Art.Suvro.Ghosh

P846 If I have thoughts

If I have thoughts

It's not thinking of me

If I have any issues, any at all

They are as unreal as reality tends to be

Hope is such a fuzzy spot

Funny blurry moving smear

On a stream of wet fear

Where thoughts are lost

If all my mind does is look

It doesn't always know where

Or how, or what it even means to look

Often a hollow inward stare

All the stray clouds of joy

Are always light and float away

It's the deep dark ominous wet

That hold their sway

The weather inside is as real

As anything anyone can find

Except it's hidden behind the eyes

Of this counterfeit blind

A person with dull faculties

Details endure, because they are still

When you see them clearer

They often sharpen screaming shrill

I just want to think my mind to numb

To wade through the spin of lies they've spun

Until I run out of reason and logic

Exhausted thoughts outrun

P845 You think I'm Ugly? Thank you 😊

I'm a ghost

At the most

Rock star horror

Skin on a ghost

Doesn't roast

Sweet dark terror

Ugly you say, oh well, can't hide

Wait when you see what's inside

I'll chew you with my bleeding gums

Screaming yummy corny yums

I was shot in the head, between the eyes

I like to eat the guts with flies and fries

The murderer is the usual suspect

I chop your liver with some insect

They called me mad

They were bad

Now, well, now, I am sad

Once I'm done

I shit your skin

Wear it on my bone

Drape it thin

Then I'll look pretty and nice

A new skin every day, my only vice

Don't be shy, don't you run

Or you can, I like some fun

You can't go very far when all air

Might as well now, it's only fair

P835 Eat or be eaten

Eat or be eaten

Smit or be smitten

Cheat or be cheated

Fuck or be fucked

Shit or be shitted

That's what it's all about

Large medium small smaller still

One eats the other until hunger fill

It's natural I say, let it take its course

Don't try to bend it with willful force

Just remember you stay alive in plural

Otherwise you're just shit on a coral

P834 Eating Shit

Tragic farce my life my ass

Pretty shitty turds in my yap

Oh what a twist on top of chance

A fair bit of dark and some romance

How vividly pale devoid of color

The disneyland is rotten malodour

Chewing shit with a shitty grin

I'm swell how are you doing

P830 Booger Man

Boogerman Boogerman

whatcha have ya got?

I've got 4 boogers

One's still a snot

Put them in a box, I will

Store them in the hold

Eat them later in the chill

When freezing in the cold

It's got the vits I tell ya

Lovely salt and tart

Gotta love the chew in them

And later the good warm fart

I see art as a therapy. It can cure a constipated mind, constricted by the limitations in language, and especially as in my case, as a safety valve. It's better than slamming the door, I've found. There's a lot we can't effectively articulate that finds expression in the simplicity, vividness, flexibility and strangeness that only art can provide, best tour guide when you're shopping outside the status quo. Those long muted conversations, the inarticulate madness, the silliness or some glimpses of the grief I carry, is what this eponymous blog is trying to capture.

I don't want to deny the darkness that's inside me, anymore. And it's my sincere wish that in screaming the clues and hints about my mental health, I might make a difference to many that don't have a voice and suffer silently. And perhaps in a way the imperfections that I try to delineate in characters are all part of me, that's how I know they exist, and this negotiated encounter with my fears and fragility may help someone else overcome their demons.

I, for one, don't usually have a future onlooker in mind, except for a future me. I draw because I like to draw. I cherish the "I" part of art, and my unconcern for the "we" insulates me from the emotional afflictions that encumber people who use art to draw attention to themselves.

In any case, I am much better off as a person misunderstood and an invisible, ignored nonentity who aspires to an ambition. Just like my limericks and verse, all amateurish gibber, except that, unlike other polite, conservative people, I'm quite intrepid. On the surface, what might appear to be crass and misanthropic has a deeper groove. The pain in my life as told by a contrarian and an iconoclast is still an oversimplification of what is going on in my head, but at least it's the beginning of a conversation. And like William Blake I'll go unnoticed till much later, when historians will start examining the discarded fossils with investigative lens. But again, it doesn't matter.

I know that the content isn't politically correct. I've always had an issue with being family-friendly, or with euphemisms. You can't please everyone. There are far too many egos in the world. There's always someone wanting to bloody your nose over something, no matter how soft your language. It's easier on them when I get into a character. An insult from a salacious cartoon distraction isn't that corrosive, especially if you can't think. People struggle incessantly with the truth, boxed in their views with the pastry layers of deceptions and delusions - the sociopolitical and religious, the economic and most importantly the moral. They have naturally reserved their love for mealy-mouthed spineless pleasers and would harbor large dollops of ill will against me, I'm quite sure. They'd rather be in the dark than put up with light. Light has the irritating habit of exfoliating the assumptions and revealing the stark reality.

But unfortunately, it's blood loss in vain. The world has become so incongruous that even the harshest lurid, satirical exaggeration of it fails to deliver the bitter irony of the reality I see around me. And people are so resistant to the truth that a comical inversion only serves to elicit a superficial, obvious reaction, thus failing to deliver the punch. In effect, cringe stays cringe, unable to deliver the payload because that requires a thinking mind, perhaps one that's a little bit mad.

Although some of the material in these posts are part of my extended inner monologue, there's no clear derivation of the deviant emotion, an autobiographical reveal, or a bona-fide sketch of the repressed feeling. Maybe in a very generous compartmentalised way, like the level of trapped mercury in a vessel. It could be measuring various things, and you wouldn't be able to tell "what" if the labels on the unit went missing. When I draw a grotesque face, it maybe an indication of my emotions, but it's not connected in a meaningful way, and taking it literally at face value and making a judgement would be silly. If we can't laugh at our own confabulations, then we risk misunderstanding our own place in the universe and starting to take things too seriously. And it may hurt our anthropocentric ego, but putting human faces to animals, can have lurid results, I've noticed.

I often use the expectation of revulsion as a way to distinguish myself from just another pastiche. It's an internal assessment foisted on to an imaginary critic and not a good justification for the darkness. But when you describe the dark, it's no longer dark.

The worthiness of art is a matter of consensus, usually and historically, something that the artist hasn't profited from because that appraisal frequently happens posthumously. More than the art, it's the quality of uproar that you are able to generate, or more appropriately these days, fund, that determines whether an artist, in his lifetime, is able to climb out of obscurity. Distance in time or space, as an amplifier enhances, often adds an element of mystery. If anyone pays attention, these are often grafts to bolster missing information. Also, when you're dead, whatever you are can be flexibly redefined to suit the fancy of the benefactor. You can't protest. Thus a caveman struggling with his art may be in the news for etching an alien.

And the reason is not so much that we don't care, but more pertinently, that we aren't quite sure if what we think in our head is really all that. Consensus, however you manage it, gives you the statistically kosher answer. The first one to complement something ill-defined could make you the black sheep of the flock. What dark meanings or ulterior motives lurk behind the patina of lust isn't always clear. When we see something that doesn't immediately make sense to us, being the practical people that we are, we immediately dismiss it. No one in Van Gogh's time believed his art amounted to much. And he constantly struggled with poverty.

You can often have majestic masts but get nowhere. Mine is such a ship. I've hit the doldrums, and without a wind beneath my sails, I'm as good as rotting. Incidentally, it seems I have a knack for driving into the doldrums.

And art, for me, is a sort of an expression of a compulsive tic, a compulsion to exfoliate what's beneath all the makeup. It's often whatever is itching my curiosity. It's something I have to force out of my head or risk a rattle or jingle that's difficult to cure. I just start a doodle and keep at it until I want to do something else. It's that simple. I'm not an artist by any stretch of the definition. I don't make a living off of it. It's just a tic that helps explore the ingredients in the constituent wandering thoughts, the mysterious vagabonds that visit my mind to console the otherwise lonely, barren, and empty landscape.

These are thought experiments that usually deal with the unpleasant and the unremarkable. It helps to distance myself from me, find the brakes, attenuate, soothe. Perhaps the art is the curated fulmination of a closet thinker presented as is. Filaments of figment, visualised babble, fiction concocted.And sometimes stranger than that. Or a discoloured montage of what my life has been.

And that is why I can't put labels on them with intellectual identification of what their meaning is without over-analysing them to shreds. Sometimes I do, and then it's just a posthoc postmortem of something that wasn't really behind the inspiration. Most of the labels do have numbers on them that express a sequence, although it's not always sequential by creation.

P828

P827

P826

P825

P824

P823

P822

P821

P820

P819 Need a rational mind

Believe in the stars
And they are yours
For that is just in your mind, you see
Our mind is a willing fool, full of foolishness

But come has the time to really wake up
And see what is actually out there
Unblinking blind, is as blind as blinds are blind
Unflinching mind is what it will take

To us it's the scales of medium, you see
Outside us those scales are free
Can we come out of the house of horrible horror
Can we make humanity dance a difference dance

If we are to survive this form, we must mend our ways
Rational minds are the only way

Only the thinking ones will hold the sway
And pave the way forward

P818

P817

P816

P815 तेरा दिल दे दे जानेमन!

P814

T1: The Sugarcane Fruit

Once upon a time, there lived a clever fox.

In his nature of cleverness, there was perhaps a flaw in that he drew upon conclusions that came to his mind as immediately true with jest and merriment, with no tests or proof.

In his walks, past the sugarcane fields, the fox had noticed what he thought was a fruit and, following his fault in conclusions, drew it as a fact.

Fruit it was not quite far from that. It was a hornets’ nest, fiercely guarded by a swarm of brave hornets who never knew there was such cleverness as they were to witness that day.

Thinking on the conclusion that if there was a sweetness connection, the sugarcane fruit might be even sweeter. Best in all collections of fruits tasted. Mesmerized in delicacies, the clever fox grew increasingly eager.

Since he loved sugarcane, the temptation forced him to the field where the hive was. In the way he practiced in his mind, the fox climbed the ledge from where he could reach it. Balancing on the hind and holding it with the fore, he prepared to take a bite. Time stopped, and there was a sweetness of anticipation, sweeter than the sweetest thoughts.

On biting it, all hell broke loose. The silence of sweet anticipation disappeared as the hornets attacked.

He fled, severely stung.

Later, in reconciliatory thoughts, he recovered the plan. If it were just a matter of insects around ripe harvests, a stirring would be all that was sufficient, he reasoned. The clever fox mentally stirred up the hornets’ nest and felt the satisfaction of his genius. Overcome with joy, he decided on a revisit.

The stick strung with ropes and twigs he assembled was long and quite strong. As his memories of the pain ebbed with the swelling, his confidence grew.

He traveled to the sugarcane field again. He had overseen his logic in his mind to be accurate. With no more ado, he hit the hornets’ nest with a swift hurl of his weapon.

That was a bad idea.

This time, the wasps rained their wrath in stings, and the clever fox didn’t have any part of his fur left unstung.

He yelped and fled, caroming blind with pain. As far from the hive as he could run, he did.

And as all clever foxes knew, the world in its geometry of shape was like a plate—flat. With an edge at the end, that you must not run too far, lest you slip off the edge of all cleverness and fall into the deep unknown, foolishness even.

So the clever fox kept running in concentricities, chased to his end by the rabid hornets.