Totally Random Fucking Things
I so want to dub this one with a Lacan. I guess I have become a pornographer, Lol.
That sits well with my trajectory as a self-proclaimed artist. I will not be feeding YouTube , literary publishers et al. I have scrapped Punjabi poems, songs or writing projects from the public domain. I will still be working in Punjabi but not on those platforms. Whatever little I might do, will be here- in a private space. Enjoy the song and buckle up for more unhinged shytz. SourDog is almost there, now a matter of a few weeks. Expect it on kindle for a price, or free if we meet.
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Finished 15 draft panels for SourDog. Mustafa Ceceli was a good company.
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Thursdays
Two medium Cappuccino and one ‘on the house’, often a cocktail Backroad café is yet hesitant to offer to people for a price. Halfway through revising SourDog for the N’th time. Improvised the following.
”While most of my phobias vanished after I moved to Toronto, ones which survived- hit back with a vengeance. I cannot call them nightmares, as night is the only time when I feel home. “Cars and buses coming close to me then stopping” kind of shit happens in broad daylight.
In the old days I could jump into bushes and wait until they were gone. It’s a difficult trick to pull in Toronto, as there are not many bushes to be found. Fear has found a backdoor, as white cars and vans from my childhood have merged with my City-Transit. Now I have to stand still and wait for them to slow down, and stop for me. I bribe them first, so they let me slip-away anytime I wanted to. Even then; the thought of opening the door and jumping off the moving bus, has always been there. These beasts run with a peculiar limp on their well-laid tracks, and smell like diesel and burnt rubber. Why on the earth would a machine so nasty pull closer, and come to a halt?
{simplify}Machines can do anything they want, and get away with it. It would be naïve to think that we haven’t met these MECHAs. First, when we found a wheel, then the language and now- a judiciary. We go a long way back. And talking about the world; I am well aware of its clandestine ways.” {ADD | Ease later: There were no people but their stories. Stories of what happened to them, and what Zeitgeist ate them up}.
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Writing and singing Punjabi songs stopped making any sense a while ago. Writing anything in Punjabi makes no sense, leave alone a desire to publish it. But I got a cool Tattoo. Little things.
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ZettelKasten 4
Played around with form, setting the rhythm to chronological order than order of memory recall. It’s a different story, making a very different point, shifting focus from the meaning to Linear Timeline. A tough one, lovin’ the ride though. Tomorrow will diving into the text again to see, if it flows well within new structure.
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SourDog and the usual soup | 25th JAN 2025
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I will be writing on Substack and Medium | 27th Jan 2025
SourDog will make a debut on Medium and Substack before hitting the kindle. In the meantime, I will be busking it around in Toronto. Here’s the link to my medium page. You won’t miss anything if you live far away.
Find me on Medium.
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Three more Panels for SourDog and some Kaleo
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What’s In The Name Annie-way?
31st JAN 2025
Posted a quick read at Medium to see if it does any good. Here. Also looped Kill Alters. If don’t want to get dragged on the concrete, start at 29:10
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A Bird Sat on my Tongue
A SouDog sat on my tongue
I speak / what he tells me to
I can’t swallow it / it will kill both of us
some venom I swallow / the rest I spit out
everybody lives.
A bird sat on my tongue
I speak / what he tells me to
I can’t swallow it / it will kill both of us
some songs I sing / the rest I spit out
everybody lives.
A woman sat on my tongue
I speak / what she tells me to
I can’t swallow her / that will kill both of us
some love I swallow/ the rest I spit out
everybody lives.
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Finished SOURDOG| ADA Rook
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का से कहूं मोरी अली
Had this strange dream last night. I don’t know why I was there, but I believe I wanted to see Sirat and Mahi. I refused to look at her, keeping my sight grounded in a hover, avoiding her face, though I could tell she had blue hair and she meant well to her guest. My friends appeared from nowhere and inquired about my reluctance, to which my right handed responded with a butcher’s myoclonus. I cannot look at her, unless I am allowed to cut off her head. That’s what would take for me to mourn and love again. I didn’t get to perform my ritual.
Issue #1: How do you chop off a head, that has no body?
That is the paradox. Head represents identity or face through which I remember that person and what they meant to me, whereas a body can be remembered vaguely but not recreate an authentic experience pertaining to that particular person. To ask the removal of her head is to ask her out of my head, so I could miss that person and mourn, though my anger makes it very difficult for me to do so.
Issue #2: What about chopping off the head with blue hair?
I believe she’s still beautiful. I cannot imagine her any other way. I remember writing a poem on those lines a few days ago, and questioned myself what I meant by that.Plat Twist I
She lives in one of Alex Thomson’s ruin. A row of Greek columns connecting floors to the ceiling of her one room castle and as a guest, I am hosted on the left side of it. In the middle of the night, all walls start to crack and flood water starts to pour in. I run to the common area and yell, “We need towels, or we are going to drown”. She said If the water is already inside, then towels wouldn’t do any good. Climb the walls (they are like fifty feet high), find cervices. Break them open and there are beautiful mountains on top of these ruins. There is no flood there.. I climb the walls and crack open secret windows to the world she told me about. There indeed were beautiful green mounds above.Issue #3: Alex’s Minarets are inside-out paradoxical structures . Climbing out of them would be same as entering them, as they also crack open inside themselves like a dream. What are those green mounds?
The giant withering castle, Eh? If you’re Inside a structure, there’s got to be an outside as well. There’s always an outside, even if it as hostile as the inside itself. Then it is a possibility that such outside could have another outside. Move! All the cracks through which flood pours in turns into windows and doors, Go! There’s no flood outside but artistic expression of trauma via floating paper clouds with indecipherable text (stories) written on them. They haunt every new home I would find.
Issue #4: Fucking towels, really?
Okay, that’s really stupid but that also was my response to flood I had in my basement last year. Fucking denial, Lol!
Plat Twist II
There was no flood here but only graphics of heavy rain clouds crafted with cotton and sometimes with pencil drawings on paper. They fluidly enter any house like a blob, melt everything, make it water and move into the next dwelling. All of a sudden my cat appeared. She chased those clouds away, entered each house and threw out plastic bags out saying, “this has been the problem this whole time.. You have hoarded too much bad plastic.”
Issue #5: Plastic in my house is the problem?
I have no idea but I have a whole lot of plastic in my life. Fucking molten and turned into an empty envelope kind of stuff.
Take away what I’m attached to, and watch how much I care about the cosmic diarrhea, leave alone the organic and inorganic. A home with nothing in it. I often ask Leo for advice, so.
