‘On tolerance’: Publisher-poet Naveen Kishore on the dilemmas of the artistic intellect

Here we are, then. He said to no one. In particular. There was no one there. The last fireflies had taken their bow. His words did not echo the emptiness. Flat. Hermetic. Sealed. And solitary. He spoke again. Looking up at the sky. Or in the general direction of where the sky had last been. Sort of stage right and up. A slanted view. A sloping sky. Descending to the tip of a horizon. Painted silver grey. Stylised. No real reason. Just a design whimsy. It did look interesting, though. Like a stairway. Or an upside-down slide. You slid backwards each time. The soundscape was insidious. At least that was the brief. The air had to be subtle and in “conspiracy” with the surreptitious. Artful, if you were on its side. Plain cunning sly and wily if you weren’t anything but honest. Necessary for the scene. Stealth was called for. But without a visibly recognizable instrument. Like a body on steroids feeling the tremor. All over. Including in your voice. But the mind was alert and sharp and hyper. Active. Activity that pulsated. The atmosphere: alive. But not with sound. Intended sound. Yes. Not the easily audible kind. So yes....

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