A riddle: what am I type
I wrote this before you
ever got to know me. before.
before. I am writing it now.
mtk, SF 1995
22 Wednesday Nov 1995
15 Wednesday Nov 1995
Posted in clips, conceptual art, journalism, press clips, reviews, S.F.
Tags
*surface, 1995, 95, architecture, art, fashion, Francisco, Karthik, m.t., magazine, mtk, mural, paint, Rigo, Rigo 95, San, thyagarajan, thyagarajian
This was a very disappointing edit and when it appeared, I was enraged. My name was spelled wrong – and it’s the third typo on the page!
The first is in the image where the images of his work are labelled, “(Rigo)” – which isn’t his name, and shows the overactive hand of the newly minted fashion magazine’s editors –
whose next immediate typo is in the HEADLINE – an extra apostrophe where it should be “Maos”. The piece is also edited considerably from what I submitted and the editors took liberties adding and removing text that changed the meaning of full paragraphs. But anyway here is how it ran:
I began a friendship and apprenticeship with Rigo after this November interview, in the year 1996, which lasted ten years.
31 Tuesday Oct 1995
Tags
1995, Karthik, Memorandum, mtk, poem
To: William P. Martin
From: M.T. Karthik
re: poetry
I don’t need an agent so much as an organizer.
geoffrey goldman, goldberg, goldstein, goldy gold …
The poems should be organized into categories. All the love poems together. The war poems and death poems may be trysted with the questions that tether life and death to infinity but they must remain separate from the personal reflections to friends (save elegies of course which may be included for their gravity)
Poems on the nature of fruits, plums and vegetables (not fruits) must not fall under their own category.
Poems about places which include foreign locales (places that aren’t home) should go together but ought to be subcategorized between personal home poems and foreign locale poems in order to separate identity from geography.
These too (2) should be together and all of the groupings should have titles although individual works may be left untitled. Parenthetically, only one kind of poem may stand alone (although it may serve to introduce or conclude)
cold, alone, aloof and barren of the sensation of taste
or of beauty
alone
shall stand the poems about poems
themselves
10 Sunday Sep 1995
And in the only manoeuvre known to us
the steps seem limp and lifeless
for some they are full of purpose
but for most they are darkly lit
footprints
cut from cardboard and numbered
to guide the unwilling feet
lonely in their pursuit of peace
to have the choice
to elect
to not have to lead at all
simply to have the peace of mind to
be able to follow or
even just to stand still
and quiet momentarily
and listen to the music
the beautiful music
08 Friday Sep 1995
Tags
1995, Karthik, mtk, palindrome, poem
life is acheworthy
burning sometimes
and sugary
is time
noverything
feels
noverything
time is
sugary and
sometimes burning
acheworthy is life
25 Friday Aug 1995
we are born with millions of tiny hooks
cilia
they reach out from our skin
grasping and grapnelling
to anyone and anything
for influence
learning (in order):
mimic
critic
synthetic
at last we learn to comb our skins
clean
of hooks and hairs
so we might proceed naked
each day with our job
the happy business
of dying
13 Saturday May 1995
we are all swimming in God’s soup
sometimes we like to splash the others
sometimes to dunk them
even though we know the spoon is coming
Sometimes we lay on our backs in God’s soup,
floating.
(on occasion we can catch His eye)
Sometimes we flag our arms at Him
hoping to be seen
and sometimes, in so doing, we sink
17 Tuesday Jan 1995
Tags
1995, coinage, gibberish, Karthik, mtk, poem, portmanteau, san francisco, sf, untitled
would you be the one who holds my crundle of bastioning stoppards
when I am unable to go further into the gleamingly simple predicated suffixes
and hardened arteriole cavities of me
never
umpteen aged wrestling teacherdly cunts withered armlessly in time-tentacled illusiveates
cramming into stuffard-sized cratchets of nistik, mungley bramstoked prits
my own bringle of stolping camelized simmersoups was never englingly rude enoughage
sinjo slaythed the jargon
08 Saturday Oct 1994
Posted in Coastal Cali, S.F.
18 Sunday Sep 1994
we are not afraid to die
and we have not yet decided why to live
and that is how we come here
and drink beer
and light
cigaret after cigaret
at chiaroscuro tables
watching each other
get older
These years will wash past us
and we’ll find ourselves buying cd’s of this stuff
so we can remember
our youth and firmer flesh
as we drink special shakes and cut out salts
and go for walks
of firmer flesh:
I want to lick her tummy
the waitress I mean
Delilah
with the sweet, soft curves and the flat skin
It’d be nice
to spell my name
in honey
on her tummy
with my tongue
I must remember to ask
soon
I’ll decide why to live
and with that decision
improvisation gives over to order
spontaneity to analysis
and jazz,
jazz gives over to orchestra
with only opera to keep my heart
in the action at all
opera and sex
24 Wednesday Aug 1994
Posted in essay, journal entries, S.F.
Tags
aloneness, Karthik, loneliness, lonesomeness, love, mtk, notes, psychoses, psychosis, tought
Ultimately the responsibility for psychoses lies with oneself.
They cannot be blamed on society, televison or poor parenting, because they are an evolutionary part of our existence. We evolve in and out of psychotic behavior on a yearly, weekly and even daily basis. This evolution is more violent and extreme among those for whom a secure foundation of love and trust is not omnipresent.
Society and television and such do not provide such omnipresent love.
The feeling of ‘aloneness’ attributable to such psychoses is a product of the constant reminders and cues around the individual without such omnipresent love, that we are all ultimately alone.
Religious treatises that extoll the virtue of universal love may therefore be considered to be reassurances that we are all at least not alone in our aloneness. That it is an equal burden shared by the living.
Societies built on such premises will thrive. Societies built on anything else will serve to isolate the Individual further and will ultimately destroy the society from the inside-out…one individual at a time.
At any given point in the evolution of a society, its members exist at many different points on the continuum of aloneness. Individuals in such societies that are particularly aware of aloneness may be psychotic. Individuals who are particularly aware of the need for love of others in the face of aloneness may be successful members of such societies. They may be considered wise, generous, loving and caring, for their ability to love. And faith in their ability to love may become a barometer of the “joy” of the society.
It is a matter of faith versus knowledge. Either one has faith or one has loneliness. To rationalize faith is impossible. Such rationalizations will collapse under the weight of their own falseness. Faith is a function of something altogether different. And something usually unnameable.
So far the only significant predictor of faith is the experience of pain.
Thus, love – named and unnamed – is the greatest emotion in the world. Its power is all-encompassing and universal.
a loveless life is the passage of time
a life without genuine love is a meaningless exercise in the passage of time.
a life lived in false love is an even more meaningless exercise in the passage of rationalizations within time.
The fear of a false love in this world is a sensitive spot in all sentient creatures. There will always be a market for prophets who prey upon the fear that one’s own rationalizations are not genuine. There will always be a market for preying on self-doubt. Which is why doubt by others of self is the ultimate disrespecting stance, the push toward psychosis. It is denial of an existence.
Love is therefore – more than physical love, or words – the promotion of ones rationale for existence. Love is support for life. Self-doubt is a psychosis. How does one treat psychosis? Through self-love.
18 Wednesday May 1994
… it’s gone
but not forgotten.
there
a souvenir
issues forth
it’s gone
and before
until
just a moment
before
or until
I will stop
and ache
to drink
you’re in
sides
slowly
tongue slips
(slip o’ the tongue)
on wet teeth.
saliva
like your
sweet juices
(come calling to my tongue)
remind me
in my thirst
that it’s gone
with my slow finger
I trace
the smooth brown
slowly
in circles now
in
sis (terly)
tent circles
(encampments)
I gently raise my finger
to order another bourbon
’cause this one’s gone.