Skip to toolbar

Troubadour Art

Solemn prayers for the passer by. They are stranded. Strange city of artlike embarrassing of lonely Troubadour. I loved the way of being with for the other. Self negotiated as the loner. Topsy turvy reckoning of withering away of sludgy democrats. City, the arty affair in-itself. The great phantasmagoria, the heterogeneity withers in non-notional. It is in anti-thesis with the way of the orderly. But, it is not in a identity relation, so the dialectics is not rejuvenated. Stasis is the unmaking of dialectical progression. The being of stasis is congealed. It doesn’t grow. Life lives past the sorrow. Identity thinking is a boiled ham. Who’s who admonishes the breakage. Life moves. Heterogeneity is the phantasm. It is life’s eruption. Art paints past the phantasmagoria. Hasish and ham, two past eight. Evening’s sundryness. The thought of apocalypse emerge so easy in this system of fallen sundryness.Life likes to go fast, yet things are battered slowly. Life remakes the underdogs. I love to be at one with the hollow men, seated under the belt of recognition. Someone passed the bottle, codelite. Love for the trouble makes and unmakes the topography. Easy chair for me and my thoughtful glancing of the bifurcated signatured road signs. Sam is easy for me. So is Borges. I can see the street, marked with a name. Thousands of houses set apart, by the street. Millions of windows, housing millions of gazes. And billions of stories, housed in those ghetto like modern colony. Phantasmagoria of the street and non-movemental congealment of the inside, the story of the housed people. I can see a ninety six year old widow, waiting for her elopement. Such audacious extinction from the planet. She is audacious because she lives within the corrugated millions, what maverick spirit! She lives with her stories and her veranda, and her windowpane. She lives on, with all the millions, and their stories. Extinction is brought down to nothing. Stasis is congealed as totality. Men lives on, they never die. History writes the tale of Troubadour Art, which the city encompasses.  

Jeet Bhattacharya
Latest posts by Jeet Bhattacharya (see all)

Leave a Reply