The easiest, simplest questions, are sometimes the most difficult to answer.
Are you Happy? Who are you the closest to? Whom do you like? Who do you love? Do you love him? Do you like her? Do you want him unconditionally? What do you want to have, if anything were possible? Do you have anyone to talk to? Someone you could say anything to? Someone you would say everything to? Are you afraid? Are you enjoying life? How are you? Are you mad! How have you been? How do you feel about this? What are your thoughts on this?
The most simple and genuine statements, sometimes, rub the most against the grain: let me give you a hug; i'm so sorry; you must be so excited! lucky you; you poor thing; lovely day, isnt it? hello, dear; you must be really glad! you sound good. so, you're having a blast, from all I hear? Nevermind, you tried your best! These things happen. Try to let go. I know how it feels. Isnt it wonderful!
Originally Posted at Prerona.
Scratch
slowly, life settles into a rythm. Thoughts whizz through my head in crazy non-sequences. On my way to and from work, at lunch break, at night after lights out. Like buzzing flies over a carcass, they are too tiny and too quick to catch in words.
Over the last few weeks, since my re-awakening, so much has happened. Little gifts good, bad and ugly, from everyone all around.
Like never before, I stand at the cross roads. I am so confused that I am frozen numb. As ever, the biggest confusion is about what I want. A dream, versus reality. When they clash, do dreams ever win?
Its strange 'being' after so many years: living in Calcutta, living at home, living amongst people, working offshore, and more.
Had woken up at 5 as usual for Golf. How pretty she looks, waking up slowly, stretching, bit bit, rubbing sleep out of the most beautiful eyes in the world. Magnificiently resplendant Kolkata, stubbornly intellectual Calcutta, unreasonably happy Kolkata, Irresponsibly careless Calcutta.
Seeing it with fresh eyes, after so long, I could see why everyone loves to hate her. Everywhere it dirty, messy, poverty struck ... but everywhere there are people with life spilling out of their eyes, laughing, joking, playing 'life'. So alive ... I have travelled around the world. I have seen many cities. I have fallen in love with many places. But I havent found so much life anywhere.
Went to CRC afterwards. But they wont take on any new people till the state-levels are over. Thats the end of this month. I want to try sculling again. But I'd have to wait till the end of the month.
After golf, came home and rushed off to work. Thought I'll leave early today. Still, it had struck 9 before I could leave. Didnt want to spend 200 bucks on a cab and didnt have the energy to take a bus. Started to walk, but got a 'shuttle' a nice AC Zen.
It rained while i was at work. sometimes, you eel like a butterfly, or moth, tarpped inside a dry glass box looking out into the rain, your heart fluttering against the transparent panes.
As I walk out, alone atlast with the pounding thoughts, with all the issues which need to be resolved, the mysteries that need to be fathomed, the dreams that need to be measured, while walking down to the bus stop, the wind that laughs into my face and playfully tugs my hair in every direction, like Panda gone mad bcz you have come home after ages; the air is cool and a little damp still. The air is scented with the perfume of some evening flower, tastefully delicate.
Out of nowhere, I remember you and how you loved these flowers.
Once again, I am astounded by my immense calm. Or rather, numbness. or maybe, its the same thing. Such vaulting ego's. Such amazing selfish-ness. Such monumental cruelty ... beauty, joy, fun and games (that people play) ... and it all leaves me unmoved. I accept everything. I accept everyone in spite of.
Just once in a while, I think of you. When the wind blows me the fragrance of your favourite flowers, or I see someone who reminds me of you, some loving couple: mother and child. Then hurridly I turn my thoughts away again.
Fleetingly the other option comes to my mind. But I dismiss it as soon as it comes. It would be really cruel. And besides, I dont have the energy left for it.
Soon its night and I am home with them. You must have loved her, and she you. Yet, since you've been gone, its that much harder to keep in mind. So complicated ... why does it always have to be this way? Is that the price of intensity?
Outside my window, the moon is a shyly smiling face. Gently, the wind chimes tinkle, the delicate glass lines still glistening with drops of rain. The stairs to the terrace, taht lead from outside my room, are wet. I am not sure if its because of the rain, or because Ram Da has just been watering the plants. In the other room, Mummy and Munal are arguing and giggling alternately. That days Subala came to my room and said 'didibhai, tomaake Munal-er Ma daakchhe'
... its all about you. Its always all about you.
it's funny, how many people see themselves mirrored in the reflection of your flames in my eyes.
When did I become like this. I am frequently called diplomatic or a hypocrite. I think I am just polite. Is it a bad thing, to care enough to behave nicely with people, to want them to be happy?
I am tired and I want to sleep. But there are so many people I still need to meet, to listen to, to care about; So much I need to think about; so much to read and write about. And tomorrow is another day.
Originally Posted at Prerona.
Over the last few weeks, since my re-awakening, so much has happened. Little gifts good, bad and ugly, from everyone all around.
Like never before, I stand at the cross roads. I am so confused that I am frozen numb. As ever, the biggest confusion is about what I want. A dream, versus reality. When they clash, do dreams ever win?
Its strange 'being' after so many years: living in Calcutta, living at home, living amongst people, working offshore, and more.
Had woken up at 5 as usual for Golf. How pretty she looks, waking up slowly, stretching, bit bit, rubbing sleep out of the most beautiful eyes in the world. Magnificiently resplendant Kolkata, stubbornly intellectual Calcutta, unreasonably happy Kolkata, Irresponsibly careless Calcutta.
Seeing it with fresh eyes, after so long, I could see why everyone loves to hate her. Everywhere it dirty, messy, poverty struck ... but everywhere there are people with life spilling out of their eyes, laughing, joking, playing 'life'. So alive ... I have travelled around the world. I have seen many cities. I have fallen in love with many places. But I havent found so much life anywhere.
Went to CRC afterwards. But they wont take on any new people till the state-levels are over. Thats the end of this month. I want to try sculling again. But I'd have to wait till the end of the month.
After golf, came home and rushed off to work. Thought I'll leave early today. Still, it had struck 9 before I could leave. Didnt want to spend 200 bucks on a cab and didnt have the energy to take a bus. Started to walk, but got a 'shuttle' a nice AC Zen.
It rained while i was at work. sometimes, you eel like a butterfly, or moth, tarpped inside a dry glass box looking out into the rain, your heart fluttering against the transparent panes.
As I walk out, alone atlast with the pounding thoughts, with all the issues which need to be resolved, the mysteries that need to be fathomed, the dreams that need to be measured, while walking down to the bus stop, the wind that laughs into my face and playfully tugs my hair in every direction, like Panda gone mad bcz you have come home after ages; the air is cool and a little damp still. The air is scented with the perfume of some evening flower, tastefully delicate.
Out of nowhere, I remember you and how you loved these flowers.
Once again, I am astounded by my immense calm. Or rather, numbness. or maybe, its the same thing. Such vaulting ego's. Such amazing selfish-ness. Such monumental cruelty ... beauty, joy, fun and games (that people play) ... and it all leaves me unmoved. I accept everything. I accept everyone in spite of.
Just once in a while, I think of you. When the wind blows me the fragrance of your favourite flowers, or I see someone who reminds me of you, some loving couple: mother and child. Then hurridly I turn my thoughts away again.
Fleetingly the other option comes to my mind. But I dismiss it as soon as it comes. It would be really cruel. And besides, I dont have the energy left for it.
Soon its night and I am home with them. You must have loved her, and she you. Yet, since you've been gone, its that much harder to keep in mind. So complicated ... why does it always have to be this way? Is that the price of intensity?
Outside my window, the moon is a shyly smiling face. Gently, the wind chimes tinkle, the delicate glass lines still glistening with drops of rain. The stairs to the terrace, taht lead from outside my room, are wet. I am not sure if its because of the rain, or because Ram Da has just been watering the plants. In the other room, Mummy and Munal are arguing and giggling alternately. That days Subala came to my room and said 'didibhai, tomaake Munal-er Ma daakchhe'
... its all about you. Its always all about you.
it's funny, how many people see themselves mirrored in the reflection of your flames in my eyes.
When did I become like this. I am frequently called diplomatic or a hypocrite. I think I am just polite. Is it a bad thing, to care enough to behave nicely with people, to want them to be happy?
I am tired and I want to sleep. But there are so many people I still need to meet, to listen to, to care about; So much I need to think about; so much to read and write about. And tomorrow is another day.
Originally Posted at Prerona.
Guilt
early in my morning,
one for sorrow. how appropraite
had you been a man, and i a woman,
my mourning would not have been questioned
if you, at long last, tired of waiting for my love
had turned your face walked away,
and had i then, belatedly
found out my eternal love,
the corroding futility and guilt i now
burn with, wuld have been accepted
the tears i hold on to
as the last shreds of you
This, is not allowed
Or let be. Its not sensible enough
Reach back in time and crush the seed
This sapling is too weak is to weak to be tree
How did you let me be
I walked away, but I thought you would always wait for me
one for sorrow. how appropraite
had you been a man, and i a woman,
my mourning would not have been questioned
if you, at long last, tired of waiting for my love
had turned your face walked away,
and had i then, belatedly
found out my eternal love,
the corroding futility and guilt i now
burn with, wuld have been accepted
the tears i hold on to
as the last shreds of you
This, is not allowed
Or let be. Its not sensible enough
Reach back in time and crush the seed
This sapling is too weak is to weak to be tree
How did you let me be
I walked away, but I thought you would always wait for me
Kaal Baishakhi: The first Storm of the Year
It has rained atleast twice already, this year, but this was my first big storm. I was alone at home, Sunday evening, when suddenly the wind picked up and went crazy. I ran upstairs to the terrace, and the in that short space of time, it had already started pouring. The air was filled with the dry smell of the soil, the wet smell of the flowers, the grumbling of the Thunder, the flashes of Lightning and the constant roar of the water as it poured down. I was soaked to the skin.
Every other sound was drowned. It made you feel insulated, alone, again. Safe. Cold. It came, two days too late. Nevermind.
In the morning, we went to the Bagan Bari at Sonarpur. I didnt want to go, as usual, but was dragged into it by Mom. There, fed the ducks and ate thick slices of roughmade bread with butter and sugar, crudely toasted. We fished, Hung around. Took snaps. And it rained.
Somehow, when it really rains down hard, noone is around to be there with you. Which is perhaps a good thing. Came home and lazed around till it stormed in the evening. Got drenched on the terrace, ate dinner from the all new Azad Hind opposite our place. And started a blog for Barbie
Downloaded music. Uploaded the Sonarpur snaps. Posted a new poem on Choc-Amer and went back to bed, the Tropic of Capricorn, and Sky Gazing.
The stars gleamed as if freshly polished from the rain. The sky blushed silently after the storm. The windchimes giggled in the corners of the room. The air was still damp.
There's this Sunday evening feeling. A reluctant, hesitant, dragging back to reality. I dont feel like going back to work. Couldnt I spend my whole life like this ... a life long Sunday doing nothing much, just pottering about the house, cleaning out everyone's cupboards and making tea and stories for everyone and anyone who'll stop a minute.
Now, listening to Ishq Hota Nehi and trying to understand why. It feels strange, yet like a dull ache that has settled, I have grown used to it and quite like it; and I cling to it possessively. Like other things, being used and betrayed and left behind, is something you get used to, I suppose.
Adit came over after work. We read back-copies of magazines and drooled over the models together. And bitched about life. and each other. Do relationships ever get this way? Like these age old friendships you cant remember time before? Like old, faded, soft cotton t-shirts you can wear without them feeling like a foreign skin on yours?
Chatts is in Bombay. I was wrong. Its cool. We're cool. Alls cool. Will survive ;). Love you Babes. All the best.
Juls called to meet up but we couldnt.
Another old friend - a ghost from the past. And another, ex-soul-mate and ex-soul; I have so many. One was wonderfully wonderful. And the other, I eagerly look forward to. Its a strangely ethereal feeling, meeting long ago friends - like cleaning old cupboards you havent touched in years. You find bits and pieces of yourself that you had forgotten that you had ever had. If I could find all the bits and piece them together, would the collage make 'me'? Would I recognise 'Her'.
Feels strange to think of myself as 'Her'. I never have. I 'Am', that is all. In my dreams and visions, I ride Horses with Stetsons, Dance in the desert, or fight with swords, flying through the air. Or stand, old and wise, sillouted against the sunset, having just passed an ultimatum to a young Turk. Yeah ... silly. But what the hell, just a dream, man!
Also strange being home again. I feel like I just came. Or having come, just woke from the Coma of transition. It hurts a bit to be alone, but you feel so awake. I know why people sometimes, or somewhere, bleed themselves to their senses.
Before every parting I tense in anticipation, I always have. Like your body tenses before you jump into an unknown ice cold pool. You dont know for sure, but you think its going to be nasty. But when it comes up to greet you, and you are swallowed up in it, after the first shock, it never hurts at all. It passes and you wallow in the water as pleasantly as you stood on the land with the air sweeping fragrantly around you. A part of you dies. A part of you comes alive. You learn this early, when you have grown up playing passing the parcel. The parcel learns quick not to hold any hand too fast, and to hold the new hand fast, fast.
I downloaded a lot of Bengali and Hindi music today. MGG, etc. Mom bought me a lot of new Salwar Kameez sets to wear to work. It still feels strange to be wearing Salwars after so long. And so much more.
I feel like going for a drive. Long drive. In Texas, With someone at the drivers seat, someone who wont ask questions, or make conversation, or want music. Just listen to the wind whispering to the car, as it hurles itself into the night, in a long drawn screech. I feel like sitting motionless, zombie like, in some strange position, and just sit like that, silently, in the midst of life all around me. I feel like letting my mind wander aimlessly, like trickling water falling between my fingers, or the breeze; aimlessly.
Its raining again here in Calcutta. But it's late, and noone up to see, or keep company.
Originally Posted at Prerona.
Every other sound was drowned. It made you feel insulated, alone, again. Safe. Cold. It came, two days too late. Nevermind.
In the morning, we went to the Bagan Bari at Sonarpur. I didnt want to go, as usual, but was dragged into it by Mom. There, fed the ducks and ate thick slices of roughmade bread with butter and sugar, crudely toasted. We fished, Hung around. Took snaps. And it rained.
Somehow, when it really rains down hard, noone is around to be there with you. Which is perhaps a good thing. Came home and lazed around till it stormed in the evening. Got drenched on the terrace, ate dinner from the all new Azad Hind opposite our place. And started a blog for Barbie
Downloaded music. Uploaded the Sonarpur snaps. Posted a new poem on Choc-Amer and went back to bed, the Tropic of Capricorn, and Sky Gazing.
The stars gleamed as if freshly polished from the rain. The sky blushed silently after the storm. The windchimes giggled in the corners of the room. The air was still damp.
There's this Sunday evening feeling. A reluctant, hesitant, dragging back to reality. I dont feel like going back to work. Couldnt I spend my whole life like this ... a life long Sunday doing nothing much, just pottering about the house, cleaning out everyone's cupboards and making tea and stories for everyone and anyone who'll stop a minute.
Now, listening to Ishq Hota Nehi and trying to understand why. It feels strange, yet like a dull ache that has settled, I have grown used to it and quite like it; and I cling to it possessively. Like other things, being used and betrayed and left behind, is something you get used to, I suppose.
Adit came over after work. We read back-copies of magazines and drooled over the models together. And bitched about life. and each other. Do relationships ever get this way? Like these age old friendships you cant remember time before? Like old, faded, soft cotton t-shirts you can wear without them feeling like a foreign skin on yours?
Chatts is in Bombay. I was wrong. Its cool. We're cool. Alls cool. Will survive ;). Love you Babes. All the best.
Juls called to meet up but we couldnt.
Another old friend - a ghost from the past. And another, ex-soul-mate and ex-soul; I have so many. One was wonderfully wonderful. And the other, I eagerly look forward to. Its a strangely ethereal feeling, meeting long ago friends - like cleaning old cupboards you havent touched in years. You find bits and pieces of yourself that you had forgotten that you had ever had. If I could find all the bits and piece them together, would the collage make 'me'? Would I recognise 'Her'.
Feels strange to think of myself as 'Her'. I never have. I 'Am', that is all. In my dreams and visions, I ride Horses with Stetsons, Dance in the desert, or fight with swords, flying through the air. Or stand, old and wise, sillouted against the sunset, having just passed an ultimatum to a young Turk. Yeah ... silly. But what the hell, just a dream, man!
Also strange being home again. I feel like I just came. Or having come, just woke from the Coma of transition. It hurts a bit to be alone, but you feel so awake. I know why people sometimes, or somewhere, bleed themselves to their senses.
Before every parting I tense in anticipation, I always have. Like your body tenses before you jump into an unknown ice cold pool. You dont know for sure, but you think its going to be nasty. But when it comes up to greet you, and you are swallowed up in it, after the first shock, it never hurts at all. It passes and you wallow in the water as pleasantly as you stood on the land with the air sweeping fragrantly around you. A part of you dies. A part of you comes alive. You learn this early, when you have grown up playing passing the parcel. The parcel learns quick not to hold any hand too fast, and to hold the new hand fast, fast.
I downloaded a lot of Bengali and Hindi music today. MGG, etc. Mom bought me a lot of new Salwar Kameez sets to wear to work. It still feels strange to be wearing Salwars after so long. And so much more.
I feel like going for a drive. Long drive. In Texas, With someone at the drivers seat, someone who wont ask questions, or make conversation, or want music. Just listen to the wind whispering to the car, as it hurles itself into the night, in a long drawn screech. I feel like sitting motionless, zombie like, in some strange position, and just sit like that, silently, in the midst of life all around me. I feel like letting my mind wander aimlessly, like trickling water falling between my fingers, or the breeze; aimlessly.
Its raining again here in Calcutta. But it's late, and noone up to see, or keep company.
Originally Posted at Prerona.
Guilt
early in my morning,
one for sorrow. how appropraite
had you been a man, and i a woman,
my mourning would not have been questioned
if you, at long last, tired of waiting for my love
had turned your face walked away,
and had i then, belatedly
found out my eternal love,
the corroding futility and guilt i now
burn with, wuld have been accepted
the tears i hold on to
as the last shreds of you
This, is not allowed
Or let be. Its not sensible enough
Reach back in time and crush the seed
This sapling is too weak is to weak to be tree
How did you let me be
I walked away, but I thought you would always wait for me
one for sorrow. how appropraite
had you been a man, and i a woman,
my mourning would not have been questioned
if you, at long last, tired of waiting for my love
had turned your face walked away,
and had i then, belatedly
found out my eternal love,
the corroding futility and guilt i now
burn with, wuld have been accepted
the tears i hold on to
as the last shreds of you
This, is not allowed
Or let be. Its not sensible enough
Reach back in time and crush the seed
This sapling is too weak is to weak to be tree
How did you let me be
I walked away, but I thought you would always wait for me
36 Chinatown
Accidentally watched instead of Doshor ... brilliant! I usually dont 'do' humour, but with this one I couldnt stop laughing for a min to remember that. Absolutely wonderful. The best comedy I have seen since Andaaz Apna Apna and its even better, bcz theres so much more to it. I liked it as much for its slick presentation, which reminded me of Sin City. I am notoriously chauvinistic about our India, and specially the Indian film industry, but even then I was surprised and very very pleasantly. I'm glad of the mix up which landed us watching this movie.
Originally Posted at Prerona.
Originally Posted at Prerona.
Love?
Excuse me?
I thought you'd said you loved me.
Obviously, I had gotten it wrong.
They were just the naked words.
Words.
Mean so much and nothing.
You, always and always cheating
Me, always overlooking
Its a strange relationship that I'm tired of now
Me and Life, Life and me
I thought you'd said you loved me.
Obviously, I had gotten it wrong.
They were just the naked words.
Words.
Mean so much and nothing.
You, always and always cheating
Me, always overlooking
Its a strange relationship that I'm tired of now
Me and Life, Life and me
Betrayed
You talk of betrayal
That's so funny
I'm laughing so hard
That it makes me cry
My love, my dearest friend
You, who I used, to define what is Love
That's so funny
I'm laughing so hard
That it makes me cry
My love, my dearest friend
You, who I used, to define what is Love
Lies
inspite of everthing you said and did
it still hurts me to hurt you
you remain, even in ur darkest form
a part of me
and i still love you
because thats a part of me too - loving you
your deceptions
all your masks and lies
but inspite of it all,
i cant help it, i love you still
it still hurts me to hurt you
you remain, even in ur darkest form
a part of me
and i still love you
because thats a part of me too - loving you
your deceptions
all your masks and lies
but inspite of it all,
i cant help it, i love you still
Again
the parts of me you most recently touched
miss you already, the withdrawal hits first there
there's something uniquely silly about the way we fight
but this time was specially nice. selfishly, reassuring
once in a while i am purposely mean.
like an idle stretching, of my favourite muscle
once in a while,
i'm swept away by my quietly banked anger
how can you not see
what you are slowly doing to me
how can you not know
what you have always meant to me. so silly
still, even as your words lash out to slap me in the face
and even as the cuts bleed, and the scars form, and the injuries are being filed away
even then, some sleeping corner of my mind, seperate and watching
is still reaching out to you
i hate you. i love you. i kill you. i forget you
but its always you. how can you doubt me
you, who dance to so many songs
you, who smile into so many eyes,
and come home to me eachtime
and say that you still love me.
how did i let this happen to me
how did i come back to this place
you make love
to your many loves
in front of me. every day
and you say you love me
in this borrowed moment, with this borrowed love
with this fleeting shared expression, how much faith can one grow
miss you already, the withdrawal hits first there
there's something uniquely silly about the way we fight
but this time was specially nice. selfishly, reassuring
once in a while i am purposely mean.
like an idle stretching, of my favourite muscle
once in a while,
i'm swept away by my quietly banked anger
how can you not see
what you are slowly doing to me
how can you not know
what you have always meant to me. so silly
still, even as your words lash out to slap me in the face
and even as the cuts bleed, and the scars form, and the injuries are being filed away
even then, some sleeping corner of my mind, seperate and watching
is still reaching out to you
i hate you. i love you. i kill you. i forget you
but its always you. how can you doubt me
you, who dance to so many songs
you, who smile into so many eyes,
and come home to me eachtime
and say that you still love me.
how did i let this happen to me
how did i come back to this place
you make love
to your many loves
in front of me. every day
and you say you love me
in this borrowed moment, with this borrowed love
with this fleeting shared expression, how much faith can one grow
Tropic of Capricorn
Reading it atlast. On the inside cover, a scribbled note: to Goalie Tapash, your Portuguese friend.
Have seen this book amongst Dad's collection for as long as I can remember, but never read it before.
It feels strangely awkward and embarrassing. Like meeting a man in the evening, in his drawing room, when his most intimate conversation, which you evesdropped on in the afternoon, is still fresh in your head.
Been a while since I saw or read Henry and June, but the impact is still fresh; And will be, a while.
Originally Posted at Prerona.
Have seen this book amongst Dad's collection for as long as I can remember, but never read it before.
It feels strangely awkward and embarrassing. Like meeting a man in the evening, in his drawing room, when his most intimate conversation, which you evesdropped on in the afternoon, is still fresh in your head.
Been a while since I saw or read Henry and June, but the impact is still fresh; And will be, a while.
Originally Posted at Prerona.
Comfortably Numb
You'll never know how much that hurt, hopefully. Even I didnt know, till this evening, when I started to tell someone about it, casually, in the course of conversation. Like it wasnt a big deal. Ofcourse, it is. It's potentially devastating. It will hurt like hell when I come alive. Right now, thankfully, I'm Comfortable Numb.
I guess I had been balanced on the edge. We were at CCD and a young girl went up to the jukebox and played Comfortably Numb and I broke down. It was the first album you bought with your own money; and I had shamelessly whacked it; a Sony cassette. I was still studying, in Pune.
Things kept coming back in a sequence of snapshots, and I coulnt hold it back. Like the collection of photographs of you guys I carry with me around the world, setting them up in each new home I set up. In the bong class Class 3, Outside Lawrence Hall, The basketball court, Nursery Park, The Park Street Cemetery, handling PR for your wounded best friends and then handling PR for your wounded boyfriends, Frantic day trips to Blore and Pune, the auto, the drawing room of your old house, the drawing room of your new house, your voice saying walking back from school on a rainy day, you shouting Fatts you bitch, cross names on the old wooden desks, Sauce, Chatts, Fatts ... its been 21 years. Our friendship has come of age.
God, it feels like hell. I never thought we will dim to the ordinary, other people-ness. I thought we will always be 'Us'. Yet Ady had said, long ago, remember Pre, life is not F.R.I.E.N.D.S. I'd thought him a fool. What a fool I was.
When Sauce left, I knew it was goodbye. Thats why it never hurt me the way it hurt you later, as it died. I had said my goodbyes. That's why I was crying that night. You remember? But you, I didnt notice you slipping. I didnt see it coming. I thought, thats the way we are. We dont need everyday, I ate an icecream today updates and ever renewable contacts.
Anyway, maybe it will hurt someday. Now, its just another feather on the Camels back. Far from the last. But without you, or the knowledge of you, it will be hard. For a moment it feels like its such a big world, and such a long life, and we are so alone. I was always happy being essentially a loner, because of you. I thought you guys were always there, would always be there, always; but this year, come fall, it will be a year since I learned that we are all essentially alone, seperate, individual people. Islands, swimming along the river of life ... and its ok. its just another feather ... so light. I'm comfortably numb.
Originally Posted at Prerona.
I guess I had been balanced on the edge. We were at CCD and a young girl went up to the jukebox and played Comfortably Numb and I broke down. It was the first album you bought with your own money; and I had shamelessly whacked it; a Sony cassette. I was still studying, in Pune.
Things kept coming back in a sequence of snapshots, and I coulnt hold it back. Like the collection of photographs of you guys I carry with me around the world, setting them up in each new home I set up. In the bong class Class 3, Outside Lawrence Hall, The basketball court, Nursery Park, The Park Street Cemetery, handling PR for your wounded best friends and then handling PR for your wounded boyfriends, Frantic day trips to Blore and Pune, the auto, the drawing room of your old house, the drawing room of your new house, your voice saying walking back from school on a rainy day, you shouting Fatts you bitch, cross names on the old wooden desks, Sauce, Chatts, Fatts ... its been 21 years. Our friendship has come of age.
God, it feels like hell. I never thought we will dim to the ordinary, other people-ness. I thought we will always be 'Us'. Yet Ady had said, long ago, remember Pre, life is not F.R.I.E.N.D.S. I'd thought him a fool. What a fool I was.
When Sauce left, I knew it was goodbye. Thats why it never hurt me the way it hurt you later, as it died. I had said my goodbyes. That's why I was crying that night. You remember? But you, I didnt notice you slipping. I didnt see it coming. I thought, thats the way we are. We dont need everyday, I ate an icecream today updates and ever renewable contacts.
Anyway, maybe it will hurt someday. Now, its just another feather on the Camels back. Far from the last. But without you, or the knowledge of you, it will be hard. For a moment it feels like its such a big world, and such a long life, and we are so alone. I was always happy being essentially a loner, because of you. I thought you guys were always there, would always be there, always; but this year, come fall, it will be a year since I learned that we are all essentially alone, seperate, individual people. Islands, swimming along the river of life ... and its ok. its just another feather ... so light. I'm comfortably numb.
Originally Posted at Prerona.
Cycles
Once again, its broken and crushed. So works your heel. I knew this would be the end, once again. Still I let you in. Still, I love you. Like a pimply teenager, addicted to breaking skin. Like a moth trying to break in. Like a Thornbird, singing again.
This time I can cry with the tears falling inwards. like the damp creeping down the walls of my house, everytime it storms outside. My monumental lack of control has been shattered. I am cool and smiling through it all. I can even lie, as I look you in the eye.
Maybe, I have learnt to control my mind. Maybe, I learnt to distinguish between you and your image thats in my heart, the one I love. Maybe, I have just grown up.
I saw your reflection in a book she showed me. Glass Menagerie. Shocking how near
You have given me so much practise with heart-break and breaking hearts. Yet pehaps, its a rythmic circle of destruction and rebuilding. Its been so long since you last broke me
Originally Posted at Prerona.
This time I can cry with the tears falling inwards. like the damp creeping down the walls of my house, everytime it storms outside. My monumental lack of control has been shattered. I am cool and smiling through it all. I can even lie, as I look you in the eye.
Maybe, I have learnt to control my mind. Maybe, I learnt to distinguish between you and your image thats in my heart, the one I love. Maybe, I have just grown up.
I saw your reflection in a book she showed me. Glass Menagerie. Shocking how near
You have given me so much practise with heart-break and breaking hearts. Yet pehaps, its a rythmic circle of destruction and rebuilding. Its been so long since you last broke me
Originally Posted at Prerona.
Tides
The tide has turned. After years, the tide has returned. Its a eerie feeling: of speaking moonlight, singing waves, and smiling skies.
Like sand-papered skin, every feeling is intensified, heightened. The wind whispering against you face can make you go crazy. A streak of lightening can drive you mad. A growl of thunder can make your heart rumble.
The waves carressing the shore is a throbbing murmer that underlines the night. The rock, glistening wet, ugly, carbuncled, grostesqly fascinating, stands an unmoved spectator. The lighthouse above arcs yellow mottled beams across the night in rythmic handfuls.
The tide has returned. Once more, after a long time, the still water have been stirred murky. All the life in the ocean has swum up to the surface, and She is awake again. The waves are constant and unceasingly bright and strong. Sometimes dark grey, sometimes bright blue and green, but coloured once more. Once more, She is alive, almost human.
The wind racing across the water and out towards the shore, rushing out to join the sands and ruffle its unbound surface, sings joyfully. The sand is not bound together. The sand is loose and fancy-free. It flies with the wind. It sings and dances and plays. The sand goes everywhere, knows everything, loves everything. She knows, yet she lets him in. The waters accept everything
Originally Posted at Prerona.
Like sand-papered skin, every feeling is intensified, heightened. The wind whispering against you face can make you go crazy. A streak of lightening can drive you mad. A growl of thunder can make your heart rumble.
The waves carressing the shore is a throbbing murmer that underlines the night. The rock, glistening wet, ugly, carbuncled, grostesqly fascinating, stands an unmoved spectator. The lighthouse above arcs yellow mottled beams across the night in rythmic handfuls.
The tide has returned. Once more, after a long time, the still water have been stirred murky. All the life in the ocean has swum up to the surface, and She is awake again. The waves are constant and unceasingly bright and strong. Sometimes dark grey, sometimes bright blue and green, but coloured once more. Once more, She is alive, almost human.
The wind racing across the water and out towards the shore, rushing out to join the sands and ruffle its unbound surface, sings joyfully. The sand is not bound together. The sand is loose and fancy-free. It flies with the wind. It sings and dances and plays. The sand goes everywhere, knows everything, loves everything. She knows, yet she lets him in. The waters accept everything
Originally Posted at Prerona.
Stranger in the Mirror
Still no net access, but I am getting there. The house is almost settled, though it still feels strange at times, like staying over at someone else's house. Have friends, but havent been able to get in touch with anyone as such, so no social life, which is great! Will be a awhile before I settle down with a connection at home, so will be likely to write a lot of rubbish till then, as whatever I write will be in a hurry - so if ur reading, make allowances. My favourite part about living at home though is definitely the terrace. I dont beleive I havent been to Roxy yet. Funny how things change. Underlining everymoment is a feeling of excitement: 'I'm getting there'. I am figuring it out. Every day, every moment, I am understanding a bit more, I am understanding a bit better. I am making a connection with Her. I am making my peace with Her. I am learning to accept Her and stand up to her. I am learning to live with her, warts and all. I am learning to look her in the eye and hold her gaze, as I stare at her in the mirror. She is as elusive and Chamelion to me as to you.
Originally Posted at Prerona.
Originally Posted at Prerona.
Lost in a Moment
The whole place has changed, at various levels. The 'new building' spawned 3 newer buildings, each with one huge glass fronted side looking out on to the water. For a while, it feels like its working. Feels like ages since I wore a Salwar-Kameez to work. Feels good. Graceful. Powerful. In some subtle way.
I am free, yet trapped, reportable. The endless empty hours that drive most people crazy are like welcome rain on thirsty dry ground. I could spend days just staring out onto the silver mirrored water, and the grey blue sky look back and forth at each other.
Every now and then a stray bird flies across the view. In one corner there's a thatched hut floating on the water.
At home, the new wind chimes are up and sound lovely in the thunderstorm season. Its that time of the year, when I remember why I lovely this city, why I love her madly.
Alone in a corner of the terrace it looks the like the whole world has come to a standstill. Every so often thunder grumbles like Gods laughing and lightning flashes across like leaks of merriment from some secret astral carnival.
Avishkar was closing down. There, on the last day, I found a lovely photograph and I brought it back hoem with me me. Also, all those people who make Calcutta 'Cal'. Shabby clothes, Smudged deep kohl. Ancient, weathered and battered Longines and Piagets wristed. The dispossed. With their impeccable dictions. And sterling upbringing. And the magic ingredient: the perfect background. They who were driven out so easily and casually from their Saturday morning Golf and Sunday family tea routines from DI then Tolly then the city.
Back at work, its lovely to be mindlessly free. Watching water birds swooping down to unseen fish in unseen depths. You close you eyes without shutting them and let your mind drift free. Like trapped animal let loose, it leaps, runs and soars. For a while time stops. You are not headed anywhere, it doesnt matter where. There is no deadline. No clock ticking seconds left to 'make it'. Achievements. Rankings. Money. Power Performance Acceptance. Everything falls away from you for a moment.
Then the moment is gone.
http://www.abs-india.org/Learningnonmem/funding.aspx#q2
Originally Posted at Prerona.
I am free, yet trapped, reportable. The endless empty hours that drive most people crazy are like welcome rain on thirsty dry ground. I could spend days just staring out onto the silver mirrored water, and the grey blue sky look back and forth at each other.
Every now and then a stray bird flies across the view. In one corner there's a thatched hut floating on the water.
At home, the new wind chimes are up and sound lovely in the thunderstorm season. Its that time of the year, when I remember why I lovely this city, why I love her madly.
Alone in a corner of the terrace it looks the like the whole world has come to a standstill. Every so often thunder grumbles like Gods laughing and lightning flashes across like leaks of merriment from some secret astral carnival.
Avishkar was closing down. There, on the last day, I found a lovely photograph and I brought it back hoem with me me. Also, all those people who make Calcutta 'Cal'. Shabby clothes, Smudged deep kohl. Ancient, weathered and battered Longines and Piagets wristed. The dispossed. With their impeccable dictions. And sterling upbringing. And the magic ingredient: the perfect background. They who were driven out so easily and casually from their Saturday morning Golf and Sunday family tea routines from DI then Tolly then the city.
Back at work, its lovely to be mindlessly free. Watching water birds swooping down to unseen fish in unseen depths. You close you eyes without shutting them and let your mind drift free. Like trapped animal let loose, it leaps, runs and soars. For a while time stops. You are not headed anywhere, it doesnt matter where. There is no deadline. No clock ticking seconds left to 'make it'. Achievements. Rankings. Money. Power Performance Acceptance. Everything falls away from you for a moment.
Then the moment is gone.
http://www.abs-india.org/Learningnonmem/funding.aspx#q2
Originally Posted at Prerona.
Back in Calcutta
Phone-less
Net-less
Project-less
Loo-less & Almost
Home-less
Should be set up and back soon.
PS - This post WILL dissapear or mutate.
Once again, thunder storms. Sitting in cars looking at flashes if lightning. Once again waking up to birdcalls. A new set of windchimes, this one porcelein, graces my window. My loo is ruined, and so is Barbies, so I have to walk all the way to Moms. Once more
Originally Posted at Prerona.
Net-less
Project-less
Loo-less & Almost
Home-less
Should be set up and back soon.
PS - This post WILL dissapear or mutate.
Once again, thunder storms. Sitting in cars looking at flashes if lightning. Once again waking up to birdcalls. A new set of windchimes, this one porcelein, graces my window. My loo is ruined, and so is Barbies, so I have to walk all the way to Moms. Once more
Originally Posted at Prerona.
Wannabe
The days pass quickly. Its the 13th and there are just 7 days left for Barbie to go home. Then Mommy will leave. And finally it will be my turn.
Was a time when we dreaded coming to Dubai for our alloted month: endless hours of boredom, the death of freedom, the sudden stifle of unaccustomed things which other people, 'them', take so much for granted. Now, there is just a flurry of activity.
I wake up early in the morning to practise my golf, with Baba. Then we hang around over breakfast and talk (summer solstice, the Gita, the world wars, 'Us') till its time for him to leave for work.
Barbie wakes up. Mommy wakes up. We eat something or the other. We vegetate on the huge cream sofa and fight over what we should watch or how life should be lived or the state of the world, or of 'Us'.
Soon, its Four. Its time Baba to get home and we go to the Meridian. He and Mommy swim. We watch, photograph the ocean, talk about life and the world and 'Us'. When they are done, we hit the Sauna and the whole routine. I used to hate it, now I do it everyday. Just for the sake of the togetherness. Little snatched bits of exquisite, make believe ordinariness and togetherness, unaccustomed things which other people, 'them', take so much for granted. And in the jacuzzi, we talk about how life should be lived or the state of the world, or of 'Us'.
Then its back home and the quiet of the late evening. After a while Mommy and Baba watch the TV and we go outside and I play some football with Barbie. The makebelieve goall post is hit and she says Di thats not a goal. My back hurts, I am growing old. We head back and I try the net again, but all I get is 'page not displayed'. The dialup seems incredbly slow nowadays.
Late night, we eat dinner at the table. Like dolls in a dollhouse, but soon something happens and its 'Us' again, the game is left half played.
Then they go to bed. We are left behind. awake. sleepless sentinels of maimed dreams still struggling to walk, and bitter chocolate, still sweet. We talk of 'them' and how it could have been, should have been, would have been. Who we were, are, could become, dream of being. We are closer than ever before, yet there is something missing. I have let go. Let go of that desperate struggle to salvage her soul, atleast her soul. I have learned that it is way too late, that I am way too weak. That fate, life and blood are way too strong. We all become what we will become. That is 'destiny'. Our's. Written by our basic nature. By our basest nature. Yet, there was so much potential. Its all lost now like a flower that bloomed in the desert and lost its sweetness, wasted, spilled, in the dry desert air.
Yet, is anything ever wasted? She was. She bloomed. She lived. I survived. So will she. But I had not wanted her to have become a caracass, a shell, a walking dead, like me. But it was inevitable. The fell combination, of blood, and fate, and time and 'Us' is too much to fight.
At times I think, I will not give up. I will keep fighting. I will battle 'Them','Us'
and even Time. I will save her, if I die so doing. I will fight them all to save them. I will make love out of nothing. I will plant Roses in the desert. I will make grow a garden, make love, and ties and family.
At other times, I feel that its too much. It always was. This was the way it was meant to be. Bitter Chocolate. Chocolate Amer. Bittersweet. Loving. Hating. Stumbling. Lying. Cheating. Stealing. Learning. All from Life. All with Life. And ourselves. Why do I obsess with paper perfect people? And Honour? And clean lives? Why am I what I am, yet nurture the ambitions I do? Ramayan revisited. Its not real. Its not possible. Its a lost battle. Why keep fighting? Whom to keep fighting? How long to keep fighting?
The biggest battle is with yourself. The demons. The dirt. The imperfections. But if all your life is spent becoming, or trying to, who you aspire to be. Stark, Clean, Tall, Pure ... then whats the point? Or is it, like virtue, its own reward? But what would I know of Virtue?
Time and again the escapist in me turn to the dream, of new beginnings: I will start afresh. I will make a new life. It will be everything that I had ever dreamed of. Ramayan revisited. I will move to a greener pasture and plant my garden there. Love, Family, perfectly crafted tiny human lives, clean, normal, ordinary, middle class. I wanna be like 'Them'. I wanna be one of 'Them'. Uncomplicated and simple. No skeletons stuffed in every closet, threatening to spill out with every stray gust of wind. I'm a wanna be Goodie.
Originally Posted at Prerona.
Was a time when we dreaded coming to Dubai for our alloted month: endless hours of boredom, the death of freedom, the sudden stifle of unaccustomed things which other people, 'them', take so much for granted. Now, there is just a flurry of activity.
I wake up early in the morning to practise my golf, with Baba. Then we hang around over breakfast and talk (summer solstice, the Gita, the world wars, 'Us') till its time for him to leave for work.
Barbie wakes up. Mommy wakes up. We eat something or the other. We vegetate on the huge cream sofa and fight over what we should watch or how life should be lived or the state of the world, or of 'Us'.
Soon, its Four. Its time Baba to get home and we go to the Meridian. He and Mommy swim. We watch, photograph the ocean, talk about life and the world and 'Us'. When they are done, we hit the Sauna and the whole routine. I used to hate it, now I do it everyday. Just for the sake of the togetherness. Little snatched bits of exquisite, make believe ordinariness and togetherness, unaccustomed things which other people, 'them', take so much for granted. And in the jacuzzi, we talk about how life should be lived or the state of the world, or of 'Us'.
Then its back home and the quiet of the late evening. After a while Mommy and Baba watch the TV and we go outside and I play some football with Barbie. The makebelieve goall post is hit and she says Di thats not a goal. My back hurts, I am growing old. We head back and I try the net again, but all I get is 'page not displayed'. The dialup seems incredbly slow nowadays.
Late night, we eat dinner at the table. Like dolls in a dollhouse, but soon something happens and its 'Us' again, the game is left half played.
Then they go to bed. We are left behind. awake. sleepless sentinels of maimed dreams still struggling to walk, and bitter chocolate, still sweet. We talk of 'them' and how it could have been, should have been, would have been. Who we were, are, could become, dream of being. We are closer than ever before, yet there is something missing. I have let go. Let go of that desperate struggle to salvage her soul, atleast her soul. I have learned that it is way too late, that I am way too weak. That fate, life and blood are way too strong. We all become what we will become. That is 'destiny'. Our's. Written by our basic nature. By our basest nature. Yet, there was so much potential. Its all lost now like a flower that bloomed in the desert and lost its sweetness, wasted, spilled, in the dry desert air.
Yet, is anything ever wasted? She was. She bloomed. She lived. I survived. So will she. But I had not wanted her to have become a caracass, a shell, a walking dead, like me. But it was inevitable. The fell combination, of blood, and fate, and time and 'Us' is too much to fight.
At times I think, I will not give up. I will keep fighting. I will battle 'Them','Us'
and even Time. I will save her, if I die so doing. I will fight them all to save them. I will make love out of nothing. I will plant Roses in the desert. I will make grow a garden, make love, and ties and family.
At other times, I feel that its too much. It always was. This was the way it was meant to be. Bitter Chocolate. Chocolate Amer. Bittersweet. Loving. Hating. Stumbling. Lying. Cheating. Stealing. Learning. All from Life. All with Life. And ourselves. Why do I obsess with paper perfect people? And Honour? And clean lives? Why am I what I am, yet nurture the ambitions I do? Ramayan revisited. Its not real. Its not possible. Its a lost battle. Why keep fighting? Whom to keep fighting? How long to keep fighting?
The biggest battle is with yourself. The demons. The dirt. The imperfections. But if all your life is spent becoming, or trying to, who you aspire to be. Stark, Clean, Tall, Pure ... then whats the point? Or is it, like virtue, its own reward? But what would I know of Virtue?
Time and again the escapist in me turn to the dream, of new beginnings: I will start afresh. I will make a new life. It will be everything that I had ever dreamed of. Ramayan revisited. I will move to a greener pasture and plant my garden there. Love, Family, perfectly crafted tiny human lives, clean, normal, ordinary, middle class. I wanna be like 'Them'. I wanna be one of 'Them'. Uncomplicated and simple. No skeletons stuffed in every closet, threatening to spill out with every stray gust of wind. I'm a wanna be Goodie.
Originally Posted at Prerona.
Why Blog?
Time and again I face this question within myself: Why do I blog? This blog was never meant to be a catalog of my life; for that I have my journal. It was never meant to 'make friends' either. Or share thoughts or feelings. Or 'interactively ponder' on anything.
I am too self-centered, in a very literal sense, for that. Does any of us (any of 'Us') really care what anyone else thinks, about what we think?
More than that, I think I am too possesive about myself, my thoughts, my soul, my words, my 'self', to be able to share casually. Maybe too arrogant to share easily.
Originally, it was just meant to be a place where I could practise my writing, and that purpose it has served. I write much less capriciously now. I can spit out something on random topics on command, better and more than I could before. I can bear my words to be seen, to be judged, to be touched by unseen, unknown, un-cared for hands. I have come a short distance from the artist who would rather burn his canvas, than let anyone see it; because narcissitically, he couldnt bear to share it with anyone else.
Yet, when you write, truely madly deeply, you inevitably borrow nuances from your life and yourself for your craft. Once its out there, and you see bits and pieces of your self scattered on the canvas, for all to see; And, when your audience, ignore the canvas and look at you, talk to you, in bits and pieces, seeing you as the blind men see the elephant; And when he who looks at the canvas, thinks that you had been talking to him, instead of to yourself, and to the voices; Once you see that, it gives you the creeps, no other way of saying it.
Its your Art that you are offering to share, not yourself; But in extending it, you hold out a part of yourself, which is grabbed, instead of the Art and you feel trapped, sullied, violated.
Yet, its probably an inevitable price that you have to pay to satiate this craving, this hunger, to paint, to create, and to yes, I will not lie, to have it seen. Its probably as old as time and universal to Art. In Immortality, Kundera makes Hemmingway complain to Goethe about it, in their posthomus conversation (‘Instead of reading my books, they're writing books about me’). Vincent wrote letters to Theo about it (I am still looking for those letters, by the way, The collection of letters between Van Gogh and his brother Theo)
Thats not where the conflict is. It is between the self and the words; and it is between the words and the audience.
The conflict between the self and the words is like the slip between the cup and the lip. Sometimes, I have no clear objective in mind and my words are just like meandering footsteps in random directions. Sometimes I know exactly what I want to say but am grappling with the 'How'. But the worst times are when you have this clear certainity of 'What' and 'How' you want to say, but after you have written it down and it has been read and commented on, you realise what was percived, or gotten across is something completely different.
This can be due to one of 2 reasons. Either the reader didnt really care enough, to read and understand what you were trying to say. Or, you could not form, in words, precisely and neatly enough, what exactly you had thought. The former is not my problem and doesnt ineterest me. The latter, is what I care about. But hopefully, if you keep writing and getting feedback, it will sharpen your expression. Infact, the more mindless or heedless your readers are, the better practise you will get, because, at the end of the day, its upto you to get your point across, irrespective. Its like rowing with a bad coach, or or practising your golf without proper grounds: In a way, the harder it is, the better you will learn.
As for the conflict between the words and the readers, does anyone ever really read what you write? Does anyone really take in what you are trying to say, or even want to know? Does anyone actually see what you create? Maybe one or two. The rest just scan through the words looking for the scattered bits of yourself, trying to find windows to your soul, your self. Vultures. Soul collectors. Ugly, voyeuristic, greedy, vulgar and Human.
Do they, for example, when they read (or watch) Henry and June, read the poetry, the lyrical flow, the magic of words and pictures? Or do they look for Nin in the pages (or on the screen)? Trapped, helpless, a victim of her need to create? Do they want the poetry? See the colours? Seek the Art? Or do they just look for the Person?
And most of all, does it matter? What why how? You write. People read. Or does even that matter? A hundred years from now, even if you master the craft and write great tomes, which say it all and precisely, neatly, cleanly; will it matter a million years from now? And a voice says yes. There are still dreams worth your aspiration. There are still thoughts to be explored, Meanings to be hunted down, Truths to be found and it all to be written down. You may never reach it, but there are heights to be dreamed of and distances worth straining your eyes into the horizon towards, even though you die on the way, too small, too insignificant, in your frail humanity to walk with the Giants, there are still paths they trod, that you too can walk on.
Originally Posted at Prerona.
I am too self-centered, in a very literal sense, for that. Does any of us (any of 'Us') really care what anyone else thinks, about what we think?
More than that, I think I am too possesive about myself, my thoughts, my soul, my words, my 'self', to be able to share casually. Maybe too arrogant to share easily.
Originally, it was just meant to be a place where I could practise my writing, and that purpose it has served. I write much less capriciously now. I can spit out something on random topics on command, better and more than I could before. I can bear my words to be seen, to be judged, to be touched by unseen, unknown, un-cared for hands. I have come a short distance from the artist who would rather burn his canvas, than let anyone see it; because narcissitically, he couldnt bear to share it with anyone else.
Yet, when you write, truely madly deeply, you inevitably borrow nuances from your life and yourself for your craft. Once its out there, and you see bits and pieces of your self scattered on the canvas, for all to see; And, when your audience, ignore the canvas and look at you, talk to you, in bits and pieces, seeing you as the blind men see the elephant; And when he who looks at the canvas, thinks that you had been talking to him, instead of to yourself, and to the voices; Once you see that, it gives you the creeps, no other way of saying it.
Its your Art that you are offering to share, not yourself; But in extending it, you hold out a part of yourself, which is grabbed, instead of the Art and you feel trapped, sullied, violated.
Yet, its probably an inevitable price that you have to pay to satiate this craving, this hunger, to paint, to create, and to yes, I will not lie, to have it seen. Its probably as old as time and universal to Art. In Immortality, Kundera makes Hemmingway complain to Goethe about it, in their posthomus conversation (‘Instead of reading my books, they're writing books about me’). Vincent wrote letters to Theo about it (I am still looking for those letters, by the way, The collection of letters between Van Gogh and his brother Theo)
Thats not where the conflict is. It is between the self and the words; and it is between the words and the audience.
The conflict between the self and the words is like the slip between the cup and the lip. Sometimes, I have no clear objective in mind and my words are just like meandering footsteps in random directions. Sometimes I know exactly what I want to say but am grappling with the 'How'. But the worst times are when you have this clear certainity of 'What' and 'How' you want to say, but after you have written it down and it has been read and commented on, you realise what was percived, or gotten across is something completely different.
This can be due to one of 2 reasons. Either the reader didnt really care enough, to read and understand what you were trying to say. Or, you could not form, in words, precisely and neatly enough, what exactly you had thought. The former is not my problem and doesnt ineterest me. The latter, is what I care about. But hopefully, if you keep writing and getting feedback, it will sharpen your expression. Infact, the more mindless or heedless your readers are, the better practise you will get, because, at the end of the day, its upto you to get your point across, irrespective. Its like rowing with a bad coach, or or practising your golf without proper grounds: In a way, the harder it is, the better you will learn.
As for the conflict between the words and the readers, does anyone ever really read what you write? Does anyone really take in what you are trying to say, or even want to know? Does anyone actually see what you create? Maybe one or two. The rest just scan through the words looking for the scattered bits of yourself, trying to find windows to your soul, your self. Vultures. Soul collectors. Ugly, voyeuristic, greedy, vulgar and Human.
Do they, for example, when they read (or watch) Henry and June, read the poetry, the lyrical flow, the magic of words and pictures? Or do they look for Nin in the pages (or on the screen)? Trapped, helpless, a victim of her need to create? Do they want the poetry? See the colours? Seek the Art? Or do they just look for the Person?
And most of all, does it matter? What why how? You write. People read. Or does even that matter? A hundred years from now, even if you master the craft and write great tomes, which say it all and precisely, neatly, cleanly; will it matter a million years from now? And a voice says yes. There are still dreams worth your aspiration. There are still thoughts to be explored, Meanings to be hunted down, Truths to be found and it all to be written down. You may never reach it, but there are heights to be dreamed of and distances worth straining your eyes into the horizon towards, even though you die on the way, too small, too insignificant, in your frail humanity to walk with the Giants, there are still paths they trod, that you too can walk on.
Originally Posted at Prerona.
With time
I liked this poem: The Art of Losing
In the desert, the sun sets slowly. Almost lovingly. The wind blows wild and free. The skeletons on the pepper trees, the stark grey rocks of the mountains all around, the blandness of the sand and the empty roads snaking through it, the far flung houses, few and far apart, the hum of the crickets in the background, which grows to a deafening drone come evening. The sound of the sea in the distance, the road winding between the rocky mountains, and the sudden glimpse of the sea on the left, wet, deep, rich blue and green and holding up a perfect blue, cloudless sky, that springs on you without warning as you drive to town.
Inside the house, all is changed. A few years back, she refurnished it. There are huge cream leather sofa's and huge glossy grey and black tiles. There's the red telephone box bar and low lamps next to the home entertainment system. At first glance, it looks like a home, almost.
Outside, its still the same. The eucalyptus tree sighs in the breeze, arching above the garden swing, which we still sit on come evening, and whisper hushed secrets. The stars hang low in the cerullean sky. The moon is fat and yellow, glowing in the dark like an ornament in some grungy night hole. The little pool with the turtle is new. From time to time Panda runs away from us and goes there to nose a hello to the inhabtant, forever friendly and usually unwelcome. shamelessly, she never gets the hint.
Most of the times, she lies at my feet panting when I sit in the garden. The black and white stands out in the dark. I am amazed at her constant, ceaseless energy. Was Bonzo this tiring? I always beleived Dalmations are more intelligent that many other dogs. Panda of mine, where are your brains, my lovely? I shout to her, learn to be restful girl, no one will marry you if you keep jumping around all day.
Barbie said, imagine if Bonzo was still alive and we had gotten him married to Panda. Yeah, imagine a 101 Dalmations crowding the house! As if the chickens and the turtles and the fish and the cockatoo's werent enough! I tell her that if Bonzo was still alive, we wouldnt have had Panda.
She bought 'in her shoes specially'. She seemed almost apologetic for Diaz. I thought it was the biggie that was a b$£"& though. Poor little one. Imagine ur little sister has a crisis and ur too tired to listen. Bah! But heart rending anyway, when watched with ur own little sister.
And then we saw 'must love dogs'. I see everything with Cussack, so I wonder how I missed this one. It really is like that. When you cross 30 and are still single and dry, suddenly your lovelife becomes everyones business and noone has any qualms what so ever about asking the strangest of questions in the most public of places.
Friends fade with time. Suddenly your grown up and one of them. The way you swore you will never be, when friends are casualand to pass the time of the day with and noone in the world really knows you, or anything about.
Its been a week since I left home. Its so strange to think of how much life has changed in just a week. There are still strong winds blowing outside all night. They were wet and cool. Now they are dry and warm. The strict routine, delightfully boring, wonderfully, peacefully unvarying, the calm solitude, the mind numbing silence, the clean, stark, spartan emptiness of the hours, have evaporated in the desert sun. There life, and liveliness. Colours rioting everywhere. Flowers. Voices. Laughter. Chaos. But the solitude remains. The hours remain. The tired wonder remains. It just changes forms.
My mother is here too. Its like school holidays of old times. Those who have stay-at-home mums, dont know, wont understand, the delight of running in from outdoors to a kitchen smelling nicely of food and a mum cooking and smiling. And flowers on the dining table. And newspapers on the floor. She wanders around the house tidying up, in a faded gown of some sort. She watched the telly in the other room. and pops in once in a while to fatten up the calves, with strawberry smoothies and chopped papayas. And summons us once a day to sit still at her feet while she does strange things to our hair and faces.
Dad smiles and hums as he plays with his new toy: the dlsr. We are that kind of a family. Everyone does their own thing, in their own room, yet we love to be under one roof. Some strange joy in the knowlege that the others are around, though we rarely sit together and talk, unless we are fighting out something, though we know its fleeting and come the end of the month, each will go their way, to their own jobs and places.
When I am alone, I miss Edinburgh. The wet, cool winds. The 'fairy mist' like showers. The occasional snow. The quiet. The peace. The people (Some more so than the rest). But I guess it had to be this way. It was just meant to be. But how did I fall for the place so badly? I really miss it. Its almost always on my mind. But I guess its better to have found a place you really really loved, for a Gypsy soul like like mine, and be away from it, miss it, than be searching forever. And it will fade, i know. It will pass and I will forget. Nothing lasts forever.
I will be in Calcutta on the 23rd. I want to go to the Park Street Cemetary again. I want to go to the river side. It will be strange to be living in Cal without the old people, the old friends, without you. But it will be strangely sweet to be back at the lakes at 5 in the morning. Watching the silk surfaced water, turn from lead to silver as the sun wakes it up. The green dust floating on its edges. The rowers shouting at eachother as they move along. The hanging bridge, old and sighing, arching over one corner. The old haunts. SPE. The terrace. The flowers. The bonsai. The tennis. And my room will soon be what it used to be. With time, I will remember, and settle down again.
Originally Posted at Prerona.
In the desert, the sun sets slowly. Almost lovingly. The wind blows wild and free. The skeletons on the pepper trees, the stark grey rocks of the mountains all around, the blandness of the sand and the empty roads snaking through it, the far flung houses, few and far apart, the hum of the crickets in the background, which grows to a deafening drone come evening. The sound of the sea in the distance, the road winding between the rocky mountains, and the sudden glimpse of the sea on the left, wet, deep, rich blue and green and holding up a perfect blue, cloudless sky, that springs on you without warning as you drive to town.
Inside the house, all is changed. A few years back, she refurnished it. There are huge cream leather sofa's and huge glossy grey and black tiles. There's the red telephone box bar and low lamps next to the home entertainment system. At first glance, it looks like a home, almost.
Outside, its still the same. The eucalyptus tree sighs in the breeze, arching above the garden swing, which we still sit on come evening, and whisper hushed secrets. The stars hang low in the cerullean sky. The moon is fat and yellow, glowing in the dark like an ornament in some grungy night hole. The little pool with the turtle is new. From time to time Panda runs away from us and goes there to nose a hello to the inhabtant, forever friendly and usually unwelcome. shamelessly, she never gets the hint.
Most of the times, she lies at my feet panting when I sit in the garden. The black and white stands out in the dark. I am amazed at her constant, ceaseless energy. Was Bonzo this tiring? I always beleived Dalmations are more intelligent that many other dogs. Panda of mine, where are your brains, my lovely? I shout to her, learn to be restful girl, no one will marry you if you keep jumping around all day.
Barbie said, imagine if Bonzo was still alive and we had gotten him married to Panda. Yeah, imagine a 101 Dalmations crowding the house! As if the chickens and the turtles and the fish and the cockatoo's werent enough! I tell her that if Bonzo was still alive, we wouldnt have had Panda.
She bought 'in her shoes specially'. She seemed almost apologetic for Diaz. I thought it was the biggie that was a b$£"& though. Poor little one. Imagine ur little sister has a crisis and ur too tired to listen. Bah! But heart rending anyway, when watched with ur own little sister.
And then we saw 'must love dogs'. I see everything with Cussack, so I wonder how I missed this one. It really is like that. When you cross 30 and are still single and dry, suddenly your lovelife becomes everyones business and noone has any qualms what so ever about asking the strangest of questions in the most public of places.
Friends fade with time. Suddenly your grown up and one of them. The way you swore you will never be, when friends are casualand to pass the time of the day with and noone in the world really knows you, or anything about.
Its been a week since I left home. Its so strange to think of how much life has changed in just a week. There are still strong winds blowing outside all night. They were wet and cool. Now they are dry and warm. The strict routine, delightfully boring, wonderfully, peacefully unvarying, the calm solitude, the mind numbing silence, the clean, stark, spartan emptiness of the hours, have evaporated in the desert sun. There life, and liveliness. Colours rioting everywhere. Flowers. Voices. Laughter. Chaos. But the solitude remains. The hours remain. The tired wonder remains. It just changes forms.
My mother is here too. Its like school holidays of old times. Those who have stay-at-home mums, dont know, wont understand, the delight of running in from outdoors to a kitchen smelling nicely of food and a mum cooking and smiling. And flowers on the dining table. And newspapers on the floor. She wanders around the house tidying up, in a faded gown of some sort. She watched the telly in the other room. and pops in once in a while to fatten up the calves, with strawberry smoothies and chopped papayas. And summons us once a day to sit still at her feet while she does strange things to our hair and faces.
Dad smiles and hums as he plays with his new toy: the dlsr. We are that kind of a family. Everyone does their own thing, in their own room, yet we love to be under one roof. Some strange joy in the knowlege that the others are around, though we rarely sit together and talk, unless we are fighting out something, though we know its fleeting and come the end of the month, each will go their way, to their own jobs and places.
When I am alone, I miss Edinburgh. The wet, cool winds. The 'fairy mist' like showers. The occasional snow. The quiet. The peace. The people (Some more so than the rest). But I guess it had to be this way. It was just meant to be. But how did I fall for the place so badly? I really miss it. Its almost always on my mind. But I guess its better to have found a place you really really loved, for a Gypsy soul like like mine, and be away from it, miss it, than be searching forever. And it will fade, i know. It will pass and I will forget. Nothing lasts forever.
I will be in Calcutta on the 23rd. I want to go to the Park Street Cemetary again. I want to go to the river side. It will be strange to be living in Cal without the old people, the old friends, without you. But it will be strangely sweet to be back at the lakes at 5 in the morning. Watching the silk surfaced water, turn from lead to silver as the sun wakes it up. The green dust floating on its edges. The rowers shouting at eachother as they move along. The hanging bridge, old and sighing, arching over one corner. The old haunts. SPE. The terrace. The flowers. The bonsai. The tennis. And my room will soon be what it used to be. With time, I will remember, and settle down again.
Originally Posted at Prerona.
Sun and Sand
This has been a really different trip. We have hardly been home sinc I got here. Planning a trip to the Hajaar mountains soon. That should be fun. Have been wanting to write for a while, but didnt know what to write about - as usual, you rn out of things to wax on about which would not involve anything you wouldnt mind people knowing about.
Saw 'In her Shoes' (lovely) and Must love Dogs (not just bcz he was in it). Reading the History of Philosophy and someone's thesis on something which is fascinating. Went to the beach almost every evening. Took lovely pictures, but cant access Flickr! Will put up soon. Had a photoshoot with Panda the Bitch. Went to an open air lounge / disc kind of place last night - lovely Mojito's - crappy place.
I am finally planning to go on a desert safari. cant beleive I have never been in all these years. I think it would be lovely to go to the mountains, or the desert, or the sea, all alone, at night, and just stay there. Here, in Dibba, I live so close to all three but never done it yet.
A friend husband had a close brush. Some problem with his heart - life style related. Gave me a scare. So many of us these days with drinking as their only leisure activity. I hate it. Have put on tonnes of weight. Will have to start working on it soon. Went shopping but just ended up buying makeup. So whats new. I love make up but 50 percent of the time I cant be bothered to use it and 50 percent of the time I go overboard and make up for the lost time.
Thats it for now. Limited net time - so will be posting less for a while. Saw Doors again, btw and listening to more Phish and Vanilla Sky.
Originally Posted at Prerona.
Saw 'In her Shoes' (lovely) and Must love Dogs (not just bcz he was in it). Reading the History of Philosophy and someone's thesis on something which is fascinating. Went to the beach almost every evening. Took lovely pictures, but cant access Flickr! Will put up soon. Had a photoshoot with Panda the Bitch. Went to an open air lounge / disc kind of place last night - lovely Mojito's - crappy place.
I am finally planning to go on a desert safari. cant beleive I have never been in all these years. I think it would be lovely to go to the mountains, or the desert, or the sea, all alone, at night, and just stay there. Here, in Dibba, I live so close to all three but never done it yet.
A friend husband had a close brush. Some problem with his heart - life style related. Gave me a scare. So many of us these days with drinking as their only leisure activity. I hate it. Have put on tonnes of weight. Will have to start working on it soon. Went shopping but just ended up buying makeup. So whats new. I love make up but 50 percent of the time I cant be bothered to use it and 50 percent of the time I go overboard and make up for the lost time.
Thats it for now. Limited net time - so will be posting less for a while. Saw Doors again, btw and listening to more Phish and Vanilla Sky.
Originally Posted at Prerona.
Home
Is where the heart is, they say. In Dubai after ages. Been hectic last few days. Havent slept more than a few hours at a stretch since last thursday. But eating and drinking with a vengence. Had Shworma tonight :)
Listening to the Trainspotting OST. Sorted all my mp3's on the flight. The trip from Edinburgh to Calcutta was a nightmare but the trip from Calcutta to Dubai was a dream! The difference between a company sponsered trip and a Dad sponsored trip ;)
Panda, the new dog, is a terror, but adorable! Mom is mom and Dad is a darling. My Barbie Doll is as fun as ever. Good to be here, if you dont miss there
It still hasnt sunk in that I have left there for good. My house, the little lane, the cobbled streets, the blue skies and the people. I miss the friends I had made.
No decent net connection, so more later.
Originally Posted at Prerona.
Listening to the Trainspotting OST. Sorted all my mp3's on the flight. The trip from Edinburgh to Calcutta was a nightmare but the trip from Calcutta to Dubai was a dream! The difference between a company sponsered trip and a Dad sponsored trip ;)
Panda, the new dog, is a terror, but adorable! Mom is mom and Dad is a darling. My Barbie Doll is as fun as ever. Good to be here, if you dont miss there
It still hasnt sunk in that I have left there for good. My house, the little lane, the cobbled streets, the blue skies and the people. I miss the friends I had made.
No decent net connection, so more later.
Originally Posted at Prerona.
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.
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, ____
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
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.
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.
And on this plane: new snaps on flikr!
Originally Posted at Prerona.
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Education Scotland
Edinburgh Uni
Edinburgh University - ANC
Ed Uni - reasoning - Class Slides
berkeley
Ed Uni - reasoning - Book
neurinfo
hofs. indiana
snoppy
brain blogger
cam
grammer now
writer humour
daily grammer
the slot
runner world
goodhousekeeping
pub
med
Education Scotland
Edinburgh Uni
Edinburgh University - ANC
Ed Uni - reasoning - Class Slides
berkeley
Ed Uni - reasoning - Book
neurinfo
hofs. indiana
snoppy
brain blogger
cam
grammer now
writer humour
daily grammer
the slot
runner world
goodhousekeepingAltavista Translator
pub
med
Education Scotland
Edinburgh Uni
Edinburgh University - ANC
Ed Uni - reasoning - Class Slides
berkeley
Ed Uni - reasoning - Book
neurinfo
hofs. indiana
snoppy
brain blogger
cam
grammer now
writer humour
daily grammer
the slot
runner world
goodhousekeeping
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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?
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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
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
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.
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
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.