December, or perhaps more precisely, winter seems to me the time for melancholy. A time when a peculiarity of the cold forces open an invisible pinhole deep within. When something about the cant of the light, that tepid, raw sunlight of the late afternoon that sinks you deeper into you. When you reach out... for something - anything. The air, getting drier with every breath, crackles with yearning, a longing always only beyond reach and sight. And then you burrow further into yourself and smile.
Winter is a time of wistfulness, of discontent. It brings forward the shortcomings of the past and makes me desire better; more, as it were. My need for something higher is only intensified in the winter but more often than not... the yearning is entirely unidentifiable. I don't know why the soul feels so fragmented or what more it desires. One would think that I dislike this feeling, this disjunction. But somewhere from these random shards emerges a cut, a line... which brings a seeping... spreading... ubiquitous... joy.
(Don't you think joy is much more a happy word than happiness/happy. Something about the way it rolls and trickles into the crevices of your mouth, perhaps.)
There is a loneness, an individuality about the winter which other seasons do not allow you. The monsoon is, in my experience, so much a shared exercise. A game of monopoly, in the dark of a murmuring late afternoon; numberless cups of chai (tea) in smoke circles; walking out in the rain to find that one man selling bhutta (corn on the cob) - and everyone feeling entirely pleased with themselves. But it is only in the winter, in its incisive isolation, that you can truly belong to and indeed, dwell in, yourself. And strangely, its melancholy beseeches understanding but forbids sharing. How do you share something that you don't quite understand?
In a different vein, I also think the melancholy of winter accentuates the appreciation of beauty - in every way definable - and I've always wondered, in the most satisfyingly circular manner: am I truly more vulnerable now or am I merely over-reacting, surrendering to the hyperbole I am usually so inclined to?
There is this lovely, lovely song by a young Algerian singer, Souad Massi, that's been making me feel so deliciously blue. The song is called Deb - which means heart-broken - and is the title track of her second album.
You can find a brief artist profile here and an interesting review of the album here. Should you want to hear the song, you can download it here. Please let me know what you thought - and this means you, all you lurkers who refuse to speak though each post asks you to - indeed you, who I should like very much to get to know. :-)
One last thought. Not mine but Camus'.
In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.
—Albert Camus
Monday, December 26, 2005
Sunday, December 11, 2005
Midnight Epiphany
It is past midnight on Saturday when she rises from her bed to stand in the middle of the room, seeking purpose. It is a beautiful room, painted with colours chosen when she was sixteen. A tangerine wall looks sideways at bottle green curtains that move gently with the muttering undertones of night. At the head of a pile of mattresses, amber and gold blend intimately to slither off a clay jar and illuminate the ruins of settling into a new home.
There is no one here with her - but there should be. The overwhelming thought of the day.
Abruptly and silently, the weight of living alone in the big city bears down. She walks to the front door to slide heavy locks into place. Melancholia undulates in those twilight spaces as she makes her way back and settles into her bed and her book. Eighteen minutes later, the letters begin to lose meaning as her eyes lift into the corner cradled by the window sill and curtains.
Tonight, winter has come calling. Lying in bed, listening to the wind saying "rush, rush... but wait" and watching the street lights dancing their way into mosaics on the window pane. My tongue slides out a little. This moment tastes different. Not the vanilla of monotony but salty - like anticipation.
This moment smells of moonlight and peaches, taking birth into the sepia of this midnight.
This moment feels like blue ink drawn slowly... labouriously... beautifully... over scarlet paper into lines of wisdom and emptiness.
Like the underbelly of a fuzzy fruit. Grotesque and tantalizing.
Strange. To be brought, unawares and extempore, to the cusp of something big. Or something small. To feel the blue air and myself intermingling and coalescing to send something bursting forth into sudden, delightful... but hestitant animation.
How I ache this night. Simply living this moment. An eternity in this ephemeral epiphany. A riot of blue and scarlet, brown and copper, and green and tangerine.
For this night, dreamscapes of warmth and a whisper of peace. For this night, a journey to be begun... a road not yet taken. For this night, strength and fragility, forgiveness and surrender. For this night, memories. Old and worn, lovely and cherished.
For this night... may your rest be joyous.
She closes her book and switches off the light. Her smile warms the darkness and the street lights dance steadily on. In a heartbeat, she is asleep.
There is no one here with her - but there should be. The overwhelming thought of the day.
Abruptly and silently, the weight of living alone in the big city bears down. She walks to the front door to slide heavy locks into place. Melancholia undulates in those twilight spaces as she makes her way back and settles into her bed and her book. Eighteen minutes later, the letters begin to lose meaning as her eyes lift into the corner cradled by the window sill and curtains.
Tonight, winter has come calling. Lying in bed, listening to the wind saying "rush, rush... but wait" and watching the street lights dancing their way into mosaics on the window pane. My tongue slides out a little. This moment tastes different. Not the vanilla of monotony but salty - like anticipation.
This moment smells of moonlight and peaches, taking birth into the sepia of this midnight.
This moment feels like blue ink drawn slowly... labouriously... beautifully... over scarlet paper into lines of wisdom and emptiness.
Like the underbelly of a fuzzy fruit. Grotesque and tantalizing.
Strange. To be brought, unawares and extempore, to the cusp of something big. Or something small. To feel the blue air and myself intermingling and coalescing to send something bursting forth into sudden, delightful... but hestitant animation.
How I ache this night. Simply living this moment. An eternity in this ephemeral epiphany. A riot of blue and scarlet, brown and copper, and green and tangerine.
For this night, dreamscapes of warmth and a whisper of peace. For this night, a journey to be begun... a road not yet taken. For this night, strength and fragility, forgiveness and surrender. For this night, memories. Old and worn, lovely and cherished.
For this night... may your rest be joyous.
She closes her book and switches off the light. Her smile warms the darkness and the street lights dance steadily on. In a heartbeat, she is asleep.
Sunday, December 04, 2005
On Technology
A friend was kind enough to send this brilliant article written by Umberto Eco in his column, La Bustina di Minerva, in the Italian news weekly, Espresso, in the September of 1994. I do not want to paste the entire text of an article into a post but this is something that I HAVE to share. This article is also something I did not find a hyperlink for - and I may not have looked around much!
Umberto Eco, professor of Semiotics at the University of Bologna, is one of those few writers whose authorship is an unmitigated joy to be involved in. And no matter how long his sentences or how waxiloquent you think his prose, he is a riveting and an utterly enlightening read. The only times I put The Name of the Rose down was to fill all the gaping holes in my education which, Eco so effortlessly exposed.
His writing is lyrical and witty, not something you would expect to find in a story of medieval religious intrigue and politics, set in a Italian monastery where a monk has been poisoned. A Franciscan monk, William of Baskerville, with his apprentice, Adso of Melk, has been sent to investigate the crime. Along the way, Jorge Luis Borges and Aristotle, the supression of knowledge and strong reasoning make for a enthralling journey. To say the least, the end is astonishing, and for any of you who think The Da Vinci Code is a good, well-researched book, I sincerely recommend you give The Name of the Rose a shot.
On a different note, the movie of the book is one of the few that attempts to do justice to the book. Personally, I do not see how that could ever be possible because the book is layered with stories within stories and you'd need to make a three week long film to do full justice to it. :-)
Among his other works, I savoured every word of Baudolino with its exquisite detail and subtlety and some of his essays and lectures on language and meaning sent me into raptures few writers, especially of the academic sort, can. However, I did not understand a word of Focault's Pendulum and am in the process of re-reading the book, this time hopefully to a modicum of comprehension.
When I grow up, I want to write like him - even if just one paragraph.
To meander back to the article on hand, I had myself a huge laugh at this one in the middle of mind-numbingly boring day at work and since I am in the business of technical writing, knowing the quirks of one side over the other, I found this even funnier!
I hope you enjoy this!
****
Friends, Italians, countrymen, I ask that a Committee for Public Health be set up, whose task would be to censor (by violent means, if necessary) discussion of the following topics in the Italian press. Each censored topic is followed by an alternative in brackets which is just as futile, but rich with the potential for polemic. Whether Joyce is boring (whether reading Thomas Mann gives one erections). Whether Heidegger is responsible for the crisis of the Left (whether Ariosto provoked the revocation of the Edict of Nantes). Whether semiotics has blurred the difference between Walt Disney and Dante (whether De Agostini does the right thing in putting Vimercate and the Sahara in the same atlas). Whether Italy boycotted quantum physics (whether France plots against the subjunctive).
Whether new technologies kill books and cinemas (whether zeppelins made bicycles redundant). Whether computers kill inspiration (whether fountain pens are Protestant). One can continue with: whether Moses was anti-semitic; whether Leon Bloy liked Calasso; whether Rousseau was responsible for the atomic bomb; whether Homer approved of investments in Treasury stocks; whether the Sacred Heart is monarchist or republican.
I asked above whether fountain pens were Protestant. Insufficient consideration has been given to the new underground religious war which is modifying the modern world. I find that whenever I tell people about it they immediately agree with me.
The fact is that the world is divided between users of the Macintosh computer and users of MS-DOS compatible computers. I am firmly of the opinion that the Macintosh is Catholic and that DOS is Protestant. Indeed, the Macintosh is counter-reformist and has been influenced by the ratio studiorum of the Jesuits.
It is cheerful, friendly, conciliatory; it tells the faithful how they must proceed step by step to reach - if not the Kingdom of Heaven - the moment in which their document is printed. It is catechistic: The essence of revelation is dealt with via simple formulae and sumptuous icons. Everyone has a right to salvation.
DOS is Protestant, or even Calvinistic. It allows free interpretation of scripture, demands difficult personal decisions, imposes a subtle hermeneutics upon the user, and takes for granted the idea that not all can achieve salvation. To make the system work you need to interpret the program yourself. Far away from the baroque community of revelers, the user is closed within the loneliness of his own inner torment.
You may object that, with the passage to Windows, the DOS universe has come to resemble more closely the counter-reformist tolerance of the Macintosh. It's true: Windows represents an Anglican-style schism, big ceremonies in the cathedral, but there is always the possibility of a return to DOS to change things in accordance with bizarre decisions: When it comes down to it, you can decide to ordain women and gays if you want to.
Naturally, the Catholicism and Protestantism of the two systems have nothing to do with the cultural and religious positions of their users. ... One may wonder whether, as time goes by, the use of one system rather than another leads to profound inner changes. Can you use DOS and be a Vande supporter? And more: would Celine have written using Word, WordPerfect, or Wordstar? Would Descartes have programmed in Pascal?
And machine code, which lies beneath and decides the destiny of both systems (or environments, if you prefer)? Ah, that belongs to the Old Testament, and is talmudic and cabalistic. The Jewish lobby, as always.
Umberto Eco, professor of Semiotics at the University of Bologna, is one of those few writers whose authorship is an unmitigated joy to be involved in. And no matter how long his sentences or how waxiloquent you think his prose, he is a riveting and an utterly enlightening read. The only times I put The Name of the Rose down was to fill all the gaping holes in my education which, Eco so effortlessly exposed.
His writing is lyrical and witty, not something you would expect to find in a story of medieval religious intrigue and politics, set in a Italian monastery where a monk has been poisoned. A Franciscan monk, William of Baskerville, with his apprentice, Adso of Melk, has been sent to investigate the crime. Along the way, Jorge Luis Borges and Aristotle, the supression of knowledge and strong reasoning make for a enthralling journey. To say the least, the end is astonishing, and for any of you who think The Da Vinci Code is a good, well-researched book, I sincerely recommend you give The Name of the Rose a shot.
On a different note, the movie of the book is one of the few that attempts to do justice to the book. Personally, I do not see how that could ever be possible because the book is layered with stories within stories and you'd need to make a three week long film to do full justice to it. :-)
Among his other works, I savoured every word of Baudolino with its exquisite detail and subtlety and some of his essays and lectures on language and meaning sent me into raptures few writers, especially of the academic sort, can. However, I did not understand a word of Focault's Pendulum and am in the process of re-reading the book, this time hopefully to a modicum of comprehension.
When I grow up, I want to write like him - even if just one paragraph.
To meander back to the article on hand, I had myself a huge laugh at this one in the middle of mind-numbingly boring day at work and since I am in the business of technical writing, knowing the quirks of one side over the other, I found this even funnier!
I hope you enjoy this!
****
Friends, Italians, countrymen, I ask that a Committee for Public Health be set up, whose task would be to censor (by violent means, if necessary) discussion of the following topics in the Italian press. Each censored topic is followed by an alternative in brackets which is just as futile, but rich with the potential for polemic. Whether Joyce is boring (whether reading Thomas Mann gives one erections). Whether Heidegger is responsible for the crisis of the Left (whether Ariosto provoked the revocation of the Edict of Nantes). Whether semiotics has blurred the difference between Walt Disney and Dante (whether De Agostini does the right thing in putting Vimercate and the Sahara in the same atlas). Whether Italy boycotted quantum physics (whether France plots against the subjunctive).
Whether new technologies kill books and cinemas (whether zeppelins made bicycles redundant). Whether computers kill inspiration (whether fountain pens are Protestant). One can continue with: whether Moses was anti-semitic; whether Leon Bloy liked Calasso; whether Rousseau was responsible for the atomic bomb; whether Homer approved of investments in Treasury stocks; whether the Sacred Heart is monarchist or republican.
I asked above whether fountain pens were Protestant. Insufficient consideration has been given to the new underground religious war which is modifying the modern world. I find that whenever I tell people about it they immediately agree with me.
The fact is that the world is divided between users of the Macintosh computer and users of MS-DOS compatible computers. I am firmly of the opinion that the Macintosh is Catholic and that DOS is Protestant. Indeed, the Macintosh is counter-reformist and has been influenced by the ratio studiorum of the Jesuits.
It is cheerful, friendly, conciliatory; it tells the faithful how they must proceed step by step to reach - if not the Kingdom of Heaven - the moment in which their document is printed. It is catechistic: The essence of revelation is dealt with via simple formulae and sumptuous icons. Everyone has a right to salvation.
DOS is Protestant, or even Calvinistic. It allows free interpretation of scripture, demands difficult personal decisions, imposes a subtle hermeneutics upon the user, and takes for granted the idea that not all can achieve salvation. To make the system work you need to interpret the program yourself. Far away from the baroque community of revelers, the user is closed within the loneliness of his own inner torment.
You may object that, with the passage to Windows, the DOS universe has come to resemble more closely the counter-reformist tolerance of the Macintosh. It's true: Windows represents an Anglican-style schism, big ceremonies in the cathedral, but there is always the possibility of a return to DOS to change things in accordance with bizarre decisions: When it comes down to it, you can decide to ordain women and gays if you want to.
Naturally, the Catholicism and Protestantism of the two systems have nothing to do with the cultural and religious positions of their users. ... One may wonder whether, as time goes by, the use of one system rather than another leads to profound inner changes. Can you use DOS and be a Vande supporter? And more: would Celine have written using Word, WordPerfect, or Wordstar? Would Descartes have programmed in Pascal?
And machine code, which lies beneath and decides the destiny of both systems (or environments, if you prefer)? Ah, that belongs to the Old Testament, and is talmudic and cabalistic. The Jewish lobby, as always.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Blue on White
Scratching, scraping, rasping,
A pen on paper.
Blue on white.
on purple, red and violet.
Lines... dots... blobs... until...
A distant meaning is born.
Tonight I will write.
random imitations of greatness
that wound
Only me.
A pen on paper.
Blue on white.
on purple, red and violet.
Lines... dots... blobs... until...
A distant meaning is born.
Tonight I will write.
random imitations of greatness
that wound
Only me.
Monday, November 28, 2005
News Flash!
I am sorry to interupt the relay from Bangalore but matters of extreme championship (much to my chagrin) and "Bombay-ness" (much to my pride) must be reported.
Thursday morning I was running so terribly late that unmindful of the cost, I took a rickshaw straight to work because I was to meet a friend for lunch and en route, I was also due to lend my pride and joy, my F75, to another friend. Since the day looked a little relaxed, I also grabbed my entire folder of negatives, scans, contact sheets - the works! I thought I'd put up my feet, post some pictures, do stuff I want to do - I am sure you know the rest of that song.
The camera duly dropped off with the friend in question and I proceeded to work, dying a million deaths about being late for lunch. About twenty minutes later, the rickshaw screeched to a halt and I jumped out, desperate to pay the driver and be on my way. I jammed money in his hand, ran up to the office, signed in, made a pretence of checking my mail, grabbed my wallet and ran down again.
We didn't linger much over lunch because he was due to take a train in a few hours and after we had said our au revoirs, I came back to work, settled down at my seat, and was ready to start posting photos. And that's when it hit me.
My folder was riding in the back of a rickshaw somewhere in North Bombay.
That folder contained everything I've ever shot with my F75... everything. I do not think the enormity of my utter and complete stupidity made any sort of impact at all. All it did was compound the nagging feeling that I should give up all aspirations to photography and give my camera away to someone who actually deserves it. Perhaps it was foolish, but what kept me sane through the rest of the day was the hope that the rickshaw driver would return the folder because he knew where I lived - as it were.
Office day over, I returned home by about 21:30 still in quite the daze. On my way in, I stopped by the security guard's cabin to check if my miracle has happened. I could not finish my question because my folder was lying there on the guard's table.
Sweet Christ, I couldn't react but forty-eight hours later, gratitude and a sense of Bombay-ness are my overwhelming emotions. I know that my folder was a very small thing but whether the rickshaw driver lived close by or away from my home, he most certainly took a good deal of trouble through the entire day for an arbitrary woman who may never take his rickshaw again. I do not think this would have happened anywhere in India except Bombay.
Perhaps I am being unfair in my generalization but my irrational heart tells me otherwise. For all of Bombay's faults - and fear not, I am not being swept away by the romanticism of this seemingly random act of kindness - she's a city with a soul and a heart as big as the world. There is, I believe, sometimes no choice - but to fall in love with her.
This one is not a good shot as far as focus is concerned but I think it makes for a good frame and I love the colours. And to me, it sings Bombay.
Surely I am allowed a "bad" favourite! :-)
****
Addendum: I mean no insult to any other place in India, really I don't. Please do not take it as such. :-)
Thursday morning I was running so terribly late that unmindful of the cost, I took a rickshaw straight to work because I was to meet a friend for lunch and en route, I was also due to lend my pride and joy, my F75, to another friend. Since the day looked a little relaxed, I also grabbed my entire folder of negatives, scans, contact sheets - the works! I thought I'd put up my feet, post some pictures, do stuff I want to do - I am sure you know the rest of that song.
The camera duly dropped off with the friend in question and I proceeded to work, dying a million deaths about being late for lunch. About twenty minutes later, the rickshaw screeched to a halt and I jumped out, desperate to pay the driver and be on my way. I jammed money in his hand, ran up to the office, signed in, made a pretence of checking my mail, grabbed my wallet and ran down again.
We didn't linger much over lunch because he was due to take a train in a few hours and after we had said our au revoirs, I came back to work, settled down at my seat, and was ready to start posting photos. And that's when it hit me.
My folder was riding in the back of a rickshaw somewhere in North Bombay.
That folder contained everything I've ever shot with my F75... everything. I do not think the enormity of my utter and complete stupidity made any sort of impact at all. All it did was compound the nagging feeling that I should give up all aspirations to photography and give my camera away to someone who actually deserves it. Perhaps it was foolish, but what kept me sane through the rest of the day was the hope that the rickshaw driver would return the folder because he knew where I lived - as it were.
Office day over, I returned home by about 21:30 still in quite the daze. On my way in, I stopped by the security guard's cabin to check if my miracle has happened. I could not finish my question because my folder was lying there on the guard's table.
Sweet Christ, I couldn't react but forty-eight hours later, gratitude and a sense of Bombay-ness are my overwhelming emotions. I know that my folder was a very small thing but whether the rickshaw driver lived close by or away from my home, he most certainly took a good deal of trouble through the entire day for an arbitrary woman who may never take his rickshaw again. I do not think this would have happened anywhere in India except Bombay.
Perhaps I am being unfair in my generalization but my irrational heart tells me otherwise. For all of Bombay's faults - and fear not, I am not being swept away by the romanticism of this seemingly random act of kindness - she's a city with a soul and a heart as big as the world. There is, I believe, sometimes no choice - but to fall in love with her.
This one is not a good shot as far as focus is concerned but I think it makes for a good frame and I love the colours. And to me, it sings Bombay.
Surely I am allowed a "bad" favourite! :-)
****
Addendum: I mean no insult to any other place in India, really I don't. Please do not take it as such. :-)
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Flight in the Clouds
It was a wonderful Bombay winter afternoon when I boarded the Kingfisher flight to Bangalore. I was looking forward to the flight too, what with the airline purported to being really swanky at the dirt-cheap prices I had paid for a return ticket. Formalities at Bombay airport, a rickety transit busride, and smiling nicely at the crew on the way in over, I strapped myself into their "ultra-wide comfort" seats.
The ten minutes before take off are the most fascinating part of flying "The Good Times." You see, Kingfisher takes unbelievable advantage of being India's only airline with in-flight TV. Dr Vijay Mallya, CEO of Kingfisher Airlines, began my journey with a badly written spiel about many things that I do not now remember and but which ended with a cold "I appreciate your business." It may be statment of fact but certainly, advertising and promotional protocol dicates more warmth...?
However, indubitably the best part of the show is when Yana Gupta gives you this fascinating, horrifically lip-synched, "foreign-return" Hindi (and English too!) safety drill. If I had a copy of the tape, I do not believe I'd have another depressed day for the rest of my life! But yes, I digress.
The beginning of the flight was, to say the least, a little turbulent but I do not yet see why because like I told you, it was a beautiful winter afternoon - it was balmy, damn it! With the way that airplane swayed, for a terrifying five minutes, I really thought I was going to die. No hyperbole - I really did! As you can tell, I don't fly much. About twenty minutes later, I do think my stomach gave a blender going at top speed a run for its money.
The airhostess - an aside: I think having blond-streaked hair is mandatory if you want to be an airhostess with Kingfisher - came by with the lunch trolley and I opened one bleary eye and asked for an aerated drink. The look on her face was so magnificiently vacant that I smiled weakly and said, "A soft drink, Ma'am, preferably a lemony one, please."
It was then that she said the words that captivated my soul.
"Ma'am, are you feeling nauseatic?"
Now really, what does one say to that? I do not believe that I have been so sorely at a loss for words in while. I only nodded and closed my eyes again. To be fair, she came back almost instantly with a can of Sprite and a glass filled with ice cubes and a twist of lime. Fifteen minutes later, I was still feeling sick - until I glanced out of the window.
What I saw took my breath away and what I did was technically illegal but at this point, the airhostess would have done anything to keep me from displaying my breakfast all over the place - including tap dance on the nose of the airplane, right there and then!
I hope you enjoy these as much as I did taking them.
This looked like the sun had burst open on its head while it was dancing - it is called ... Of Hope.
Like the sun shining down on the sea - Shine Down on Me.
This photo is called Roiling. I do not think it needs more of an introduction or explanation. :-)
The ten minutes before take off are the most fascinating part of flying "The Good Times." You see, Kingfisher takes unbelievable advantage of being India's only airline with in-flight TV. Dr Vijay Mallya, CEO of Kingfisher Airlines, began my journey with a badly written spiel about many things that I do not now remember and but which ended with a cold "I appreciate your business." It may be statment of fact but certainly, advertising and promotional protocol dicates more warmth...?
However, indubitably the best part of the show is when Yana Gupta gives you this fascinating, horrifically lip-synched, "foreign-return" Hindi (and English too!) safety drill. If I had a copy of the tape, I do not believe I'd have another depressed day for the rest of my life! But yes, I digress.
The beginning of the flight was, to say the least, a little turbulent but I do not yet see why because like I told you, it was a beautiful winter afternoon - it was balmy, damn it! With the way that airplane swayed, for a terrifying five minutes, I really thought I was going to die. No hyperbole - I really did! As you can tell, I don't fly much. About twenty minutes later, I do think my stomach gave a blender going at top speed a run for its money.
The airhostess - an aside: I think having blond-streaked hair is mandatory if you want to be an airhostess with Kingfisher - came by with the lunch trolley and I opened one bleary eye and asked for an aerated drink. The look on her face was so magnificiently vacant that I smiled weakly and said, "A soft drink, Ma'am, preferably a lemony one, please."
It was then that she said the words that captivated my soul.
"Ma'am, are you feeling nauseatic?"
Now really, what does one say to that? I do not believe that I have been so sorely at a loss for words in while. I only nodded and closed my eyes again. To be fair, she came back almost instantly with a can of Sprite and a glass filled with ice cubes and a twist of lime. Fifteen minutes later, I was still feeling sick - until I glanced out of the window.
What I saw took my breath away and what I did was technically illegal but at this point, the airhostess would have done anything to keep me from displaying my breakfast all over the place - including tap dance on the nose of the airplane, right there and then!
I hope you enjoy these as much as I did taking them.
This looked like the sun had burst open on its head while it was dancing - it is called ... Of Hope.
Like the sun shining down on the sea - Shine Down on Me.
This photo is called Roiling. I do not think it needs more of an introduction or explanation. :-)
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
I'm back!
For two days now, actually.
I must confess, I've been feeling guilty about not blogging and not keeping up with my daily reads. But I'm afraid I've only been snuggling deeper, and deeper and still deeper into me.
You see, I was on holiday and awesome does not even begin to approach the first syllable of my time in Bangalore.
I simply loved....
... that city - its weather and food.
... that wonderful old-worldliness of its myriad 13th Main and 8th Cross roads.
... that I could get a 20% discount on a staggeringly eclectic selection of brand-new books.
... that I conned friends into buying me books.
... being one of the guys at Mojo's, over beer and rock n' roll.
... that I made some new friends that, I hope, will grow only closer.
... that I laughed about serious issues and kicked up a fuss over a missing fountain pen.
I've come back about 20 books, much love, a proper understanding of the rule of thirds, and the most beeyootifool sunset richer. I took some other images which I will post once I get the scans back. There are also some hilarious stories of bizzare cocktail mixes through the night to tell - another post... soon, I promise!
Bangalore was a week of nothing but chilling with the girls and...
... lying back and giggling over men and their idiosyncrasies.
... watching movies, remembering an English major not-so-long ago.
... holding hands over broken but healing hearts.
... talking deep into the late night or perhaps, late into the deep night.
... relearning how to be - I think I had forgotten how.
Ah, yes. I do think my soul is rested. :-)
I must confess, I've been feeling guilty about not blogging and not keeping up with my daily reads. But I'm afraid I've only been snuggling deeper, and deeper and still deeper into me.
You see, I was on holiday and awesome does not even begin to approach the first syllable of my time in Bangalore.
I simply loved....
... that city - its weather and food.
... that wonderful old-worldliness of its myriad 13th Main and 8th Cross roads.
... that I could get a 20% discount on a staggeringly eclectic selection of brand-new books.
... that I conned friends into buying me books.
... being one of the guys at Mojo's, over beer and rock n' roll.
... that I made some new friends that, I hope, will grow only closer.
... that I laughed about serious issues and kicked up a fuss over a missing fountain pen.
I've come back about 20 books, much love, a proper understanding of the rule of thirds, and the most beeyootifool sunset richer. I took some other images which I will post once I get the scans back. There are also some hilarious stories of bizzare cocktail mixes through the night to tell - another post... soon, I promise!
Bangalore was a week of nothing but chilling with the girls and...
... lying back and giggling over men and their idiosyncrasies.
... watching movies, remembering an English major not-so-long ago.
... holding hands over broken but healing hearts.
... talking deep into the late night or perhaps, late into the deep night.
... relearning how to be - I think I had forgotten how.
Ah, yes. I do think my soul is rested. :-)
Saturday, November 05, 2005
Of Tangerine and 55 Word Tags
With the ebb and flow of the sea,
Tangerine closes about me.
The wind,
Touching my breasts, my inner spaces,
Caresses this silent lucidity.
In the distance, whispers carry
seductive invitations to misplaced dreams.
My nightmares writhe
In the butterfly death dance and
… release me.
The ebb and flow of the sea…
A hypnotic panacea.
****
I have .:A:. to thank for this. This was so much fun - even though I did take too long doing it! :-)
Technorati Tag: 55 word poem
Tangerine closes about me.
The wind,
Touching my breasts, my inner spaces,
Caresses this silent lucidity.
In the distance, whispers carry
seductive invitations to misplaced dreams.
My nightmares writhe
In the butterfly death dance and
… release me.
The ebb and flow of the sea…
A hypnotic panacea.
****
I have .:A:. to thank for this. This was so much fun - even though I did take too long doing it! :-)
Technorati Tag: 55 word poem
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
It really Is Diwali!
It's a funny thing about rituals really, especially of the religious variety. For the most part, I dislike them intensely but some of them are inextricably linked with both the anticipations of my childhood and the contentments of my present.
Two nights ago, Diwali really began. After what is too long, I was sitting in the middle of a Laskhmi pooja, looking around at my family be more at peace than I've seen in recent memory - my mum, busy with the different parts of the ritual, my father, completely into the ceremony, and my brother and I, watching peacefully. That's how every single Dhanteras in living memory (save for the past few) has been spent.
For various reasons, for my family, the past few years haven't been as they ought to have. Somehow this year, a simple Lakshmi pooja has restored a normalcy and peace that I have, as a part of a unit and an individual, sought awhile. Amazing really, how easy it is to let things come to you sometimes.
This year's ceremony was different because the priest conducting it was not our usual one. That grand old gent passed away a few years ago. How I missed him this time. You see, as Indian, Hindu priests go, he was a dude - no other word for it! Tall, imposing and with a ready smile and wink for a child (and often young adult!) who couldn't sit still.
This new priest was a little more "with it", gave me analogies that were from a world of gizmos and technology and plain didn't have the personality of our previous priest. All the same, the ceremony was sufficiently similar to the usual one for me to be grateful. Change, it seems, always carries with it a portion of the familiar.
Tomorrow is the Gujarati New Year - among the most important days of the year for my community. It is, by far, the most important day of the year for my family. I will suffer relatives giving me varying levels of grief for various things and yet be happy about the great food and the new year that comes ahead of me.
I hope you've had a wonderful and safe Diwali and if you've been away from family, I hope you've had a lovely time with people you like. May the year ahead be full of all the benedictions that you deserve. May it also bring peace, love and laughter. Like I will tell painful relations in a few hours, allow me to say Saal Mubarak (Happy New Year) to all of you.
I know I started the year right. Please, oh please, leave it be this way! :-)
Two nights ago, Diwali really began. After what is too long, I was sitting in the middle of a Laskhmi pooja, looking around at my family be more at peace than I've seen in recent memory - my mum, busy with the different parts of the ritual, my father, completely into the ceremony, and my brother and I, watching peacefully. That's how every single Dhanteras in living memory (save for the past few) has been spent.
For various reasons, for my family, the past few years haven't been as they ought to have. Somehow this year, a simple Lakshmi pooja has restored a normalcy and peace that I have, as a part of a unit and an individual, sought awhile. Amazing really, how easy it is to let things come to you sometimes.
This year's ceremony was different because the priest conducting it was not our usual one. That grand old gent passed away a few years ago. How I missed him this time. You see, as Indian, Hindu priests go, he was a dude - no other word for it! Tall, imposing and with a ready smile and wink for a child (and often young adult!) who couldn't sit still.
This new priest was a little more "with it", gave me analogies that were from a world of gizmos and technology and plain didn't have the personality of our previous priest. All the same, the ceremony was sufficiently similar to the usual one for me to be grateful. Change, it seems, always carries with it a portion of the familiar.
Tomorrow is the Gujarati New Year - among the most important days of the year for my community. It is, by far, the most important day of the year for my family. I will suffer relatives giving me varying levels of grief for various things and yet be happy about the great food and the new year that comes ahead of me.
I hope you've had a wonderful and safe Diwali and if you've been away from family, I hope you've had a lovely time with people you like. May the year ahead be full of all the benedictions that you deserve. May it also bring peace, love and laughter. Like I will tell painful relations in a few hours, allow me to say Saal Mubarak (Happy New Year) to all of you.
I know I started the year right. Please, oh please, leave it be this way! :-)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)