I'm finally home.

Four months. Three countries. Seven cities.

It is finally starting to feel like I am doing what I want to be doing. And, I am where I should be.

No, it has not been easy. And, no, life is not perfect.

But, yes, I am happy. And, grateful.

This year I make no exception-- I wear my brooding pajamas and keep that tub of ice cream very close to me; it's the year end and this is what I do. But, this year I feel more content in my brooding. It feels like finally I'm home.

You were my person.

And, I believed I was yours.

Today it seems like a lifetime ago and in a different space that I may have known you. And, you, me.

I wish that you may remain in the past - where you belong. And, yet, every time life takes a turn, I look by my side - I look for you. And, I realize, how much harder it is to put you locked up in the past. I wish to forget you. I wish to not look for any one, especially not you, by my side. The void I find when I look, hurts. But, it hurts more that I am still looking - at the void. The void. That was once my person. That was once you.

Longing.

I once had a friend.

Sometimes when we spotted rain clouds, we would pack our mobile phones and some change for an ice cream or a burger from Nirulas in a plastic pouch, tuck it into our pockets and walk to the park across the road from our hostel. We would sit on the grass for long, waiting for the rain and talking. Most often it wouldn't rain. And we would walk back, secretly hoping that it would rain soon and we get to enjoy it on a quiet holiday like this, before the winters set in. Perhaps it drizzled on one of the days, or may be it did not - I cannot be sure now. What I remember vividly is our longing for the rain and how we would ceremoniously get ready for it.

Today looks like one of those days that we would have packed our mobile phones and some change in a plastic pouch, tucked it into our pockets and walked to the park across the road. To wait for the rain.

Oh, rats!

A cat chases a rat. A rat runs from a cat. There is intrigue, the chase is real (almost always), and all the chasing-and-running-and-chasing clearly has a consequence. I have never been much of a believer of opposites-theory. Or, rather, not been a believer of much of anything. But, I guess I am beginning to see reason in the cat-rat chase. One has to like to chase, and the other has to like to be chased. Put two cats, or two rats together, and it couldn't work. Not even if one of the rats pretended to be a cat - you should know that wouldn't last too long!

The good notes - Prelude. Just 'cuz it stayed in my drafts, and I wouldn't delete it.

It was too late for the much needed tub of ice cream. So I did the next best thing. I sat down to watch The Holiday. For the umpteenth time!

Opening score. Winslet's monologue. The fairytale cottage. The melodrama. The wit. The mush.
It works. Every time.

"Don't blow away."
I repeated.

"Okay. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to kiss you twice... and then linger a long time on the second kiss."
I blushed.

Definitely got me into true blue sweep-me-off-reality spirits!

Then came the scene at the video shop.
"Okay. Driving Miss Daisy. Hans. Very unexpected. Do you remember how great it was?"  [Jack Black does an impression of soundtrack]

And I thought, "Right away!"

It was love at first hear.
Sassy, sassy, sassy!

It wouldn't be quite untrue if I said I could watch the movie again, only for it's soundtrack. And, I've been hooked on for a while now.

The good notes. : http://ramansneha.blogspot.in/2013/03/the-good-notes.html

Folie à deux.

Too weird if I said it's a beautiful thought? Romantic, even?

Folie à deux.

My junkyard.

At age nine when kids my age chased dogs and caught dragon flies, I wandered the block collecting ‘stuff’ I called ‘creative junk’. They were safely deposited into a carton I nicknamed ‘My Junkyard’. Soon the junk grew to two, three, four.. ten.. cartons, and when I moved to my apartment two years back I finally created ‘my creative junkyard’ above the garage. My work is inspired by the random objects collected in different periods of life. Random thoughts. Random emotions. Random inspirations. My friends called it trash. They now call it art.

(A write-up for a concept board that I'd done couple of years back, and stumbled on accidentally today. The garage is still a distant dream. But, someday.)

Dear you.

Dear you,

Thank you for believing that you ought to make your rules, choose your experiences, define your comfort zones, and pick your indulgences wisely, including company. For cherishing the similarities in these choices in another's company and for helping yourself to new thoughts, attitudes, and creating new experiences together. Believing that in true companionship, you trust another, and your choice in another, to open yourself up to newness and to growth. Knowing that trust, newness and growth ought to be mutual. That there are things you do together - you share, you learn some and you unlearn some; and there are others you must do on your own - on your own terms. And, for not being afraid to make that choice. And, thank you, for this life of  no regrets that started on the right side of that choice!

Much love,
me.

Soundboard.

I haven't heard from you for a while now.

I grew anxious when I first noticed the change.
Was something wrong? With me? With you? Between us? I couldn't be sure. But, something must be wrong. We did not talk about such things. We did not talk about feelings. Well, at least not the ones that directly concerned either, or both, of us.

Anxiety turned to speculation.
Was something changing? With me? With you? Between us? I couldn't be sure. But, something must be changing. We did not talk about such things. We did not talk about changes. Well, at least not the ones that directly concerned either, or both, of us.

Speculation turned to acceptance.
Was this a new beginning? With me? With you? Between us? I couldn't be sure. But, this must be a new beginning. We did not talk about such things. We did not talk about beginnings. Well, at least not the ones that directly concerned either, or both, of us.

I haven't talked to you for a while now. Why haven't I? 

Closure.

'Is there closure?', he asked.
No. 
I wish I'd stopped there. The more I tried to think, or talk, the more inconclusive it all started to seem. That's why I knew it had to remain there. In the past. The questions. The what-ifs. The howevers. It had to stay there. At the line that I'd drawn when I decided to accept, and to stop thinking. The line that I'd drawn when I decided to stop caring.
I wavered at the question. I would be lying if I said otherwise. 
But then, may be it's true.
"There is no real ending. It's just the place where you stop the story."
And, I believe, knowing when to stop and trusting that choice is your best shot at closure.

Negotiating jam and tracing silver linings.

It can be quite unnerving when life starts to feel like a series of yesterdays.When you notice that nothing around you changes - everything is the same as yesterday. And, when you've lived in it long enough to know that it will be the same tomorrow. You get confused. Or, you laugh it off, and start to have some fun with the idea of never having to deal with consequences. Everything that you did yesterday has ceased to be, and you get to do it all over again - exactly the same as yesterday. Or, not.

It can be frustrating, the protracted wait for continuity, and/or change. Life isn't easy, even yesterday! So may be nothing changes. But there's always something you keep wishing you'd have done yesterday. Meeting a deadline. Or, a friend. Guitar lessons. Finishing a book. Scuba diving. Painting your toe nails. One way trip around the world. So well, here it is - yesterday!

The good notes.

Sassy!

(Video courtesy, youtube.com)

Gumption.

(Video courtesy, youtube.com)

Truly an extraordinary expression for these beautiful words! If life had background scores, I know what's to play in mine.

Passe-partout. Or, not.

As I progressed with my reading, I found out Passepartout didn't turn out quite anything like what the author expected him to be on their journey. 

As far as my own anticipations go, we never even got started. 

Imagine trying to take flight, and an invisible noose around your feet pulling you down just as you've filled your lungs and spread your wings? In a shared dream, the passivity or doubt of at least one of the hearts that dreamt the dream can turn into the noose. Over time I have met many more of the dreamers. I continue to share the spirit of my dreams with them, but not the burden of realizing them.

And, Passepartout (as I call you this one last time), I free you of the tag. We agreed there wasn't a need for tags and definitions. And, that's how it ought to be.

(Read Passe-partout here.)

The hand twin.

She called out to me excitedly, 'Can you believe this!'

There, under the light from the street lamp, I saw it. The identical palms. And, her hand twin. Oblivious to the traffic a few feet ahead, or the crowds flocking the pavilions behind them, they sat on the sidewalk for a long time after - talking and smiling.

It was also the day I laid my eyes on a beautiful Phanek, and thought I will own one someday.

Sometimes on a solemn day as this, I imagine the beautiful countryside that you have so often described to me, with the same flaky and ridiculously contagious excitement that I saw in your eyes when you introduced me to your hand twin. I imagine walking down the streets lined with shops selling the most beautiful Phaneks, and running into you and your hand twin.

'I am not a concept.'

The movie was mediocre. The underlying concept- of an artist's view of his world and his muse in 'A Frozen Second', both the idea of freezing time at your will and unravelling a person's being in that frozen second - was intriguing. Was it a violation of their privacy?, the protagonist wondered, and I did too. Unlike when you sit down for a portrait, your physical and emotional being at that moment being a deliberated attempt at what you choose to freeze in time, the frozen second catches you in an unguarded and a possibly private moment.

The relationship between an artist and the muse has always fascinated me. For the artist to seek meaning and beauty in something with its own temperament, one that may be complimenting or contrasting to the artist's own, yet continually inspiring and challenging; and for the muse to let another perceive the reflections of one's unguarded thoughts and vulnerabilities, and allow it form - I believe there is immense trust (and often a shared passion) in such a synergy. How does one find it, or grow it, I have wondered many times.

I reckon it is in many ways similar to love. Unless you are willing to give a part of you, you do not find the other part.

"I am not a concept. Too many guys think I'm a concept, or I complete them, or I'm gonna make them alive. But I'm just a fucked-up girl who's lookin' for my own peace of mind; don't assign me yours." 
- Clementine, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

That is oftentimes my state of mind. And, I think I am my own concept.

But every once in a while, may be you do want someone to see you. Whether you choose to create the painting or be the painting, you want to put a part of yourself out in the world.

"I wanted to be the muse, I wanted to be the wife of the artist, but I was really trying to avoid the final issue- that I had to do the job myself.” 
- Anaïs Nin

A post-it roundup

A year that wasn't mine, The Weepies, and turning things around!

Learning to ask, why.

“He who has a why to live for can bear almost any how.”
― Friedrich Nietzsche

A few hours at a book store generally leaves me exhausted. On most occasions I walk in with no agenda, wander the aisles, read the titles, rearrange a few books, make random draws, flip through pages, read some, dust a few others, pretend to have found writing that interests me, sit down, read some more, wander the aisles, and make random draws. The final pick may seem like a deliberate result of this long and seemingly methodical process, but it almost always is not. Sometimes I'd find the titles that have been on my to-read list forever - ones that made it to the list after hours spent reading reviews and excerpts. And, yet, I'd leave them behind and pick something that I may as well have liked for the author's quirky intro, the book cover or the title font!

When I picked Ma, He Sold Me For A Few Cigarettes, it was intuitive. I had heard of neither the book nor the author before. I probably picked it from the shelf for it's name. That it was stacked among memoirs was an incentive - and the title had tickled my curiosity. I hadn't seen the cover until I'd drawn it out. When I started reading, I liked the indeginous voice and colloquial style of writing. I knew it could turn out to be intense and may be even depressing. When I made the pick, I did not evaluate the rationale behind it, I went with my gut. This isn't the first time I have been drawn to narratives of individual struggles or social atrocities, but this is the first time that I've asked myself, why.

What makes people do wrong - do they not see what the society sees?; where do people find the strength to fight and never give up even when there are more reasons to give up than not - do they not tire of this constant struggle?; are people ever bad, or their circumstances poorly dealt with, resulting in poorly thought actions? - in life these are questions one struggles to find absolute answers for. Often there are no back stories offered, and the characters are sketchy. We construct more hypotheses and jump to 'dealing with the situation' than understanding the motivations. I find it amusing how a writer carefully constructs the premise- for the plot and its characters- and makes it convincing for the reader. Oftentimes in life we are happy to leave things in the obscure.

Things that mostly seem uncomfortable and grim, it takes enormous strength and insight to even attempt to understand or describe it, let alone live through. And, in my heart, anyone who has ever tried to do either has earned my respect. And few among them, a place on my book shelf.

Trick-or-treat.

Two of my best finds from trick-or-treating this weekend.

Time at the Blossoms book shop always ends in a treat, and this was no different if not more special - finding this copy of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, that came with an unexpected and lovely dedication.

A first at the Johnson market, and my happy hobo spirit was tickled even if only for a short while! I wonder if it was the spirit of the book in my bag awaiting to be read, or the reminiscent shadows in my mind waiting to find form.

The book begins by quoting Heraclitus, 

"It ever was, and is, and shall be, 

ever-living Fire, in measures being 

kindled and in measures going out."

And, seems just about perfect to conclude this entry.

On dancing, space and running out of coffee.

I love to dance.

Anything from the poised tapping of my feet or strutting while in fact enjoying an astral tango, or grooving to zippy bollywood music on the tv and occasionally managing to perfect that signature step, to letting my hair down on the dance floor and dancing till I drop - some such occasions ending in happy hugs from random-strangers-turned-best-grooving-partners! A dance floor has been an exception to my ostensible love for open spaces and the 'I-don't-wear-my-heart-on-my-sleeve' arrogance - the claustrophobic dance floors transform into my eden of dreams and possibilities. The constant act of embracing, interacting and reinventing, between the body and the space -it amuses me how, the beauty and meaning of the dance is not complete without the body in relation to the space around.

I ran out of coffee. I wore off my words. And then, I found me dancing.