The Writing Life's Journal|
[Most Recent Entries]
Below are the 12 most recent journal entries recorded in
The Writing Life's LiveJournal:
|Tuesday, November 10th, 2009|
|Friday, November 6th, 2009|
|Saturday, February 14th, 2009|
Hues of Love
Hues of love
She was not wearing red
at that point of time when we met.
He had been listening
to the meanings, colors denote
and watching for a red rose
that he might pluck from neighbor’s patch.
He was wearing blue dreams,-
faded and could be taken
as his good old denim.
He ruffled his hair, adjusted;
the way a lover
was supposed to look,- in love, lost.
She wasn’t waiting for him.
The boy was barely in his teen.
The red bus stopped, took her
for a ride according to ticket.
The boy waited for the day next.
He would be there, dawdling in dream.
=© 2009 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar
|Tuesday, February 3rd, 2009|
Dear Former President Bush
written by kinkysmart
[Jan. 21st, 2009|12:58 am]
Well, it's done. Eight very, very long years after the your election caused the greatest rift in polite society I've ever witnessed, you took one last flight over DC, and went on the permanent vacation. You should be ready for this, considering you took 77 vacations during your term - a term which hardly saw a week go by without a serious crisis that required a strong captain at the helm. Sure, I could list out the crimes of incompetence which serve as the punctuation behind your name, but that's better handled by guys like John Stewart. I will just leave it at this: you are the man who turned me into a Liberal Democrat after a lifetime in the Republican Party.
So I will start by saying that today, you impressed me. It's taken a long time for you to do something that I feel genuinely represented upstanding character up against what I am sure was a lot of pressure by the usual cabal of puppetmasters wearing $10,000 shoes presenting their daily task list for their lapdog president. There is no way they didn't have pages of white collar criminals, considering the wall street melt-down in progress, all waiting for his signature to put them back on the yachts to Europe or where ever.
George Dubya Bush pardoned two men on his last day. Two. These guys were Border Patrol Guards who shot a Mexican drug smuggler, and I am sure there is some debate about what they did. I'm cool with shooting drug runners in the desert, but not everyone is. Point is - this is morally ambiguous, which is a far cry from Clinton's 11th hour pardon of a cut-and-dried Criminal Thief Motherfucker. I am glad he did that - it gives me something nice to say. And seriously, up until today I couldn't think of a goddamned thing to say nice about this guy and his miserable administration of sycophants and lackeyed yes-men.
And it's not him, the guy. I think that in his heart, Dubya isn't a bad guy - he's just an average Joe from a fantastically powerful family who spoke to the hearts of a lot of people. He went into the job with good intentions, but did what he had been taught to do his whole life - listen to his Daddy's Buddies. That last press conference was the real soul of our former president, listening him talk to the press corps, talking about his job, his relationship to the press, to the people, and defending himself. This was a guy given a job he was in no way qualified for, and he did the best he could considering his middling intelligence and total lack of experience in war, diplomacy, economics, and crisis leadership.
This is a guy who never got it - and he never will get it. He still thinks Iraq and Afghanistan are the same place, and to most 'Mericans, it is. Just one big rocky sandbox full of pissed off, backwards-ass, murdering psychotics who spend all damn day beheading whomever didn't agree with their interpretation of the holy text on that particular hour, if they aren't busy buggering little boys or goats. And for most of us, that's fine - most folks aren't leaving their own state, much less the country and don't need to know the finer points of the great Muslim Other and why they will always hate us. Of course, that's why most of us should never be President. It was just the dumb luck of the times, the Zeitgeist of the post-Clinton America that allowed such mediocrity to reign unhindered.
The new guy - everyone keeps talking about the challenge ahead. Some people interviewed today spoke of him as a messiah, some that he's a socialist - both are just making noise; sound and fury. I think it's a tremendous opportunity to change ourselves. We need inspiration, particularly when we are called upon to sacrifice. Americans have made epic sacrifices in our history, but lately we have been told it's not necessary. We shouldn't have to suffer, to bear any burdens of fate or consequence. We should have low-taxes while we spend ourselves stupid, hey seriously that sounds great to my need for a bigger TV, but it offends that part of my brain that can do math.
We - the big collective We - we can do great things when inspired by a great leader. We know that Mr. Obama is a monumental orator, truly one of the best in modern times, and that puts him miles ahead of anyone else on the horizon. This does not make him a great leader, a captain who we will follow through the hardest times, the one who makes his mark on the collective psyche; that takes something else. I've always liked the sound of the word, "gravitas." It's a good word, but the man has to have it and use it at the right point. He has to make hard choices, things we know we have to do but no one wants to pull the trigger. He has to call it, he has to be right, and he has to live with the consequence of being wrong.
I like the new President because he is not the old President, and because he can speak with eloquence sounding both passionate and intelligent. I like him and I do hope he uses his momentum to pull us out of a bad place. I recall the recessions of the past, those little slow-downs. I heard about some massive company somewhere with employee populations exceeding a medium city - oh they had some layoffs. A fraction of a percent here or there. Or maybe a startup didn't get more venture capital? I've never seen established businesses fail like what I'm seeing now. The Islands burger place on Peoria closed down, always crowded when we used to go - but since our economic slowdown, we haven't been there either.
At first we thought the car dealers were just whining about business to cut their software bill, but they are in deep trouble. They are losing their floorplan financing, and we will be seeing more closures in the coming months. The OEM's, the Manufacturers will probably get bailout money, but that just goes to keeping the unions content, the executive private jets in the air, the medical plan funded, and the pensioners sitting in butter. If we are lucky, some of the leftover money might go toward making a good car - but the dealerships, the actual car lot down the street, that has nothing to do with the Ford, GM, or Chrysler company. It's a vendor/buyer relationship and nothing more. That bailout money won't keep the dealer in business, and it sure as hell won't loosen up credit, and until the customer can get a competitive loan (or until they think they can), it will keep sliding down into hell's gutter.
And you don't even want to know how much car dealerships spend on local advertising: radio, tv, newspapers, billboards - you think the ripple effect will just stop at the layoffs at the lot? I'm already in that pile, and it's going to get thick above me. And this is just my little niche industry. Momentum is a great thing when it's in your favor - just ask the Phoenix Cardinals and their 2nd Longest Championship Drought (behind the Cubs) in all of Professional Sports. It's great when it's going for you, but damn it's hard when it's pulling the other way.
What I am saying is this: I want this guy to have what it takes, but despite all the slogans and cheering, and even with his ever growing list of historic speeches and 1.5 million people on the Washington Mall - I just don't have a lot of Hope right now.
Good Luck, new guy. You are going to need it.
And to the old guy... This letter is to you, after all. Mr. Bush, I like to believe in redemption. I like to believe that with time and perspective, some people learn how to be reflective, and find a way to examine their lives with an objective eye. I'd like to believe that some day, you'll get what went wrong so many times. I'd like to think that maybe, when all those cronies and yes-men leave your side, that you may venture out on your own, and perhaps think through your actions, when history eventually reveals the greater truths.
I believe that future generations will not look to your time in office with kindness, I believe that in the coming months and years we will begin to grasp just how badly things were run. I believe that your wars, your domestic policies, your aw shucks diplomacy will bear no fruit even decades from now. But I do believe you can become something more than your eight years cast you.
I think you should call Jimmy Carter, and talk to him about Legacy. That man is getting old, and when he is gone we will have no truly great Ex-President to look up to. Maybe, if you really do mean for the best, you can find it in the next chapter of your life. If you do it very well, with pure intent and open eyes, there is a chance that history may look kindly upon your life, if not your Presidency.
Good Luck, old guy. You are going to need it.
|Wednesday, January 7th, 2009|
As If change were a foreign concept I tread steadily along the same path. Nothing in my head makes sense anymore. Especially you. Its supposed to work out one way, my way. But the pictures in my head of how it was supposed to be are long gone, burning away with the memories and dreams I had before I knew you existed.
Porcelin cups of coffee never tasted so good. The cups, not the coffee. Crunching down as if I were digging into a snickers at 7 years old, in this case blood sliding down the corners of my lips instead of silky chocolate.
When your young, you want to grow up so bad so you can obtain your rights. Your right to your own bedtime, Your right to hangout with friends past the time when the street lights come on. Your right to breathe on your own without mommy squishing your lungs and filling them back up with air.
Then you get there. Your standing at the edge of a cliff, looking down into nothing but the top of the clouds. The whole worlds spread out in front of you like a map. Spinning around and around you slam your body down, eyes closed, arms spread, heart racing. Where will you land?
Current Mood: stoned
I had a dream when I was a little kid
The dream was growing up
It happened faster than I thought it did
And now I just feel stuck
|Thursday, January 1st, 2009|
New Website for Writers
is a treasure trove of Unconventional Wisdom for Aspiring Authors. It is filled with short articles, links to social networking sites and helpful bonus videos. My UNedited Life delivers countless ideas and strategies written to entertain and enlighten. Best of all, the advice is entirely FREE!
As an added bonus you can also sign up for My Unedited Newsletter. In this monthly e-mail you and I will continue our journey together. Each month you will receive a new article about my creative attempts towards book promotion. We can succeed together and on occasion you can watch me fail. Either way we both get to learn. You will also receive a new writing tip, something I might have picked up that very month. By the way, the newsletter is also FREE!
As with all things worth writing there is always room for improvement. After taking a complete read through the website I would be thrilled if you would leave a comment on the last page. Don’t worry about hurting my feelings, whether your words are critical or cause worthy, I want to hear from you.
Thank-you, Alex Hutchinson
|Saturday, November 1st, 2008|
The Second Flight
The flight of the phoenix
(the part-2, characters)
The sky in a trance meets the earth
in this hour of waking up.
She wakes up to gather water,
to bathe before too many eyes
lick honey at the public tap.
The tap for water opens its soul.
It springs to life and soused is her
morning. One discreet boy, the only
other presence, pretends not to see.
Radha, with her covert eyes glances
at some vague dreams, distant paths and
a man, man enough. Water giggles.
The boy picks up his flute to douse
the universe with a fountain
of tunes unmatched. World can be so
illustrative, if they, the mates
wear off the morning and defeat
destiny. © 2008 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar
What happened to them! The next part will tell the story of love and first blood.
While traveling I disguised myself as a resident of the places I traveled. It had been hard for I had the marks of being a Bengali all over, so adopted a story of someone trying his luck at their provinces for job and a place to stay. It brought out results quite different. Those parts are safe and smooth like anywhere in the world if you have money and you are tourists, they respect tourists. But I wanted to know what a tourist won’t.
Curious for more…
|Thursday, August 21st, 2008|
The quivering fingers touch timidly,
tentatively, carefully the closed door.
It is like a membrane, semi liquid.
It sucks you in and let you out in the
other side. One way please. So don’t try to
return. The other side is a misty
palace of meaningless truths.
The other side is a breathing water
to swim and float till eternity eats you.
See the side of earth
you have come from,
see it in disconnection, slight hallucination.
Open the door let me return
cries the sleep cries the dream…
The door only let you in.
|Wednesday, August 20th, 2008|
the old mill
The old mill, Sudbury
Tired as he is, he will go on.
The destination is coming
nearer each time he defies
his fatigue. Aching feet tells to
take a bit of time beside the path,
under that summerful tree and
dream of his home, his own old mill
at Sudbury. His travels through
distant corners has gifted him
exotic colors in his dreams.
He can see the soft grass about
his house. The sound of red wheel pumping
water echoes. Fruits have been processed,
preserved and labeled. A slumber
has returned to its nest, in the eyes
of his mother. He can see the
mother’s hand printed china and
flowers brought by neighborhood girl.
Tired as he is he can dream
a thousand shades on those petals.
A bird is calling. This side of
consciousness or the other? He
wonders and still dreams.
The old mill, Sudbury, his own
home or is it just a painting!
|Tuesday, August 19th, 2008|
anger he and she
Anger, he and she
She cannot fathom, why you become an easy
prey of anger. Perhaps it is the dark blood that
runs through human veins and arteries over
the times and the changes. She seizes your raised fist
and run. Runs through the lanes, alleys, houses, ages.
When one tide ebbs, there is the next one; ready to
ambush. Childhood subsides. She is still with the rogue,
you. Her secret houses. Her pitiful endeavor
to build a home around four walls one slanting
roof and the resident fear of losing all
someday soon. The anger is his other lady.
She knows someday she will be the one to destroy
anger and her love both, in a single angry stroke.
|Sunday, November 11th, 2007|
"When did being able to have your picture in the paper for being outrageous, ignorant or just plain ugly, become more important than having real talent?"
To read the rest of my column and have your own say - link
. Make your voice heard.