(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.
Saturday, March 30, 2013
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
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.)
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.)
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
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.
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.
Monday, March 25, 2013
'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
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
Friday, March 15, 2013
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
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.
― 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.
Monday, March 11, 2013
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.
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.
Sunday, March 10, 2013
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.
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.
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