To my seat, and to the cozy comfort of old friends.
A lot happened in the past week and a little more.
Finished chapter two of a story. Strangely enough, this is probably the last chapter in this one. "Probably" because stranger things have happened. Came back to find some leftovers. Promptly deleted them remains. Will take a while, but I am sure I will heal. But will save that story for another day.
Took two seventeen hour flights. Slept through most of the journey. It wasn't that bad. Not as bad as returning to work. Also figured that melatonin prevents jet lag, it really does.
Witnessed a wedding. A perfect wedding. Blue, brown and white. White lilies perfectly in bloom, Blue Menus with brown ribbons tied on them - perfect bow-knots. A coy bride and a smitten groom. Emotional parents and proud grandparents. Almost dream-like. The getting together of two people who already seemed as married as married could be - this was supposedly ceremonial. And yet, merely after twenty minutes, the knob sort of turned. Like everything was different. Like there was still hope left in this world. It left me swamped with emotions, trying to find words poignant enough to express what I felt. Wanted to cry and tears couldn't find their way out. Wanted to wish, fell short of compliments. Weddings do have a healing touch about them.
Met old friends. Older than old. It was nice to shed all pretense and just be... like I needed to. Four years and not a thing has changed. Like time was standing still and waiting for us to come back. They still look the same, act the same, accept me as theirs - all the same. New town, new hangouts, but familiar jokes and old gags, long hugs and warm hi-s. And fighting for food. And drinking bad wine. And fall coloured leaves. And binary trees. Somewhere in our conversation I could find concerns of a normal grown-up, and yet nothing had changed about them. They said nothing has changed about me. Am happy they said that. No judgements, no accusations of not being there, no expectations. They accept me and my weaknesses. After four long years, I found my comfort zone.
Thanks, for I have healed.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Monday, September 18, 2006
On writing...
Its very rare that I explain what I wrote.
Its very rare that I feel the need to.
Its also very rare that I write without a muse. That I write selfish prose. A permanent snapshot of a stochastic thought process.
Reading my old pieces, I realize how conscious I am, of someone I know reading my pieces.
Of my subconscious need to calibrate my writing against theirs. Better writers, better poets, better thinkers, more angsty, more verbose, more literate. Maybe I subconsciously calibrate myself.
Out of the honest pieces I have written, most have never been read by anyone but me - written longhand in notebooks when I still liked my handwriting and my loyal fountain pen, now they are mostly scribbled on corners of notes taken during meetings. I use a micro-tip pen. I fold them corners so nobody can peep in. Some solitary sentences of sentience. Albeit alliterations almost always remain loyal to me, they are my favourite figures of speech.
In any case, a few days back I wrote what I consider is my most selfish piece ever. Cryptic, coarse, chaotic. Why? I know not. The words were written as they came to my mind. In sans serif, sans pretence. And I was asked why!
The thought germinated from one of my all time favourite books started with the the observation of the human obsession for "things". How our joys revolve around acquisition of things, desires revolve around what we wish to acquire, and sadnesses around what we couldn't. But maybe in the bigger picture these "things" have no relevance to the story. Our story. They hold the crux for only as long as we desire them to be. Take for instance, the story of the frog prince. The princess wanted the golden ball, she lost it, the frog retrieved it, so on and so forth, until we rolled to the happily ever after. They lived happily ever after in a huuuge palace and were driven around in a Rolls-Royce, and gave away iPods as return gifts to everyone who attended the wedding. But the Golden ball, the one was the object of princess fascination, the same one that held the story together, had become an irrelevant little object at this point of time.
Some days one can feel the same. Like the golden ball. An object of fascination. Until the fascination ends, and so does the story.
If the ball were to narrate the tale, would it be the protagonist? The ball's story would then be someone else's story.
No conclusions. No lessons learnt. And hence, no comments welcome.
Its just a thought. My thought. Call me selfish.
Its very rare that I feel the need to.
Its also very rare that I write without a muse. That I write selfish prose. A permanent snapshot of a stochastic thought process.
Reading my old pieces, I realize how conscious I am, of someone I know reading my pieces.
Of my subconscious need to calibrate my writing against theirs. Better writers, better poets, better thinkers, more angsty, more verbose, more literate. Maybe I subconsciously calibrate myself.
Out of the honest pieces I have written, most have never been read by anyone but me - written longhand in notebooks when I still liked my handwriting and my loyal fountain pen, now they are mostly scribbled on corners of notes taken during meetings. I use a micro-tip pen. I fold them corners so nobody can peep in. Some solitary sentences of sentience. Albeit alliterations almost always remain loyal to me, they are my favourite figures of speech.
In any case, a few days back I wrote what I consider is my most selfish piece ever. Cryptic, coarse, chaotic. Why? I know not. The words were written as they came to my mind. In sans serif, sans pretence. And I was asked why!
The thought germinated from one of my all time favourite books started with the the observation of the human obsession for "things". How our joys revolve around acquisition of things, desires revolve around what we wish to acquire, and sadnesses around what we couldn't. But maybe in the bigger picture these "things" have no relevance to the story. Our story. They hold the crux for only as long as we desire them to be. Take for instance, the story of the frog prince. The princess wanted the golden ball, she lost it, the frog retrieved it, so on and so forth, until we rolled to the happily ever after. They lived happily ever after in a huuuge palace and were driven around in a Rolls-Royce, and gave away iPods as return gifts to everyone who attended the wedding. But the Golden ball, the one was the object of princess fascination, the same one that held the story together, had become an irrelevant little object at this point of time.
Some days one can feel the same. Like the golden ball. An object of fascination. Until the fascination ends, and so does the story.
If the ball were to narrate the tale, would it be the protagonist? The ball's story would then be someone else's story.
No conclusions. No lessons learnt. And hence, no comments welcome.
Its just a thought. My thought. Call me selfish.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Understanding Human behaviour...
Why are we so obsessed with looking at water bodies? Ever found yourself taking a long drive, walking a thousand miles to see a sea, a river, a lake, a waterfall, a pond, a stream, even a puddle. And then we would stand there, pose and go click click clickity click.
Which is another thing, photos, pics. With a camera attached to everything, hidden or otherwise, we can't seem to avoid being in the eye of the lens. Being in them pictures and looking at them. We almost never look at those pics again. Sometimes we treat our friends to our little treasures, piles and piles of pixelated bits on our cellphones, and very lovingly indicating who that little blob on the screen is supposed to be.
Equally commendable is the effort that goes into making the home videos. No, not those kind. Ever noticed people taking videos of static objects? The statue of Liberty is not gonna move for God's sake. Moving the handycam up and down twenty times to give it an appearance of motion won't fool noone. Neither is anyone interested in getting all details about her wrinkles and laughter lines. So avoid those close-ups, wouldja?
And why is that if one person on the table gets a phone call, rest of the people take their phones out and start checking for sms'?
Ever noticed how conversations inevitably turn to sorry things that happened to people. Is it to ensure that the discussion follows a predictable path.
I am so cynical.
Which is another thing, photos, pics. With a camera attached to everything, hidden or otherwise, we can't seem to avoid being in the eye of the lens. Being in them pictures and looking at them. We almost never look at those pics again. Sometimes we treat our friends to our little treasures, piles and piles of pixelated bits on our cellphones, and very lovingly indicating who that little blob on the screen is supposed to be.
Equally commendable is the effort that goes into making the home videos. No, not those kind. Ever noticed people taking videos of static objects? The statue of Liberty is not gonna move for God's sake. Moving the handycam up and down twenty times to give it an appearance of motion won't fool noone. Neither is anyone interested in getting all details about her wrinkles and laughter lines. So avoid those close-ups, wouldja?
And why is that if one person on the table gets a phone call, rest of the people take their phones out and start checking for sms'?
Ever noticed how conversations inevitably turn to sorry things that happened to people. Is it to ensure that the discussion follows a predictable path.
I am so cynical.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Whatever happened to the golden ball?
I am but a Pilgrim in the pursuit of life. Committed a thousand sins. Held together by incomplete threads. The thoughts. And thought some more.
And a thousand thoughts washed away.
Nothing is sacred, just divine.
Nothing exclusive, nothing mine.
And I peep into crystal balls to see the past. Past which I deny, saying its not mine.
I have tales to tell.
Strangely enough, I am not the protagonist. Not the princess.
Just the chariot in which she would go home at midnight.
Cinderella's pumpkin.
A medium, an object, a facilitator, temporary in a fairy story.
I am but a vehicle in the prince's pursuit of a princess.
So the princess met the frog, he tracked her down, she had no choice but to kiss him, and he changed into a handsome prince. Happy-ever-after.
But, whatever happened to the golden ball?
And a thousand thoughts washed away.
Nothing is sacred, just divine.
Nothing exclusive, nothing mine.
And I peep into crystal balls to see the past. Past which I deny, saying its not mine.
I have tales to tell.
Strangely enough, I am not the protagonist. Not the princess.
Just the chariot in which she would go home at midnight.
Cinderella's pumpkin.
A medium, an object, a facilitator, temporary in a fairy story.
I am but a vehicle in the prince's pursuit of a princess.
So the princess met the frog, he tracked her down, she had no choice but to kiss him, and he changed into a handsome prince. Happy-ever-after.
But, whatever happened to the golden ball?
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