Photographing Snow

"Conjoin," Kitchener, Ontario.  Feb 2015

“Conjoin,” Kitchener, Ontario. Feb 2015

I have always wondered about stepping out to photograph snow, but the comfort of my warm bed, chicken noodle soup (which is the only sensible thing I can conceive of making every time there’s a snowstorm), a queue of movies/episodes of a favourite tv show on my laptop, and just plain fear of being frozen into a popsicle, keeps me inside. Season after season.

Perhaps, the real truth is that snow doesn’t inspire me. I like photographing moments, people, movement. Snow is snow. Singular. Austere. Inactive.

"Austere," Kitchener, Ontario. Feb 2015.

“Austere,” Kitchener, Ontario. Feb 2015.

But after my mentor, Abhijit Nayak, pointed out that there were possibilities that resided in the unexpectedness of the blank canvas, I had been thinking seriously of branching out. Focus on the stationary. Introspect.

"Crescent," Kitchener, Ontario. Feb 2015.

“Crescent,” Kitchener, Ontario. Feb 2015.

And, last November, after being gifted a Canada Goose jacket by my amazing parents, I have come to fear winter less. Go out in freezing rain? Pssht! Walk knee deep in snow? Hell, yeah! Head out in a blizzard? Why not!

"Thorns," Kitchener, Ontario. Feb 2015.

“Thorns,” Kitchener, Ontario. Feb 2015.

So today, after last night’s epic snowfall and school being shut down thanks to an unexpected snow day, I ventured out.

"Smile," Kitchener, Ontario. Feb 2015.

“Smile,” Kitchener, Ontario. Feb 2015.

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The Erotics of a Queer Fantastique

Source: "Hallucinations" http://xkcd.com/203/

Source: “Hallucinations” http://xkcd.com/203/

This came to me in a dream.

Sometimes, dreams hold the keys to your creative innards, the threads of which you must then pull out and knit together, make a boutonniere of sorts, and make a peace offering.

To cleanse the self. And, to gather your innermost self.

Sometimes, it is the only way to release that part of you, to release what is inevitably you, and yours.

My short fiction piece (my most queer piece, and I do not say this lightly), “Regular,” is in the last issue (themed: The Erotics of a Queer Fantastique) of LIES/ISLE. You can read it here. And, trust me, there is nothing regular about this one.

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Shinjini’s Hazaar Songs

jigsaw

Like some names that linger on your tongue, her name became my albatross. Always synonymous with mine, I knew it as intimately as I knew her.

My own. My beloved. My sister.

So, I tugged and pulled. Broke it into pieces. Put it back together like a puzzle I knew by heart.

And so, she became mine. And, mine alone.

My poem, “Shinjini’s Hazaar Songs,” modeled after my sister’s name (Shinjini) is now in Toasted Cheese Literary Journal’s December issue. It was also workshopped in Carolyn Smart’s class in March earlier this year. You can read it here.

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The Stuff of Life (of a writer-in-progress)

drama writing

A few years ago, a fortune cookie fortune stated rather simply:

You will become a famous writer.

I stared at it, not in disbelief, but in the cognition of the steadfast reality I have carried within me for many, many years. It is my destiny. I was just staring at the obvious.

But as time went on, and I settled into complacent happiness, I felt my ability to write shrink into a memory of a desire that may have belonged to someone else. Instead, I worked hard to steady my world, and lost my narrative edge in the process.

Perhaps, I need drama to revitalize myself. Perhaps, I need melancholia.

Someone I know, once alleged that I search for drama in my life just so that I can recreate it into fiction.

Now I know that isn’t true.

Drama just finds me wherever I am. Even when I am complacent to the point of boring, something will simmer within and force me to break the mould. It’s a simmering I cannot control, and yet it’s something I do not entirely abhor.

It’s a simmering without which I would become an empty shell.

Simmering is the stuff of life. And every tragedy (and the not-so-tragic) is fodder for writing.

The only way to exist is to forward march.

So, I am not sure about the fame. Nor fortune. But the writer within me is writing. Again.

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When a Poem Expires

chickenlonelycoupon

There was – well, is. It still exists. – a poem that I wrote a little over two years ago. It was a reactionary poem to an event that sort of tilted my world at the time. Tilted it beyond a rose coloured view. It was a poem that made my insides squirm whenever I read it. It made me uncomfortable as it recalled the event in minute detail. Yes, it was a very uncomfortable poem and an extremely personal one.

The poem found a home in a magazine I admired. After four rejections at other places, this magazine agreed to take it in. I felt as if a poor lost puppy roaming around in the rain had suddenly been offered a home by kind patrons. It warmed my heart. The world would hear my pain.

The magazine sat on it. They sat and sat, and warmed their behinds on it. Other poems were published, but my accepted poem did not see the light of day.

The immediacy of my pain began to fade, as the poem slowly rotted.

I got over that two year old moment and started viewing the world through my kind of negotiated happiness. And even as I personally grew, the poem itself didn’t. It had been stalled before its unveiling. An aging debutante.

I sent several polite inquiries. Se-ve-ral. They were met with silence.

No white noise. No static. Just an unrelenting silence. A void, if you please.

And now, after all this time, the aging puppy has passed away, its memory a stranger.

I should just bury it and move on.

markanderson

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Filed under poetry, rant, Thinking Aloud

My Top 30

Cover photograph of LIES/ISLE's last issue (Issue #7).

Cover photograph of LIES/ISLE’s last issue (Issue #7).

Everyone should have a top five, a top ten, or even a top twenty.

I have a top thirty list.

That’s thirty literary magazines I want to see my work in.

The top five are the cream of the cream. The literary elite.  They are listed in the order of their (almost) unbreakable publishing bourgeoisie-ness.

The rest that follow are still pretty big deal, but they are listed in no particular order.

Some of them (a whole lot actually, now that I am looking at them again) are Canadian.

Some Canadian magazines from my "Top 30" list.

Some Canadian magazines from my “Top 30″ list.

Why this list?

Because it’s good to aspire.

Also, from what I have heard, publishing credits not only earn you street cred (as a writer), but also boosts your ever flailing writer’s ego.

And since recently I got to cross off a name from the list, I have been on top of a cloud higher than #9.

My most queer piece till date, “Regular,” got accepted by LIES/ISLE! Watch this space.

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Coming to terms with the real me

real selfTwo summers ago, my stalker claimed that he “knew” me because he had read every single thing I had ever published.

But that isn’t the real me, I had wanted to say. That is just an online persona. That is how I talk in my head when I am writing. That is me performing online.

And it does so much feel like a performance. That I cannot bare my bones and just exist within my skin. That even when I am writing about an honest experience, I am also self-censoring.

I tried keeping this anonymous blog once (it still exists somewhere) where I could proclaim my inanities without shame. But even faced with faceless strangers, I kept up the performance until finally one day, I stopped writing there completely.

The truth is… the only time I can truly shed my skin is when I am fictionalizing. The moment I turn to fiction, the words become more visceral, more a part of me than apart from me. It’s ironic in some way, I suppose. That I can be myself when I am essentially making things up, and not otherwise.

It’s almost as if the real me is a fictionalized version of me. Or, several versions of me.

The only comfort is that they are less idealized versions. Versions that help me come to terms with who I really am.

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