The Puppeteer

We have approximately one week to come to terms with the shadowy puppeteer, safetly tucked behind insipid eyes of curiousity, beating his decades-old drum and molding his gigantic private Idaho, exhaling the wasted fumes in his lungs and boldly proclaiming them hence as the communal spirit we exult ourselves in. On this magnificient landscape mad men do battle, flipping over discarded puppets as a sickle clashes with a thunderbolt beneath a starry night sky. Zombies suspend their own passivity and tune to newer frequencies of irrationality and vehemence, for they understand that the sweetened loaves and jars of honey will remain unexpired after seven days of tribulation. Certainly, no amount of controlled insanity can rip their roofs apart; there would be no tornadoes allowed. What a carnival of irreverence, what a tango of loons and dwarves, what a parade of oddities! The shadowy puppeteer smirks, for he is already looking forward to checkmating his tireless companion over a steaming cup of coffee, after the final self critique of his drama pens its way to a phyrric full-stop.

Sinai

Inferior to a snail staggering across the surface of a sphere, perpetuating an endless journey, I am tossed between the boundaries of an unfathomable higher dimension, all the while shackled by the impossible fetlock of time. And sorrowful desire. And a Saharian dryness in spirit. Pride can never quite be tamed, neither can the solid gestalt of cultural stereotypes be dissolved, no matter how I elect to plunge into some refreshing pool of alternative outlook. A firmly entrenched worldview shall always be the final victorious seductress, even more so as the fizzles of a previously roaring flame continue to mock their wretched possessor. Blindfolded by a veil of time, spat on the face by mockers, waylaid by vicious coyotes, all simultaneously dancing to the rhythm of acute spasms of longing in the heart. Who could deny the need to plunge face first onto the sands of Sinai, rip off the blindfold and cauterize away all those cataracts? And when I turn away to grab hold of a hand, will its soft wrinkles and creases soothe me till the very, very end?

The Greatest Existentialist

"Master", asked a disciple of the Rabbi, "What is the meaning of existence?". The Rabbi answered, "That is a beautiful question. Why trade it for an answer?"

A succint reply, perhaps even a subtle rebuttal, of the infernal question that has been a thorn in the flesh of numerous works of literary and philosophical excellence. The biblical book of Ecclesiastes, one of my personal favourites, starts off with a scathing denouncement of the meaning of life. Shelving aside the eventual twist in its conclusion, and switching philosophical alliances, we witness a somewhat ingenious reversal of subject-object relations in this vast wasteland of futility, when Zarathustra lamented to the sun, "O Great Star! Would you still be as brilliant, if you had not us to shine for?" Constant throughout these blabberings, however, is simply the desire to blabber in the first place. This, the Rabbi elegantly refutes. Sure, we all understand the ingrained compulsion to fulfil linguistic adjacency pairs, providing some form of 'answer' to every 'question' asked of us. But shall we project such petty compulsions blindly, even unto matters of unimaginable significance, such as the meaning of existence? How important it is to remember, that in the primordial soup of being, before any sound vibrated throughout the cosmos, there was only silence. Sadly thus, the discourses of our beloved existentialists fall prey to a vicious inference circularity - an uttered word demands further cognitive effort, perpetuating yet further meaninglessness. I herebly salute you, Rabbi, greatest existentialist that ever lived.

Reversed Ascension

Perish ever so slowly, serpent!
The flood of your juices captivate me
Passiveness is a creed I swear by
Though my sanctity sin evermore reduces

Judgement is but an entailment of righteousness
Wherefore lie the cheek-turners then?
Perhaps they soundly and securely thus
Feed out of the maggots of his hand

For no one's sake I forsook the world
The flip side to search and discover
Objectivity smiles at subjectivity
The truth is out there? I am not half as sure

You stumble and blabber, your authority swaggers

Beneath that cloak you conceal my only dagger
A thrust of the blade, may destiny decide
And dissolve the glories of he who hides

Sculptures

A remarkable feat it sure is, for some to reduce the locus of their drying affection and empathy until even the most innocuous birds flock away from the paths they tread upon. Have they, in the process of crafting beautiful sculptures of vanity-ridden esteem, also forgotten the bystanders silently hovering around the klin, uttering their own private prayers and scavenging for waste materials to manufacture their own sculptures? And how perfectly rational it seems, to reciprocate the heartless flinging of caustic clay into the eyes of the less fortunate! A misfortune it is, that they exhaust the essence of their spirit and compassion, perhaps when glossing over the ostentatious artefacts that symbolise their existence. A layer of paint fades away with the ravages of time, but a fine dosage of gloss ensures the longevity of their sculptures, to be sanctified on the altars of little temples. Had I a choice, I would gleefully elect out of my station, wash the clay away from my eyes, pick up a dusty broom and sweep around the corners of these false sanctuaries, never entering, never departing, just quietly sweeping my days away, with an occasional smile at the tiredness of it all.

A Divine Comedy

Apart from the superficial taunts, what exactly instigated Elisha to summon the deathly bears, in the name of his Jehovah? It had to be the same sentiment that motivated Bhairava, esteemed 'Lord of Terror', to claim one of Brahma's many heads with one slash of his knife. How do we rationalise and vindicate such divine ferocity? Lo and behold, before our puny intellect can gain a grip on the matter, we flip a few pages of our scriptures and discover the supreme amelioration. King David bathing in the radiant rays of love from his maker, Arjuna seeking refuge beneath the benevolent wings of Krishna, an altogether unrecognisable shift in the dynamics of their relationship. What to make of this? Have the immutable flipped a coin and donned the jester's hat? Has constancy breathed her last? It is during such moments that I wish to forfeit my status as homo sapien , and chew happily at a bone instead. From what I surmise, the supposed unthinkable infinity of creation encompasses not merely the physical realm, but that of the emotional as well, as amply fleshed out by the vast contrasts we have just discussed. And the total breadth and depth of our emotional experience occupies a laughable fraction of this panoramic range, with the consequence that we gasp like fools when we encounter these seemingly irrational vacillations. In the eyes of the divine, humanity's love and hatred are but infinitesimal rungs of a lofty ladder, drops of dew in a cosmic ocean, a whiff of fragrance in a celestial feast. Why then do our hearts bleed, our eyes tear along with the puerile whims of our adorations and abhorrences? What a realization, how bitterly ironic, that today is the first day of April. Fool, say no more! Roll your dice and remain a whore.