Lonely Attic ⇒ Kirno Sohochari

The attic is my nexus to feel the world underneath my skin. I see the lights and shadows of life through the attic’s nook. This little loophole is my screen for watching the flying kites and whitebard airplanes in the sky. Kites and airplanes are always flying under the blazing sunlit; they flight amid the cotton bandaged deep cloudy sky, forgetting their significance in life. The shaded attic is my lifeline where I can hear the drones of crows and warbling of cuckoos, magpies or doves every day. Cranes stroll beside the attic’s window, and sometimes they stretched their camel’s neck to surprise me.

The little attic is my loophole. It helped me to receive the breathless chanting of my fellow neighbors. They are industrious and meditated for wheeling the chariot of life sans any vacillation. I watched them to the attic’s nook and trembled to see their turbulent passion for life. These folks are excited to stay forever in life. Sometimes their Sufi-whirling provoked me to partake the whirling unto the end. Really, you need a whirlpool if you are yearning to wheel the chariot of life. Whirling in life at any cost is compulsory if you want to make it meaningful for you. I know my neighbors read them meaningful for the creation and the creator as well; it is compulsory for them, comprehend the oblique beginning and conclusion of life, so they can praise their self-made anecdote at later.

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Tumblr photo: At the distant place

… I know very little about the lights and shadows of life. The horror and humor of my fellow neighbors confined me in the attic, and I am bound to see the lane as an impotent bookman and passive windowman. I am Tiresias, can forecast the fate of Oedipus’ that, unwittingly he is the murderer of previous king Laius.
… … …

 

I see my fellow neighbors to the attic’s hole; their apt handshaking nicely adapted with the hope of a “heavy good day”; above all, they are very artful on delivering the “intense goodbye” with a deadpan face. I though a Windowman but not an outsider to them. Believe me, we exchange greeting with order and civility. My attic helped me to maintain the social decorum, and I greet a blissful day for all creation with a deadpan face, which rescued me to the antisocial chaos.

Life is chaotic; antisocial resonance chased it every moment. This resonance is mightier than the deadpan we have used to express in daily life; it lurked there to convert the cliché expression in chaos and anarchy. I know chaotic resonances strolls on the lane and lurked there to catch me; if they get a chance, I know, they will not waste time to change my deadpan face with antisocial scratches. I am not mad to put me in a danger by scratching the face like an antisocial. Instead of, I like to stay in the attic with deadpan face and heaps of lifeless wishes. It’s easier to greet the neighbors from a safe distance. The inside is safer than the outside, as like, my tiny attic is secure than the chaotic lane.

Every day I see the lane from my attic’s nook. The place is ideal for observing the strangers to a safe distance. Sometimes the attic’s window exhibits strange sequences. A funny peddler peeped in my window with his drollery. Sometimes the blind Baul singer appeared sudden with his mystic one string monochord; his varicolored mantle and shabby monochord tried to hypnotize me; so that I can say a final goodbye to the narrow space. The blind Baul provoked me to dance with the uncertain chaos; so I can realize the values of solitude in life. Moreover, a lunatic often appeared naked on my window. His frequent appearance insisted me to become naked and lead this life as a freeman. It is advantageous, because, deadpan burdens do not bother you and you can move anywhere or hide your presence at any time. A lunatic’s nudity is the only life-educating idiom to me; yes, we needed to be staying naked and lunatic if we want to act like a freeman in our short lifespan.

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Fine art America: Escape in burnt umber: Ben Kelley

… A bookman is a seeker of unthinkable, where a windowman observe everything from a safe distance. The planet is not different to the attic; both of them are insignificant in the vast infinite; in where everything is sleeping and revive before the twinkling moments of eyes. Bookman seeks the ineffable moments and windowman tried to catch the indefinable. This is knowledge, the proclamation of a man that he is able to see his banality through the attic’s nook.
… … …

This shady attic is my confinement. I am not so extrovert and not be the introvert as well. The old armchair confined me in the attic; it prevents me to peep like a prankish peddler, sing like a blind singer and prevents me from enjoying the real nudity of a freeman. My narrow attic is my captivity. I captivated me in a cozy loophole. The damp loophole is my heaven where I nurtured me amid the thousands book and millions alphabet. I live the fictional life in a real attic. My confinement makes me the attic-man; a narrow loophole insisted me to sing the Windowman’s song; and, a hotchpotch of myriad alphabets tickling my libido to recite the life just like a Bookman.

I bandaged me in the attic as like the clown bandaged his face in colors. He looked funny due to his prankish eyelash, and the funny clown peeped in my window moments before. His varicolored lip whispered in my attic like the void casket. The funny clown tried to denote me that, confinement in an attic is humiliating. I told him, “Why you think like this?” The talkative answered me with a smile, “O the attic-man, have you forgotten, the more you see the more you confined in blindness? Have you forgotten, when you read more you will forget even more? Yes, the more you read the more you forget! You forget what you are reading and for why?”

A clown is comical and he could be ignored. Anyway, I love my cozy armchair; it helped me to watch the lane from a safe distance. My cozy armchair insists me to greet the neighbors with deadpan modesty, so I can easily say to the clown, “Hi Mr. Clown, go to the hell and don’t try to advise me. Listen, when I rub the moonlit in my face, I want to do it as a complete Bookman or the Windowman. It’s exciting to hear the drumming noise of raindrops from the dark attic. Knowledge deserves darkness; it deserves the armchair, where you seated for watching and reading the lane with lucid feelings, from where you can see the high sky and down lane with a deadpan face. You can call me the armchair-man and I do not mind for this, because, my armchair made me the “Thinker”.

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Wiki: Rodin’s The Thinker

… The events of the lane are terrifying. I should go to the lane, should be acting like a human to save the neighbor, but I did not take a further step at that time. It’s true that I didn’t feel any urge or provocation to exit the attic… The bronzed man led me to the thought-provoking synthesis of the incidents, which was happening in the lane at that time. Synthesizing the incident in mind is more exciting rather facing it. The attic is the safest place for him to take different modes of thoughts like Rodin’s bronzed artwork.
… … …

Yes, this armchair is my safe-zone; it helped me to act like a “Thinker”. I like to see Rodin‘s “Thinker” through my attic’s loophole. His bronze “Thinker” is lilting sweet thoughts in my dark cave. He inspired me to seat on the armchair and watching the events with a stony face. The “Thinker” has numerous modes and I followed him by seating on my armchair in numerous modes. The objective is simple, and that is, I like implied my armchair-thoughts to the social and against the antisocial.

My attic is my mirror to see the daily events of life. The little mirror is my only world to see the bandaged sky and thorny lane at the same time and fashion. It displayed the neighbor who stabbed bit before the moment, who raped a little moment earlier, who threatened by the gangsters a minute ago, and terrorist killed him in broad daylight when I was busy to catch numerous modes of Rodin’s “Thinker”, settled me in the cozy armchair.

The events of the lane are terrifying. I should go to the lane, should be acting like a human to save the neighbor, but I did not take a further step at that time. It’s true that I didn’t feel any urge or provocation to exit the attic. Reason is simple, a Windowman or the Bookman practicing serious thoughts, but he cannot able to exit the attic and go down in the lane to see what really happened there. The bronzed man led me to the thought-provoking synthesis of the incidents, which was happening in the lane at that time. Synthesizing the incident in mind is more exciting rather facing it. The attic is the safest place for him to take different modes of thoughts like Rodin’s bronzed artwork.

A Thinker is an observer and synthesizer but impotent to protect or interpose anything. He wakes up to the sleep a moment before to see the reality that, the Drone is humming beside his windshield; he can make his own synthesis about its effect or reaction but powerless to destroy it. I am not different there. Yes, I should have let me down to the lane on that moment, should have thrown the flower bouquet (which I called Knowledge and Progress) so it can neutralize the Drone. However, I “should have” but not capable of doing this. I am the copycat of Rodin’s “Thinker” who confined me in a garret.

It’s not possible for me to escape from the attic and I could not do this at that time; because, I was middle of my last reading book, hanged on the mesmerizing painting, stacked in the enthralling love-scene of a movie, so how can I let me down to the lane? No, I cannot let down, since, my last thoughts on the “future fate of humanity amid the harmonized chaos” yet unfinished. Mr. Neighbor, I am sorry that I couldn’t do anything for you; I am truly impotent to stop the Drone, unexpected stabbing or the gang rape in a lane. What I can do is, watching you from the attic’s nook by keeping a safe distance to the violence.

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culture night Los Angeles: Ford Lane Road by Edward Hopper

… My attic helped me to maintain the social decorum, and I greet a blissful day for all creation with a deadpan face, which rescued me to the antisocial chaos… I am not mad to put me in a danger by scratching the face like an antisocial. Instead of, I like to stay in the attic with deadpan face and heaps of lifeless wishes. It’s easier to greet the neighbors from a safe distance. The inside is safer than the outside, as like, my tiny attic is secure than the chaotic lane.
… … …

My attic is my Facebook and I hanged on the middle of my status, it is yet not complete and needed to be completed. Facebook is the only solace for me to forget the scene that, a little kid expired a few moments earlier; he expired after finishing his longest migration in the ocean. The sea waves pushed him to the beach for taking the eternal rest. The little kid prostrated on the beach; he prostrated there like an oil-soaked blue whale, ignoring the debate on the future fate of this planet due to the changes of climate, politics and scientific inventions.

No, I cannot fling out me from the attic’s nook, because yonder cleft is my binocular to zoom the depletion of human and all other objects in the lane. The attic is my knowledge bank and I am the Bookman. I know very little about the lights and shadows of life. The horror and humor of my fellow neighbors confined me in the attic, and I am bound to see the lane as an impotent Bookman and passive Windowman. I am Tiresias, can forecast the fate of Oedipus’ that, unwittingly he is the murderer of previous king Laius. 

A Bookman is a seeker of unthinkable, where a Windowman observe everything from a safe distance. The planet is not different to the attic; both of them are insignificant in the vast infinite; in where everything is sleeping and revive before the twinkling moments of eyes. Bookman seeks the ineffable moments and Windowman tried to catch the indefinable. This is knowledge, the proclamation of a man that he is able to see his banality through the attic’s nook.

My attic is my proclamation of knowing the ineffable, where I can see the starry infinite and reversely the long procession of my neighbors on the lane. They are now marching on the lane against taxation, inflation, civil war, and gunfight. I clearly see them to my attic. A police convoy started firing to apart them, and a Khasi woman walking on the lane fearlessly. She looked a stranger in the turbulent protest and gun firing and looked identical with the trees and indifferent to the tumult.

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Getty images: Banksy’s Graffiti Art On West Bank Barrier Photo by David Silverman on Getty Images

… It’s not possible for me to escape from the attic and I could not do this at that time; because, I was middle of my last reading book, hanged on the mesmerizing painting, stacked in the enthralling love-scene of a movie, so how can I let me down to the lane? No, I cannot let down, since, my last thoughts on the “future fate of humanity amid the harmonized chaos” yet unfinished.
… … …

The betel-leaf woman looked aloof to the turbulence of life in the lane. She looked fictional and absurd in the bizarre events of rape, murder, gunfight, protest, and tumult of my neighbors. My eyes clearly see her betel-leaf-face to the attic. Her soft body expressed the eternal maternity of hardship love and wild aloofness to the incidents happened in front of her eyes at this moment. It seemed that she is walking in the lane to think it prehistoric!

The woman is walking amid the restive neighbors like a fearless Nightingale. Her betel-leaf-face and courageous wings reminded me to the fearless flight of Dodos. O the Dodo bird, do you know you looked prehistoric? Do you know you are only the real amid the fictional events of life, which is happening in the lane at this moment? O the betel-leaf-woman, you are walking in a lane that was belonging since from the prehistoric time. 

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Jamaica Gleaner

… I live the fictional life in a real attic. My confinement makes me the attic-man; a narrow loophole insisted me to sing the windowman’s song; and, a hotchpotch of myriad alphabets tickling my libido to recite the life like a bookman.
… … …

Staying insentient of everything that belongs in the lane is great. The Khasi woman is walking in the lane by ignoring the conflicts between lights and shadows, progress and regress, bookish and book-less, peace and unrest; the betel-leaf-woman just walking like a book that is yet unread and always be intangible to my neighbors and me.

The woman is walking and my eyes are eager to follow her unto the last vanishing point. I know it is boyish, but I wanted to follow her, to forget that I am a Windowman and confined in the attic as a Bookman. My attic is my confinement, but someday I take an exit to it, where I will meet the woman at the vanishing point; to know that, how was she when everything was maternal and we were identical in the restless union to deliver our first love in the lane.

 

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BBC: Timothy Allen

 

… This little loophole is my screen for watching the flying kites and whitebard airplanes in the sky. Kites and airplanes are always flying under the blazing sunlit; they flight amid the cotton bandaged deep cloudy sky, forgetting their significance in life.
Photo Credit Cover Design: Edward Hopper’s Sun in Empty Room
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