Cloudbursts on the front lines

From on aloft, King David espied Bathsheba bathing in her courtyard.

He had her brought into his presence; entering… 
into her scented precincts — ensuing a pregnant tussock.

Summoned he Uriah come home, wash his feet — attend to Bathsheba.

A consideration then by the King one might think? 

An anachronism today, but then, contact between the two however brief

would surely have shrouded the nature developing in the sprouting womb.

To hide the mushrooming pregnancy… that was the brief!

Steadfastly refused Uriah, the Kings command — attend to Bathsheba.

A Hittite beholden to Deuteronomy; in essence renege your command, 
to smite "anything that breathes,” those teaching “you to follow all, 
the detestable things they do in worshiping their gods.” 
Towards this obedience; in the pains of battle all coital relations shunned. 

There would be no washing of feet, the carnal would be spurned. 

King David not immune to this understanding; dispatched he —  
into battle Uriah, ordering Joab, commander and kingmaker rolled in one: 

ensconce him at the front — have his men move away; let him perish!

Thus was killed Uriah, whose name means: 

God is my Light; one of King David’s mighty men!

And Nathan the prophet said it as it was:  An abomination — 

he decried, pointing at David leaving nothing unsaid…

Absalom insurrected.

Coming down to today, we have King Davids acolytes… morphed 

into his erstwhile enemies, the Ammonites. Even the marrow shudders!

And one has made it to the front, or was it that the front moved behind 

or is it that, the front is the pasture where the wolf seeks the lamb? 

Yet there is no barbed wire. But food must make it to the table. 

Before one knew it, one turned itinerant.

An itinerancy of a nature much like illiteracy, the denial of movement, 
tongue, be-ing, humanity: a state of being where titles mean little, 
the earnings even less. But food is now on the table. 
A repast in lieu of past deprivation? That deserves thanks and praise!? 

On the front, smitten by cloudbursts of deceits… 

a fakery of cooing, a consummate dispassion extracting labor,  

rolling eyes, soft shoe shuffling, bodies packed in two sizes too small.  

And pain is all around. We maintain politesse! 

There is no discernible ball and chain. Yet we surrender to the treachery.

Is there a Nathan now, other than that faint namesake for hamburgers! 

Who sheds light? Will things pass? Will they overrun my being?

Now pain livens up my being. How is this possible? The front is cold;

warm those ensconced in the knowledge of conceits: pain embraces.

Christ resurrected on day three. Is there hope through his becoming man?

Something does not add up!

Is it all about garnering compliments? Lets work through some of it… Buy Lucchese boots, and you get compliments. Buy Denim Demon jeans — get complimented! Wooh! Show your art to those same who happen to be in the business of “discerning,” and you do not get complimented. But rest assured, they know where you stand.

Well, something about my work snuffed the words right in their throats. A combustion, and spontaneous too?! For that matter any mention about something even a tad exotic as say horse sashimi (basashi), and eyes roll. The cool boys and girls will have none of that either. Its not cool if they have not embraced it. Its not cool if its too cool for them. When they do anoint something as IT, perhaps you are simply supposed to get in line and be happy that what you do, what you know, or even how and what you draw happens to be in the way defined as cool by these voracious cognoscenti. Yeah, the Way of Cool. Cool-dou (and vying in my head with Shodo (Way of Writing), and other peerless Japanese ways. Some happiness, hanh?!

Move on baby. Its not personal. Its simply a bit of the asinine, or in Indian terms the vulpine.

So was gibt?: of cock horses and knaves

Unpublished pro bono piece. The title
which goes with the original text also
inadvertently fits this blog post of mine!

My life interestingly has encountered its share of prima donnas and primo uomos, neither of whom are inclined towards anything remotely operatic, but yet they deliver their diktat and knavery arias with a mien worthy of hyenas. 

They never seem to get the point, nor truly wish to, and are hardly inclined to making anything easier for those outside of themselves and their cliques. 

They charge on their cock horses, itinerant scarecrows, roosters and hens of the walk and killjoys, who even proverbially could not dance on pointe in the dank catacombs of their minds — or anything remotely close to an extrapolated analogy of the same. That much one may be sure. But your existence is fair game to these dastards (what better time to seek an English word stemming from Old Norse: dæstr). These are truly knaves (no feminine form really). 

Makes me wonder in German so was gibt? What gives? “So what else? or what's up? or even what more?” What more!?

On the difficulties to converse in ones Mai bhas (in Konkani: mother tongue)

Aagurs (in Kashmiri: sources).  For HIMAL Southasian, Kathmandu
Nepal.Scripts depicted are Takri (top left), Sarada (bottom-horizontal),
Kashmiri (a) [no longer in use], top right, Arabic (for Urdu) and Roman. 

Language and language retention causes a lot of anguish among those who believe (rightly too, I believe) that the inability to converse in ones mother tongue alters our makeup, renders us inadequate as bearers of a given culture; and that we often tend to lose out proportional and even more to what we gain by speaking in a dominant language like English, unless of course the attempt to transition is complex and relatively complete. 

So, It could be seen as a collapse of memory. Moving on… and I must add, that these thoughts stemmed from a conversation/ discussion on the language Konkani (which is my mother tongue) taking place on Goanet .

In modernity being polite has its charms, besides its good procedural practice. Hence we often hear that such and such conducted themselves as a gentleman, although the discussion had its upheavals. Many discussions and the quality of argumentation have nothing to do with being a gentleman, or possessing gentlemanly values, unless one means it as an euphemism for “deficient” (Konkani, unno (as in less/deficiency, not undo (bread!). Forgetting Konkani should not normally bring to mind as a matter of course—those who speak English with any distinct Indian flavor, since there are also those who speak exquisite English, and write even better although they do not speak the mai bhas. And I do not have to showcase them. They are in our midst. 

The aggravation when it spills over, on account of somebodies lack of Konkani chops, says something about us. At the end of the day all families construct themselves in ways they see fit, even if that shaping may appear unfit (in/to our eyes). It is when we lash out, or are absolutely nonchalant—that we have a choice to not engage, engage less, move on, or maintain the possibility of effecting some manner of change/ engagement. 

I had one of ours tell me that he regrets not being able to converse in Konkani. That's fine, yet why so, considering that among many things obvious, this being also has the resources to set things right. But such possibilities do not gel with their modernism. Oslem unneaponn (Such lack / Such poverty [of mind, of being]). On the other hand it could be a feint, as one ramps up ones ability in Konkani. Other than a small anecdote, it matters not. It would have mattered if I said, “this ass,” but then… 

+ + 

My mother would exhort/ encourage us to speak in English, not in Hindi. She was not wrong in a way, but WRONG in that — being a part of India, and having neighbors, folks from UP, Lucknow, Allahabad, almost all rank and file as us, we had to relate to them beyond Level 101, not merely inquire, sab theek hai (from Hindi: Is all ok?). Hanh (Yes,… and a few more words). But her aspiration for us may have been what she saw "was possible" with certain tools, one of them being English. This woman as a child had been pulled out of school when my grandmother got partially paralyzed; she did not wish to get married; and when she did so it was in Bombaim (Mumbai). So, her view must have got shaped as revealed through these few significant touchstones. We encouraged her to speak to us in whatever Portuguese she knew but then, it was not to be. We had no pretensions that Mother knew a lot of Portuguese, since she had shared that she did not. But I had seen her do a lot with what her ability was in that language. For me, it will happen sooner than later sometime in the near future.

Furthermore, is it only I who wondered/ wonders whether other parents did not say something similar to my mother, to their children — considering not having encountered such sharing. On Goanet for the longest time its been something on the lines of: My mother encouraged us to speak Konkani. NEVER: I was discouraged to speak in Braj/ Magadhi, or say Konkani! (a joke of course, but better to make it obvious). Perhaps I may be presumptuous enough to say that relatively educated parents know/ knew the winds better, and made sure that in not putting out less flattering thoughts — that certain reminiscences would not show up in ones wards autobiography. But I cannot wait for better paper to be manufactured. 

Wondering what Hindu parents said to theirs, could be a worth a cup of tea. 

But besides all the Konkani, or whatever—not much seems to have helped our own, in basic terms—civility, and the like. 

The manner in which we emote, and that taken over time says/ tells a thing or too. The operative phrase here being “over time”. Now I could write the same in Konkani and prove our Resident prescriptivist (NONE of you who have contributed to this conversation/ discussion on Goanet thus far) wrong, but that would mean me having to work OT = overtime.

Um dos otros.

Windows and falling stones

Vigilant Eye

A swarm of projectiles arching across still skies knifed with wispy streaks of crimson, hurtling from shadowed otoshis* set on high enclaves, on a metropolis inked in an indigo of senseless motions — mirage of uncertainty; yet its own reality, whose afflictions it attempts to survive through a solid geometry of shodo rhythms: firmly imprinting marks on the fate inherited from the patriarchs and patrimony of advanced capitalism. 

* ishi otoshi 石落し(stone throwing windows)

I wrote this small text in 2005 when I was at the Nagasawa Art Park Artist-in-in-Resident program, in Awajishima, Japan. The year before, in 2004 Cecilia and I encountered the Hakamagoshi – 袴腰型 at Himeji castle (姫路城, Himeji-jō). My concerns for the longest time have been about religion, sexuality and consciousness — of course situated as we all are within a capitalist mode of existence. These brief reflections will someday make it into a design book.

a pliant reality…

More often than not in the pliant realities we exist within — the new normal is to be the lookout, archer, pike man, clog maker, moat cleaner, gravedigger, engraver, and altar-candle lighter.

Politics of Opportunity, Opportunism, or Opprobrium

Indeed, a false choice is no choice at all. One may chose from options though. Basically in talking about/ within Modernity, and how one rejects certain pasts, near pasts, and even the yesterday, to make a viable today — one is formulating or offering options. In their application — in that  process of transaction, many lose. But we see our gains, or if in a more egalitarian sense, someone else' gain — as the best possible; given circumstances known and affirmed by us.  

Often it also helps to simply state things without the back and forth. But we all have our own reasons and styles of approaching ideas. Lets call this: a Politics of Opportunity. 

Moving on...

Here are parallel examples that involve me, and are situated within the Politics of Opportunism (or, [Casting a net for] an ace in the hole). 

Some years ago I got into a argument on the notion of Labor of Love. It had to do with being invited to be part of a project billed as such. Having eschewed advertising design by NOT serving as an Art Director, and having made the choice to work in Production (a better financial slap to self there could not be) but still in an agency (no options considering illnesses, supporting people, family, etc); I pointed out that the endeavor should not be seen as such; that I would be happy to be a part of it; albeit knowing well that I would be hampered by a tiny budget and the agony of dealing with design decisions by committee. Their unvoiced motivations were: about creating some movement for themselves, have a voice, identity, and certainly a line on their resumes. I would rather they had plainly said: vjp you have certain skills and we would appreciate your talking an interest in our project; be a part of it. But no! It rarely works that way.

Having lived and breathed Labor 'o' Love since I was about 14 years old, I had no patience to hear anyone tell me what was, let alone allude to what made any given endeavor — a Labor of Love. In any case, over the years I had also been working on design organs for different South Asian groups, protests, events on various Social Issues, and always pro bono. In the process aiding quite a few South Asians in getting a grip on what they thought they knew in the bag of waters they floated in; while also putting up with their smugness. Basically, my experiences were concrete.

So what can happen, really happen. A lot… Does it hurt? More like, it creates confusion and takes time to bounce back. 

My work was seen as that of a weak designer, by various gatekeepers. Why? They simply did not want to see that those Socially conscious projects were created under duress, low budgets, horrific deadlines. Neither were they moved by anything that did not flatter their minds. Instead of celebrating, they maligned, and never cared to see if I had done anything else. In one case one did not even wish to retract anything even when confronted by a mutual friend who is not someone to be trifled with. Ergo, they labelled me a poor designer. 

They had become the kind of moderns, losing touch with why one does certain things and the meanings those projects may contain for others beyond the being of the artist/ designer. They could not see the human and cognitive element in our sadhana. Its all about culture for them, which does not take much work beyond pfaffing. Some of them are back in India. 

The same happened with individuals who had the nerve to approach me for design projects, give comments, share opinions, even artworks etc. In almost all these cases there was hardly, or never a closure. A closure in terms of: a. Hey guy (leave alone, Dear Venantius; that may be too much, or even too formal for our fun-loving Goans), (a) sorry to say it did not work out. (b) It was good to have you work on it though. (c) Thanks for sharing bro. Here, I am not talking of mundane and trivial make believe, but true experiences!

Their resources and resource focus is phenomenal; but they have embraced a dog eat dog modernity. Now, am I indulging in a Politics of Opprobrium! Not at all. This reminds me of: Not even cannibals eat their own. 

It takes great courage to say certain things, and its hard. Of late though the tone on Goanet has altered a bit in small ways: a bit more acceptance, styles of formulation, even in signing, etc. People are learning, and just perhaps inadvertently (lest it cause umbrage) from each other. Mercy! It takes a few egalitarian sinews and a genuine sense of acceptance to listen, approach and heed ideas. But then we would be better men — which we hardly are. I mean I certainly am not better than any on you. Perhaps its just that I do have a sense for meaning: connoted and denoted, and those that have evaporated. 

Evaporated Meanings: 

http://www.flickr.com/photos/venantius/sets/72157622591223326/

http://www.flickr.com/photos/venantius/sets/72157622594314494/

Remember: 

Should we operate and seek meaning within a Politics of Opportunity (and just perhaps sharing). Or indulge in a Politics of Opportunism. Or, will we only be satiated with the fruits of a Politics of Opprobrium.