15 November, 2011

A greyish November morning

Reliving this blog on such a (barely) winter morning - an ancient tradition that has gone on for ages. From the time of scribbled notes (the non-Facebook back-of-school-book sort) and hasty rhetoric. The familiarity with its sense of continuum is comforting, especially in these times of change (a mark that years truly have passed - the previous line would invariably have been "the times they are a' changin" ... about 4 years ago).

The fact that I'm counting days in years instead of hours is another mark that mildly irritates me.
There is a clink of cup on saucer - a nod to my morning cuppa.
The sparrows and crows are continuing their morning symphony. The pariah kites put in a shrill rejoinder, swooping barely within sight at the garbage dump near the far-off rail tracks.
There is no music playing. Anywhere. Other than the eternal choir of a city soundscape. The rattle of the morning garbage-man with the whistle - the same notes since a forgotten childhood. Eternal rumble of vehicles laboring up the No. 4 bridge and thence along the oft-mentioned EM Bypass. Which now boasts leviathan hulks of yet another semi-constructed flyover. Passing them on the way to college always puts me in the mind of Darth Maulish saberfights.

This is a morning for aimless rambles, a jog in the park or a jaunt down park street with a drop by at Flurys (the old one, with rounded armchairs and a shadowy gravy brown interior). However end-sems and guilt-ridden dreams of a postgrad have almost driven such bats out of the belfry.

Realworld's catching up without any pills (red or blue) to provide a shortcut out. What put me into blogpost mode was an sms last morning - "happy children's day to the child within you" or words to the selfsame effect thereof [YES i like this language]. Here's to more such unexpected and unintended triggers.

05 November, 2011

Many whys to while away the time

Pre-exams low and boredom high. This the winter of our discontent. Haven't read Steinbeck in ages. Or the Bard for that matter. Why?
In this place east of my eden, carefully squelching every little ripened grape of wrath, living the lives of both mice and men - why this sudden retrograde musing on a high-school literary fascination?

On a whim (and because one can do only so much of Java threads in the morning) I try to trace back the reasons.
A few days ago the long-neglected VCD-player caught my notice. Put On the Waterfront with all that "could've had class." That started off the Brando bandwagon - no stopping Streetcar after that. Purposely didn't go into the later movies.
Guessing that these two b/w films put the whole vintage era somewhere at the back of the mind. Dylan for company on the long travels with charlie (always on the dark side of the road) might just have played some role in that.
When the Steinbeck bug bit I'd be carrying around this paperback of The Grapes of Wrath everywhere. A friend once looked at the cover and remarked: "That's the tambourine man." How did this instinctive identification with the book and Dylan (the first song of his that I heard) come about?

Still caught up in a time warp.

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