Temple light

My shadow falls against the leaves of the temple wall
Sorrounded by towering branches, shaky forms shudder
Under the nightly breeze
And against the temples lights, burning through all the year,
My shadow joins, facing away in a dark alcove

Lockdown login

There’s a iron hum hitting my mind like the explosive sound of water dripping one excruciating droplet at a time. How, how could anyone have taken any joy in a day at home? The stillness of life resembles my balcony and everything beneath it. There are flashes of curiosity but everything turns to the unnatural emptiness of everyone staying at home. Soon and always the twitching crows, distant bird calls, rats fighting over bird feed is all that’s certain. Every crow is the same- glossy, suspicious with keen unseeing eyes and calling unheard inquiries. There are no ravens on my mantle and the only phantoms are the days rushing by.

Lotus eating



There’s a soft seriousness about astrology, one that you should never really examine in its adherents. It’s the same no matter if it’s young women reading magazines or middle aged cranks visiting frauds who advertise on street posters.

I don’t doubt it’s effectiveness, having your fate in the stars must be a kind of liberation in the passive lives of its patrons. Maybe that’s why they worshipped planets in the first place, mercury is in retrograde and you have a one in twelve chance you share some common ground with the more fortunate.

Of course I know better than to take literally everything people take seriously. I’ve got my own crank theory I’m working on, based on the idea of the bicaramel mind and a bit of Jungianism. Julian Jaymes believed that the history of language predates that of conscious thought. So every now and then early man would hear a voice that guided him though crisis and he mistook it for the voice of Gods and Goddesses.

I’m not sure what I’ll do with my conspiracy yet, maybe cut down on day dreams or even try and cut off that inner monologue. Why shouldn’t I? There are people who never had anything at all in their minds and seem to get by just fine. Or maybe I’ll listen to that inner voice like it’s some trapped divinity mindlessly yammering about my life.

Exit 5 tails

There was once a cat with five tails, each tail for a house she could visit. Every night with the moonlight shining in her eyes she would go to a different home.

One day, the old servant in the first house of the street, the great yellow manor, asked the cat to stay another day.

“Why do you go away, my pet, night after night?”

“I can never stay except on the nights when there is no moonlight” said the black cat in response.

The old lady was curious. The black cat had been here a long time, longer than even she could remember. Then suddenly, she was unsure. How could it be that even she did not know when the cat came? No, even when she was not old at all, the cat lurked in the corners of what she remembered, all five tails carried through the past.

So one day, after the moonless night, she prepared a plan. All day she toiled away, making butter, a lot of it. She brought it out and left it by the kitchen stove, she kept the windows and doors open, she fanned the smell of butter all through the house. She knew that the night drew near and the cat would be waking from her nap on the thatched roof. The old lady slipped out of the room but kept watch through a door left ajar. From her hiding spot she used a single eye placed between the doors slight opening to protect her trap. She saw the cat slipping in through an invisible space between the rafters.

Intoxicated with the smell in the air, the cat slipped inside, leaping off the cupboards and landed nimbly by the stove. All five tails held high, she looks around, ears turning at every creek and eyes like mirrors. She sees nothing but the witches brew in front of her and starts to eat. She eats and eats, delighted by a truly rare treat. Soon the pot is empty and her stomach is full. She’s so full, so tired that she must sleep. She curls around the stove and lies motionless.

So deep is her slumber that she poops right by the stove, too deep in groggy sleepiness that she doesn’t even want to go far. Right then the old lady arrives and takes her away, wrapping her up under the blanket, to keep her home for the night.

The next morning, the old lady wakes up and only sees the night. She moves to a mirror and meets only the cat looking back at her, their eyes meeting in the reflection. Neighbors watch the cat appear on the roof, their eyes shine like mirrors turned to sunlight. She arches, all five tails held aloft behind her and without a thought disappears into a corner, as cats often do.

Old Shadow

I’ve been chewing on the words “twenty twenty one” a whole lot these last few weeks and they just don’t go down right. There’s an uncanny sense the earth’s been spinning a little too fast and the world’s been hoodwinked into counting store brand days.

I met an old friend recently- well I say friend because I can’t bring myself say the actual words because they might ring out like a foul incantation.
I find it difficult to imagine a family member with whom I might feel a kind of solidarity. In a rather embarrassing fact of life, I was a bit too young to actually register the kindness and support we found in each other. It must have been a rather bleak home to have six year old me as the only source of good conversation.

However incomprehensible I find our camaraderie with only a self centered void where they recount old tales, I find it strange how they became a persistent phantom in my life. The empty figure becoming an archetype I see in my friends and the ones who aren’t. I have been looking for the same person over and over again. The way I talk to people, the same pantomime playing out again and again. Yet after casting a shadow that’s followed me my entire life I’ve nothing left to say to the progenitor. We’re not the same people anymore and you can’t search for old ghosts when nothing is the same. Like me, my old companion has forgotten who they were and unlike me have no reasons to look back, with so much in the present.

Previously I only had fragments. Fragments of other scandalous fragments, angsty, adolescence oriented Japanese TV programming that hinted at transgression. I could never find these shows a second time which gave the memories an esoteric quality always maddeningly out of reach of my hands that only grasp the bleakest realisms that forced themselves on me. I have drifted, constantly, relentlessly in the dull tyranny of my circumstance.

I’ve always had the notion that relations are panopticons. I can’t bear the foolish mouth sucking guards uniformed in familiarity saying isn’t it nice? Are we all getting along? Aren’t you glad we’re here? I don’t know what to say; I’m fighting the urge to do what comes naturally, hoping I’ll float away. One day I’ll leave them all behind.

Bird calls

In the morning trills and calls of birds perched out of sight
And in the branches clouding out the dark and rainy sky
I remember the sound and din of village life, dragonflies in flight
By the brook-bank snails, moss, tadpoles and fish, all in my minds eye
Mossy rocks and slimy pebbles from the riverbed
The voices of frogs rining over the damp soil
The snakeskin shed but never touched, it’s poison they said

Flying down

I was sitting by the stairs on the corner, giving my cat company as he sat mournfully watching the street through the balcony grill. His white coat was interrupted by scars and dirt spots from his valient struggle against the neighborhood tom cat, at least thrice his size.

On my balcony, by the stairs, I can see right out to my neighbors. Today two young girls, natural friends given how close they lived to each other, started folding up fliers the supermarket had left on letter boxes all over the street. They made themselves a fleet of paper airplanes and labouring up two flights of stairs, started a bombardment that lasted at least 3 minutes. They ran back down and ran back up in seconds, paper airplanes all dutifully recollected.

This time one child’s grandmother covered under a pile of bedsheets she was folding and wearing a saree that looked suspiciously like a bedsheet gave them tips. The other child’s father back from work with a backpack, t-shirt and shorts and shortness that made it look like the two were only a few years apart also threw down airplanes. He did considerable worse than both the children. The children were encouraging between looks they exchanged with every failed launch.

The children flew back down and collect all the planes and ran back up disappearing completely. This was probably marks the only time someone gave those flyers a second look.

Send help

While lazily writing and trying quickly to describe my character without thought I wrote him as indescribable. Seeing it worked so well I went on a rampage, his voice indiscernible, his features indescribable, his visage unobservable. This was an BIG mistake. You must understand, most of these words mean “unable to be described by words”. But since ineffable and all the rest are descriptions in word form a vortex opened up from every full stop I’d added scattering me across a indescribable, featureless void.

Thankfully this grammatic void has free wifi and my feelings on it unformed. Yet I’m not getting any writing done here, so send help ASAP!