Last night as I was dicing an apple, I accidentally cut my finger. The agonizing quiver through my nerve made me scream in pain. As the dense red liquid oozed out from the fresh gash dribbling down my palm, a peculiar deadness prevail my senses besieging the distress with serenity. Mesmerized by the gooey scarlet stream, I let the razor-sharp steel perforate every epidermal cell over and over again till my skin appeared a bloodied collage of madness. All through the self-choreographed chaos of deep lacerations I never once flinched or whimper as if I had got used to the agony; the gory carnival that never stops to cease. It was not a nightmare but a dream that vanished at the crack of dawn. Ah! Is this an appraisal for ‘Interpretation of idiotic reveries?’ Er…no! As cliché as it may sound; life scares me death does not.
Perfection scares the shit out of me! It equates to a wolf in a sheep’s skin. Life is akin to a picture perfect that we perceive as children only to apprehend that it is flawed when observed with an astute acumen. I always crave for blemished nuances in all paths of my existence. At the risk of sounding deranged or delusional, imperfection, dystopian functioning has acquired a mundane status in my perceptions. As I am writing this review, the ongoing news in the background is blaring with a horrendous death scene of a fresh bomb attack in one of the pilgrimage cities of India. Should I be stunned? Petrified? I used to but not anymore. When enormously painful visuals and dastardly acts encumber on a daily basis either you unwilling acknowledge the ongoing distortions or seek the corridor of death believing it to be the sole reprieve from a burdensome life.
So, what is really a ‘Flophouse’? Or what signifies a flophouse? Is it a residential brick-walled cemented structure where existence prevails for what it is or a home rooted in an individual’s soul that has sunk under the weight of hierarchical turbulence of anarchy and vaporized hopes?
“Once, there was a beautiful little girl. She lived in a big house, on a hill, with red brick everywhere.”
“Like here!” She exclaimed.
“Yes, like here, but this was no ordinary house. This was not a flop house.”
“What’s a flop house?”
Joe chuckled gently. “A flop house is where people come and go without meaning, or caring, or loving the house. To them it’s just a house, but this house was a home. A magical home, where everyone that entered it was loved and they all loved the home in return.”……..
…………. “You’re already there, darling. You’re already there. Because in a home like that, there is no pain, or hate, or mistakes. There are no faggots or whores.”
K.I.Hope does not hide under the veil of a happy- endings. She is ruthless, shrewd and even sadist in her overtones; nonetheless it is a sincere and factual representation of hysteria that thrives over the panic of washout ‘Codes of ethics’ and “societal raptures”. The sequences of events are riveting that spins your cerebral normalization into a chasm of absurd daze ultimately releasing you with acumen of the existential sinister underbelly that proliferates alongside our naive dwelling.Hope’s brilliance shines out through every crooked twist of the narrative asserting her to be one of the most promising and meticulous authors I have come across.
I could go on and on praising Hope as it is worth every cent. However, I have to run to the local bar for a couple swigs of whiskey to drown my sorrow for I have read both her books (Hector & Flophouse) and eagerly awaiting for another plethora of scintillating libretto.
Before I leave, all I would like to say especially to those pseudo-utopian “monks” who try to assemble hallucinated heavens before figuring out prevalent hell ; BUY THE BOOK!!!BUY AND READ IT DICKHEADS!!