Silver Beach
just before the end, you had said i owned you
still naiive, i had been outraged
are you stupid, or silly, or do you think i am?
in which case you really really must be!
before my, then legendary, temper flared,
i forgot to check the expiry date
the first time i saw you, i knew
as you rose, like the girl on the half-shell
out of a sea of men. i knew.
my time had come
my nemesis:
welcome.
now the deed is done
i'm a little proud of how graceful i fall
see, how neatly it conspires to be done?
no begging, bile, bitterness, or tears.
yet i make my gestures,
cur you my deepest blood.
now i draw the curtains of causal politeness.
a feather-handed touch.
and i wait for the poison to spread
here alone by the silver beach
where else would i have had it end?
life and death both beautiful.
there is no home, or i would have longed for it
my heart, in this too, was broken and scattered in the winds by time
and pieces fell in so many lands: each i love truely
but broken, none could i completely. maybe the fault was mine
in my lustful itchy gypsy feet. in roving nomad ambitious eyes.
never satisfied.
is this a sin, for those who aspire to strength?
dreaming of a completelness not found within?
of a something, i know not what
beyond the words, beyond the masks, beyond the games
but then what of the blue feather?
was that, then, just a dream?
still naiive, i had been outraged
are you stupid, or silly, or do you think i am?
in which case you really really must be!
before my, then legendary, temper flared,
i forgot to check the expiry date
the first time i saw you, i knew
as you rose, like the girl on the half-shell
out of a sea of men. i knew.
my time had come
my nemesis:
welcome.
now the deed is done
i'm a little proud of how graceful i fall
see, how neatly it conspires to be done?
no begging, bile, bitterness, or tears.
yet i make my gestures,
cur you my deepest blood.
now i draw the curtains of causal politeness.
a feather-handed touch.
and i wait for the poison to spread
here alone by the silver beach
where else would i have had it end?
life and death both beautiful.
there is no home, or i would have longed for it
my heart, in this too, was broken and scattered in the winds by time
and pieces fell in so many lands: each i love truely
but broken, none could i completely. maybe the fault was mine
in my lustful itchy gypsy feet. in roving nomad ambitious eyes.
never satisfied.
is this a sin, for those who aspire to strength?
dreaming of a completelness not found within?
of a something, i know not what
beyond the words, beyond the masks, beyond the games
but then what of the blue feather?
was that, then, just a dream?
Tagged: Books
Tagged by Vatsala
Total number of books owned:
Very tough question! I really dont know ...
Last book(s) I bought:
Have stopped buying books. I do love my mom (and she threatens to disown me if I send another carton to 'her house'. I can resume buying only when I stop 'gypsy-living' and get a 'proper' life.
Five books that I have really enjoyed or have influenced me:
Influenced: The Little Princess, Steppenwolf, The Hours, A Beautiful Mind, Atlas Shrugged (:D at that time - i was a kid) ...
Identified with: Mill on the Floss, Steppenwolf, God of Small Things, Of Human Bondage, Iron in the Soul.
Enjoyed:
Henry and June (and the movie - yes I know i keep harping about H&J&N on the blog),
Mrs. Dalloway (changed something - many things - i dont know how to describe it),
The Little Prince (so many lessons),
The End of the Affair (mindblowing how he can write so well, from inside a woman's mind),
The Old Man and the Sea, (what can I say :))
Love and other Demons (i dislike marquez - drama and verbosity - but i liked this story),
The Strike ("the twin female desire to show and hide" :D again i have harped on this often on the blog - loved the way it was narrated - it was a masterpiece for me),
An Equal Music (I forget why I liked it - but I remember I did - like many people, no?),
Kite Runner (beautiful, haunting and sad. my eyes hurt from crying after it finished)
The Glass Palace (the detailing, the rowing - hated the end).
Sorry! I strayed from the exact question in the tag. Deliciously difficult :)
Book(s) I'm currently reading:
Tropic of Capricorn, Anna Karenina, On the Road, The Masqueraders
Books I plan to buy next I really want this one, but can't afford it right now: Letters from Iceland, by Auden The guy reads from it in Away from Her, which was one of the most impressive and personally, moving movies I have seen in a while (since cinema paradiso, and le choristers ... and for the same reasons :)) Anyway, after that I'm going to buy this! :)
Books that caught my attention but have never read
Mostly Bangla. I cant read Bangla too well. Have only read a few untranslated. I want to read many of those. Starting with Sanchaita, the rest of Samaresh Mojumdar and Sarat Chandra. SHANKAR!!! I dont know how I missed him! Always loved Chowranghee, didnt know it was by him!
Also, Letters from Iceland, right now.
Books I own but have never got around to reading
Quite a few, actually! Since I dont stay at "home", I have often bought books when there but then had to come back before I could read them!
Every once in a while there is a book I just "cant" read. I keep trying but it doesnt work. And funnily enough, some time in the future I come across it again, and I not only "can", I love it! One, Steppenwolf, Anna K, Zen and ... all fall in this category. I have a theory about it (like I do about everything else) :D
I tag The Austere, Prometheus, Sri Ramana, Manu, Peggy, Me, Prometheus, Austere, Ph, Hyde (doesnt do tags, though) and anyone else it looks interesting to :)
Total number of books owned:
Very tough question! I really dont know ...
Last book(s) I bought:
Have stopped buying books. I do love my mom (and she threatens to disown me if I send another carton to 'her house'. I can resume buying only when I stop 'gypsy-living' and get a 'proper' life.
Five books that I have really enjoyed or have influenced me:
Influenced: The Little Princess, Steppenwolf, The Hours, A Beautiful Mind, Atlas Shrugged (:D at that time - i was a kid) ...
Identified with: Mill on the Floss, Steppenwolf, God of Small Things, Of Human Bondage, Iron in the Soul.
Enjoyed:
Henry and June (and the movie - yes I know i keep harping about H&J&N on the blog),
Mrs. Dalloway (changed something - many things - i dont know how to describe it),
The Little Prince (so many lessons),
The End of the Affair (mindblowing how he can write so well, from inside a woman's mind),
The Old Man and the Sea, (what can I say :))
Love and other Demons (i dislike marquez - drama and verbosity - but i liked this story),
The Strike ("the twin female desire to show and hide" :D again i have harped on this often on the blog - loved the way it was narrated - it was a masterpiece for me),
An Equal Music (I forget why I liked it - but I remember I did - like many people, no?),
Kite Runner (beautiful, haunting and sad. my eyes hurt from crying after it finished)
The Glass Palace (the detailing, the rowing - hated the end).
Sorry! I strayed from the exact question in the tag. Deliciously difficult :)
Book(s) I'm currently reading:
Tropic of Capricorn, Anna Karenina, On the Road, The Masqueraders
Books I plan to buy next I really want this one, but can't afford it right now: Letters from Iceland, by Auden The guy reads from it in Away from Her, which was one of the most impressive and personally, moving movies I have seen in a while (since cinema paradiso, and le choristers ... and for the same reasons :)) Anyway, after that I'm going to buy this! :)
Books that caught my attention but have never read
Mostly Bangla. I cant read Bangla too well. Have only read a few untranslated. I want to read many of those. Starting with Sanchaita, the rest of Samaresh Mojumdar and Sarat Chandra. SHANKAR!!! I dont know how I missed him! Always loved Chowranghee, didnt know it was by him!
Also, Letters from Iceland, right now.
Books I own but have never got around to reading
Quite a few, actually! Since I dont stay at "home", I have often bought books when there but then had to come back before I could read them!
Every once in a while there is a book I just "cant" read. I keep trying but it doesnt work. And funnily enough, some time in the future I come across it again, and I not only "can", I love it! One, Steppenwolf, Anna K, Zen and ... all fall in this category. I have a theory about it (like I do about everything else) :D
I tag The Austere, Prometheus, Sri Ramana, Manu, Peggy, Me, Prometheus, Austere, Ph, Hyde (doesnt do tags, though) and anyone else it looks interesting to :)
Chowringhee
There were three bengali movies that when I was young had made a huge impression on me. Chowranghee, Parama and Deya Neya (meyeder bhai oto raag korle manaye?). One for each me! Chowranghee and Breakfast defined Style in my baby mind. (Just like Little Princess defined Goodness. And P&P, Love :))
Watching Chowranghee after a very long time. And I still love it as much. For me, this is one of the most tragic, most beautiful stories I have seen.
I dont remember where I had first seen this quotation. It said you do not know how real the people and events in books (and movies) are till you live within their covers. You walk in alone (infact, why else would you walk in) and immediately you are with friends. I dunno how true that is. It reminds me of the door with the sign: for mad men only. But the thing about these faerie friends and family is, they are always there, and portable, and you can call on them, whenever you are lonely. And close the covers, or change the subject, whenever you feel like it.
Saw Titli over the weekend. Made me want to read Sanchaita very much.
From Letters from Iceland
"Excuse, my lord, the liberty I take
In thus addressing you. I know that you
Will pay the price of authorship and make
The allowances an author has to do.
A poet's fan-mail will be nothing new.
And then a lord - Good Lord, you must be peppered,
... With notes from perfect strangers starting, 'Sir,
I liked your lyrics, but Childe Harold's trash',
'My daughter writes, should I encourage her?'
Sometimes containing frank demands for cash,
Sometimes sly hints at a platonic pash,
And sometimes, though I think this rather crude,
The correspondent's photo in the rude.
And as for manuscripts - by every post ... "
"For since the British Isles went Protestant
A church confession is too high for most.
But still confession is a human want,
So Englishmen must make theirs now by post
And authors hear them over breakfast toast.
For, failing them, there's nothing but the wall
Of public lavatories on which to scrawl."
"There is another author in my pack:
For some time I debated which to write to.
Which would least likely send my letter back?
I decided that I'd give a fright to
Jane Austen if I wrote when i'd no right to ..."
"Then she's a novelist. I don't know whether
You will agree, but novel writing is
A higher art than poetry altogether
In my opinion, and success implies
Both finer character and faculties,
perhaps that's why real novels are as rare
As winter thunder or a polar bear.
The average poet by comparison
Is unobservant, immature, and lazy.
You must adroit, when all is said and done,
His sense of other lpeople's very hazy,
His moral judgments are too often crazy,
A slick and easy generalisation
appeals too well to his imagination.
I must remember, though, that you were dead
Before the four great Russians lived, who brought
The art of novel writing to a head; ..."
From a letter from Auden to Byron (two of my favourites)
In thus addressing you. I know that you
Will pay the price of authorship and make
The allowances an author has to do.
A poet's fan-mail will be nothing new.
And then a lord - Good Lord, you must be peppered,
... With notes from perfect strangers starting, 'Sir,
I liked your lyrics, but Childe Harold's trash',
'My daughter writes, should I encourage her?'
Sometimes containing frank demands for cash,
Sometimes sly hints at a platonic pash,
And sometimes, though I think this rather crude,
The correspondent's photo in the rude.
And as for manuscripts - by every post ... "
"For since the British Isles went Protestant
A church confession is too high for most.
But still confession is a human want,
So Englishmen must make theirs now by post
And authors hear them over breakfast toast.
For, failing them, there's nothing but the wall
Of public lavatories on which to scrawl."
"There is another author in my pack:
For some time I debated which to write to.
Which would least likely send my letter back?
I decided that I'd give a fright to
Jane Austen if I wrote when i'd no right to ..."
"Then she's a novelist. I don't know whether
You will agree, but novel writing is
A higher art than poetry altogether
In my opinion, and success implies
Both finer character and faculties,
perhaps that's why real novels are as rare
As winter thunder or a polar bear.
The average poet by comparison
Is unobservant, immature, and lazy.
You must adroit, when all is said and done,
His sense of other lpeople's very hazy,
His moral judgments are too often crazy,
A slick and easy generalisation
appeals too well to his imagination.
I must remember, though, that you were dead
Before the four great Russians lived, who brought
The art of novel writing to a head; ..."
From a letter from Auden to Byron (two of my favourites)
"Dolly" - Part 4
Dont know where this will fit in - probably after he has run away from home and from his wife and he meets the other woman. He is attracted to her, and he is - in a strange detached way - surprised at himself for being so. He is surprised he can still feel things like this. Dolly is still dead. He can still feel the weight of her little body in his hands. He can still here her screaming 'dadddy'. This is the first time he has felt anything intense outside her grief, however feeltingly, and he is surprised he can. He doesnt feel ashamed, or guilty, thinking of his wife back home, who he ran away from. That too surprises him. Its like he is apart, watching this strange creature called "him". He hasnt told her about anything. This new woman. He doesnt actively pretend or ie, he never does, as much as he just 'forgets to mention' any 'unnecessary details', unless asked for. Some cruel part of him is pleased with the deception. How? Why? And at night he still dreams of his little girl, still feels guilty he let her die. thats kind of context for this part of it. if i could use verse id plug the beast here somewhere. at the end. maybe at home, by a fire after he has drunk a lot and cut his hands by some stupid accident and he cant be bothered to get up and clean or stop it. he just sits there and stares at it and his mind runs on in thoughts. Dunno - might scrap that too
It's not sexual, though it dances on the fringes of passion. It's like a burning need to know. To know something about the other person. But the feverishness of the need makes it almost seem to trandescend the intellectual. I would'nt know how to explain it more efficiently, really. In a world where human thoughts, desires and relationships are stored in strictly methodical filing cabinets, managed by zealous and efficient keepers of society, it is awkwardly out of place. Ofcourse, there is an element of desire, but its more like a tropical summer storm, than the year round british rain. It comes like a fever in the head, and you very well know it will pass.
So you were with me in my thoughts. Having spent the day and night with you like this, by proxy, (and you'd be amazed at the silly-mad things we did) makes me wonder if I am, finally, losing it! And it also makes me wonder what it would have been like if life had placed me in a different context.
Cruel, yes it was. A bit. Laughing, I hand out praise and strokes like crumb to swans gratefully floating. It's not exacty bait. But neither is it something more. It's entertaining to see you react. It's all in the game.
Now I wish you were here. I miss someone, or something, like a kick in the stomach, like me breath being kicked out of my lungs ... but I dont know who ...
Could it be you? Wish I knew. Wish I had the right to miss you. But I dont. Wanting you, now, comes at a huge price. One I know cant afford. Even in installments. So I hold the "missing" in the palm of my hand, gently, like a snowflake (like a begger frozen outside the pastry shop ... will the little princess come out and be kind to me?) And wait for it to melt.
Looking through this emptiness, holding my throbbing pain pressed still in my hand to calm, desperate for distraction, holding on the the last pieces of the corpse I still carry, or struggle to ... because it has grown intwined with my sanity ...
In sudden flashes, looking through the emptiness, desperately seeking distraction, becomes looking for you. Startled, my heart contracts with a frission of fear. Who are you? Master, Slave, Friend, Twin ... Who is that inside you, at the heart of the onion: who is that you carry hid? He looks like me. Can you let him out? Can I take him away. I promise to be bored and done soon - one day. And you can have him back, then. But not before.
It's not sexual, though it dances on the fringes of passion. It's like a burning need to know. To know something about the other person. But the feverishness of the need makes it almost seem to trandescend the intellectual. I would'nt know how to explain it more efficiently, really. In a world where human thoughts, desires and relationships are stored in strictly methodical filing cabinets, managed by zealous and efficient keepers of society, it is awkwardly out of place. Ofcourse, there is an element of desire, but its more like a tropical summer storm, than the year round british rain. It comes like a fever in the head, and you very well know it will pass.
So you were with me in my thoughts. Having spent the day and night with you like this, by proxy, (and you'd be amazed at the silly-mad things we did) makes me wonder if I am, finally, losing it! And it also makes me wonder what it would have been like if life had placed me in a different context.
Cruel, yes it was. A bit. Laughing, I hand out praise and strokes like crumb to swans gratefully floating. It's not exacty bait. But neither is it something more. It's entertaining to see you react. It's all in the game.
Now I wish you were here. I miss someone, or something, like a kick in the stomach, like me breath being kicked out of my lungs ... but I dont know who ...
Could it be you? Wish I knew. Wish I had the right to miss you. But I dont. Wanting you, now, comes at a huge price. One I know cant afford. Even in installments. So I hold the "missing" in the palm of my hand, gently, like a snowflake (like a begger frozen outside the pastry shop ... will the little princess come out and be kind to me?) And wait for it to melt.
Looking through this emptiness, holding my throbbing pain pressed still in my hand to calm, desperate for distraction, holding on the the last pieces of the corpse I still carry, or struggle to ... because it has grown intwined with my sanity ...
In sudden flashes, looking through the emptiness, desperately seeking distraction, becomes looking for you. Startled, my heart contracts with a frission of fear. Who are you? Master, Slave, Friend, Twin ... Who is that inside you, at the heart of the onion: who is that you carry hid? He looks like me. Can you let him out? Can I take him away. I promise to be bored and done soon - one day. And you can have him back, then. But not before.
pandora's box
Time, fades the knowledge,
The fear, the remembreance of how potent
The power of the dark,
Thoughts and feelings
Were on your heart
Careless, you turn to the dark and dusty corner
Half forgotten, open the box
Rummage, pull in one bright piece of a memory
Share, and laugh.
Then later,
At night,
When the guests have gone
And, you, alone with your ghosts
The unmentionables,
You wrestle with the memories
And the tears
And you know you wont let them win
But a part of you, weak traitor,
half wishes you could
Do you?
Do you really wish you could let go, just once
Let the day fall heedless around
Let the world dissolve
In the light of an aging sun
While wallow inside the trunk
Of old memories
Yesterdays. Selves. Now gone.
Ghosts, and skeletons
packed, any old how,
shoved into corners
Of carefully concealed corners
Along attic walls
For tonight, these are the memories I found:
chameleon master of trickery masks
Dusk to Dawn
Open Invitation
The Haunting
Black
The fear, the remembreance of how potent
The power of the dark,
Thoughts and feelings
Were on your heart
Careless, you turn to the dark and dusty corner
Half forgotten, open the box
Rummage, pull in one bright piece of a memory
Share, and laugh.
Then later,
At night,
When the guests have gone
And, you, alone with your ghosts
The unmentionables,
You wrestle with the memories
And the tears
And you know you wont let them win
But a part of you, weak traitor,
half wishes you could
Do you?
Do you really wish you could let go, just once
Let the day fall heedless around
Let the world dissolve
In the light of an aging sun
While wallow inside the trunk
Of old memories
Yesterdays. Selves. Now gone.
Ghosts, and skeletons
packed, any old how,
shoved into corners
Of carefully concealed corners
Along attic walls
For tonight, these are the memories I found:
chameleon master of trickery masks
Dusk to Dawn
Open Invitation
The Haunting
Black
arthurs seat in the morning
following my bliss, i landed up hear
heaven must be a place like this
sun is warm on my back
the wind swims in my hair
around me the mountains soar
my arms stained green with grass blood
beneath me, you are solid as a rock
on you, i could float my wildest dreams
together, we could reach the skies
show them how life could be lived
my beautiful. my grand. my city gorgeous
your old cobbled streets, your sudden mountains
silver lakes, tucked into corners ...
yes, you are a mad god's dream
i could'nt even stop staring at you. spellbound. dont release me.
edinburgh, you'll never know how much you mean to me.
heaven must be a place like this
sun is warm on my back
the wind swims in my hair
around me the mountains soar
my arms stained green with grass blood
beneath me, you are solid as a rock
on you, i could float my wildest dreams
together, we could reach the skies
show them how life could be lived
my beautiful. my grand. my city gorgeous
your old cobbled streets, your sudden mountains
silver lakes, tucked into corners ...
yes, you are a mad god's dream
i could'nt even stop staring at you. spellbound. dont release me.
edinburgh, you'll never know how much you mean to me.
Nostalgia
Time fades the knowledge, the fear, the remembrance of how potent the power of the dark thoughts and feelings were on your heart. Careless, you turn to the dark and dusty corner, half forgotten, open the box, rummage, and pull out a memory. You share it and laugh.
Then later, at night, when the guests have gone, and you are alone with your ghosts, the unmentionables, you wrestle with the memories. And the tears. You know you wont let them win. You know you wont let them in, but a part of you, traitor, weak, half wishes you could.
Do you! Do you really wish you could let go, just once? Let the day fall heedless around. Let the world dissolve. In the light of an aging sun. Wallow inside the trunk Of old memories, yesterdays, selves, for a While. Ghosts and skeletons, packed any how, shoved into carefully concealed corners, along dusty attic walls.
Have you ever spend hours, days even, just spilled out on a chair, looking out of the window, into nothing. Mind too tired to think. Too tired of seeing the same self in the mirror. The coward-warrior. The impotent-dreamer.
For tonight, these are the memories I found:
chameleon master of trickery masks
Dusk to Dawn
Open Invitation
The Haunting
Black
In a way, the strangest part of it is this feeling of being seperate, of floating above your 'self', watching it slowly live, breathe, cry, scream ... watching it ever so slowly disintegrate.
I spent three and a half days on this chair. Staring at the walls, the screen, or out of the window.
In my dreams she stands over my head: a macabre grinning skeleton. Her voice is loud and has a metallic sound. She says she's come to clear accounts. She wants a report of what I have done, with the life she bought me with her's.
Spiderman 3, he peeled the black suit off. Could you? Or does it stick after having been on too long. There's always a choice, he said. Like Batman. You are what you want to be as much as what you are ... the beast, listens and chuckles at your naivette.
If you had one 'friend', life would be worth living. Do you? And how do you define friend?
Then later, at night, when the guests have gone, and you are alone with your ghosts, the unmentionables, you wrestle with the memories. And the tears. You know you wont let them win. You know you wont let them in, but a part of you, traitor, weak, half wishes you could.
Do you! Do you really wish you could let go, just once? Let the day fall heedless around. Let the world dissolve. In the light of an aging sun. Wallow inside the trunk Of old memories, yesterdays, selves, for a While. Ghosts and skeletons, packed any how, shoved into carefully concealed corners, along dusty attic walls.
Have you ever spend hours, days even, just spilled out on a chair, looking out of the window, into nothing. Mind too tired to think. Too tired of seeing the same self in the mirror. The coward-warrior. The impotent-dreamer.
For tonight, these are the memories I found:
chameleon master of trickery masks
Dusk to Dawn
Open Invitation
The Haunting
Black
In a way, the strangest part of it is this feeling of being seperate, of floating above your 'self', watching it slowly live, breathe, cry, scream ... watching it ever so slowly disintegrate.
I spent three and a half days on this chair. Staring at the walls, the screen, or out of the window.
In my dreams she stands over my head: a macabre grinning skeleton. Her voice is loud and has a metallic sound. She says she's come to clear accounts. She wants a report of what I have done, with the life she bought me with her's.
Spiderman 3, he peeled the black suit off. Could you? Or does it stick after having been on too long. There's always a choice, he said. Like Batman. You are what you want to be as much as what you are ... the beast, listens and chuckles at your naivette.
If you had one 'friend', life would be worth living. Do you? And how do you define friend?
you
I ask my tears as I watch them fall, who are you called?
I watch my self of salt dissolve.
Where are you? I am still still untaught.
And I'm still a little girl.
Yes I know
So punishment?
then open skin
and take back your bloody blood.
I watch my self of salt dissolve.
Where are you? I am still still untaught.
And I'm still a little girl.
Yes I know
So punishment?
then open skin
and take back your bloody blood.
quietly by the water
the beast is a quiet desperation.
secret, silent, stealthy.
you are opaque.
a cage.
inside, he paces restless.
he screams, hurls himself on the wall.
outside is a pool.
quiet. mirrored.
once in a while, a wave shakes the surface.
could be the wind. perhaps? then all is calm.
words are ripples on the water.
twin edged. disguised.
the flowers on the water's edge
are learning to pretend. pretty masks of paper and wood.
on the other side of the mountain, is unreachable,
now. a yesterday. a way of life. gone.
inside the beasts heart is freezing
he hates your naiive little joys
make no mistake. the beast wants you dead.
the beast has no logic. he wants the world to end.
the sky is blue. the sun is warm
everything. so far away.
the ground is a bed. a bed of knives.
the knife is knowing what you want.
desire is wing broken bird.
a weaver. spins stupid dreams of love.
steel are the bars of the cage
rock hard impotence, made of fear.
ambition is a dream of freedom for the beast.
if the cage could be leaped, he could be calm and strong.
secret, silent, stealthy.
you are opaque.
a cage.
inside, he paces restless.
he screams, hurls himself on the wall.
outside is a pool.
quiet. mirrored.
once in a while, a wave shakes the surface.
could be the wind. perhaps? then all is calm.
words are ripples on the water.
twin edged. disguised.
the flowers on the water's edge
are learning to pretend. pretty masks of paper and wood.
on the other side of the mountain, is unreachable,
now. a yesterday. a way of life. gone.
inside the beasts heart is freezing
he hates your naiive little joys
make no mistake. the beast wants you dead.
the beast has no logic. he wants the world to end.
the sky is blue. the sun is warm
everything. so far away.
the ground is a bed. a bed of knives.
the knife is knowing what you want.
desire is wing broken bird.
a weaver. spins stupid dreams of love.
steel are the bars of the cage
rock hard impotence, made of fear.
ambition is a dream of freedom for the beast.
if the cage could be leaped, he could be calm and strong.
can you, want something desperately,
and not know if you want it at all?
there is no helplessness comparable.
my sweet beautiful life: i never thought
even you would ever put me there.
there must be a way out of here.
there must be a way i am not seeing.
i am scared of my own intensity.
i am scared of the monsters i could create.
i scared, now, of my own shadow.
for the first time, i am now scared
i who jumped in always heedless.
for the first time realise, i never cared before
fear springs from love and care
there is nothing more fearsome than to care
i have never profited from relationships
and not know if you want it at all?
there is no helplessness comparable.
my sweet beautiful life: i never thought
even you would ever put me there.
there must be a way out of here.
there must be a way i am not seeing.
i am scared of my own intensity.
i am scared of the monsters i could create.
i scared, now, of my own shadow.
for the first time, i am now scared
i who jumped in always heedless.
for the first time realise, i never cared before
fear springs from love and care
there is nothing more fearsome than to care
i have never profited from relationships
just a box of rain
it's not that it does not work, just that it's hard. damn hard. but then, like i said earier, it's like a bad habit that needs to be unlearnt. all you need is patience. detached patience. you will keep failing, but persist and the rate of failures will go down. catch is, patience was never one of my virtues. and persistence even less so.
so i try to zone out the noise and focus on my box of rain. my mind is a room, and it's stored in the corner, by the wall, under the mirror (significant) and in the second drawer of the chest. hidden in the best disguise: obvious-ness.
in my mind, i walk to it, pull open the drawer, and pull out the 'box'. not really a box, but we are being metaphorical. i pull out the contents. let's say, for the sake of maintaining the masks and fronts, i pull out a rainy evening. the sky looks silver grey. the shingles are wet and glossy. the tree sway as if to shake off the little drops of water. and a lone bird sings. the sun looks ... there you see, it brings me right back to the f sun! there must be some way outta here? however, its much easier now having made up my mind. the point is, you have to fall out of love with the old ways, and open your mind to the new. and the way will come and find you. there's nothing admirable about cowardice. but then, who am i to cast the first stone. what have i ever been if not craven?
so i try to zone out the noise and focus on my box of rain. my mind is a room, and it's stored in the corner, by the wall, under the mirror (significant) and in the second drawer of the chest. hidden in the best disguise: obvious-ness.
in my mind, i walk to it, pull open the drawer, and pull out the 'box'. not really a box, but we are being metaphorical. i pull out the contents. let's say, for the sake of maintaining the masks and fronts, i pull out a rainy evening. the sky looks silver grey. the shingles are wet and glossy. the tree sway as if to shake off the little drops of water. and a lone bird sings. the sun looks ... there you see, it brings me right back to the f sun! there must be some way outta here? however, its much easier now having made up my mind. the point is, you have to fall out of love with the old ways, and open your mind to the new. and the way will come and find you. there's nothing admirable about cowardice. but then, who am i to cast the first stone. what have i ever been if not craven?
days
each day spills over unnoticed,
like the last few coins in a beggers purse.
the moon, the mountains, the wind, the sun,
nothing stirs the depths of oblivion.
there's a fine line between pain and numbness.
like the thin edge between acceptance and despair.
strange is lust for life. so beaten,
the hunger still doesnt abate.
a hundred winters have come and gone,
a hundred springs followed.
but still, the cold numbs fingertips.
knowing that it will pass, makes it no easier.
the river, that steals from a hundred banks,
still weeps when robbed by the ocean.
hours slip by unnoticed. dreams, hopes, passions,
spill unheeded like blood now lifeless.
outside, the wind howls.
strange choreography.
the moon, narrow and long, is a bittersweet smile.
the stars are dying: slowly, unnoticed.
another day is folded and put away.
carefully, slowly, lingeringly, let go.
bargains are struck and stuck to.
however dear the price.
faded daisies, crumbling dry,
carefully stored in notebooks. and big brown envelopes.
like the last few coins in a beggers purse.
the moon, the mountains, the wind, the sun,
nothing stirs the depths of oblivion.
there's a fine line between pain and numbness.
like the thin edge between acceptance and despair.
strange is lust for life. so beaten,
the hunger still doesnt abate.
a hundred winters have come and gone,
a hundred springs followed.
but still, the cold numbs fingertips.
knowing that it will pass, makes it no easier.
the river, that steals from a hundred banks,
still weeps when robbed by the ocean.
hours slip by unnoticed. dreams, hopes, passions,
spill unheeded like blood now lifeless.
outside, the wind howls.
strange choreography.
the moon, narrow and long, is a bittersweet smile.
the stars are dying: slowly, unnoticed.
another day is folded and put away.
carefully, slowly, lingeringly, let go.
bargains are struck and stuck to.
however dear the price.
faded daisies, crumbling dry,
carefully stored in notebooks. and big brown envelopes.
so does it feel any better? not an inch, unfortunately! i must be some sorry kind of scorp! cant stay mad, for all my efforts ... concentrating like arjun on the target ... it still forget 5 times out of 6. Thats not all, when I do remember, I am more hurt in anticipated sympathy than the other person, who probably, is oblivious through this whole drama ... so the binary, is the only option then. Just dissapear. Casually friendly is MUCH harder. Its all to fucking loaded.
All this is born of the deceit. I know I owe it to be more honest. But I am such a coward ... I dare not!
All this is born of the deceit. I know I owe it to be more honest. But I am such a coward ... I dare not!
Dolly (Part 3)
Disclaimer: With the exception of work labelled non-fiction, the characters featured in this site are completely fictional. Any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental. No similarity to any person either living or dead is intended or should be inferred.
I have something that is eating me up. I want to say it to someone, but I have noone to say it to. Or to put it better, I have noone I would care to say it to. For miscellaneus (I cant spell that) reasons. Maybe its a good thing, because I would'nt know the first thing about how to phrase it.
Is'nt it the kind of irony that could only happen to me, that today, when I should be so happy, I am so deeply sad. Well, not sad, but ... I dont know how to say even that.
We make our choices in life. We leave the things we have, and come seeking that which we don't. We leave our homes to look for adventure. We come and live in places which can never be home. And we know, we know all the time, that this is what we have chosen, and that noone will ever understand why, or that you will be lonely as a dog: warm, friendly befriended, fed, loved ... but never one of us. And we know what we are leaving behind, though sometimes we kid ourselves about it, for a while.
And you know that those who gave their life blood to make you who you were, who brought you up, and saved you, who found a stray orphan and loved it like their own, against all those million odds, and waited patiently for that one day when it will finish growing up, and be a 'full grown friend', you know that just at that night before harvest, you are stealing the crop they have nurtured for so long,
And you know they sit on the old rocking chair, in the cold and lonely house, where noone comes to visit, looking at the old collapsible gate, and waiting for you to come home ... know by heart the way you put one arm on the 'rock' and haul yourself up, shouting hello to uncle-ji (who they also know you secretly love) and ring the bell in 'your tune' while rattling the gate in 'your beat', which they probably hear in their dreams ... and you know that they will die in the that rocking chair by the time you are done wandering (and racing and rowing and winning cool stamps that you think are entry tickets to self-approval ... racing your shadow to try and satiate your insatiable, lustful, greedy 'self') ... you know they will be dead.
And the fruits of their labour, will be free to go back to the maker ... the cuckoo will fly back to its nest.
But still we do it. And we know, somewhere, while making our choices, the payments we are agreeing to, in regular installments, for all of time to come. And when the check arrives in the mail, we are expecting it, we have made our peace, had our joy. Won our races. Buried our dead.
But yet sometimes, it seems hard. And you just feel like you can't take it, like you've been paying all your life, for something or the other, that your tired of always paying for everything you wanted. why cant life be free.
But then it passes. Just like a toothache. It passes. You laugh at yourself. Blow your nose. make a coffee. Light up. And go stand by the window. And fondly think of how silly your 'little-child-self'gets once in a while, and smile. (And in a secret part of your heart hope it has truly passed ... and watch yourself a little skeptically, a little extra careful for a while ... just to be sure).
And so it is with love. Or atleast, with mine. I made my choices. I always knew it was out of reach. I always knew this would get very deep. From the first second I knew. It took me a while to reaise it, and then some more to come to terms with, and believe it, but from the first minute I knew.
And I always knew I could never, ever, ever reach out and touch the stars, or even ask the stars to come down. because thats NOT the WAY I want it. And i wouldnt be satisfied. Not with a gift. Or charity. Or compromise. Or agreement. I've been there too. I know ...
My logical side (is that my thalamus {supposed seat of consciousness}?) has made its peace with that. Its like loving a snowflake. You love it. You want it. But you know its so delicate, if you reach out and touch it, it will melt. You just cant have it. You can just watch it dancing from a distance: dancing, twirling, spinning, falling ...
But there are times when my younger side takes over (old brain?). there are times when I cant bear it, just for that moment, just to reach out and touch my little snowflake.
And to know that I wont. That I cant. That I just wouldnt allow myself, couldnt, wouldnt, shouldnt ... and all of that 'jiving around'.
And that I will just watch it float past my face. Free. Like it was meant to be. And I will let it go. I always knew that. But sometimes, it just seems awfully hard. And I wonder how I will do that.
But still, I'm glad. All my (other) dreams have come true. My life is blessed. I have friends, after a fashion. And now I even have somewhere to go (for what thats worth).
And knowing my little snowflake ... it would have turned out to be a bloody nightmare, had that one come true. Like they say, be careful what you wish for. And sometimes not getting what you wanted, is the best thing that could happen to you.
What does come with age is a (just) little bit more patience. And acceptance. a few years ago I would have gone to town on this. Now I sit and wait for it to pass - knowing for sure that it will. Before, I would have gone out of my way to keep out of people's way, now I know there will be time enough for that, when the time comes, and it will be soon enough. There was a time when I would have been angry or dissapointed in myself for being either so out of control, or so silly, or not brave enough to just do what it takes - get off the fence, this way or the other - but with time I have learnt to accept myself and loosen my ambitions about who I wanted to be.
So I just brace myself and prepare to try my best to let you go without a scene, without giving away anymore than I must. I dont care if I can't have you, but face ... I must save face. And I build up my scrap book of memories, for later, for the rest of the way. My box of rain. I collect every scrap of time and affection that falls of your careless ways. A pebble that you threw at me, a half sucked candy that you stuck in my hair, a strand of your hair ... but how do you collect the little formless things? A tone of voice, a carefree song, a look, a fleeting touch ... guess that too must be let go, huh?
PS - Please wont you NOT leave a silly comment? I have turned wiser, calmer, much much PC-er and polite-r, with my three decades old wisdom ... but inside, silly still pisses the fuck out of me. Just kidding. ;)
I know this does'nt weave in, in any way shape or form with the other two parts of 'dolly' (as they didnt with each other) but in my head they all fit in with the master-plot and one day they will be woven together, trust me ;)
Saw Away from her, I think it was the most impressive movie I have seen in a while ... or its the movie that moved me most (ever since cinema paradiso).
I have something that is eating me up. I want to say it to someone, but I have noone to say it to. Or to put it better, I have noone I would care to say it to. For miscellaneus (I cant spell that) reasons. Maybe its a good thing, because I would'nt know the first thing about how to phrase it.
Is'nt it the kind of irony that could only happen to me, that today, when I should be so happy, I am so deeply sad. Well, not sad, but ... I dont know how to say even that.
We make our choices in life. We leave the things we have, and come seeking that which we don't. We leave our homes to look for adventure. We come and live in places which can never be home. And we know, we know all the time, that this is what we have chosen, and that noone will ever understand why, or that you will be lonely as a dog: warm, friendly befriended, fed, loved ... but never one of us. And we know what we are leaving behind, though sometimes we kid ourselves about it, for a while.
And you know that those who gave their life blood to make you who you were, who brought you up, and saved you, who found a stray orphan and loved it like their own, against all those million odds, and waited patiently for that one day when it will finish growing up, and be a 'full grown friend', you know that just at that night before harvest, you are stealing the crop they have nurtured for so long,
And you know they sit on the old rocking chair, in the cold and lonely house, where noone comes to visit, looking at the old collapsible gate, and waiting for you to come home ... know by heart the way you put one arm on the 'rock' and haul yourself up, shouting hello to uncle-ji (who they also know you secretly love) and ring the bell in 'your tune' while rattling the gate in 'your beat', which they probably hear in their dreams ... and you know that they will die in the that rocking chair by the time you are done wandering (and racing and rowing and winning cool stamps that you think are entry tickets to self-approval ... racing your shadow to try and satiate your insatiable, lustful, greedy 'self') ... you know they will be dead.
And the fruits of their labour, will be free to go back to the maker ... the cuckoo will fly back to its nest.
But still we do it. And we know, somewhere, while making our choices, the payments we are agreeing to, in regular installments, for all of time to come. And when the check arrives in the mail, we are expecting it, we have made our peace, had our joy. Won our races. Buried our dead.
But yet sometimes, it seems hard. And you just feel like you can't take it, like you've been paying all your life, for something or the other, that your tired of always paying for everything you wanted. why cant life be free.
But then it passes. Just like a toothache. It passes. You laugh at yourself. Blow your nose. make a coffee. Light up. And go stand by the window. And fondly think of how silly your 'little-child-self'gets once in a while, and smile. (And in a secret part of your heart hope it has truly passed ... and watch yourself a little skeptically, a little extra careful for a while ... just to be sure).
And so it is with love. Or atleast, with mine. I made my choices. I always knew it was out of reach. I always knew this would get very deep. From the first second I knew. It took me a while to reaise it, and then some more to come to terms with, and believe it, but from the first minute I knew.
And I always knew I could never, ever, ever reach out and touch the stars, or even ask the stars to come down. because thats NOT the WAY I want it. And i wouldnt be satisfied. Not with a gift. Or charity. Or compromise. Or agreement. I've been there too. I know ...
My logical side (is that my thalamus {supposed seat of consciousness}?) has made its peace with that. Its like loving a snowflake. You love it. You want it. But you know its so delicate, if you reach out and touch it, it will melt. You just cant have it. You can just watch it dancing from a distance: dancing, twirling, spinning, falling ...
But there are times when my younger side takes over (old brain?). there are times when I cant bear it, just for that moment, just to reach out and touch my little snowflake.
And to know that I wont. That I cant. That I just wouldnt allow myself, couldnt, wouldnt, shouldnt ... and all of that 'jiving around'.
And that I will just watch it float past my face. Free. Like it was meant to be. And I will let it go. I always knew that. But sometimes, it just seems awfully hard. And I wonder how I will do that.
But still, I'm glad. All my (other) dreams have come true. My life is blessed. I have friends, after a fashion. And now I even have somewhere to go (for what thats worth).
And knowing my little snowflake ... it would have turned out to be a bloody nightmare, had that one come true. Like they say, be careful what you wish for. And sometimes not getting what you wanted, is the best thing that could happen to you.
What does come with age is a (just) little bit more patience. And acceptance. a few years ago I would have gone to town on this. Now I sit and wait for it to pass - knowing for sure that it will. Before, I would have gone out of my way to keep out of people's way, now I know there will be time enough for that, when the time comes, and it will be soon enough. There was a time when I would have been angry or dissapointed in myself for being either so out of control, or so silly, or not brave enough to just do what it takes - get off the fence, this way or the other - but with time I have learnt to accept myself and loosen my ambitions about who I wanted to be.
So I just brace myself and prepare to try my best to let you go without a scene, without giving away anymore than I must. I dont care if I can't have you, but face ... I must save face. And I build up my scrap book of memories, for later, for the rest of the way. My box of rain. I collect every scrap of time and affection that falls of your careless ways. A pebble that you threw at me, a half sucked candy that you stuck in my hair, a strand of your hair ... but how do you collect the little formless things? A tone of voice, a carefree song, a look, a fleeting touch ... guess that too must be let go, huh?
PS - Please wont you NOT leave a silly comment? I have turned wiser, calmer, much much PC-er and polite-r, with my three decades old wisdom ... but inside, silly still pisses the fuck out of me. Just kidding. ;)
I know this does'nt weave in, in any way shape or form with the other two parts of 'dolly' (as they didnt with each other) but in my head they all fit in with the master-plot and one day they will be woven together, trust me ;)
Saw Away from her, I think it was the most impressive movie I have seen in a while ... or its the movie that moved me most (ever since cinema paradiso).
madcap comes home
the sun is shining ... wont let it go down again ... all is right ... thank you three wise men, for the gifts you brought ...
everything is right again ... for a while ... i'm the king of the world!!! the last time i was this happy was when i was home and got my first letter from madcap. now i'm so happy again. dont go away.
but he stands at the other end of this river, and i have two more rungs of this bridge to cross, before i get to the other, longer, bigger bridge ... will i make it? dont slip out of my hands again madcap. i want you so so so much ...
feel so high. feel like walking upto everyone on the street and telling them :)
oh god - i hope this works. this one remaing bridge between us. else to have gotton so close to you & lost you ... it would be so sad ...
not that i dont love t, or he hasnt been good to me, but just that i think i have grown out of him. i need this ... atleast for now ... only madcap will do ...
who knows what tomorrow will bring?
everything is right again ... for a while ... i'm the king of the world!!! the last time i was this happy was when i was home and got my first letter from madcap. now i'm so happy again. dont go away.
but he stands at the other end of this river, and i have two more rungs of this bridge to cross, before i get to the other, longer, bigger bridge ... will i make it? dont slip out of my hands again madcap. i want you so so so much ...
feel so high. feel like walking upto everyone on the street and telling them :)
oh god - i hope this works. this one remaing bridge between us. else to have gotton so close to you & lost you ... it would be so sad ...
not that i dont love t, or he hasnt been good to me, but just that i think i have grown out of him. i need this ... atleast for now ... only madcap will do ...
who knows what tomorrow will bring?
what are these things called love?
excuse me! could you just move over please? you're sitting on my heart. and then she burst into a smothered fit of giggling. thats the first thing you noticed about her. she was almost always laughing. even when she was alone, sometimes random funny thoughts like that flit through her head and she wanted to laugh. she always had trouble explaining what was so funny. after a while, he gave up asking.
the first thing most people noticed about him was his bouyancy. the first thing she noticed about him was him! like a textbook case of fascination, from the very first instant she met him, she had been mesmerised by him. and now, all these years later, she still had not figured out what to do about it.
Today they were sitting together in the crowded bus, more from lack of choice than any other reason; when suddenly, she giggled
Her giggle brought him back from a reverie. He was thinking about how they had met for the first time near a trail where he was hiking. He had seen a sparkle in her deep blue eyes which he noticed more than her giggle. They crossed paths not before he strained his neck to catch a fleeting glimpse of her.
But he sighed! It has been so many years and probably she wouldn't even be remembering that moment which changed his life. She always smiled and radiated a glow which he would have basked in. But he was not sure then. He asked himself, was he sure now after so many years?
I am not going to complete this now, and probably not ever ... if you want to have a go at writing the next paragraphs, lines or even words ... leave it in the comments. If you want to change something in the existing text to fit your contribution, let me know too. lets spin some yarn ;0)
Contributing spinners so far:PreRicercar, Amit, Pilgrim
the first thing most people noticed about him was his bouyancy. the first thing she noticed about him was him! like a textbook case of fascination, from the very first instant she met him, she had been mesmerised by him. and now, all these years later, she still had not figured out what to do about it.
Today they were sitting together in the crowded bus, more from lack of choice than any other reason; when suddenly, she giggled
Her giggle brought him back from a reverie. He was thinking about how they had met for the first time near a trail where he was hiking. He had seen a sparkle in her deep blue eyes which he noticed more than her giggle. They crossed paths not before he strained his neck to catch a fleeting glimpse of her.
But he sighed! It has been so many years and probably she wouldn't even be remembering that moment which changed his life. She always smiled and radiated a glow which he would have basked in. But he was not sure then. He asked himself, was he sure now after so many years?
I am not going to complete this now, and probably not ever ... if you want to have a go at writing the next paragraphs, lines or even words ... leave it in the comments. If you want to change something in the existing text to fit your contribution, let me know too. lets spin some yarn ;0)
Contributing spinners so far: