oasis-of-you - Tumblr blog

[oasis-of-you]

SO. I have a musical conlang[1] that is spoken by some gods on the planet Chamkra, several thousand years in the future

For regular humans to speak this gods' language, they have to sing and also play an instrument or two to be able to speak it properly. At the bare level of understandability (we'll get more to that later).

GENERALLY, for a human to speak the god's music: A voice for melody, and an instrument for rhythm and/or for harmony or polyphonic melody (just fancy way of saying "playing another melody alongside the other one; I'm just going to call 'the other polyphonic melody' the harmony for ease of reading).

Generally, it's either done by one person or two, rarely more since getting to the gods in greater numbers can be a dangerous journey. (Even this only allows them to speak the BASICS of the language, nothing complicated)

Two people: One singer, who plays harmony, while someone else plays percussion. Mismatching the percussion to the melody & harmony causes way less misunderstandings than if the melody and harmony contradict each other 'grammatically' [1]. Melody & harmony (or second melody) are more essential parts of the language, more BASIC. Together they form the bare bones of a word.

One person: A singer doing harmony as well as rhythm. Think of what one might do with a piano or keyboard, playing melody with the right hand and chords (which, in popular styles, obey the beat in a more obvious way). On Chamkra, there is a stringed instrument which also has a button that's clicked for rhythm.

How do the gods themselves speak the language?

Well, they have the benefit of being able to bend the air all around them to 'sing' with them, plus they're actually fluent and have the correct accent and hence don't miss out on the nuances that come with being EXACT with the deviation of just a couple cents on some pitches or a couple microseconds with some rhythms.

Also helps that the instruments are built right into their bodies (and not just their voice!).

About their homes & bodies: these gods live on overhanging geographical structures in the sky — remains of a dead god[2] who was even larger, to the point of now being a part of the geography — and these music-speaking gods were once human, but their bodies have fused with the dead god's body.

The part where their old body and the dead god's body fused, it forms into a musical instrument, used just as you'd use an arm or a leg or your throat. In some cases, many original body parts get destroyed, including the vocal cords, so in many cases having musical instruments as part of the body is necessary.

Fluency over the Chamkra gods' requires the gods' magic. But perhaps it can be the other way round too, fluency over the gods' language allowing one to get the gods' magic, the gods' power…

Footnotes:

[1] Just know that certain patterns — of melody & rhythm etc etc — are what constitute grammar; where does grammar separate from the concept of music theory? Mostly in its use, since the gods use it for everyday communication, + while music theory tells you, "how do people generally hear these certain sounds? what do people raised on a certain type of music perceive as a pleasant sound, as a dissonant sound, a 'bright' or 'dark' sound?", grammar describes language and language conveys less ABSTRACT concepts than music does ; the gods' language is musical in that someone who doesn't speak it might think it's music, and because its structures can be described with terms that are often used for music, it's blurring the line between music and language essentially.

[2] The dead god was formed from the remains of both the previous apocalypses on Chamkra: The first one in which the planet turned royal blue, overtaken by an alien plant. The second one in which the whole planet turned gold and glittery due to numerous geographical, biological, and magical processes.

The core of the old god is made of the alien plants, which gained sentience and formed a hive mind, which merged into the god's consciousness. As mentioned before, this old god is so enormous it's a geographical feature, connected to the ground at several points (including one origin point), and it looms over the sky of half the planet. Branches, thick and thin at different parts. Creates a roof in some parts too.

And with the golden apocalypse, the god shielded parts of itself with gold. Patches. Do note that a lot of it wasn't ACTUALLY gold, just something that looks like gold. But regardless, the golden patches were several meters thick, covering anywhere from a couple square meters to several square kilometres in area.

The old god died with the aftermath of the golden apocalypse. Its body remained, though.

[oasis-of-you]

Ooh would you consider making a post on Bangla biological and chemical words? Because I recently learnt the word for "photosynthesis" from my mother and it's really cool so I had the thought

The word is "saaloksangshleshan" but you probably know that

Okay so, here's your list after more than a month (was too busy with exams, sorry ☠️)... Just botany related words for today:

Bengali Botany Vocabulary🌿:

Botany - উদ্ভিদবিদ্যা (udbhidbiddā)

Plant - উদ্ভিদ (udbhid)

Vegetation - গাছপালা (gāchpālā)

Flowering plants - সপুষ্পক উদ্ভিদ (sôpushpôk udbhid)

Non flowering plants - অপুষ্পক উদ্ভিদ (ôpushpôk udbhid)

Seed - বীজ (bīj)

Spores - বীজগুটি (bījguṭi)

Photosynthesis (and no, I hadn't even heard this word before ☠️) - সালোকসংশ্লেষণ (sāloksônśleṣôṇ)

Roots - শিকড় (Śikôṛ)

Stem - ডাঁটা, কাণ্ড (ḍā~ṭā, kāṇḍo)

Leaves - পাতা (pātā)

Flower - ফূল (phūl)

Pollen - পরাগ, রেণু (pôrāg, reṇu)

Pollination - পরাগায়ন, পরাগযোগ (pôrāgāyon, pôrāgzhog)

Seed dispersal - বীজ বিস্তার (bīj bistār)

Nectar - মধু (modhu)

Anther - পরাগধানী (pôrāgdhāni)

Stigma - গর্ভমুণ্ড (gôrbhomuṇḍo)

Transpiration - বাষ্পমোচন (bāṣpomocôn)

[oasis-of-you]

চিঠি (Letter)

A letter in Bangla, followed by its translation in English. For Day 7 of the Desi LGBT Fest 2022.

                                                                                                              ০৭/০৬/২০২২                                                                                                                      কলকাতা

হয়তো, যখন অবশেষে তুমি এই চিঠি খুলবে, তখন তোমার জীবন পুরো দমে চালু হয়ে গিয়ে থাকবে। হয়তো তুমি জোরটা পেয়েছ তোমার গল্পগুলো পৃথিবীকে খুলে দেখাতে পেরেছ; হয়তো তোমার মনের মধ্যে জাদুর, প্রেমের, আশার দুনিয়াগুলো কাগজের উপর, বা সাদা ডকিউমেন্টে প্রকাশ করেছ। বা, হয়তো, তুমি এই কলেজে ঢুকেছ, কে জানে, আই.আই.টি. দিল্লী যেমন তুমি চেয়েছিলে, বা ইয়েল, বিশ্বের ওই প্রান্তরে, আঠারো বছর পরে মা-বাবার থেকে ৮০০০ কিলোমিটার দূরে। তুমি কী পড়ছ? অথবা কী পড়েছ? অঙ্ক? নাকি ভাষাতত্ত্ব; একা একটা স্বপ্ন দেখে পরিবারের কথা না শুনে বেরিয়ে গেছ?

তুমি প্রচুর বাধার সাথে মুখামুখি হয়েছ। আরও বাধা আসবে; তা ছারা জীবনই বৃথা। তবে তুমি পারবে। আমার দৃঢ় বিশ্বাস তুমি পারবে। তুমি এতো কিছু ঝেলেছ − আমি জানি। আমি জানি যে তুমি ক্লান্ত হয়েছ, হচ্ছ, হবে। কিন্তু তোমাকে চলতেই হবে।

২০১৮। ৩৭৭ ধারা অসাংবিধানিক শাসিত হয়েছে। তুমি কাগজের উপরে বড়-বড় করে দেখছ লেখা আছে একটা ইংরেজি শব্দ − গে, গে, গে। এ কী জিনিস, তুমি ভাবছ। ইন্টারনেটে কোনও বাধা নেই। এই দেখো গে মানে কী − আর এবার তুমি ভাবতে শুরু করো, আমি গে নাকি? এভাবেই তুমি নিজেকে নিয়ে অনেক কিছু শিখেছ, আর এভাবেই, ভেবে-ভেবে, তুমি বোঝো, আমি সন্দেহ ছারা গে। 

আর আস্তে, আস্তে, তুমি এটাও বোঝো যে পাশে বন্ধু ছারা, এই যুদ্ধ জেতা যাবেনা।

তুমি আমার থেকে বয়সে বড়। তোমার নিশ্চয়ই বুদ্ধি বেশি, অনেক কিছু দেখেছ, কতজনকে চেনো এবং আলাপ করেছ তা তো অসঙ্খ্য। কিন্তু − তাদেরকে ভুলোনা যারা তোমার জীবনের সবচেয়ে কষ্টের মুহূর্তে তোমার পাশে ছিল। ওই তিনটে বন্ধু − হ্যাঁ, ওরা − ওদেরকে ছেরোনা। আমি জানিনা, সম্ভাবত তোমরা আর কথা বলোনা। তবুও ভুলে যেওনা। আর এটাও ভুলে যেওনা যে তুমি আলাদা। সারা পৃথিবী তোমাকে সন্দেহজনক মনে করে। তোমার আত্মিক পূর্বপুরুষরা তোমার অধিকারের জন্যে লড়েছে। তুমি ভারতীয়; তুমি সমকামী। তোমার নিজের আত্মা স্মৃতি ভর্তি। তুমি এই ধর্ম-পাগল দেশে বেঁচেছ, যদিও কখনও মনে হয়েছে তোমার নিঃশ্বাস যেন যে কোনও সময় বন্ধ হয়ে যাবে, কারণ চারই দিক, না, ছয় দিক, সামনে-পিছনে-ডান-বাম-উপর-নিচে থেকে তোমার দেশ তোমার শ্বাসরোধ করছে। তবুও, যদি তুমি এই চিঠি পড়ছ, তুমি আশা রেখেছ। নিজেকে দুর্বল মনে করোনা। তোমার পুরো জীবন তোমার সামনে আছে। শক্তি রাখো। তোমার যৌবনকাল প্রমান করে যে তোমার আছে।

ছেলেরা আসবে, যাবে, থাকবে, চলে যাবে। তুমি পড়েছ তো। নইলে এতোগুলো প্রেমের উপন্যাস পড়ার কী মানে ছিল? একটু তো সত্যতা আছে প্রত্যেকটি গল্পে। আমি আবার বলব: আমি জানিনা। কী জানি, হয়তো তোমার আছে একজন। একটা অসাধারণ ছেলে। রোজ দেখো তাকে, রোজ ভাবো তুমি ওর মতো একটা মানুষের যোগ্য হলে কিভাবে। আর ও যদি তোমাকে একই ভাবে আদর করে, এটা নিয়ে নিশ্চিন্ত হও যে ও তোমাকে এভাবেই দেখে। 

জানিনা, এই পত্র যখন খুলবে, তখন তুমি তোমার স্বপ্নের মতো বেঁচে উঠতে পেরেছ কি না। যাই হক না কেন − উঠে আসো; দাঁড়াও; বেরোও। অনেকজন তোমায় ভালোবাসে। তুমি কখনও একা থাকবেনা।

তোমার অপেক্ষা করা হচ্ছে। তুমি কিসের অপেক্ষা করছ?

− ইতি, অনেক বছর আগেকার তুমি

***

                                                                                                              07/06/2022                                                                                                                     Kolkata

Maybe, when you finally open this letter, your life will have started for real. Maybe you’ve found the courage to openly show the world your stories; maybe you’ve expressed the worlds of magic, love, hope in your mind on paper, or blank documents. Or, maybe, you’ve just entered college, who knows, IIT Delhi like you always wanted, or Yale, on the other side of the world, 8000 kilometers away from Ma and Baba after eighteen years. What are you studying? Or, what have you studied? Maths? Or linguistics; alone, following a dream, ignoring your family’s advice, have you set off?

You’ve faced many difficulties. More will come; life is pointless without them. But you can do it. I daresay you can do it. You’ve dealt with so much — I know. I know you were, are, will be tired. But you have to go on.

2018. Section 377 has just been ruled unconstitutional. You see one English word written in big letters in the headlines — gay, gay, gay. The Internet has no limits. Look, this is what gay means — and now you begin to wonder, am I gay? You’ve learnt so much about yourself this way, and just so, having thought much, you realize, I am, without doubt, gay.

And, slowly, you realize this too: that without friends, this war cannot be won.

You’re older than me. You’re definitely smarter, you’ve seen so much, and you know countless people and have met infinitely many. But — don’t forget those who were beside you in your life’s worst moments. Those three friends — yes, them — don’t leave them. I don’t know, maybe you don’t talk to them anymore. Still, don’t forget them. And don’t forget this, either: you’re different. The whole world suspects you. Your spiritual forefathers fought for your rights. You are Indian; you are homosexual. Your own soul is full of memories. You have survived this country of religious fanaticism, even though it has seemed, sometimes, that you will suffocate at any moment, because from all four directions, no, six, from front-back-left-right-up-down your country is choking you. If you are reading this letter, then you have kept up hope. Don’t consider yourself weak. Your whole life is in front of you. Have strength. Your youth proves that you possess it.

Boys will come, go, stay, leave. You’ve read about it. Otherwise, what was the point of all those romance novels? There’s definitely a grain of truth to every story. I will say again: I don’t know. Perhaps you already have someone. An extraordinary boy. You see him every day, and each day you think, how did you manage to deserve someone like him? And if he loves you as much as you love him, rest assured that he sees you the same way.

Who knows if, when you open this letter, you have managed to live as you always dreamt. In any case — rise; stand up; come out. You are loved by many. You will never be alone.

You are awaited — what are you waiting for?

Yours, From years in the past, you

***

@desi-lgbt-fest

[oasis-of-you]

oh shit hey yall

[oasis-of-you]

— taglist cleanse.

hi! i didn’t make a post announcing the change but this is eden, prev. @mahalli. ik it’s been a while since i’ve posted my own work but im back on writeblr again, specifically just for forgotten sun. i might not actually post content in a while or as often but in the slight chances that i do, pls lmk if u wanna stick with me by interacting with this post!! if not im just gonna assume you’re either 1) inactive or 2) dont wanna be on it anymore, and i’ll remove you.

there’s absolutely no pressure to stay; i just gotta know so it’s not a hindrance to your guys’ notifs or anything (esp since i’ve been dead for like a year lol)

EDIT: i forgot to add that if u asked for your writeblr/sideblog to be added and are interacting with your main, pls also tell me too so i don’t remove u unwittingly :’)

forgotten sun taglist i’m referring to:

@sondials @seasteading @kazino @emdrabbles @casabii @deathbyworm @onceihadadreamuniverse @nikolae @atbwrites @cielnocturnes @atelierwriting @azrance @burningapollos @akoumi @herondalelucies @callmeweeeh @oasis-of-you @blindthewind @jadeywrites @sultanah @hennawar @jilliancatherine @cream-and-tea @quilloftheclouds @maybe-a-cat42

[oasis-of-you]

the last train (?)

it has been so long since i took that train i looked at you till you disappeared i didn’t want to see you again

there were days i needed you and i cried that you were at a distance and i cried you wouldn’t be here for me even if you weren’t

i was the boy who cried wolf when i needed you to look i asked too much, you yelled and being me was all it took

you called often to check in and i dropped by for the old days when i forgot why i can’t forget you’ll never leave your old ways

i never stop going back to the you in my head the romanticised childhood with parents who tucked me into the bed

instead of turning me away while they hold their baby close telling him he is loved while i vent to my diary in prose

now my heart is a mosaic broken, abstract art and so is my support system that is still the hard part

i seek out family in people i met last week i lay myself bare before a glass wall they can’t come in, only see

i’ve had trouble with that for as long as i can remember i let you in so many times and you always made sure i said never (again)

i can make it harder for me to visit but it can never be hard enough you paint me as the prodigal son but i’m just a hopeless fool who wants your love

taglist under the cut (ask to be added or removed <3)

Keep reading

[oasis-of-you]

Theories of Friendship

They say, “If a poem isn’t finished, it haunts you.” Yesternight, I dialed a trunk call to the past and heard an answering voice, thinking I am an understudy of nostalgia caught red-handed in Hobson’s choice.

The sound of visions are boundaries of heartbeats blurring on the map of laughter. Love spread like floor mats on school grounds, as we laid sketch pen stained and scattered. I was seven, the clouds were boats, and the lightning, our clay paddles, swimming in baby pools of nursery rhymes. Cursive alphabets of wonder scribbled in notebooks of red and blue lines. After seven years, I accidentally erased the shape of your smile drawn on my forget-me-not heart but hoarded your name inside my mouth. I hope the eraser shavings stuck on your shoes and your smile still lives inside your house. I hope you embraced my slip of the tongue in déjà vu scented crowds.

After seven years, I started combing the moon out of my hair wearing hair clips of fireflies, when an anachronism of glow-in-the-dark questions stared back at me from ceiling disguised skies. Was language humanity’s response to loneliness? Who eases the tension between time and timelessness? When did saffron refigure into an ideology from an autumnal spice wrapped in postcards of Pulwama valleys and Ma’s home remedies? When did I inherit rage from a kaleidoscopic lump in the throat generational trauma? When did the world come in timely subscriptions of terms and conditions camouflaged in inverted commas? I was seethed with a five-course meal of rage, searching for a bazaar for self-help books. But you were a butterfly effect, a preloved book fair of poetry. In an hourglass of English grammar lessons, you became the reason I forgave the whole world, a love-shaped fractal geometry.

Life is a borrowing of bones, you doodled on my ribcage with a purple chiseled pen as I kept life on the mortgage for art. But you were verbal and non-verbal reasoning of art, you existed, and I called you art. Do you remember suitcases of Shakespeare plays, and puppet shows on the lost and found of reminiscent alleys? The closest thing I have felt to the epistemology of religion is the timestamp of our muffled laughter over a pot of instant noodles snuggled in musty diaries. Into the dendrochronology of trees, we carved three-fourth promises in a chimera of 03:14 wishes. We fell from the branches of the same tree, your name overlaps my orchard, we were inosculation of seedlings tucked in scribbled lyrics of almanacs and early morning bus rides. I was sixteen when I placed my heart in your hands and said I will walk you home, did you realize it was an excuse to let love breathe for five more minutes?

When my body is on a tilted axis leaning towards sleep, I calculate the body count of friends I lost like a lullaby of counting sheep. Goodness, when can I say your name and have to Google the meaning because it finally doesn’t mean something to me? If you love, a little bit always lingers like a desire path echoing humanity. My mother says without names, things get lost but do you have to name it to know it? My love, can you downsize friendship into metalinguistics? Life update, lately I look for confirmation biases of our friendship in everyday things and characteristics. I miss you, and I still perform autopsies on conversations dead and buried. If love is a verb and poetry is a shriek, I am desperate for a language to hold me. But I am afraid that lately, I don't hold onto words too tightly. I have withdrawal symptoms from reflex arcs of sharing everything. Can we do it again for old time’s sake, for all the love that used to be?

I am nineteen, an amalgamation of every age I have ever been. My heart is a beehive and your hexagon is half-empty, half-memory. I am a silent carousel under a hurricane lamp of history. It is the longest night of the year, the autumn tints of memories appear in human mirroring of our phrases on the frost of windows. Your city is in my weather app, we are connected through the Siliguri corridor of the internet. Perhaps we don’t need to touch each other to prove we are here. They say the ends justify the means, in the consequentialism of love there are no ends, just means, just means to love you. I still love you. I will always love you.

Tonight, I dialed a trunk call to the future and heard an answering machine. They don’t tell you that if a poem is finished, you haunt it.

//”Theories of Friendship”// enigma

click on the image for a better view

do not repost

[oasis-of-you]

near the coastline, beginning of august 2021

[oasis-of-you]

Can you motivate me

you got this bestie!!! idk what you’re trying to stay motivated for but like there must be a reason why you want to be motivated so just try to remember that!!

[oasis-of-you]

this is just me saying i’m officially hiatus-esque now

[oasis-of-you]

Female affection in vintage photographs

[oasis-of-you]

Happy Pride Month folks!

Closeted or not, haven’t figured out who you are yet, just know Faust the Crow loves you very much.

[oasis-of-you]

normalize flopping. it’s ok to fail baby. sexy even

[oasis-of-you]

i am so fucking sick and tired of gentrified depop tiktok fads that exist for a month and perpetuate disgusting body standards and fast fashion and rich people bullshit i am tired of people looking polished and posh in their stupid fucking tennis skirts and designer dupes i'm tired of plastic surgery and young girls wanting to look completely grown i am tired of subcultures being gentrified and dissipated and disrespected i am tired of people having not a speck of personality to fit in i am tired of it all

[oasis-of-you]

Listen, I think if you’re white and a writer, it’s important to be aware of how incredibly white the publishing industry is.

This NY Times article, published in December, provides some pretty bleak statistics on published authors. They chose a sample of 8,000 English-language books, based on their publishers & distribution, and found that - of the authors for whom they could find demographic information - 95% were white.

95 percent!! 

This study is larger than the US, but just as a point of reference - 60% of the US is white. And yet, an incredibly, disproportionately high percentage of English-language mainstream books (published by major publishing houses, and widely distributed) were written by white people.

I bring this up because I think it’s incredibly valuable for writers, especially white writers, to consider the effects of this overwhelming whiteness! I think it matters that, unless you’ve intentionally sought out books by POC, most or maybe all of the writers you’ve read, admired, and wanted to emulate are white people. I think there’s value in considering how your writing has been shaped by this, and how it has affected the writing communities you exist in, and the ways you navigate them.

Also, while you’re thinking this through, consider buying a book by an author of color - being in an industry in which you are a small minority is no easy task, & you (the reader) will only benefit by exposing yourself to good art made by people whose experiences differ from your own! :)

[oasis-of-you]

Jellyfish Table Lamps by Joel Bloomberg

[oasis-of-you]

“After Language” by Chaia Heller, from My Lover Is a Woman: Contemporary Lesbian Love Poems edited by Lesléa Newman (1996).