Help me make it through the night

“Come and lay down by my side
Till the early morning light
All am taking is your time.
Help me make it through the night.”
– Kris Kristofferson

Night is a state of mind.

Like an emotion that gently blankets the soul and leaves the hapless stranded midst muddy days and lonely nights. The daylight hours distract. They take away attention from the obvious…that we will end up alone on our backs in the dark watching the fan blades dance lazily in the hot humid air to the buzzing sound of mosquitoes, someone snoring or croaking of frogs. But then does it really matter when thoughts are the subterfuge in the merry go round of existence?

The doleful, melancholic and syrupy song of Help me make it through the Night reflects the pack instinct that resides in each of us. Afraid to be alone. To curl up foetus like on a double bed distraught with “aloneness”. Why does this mean so much to so many of us. To feel a warm pulsating body…to cling to…to share…is it the ‘back to the womb syndrome’? Or is it merely a sense of wanting to belong… to be wanted…afraid of dying alone.

The string of everyday gymnastics seem to wind up that dynamo that spurs us on to believing that the next day would be better, more fruitful and maybe profitable. Usually it is just another day followed by just another night. The cycle continues. And madness takes hold and makes sense out of all this.

I believed once that the world would change into a better place, a place where one could frolic in fantasy and nestle in the creases of karma, an accepted proven formula for all things bright and beautiful. Years on the belief has changed to one of exhausted illusions, with the word ‘love’ run threadbare.

New generations rise and fall like the tide of a river, while eddies are the brief moments of ecstasy set to befuddle even the most astute of us.

When the sun sets on yet another day to the raucous refrain of ducks wading through a rice field, I contemplate the meaning of living and end up coming to naught, which in essence is the Universe.

Everything exists in the zero.

Like echoes of sadness that always resonate in the dark.

And as these thoughts take flight into the land of Nod, I patiently wait my turn to die.

For what is life when there so much to die for?

Om Shanti Shanti Shanti Om

Pineapple upside down cake and caresses in the kitchen

(This is not pineapple upside down cake…its been eaten.).

He still tastes it after all these years trampling across life as a hobo believing that all good things remain forever.  Her name is irrelevant. But she did make a great pineapple upside down cake.

The story goes that on a day when biorhythms seemed to be in tune with the self, he chanced upon a slice of cake lying unattended on a kitchen table like the forbidden apple tree in Eden. The path of least resistance led straight to the plate and then moments later the vision became a sweet memory, of course the after taste lingering like the tingling feeling of emptying one’s passion into another.

But the intruder paid the price of beginning to love the cook. Wet hands and oil stains mingling with the aroma of sweat and spices. Colours of turmeric and shades of saffron played across their bodies… two psychedelic concocters conducting an opera of whims and fancies sautéed by passion and a dash of Heinz tomato ketchup.

Yes…yes…those were the days of wine and poses…of sudden clutching and kissing while washing the dishes or wiping the plates. The tell tale signs of broken crockery and bent spoons only gave rise to more nocturnal thoughts resulting in actions that personified mindless sharing…there were no boundaries except when it came to the pineapple upside down cake…it stopped here. The image of it lying unattended then became a sepia print of all that existed in their universe. Ennui opened the sluice gates of their lives and it was over just as soon as the cake was baked and eaten ad nausea.

Rancidness, envy and possessiveness overwhelmed the two to the tipping point of anger and hate. The crumbs of the cake dried up and were carried away by the tiny critters who had been witness to floorshows in the kitchen… Often stamped upon, sat upon or slept upon. Now they carted trophies of diluted lust to another corner of the kitchen that was their home.

Often they would see him enter the kitchen fidgeting nervously and looking around to see it anyone was there…then walk away with drooping shoulders and a sigh. Her panacea had lost its bite. Now the pineapple upside down cake resembled the futility of lust and like fairies existed only in the realms of a fertile mind.

What is hope or love or passion or possession…nothing more than a brief encounter in a dream and then lost forever in the drabness of daily life soaked in tepid emotions.

And as the sun sets across the yellowing rice fields he takes a deep breath and sniffs the air as if to chance upon another enticing pastry…and he stands there as dusk falls…waiting.

Is there anyone out there?

This is not about love, not about broken hearts or sad dreams. It’s about forbidden thoughts. Of fornicating frogs in the rainy season and doves that copulate round the clock i.e. they would if the sun shone through the night. It’s about discarding the sense of belonging to a place, person, loving a person.

People suck your energy. They want to learn. And when satiated leave you naked – standing on the road like a beggar. Then they go away.

Truth is an imposter, a prostitute, and one that sells itself to the highest bidder. Rome’owed what Juli’ate. Or vice versa… .

Life is for living; Death is for the ugly, and purgatory for the scribes.

The journey of the last five years has been one of solitary confinement amidst rampaging social enigmas. Colour-blind images of extremities touched up by a pen and displayed in groups of words juxtapositioned between foolhardy actions that have precipitated reflux.

Banality is good. It has an enchanting emptiness. A reassuring feel to it that coats dull minds and nurtures a comforting sense of mediocrity that keeps one cocooned in self-induced dreams of a happy life.

Someone once said that paradise is always somewhere else. Good idea, bad thought for it attempts to convince one that paradise exists when it doesn’t.

On the road for so long has brought about a deep feeling of being alone…not physically but mentally. Alone or exclusive, who’s to say? Whatever may be the formula for life one thing is certain; humans are like dogs…pack animals. They need the power of the pack, the hierarchy and the silly sideshows of politicking. It gives them a purpose, a direction, something to work for and to.

If religion is the opium of the masses then love is like ice cream, sweet, cold and melting on the tongue; the sensation lasts but a short while then ennui and lies take over.

Why love, why belong and why betray? Can’t existence be a process that navigates the thin lines of supposed morality: Sharing knowledge, sharing human desires, sharing unspoken intimacy and then walking away free of encumbrances?

It is when we essay to possess is when rumbles begin in the jungle. The natural order of things gets disturbed. The world becomes smaller, contracted and like a dead star ready to implode.

Is there anyone out there?

Or, am I alone…a dweller on the threshold.