Harness the power of the double portrait.

Vanity creates work for we.
neurotic from chastised for caring
hoarse from screaming bodies, objectified

Some women like it. Do they?

A dark room, blue-hued. A large door to the left, ajar, allowing in a scalene triangle of light. Here is Fabiola Gianotti seeing. Up until her observation, the Higgs boson was purely theoretical. Her eyes reflecting 95% of the unknown, dark matter and dark energy. Behind her, a mirror reflecting an outpouring of the accelerated expansion of the universe at the level of Gianotti’s Sahasrara.

Because it is dark, the viewer is in danger of a misreading.

Until her observation, the Higgs boson was only a theory. Did you clock that? This vision requires a stimulated intuition. It cannot be gazed into existence - it cannot be gaze made - it is not trickery.

I played a lot with dolls. I like beautiful clothes.

She likes Comic Sans.

an offset view

Optical trick
either way you look at it.
The mirror's an illusion reinforcing, while reflecting, the divide.
What is morality? What is admonition?
Prose, what is it?
This is not for male, too.
Demand beauty from women - punish their beauty.
Punch their beauty.
Play cruel tricks, create illusions. Man, men!
Enthral the audience to see into the limits of the convex.
Colonize.
Deceive. Trick. A Game of Cards. It is the game of cards, not the woman reflecting.
This is not hinting. Embody the rules, punish the effort.

You play the doll this time.

Stop fucking warning me! Your turn. STOP FUCKING WARNING ME!

Riffing with Bhanu Kapil's Blog

Was Jack Kerouac a Punjabi, Bhanu, was he?
Did you find the answer?

Mirrors. Reflecting. Ambiguous ambiguity. Contradictory, perhaps. Meaning, what?
Truth or honesty? Is truth trust? Illusion or illustrious? Beauty, vanity, self-reflection, self-centeredness?

Swallows’ shadows.

Mute.

Mirrors are not the only reflecting objects.

Giovanni Boccaccio's 1361–1362 treatise De Mulieribus Claris…

This, this!, is an illustration of an…
European? Indian? American?…
artist using reflection to paint self-portrait.

Bodegones literarios.

Humanism >> respect for the artistic profession rose >> the artists' identity >> Where is the mirror? What is the mirror? >> Erase. Imply. Impart. Present. >> Where is the gaze? >> Pull the reader into deeper questions. >> What does it mean to read someone? What does it mean to read someone inverted?

The power of shaping the gaze. Isn’t it? (Is power the right word?)

Trevor Makinson’s In My Studio Mirror.

Bhanu, was Massachusetts your mirror, or the Punjabis? Or, was it the Quebec diaspora? What was your studio mirror?
The Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror by Girolamo Francesco Maria Mazzola also known as Francesco Mazzola also known as Parmigianino, or by John Ashbery? Ummmmmm, then are we the double portrait? Can we play be The Arnolfini Marriage. Are we? Are we?

Truth Present, a Mirror to the World.

This is a Danse Macabre, a blog macabre.

Death and the Maiden are dead. Young men, seized by a kind of death by submerging into gazing at the woman while constructing an idea of beauty, are dying to tell her and reflecting on her.

I belong to you, Bhanu, like Ben belongs to Humphrey.

the unicorn

I spent a whole day writing for this blog post. It was going to be long. But the computer or the website or something deleted the text I wrote, my text. It is gone now. Burned away. And I will let it be gone like that.

This is a common occurrence, loss in the modern age. The deleted blog. So, real-time.

June 1.

entering. On non-productive - I promised myself seven hours a day or 1,000words per day or a poem, something 
this, this -- this....
instead I find myself caring for my family 
and balancing -- a vine upon a
-- an area
A mother, a daughter, a thief.
Stealing turquoise
and roses 
collage.
Four five ten times maybe in the last few days
Montreal, is my favorite. City 
What to cut out? 
1. Relationships with sex, shame, shambles
2. Colonial mirrors.
Was i here?
3.  beginning 
temple, 
Alongside handwriting 
4.  yellow glass. 
Burgundy earth.
house less and on the run.  
What is rain?
The smell of smoke 
The memory of heat and story
5. To writ in milk
In increments
The part  
That kept me in my place. 
owl.
6.  Even as a very young child, I recall the desire, for my own neck 
endocrine,  
red dirt 
muddy river
Raven
white horse, the sun
The rough rainbows
7.  a fluid, Enlarged
8. betrayal. electrolytes.  
Colts
9.  emptied regret 
empty with fear
whatever 
wanted the second crush
He read my letters aloud 
upon the street.  
At the bus stop
Getting directions
10.  pink.
11. 
*
Delete the digits
51 
the life of the poet?
Never!
but the politics are chance 
Pre-verbal 
where I live, i lived… 
on the sidewalk, in city A
Grey. Pink
And beautiful. Again
They said
They always said
They said so often I quit believing 
Said: it’s just something he says
an unBeautiful novel

New York

New York

New York, New York

Modern cryptocurrencies were first described in 1998 by author Wei Dai. The concept fully emerged in 2008 with the release of the white paper by “Satoshi Nakamoto” - blockchain technology, a “triple-entry” bookkeeping and transaction system.

Trust and anonymity are the code words.

Bhanu’s 20may2015. 5.38 p.m.

fountain, 
I have lived in a national forest.
wild turkeys, water, dread.  
Blogging
Do I like blogging? 
Delhi
Do I like India?
Being alive.  
to create a posthumous archive.  
For whom?  
For young writers ? 
50 years from now.  
Thelonious 
coloring 
about war 
I write 
a final project 
Another project 
make something functional and nutritious; 
saag paneer 
Some part of my body wants … 
to write
To write about 
bodies 
institutions
Writing
Time
To not write for stories
But for language 
For To not hate it
it feels impossible today 
windowsill.
Let's pretend 
Pretend we are writing 
my sister is washing one of her three dogs in the other room
schooling 
She would have been a great dog groomer
Thelonious and his bass on the street
Running from what was coming
Not like Touissaint, sitting 
complexities 
of India, 
which ended confused, confused.  
my sister
And los Angeles 
I see angels, so many of them
Lost
This means that I am writing this 
One of her dogs just leapt up and is sitting next to me on the couch
She won’t stay long - I long for her to stay
Longer
What makes her restless?
And cats?
Always moving on
the day’s pale air
How much I would like to have a velvet chair , a writing chair , a chair to sit in while writing 
 a gift is unimaginable 
The dog’s listening for my sister outside in the garage ….
And now she’s back up, standing at the door 
How long is her moment? Does she feel time?
She sighed. Just now.
She 
The pug is snoring and twelve
The air purifier whirs
This all happened as I wrote 
ownership 
And the door opens
or belonging
Or place. Or time.
We talk about the past 
When daddy would ball up his fists and punch the girls becoming women
And mother
And kicked my brother in the balls becoming man
How to start writing?
still haunted 
I love the word Autumn 
For autumn 
Not fall.
In India intensely I felt the polluted present rage 
Breath work made fire to remove the o
Himalaya is not the oldest 
But tectonic is the same
quakes and aftershocks and second waves
One explodes randomly
The other is a constant drip to shatter
I saw the village.  
I am many
My sister tells me of heroic moments and then I realize
She sees deeper than any poet I’ve ever read and deeper than
garden brick wall mango 
Stars.  
The letter V. 
stroking inside my sleep
I swung the door open
And behind the toilet in rishikesh was a snake trying to get away from my eyes
My sister has a thing with snakes
She once found the skins - one snake eating another snake
Since then I know Lord Shiva and His Nandi bull
obeisance to Retrograde 
And right now.  
I adapt to Western civilization by focusing on apertures, 
Letting light in
darkness 
giving up.  give up. 
I wish I could learn more 
My sister sometimes glances and gazes 
extraordinary 
She is much more than anything I
Like turquoise 
Like gold.
Ban is beautiful 
Sometimes I hear stories of her ex-boyfriend and I want to wretch. I can’t imagine what excuses they used to be disturbed 
And now
Now
I feel like this writing has gone really well.
It’s 5:36p.m.