Spells like Spleen Spirit

I never learned how to arrange my face into that blank expression which makes you look like you belong there, anywhere, everywhere, even in the middle of a riot in Jakarta. Oh no. When I don't know what I'm doing , I look like I dont know what Im doing. When Im excited or nervous.And when Im lost , which is frequently , I look lost. My face is a transparent transmitter of my every thought.

The Wind Brews

As I suspected, I grow more and more inward than I am expected to. Home is living out of a suitcase, and life is only just reading and music. And I have a plan. Also, there is work. Tucked away is a sheaf of paper persons not even worthy of mention. And, some thrown away also. Fake and talkative. And yes, did I mention work? There is so much to do. So much to look forward to, and yet, so much to leave behind. So many to leave behind, in fact.

There was never an easier way to let go. Closure and work. The Formula, yes.

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-Nothing -Nothing at all -

His is one of those solemn situations where I decide to put into public view my thoughts on things without the fear of counter criticism. Without being brisk, isnt that the point of opinion anyway? John Rawls died responding to it, well, not exactly, two days post his decision to not do it. Makes one think about purpose of human existence, really. Even Sir Francis Drake for that matter, he did what he was born to do. Circumventing the earth on a boat (Or was it?) and to be the first one to do it is no jest. When one is too lachrymose to even mention what is bothering them, it isnt the sorrow really, it's lethargy. I was told that I should do exceptionally well, only to laugh at a few worms who value this intense garble of loqacious pretense. Here's another sunset down the toilet.

Moving on.

Jackson Pollock, I dont know if its just me, but I cannot fathom any artistic credibility in his work. The only thing that perhaps, I would attribute to his oeuvres is his novelty. I wouldnt be able to replicate those random strokes, nobody would. Americans, yeesh.

An art critic who came over to my house a few months ago, gave me a remarkable insight on how one happens to judge art, how strongly personal experience affects the way one even perceives it. It is very difficult to rid oneself of bias when it comes to giving an honest opinion. That one meeting really made me think about a lot of things that I wouldnt spare a thought to. American art, I feel is very opaque, dangerously bordering on insensitivity. Why, because if I place it in context to what Mr Chopra said to me, I would, in my naivity believe that Americans live in a stark denial of their past, as colonisers, murderers. A strange degenerate population, a society that has been surviving on its insularity, arrogance and self consumption to the extent that the rest of the world with its primitive problems seems negligible, a joke. Then again, Im sweeping an unfair generalization.


Now excuse me while I exhaust this joint under a moonlit sky whose vociefrous hues scream mine.