1. Pick out a scar you have, and explain how you got it.
It's a dog-flower shape on my right Achilles' tendon, caused by an over-heated bike silencer. In the beginning the dog used to bark but now it's been silenced.

2. What is on the walls in your room?
Hatshepsut. She is a lizard who kills mosquitoes for me. The lazy bitch sleeps through winter as if it's one long Christmas holiday.

3. What does your phone look like?
It's called American Idol, which is funny coz it doesn't sing. It's a silver camera phone that can reach places bigger, better and stronger cameras can't. I know what you're thinking, dirty pervs!

4. What music do you listen to?
Percussions. Any sound produced when hands strike on hollow surfaces. Must have been all the experience at school. I was an outstanding student. So outstanding that sometimes I had to take special permission to see what the classroom looked like.

5. What is your current desktop picture?
A biking picture from my Ladakh trip last year. The snows on the mountain-tops help me keep cool, especially when Hot… sorry… Hatshepsut has not been doing her job well.

6. What do you want more than anything right now?
Right now, I would like to bury myself inside a huge… a really huge… watermelon and then eat way out, like a worm.

7. Do you believe in gay marriage?
Of course… show me one person who doesn't. They're supposed to be happy occasions, aren't they?

8. What time were you born?
At the 11th hour. You can say I was a born procrastinator.

9. Are your parents still together?
Yes. I guess they're just too lazy.

10. What are you listening to?
And old, German rock-star who thinks she's singing the Mahamritunjaya.

11. Do you get scared of the dark?
No. I just think of how the blind must feel all the time and thank God for giving me eyes that work.

12. The last person to make you cry?
The elderly lady who came to my place for the census survey. First she asked me all sorts of personal questions and then she tried to fix me up with a niece of her cousin in Bhatinda. When I said no to her proposal, she wanted me to get her high school-failed son a job.

13. What is your favourite Cologne?
I think the other German city… Munich is my favourite. The beer's much better there.

14. What kind of hair/eye colour do you like on the opposite sex?
Blue hair and yellow eyes. I like my women sober and understated.

15. Do you like pain-killers?
Yes, very much. I mix them in water and give them to my plants. That way they don't have any growing pains.

16. Are you too shy to ask someone out?
No, I usually just show them the door. The rest they manage on their own.

17. Favorite pizza topping?
Coke. Especially when it's free with the pizza.

18. If you could eat anything right now, what would it be?
A horse, what else?

19. Who was the last person you made mad?
I think most of them were just born that way… or maybe I am too shy to take credit.

20. Is anyone in love with you?
My building's dog for sure. He's always running after me with his tongue hanging out.

This is a tag that Sweet Scout has arm-twisted me into taking. Please feel free to tag yourself if you like the sound of it.
And then just when I am about to shut the door I remember I have forgotten something inside. A piece of paper or something like that. Written. Or typed. Something important. I call out to the someone inside. Someone who I've just met and said goodbye to. I call out, "Can you please gimme that... I seem to have left it by your bedside". Bedside?

I remember suddenly that the someone I am calling out to can't leave his bedside. I can't remember why. Maybe, he's unwell. Or maybe, he's an invalid. And that is why I have paid him a visit. I am thinking all this yet not making any effort to go back and collect the piece of paper or that something important that I have left behind.

I am probably waiting for a confirmation from inside that the piece of paper or that something important that I think I have left behind has been actually left behind. There. Or at some previous place I have visited. Like the place I am coming from. Or the place where I live. I am expecting this someone, who is inside to call out to me and say something like, "It's not here," or "Come and get it". But instead at the door, where the doorbell is, suddenly appears a hand... just a hand... a hand holding a piece of paper. Or the something I had forgotten inside. A voice, belonging in all probability to the hand, calls out from inside asking, "Is this what you're looking for?"

And I am thinking, 'What a lazy motherfucker!' And then I think, 'No, it's more than just motherfucking laziness'. And then it hits me. The hand. And it being there at the door all by itself. And as it hits me, the hair at the back of my neck begin to rise.

An uneasy feeling of being watched from all sides by invisible eyes overcomes me. And an electric impulse coursing up from the base of my spine to my neck, forks into two and goes round and round my head telling me that I have been asking all the wrong questions. At the wrong places. And suddenly I decide to flee. Too scared to look back if the hand holding that piece of paper, or that something important, is coming after me.

And then sleep, that had come riding on soft sheep shoulders, flees like a gust of hot afternoon breeze leaving me in a sweat so cold I could freeze.
Some nights sleep comes counting, softly on a cloud of woolly sheep. And then the cloud bursts and turns into a nightmare, curing the sheep of their habitual innocence. These clouds have inside their cloud-centres thunder and lightening, which produce monstrous, transmogrifying storms of images and sound. Nightmares. These nightmares change everything. Change the habitual innocence of normal, everyday perception into something screamingly dark, horrible and paranoid.

This is the fear of awareness. Awareness of something bad and evil that has happened in the past, both individual and genetic, and will again somewhere in the future. This is also the fear of possibilities. Evil possibilities. The possibility of the good turning ugly. Of rancidity and sourness and fungification. Of dazzling star-bursts containing within them the devastation of a nuclear blast.
'Gimme back
my shape,'
the noodle moon
cried at the water;
the water
just smiled,
held its breath
and said,
'come get it'.
The camera is panning the living area of a biggish flat, taking in details of an L-shaped room… the grey terrazzo floor, the dog-bitten legs of a sofa chair. There's also a print of Munch's Scream on the wall screaming through the head of a tennis racquet hanging over it and a blue-green octopus scowling in the centre of the room from inside a fishbowl.

The late morning sun is entering the room as projector beams carrying in them dust motes, like phantom cables connecting the window to the door. The camera turns at the 'L', enters the kitchen and stops at an electric kettle that is whistling away, waiting to be rescued from the heat in its stomach. The camera zooms onto the stainless steel surface of the kettle and catches a glimpse of a man's wet-haired face.

He has just come out of the shower. He is young-looking, thin and long-haired. He is wearing a white towel around his waist. The camera moves behind him, framing him in the kitchen doorway in a slightly out-of-focus blur. From the back his movements suggest he is pouring himself some coffee from the kettle. As soon as he puts the kettle down, the doorbell rings. "Awffuck," the man says loudly.

As he absent-mindedly turns towards the door his hand hits the water-cooler. The mug falls from his hand and he lets out a painful yelp as the hot coffee splashes on his legs and feet. The mug slo-mos down, hits the floor and breaks into two. The bell rings again. This time it sounds very loud and urgent, like an echo of his scream.

The man lifts his legs, one by one, into the kitchen sink and opens the tap to pour water on his feet. He then limps his way to the door. When he reaches the door the bell stops ringing. The man says, "Awffuck," as his face contorts in a mixture of pain and anger.

He opens the chain lock and the latch and swings the door open as if ready to spray the landing with bullets. There is no one at the door. The camera takes his place at the door staring into the empty landing and then into the stair-well.

There is no one.

Terror takes hold of his face as he raises his arm to block an invisible attack. The door slams shut. The man's familiar scream rings out from behind the door. Darkness from the edges of the frame begins closing in on the keyhole from which is staring an eye.
Pic by Sahar ZSeeing is a way of looking. Searching for that moment in time and space that speaks to us. Says something other moments have never said. Or ever will. The eye is always looking for stimulation. Candy. Meaning in things. Moving things. Unmoving things. And those that once used to.

Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace

Remembering John and four years of Iraq



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As an art practitioner I work in a variety of mediums, what you see here are glimpses of my many creative projects. If you like or feel strongly something here please don't forget to comment



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