Abdul The Wanderer

The person named Abdul was born of blue.A kind of created wasteland or reflection across time.He was flawed to the core and knew that tale,by rote, of the return of the winged horse.

That coffee table was lost in the clamour of the morning rush.The crowd rose on their feet and threw a fit.
Abdul was not known except in fables.
Now the masses of Eiderabad were at the well of recognition and needed to dwell on Abdul.
He of the that creative kind conjured a sequence  which created a mess.

It was science,pure and natural.
He ended up talking about something which made somebody in that space laugh and jump.
So much so, that they, ended up in splits.
Real and virtual.
Of the spikes which preempt the growth of wings and the rush of blood to fly.
Both happened when Abdul spoke to a person from the throng assembled in the Nizams crown court that day when it rained in the Durbar.

This however, is not an Kristevan idea to challenge fact or dwell on fiction.The solution is to contest versions of time.The swell of rush the and ping of tide.Which way the man in his little flight flayed was the question.
He in the presence of the King, presiding over his durbar in the midst of the collapse of  a spectator irritated Abdul.

He stood there and swam tides.

Not in the sky nor the vast
nor in the ocean or my pool
surely missing the nymphets eye
or some angels ring.


But time tells a different story.

Not lost nor found
not in the ocean near or the outer space far
surely not in vain as per eagle eye
or a soothsayers claim.

This was the word which made a person in the Durbar so sick that his sides led to a burst of light.
A spurt which splashed light across the spectrum of the sky as opposed to water.
It was in Abdul amid that lack of space in his incoherent speech amid the clamor of the rushing folks to save
living bones from turning into wings.

He was well until the sky in his impression veered off course.
And was lost.

Only that discourse of Abdul would unravel what went wrong that evening when a human started sprouting wings to show the displacement of time.

BEYOND TIME

There was a scope of fast moving capsules.Shrouded in mist of the time they spread.In speeding across the hemispheres which were not attended to.There was no imminent threat.The plane was cruising.

Then it was a flash and takeover.The glow of the capsules spread the far reach of the Indian Ocean,one hovering past the lone rigger lost in the waves of this plural world.

The other was time apart.He a fisherman who could never sleep well into the night.He saw it.In Havefreeru,
a mass of distance measured by mapping to be so and so.

Sonar detection is measured to depths and its echo.
Slime slides.
The Newtonian law has to work.
An object with equal or partial displacement and momentum cannot dive.
The rate of displacement needs to be zero for a loss of Newtonian theory.
Or this is another tale from the bard.
A retelling of the new tempest retold.
Where the action is not  sea but skies which
lie in the sea.

Anyways 44 or 45
the unheard pages of random classics
dwell and shape an quest
to fathom the depths and the waves of the sky
as it went trawling
out of loss of content
or the pull
of the ships with mother
from yonder.

the lack of grammar

the quest of construction for metaphors
in the remote land of slime
is difficult to ground
or seabed in this case
of people lost.

we never in our lack
of grammar
ask how did people  vanish
thin air
or the other world
which our time does not know
yet.

On the Easter Sunday a tribute to Legends

The magic realism of Marquez,hats off to the great master lost a day short of this Easter Sunday of 2014. Him a dream of realism magic and off lost times.

Add to it the real resurrection.Time is the essence,three days it took to shroud a mystery and make it timeless.

Also to Anant Pai and the artists memory loss to name lost legends.

Or to think of the lost.The loss of something precious,like a someone who who gone someplace
and you want to meet again;
but you will not cause they have thinned into this air
the ethereal kind of vapors which
dwindle a search to
dwell into depths
of
dark.

That there was stealth in the sprinting of the object
whisking and sliding
and roaring across the skies
unfettered yet sliding space
moving away from the need to be known.

Lost is a word which Marquez
never writes about
Magic realism is all about recreating
and the life after life.

Should  I add TS Elliot
and say Good Night.

Or plead
Buddham Sharanam Gacchami
Sangham Mitram Gacchami

and write an Ode to The Romantics.

Editing freelancers required

Editing is harder said than done.Text is transformed by an eye for linguistic detail and the literary skills of the reader helps identify key authorial errors.Sometimes a text is rewritten through the editors eagle eye.

Expressions of intent are requested from web savvy individuals who work well with written script.
The company is on the cusp of growth and offers freelancing opportunities as well as ideas development moments.

This request is targeted towards India and will  focus on literary reading.
The work plan is in steps:
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The work is typed as soft copy by freelancer;
The suggestions of Editing Asst should be outlined with reasons in soft copy;
The research in argument is important as are web skills skirting and referencing secondary sources to ascertain a probable grounding of meaning.

Candidates who wish to be part of creativechallengesofteaching are encouraged to be discursive and critical yet open to authorial idea and logical reasoning if textual reading differs largely.

The perks;
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Paid as you need,advance or after work.
Payment only INR,transferred to your account.
Equal opportunity company.
32-60  INR  per hour of editing skills or per page @21 INR

Queries are welcome.

Keats the Romantic
The life of Browning as an epitome of Victorian Literature; his perfection of dramatic sequences and realistic rendition can be read as a retelling a metaphor for Fanny Browne and his letters.

Julia Kristeva
Taught us to read the text,  infinity,that slithering slop of the silky pherry searching and looking to ground.
This coming from Intertextuality and the school of  lost freedom or the burden of truth.
An idea which floats and swims the tide of time.
Lost in depths or explored in space.
That text of an idea which reflects reflection and mirrors it home.
Like a beacon shining above the tower.
A ray of Sun beaming heat.
Or a murmur of a beep.
Not lost or found.
An alien idea.