Ricercar: March 2006

On the road again

2 days to go before I leave. Still not all packed! 35Kg of luggage. + 10 Kgs of books. Plus 10 Kg of CD's. + Miscellaneous household things. Flight baggage allowance - 30 K. + Laptop, Camera's, Lens, film, Misc. + (more) Books and Notes and Papers. + Me and Floppy. How? What? Where?

Still gotto clean the house, see to things, buy things I broke, and say my goodbyes. So much that I will miss so much. Its hard to go. Hard to let go. But I know I will be over it in a while. Monday I will be home - Dubai - with my new dog and my room and my music and everything :)

Originally Posted at Prerona.

Incomplete

all around is still and dark
i sit alone in the park

my head bent low on my knees
listening to the wind in the trees

free and loose my mind drifts around
the thoughts are wound, round and round

in my beginning was my end
in my greatest glory, my basest bend

there was never another way
it wont be different another day

the battles fought with my soul
there's no victory that would leave me whole

if i kill myself i cant survive
if i win, i will die

its me beneath my paring knife
its my behind all my strife

u have to learn the lesson in the winds
to forgive urself, ____

Open Invitation

i cant move
past this moment

open my fist and release
the little air that touched ur face

i cant walk away
cant go on my way

come

come away with me
come away with me

a coffee shop, in morrocco
the air scented muezzin calls

the desert sands,
bleak and grand
and flash against them
colours and mirrors

mysteries old,
tales untold

come away with me
come away with me

i cannot leave this moment
i cant forget this fantasy

u and me
by the sea

come away with me
come away with me

a tropical forest far away
the wind is wet, the trees are green

the sea is carefree
the waves serene

u and me
by the sea

come away with me
come away with me

All that you cant, leave behind

All that you cant, leave behind

The packing is the easy part. The hard part is deciding what to take in the limited travellers' allowance. The painstakingly collected little ice cream pots full of colour co-ordinated grains. Or the glass jars of chocolate souffle recycled for spices. Or the herb rack I was so excited about. The quirky bottle openener. The herb chopper.

Thats just the kitchen. What about all the little things I got everytime you came over to stay. A catalogue of your colourful travels. The mosaic gecko from spain. The little pot from egypt? The doll from finland. How come I didnt inherit your wanderlust? Just your thirst for life and pain. Or are they the same?

And then, the clothes. The thread bare thermals u got me when i left home for the first time to go to bristol or the 80 pound cotton shirt from Pink? The bright red thing you bought me from Bhutan, or the brand new black and white dress from Zaara. The wall hanging you got from Madras - you were out of town on my birthday, my first time. Or the orange framed (from Pondi) photographs of 2 young things together, first love. Or the bronze frame with a crack across your face, with 'all my love' written below it? I remember the fight that put that crack there. A T-Shirt someone who reminded me of you had bought me in Texas. A cheap wooden flute a boy had given me in Kolkata. We had found him crying on the steps, Barbie and I. he had fever. Someone had stolen his daily earnings. We had given him whatever we had. 300 bucks. He left us the flute. That flute. The CD's you kids burnt me, eachtime he came over. The VCD's you recorded, ur blacky shaking ink lines marking, Meghe Dhaka Tara and memories: Baba, I watched 'Cloud covered Star today - guess what that is? The reply, its you my darling, maybe? My corny, adorable darling. And the red foot shaped ashtray: Didi, I got something for you - actually, Baba paid, but I chose it! Thank you my little angel. The cassettes you recorded for me, with your careful handwriting in green ink: Gluzar remembers Pancham and I remember you. Remember, how I used to make fun of 'ye kaunsa ball mere court mein' and u used the get angry. The books I bought for you and you returned. The second hand bookshops that yielded little treasures, collection of letters, birthday cards, a postcard, the movie ticket stub - we had gone to see together and I had wondered: maybe? a little post it on which you had written down a list of things to buy for Dad. The red cloth in which I had held ur last bits and pieces. Ur not there, where am I going? Why am I going. What will I do there without you.

I remember another departure, from Pune. U had sung to me 'wahan kaun hain tera'. U probably dont remember. Or the Veer Zara songs you used to sing on the phone. That was here. Or when you had called me on my birthday. It was after. I didnt think you would. It was wonderful! This house had my last memories of you. Of all of you. My ghosts. Thats all I have left to fill my life. Even the new and living I try to draw in become ghosts. Or maybe the smell the scent of death and run while they can. Maybe its for the best. This is what I wanted. This is the way I wanted. To be left peace to mourn you, as long as I know I can. Then, who knows, maybe its true what the fantasies of religion say and we will be together again? Its for the best the living turn away from the door: for the, anyway.

Originally Posted at Prerona.

Lust:

I want ... Make mine Black and Red

And on this plane: new snaps on flikr!

Originally Posted at Prerona.

Lonestar

SinCity and it was just what i expected: magnificient. up there with henry and june in lyrical visual poetry. Also seen this weekend: A Bout De Souffle (yes, yet again), Impromptu and The Jack Bull. Did you like Chopin far better before? A little, perhaps. Why do I keep watching Patricia? Like Maggie (Mill on the Floss), I think she holds a clue, to something imp but i am not sure what. Its one of those movies you wish you could spend you life studying, and which makes all the rest of life seem like a mere distraction. And then they go and copy it in such a heartless (and breatless?) way - makes u wanna cry.

There are 3 figures in literature that have always fascinated me: Maggie, from the Mill on the Floss, Patricia from À bout de souffle and Florentyna from the Thornbirds.

There's that niggling irritating feeling when you have a few words from a song in your head all day but cant remember it. Found it in the 'evening' (got home at 10PM had left at 6AM) - from an old Kishore Kumar - Anmol Ratan Vol 13 cassette which I have been carrying with me for the last 10 years or so, but rarely listen to anymore, cz I am so much weaker now. The same reason I can not listen to Rang Barse, or read Anne Karennina. Also found 'Khafa Hun' which would make a nice OST to my life, right now, incidentally.

When we are younger, we have poke-the-tooth fascination with pain. As we grow older, or maybe as the pain grows, the mesmerised awe fades. It numbs and fades and spreads to every hour, every day.

Our ghosts, our phantom friends, grow bigger, better and stronger. Our 'voices' grow fainter, and more consistent. The minute you stop distracting yourself with play, they creep up and smile and whisper in your ear, "Hello. Remember Me? Remember You? Who you are? Where you come from? Where you're going? Where you belong? 'When you were young'? How far have you come? Who have you become? Remember, how frail you are inside? Remember the you that you hide?" Okay, this should ideally move to verse! Reminds me of this, one of my favourite amongst my own ;)

I think I am growing too old for these marathon 11 hour work days. And topped with French class at the end of it. Killer.

lonestar
Originally uploaded by prerona.

OST - http://itisallhappening.blogspot.com/2006/03/yadon-mein-woh.html

Originally Posted at Prerona.

Goodbye, Hello

As the big yellow taxi hurtled down the road, Rebecca tried to make up her mind in the few seconds left. For most of the things, they would never get any better than this. In fact, lot of of things would get worse, starting soon. She could have to go on like this for years and years, only it would get harder and more painful every year. Wrinkles, tooth decay, falling hair, osteoporisis, diabetes, heart problems, asthma, joint pains. Looking in the mirror would be a blow to her vanity, which she had had so much off, in a naiive way. Every movement would make itself felt in her bones. Her skin would grow thinner. And she would be as alone as she was today. Friends, relatives, loved ones: both the beloved and the loving, would keep their lukewarm, impotent, distant way, neither releasing her, nor embracing, in effect.

And ofcourse, the old fear. She was not one of them. They would discover and since they didnt believe in witches and stakes anymore, they would label her mad and lock her up. She couldnt bear that. She had had nightmares about it all her life. Discussing it with her sister, who was amongst the few she had trusted. Pressing her into fervent promises to hide her away somewhere in the house, if it happened. not to let them take her away and lock her up. She had frantically read tomes on madness and searched for the signs in the mirror. She had looked at other famous people who had had the fear. And she had fallen in love with Woolf.

Now her sister was grown up and caught up with her own life. They loved eachother still, but that sense of claim was no longer. Not there, nor anywhere. Maybe it was unnatural and unjust, the thing she wanted, really. No. She made up her mind and stopped.

In the last few conscious moments left, she noticed the look of shock and dismay on the drivers face. She hope he wouldnt get into trouble. Like a fly in an ancient slab of Topaz, the thought froze in her mind as it stopped.

The train was at eight. He couldnt afford to miss it, thought Phillip. So much depended on it. He glanced at the meter, and said a little prayer. He tried to avoid cabs, but this was an emergency, he supposed.

Liz was already too angry with him to bear thinking about. If he met her at the station now, and somehow made it up to her, she might still forgive him. He could move back into their house. He liked waking up to the children, even though, as Liz rightly said, he never did a thing for them once their nappy stages had passed. It was nice having them in the house: the lively buzz of their voices, the homely feel of the house, and Eizabeth.

Liz was no longer the startling pretty brunette that he had fallen pasionately in love with. Her hair was almost all grey now and she wore it in a strange stern style, which she claimed was more practical. Women! He would never understand them. However, it was still nice to have her in the house. He still loved her, though not in the same way as before; but that was to be expected, wasnt it?

Why was she not Happy? Why was she so discontent. Seething with a quiet supressed resentment, almost. Spoiling for a fight. It was almost as though she felt she had been cheated. She had won: she had thought when she got married to Phillip; Triumphed; Been proved superior; but now, it was almost like she was, for the first time, seeing and questioning, what she had won

She was being too dramatic. She must stop whenever she caught herself thinking this way: it would only get her more mixed up inside her head. Frowning, she looked down into her lap. Funny, she thought, how often she found herself unconsciously twisting the pale silver band on her finger. Like an abandoned dog straining at its leash, she thought. She sighed and looked out of the train's window, at the blurred country flying past her and thought of the children. Abraham would be at school. Probably playing happily with his little mates. Oh, to be young and carefree like that. To not feel things, not care.

Abraham scowled and looked down, as he settled into the blue corner. Margeret, his teacher, sighed and went away. He had become a frequent visitor. Once he used to hold so much promise, she had thought. Now he was either illtempered and even abusive or just vacantly quiet. He hardly ever participated, except in fights.

As the Taxi screeched suddenly, Phil sat forward in his seat, alarmed; jolted out of his thoughts. There was a woman, a lady, in the middle of the road. It looked she had been crossing and either she had not seen the car coming or mis-judged its speed. The vehicle slowed and swerved as the driver hit the brakes, but it was too late. A sickening thud went through it. Phil felt it like he were one with the car, and its guilt. They both jumped out together and ran to the front of the car. The woman lay there in a heap of red and black. Her red jacket glistened in the sun. It took him a while to realise it was blood.

Already they could hear the sirens of the ambulance and the police. As he watched the bloody pulp, a part of his mind, detached, wondered who how they always seemed to know instantly, like magic. And another detached part of his mind thought, Damn! I'll never make it to the station in time now. Unless, he turned and ran. They were at the George Street crossing and the station was only a little while away. Could he do that? Was there time? Would they need him for the formalities?

As the train rolled in to a halt, elegently slow, Liz looked out to see if she could spot Phil. She half expected him not to turn up. How typical. He was nowhere insight. He would no doubt have some very colourful excuse when he did turn up. He was always brilliant with excuses. Something he seemed to have passed on to Abraham.

Slowly the whirring feeling of dizziness stopped. The pain had been sharp, instant but it had passed soon. It was cold: clammy, wet and cold. Perhaps it was the blood. She must have bled. And a panic of fear at the very last minute. Why had she done this? She wanted to live!

But it passed. And there was just a feeling of all encompassing peace. And cold. In a way, it reminded her of Amsterdam. That feeling contentment. Of destination of having reached. She shivered. Then all at once, Rebecca became aware of something very strange. It was as though her whole body was numb. It was almost like a feeling of paralyses. Like those intense moments between sleep and waking. When you are conscious, but not yet in command of your body. You have the feeling of wanting to move but not being able to rouse your body to movement. You feel that you are outside, impatient, hovering just above and around. Then all at once you snapped awake and it had just been a dream.

It was late in the evening. Liz was home and settled in with Abraham and Lilly gathered around her, telling her about how they had spent the last few days, and she in her turn telling them about her trip. Phil hadnt made an appearance yet. Underneath the briskly normal appearance she kept up for the children, she seethed with anger. How typical of him. How had she changed so much from the man she had once married. Or had he? Maybe it was she who had not seen him well enough through the rose coloured lenses of those early romantic days. How young she had been.

She had been a secretary in a firm of Accountants. Small but reasonably well known. She had had an ordered life, and a satisfying job, which she did with pride and efficiency. She had lived alone, near town, an easy run from work. Her parents lived in the village and she went down to see them often on holidays and some weekends. She had been well satisfied with her life. Ordered. Predictable. Sensible. If a little boring, but she hadnt minded that. Somewhere there was a dream tucked away however that it would all change one day and her 'future' her 'life' would really begin. She didnt think about how. She didnt think about it much. But it was there somewhere at the back of her mind. And then she had met Phil and everything had changed in way she could never have dreamed off, even if she had been the dreaming type.

She came back to the present sharply as little Lilly spilled her tea on the carpet. The child instantly realised she had done something 'catastrophic' and looked her Mommy with a sharp intake of breath, her baby blue eyes huge and round with fear. The instant spike of anger died in Liz like a drop of water in a desert as looked into her baby's eyes. She laughed and rushed to soothe her, staining carpet forgotten for the moment.

Can anyone explain motherhood? That one moment that made the whole of life grow meaningful. To make life. The exquisite torture, the unbearable joy. The little ball of flesh and blood that had moved and floated inside her. Like the food she digested. Like another organ in her body. By what magic had it become a real, living, breathing human being? Can any mother forget the moment when that magical transformation takes place? Can anyone forget? Can anyone explain in words, to those who have not lived it? Can life ever be the same without it? It made everything worthwhile. A new life is born. She didnt make it, she knew that. But she had let it pass through her. She had been a part of the magic. The eternal magic. Who created it, she wondered. This life. For she knew she was just a vessel. Where did it come from. It had to have come from somewhere? In that dark, wet, cold moment when the world falls away and it is just the mother, the child and that something: what was it?

Slowly the cold decreased. Or maybe she just got used to it. She still felt strange. Where was she, Rebecca wondered. She felt a little like those moments, after the helpless paralysed dream, when one wakes up and regains control of hands, legs, eyes and slowly comes to - she felt like that. A slowly regaining sense of freedom. Slowly, she could move. A little at a time. Easy. For a brief second, she felt giddy with relief. When suddenly she realised it wasnt her arms and legs she was moving. Rather, she was moving, but her 'body' wasnt. It was still there crumpled in a bloody heap on the floor. Everything else was just the same. But surely, thought Rebecca, it couldnt have been that long. She felt like she had been going through this slow coming awake process for ages now. Surely they would have moved the body by now. Then as she expanded her field of perception, and she saw the men gathered around, she realised that only fleeting seconds had passed. That was it then. She was dead. She had passed on, whatever that meant. No. This was what it meant. She knew now and she would keep finding out more and more. It was just a matter of time. Time. It seemed that it pass slowly in this dimension. She smiled a little to herself and wondered where she had picked up that word from. She had always been so skeptical about that kind of literature. No one really knows. They all talk. Know I will know, she thought

Peace and Quiet: All that you cant, leave behind

The packing is the easy part. The hard part is deciding what to take in the limited travellers' allowance. The painstakingly collected little ice cream pots full of colour co-ordinated grains. Or the glass jars of chocolate souffle recycled for spices. Or the herb rack I was so excited about. The quirky bottle openener. The herb chopper.

Thats just the kitchen. What about all the little things I got everytime you came over to stay. A catalogue of your colourful travels. The mosaic gecko from spain. The little pot from egypt? The doll from finland. How come I didnt inherit your wanderlust? Just your thirst for life and pain. Or are they the same?

DSC02261
Originally uploaded by prerona.

And then, the clothes. The thread bare thermals u got me when i left home for the first time to go to bristol or the 80 pound cotton shirt from Pink? The bright red thing you bought me from Bhutan, or the brand new black and white dress from Zaara. The wall hanging you got from Madras - you were out of town on my birthday, my first time. Or the orange framed (from Pondi) photographs of 2 young things together, first love. Or the bronze frame with a crack across your face, with 'all my love' written below it? I remember the fight that put that crack there. A T-Shirt someone who reminded me of you had bought me in Texas. A cheap wooden flute a boy had given me in Kolkata. We had found him crying on the steps, Barbie and I. he had fever. Someone had stolen his daily earnings. We had given him whatever we had. 300 bucks. He left us the flute. That flute. The CD's you kids burnt me, each time he came over. The VCD's you recorded, ur blacky shaking ink lines marking, Meghe Dhaka Tara and memories: Baba, I watched 'Cloud covered Star today - guess what that is? The reply, its you my darling, maybe? My corny, adorable darling. And the red foot shaped ashtray: Didi, I got something for you - actually, Baba paid, but I chose it! Thank you my little angel. The cassettes you recorded for me, with your careful handwriting in green ink: Gluzar remembers Pancham and I remember you. Remember, how I used to make fun of 'ye kaunsa ball mere court mein' and u used the get angry. The books I bought for you and you returned. The second hand bookshops that yielded little treasures, collection of letters, birthday cards, a postcard, the movie ticket stub - we had gone to see together and I had wondered: maybe? a little post it on which you had written down a list of things to buy for Dad. In the loo the electric toothbrush that doesnt even work anymore - but holds my first memories of seeing you and rahul together - my poga pogi. U had both tried it as soon as my back was turned ... I had been disgusted and grossed out and said if you two had really been my babies i would have thrown you off the terrace. Aww my little ones. never! Or other Rahuls and red scarves and mittens. Letters, Ducks and Wedding Cards. So many wedding cards. The red cloth in which I had held ur last bits and pieces. Ur not there, where am I going? Why am I going. What will I do there without you. Everyone else will be there, but its not the same, is it?

Every room, every corner, every sindow sill, where we I sat and dreamt of you, where I cried for for you, where I sat and leaned my head while we spoke on the phone (stolen moments), everywhere bits and pieces of you rubbed off - of you and of me. Street corners in the city centre where I carelessly weeped my dead, crumbling graveyards where I sat through many sunsets listening to the silence. The bus stop where I stood while I talked to you. The little lane wher you dropped me off. The tree I looked at while I told Barbie how bad it was, this time. Memories smeared on every wall, strung on every tree, drifted into ever crack and crevice like powder grey dust. Two years of liveing, loving, dying.

The rooms are empty loaded with half filled cartons everywhere. The sun comes in through the window I never close, in rivers of light, alive with dancing dust smotes, glowing.

The bookshleves nude, the kafka and the history of modern philosophy and the maths explained crammed disrespectfully (*) together with manuals for the camera and the flash and recipe books for french food. The sofa where I spent nights and nights - hanging on to a logdistance line, a ghost come back to say goodbye. The Veer Zara songs you used to sing on the phone wafted into the weave of blue and gold. That was here.

Or when you had called me on my birthday. It was after. I didnt think you would. It was wonderful! As usual you were the first one in - 12 sharp. How crisply, starkly, clean you were. And happy birthday to you, btw.

This house had my last memories of you. Of all of you: my ghosts. Thats all I have left to fill my spaces: ghosts and memories and carefully hoarded, slowly fading, pictures, pressed flowers and letters. Even the fresh and living freeze into ghosts here. Or maybe they smell the scent of death and turn away from the door, just their shadow which fell on the threshold for a brief while, freezes still, and becomes another memory, another ghost. Maybe its for the best. This was what I had wanted - for a while, at any rate. Some peace and quiet, to mourn my dead. And stay paused in this moment as long as I can. Then, who knows? Maybe the fairytales will come true and we will meet again, live again, in brilliant flights. But for now its just another ordinary, lonely day, for now I must move again

The OST for this post is Goodbye My Lover, by James Blunt. All his songs sound similar, and I dont like this one much song wise, but I love the words.

The OST of this post was initially Wind of My Soul. I will put up the song sometime in the, hopefully not too distant, future. In the meanwhile if anyone should wish to look it up, its from the Almost Famous OST, its called Wind of my Soul, by Cat Stevens. I have the mp3 but no space the upload it, right now

Originally Posted at Prerona.

All About Nothing

Drifted off to sleep on the floor last night with the paper I was reading open in my hand. When I woke up, I was in front of the window. It wasnt very cold but the air felt fresh and brisk. When I opened my eyes and looked out, it was snowing. The air was full of snowflakes and the ground was covered with snow.

Big plans for today. Long list of work to be done, and the house has to be cleaned, hundreds of accounts have to be closed, direct debits cancelled, people contacted, plus ... loads to be done at work. Cant carry my books, music & movies - have to find a way to ship them or something. Have to do the shopping. Have tonnes of food from home and herbs & spices and stuff that I'm gonna have to throw away. Have to sell my TV and my DVD player and my coffee maker and stuff like that. Have to find new homes for my plants. Dmn - I hate moving.

But for now, I just sit on the floor and sip my coffee and look at the white world outside. Its spring and we should turn up our faces to fresh wet air and birdsong, not soft, furry, flakes twirling as they dance down.

Just read this. Go check it out & tell me what you think if you like - curious about how people react to this sort of thing.

The Chorus (Les Choristes): a French film directed by Christophe Barratier and written by Christophe Barratier and Philippe Lopes-Curval. It had Jacques Perrin playing the older Pierre Morhange, echoing his role in Cinema Paradiso as a grown up Toto. I dont know which one I loved more. Its a beautiful movie. Catch it if you can.

Also, saw Maurice, brilliant start, then it fizzled off.

I've had the worst Monday in ages - a more comprehensive version of a bad hair day - one of those when you think you should've just stayed in bed!

Originally Posted at Prerona.

Literary Prototypes

There are 3 figures in literature that have always fascinated me: Maggie, from the Mill on the Floss, Patricia from À bout de souffle and Florentyna from the Thornbirds. (Details to follow ;))

Originally Posted at Prerona.

Dusk to Dawn

Open ur arms
Make a little room
Hold me
Heal me
Can you?

Close your eyes
Close your mind
Close your heart
Become me
Can you?

Lets run away ...

DSC01981
Originally uploaded by prerona.

Lets run away
To the dessert or the sea
Somewhere on some rocky beach
Bleak, grey,
Pretty, stark

Where the wind blows cool and wet
And something makes a strange, howling sound

Somewhere where we'll be alone
Cut off from everything and everyone

We'll pretend
There's life and meaning and maybe even love

For a while we'll forget
That every thought is chemical

We'll talk, deep into the night
We'll laugh like friends
And cry and we'll sing

I'll tell you stories from places I've been
I'll show you pictures i carry within

I'll introduce you to people I've known
A rainbow of souls held held within

I'll show you things
You couldnt have dreamed

Bring your guitar ...
I'll bring my thoughts and dreams

and my crazy silly whims
and crazy silly me

You can make long islands
I'll make nice things to eat

I'll read you some byron,
In the moonlight

And you'll quietly smile
At how caught up I am

I'll play you James Douglas,
my eternal reasonless love

And you can sigh
And pretend you dont envy him

We can dance in the moonlight
and run in the breaking waves

Come away with me,
to my island in the sea

Where my magic burns
from where there's no return ...

You will need to be brave
and very strong
and very hard,
to make the leap
can you?

What you mean to me:

how potent can a question be?
what do you mean to me ...

since i cant say the forbidden words
that i love you, more than love

since i must look away
whenever you look that way

since i cant hold you close
as gently as the moon shine flows

since i cant look in your eyes
and let you see all my lows and highs

since we must sparr from afar
since i'll never have your heart

since time and again i must learn to bear
the irony of having you near

since you must dance so close to me
since you so love to remind me

of everything that can never be
of everything that must never be

of everything you wouldnt take
of everything from which you walked away

since i cant bear halfmeasures
since i am not strong enough

to dance so close and know
tonight we cant make love

since you and fate will never cease
my love, to haunt and tease

for all these reasons that will always be
i can never tell you what you mean to me

Race For Life

I wont be here for it now - feels so sad as it slowly sinks in. I think I'm in a v nasty mood - http://www.raceforlife.org/enternow/

Originally Posted at Prerona.

relationship & friendship

if my relationship with relationships and friendship, can be compared to that of an drug abuser to drugs, then i had gotten over my withdrawal and was 'clean' for a long long time. Now this last blast from the past - big exposure - has had me relapsing again. struggling. but will over come. i will be a rock yet

funny, the gaping divides btw what u r and what u want to be. i hate being out of control of myself - laughing, crying, talking too - too loudly. being over friendly. shopping. working. everything.

wtf. who cares. i'm in a strange f mood. my version of a hangover i guess. i hate drinking cz i feel really guilty the next day.

i hate getting carried away. which is tough if ur me ... i'm carried away all the time. but i feel like such a fool after.

abt liking someone - whats that elusive something left behind when you add up affection, attraction, attachment, admiration, ambition, adoration ... and take it away from the whole. thats what i was looking for. and its hard to move away from. but then, who said it wud be easy - this thing called life

Originally Posted at Prerona.

ships in the night

in a time of extreme need someone helps you out, and in that hour of frantic intensity, you think you've become a friend, found a friend, made a friend ... then the moment passes and u realise its just a mirage this whole friendship bllcks. and its def'l not worth the pain. its like that somg we used to trip on when we were kids - wicked game - the way it ends - no body loves no one

Originally Posted at Prerona.

£@*# Love-- Schmove

like i've said before, its b*@@£~ friendship that kills

Originally Posted at Prerona.

wicked world

i actually thought it would be a good thing, when i found out. anyway it wasnt going anywhere or going to. u weere clearly annoyed that i was bothering you, with my much unwanted heart, flaunted bright and wistful, on my sleeve. do u know how many others would have liked to have it? but i guess so it goes ...

so i was saying, i thought it would be a good thing. some space, some times off. some room for me to pick up the pieces of myself from the floor and get my act together. by the time you got back, i thought, i'd really show you what act cool could be. you'd never get a chance to smile your forced half smiles at me again. or give me those irritated wtf air -

but its hardly begun and its already unbearable. i think its better to have you in the house and hating me than so severly outofreach. i can .live with ur dislike and irritation, i have decided, as long as its coming from somewhere close. come back

u r the last muse. this old weary heart flies, one last time, and it knows it wont love dance again, not bcz of how great ur love was, but simply bcz its time is up.

Originally Posted at Prerona.

Dusk to Dawn

Open ur arms
Make a little room
Hold me
Heal me
Can you?

Close ur eyes
Close ur mind
Close ur heart
Become me
Can you?

lets run away ...

DSC01981
Originally uploaded by prerona.

lets run away
to the dessert or the sea
somewhere on some rocky beach
bleak, grey,
pretty, stark

where the wind blows cool and wet
and something makes a strange, howling sound

somewhere where we'll be alone
cut off from everything and everyone

we'll pretend
theres life and meaning and maybe even love

for a while we'll forget
that every thought is chemical

we'll talk, deep into the night
we'll laugh like friends
and cry and we'll sing

i'll tell you stories from places I've been
i'll show you pictures i carry within

i'll introduce you to people i've known
a rainbow of souls held held within

i'll show you things
you couldnt have dreamed

bring your guitar ...
i'll bring my thoughts and dreams

and my crazy silly whims
and crazy silly me

u can make long islands
i'll make nice things to eat

i'll read you some byron,
in the moonlight

and you'll quietly smile
at how caught up i am

i'll play you james douglas,
my eternal reasonless love

and u can sigh
and pretend u dont envy him

we can dance in the moonlight
and run in the breaking waves

come away with me,
to my island in the sea

where my magic burns
from where there's no return ...

you will need to be brave
and very strong
and very hard,
to make the leap
can you?

Originally Posted at Prerona.

Sea Dreams

open ur arms
make a little room
hold me
heal me
can you?

close ur eyes
close ur mind
close ur heart
become me
can you?

lets run away
to the dessert or the sea
somewhere on some rocky beach
bleak, agrey, and starkly pretty
somewhere where the wind blows cool and wet
and something makes strange, howling sounds
somewhere where we'll be all alone
cut off from everything and everyone
there, we'll pretend
theres life and meaning and love somewhere
for a while we will forget
that every thought is chemical

we'll talk deep into the night
we'll cry
we'll laugh
we'll sing

i'll tell you stories from places I've been
i'll show you pictures i carry within

i'll introduce you to people i've known
and rainbow of souls, i hold in me

i'll show you things
you couldnt have dreamed

bring your guitar ...
i'll bring my crazy thoughts and dreams

u can make long islands
i'll make nice things to eat

i'll read you some byron,
in the moonlight

i'll play you james douglas
my eternal reasonless love

come away with me,
to my island in the sea

where magic daily burns
from where there's no return ...

you will need to be brave and strong and hard to make the leap ...

can you?

My First Barbie

My mother has this habit of randomly picking up gifts on her way home from work. Every evening, as soon as I opened the door, I would do a quick-scan to spot any hidden surprises. Then I would check her hands, her bags, even her hard hat, to see if she had a little packet of mint fudge, or a toy car, or a tintin concealed somewhere. If I was really lucky it could be that most un-attainable worshipped, 'super expensive' thing ... pyramids from cookie jar. Sometimes if she was working at a construction site near school she would turn up at lunch time with some pyramids.

Twenty years ago, on this day, at 9 in the morning she got me a doll. I called it Barbie Doll. I hated it at sight. It had a funny colour. You could move its arms and legs, but it wasnt pretty, so you wouldnt really want to. It had wispy black hair in curls. It could cry, but so could another one of my dolls and its cry didnt sound half as 'natural'. Anyway, I never liked dolls much (except for Jane who was lame, and Prajukta, or Dolly, who was My Last Doll - like in the Little Princess)

However, the Barbie Doll had something special about it, as I soon discovered: She could grow. She grew and grew, till she was taller than Mommy by a much respected inch! She stands 5'10" in bare feet. Her hair grew too: wispy no longer, it grew thicker as mine vanished. It hated cigerettes, then loved them. It loved 'NOW thats what I call music' then grew to Led Zep. It loved Nancy Drew, then grew to Kafka. It even grew grass on the roof to my Mommy's eternal shock!

Before I knew what hit me, that scrawny, whiney, sissy little wannabe, that trailed me everywhere and played with dolls and wrote on the walls grew into a 'person' and morphed into one of my best friends, eerily like enough to be able to guess I did a undo-redo 3 or 4 times on the 'one of' part.

Happy Birthday Barbie. Love you, B%"£@. Like one of your childhood cards to me ends, 'dated till this good phase lasts' ... hope it lasts forever

barbie and leo
Originally uploaded by prerona.

Originally Posted at Prerona.

A Prayer For the Dying

grief can be so physical
thats when grief becomes pain
a sob. muffled. a cry. strangled
murdered. all
tears fall - wet and warm
i watch the veins where runs ur blood
spill u bloody coward blood
stop u shameless greedy heart
i want to scream, loud and true
a scream to turn the whole world blue
my soul escaping from my lungs
a scream to bring the whole world still
i want an axe. i want to kill
i want to burn the whole world down
just like i promised u
and i laugh. just like u laughed
i'm going mad
take me with you
i hate the world
with all this life
how dare they live when u are gone
dogs. each and everyone
how can i live when you are gone
traitor heart, traitor blood

the moon has risen
silver and slim
the snow is melting
little clumps remain
the streets are shining
the wind is blowing

its a beautiful world ...
wont you please return?

night has come
i'm all alone
the bed is cold and full of thorns
outside float voices of the living
mothers call. children laugh
i'm all alone
you wont return.

i am incomplete
my time's not done
i have to wait for years and years
till the time i am happy here
my time wont come
you wont call
one way or another u'll break my heart
and till then, u wont return

In the dark,
I hold out my hand
you used to hold it till i drifted off
always. till i went off
in the dark my hand slowly freezes
you wont even hold my hand
i'm all alone in the dark
its all quiet in the dark

Forever

u flood around me
i float in you
warm, dark, wet
what i had thought was ur soul,
that called me,
was just this - warm, dark, red
it flows, in a pool
around me
immerse me
i want to drown in you
anf as thw hole lays open
screaming
still u flowon, emptying
till everything i was
everything i'd thought i could be
all my dreams. hopes, fears
and loves, not 2 forget
lies around me
in a deep dark pool
and everything is all over
for ever

Of Lizards and Fish

Its that time of the year again, when I gather around all my fishy friends! In 30 years I havent met one piscean that I have not hit it off with, or atleast liked more than average. Most of Astrology is pretty fanciful, I think, but Scorio-Pisces magic bit makes me think there might be something in it. I always think of the line that starts of the Linda Goodman section on Scorps & Pisceans: 'Spirit that haunts the blue lagoon, dost thou hear me? Ofcourse she does'.

There are a lot of Fish in the Lizards aquarium. The Lizards talk to the Voices and the Voices talk to the Fish. Dont ever underestimate a fish bcz she looks sweet and feminine. They can sting as bad as the scorpions. They have tempers that can make you shiver in your shoes, and worst of all, they can swim underwater and you will never reach them unless they want you to. They have unshakeable resolve and irresistable charm. However practical & worldly a disguise they might wear, they are at heart the same soul as poets, wastrels and rebels. Those born to weave pretty dreams, wax lyrical, paint haunting pictures with their words, charm everyone in sight and do little else.

You'd also see the magic between lizards themselves, though it does not show between all of them, and its probably too dark to be called 'magic'. As an old friend, a fellow scorp, the closest I have gotten to one ever had said, 'people play games with each other all the time, but when two real scorps get together, to play love or war, its like being caught in a fight-to-death match between 2 grandmasters, at a elegent dinner party'. Their smiles are at times so casually suave, you can hardly tell they are fencing. Sometimes their smiles are so gliterring cold, you feel like they would kill or die, just for the fun of it, for the thrill of it, they'd risk all for the thrill. And what a thrill it was. I think scorps have an obsession with controlling the huge surging power of 'something' in them, taming it, harnessing it, appearing 'just like everybody else' ... but they are not. And it takes a fish to remind them of it and another lizard to make them forget the war with themselves.

Never let a scorp tell u he is not judgemental: thats all they are 24/7. They judge everything and everyone, specially everyone, for value. Their comes that exact moment in time when a Scorp decides ur 'value' isnt enough in his unique, individual value system. Their comes that point when he will decide that ur worthy, and you'll feel it, you'll glow. Or there comes that point when he will decide your not worth it, and u'll die for him, then and there. if ur lucky.

But then in daylight, I think this is all astrological hogwash. Their are no 'Signs' of Giants and Signs of Dreamers, mystically tied by unknown threads. In this modern day of falling myths, legends and crumbling pedestials, we will soon have only 1 gods left worth looking upto: Www.Google.Com!

Originally Posted at Prerona.

Snow is really piling up outside ...

Trees through the Glass
Originally uploaded by prerona.

Just snowed for a while on Friday, but it still hasnt all melted. Outside my house, there are still white patches, wit hopeful little purple buds peeping out of it ... but the sun has been shining brightly ever since it stopped, so it will all probably be gone soon.

New snaps on Flickr - of the Snow

Originally Posted at Prerona.

One Tear Not Shed

24 hours
U battle relentlessly
To keep just one tear stopped
Blocked, at the precipice
Blocking the flood behind it

I always knew
But its hard to come to terms with, anyway
And somedays harder than the others

This will pass, like it never was
I'll look back in a couple of years,
And say, 'Imagine! I'd once felt like that!'
Yet, sometimes, it seems unbearably sad

I know,
But still
Nevermind
What has to be, has to be

Bye Bye Blue Skies

byebyeblueskies
Originally uploaded by prerona.

besotted, by the wet blue of ur skies
transfixed, by yur wet of your mornings
mesmerised, by the freshness of your streets
awed, by the age of ur old stones,
that seem to have seen it all, that seem to know it all
amused, by the playfully bright colours, in the air, all around
fascinated, by ur narrow winding lanes
glam-struck, by your casual elegence, and
heartbroken, as I say goodbye, or get ready to ...

Originally Posted at Prerona.