Anand Bose

2002-10-22 11:32:06 (UTC)


See the shroud as a covering, there’s a season of oeuvres,
curves shapes, tips, the gaze of being inside as what’s
inside. Blossom Bosom, Urn shaping into a carving, the
carnal cranium dissecting, a touch, a feel, the very
pattern of being the body; there’s a freedom to be going in
as the body----‘ssss, so many at times and being spaces.
It’s a finding of so many things pure fetishes in
adulation, pure transmogrifying of every inch of ground,
going in repeated motions of an animal hardly having
seasons, hardly having the compassion to yearn it all in a
mate. To be mating is so mutual where an arena is moribund
with a language, alien to all what the senses think and
feel- the language to ask what is not wanted and to feel
all that’s wanted. Is it natural- it never does? It’s so
natural all the time, its difficult to ask in language
learnt right through a course of life …