperated. I mean, let’s face it, women get raped (even nuns!) and monks are forced to see disgrace. Things are on for both sides of the gender. More vividly and more sad for women, though.

It saddens my heart to see that people don’t care anymore. Bad things happen and there’s nothing we can do about it. I mean, we spread awareness for an issue, and damn, all those who can read/ write/ hear/ see/ understand/ feel know what they have to know, yet there are some goddamned things we cannot help. In many countries women don’t have right to vote. In my own country girls are killed the moment they are born.

We live in this world where women are taught not to be raped instead of teaching men not to rape. And IF it so happens that a woman gets in trouble, there’s this excuse that “she asked for it”. Well, okay, if she was outside a nightclub passed out, and in the red light district, maybe she shouldn’t be that drunk, but what about that Buddhist nun who was raped in Nepal? And here’s the heart of religion, she isn’t allowed to be a nun anymore!

I live in Delhi, and I hate it (more than any other place in the world), because they say that I’m safe if I get out of house before eight in the evening. After that I’m on my own. So, which means, If I’m out at seven fifty five in the evening, my safety is taken responsibility for, however, at eight five, it’s not. Isn’t that actually kind of the local security force?

My childhood passed in tranquility and peace of all the goodness in the world. My parents didn’t commit that crime of telling me fairy tales. They kept me on extremely kind and real ground level and I have been brought up under the goodness of the kindest of the moral obligations. I’ve been taught that look at the moment, the feel and then take my own decisions. I was never given a book of rules commanding what’s right and what’s wrong. Somehow, the fact that I’m in the world’s greatest democracy, and I’m only taught to be “in my limits because I’m a girl”, isn’t quite right.

I never support feminism, no matter how many atrocities are committed upon women. I have a valid point. Women suffer because they want to. They never raise a voice. They never set the limit, in the first place. They entertain a man’s ego and foster the damned beast. After all, why do they allow themselves to be dominated? Her idea of love becomes his idea of dominance and thus, the world goes on. She fosters the monster, feeds his ego, waits till it becomes a balloon, leaves him rampant on other women to suffer, and then cries silent tears on her own servitude gone waste. She wouldn’t leave, she just can’t. She has moral obligations, parents, society, kids. blah. The bottom line is, she’s NOT willing to take her own damn stand, and that’s where the feminist workers come. Really women, why do you have to be so insecure? Why can’t you just kick those nuts in the first place?

Anyway, I know this futile argument always trails off here. But here’s my last line, “you do NOT have to live like this. Period.”


Tuesday, April 10

The Broken Cinderella

Here's poetry. I wrote it sometime back. I'm going to... bore you longer with what's to follow. It's called "The Broken Cinderella". I'm going to present it as a prose piece. Do tell me how it is.


She was happy, she was blessed, and she was elated. No one knew Cinderella was there, but she had no one to turn to, except the ghost of the father. Oh sure, it's the diatribe of the wretched ball: The "Royalty" and its morosity. But there was a desire, deep deep down which was a result of the haunts of a submissive rebel. No one to turn to, but the witch who spake of a spell, that would last till midnight. Her company all these years were the animals she had fostered with love, for no human would love her for who she was. Her insecurities, despite just how privileged she was, in terms of looks and intellect. Financial insecurity was a cripple.

She allowed all her life to be dominated, but this one decision she took on her own. She dared to defy the stepmother, the step sisters, their ever surpassing glory, only to fulfill her selfish desires. ONLY to shine, because she knew she couldn't. But deep inside, Cinderella was a crystal doll... a shattered crystal doll. Here she had nothing to carry, save the magic of the blessed witch, her rags, which were elusive to the coquettish as fashion, and rare and very aesthetic glass slippers. However, something had gone wrong with them. They were weak; they held a silent promise to break any moment.

No regrets, thought she. I’ve been brought up in isolation, and the regret has been borne far too long. I was a rebel, and I stand at the same spot again, I won’t let my will be shattered by my glass slippers.

And the music began, along with the rants of many women who were there. It became a comfortable tension, something she could take. Inner peace. There was some magic in that moment, and the music started, inviting the dance.

The music changed its course. Soon it was waltz, with an elated heart; she surrendered to the music, and swayed with rapture. However, a crack was sensed. Why did I come all the way? Thought she. The dress developed a minor rip, memories of the past and loneliness and death had come down to haunt her, and the glass slippers had developed a crack, all on the same night. In her heart she was beckoning to her prince, to seek her out, to accept her for the poor wretch she was, for she had not a penny to spare in her dowry. How dare she dream beyond her social standard?

Further movement is likely to cause damage, she realize that she should stay where she is without inviting any more trouble. She was looking her best, she was alone, but she was glory. She had finally bloomed. And in her gorgeous attire, no matter how frail may it be she loved the feeling of being herself. At this moment, more than ever. Suddenly, music went a few notes higher, but Cinderella was served by a more lucrative desire: the handsome Prince. His grace spoke of a more prominent language only royalties could.

Came an idea, as genuine as inspiration, as genuine as love itself. She started fostering the belief, that she shall meet him, sooner than late. She felt no compunction upon allowing her heart to be overpowered by infatuation. The tender Cinderella had fallen in love. And true and unbound as this desire, she was ready to fare him well, for she felt that if her love is true, it’d come back to her.

Began the waltz, and the Prince turned his eyes around the room and saw someone breathtaking. The dressing sense spoke of glories and fashions, her shoes spoke of frail antiquity. Her petite frame, big eyes and prominent features... Of course, who’d choose a town maiden, when there was a royalty present all for his eyes to see? Began the endless waltz; in that familiar tune; leading further still to the remnants of an endless continuum. The cracks of the glass slippers grew, and with each step Cinderella took, the shards started spreading its way across the floor. Hear this tale of the fleet of glass, and the blushing floor.

Silhouettes of the haunts of the past lives danced in the ball, in a mechanic infinitum, the world suddenly was drained of all the color, spare one.

A beauty with tainted grace and ever prominent patience, Cinderella bore the pain, only to be led by desire, only to give into sin, only to surrender to pleasure. The prince was charmed by the redness that surrounded him, that wide Carmen smile, which healed all the pains that the similar red of a… A carminative. What did the word mean, anyway?

However, Cinderella was haunted deep under that entire dazzle. The witch had already told her that the spell would last till midnight. The afterhours of madness had held both of them tied together.

Carminative… It seemed so wonderfully to describe that sensation of internal warmth, that glow, that physical self-satisfaction that came only by the taste of the lips of a sweetheart. It was intoxication, as true as the true wonders of alcohol, Carminative held the similar meaning. Carminative, the prince looked to meet the lips of the beauty he held in his arms, he held her by the threads of charms and chasms in a moment of frenzy, in the true glory of waltz.

Alas the fairy tale has lost its charm. She was ready to let it all go; it was just a mere fantasy. Carminative, each and every syllable of the word rang clearly in his mind. He imagined vaguely… it had something to do with carmen-carminis, still more vaguely with caro-carnis, and its numerous derivations (oh! The royal education, the barbarians!), like carnival and carnation.

Cinderella shrugged, but smiled, for all the Prince cared to see her lips flushed red with carmine dye.

She broke away from his embrace with a smile, and only looked over, to memorize each and every feature of that grandeur of his presence. Carminative--there was the idea of singing and the idea of flesh, rose-colored and warm, with a suggestion of the jollities of mi-Careme and the masked holidays of Venice. Carminative--the warmth, the glow, the interior ripeness were all in the word. Instead of which... At this point, Cinderella broke away from the embrace, for the clock had gone twelve, and the shards of glass had already gone inside her feet.

Sadder still, the true meaning of the word had hit the prince along with the abrupt leaving of Cinderella, the true meaning of the elusive carminative had hit the prince like a sledgehammer. Windtreibend. Strange, the charm of this one woman, who drained him out of logic. A mere attraction? No, it was genuine love, or an idea as appealing. But not a glass shoe left behind, not a trail of the strange visitor. But committed was the prince to find this new beloved of his.

 Every house in the Town is knocked; hopes to find her prevail, still.

The memories of this diatribe shall be rendered by isolation, motivated by regret, in hope of every moment, never to be back again.

Monday, April 9

Just another conversation

This blog consists of poorly written first drafts, secondaries which are meant to avoid, grammatical errors and many other things. And it makes me feel rather grand (in an overrated way) that I’ve still not been corrected. That means my material is so strong, that the style of writing is ignored. Well, can I be a good writer now?
Anyway, I had read this fact somewhere that while writing our brain processes at the rate of five hundred words per minute, while talking, it is a hundred thiry five (or some such) words per minute. Thus, best conversations (in my case) happens in therms of texts.

So, I had this conversation with someone on an open forum:-
Koj Toa: "Neetz I though you gave up two posts ago. But in order to clarify things around here I shall say this:

Every person is unique in his or hers own way. This is true because everyone of us (humans) has a different life experience and looks at life with a certain view. Even though views can be categorized (optimism, realism etc.) every certain person is very very different from the next one. We may do the same things. But we don't do them with the exact same mind-set. :)"

Neetzi Delta: "Кој Тоа I allowed myself to be judged/ categorized/ whatever-ed. To think I'd do something like that? NEVER. That, dear sir, is a crime against my own being."

KT: "Neetz Fedora D Well of course people are going to judge. It's in our very own nature to do such things. Look at it this way. We are nature at its finest; we are nature that has become self-aware. Can you understand the implications that this attitude will bring? First among many, trees are like brothers to us, because when it all started it was one organism that spread and went on separate paths. And life on this whole planet came into being from just one organism that evolved. So it’s safe to say that we are part of this organism that is the planet and all life on it.

Dear lady, the above text might not mean anything to you. But, understand this. People are going to judge... Why you might ask? Well it's really simple. When people judge, they are judging themselves. They are describing themselves to themselves. When you say that someone is mean or nice or whatever. You are expressing whatever is inside you to the other person. But mostly you express it to yourself. As you will soon discover that every word you say during your day is of great help to bring about greater understanding of oneself. So actually it's okay to let people judge you or anyone else, because in that way they can realize for themselves who they actually are. Hope you enjoyed reading this."

Neetzi Delta: "Кој Тоа You got some wisdom. =) One word in reply, but after this diatribe: Writing (as you might know) is my fortay. Off lately, I've been trying to follow this trail called aniconism. But, here's a twist. I'm not judging/ describing/ doing anything to the character, yet readers make an extreme mindset (which is correct as to my imagination) that what the character looks like. It's fun, really. I don't write for a specific audience or something, neither am I perfect in my art, for art holds no pedestal known as perfection. But yes, describing detail without describing it needs vast knowledge of expressions and feelings and insights.

Word is: Jung. This one guy, told us to rise beyond judgements inorder to focus on what "eyes cannot see". Bible mentions that the blind can see. What they see is a deeper insight. I'm not Christian, but knowing things gives a vast scope of application. Without judgement, we only broaden our horizons.

In case this prolonged diatribe curtails further conversations, I wish you well."

Anyway, I haven’t checked that bit yet. But I enjoy a nice conversation which involves some thought. Really, I don’t know why I’m sharing it. But yes, it’s something which was cherished at that particular moment. I mean, all right, as I describe diatribes, I believe that they curtail responses. I say so, with a valid reason: I lose the gist of conversations while leading a general path to the forbidden foray. Since vacations have brought an obvious writer’s block, all I have to offer is this conversation, and begging for some ideas: WHAT TO WRITE? Really, any bizarre, obvious, weird, not-all-that-weird advice SHALL be taken. I’d accept all challenges. ;)