...and every of his written literary thought!

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

Mortifying Mona Lisa i. Flattery dripping flirt


 excerpts

‘Many times I have found myself on the Road to Damascus; many times I have been struck down and changed by the miraculous voice.’ In the beginning were those words. Those words were with my Facebook Profile. Those words were my Status Update.

Those words became my sentence, and ensnared me into a quest in a literary Damascus only to be struck down many a time like Paul, but unlike the Good old Roman bachelor, a romantic escapade was the reason why I was criss-crossing this lonely stretch. The expedition was as melodramatic as my update that day—if you had cared to notice—but with scandals overtaking me, announcing me a public enemy—to be despised by the majority—one of the few times in my life when I became fleetingly important for this to happen to me.

Since I juggle with words, many a doubting Thomas would put their best foot forward that my stories are only sophisticated scheme of saying something simple, that fiction is a distraction in which writers obscure their semantics under artillery of words. At this, let’s quite gladly impose a short-term curfew of disbelief that amounts to pedestrian loyalty. Just suspend for a moment your poetic faith for you don’t need a miraculous voice to stop hunting with cupid arrows—or in my case, haunted—if a story would do the same trick.

why i hate women...

Words from lips of flattery plotted successfully and I was undone; words beguiled a man who had summed up and assessed the civilisation of centuries in his mind. A man who discerns that all pretty girls were a trap, a pretty trap, and admonished other men to expect them to be. I never suspected their laid snare until it was too late and I was deep inside their disposable WC. They knew I hated all their lot. It was obvious from reading my countless stories that I hated the female characters instinctively and detested them by intuition. My leading bigotries and chauvinist heroes that I fashioned in my stories frequently intimated to the ‘weaker sex’ the remarkable rebuffs in the poetry of Jesus; ‘woman, what have I to do with thee?’ and disparaged them impetuously at every prospect, reflecting that possibly even God Himself hadn’t been pleased with the meticulous bit of labour!

You get a lucid impression from Van Gogh’s painting of that child made twelve times unclean. Or from Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa’s bald-faced plastic smile. For me, she lured and ensnared the first man and still carry on her spellbinding craft—a pathetic mortal, treacherous, strangely disconcerting. What more? Her demonic fecund body camouflages a hollow ambushing soul. In my estimation, God must have created her only to coax man and entice him. That’s why man had no better option in safeguarding himself but advance her with stealthy vigilance—if he were constantly terrified of surprise attacks.

Her body is, in fact, even created like a trap, what with her arms unmitigated and her lips parted for man? I am lenient only to old grandmothers, made innocuous by their invariable retiring senility and burdened incessantly by constant childbirths and childrearing. But still watch out because I am aware that, within their hearts, are humbled serpents reclining in the rock bottom of their abashed bodies—those tigresses so docile—is that eternal yearning in my mother, my sister or my aunt, which still blush sexually for me even if we are related by blood like Oedipus to her mother. I feel it in their alluring gaze—ever present innuendo in their eye than that of my father, my brother or my uncle—and that makes my blood boil because it is still woman’s love, carnal love. I experience it—this depraved craving—even in their submissiveness, in the charm of their chatty-chatty mouths, in their inferior eyes, and in their crocodile tears when I repulse them boorishly.

But when it comes to flattery and smooth talk, the most shrewd of men are the most easily betrayed, and anyone can be swayed to gulp down anything, even if it’s incongruous and outrageous, as long as it is flavoured with acclamation. Such experience may scratch one’s honour, but if one has need of people, one must be diplomatically immunised to have room for them, and if there’s no way of attaining support, well, then, the irresponsibility lies more with the flatterers than with those who want to be flattered. I think that is the only way I can explain and justify how I—an assorted, extensively read, urbane academic, who had nurtured and cultivated his brains with many philosophical droppings—could find myself beguiled by these self-same lesser creatures of romance and poetry. Listen to the wisdom of Mephiphosteles;

“I am woman,
I am spirit,
I am me.
I am the scapegoat for society.
I am the flesh for the vulture,
That devours the death of my culture.
I am the darkness that embraces the night.
I am the nightmare that brings you fright.
I am the gypsy upon life’s path.
I am the cauldron to men’s wrath.
I am the roar of the ocean’s tide.
I am the poet with pride.
I am the passion of a burning fire.
I am the whore you desire.
I am this and so much more.
I am a divine creation at eternity’s shore.”


She became society’s scapegoat for her lead-supporting role in reducing man to rubble, and not a guiltless one, but a villain ornately worthy of any misery man decided subsequently to upload to her. That is the image deeply embedded in my edifying worldview, and so to imagine her as anything less than a devil is above all impudent—especially in the jaws of the one who holds the female sex in disdain.

I have rebuked my heart about the pretty trap, but it will not pay attention. I have squabbled with my heartbeat, but I am trampled in every other argument for love is unreasonable; I think mine is wedged in some blind organ below my neck—and with a head—without a brain, too. That’s why I deal with my hydraulic temptations by yielding to them. I will never understand the words of my grandfather when he wondered aloud at my cousin’s beautiful face: ‘Look at you’ he had quipped, ‘such a precious little thing! You are going to break a whole lot of hearts.’

but still find time to flirt....

The next day I found myself Facebook-chatting with her. ‘You are so absurd and strange, you know. Your writing style is a cocktail of crazy and wild ideas.’ She prodded.

‘Perhaps I am, but so are you. For that matter, everything is absurd and meaningless. Life, human beings, women especially and everything, is just froth spewing about in the stream until it sinks and sinks—down and down into an endless sea of dreadful depression.’

‘May be. So, about our unfinished Damascus business, a kiss is in order!’

‘Depends with where you wish me to plant my lips.’ Said I.

‘You may want to start with my hand first.’

‘Okay dokay, I warn you though, I’ll not be responsible for my actions.’

‘Why?’

‘Why? Are you still a babe at twenty-five? Are you familiar that it’s risky to play with fire?’

‘Not for me. I have full insurance cover.’

‘No, your heart can’t be fire-proof. And even if you were, my tepid squeeze here that can still kindle a flame.’

‘Have you been in love?’

‘Well, don’t put it like that, but I’ve passed by quite a few girls. Occasionally, I became dumbstruck when my gaze fell upon one lass. Dumbstruck, I mean, like those fairy princes in the English Castles that couldn’t eat nor drink for love.’

‘Who was this lass?’

I typed ‘WTF**’, but hesitated to press the ENTER button, ‘If you are dazzled by a woman,’ I wanted to write, ‘try to gain her; but if that is not viable, well, don’t hassle, drop her. A forest is not made of up of only one tree!’

‘Who was she?’ she persisted when she sensed my dilly-dallied answer. I deleted ‘WTF’, instead wrote ‘You can’t force me to tell you’, and pressed the button.

‘I inquire as an equal, I ask as a friend. Who was she?’

‘My cousin. ; -)’

‘How strange. :P’
............***.........

**end of the first journey.

2 comments:

  1. Hmmm...stressfree & reader-friendly....a delicacy to all residents & passersby....engaging with sweet scented spices of humour....I love it!

    ReplyDelete
  2. motivating words for a travelling soul longing for a break in this ya tiresome sojourn. thanks buddy.

    ReplyDelete

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