Drenched in demented laughter

Cocooned in odd Happiness

I shall not miss you

because you will never leave

my box of curious memories

that I shall treasure

and guard with my life

I cannot miss you

because you have willed me a mad part of you

that you don’t even know of

a fragment of a crazy friendship

a glimpse of a talent

I shall not rue your going away

because some things do last forever

and they are good things

which I shall celebrate and toast

and I shall be happy for you

because when you return and return you will

we will be transported back to the land

where the laughter rings loud

and clear and true. 

and we will begin right where we left off

without skipping a beat

at the exact word where our last conversation

was left dangling.

Like old friends do.


Little Truths

Bianca day II mauri 067

Gris-Gris is well known for its sea cliff. This part of the island is not surrounded by coral reefs. Thick waves crash directly on the cliffs. The most spectacular part of Gris-gris is the “Roche Qui Pleure” where the constant squashing of waves against the flanks of the cliff gives the impression that the cliff is crying.



I see heads bobbing prettily all around me. 
Like hot air balloons that are tied to a string. 
Appearing carefree and floating and weightless
But they never really take off from the ground.
I see people fraternizing at communal festivities
Like dancers pirouetting rapturous on a stage
They seem graceful and blissful and euphoric
But it is a choreographed happiness.
I see humans flying all over a shrunken world
Like migratory birds with multiple entry visas
They appear unshackled and blithe and winged
But gravity pulls them down ever so often.
I see hands being held adoringly everyday
Like an inseparable bond between iron and magnet
They appear steadfast and enamored and devoted
But there is a deathly silent rust setting in. 
I see friendships being discovered in a second
Like glittering diamonds in a coal mine
And they are feted and treasured and coveted
Though the market is flooded with fakes. 
I see life going past in the slow motion of a movie
Like a lethargic snail counting little paces
It is plodding and dawdling and sluggish
Yet surprisingly it is over before you have even begun.


Conversation 6 – Of Dancing


The Singing Butler is an oil-on-canvas painting made by Scottish artist Jack Vettriano in 1992. Vettriano has described the painting as an “uplifting fantasy”. The Singing Butler has been criticised for its uneven finishing, inconsistent lighting and treatment of wind, and for the odd position of the dancers. His work has been widely criticised by art critics, but is popular with the public.

Do you dance?
No. I don’t and I think people who do are infinitely stupid.
Really? Why?
Why would any sane person jump around expending energy for no reason?
You think people dance for no reason?
You don’t?
I think most people dance for a reason. It may not be a good one but there is usually one.
Like what?
We dance to express vanity. Or happiness. Or sadness. Or togetherness. Infinite things. Intangible things. Of course there is the argument that why should dance or for that matter – everything have a purpose ? But that is for another conversation.
But why is there such a need to express our feelings? Why can’t we just hold what we feel inside of us? Why do we need a dance floor and a tattooed DJ to tell us how to shake our remixed feelings to a pilfered tune?
Because how can a human not express himself? He just has to. Otherwise he would suffocate and die.
He would? And do we not suffocate and die anyway sometimes even after we have expressed all we have to?
Not if we find the right someone to express it to.
And you flatter yourself that you are the right someone?
Do you feel a bit better or a bit worse after this debate?
I suppose better. But what if I said worse? Would that be bad?
Not as much as if you had said neither.