Stream of Consciousness II

Divorcee. What a funny label. I have divorced myself from matrimony. I am matrimonially removed. Keep your ring finger away from me. You won’t take me up the aisle. I don’t care how big your rocks are. Let’s play a game of truth or dare and let it play out to a good ripe conclusion. That would get my rocks off. So would a party that breaks all the rules, it would be just the tonic everyone needs. A celebration that spits in the face of tradition and makes a ceremony of the ridiculous. Where both prim and proper and coarse and obscene must reside as neighbours, for the party is always so much better when the prim and proper are there to shock. Send me an invite or I will gatecrash anyway.

The Kama Sutra of kissing. Even if you wrote a book about it, it can’t be taught. It’s sensuality and artistry and timing and taste and all kinds of other things in between.

* * *

The winner takes it all. But when they lose, the thing they lose really hurts. Or it hurts them that everyone else loses because of them.

Why do people eat shark’s fin? What is it about the fin? Those motherfuckers need to leave sharks alone.

I don’t go for blonds. Or brunettes. Or redheads. I don’t have a type. It’s something that shines outward I go for. I can’t explain it. Something sparkly when the light catches their eyelashes or something. It’s an essence or a spice. Like coriander or lemongrass. Subtle, sharp, pervasive, perfumed. All that and more.

Hast thou the flower there? Welcome, wanderer.

* * *

Who says meal worms can’t climb out of their bowl? They’re desperate to be a new thing, not just fodder for the dragons. But the blind lazy ones don’t mind being food, because the dragons need to bloom. Their warm chubby bellies as they wriggle up your forearm. Their bright little eyes as they regard you sideways and lick you for recognition. Their sharp little spikes and darkening scales when they get annoyed. Melt. Dragons are love.

I can feel the whispering ghost of winter’s beauty in the air even though summer hasn’t yet grown ripe. I love winter’s whispering beauty, it always comes upon me at this time of year. It hints at something intimate and loving just out of reach but attainable at a given time. The ghost of this wish has always been with me. It excites me and I have no idea why.

You need to deal out a different medicine for different people. They all require an individual remedy. Some need to swallow their own bitter pill to meet the transformation they are so ardently seeking.

© N Nazir 2020

*photos taken from i-stock and film stills off the internet

The text to each image is deliberately jumbled up so you have to piece it together at the end. I don’t know why I chose to do it that way, it just felt right.

The Sacred and the Profane

I was thinking this morning about how the sacred and the profane become each other.  One has to know the other to truly become the one they are.  Through tasting it, one may permanently and palpably become more other, or revert back to their original beingness and more powerfully so, for having lived the Other’s world before returning to their truth.

So an angel may fall, a devil may rise.  The angel may rise again, the devil may fall again.

I already knew this in words, but this time it occurred to me tangibly, I felt it as a visceral truth.  I instinctively feel that this world is governed by divine rules and I’d love to know what they actually are.

However, there are a million forms of otherness within the sacred and the profane.  And we all exist somewhere in the spectrum between.  

^{Spiritual Grace II, Mixed Media on Canvas, © N Nazir 2009}

^{© N Nazir 2017}