Your pipe dream has rusted...

How long will congregations of your past serve as a roadblock to quarantine your utopian dreams? In the midst of all the falling pieces of your sky, what keeps you from etching a new sun and envisioning a new horizon? The best laid plans, layered with familiarity and propped up with what is known today will surely falter and crash into the unknown of what tomorrow brings. Your complacency becomes your inadequacy becomes your failure. Failure to endure and enthrall anew. Failure to challenge and to astonish. It’s uncanny what unchartered spaces of your mind you have kept yourself from in adherence to the limit of your current faculty.

Sideways, not up and up and up. Those who rose from mezzanines of an ordinary skyscraper shiver with the gravity when pulled asunder. They will never get put back together, and even if so, the aesthetics would never be the same. The warranty is void. You stack up floors upon floors of mediocrity. You pile up levels upon levels of the constant buzzing of the most unsightly most ungainly of melodeons.  Your pipe dream has rusted and your tunnel vision has no light. You were never meant to scale up. Sideways. So sideways – new fields, new spaces, new sounds and new faces. In that lies your only provision to pass your weight to the ground and by buoyed back up. The proverbial spring in your step requires cohesion not adhesion. What's risen will be razed by the attrition of time. What's acquired will embrace you. Sideways. 

It's a bad day for Suicide Patrol...

This post is about the new Dye Corduroy single "Suicide Patrol" - if you're looking for actual suicide intervention, please contact your local police & request them to start a faction that would be ever vigilant and on patrol to equate the literal purpose of the song title. Otherwise, tune in...

The song tries to capture the moment between feeling invincible & inconsolably doomed. The shadowboxing central character in first person is on the precipice of oblivion where the misery of his might & his racing pulse collides. Spoiler alert: In the end, it's a bad day for Suicide Patrol.

From the upcoming record: Here Beside the Decoy

Dye Corduroy - Suicide Patrol

https://soundcloud.com/dye-corduroy/suicide-patrol

Stream/Download

visit the Dye Corduroy FB page

Music/Lyrics/Artwork: Adil Salik

Bring a little rain...

 

Everything the same, whenever there's a change

Cause there's a prison in my mind for the views rendered insane

The lay of the land, the back of the hand, these forces unite to split stone into sand

As you hesitate, and I gravitate, I mirror the green of your eyes in the Durand

Dye Corduroy - Bring a Little Rain

Queries about Escape

If escape was an option… how many people would line up in hopes of jettisoning their modalities and the beating of their days? If the new standard became the great getaway… then how exclusive would be the framework everybody left behind? How many people would like to slip into someone else’s lives and dreams and aspirations and broken chandeliers that they had left behind in chasing the way out?

Is it a restructuring of actual working modules that we need or a just a renovation of our minds? And if ignorance is bliss, is euphoria the abysmal dark depth of the unlearning? Who wants to regress into the unfolding of the codons and un-circling of cycles to a state of involution? You’d rather atrophy your vision then set sight on frontiers anew? Does it feed you the gustations so alien that you choke on the broadened horizons of your soul? Is familiarity your only last specter of home?

Where and when do you belong? And, pray tell, when will you let go?

There are answers you have unearthed for which no questions were posed to. There were many before us that probably led a more illuminated path of congruent peace and entropy. All of this amalgamates into one ying-yang of fashioned ideals. The obstacle courses created by her for her and by him for me, with a prize at the end, like the dangling of the unholiest of carrots. So feast on the nightmare that shines in your eye with every blink.

And when we find you still struggling to let go of your name; just know this: You have lived many other lives that spun from every misstep you thought you took and your parallels have taken up too much time and space in this alternate closet of vacuum. It is time to father the foster-child that you abandoned in the suburbs of your burgeoning psyche. It is time to dig deeper into the sky. It is time to make your bed. It is time to remember the reveries are indeed worth stopping for. Stop and sleep and dream a dream. Your circadians are aching from the rape.

Wallet in; Wallet out

It's not easy okay? Lugging a leather shoulder bag (mmm... this beauty was bought on the outskirts of Lahore & bargained down from Rs. 6000 to 3000 :), a big-a$$ totes storm proof umbrella so that the much too frequent snow storms don't snap them in half (R.I.P. 4 umbrellas), yer mufflers'n'gloves and what-nots, my beloved Creative: Zen (it's the mp3 player than iPod wishes it can be), cell-phone, metro-card, train ticket, office keys etc. It's not easy at all.

The juggling act becomes a full blown circus when coz' of the snow, the train timings are thrown off. Cut to me: purchasing a ticket at the kiosk in Linden, NJ with the bus AT the platform about to leave. So I rush in, wallet out, flailing articles mentioned above. Last dreaded Wednesday this was, the day of the big storm. (this last line sounded like old man crazy-face narrating a forbidden tale of unfathomed natural disasters, unrequited love and whales and what not).

So, Wednesday it was, and then I got off at the Penn Station in Manhattan & proceeded to the track 10 escalators. Some shady looking mexicans, breakfast burrito in hand ofcourse, were waiting by the mouth of the escalators whilst everyone is always trying to push through. They were three, as in the three mice or rats (pinch me when this becomes racially incorrect). Surely, I brushed past them, toting my beloved, aforementioned, hot as fudge briefcase on my right shoulder, covering my right-hiney where the wallet rested peacefully (OR DID IT?). From the corner of my eye, I saw the lil critters get on the escalators behind me. I paid no heed. Not a single f**k was given. Then, halfway up the escalators, I felt a nudge of sorts; my bag was pushed. My sixth sense surely tingled & I was going to check my wallet - but the capsule that is the Track 10 escalator & the mob of people prevented me from reaching around my bag.

As I got off, ofcourse, the wallet was missing. I ran down & raced the train so I could tell the driver to stop - it was headed to the yard. In any case, I requested a search, got the train number & the conductor said he'd look and call me if he'd find something. Then, I proceeded to freak out - my permanent resident card, debit cards, even my social security card was in it. Don't ask me why I was carrying all originals everywhere.

So I got a call back, nothing: the conductor said it's clean. However he said a thorough inspection is made at the yard so check with Lost & Found in a day. So I filed a report - and Umme & I settled that it was indeed a pick-pocketing. A certain salsa dippin, tortilla yielding, taco munchin type of pick-pocketing. I filed a report with the police at the station - ofcourse after waiting ten minutes to see if the sniffer dog would leave the station. He didn't. I had to brave it. Not that I had weed laced in my fundies. I just am generally scared of dogs that are more than yay high *holds out pinkie*.

The report was filed, I went to worked, I came back, got stuck in the storm, had to walk a mile in the worst of it, we shivered, we mourned and the snow day that was Thursday was spent in an in-illustrious mood.

Come Friday, this morning. After I parked my car at a few rare dug out, non-5 feet of snow mountain spots - this whitey fat rednecky ass-munch comes out & starts squealing like a demented buck, that it's HIS spot. It's a street. It's not yo-momma's. He kept crying until I told him to get the frak out of my face and stop squealing like bacon. Amidst this clamor, I had to find another parking spot - and the 7:35 train was missed - so I caught the 8:02 one. Which was a good thing.

As I got to Penn station & headed to the Lost'n'Found that I had visited twice before to no avail - It was revealed that I had been at the Amtrak Lost and Found window & not NJ transit. Why the officer didn't mentioned that the last two days - no one really knows.

And thus - sure as sunshine - NJ Transit Lost and Found had my freakin' wallet. All the $76 odd were gone. But the 50 Dirham note was in there. This was the one Mom gave me before she had to leave for Dubai and when me and Umme were moving to Amreeka. So, in some blessed reprieve, it was nestled in there. Thanks Mom :)

Whether the wallet was pick-pocketed or I had dropped it on the train will forever remain, much like most of my friends true paternity, a mystery. Thank God it's F**king Friday indeed.

p.s. Umme: time to pay off yer prayer-debt :P

Last night...

  

Watching the whites come down...

Point Pleasant Beach, NJ,  is in the eye of a snow storm with blizzard warnings, mega-winter storm alerts & what not. Feh. What better time to lapse-slap the snow. around and what not... Watch this space for updates as the snow will surely pile up to supposed colossal amounts. Or go get a life...

 

  

  

 

S(K)now...