bluesputnik


The Madness of Nietzsche
November 1, 2009, 4:40 am
Filed under: poignant strokes | Tags: , ,

“It is the chaos in your soul that gives birth to a dancing star.”

Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche was a German philosopher, a philologist with a devout hausfrau for a father, and a staunch disbeliever in Christianity who wrote startlingly brave and anti-establishment works using contradictory metaphors and aphorisms to thrust his philosophies into the unthinking minds of the society. “It is the chaos in your soul that gives birth to a dancing star” is a clear depiction of the madness of Nietzsche.

Chaos. It is a beautiful word. In my mind, this unassumingly powerful word spawns images of a lethal biochemical experiment gone dangerously wrong; the darkest of demons devouring the dreams of demigods; intellectual debates amongst emaciated and unwanted old men on the “evil of goodness and the goodness of evil”; love in the time of the Armenian genocide; the war between gods and goddesses. Chaos – the conflict between the wrong that feels right and the right that feels wrong.

It is the chaos in your soul that gives birth to a dancing star but it is the strangling of freedom that gives birth to the chaos in your soul. Freedom is a sweet thing but absolute freedom is the sweetest, the most unadulterated thing of them all. When absolute freedom is tugged at the leash, then the first sparks of the blazing conflagration of chaos is ignited but when freedom – just freedom with all its many tubes plugged onto the body as if it is on life support (and indeed, what is a life without freedom?) – is strangled, then chaos is unleashed.

History is strewn with men and women who have had their right to freedom – the freedom to practice, preach or profess any religion; the freedom of speech and expression; the freedom to be whoever they wished to be – chained to an iron ball. While that precious prerogative of mankind struggled to free itself of its chains, slowly but determinedly, the hemlock of hatred and the venom of vengeance filled their veins until their bodies could take the overwhelming passion of poison no more. Thus, chaos ripped apart the body of its breeder and manifested itself in the dancing stars – the artistically and intellectually non-conformist works of the breeder which earned him or her bread and bagel.

Nietzsche is one such neurotic genius who gave birth to a “dancing star” – Thus Spake Zarathustra. “God is dead.” The finality of those words, in an era where the zeitgeist was Christian fundamentalism, sent a shudder throughout the religious circles for they felt that it annihilated their very existence. What Nietzsche meant by this was that the world needed to stop taking religion as the reason behind and the answer to everything. Their angst further augmented, religious fanatics condemned Nietzsche to hell for his brilliant philosophies on existentialism and postmodernism, all of which were alien to their opium-clouded minds, for in that era, religion was the opiate of the masses. At this curse, I can only imagine an unshaven and haggard Nietzsche bellowing with laughter for to him, there was no such thing as hell. He also dared to say that there is only one true Christian in this world but unfortunately, he died on the cross a long, long time ago. Piteous, indeed.

What led this progressive-thinking philosopher to write about what he did was the chaos in his soul. Living in a tightly-bound Christian society and being brought up by pious female relatives, Nietzsche was thirsty for differences in opinion; for the freedom to not conform to everyone’s way of thinking; for the right to think like an individual and not what political diktats coerce you into thinking. He was aware that these simple joys would not be granted to him easily so he went against the whole godforsaken (pun intended) system which resulted in brilliant philosophical masterpieces. Today, Friedrich Nietzsche is a hero for many free-thinking individuals throughout the world who feed the chaos in their souls with his philosophies, thus, giving birth to a constellation of dancing stars embedded in the night skies of non-conformity.

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chaos of colours

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Sunday morning
August 28, 2009, 10:25 am
Filed under: motion in poetry | Tags: , , , , , ,

Clock screams
Red eyes gleam
Migraine sears
Rent fears.

Trash tabloids
Cereal meteoroids
Happiness steroids
Smiling androids.

Jogger’s park
Sun bask
Last night’s fuck
Slam dunk.

Idle minds
Daylight crimes
Brethren dies
God cries.

Digital scribbles
Family squabbles
Poodle sniffles
Sky drizzles.

Sunday morning.

surrealism

surrealism



The Beauty of Assymetry
August 28, 2009, 10:18 am
Filed under: motion in poetry | Tags: , , , , ,

Ferris wheels
In the sky,
Caravans
In the sea.

Masquerades,
In basements,
Sodomy,
In terraces.

Friends,
In graves,
Foes,
In spas.

Lovers,
In dungeons,
Haters,
In islets.

Gods,
In urns,
Devils,
In bedrooms.

You,
In my head.
Me,
In your skin.

puppet models: assymetry

puppet models: assymetry



The Other Side of Dharavi
August 28, 2009, 9:19 am
Filed under: poignant strokes | Tags: , ,

Dha-ra-vi. The very utterance of these three syllables draws a putrid picture in the minds of foreigners who are not very familiar with these polluted miles that stretch on and on. The image that perfunctorily paints itself in our minds, in black charcoal and cheap chalk, is that of ramshackle tin-roofed huts; of mutated flies flittering over human faeces; of butchers mercilessly hacking bleating stray goats; of the acrid stench of diabetic urine and of thick swirls of black smoke arising from the blacksmith’s chimney. This is Dharavi – a rabbit’s warren of poverty in the undiscerning eyes of our minds. However, in the eyes of the dwellers of Dharavi, it is a different story altogether.

In the wee hours of the morning, a young woman offers sweet-smelling flowers to a frayed poster of the Destructor, Lord Shiva. She saves one dewy white bud for her little sister, Nisha, to wear to school. After the morning prayers, the young woman, clad in a dirty-white saree with torn edges, rushes off to help her elderly neighbour repair his hut. Nisha wears the bud in her well-oiled plaited hair and sets off to school, dressed in a patchwork skirt of various rainbow hues. At school, her classmates talk animatedly with Nisha but they fall silent when the unqualified but learned Miss Francesca begins to teach them a new English greeting- “Thank you”.

After spending four hours in the single-roomed building with crumbling walls, Nisha feeds bits of her lunch, stale bread and a swipe of rancid butter, to the stray dogs, whilst commuting back home to her cancerous father. On reaching her mud hut, Nisha takes the homemade medicine to her ailing father whose face lightens up when the apple of his eye enters the sordid sick-room. After sweeping the hut, Nisha keeps her promise to her late mother and memorizes multiplication tables under candlelight. Before curling up under a thin sheet, Nisha prays for happiness all around her, and with a content smile on her sleeping face, she dreams of her angelic mother who lives among the stars.

To you and me, Dharavi may be Asia’s largest slum but to him, and her, and them, Dharavi is Asia’s largest home. It is the only place in the world which has opened arms for them…

children playing happily amidst filth

children playing happily amidst filth