There are many different kinds of love
No. Everybody does not spend his life chasing an impossible dream. Most normal people are not helplessly enslaved by rosé bushes. Very few people, relatively, are irredeemably fixated on a passion that is not wholesome. Only some people hold on to one love a whole long life long, even when it is irredeemable, unspeakable, unrequited and terribly completely perhaps permanently gone, long after the ghost of love has left – the petrified lover clutches desperately on. No. Thank god. Very few people really fall in love
New Blog, New Address, New Posts :-)
I am now writing at my new blog: http://chocolateamer.wordpress.com
letting go
first love is as arrogant as it is arbitrary
but losing & breaking humbles you
took all this shattering for me to break you out of me as a separate person
i will read a lorca without burning
to signal that i finally forgive you
and that i let her go
random things that remind me of you. arrestingly. paralyzingly
your initial
the colours blue
a good supermarket
a bad supermarket
pantene
sardines
children
old people
soldiers
mediation
breathing
my fingers
hair
yellow flowers
dandelions
books
words
poems
music
lovers
love
friends
friendship
happiness
sadness
anger
children
little boys
spring horses
mountain resorts
paddle boats
cars
the colours blue
a good supermarket
a bad supermarket
pantene
sardines
children
old people
soldiers
mediation
breathing
my fingers
hair
yellow flowers
dandelions
books
words
poems
music
lovers
love
friends
friendship
happiness
sadness
anger
children
little boys
spring horses
mountain resorts
paddle boats
cars
Pico Iyer in interview with Sandip Ray at the Kolkata Literature Meet (KLM) Part 2
there must be another more appropriate word
than "crush" to represent my feelings about pico iyer, graham green,
nayangshu, budhhadeb, kookie jar nuttie corners, kwalities strawberry
ice cream, bodum, yogatic, DTI tractography, MATLAB, connectionist
modelling, the hindu, titas, paris ...
Loved this interview with Pico Iyer and Sandip Ray
http://youtu.be/5XKggBRhLBw
"everyone in this room has some connection with this singer or writer, where you somehow feel that this unmet stranger, gets you, knows you and your secrets better than your friends and family do. so i decided to investigate graham green, and of course as you were saying, the more I thought about it, as to why do you create these alternative fathers, these shadow parents in our heads, in opposition to the parents who really created us. the more i thought about graham green the more i thought about my father and then they did converge and I suddenly i remembered, the last conversation i ever had with my father was on the subject of graham green, before he died 17 years ago.
when you are growing up, you think, that in order to make yourself in the world, in order to define yourself you have to run away from your family, you have to become the opposite of your parents. You have to define yourself by your first name, not your family name. And then 21 years later you look in the mirror or your hear your voice on an answering machine, and you realise you have turned into your parents. You rebel against them until you have become them
Its sometimes tougher to have a relationship with goodness. There are several quotes you have from Graham Green, talking about goodness and the problems of being good. And he says I wish you had a few bad motives you might understand a little mroe about human beings. And another book where he says its the good in the world that do all the harm. What was your relationship with goodness growing up? Where you the quintessential good boy? GG's relationship with goodness was that of a child with his face pressed against the window fascinated by integrity purity and simplicity which he could never get to himself. And the poignancy of his books is that he had such respect for goodness and felt he was so far from goodness. That tension is at the heart of most of his work.
When I was growing up I had one goal in my life when I was a boy and that was not to listen to my father and when he was gone I realized that the best source of wisdom I had was probably my father and I through my pride had squandered that opportunity.
And also, there's mixed feelings. Also I think we have a double standard. Its very difficult to look at yourself, and navel grazing just thow's a blank wall. But the minute there is something external that reflects yourself, you can bring a much more penetrating gaze"
PS: Who said recently in an article something to the effect that Calcutta is so full of itself and it and its under-cultured-ism, that it needs two Lit-Meets?
Loved this interview with Pico Iyer and Sandip Ray
http://youtu.be/5XKggBRhLBw
"everyone in this room has some connection with this singer or writer, where you somehow feel that this unmet stranger, gets you, knows you and your secrets better than your friends and family do. so i decided to investigate graham green, and of course as you were saying, the more I thought about it, as to why do you create these alternative fathers, these shadow parents in our heads, in opposition to the parents who really created us. the more i thought about graham green the more i thought about my father and then they did converge and I suddenly i remembered, the last conversation i ever had with my father was on the subject of graham green, before he died 17 years ago.
when you are growing up, you think, that in order to make yourself in the world, in order to define yourself you have to run away from your family, you have to become the opposite of your parents. You have to define yourself by your first name, not your family name. And then 21 years later you look in the mirror or your hear your voice on an answering machine, and you realise you have turned into your parents. You rebel against them until you have become them
Its sometimes tougher to have a relationship with goodness. There are several quotes you have from Graham Green, talking about goodness and the problems of being good. And he says I wish you had a few bad motives you might understand a little mroe about human beings. And another book where he says its the good in the world that do all the harm. What was your relationship with goodness growing up? Where you the quintessential good boy? GG's relationship with goodness was that of a child with his face pressed against the window fascinated by integrity purity and simplicity which he could never get to himself. And the poignancy of his books is that he had such respect for goodness and felt he was so far from goodness. That tension is at the heart of most of his work.
When I was growing up I had one goal in my life when I was a boy and that was not to listen to my father and when he was gone I realized that the best source of wisdom I had was probably my father and I through my pride had squandered that opportunity.
And also, there's mixed feelings. Also I think we have a double standard. Its very difficult to look at yourself, and navel grazing just thow's a blank wall. But the minute there is something external that reflects yourself, you can bring a much more penetrating gaze"
PS: Who said recently in an article something to the effect that Calcutta is so full of itself and it and its under-cultured-ism, that it needs two Lit-Meets?
i have messages saved in my to reply folder, which I really want to reply to. i feel like they got here yesterday, but whenever I open the folder I am shocked to see some from 2011. Since the last year didnt really happen for Rip Van Winkle, and my usual reply rate is so bad, it makes sense, in a twisted way. The thing is when I am not working, I would rather idly google "bitter and twisted" long island or Aethelstan "first king" english or posting random thoughts like this and then time flies ...
a lost poem. marked calcutta, india. returned to sender. no such city. no such place
hijacked by a poem
as urgent as a sneeze,
about an NRI with the latest model camera
with eyes blurry with apparent sympathy
molesting the personhood of the semi-nude sleeping rickshaw puller
who had called time out from his justanotherordinaryday
he scribbled frantically on a plastic bag
hiding under the stairs, with a spider peering over his shoulder
the bag was lost like a baby
which had climbed into someone else's basket in a railways station
the poem belong to calcutta
the said there was no such place
as urgent as a sneeze,
about an NRI with the latest model camera
with eyes blurry with apparent sympathy
molesting the personhood of the semi-nude sleeping rickshaw puller
who had called time out from his justanotherordinaryday
he scribbled frantically on a plastic bag
hiding under the stairs, with a spider peering over his shoulder
the bag was lost like a baby
which had climbed into someone else's basket in a railways station
the poem belong to calcutta
the said there was no such place
its all so pointless
to stay.
to go. to give in. to fight on
yet we go on. and on.
day after zombie day
when the pain is desperately bad,
we stare in to the horizon
and wait for it to pass
or grab a random stranger
and try to laugh and talk till it passes.
and it does and we go back to nothingness
no pain. no joy. no hopes. no fears
just a memory.
like cramp in the lung
to go. to give in. to fight on
yet we go on. and on.
day after zombie day
when the pain is desperately bad,
we stare in to the horizon
and wait for it to pass
or grab a random stranger
and try to laugh and talk till it passes.
and it does and we go back to nothingness
no pain. no joy. no hopes. no fears
just a memory.
like cramp in the lung
it is 11 o clock.
the world and her baby is asleep
i helped a new friend shovel snow all day
then an old friend telephoned
and we hicupped through pleasantries
maybe she thought to herself
as she hung up the phone,
how much i have changed
my friend joked about how in her house,
it is her man's job to shovel the snow
i smiled meaninglessly
and got back to sorting my bills
its such a strange divide,
between being somebody's woman,
and your own, own, your very precious own
to be protected by someone "bigger and stronger"
than you bigger and better and stronger.
bigger how?
by your subscription
to the company, the state, the patriarchy,
the mafia
and now i am suddenly, desperately lonely
but once i ride that choppy part
where the wave breaks,
its such an exhilarating feeling
the world and her baby is asleep
i helped a new friend shovel snow all day
then an old friend telephoned
and we hicupped through pleasantries
maybe she thought to herself
as she hung up the phone,
how much i have changed
my friend joked about how in her house,
it is her man's job to shovel the snow
i smiled meaninglessly
and got back to sorting my bills
its such a strange divide,
between being somebody's woman,
and your own, own, your very precious own
to be protected by someone "bigger and stronger"
than you bigger and better and stronger.
bigger how?
by your subscription
to the company, the state, the patriarchy,
the mafia
and now i am suddenly, desperately lonely
but once i ride that choppy part
where the wave breaks,
its such an exhilarating feeling
i must periodically revisit
the beginning
the scenes of the darkyears of my life.
the bleak years.
the hopeless years.
the years of helplessness, weakness,
painlessness, of glorying in evil,
of accidental humiliation
and mute injury.
if only to remind myself
how powerful the lumbering giants of childhood still are,
how unhealed are still the wounds,
which scream when the amazon brushes against it unawares,
how cowardly is still my heart as a flinch
and almost freeze when the lion growls up close without warning.
how fragile is recovery
and the illusion of the self remade self
and how full of grace
the beginning
the scenes of the darkyears of my life.
the bleak years.
the hopeless years.
the years of helplessness, weakness,
painlessness, of glorying in evil,
of accidental humiliation
and mute injury.
if only to remind myself
how powerful the lumbering giants of childhood still are,
how unhealed are still the wounds,
which scream when the amazon brushes against it unawares,
how cowardly is still my heart as a flinch
and almost freeze when the lion growls up close without warning.
how fragile is recovery
and the illusion of the self remade self
and how full of grace
loving me
when you have tried and failed
when you are ashamed, and feel small
you must comfort yourself
who else will comfort you
when you have worked
to overcome but found yourself
back at the start
you must fight bitterness and resentment
who else will fight for you
when a moment of grace
passes like a mirage
and feels like life too,
was laughing at you
when you are alone.
when you hunger
and life floods you with chalk for bread
you must stand by yourself
who else will stand by you
when you are defeated
when you are broken
you must carry on
who else will carry you
when you are scared
when you are sad you must heal yourself
who else will heal you+
when you have loved, and been laughed at
when you feel ashamed, and cheap
you must teach yourself
to let the waves of feelings pass
perhaps all of this hurt will make you stronger,
if you bear it well pain wont kill you it's not poison*
*+borrowed & para-phrased from buddha and dylan, respectively :-)
when you are ashamed, and feel small
you must comfort yourself
who else will comfort you
when you have worked
to overcome but found yourself
back at the start
you must fight bitterness and resentment
who else will fight for you
when a moment of grace
passes like a mirage
and feels like life too,
was laughing at you
when you are alone.
when you hunger
and life floods you with chalk for bread
you must stand by yourself
who else will stand by you
when you are defeated
when you are broken
you must carry on
who else will carry you
when you are scared
when you are sad you must heal yourself
who else will heal you+
when you have loved, and been laughed at
when you feel ashamed, and cheap
you must teach yourself
to let the waves of feelings pass
perhaps all of this hurt will make you stronger,
if you bear it well pain wont kill you it's not poison*
*+borrowed & para-phrased from buddha and dylan, respectively :-)
a fall evening
there is something magical about fall evenings.
like old photographs in sepia.
a soft fading of the images
like cushioning times blows
the skies peep silver
behind mountains of grey
and across them, the trees
spread cobwebs which glint
and wink with drops of rain
there is something defiant about fall evenings.
as the day looks its fate in the face
like old photographs in sepia.
a soft fading of the images
like cushioning times blows
the skies peep silver
behind mountains of grey
and across them, the trees
spread cobwebs which glint
and wink with drops of rain
there is something defiant about fall evenings.
as the day looks its fate in the face
there an almost missed train
as i walked by the station, an older man
and a young boy, suddenly woke up from the conversation
they were lost in and scrambled out of the car when the whistle blew
there was an air of affection
underlining annoyance
as drivers half-smiling as they squinted
into the near-blinding sun
there was a story abandoned in labour
there was laughing stumbling and awkwardness
as the forgetten words, lives, and selves were re-embraced
possibly the last time before this life dies
winter falls
after the last burst of colours
trailing summers bloom
in the soft bittersweet poignancy of fall
winter sets in.
bleak and cold
with an occasional bright sunny day; and often
a dark stormy spell.
cold days with sharp winds and the little leaves that have died
fallen of the trees run away from the wind in hordes,
like little children but mostly
the days are just empty, like the branches of the trees
trailing summers bloom
in the soft bittersweet poignancy of fall
winter sets in.
bleak and cold
with an occasional bright sunny day; and often
a dark stormy spell.
cold days with sharp winds and the little leaves that have died
fallen of the trees run away from the wind in hordes,
like little children but mostly
the days are just empty, like the branches of the trees
quiet desperation is
when you feel like your insides will burst.
when you want to cry scream or jump off a bridge.
when there is no hope no end no escape.
when you most desperately want a friend,
but know you are most absolutely alone.
but when you stare blankly at a empty wall.
or laugh and talk to people around about in-consequentialities.
for sharp sudden fits. like vertigo.
inbetween long days and nights of feeling blank
while you stare blankly at a empty wall
i had never been able to finish reading anna karenina. its too sad. yesterday someone let slip that she dies in the end.
i feel so sad ... yet its fitting. anna had to die. as maggie died (mill on the floss). as the same someone said, when you make love your god, that love becomes a demon.
then you either have to run away from it, or if you cant, then you have to die yourrself
that is why patricia (breathless) turns him in. she sees that once she falls under his spell there will be no escape, no "she" left
that is why Lucy dies
if not they would become what heathcliff became
i think its a disease, letting someone else become a part of you too much & for too long. its a natural & important capacity to be able to (mother child, start of affair, community bonding) grown dis proportionate & malignant
like a cancer
after the last burst of colours trailing summers bloom
in the soft bittersweet poignancy of fall
winter sets in. bleak and cold
with an occasional bright sunny day
and often a dark stormy spell
and cold days with sharp winds
and the little leaves that have died and fallen of the trees
run away from the wind in hordes, like little children
but mostly the days are just empty, like the branches of the trees
silent nights
quiet houses
little sounds of a world
curling up to sleep
the urgent whistle of the train
softly in the distance
a call to the road betrayed
by a gypsy out of breath
the untimely chirp of a bird
somewhere outside the house
wandering a cat i cant love
and a few restless unsorted memories
lag
by the time spring comes
i am numb from the cold. half dead
the sun however is like a little boy
he wants to play. now
but it takes me time to defrost
and he stamps off in an angry huff
the freezing winter doesnt recognise
his aftermath in the frozen wasteland
it is a fool who is hurt by winter
and fearfully reserved in spring with spring
it is a fool who mourns the years end
forgetting the seasons and the earth will never separate
and yet, someone said, anyone can be passionate, only true lovers
can be truly foolish. with a foolishness the envy of kings
i am numb from the cold. half dead
the sun however is like a little boy
he wants to play. now
but it takes me time to defrost
and he stamps off in an angry huff
the freezing winter doesnt recognise
his aftermath in the frozen wasteland
it is a fool who is hurt by winter
and fearfully reserved in spring with spring
it is a fool who mourns the years end
forgetting the seasons and the earth will never separate
and yet, someone said, anyone can be passionate, only true lovers
can be truly foolish. with a foolishness the envy of kings
solitude tax
Aritra lived in stark isolation. silence, isolation, the focus of every hour were not just necessary sacrifices he made to the alter of his quest, but gifts of love; which there was deep pleasure in the act of giving. but for one night, gust of pandean wind blew the smells & sounds of the city of men over the walls of his fortress
snow
it took us two years to get here
two years of living, learning and creating
now we are back at the mouth of the circle
pure as soft driven snow
a town arrested
by the frozen loch
watching seven confused birds
and resting from learning, practising and wandering
before we wonder where next we move on to
two years of living, learning and creating
now we are back at the mouth of the circle
pure as soft driven snow
a town arrested
by the frozen loch
watching seven confused birds
and resting from learning, practising and wandering
before we wonder where next we move on to
my beautiful city
i love you and will always do
how can i help it
you are so beautiful
but now you are cold, and covered in layers of snow
i cannot reach you
i have tried everything i knew
sugar and spice
icepicks and gravel
but your freezing is relentless
i didnt stop loving you
if i stopped talking into the hills
it is because i dont hear the echos anymore
if i went
it is because i kept falling on your streets
and i cant bear to look around the familiar directions
and not see the things i love so much
one day spring will come in edinburgh
but i wont be here
even so, though you are cold and grey today
in my heart another you laughs
forever
how can i help it
you are so beautiful
but now you are cold, and covered in layers of snow
i cannot reach you
i have tried everything i knew
sugar and spice
icepicks and gravel
but your freezing is relentless
i didnt stop loving you
if i stopped talking into the hills
it is because i dont hear the echos anymore
if i went
it is because i kept falling on your streets
and i cant bear to look around the familiar directions
and not see the things i love so much
one day spring will come in edinburgh
but i wont be here
even so, though you are cold and grey today
in my heart another you laughs
forever
no papers were signed
no witnesses kept
no fire was lit
in the centre of our steps
only the moon in two countries
an indian village owl
hurried italian waiter
heard you when you said
you would love and cherish me till we lived
and forsake all the others
i gave you my everything
but you never asked
so no promises were broken
no injustice done
and maybe i imagined the forsaking bit
when mouse scurried across the dried grass
no witnesses kept
no fire was lit
in the centre of our steps
only the moon in two countries
an indian village owl
hurried italian waiter
heard you when you said
you would love and cherish me till we lived
and forsake all the others
i gave you my everything
but you never asked
so no promises were broken
no injustice done
and maybe i imagined the forsaking bit
when mouse scurried across the dried grass
all day aritra dealt with it like a man. that is to say, he acted like it did not exist, except as a vague nameless irritation, that underlined random small acts like throwing the wood on the floor with forcefulness. then at night finally, when he had crawled into bed, all the memories & pain crept back. and he cried. was there a place inside that tears came from? why did they never run out? aritra the strong, had turned away from life itself to be a scholar. he was strong. yet she could break him so easily, everytime, to her he was just a toy. why was it so easy for her? and so hard for him to walk away from from her callous laughter? why did his helplessness, his pain amuse her? everytime he thought he had found some peace, everytime he thought he could forget her and get back to work, her voice, and her laughter, rang out again. why did it hurt so much each time? he knew urvashi was a dancer, he had always known. why did it keep hurting? it was because he loved her. and love is like a cancer, a disease, a pain that imprisons forever. love is like a spider web. you can not see it till you walk into it. and then you can break it, but traces of it will linger on your face, in your memory. if you have really loved, you will never be free
randomly: snapshots from inside of my head
this is one of my favourites paintings. usually i fall in love with paintings for the light (like this or this). but in this i love the colours. for some reason it reminds me of the feeling i used to have when travelling by train in india, sitting on the stairs at the open door. free. the excruciating pain of loss is just labour for the birth of freedom (which is just some people talking). what is better? to be alone & cold, or warm yourself on the borrowed illusion of warmth, that is the reflection of a fire on the window pane of a laughing family house, as you walk by.
the feeling of being expelled from the safety of home, i remember. but i also remember the stomach churning panic and grief turning into the exhilaration of freedom. the sudden scary-mummy-less-ness turns slowly into exciting-mummy-free-ness. a summer evening sitting with misc kids by a rail track that passed behind their house. waiting for the evning entertainment. the train that went by. colgate tooth powder. the communal screen showing sharabi. a classmates house. food warmth and a borrowed mummy. but she's not really mine, even if she says she loved me. the essence of mummy-ness is that she is tied to you and will not abandon you or let you freeze or starve. she will take care of you. but then you realise that you can take care of yourself. the fucked up teenage brain relaxs.
after an age, i remembered living in stockbridge. sometimes, something change us, and our lives so much, that we forget who we were before. i remembered walking home in the evening, past the basement flats, with one window open to the world. i remember looking in, from outside.
if i ever come back to edinburgh, i will live in stockbridge again. but will i come back? what does the future hold, i wonder. i wake up most mornings thinking about it.
finally saw "The River". SO DISSAPOINTING! Bad taste in my mouth. unfortunately it was the last of my movies of the weekend. i watch 3 movies from my lovefilm queue every weekend. this weekends lot was an education, heimat) and the (ghastly) river.
mesmerised by the idea of cognitive binding, at the moment. like for example whenever i say at the moment i remember hearing it in french in class with the bathtub example (lise saying my husband is in the tub at the moment), or that every time i encounter any article in any title i have the words THE end of THE affair in my head (and a moment when i was looking through musty library shelves trying to locate it).
i have insane amounts of work to do but i am taking a day off. still feel too sick to venture out. besides, i am still "speechless". i cannot even croak any longer. its still snowing. will it ever stop? im sick of the cold & the inconvenience. the snowpeople from yesterday have been ravaged by the wind, and covered by a fresh layer of snow. but in all its horrible-ity, the season will bring the christmas market, mulled wine in the park and my beloved robin. and the light ...
the afternoon light is slanted low. my city glows. the old grey stones blush pink. and then evening falls, and the sun is fractured and reborn. at night each street light echoes eerily off the carpet of snow. every sound is muffled. the solitary light outside the stone gate downstairs reminds me of narnia, sticking out of the snow like that. and little speech bubble hangs over it (what do you think of Sarkozy?).
after months of casual detachedness my patriotic loyalty has been reawakened! i think the festival should have been in 'my city', literacy rate or not!
as i struggle to focus on case studies of prosopagnosia, my psyche bombards me with memories of floating over a courtyard in california, patchworked with sunlight and happiness, a frown, and only one moment of acknowledgement. and many such memories. the war is necessary before the peace might descend. afterwards, we can begin again