22 July, 2006

Drivel

He enjoyed.
Even when there was no logical reason.

The buses rumbled past. afar, the lights of the byepass gleamed like a golden necklace. Arcing away like the Cosmic Curve.
"If I rode on a beam of light..."

Immutable. Inscrutable. The grey-black world around him. He longed for the night, when only the steady wheeling of the semi-obscured firmament would be the silent witness to his emotions.

He believed that to show emotions was not for him. Gladly bidding bosom mates farewell. A shake of the hand, rent-a-drool smile. Short nod. That was all. Now at the behest of comrades he cast aside his Zen-like mask. Only to reveal that all he could show were pseudo-feelings.

He had stopped caring.

He stopped dying.
Anyone can die . It takes a lot to die at the right time. Calculating the maximum no. of mourners.

It rained.

He would've liked it like they say in the stories: the rain that washed away the grime, the dirt, the gloom.
For him, it only caused wetness. Anough to disguise the moisture around his eyes. They were raindrops, of course.

Wished he could stop caring. Or at least show that he cared. Really cared. But he couldn't do that either.

Read Sartre. Words. They are only waves in the air, unless they can cause waves in your soul.
Now since when did he start believing in souls? You need to have one to know about it all.

Memories. That is perilous. Not that way, no, never. That was lies madness. "Kapurush."
"Have only two pills."
"What if I have more?"
"I do not think you will..."

"Aakash paney haat baralem kaharo torey..."

I knew not for whom
I reached out to the heavens above.
Knew not that you had come, even unto my room.

Shrouded in the Dark, I sat
Wreathed in monochrome dreams.
I knew not that the tumult, the chaos, the storm
Was the crest of your triumph.

At the break of morn the Light
Flooded my eyes, that beheld
Your form, standing
Sublime.



And then I and He
Them and Us
Friend and Lover
All entwine
And I rise above, lifted
On the argent wings
Of sorrow sublime
That itself is joy
Understood
Loss and possession
Love and Hatred
Are the side of the same coin.


He cried out. Remembering.

g=9.8m/s2

For a moment he was like a bird.

I'm an angel, going to a heaven I ever mistrusted.

Then the lights no longer gleamed, all lost in the howl of speed.
He arced as he fell, more graceful than ever in life.


They say you can see your whole life before you.
He only remembered how someone had once shown him the Soviet salute.
And that he wanted others to hear his Swansong. A significant other. Correction. An other to whom he never was really significant.

He realised that he loved life.

19 July, 2006

Thinking ahead

I learnt that Ingmar Bergman made a late film: Swansong. A most significant name. As we know, the swan never makes a musical sound. Until the end. When it feels death drawing near, the swan goes off to some tranquil lake, singing the most beautiful theme possible. And in the midst of the heart-rending beauty of the swansong, its graceful form takes wing, bedding farewell to this mortal world. You can feel some of that inexpressible grace in Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake, the overture. By both Karajan and Neville Marriner.
Wish to go that way. Someday. SOmehow. So I know what my last post's going to be.

REmembered one of my favorite lines, long forgotten. And the scenes.:
Vivien Leigh shouting, passionately. And at the door, the man turns, a half-swile wreathed on the saturnine face, (shoru gop: Shoumitro Chatterjee later on in Charulata)

"Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn."

Wish I could do that. DOn't we all?

"Life an adventure perilous and gay,
Death: a long and vivid holiday."
-Luis Untermeyer.

LIghtsabers. THey rock. So does life, to a certain extent. Taking limits . . .

17 July, 2006

Musing mumbles . . .

Okay, do check out the bottom of the page. Hope all users can view the slide-show properly.

That's about it. From now on, its back to mainstream posting.

12 July, 2006

Comings, and goings too?

Okay, I've spent (not wasted, mind you) considerable time on fiddling with my template. Not posting. As I felt I ought to.
People reflect a lot. YOu generally can't help doing so.
I was asked the most difficult question, yestereve.

Started off like this, on the phone:
A:"All crap, man...had row...couldn't help it, against my principles , and I can't stand that. Even if it means losing that person. I'll probably call , and then just walk away. See how it feels."

The confused misused accused struck-out ones of life. Be in the list as well.

Me:"That's being melodramatic. Against MY principles. Everything, if anything, that I've stood for."

A:"And what pray have you stood for?"


And I was silent. What have I stood for. People beleive in something. Like an anchor. Even if it is just themelves. But me: half-formed thoughts and hordes of might-have-beens.
So busy pointing out the Universe's errors.

I believe that I stand for reality. One's own reality. To rip away the facades, and be a minimalist, a secret non-conformist, a shadow-man, a grey-man. To believe, but only to myself shall I profess them/
To champion the Others. Neo-realists. Call them what you will.

"Deeds are not shorn of their goodness if they go unsung."

I need a confessor, dammit. And some rotund Secomd Foundationer had better do it. I must confess. What? Merely that I'm confused.

04 July, 2006

A pick of pics

Yeah, I was amusing myself by having a peep around memory alley. Byepass. Whatever.
My blog's one of those that was never too adept at visual content. Then, by collaboration with the young Prince Kazarelth I thought of something . . . this.
I shot them about two years ago, setting off on a "Journey of the Fellowship" of my own. Who are you, alone and nameless-Tom Bombadil. HOpe you enjoy looking at the few windows to my past that actually show something scenic.


The Misty Mt.s? I'm Gandalf, at the crest of a hill, overlooking the broad expanse of Middleearth. Armed with a Minolta, film reel-Kodak.


That's Rivendell, right? Strain your vision, and you might see Elrond's Last Homely House.



The sentinels around Caradhras: Hollin.


What can this possibly be? Let's try Rivendell again.


Here Alarond Greywrath held of the pack of wolves. Shards of ice. Naur an adraith ammen! Naur dan i ngaurhoth!


The deadly plains of Morgul Vale. Or Gorgoroth. Frodo, yours truly, in blue. Teeth chattering. Samwise being a particularly obstinate mountain goat with a strange fascination for my fly.Ugh.




That's down memory lane. The EM Byepass can be seen, a faint glow of lights, away to the left. And the Sun rises.
Yes, I'm in a truly colorful mood. Giving a serious thought to turning positively cheerful.

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