29 June, 2006

Solar Flare

Not the superheated loop of flaming gas that is ejected in a graceful loop from the surface of our sun. Nope, not that.
THe one you get handling Photoshop, when the sun dazzles the lens of the camera. One of the truly beatiful things. Like when realisation dawns, not like a stately Monet Le Havre but a opening shot of Det Sjunde Inseglet type. Or when pure thought slices through clouds of self-deceit, blinding in its intensity.
Am I raving? I guess maybe I am.

Like my blog heading. Nothing but a solar flare. Semi-obscuring. Yet refined. Yeah, I know I'm incorrigibly self-praisewotrhy. At least, I messed around with the template after a looooooong time.

25 June, 2006

Gathering storms

Like so many others, stretching away on infinite axes in both space and time . . .

I looked up at the sombre sky, but thier grimness magnifies my own exultation at nature's might.
The thunder growled, and rank upon rank of grey-cloaked warriors rode across the broad expanse of the lowering skies, the fruy of their passing battering down on the earth below.

I laughed at this in a rather inexplicable joy. One that is shared by so many other terrace-marshals reviewing their celestial armies.

14 June, 2006

Vivid

You'll find, some things are just too vivid. That they hurt your eyes, or your mind. Either way, one has to flinch and turn away, blinded by the intesity.

I like to think of myself as a realist, most of all.

I long resisted the temptation for blank verse. I chose to write essays instead.
Till date, I haven't a single abstract painting tolaud my meagre hand at art. When I paint, I paint the world around me as the good God (if there is one, that is) intended it to be seen. Surrealism yes, the emphasis on certain objects that comes naturally to us. But not vile meaningles doodles.

THere are some, the likes of Picasso and other pioneers of the cubist era who are in the pantheon of the Great. Certainly not every blobber of paint on canvas.

Amrita Shergil is always thought-provoking. But my favourite of philosopher-artists is Salvador Dali - that surrealist par excellence. the melting Time...




I'm happy. Is that so strange. I don't know. But believe me, its nice to know that you're not alaone in the whole universe. Maybe an alien's out there?

Dylan. Me circling the light of the lyrics like a moth.

Striking for the painter and the poet...

Black is the color where none is the number,
Striking for the confused, misused, accused, strung out ones of life...
An' we heard the chimes of freedom flashin'

02 June, 2006

Heaven and Earth

I saw X-men: the last stand. As action movies goes, it was too good, with awesome special efects in all the right places, all the right people saying the right things. I left the hall knowing I've seen something to its finish.

At the risk of sounding repititive, I'm God again. Due to the phoenix that fluttered into my inbox. I don't know, but if there can be anything approaching true emotion inme, then I must have felt it mostly in connection with the one at whose likeness I now gaze with something approaching rapture.

Vague. Ethereal. And senseless.

The things that mean.
The condensed drop of serenity,
crystallised on a blade of grass. Dewdrops: meaningful.

THe grey-fraught morn-clouds blushing at the approach of the sun.
The seraphim heralding in joy that we live to see another day break . . .

The countless smiles that mean so much.
And the ones that do not.

To arise at the tranquil brim
Of Emotion's ocean,
Past cliffs sheer and dim.

To feel in the rushing win, the lusty gusts of renewed life.
Laugh a frolick in impassioned lusts;
Life's a game.
For those who can bear to play it.
To smile, laugh at the purest of joys: to live;
To hope, besotted, depairing - yet unbowed.

That behind every cloud, y'know even without the Hubble telescope, one might just be able to discern a lining that may be silver.
And even in the throes of self-reproach a beacon of release shines out: that when the sun rises, it shall shine out the clearer. For in the end everything, even despair must pass, and what you are left behing is what you started with: you are definetely not a chimpanzee with a bamboo forced up its spinctor, however much it seems that way.
Black is the color where none is the number.

But I'm NOT the chimp, so as long as I feel like shivering in the AC and screaming at every innocent passer-by & slaughtering do-gooders, heaven knows, I'm still ready for a LONG LOOOOOOOOOOOONG guffaw.

Oh, and just be careul, I might offer u the cream of joy. Hemlock laced(hell, its ME after all).

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