the image and the rhapsody
pretend to non-pretense
only as real as the translucent tomorrow
(that today yearns for though
furthest from tomorrow's despair)
but today and always
film remains my nemesis
and song my reason
though watching is forbidden
and the singing only gets tougher.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
so i live
i write with moist words
bad poetry comes from the heart
so i whine, so i live.
i make a collage of thoughts
you cut them up again
so you dissemble me, so i live.
learning to grow, growing to sit,
flying low on high ground,
counting unforced errors,
so i live.
bad poetry comes from the heart
so i whine, so i live.
i make a collage of thoughts
you cut them up again
so you dissemble me, so i live.
learning to grow, growing to sit,
flying low on high ground,
counting unforced errors,
so i live.
Weekend Television
sometimes the city looks at you
straight in the eyes
you dont want to look back at it
so looking up
you find specks of crystal
on your own million mm tele
its an all night show
so you wait for the cosmic drama
to unfold, yet
somehow it never does
then you say
thats enough
and you go to bed
and pray for a better show tomorrow night
straight in the eyes
you dont want to look back at it
so looking up
you find specks of crystal
on your own million mm tele
its an all night show
so you wait for the cosmic drama
to unfold, yet
somehow it never does
then you say
thats enough
and you go to bed
and pray for a better show tomorrow night
And as I try to make my way to the ordinary world, I will learn to survive..
Who're we kidding..everybody's got secrets. In the old days, people would climb atop a mountain, carve a hole in a tree, whisper their secret into it and cover it up with mud. I never found my tree, so I told people.. and they didnt know what to make of it. Some just treated me like the ebola virus and fled.. others probed so much that i realised that I wasnt ready to spill everything and I decided I'd wait till I found my tree.
It struck me that finding a Mr. Right was going to be even harder with my 'other' life but then i guess its more important to appreciate yourself before you go looking for someone else to appreciate you. Took me some time to figure that one out. But I stick by it.
It struck me that finding a Mr. Right was going to be even harder with my 'other' life but then i guess its more important to appreciate yourself before you go looking for someone else to appreciate you. Took me some time to figure that one out. But I stick by it.
And now...
Written 2 years ago:
Nothing will ever be the same. Finding the other- in myself- has changed everything. Its not easy to write about- to wrench my heart out on paper- but the release must come through writing. What is literature now but a knowing retreat into self-delusion? Literature has no answers. I can't speak of the mysteries of this frightening, beautiful universe. Infact I can barely speak at all, without constantly telling myself that my thoughts are mine again. The future seems grey.. I'm clinging to a past that'll never come back. I feel like the old man on the moon. And debussy's Claire de Lune is playing in my head. In my head.
Nothing will ever be the same. Finding the other- in myself- has changed everything. Its not easy to write about- to wrench my heart out on paper- but the release must come through writing. What is literature now but a knowing retreat into self-delusion? Literature has no answers. I can't speak of the mysteries of this frightening, beautiful universe. Infact I can barely speak at all, without constantly telling myself that my thoughts are mine again. The future seems grey.. I'm clinging to a past that'll never come back. I feel like the old man on the moon. And debussy's Claire de Lune is playing in my head. In my head.
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
the wonder years
Written 3 years ago (almost to the date):
So why is it that i continue with literature?
Perhaps that question is best answered by tracing the journey from its origins. Undoubtedly the first stage of reading, that stage when meaning and motive had no demands on the consciousness, was positively thrilling and no, not unreal, but paradisical. And then to get initiated into the 'study' of literature, not only for the purpose of obtaining a degree, but also finding the 'inner light', the 'path' or whatever one chooses to call it, a study that seemed supremely satisfying at moments when one discovered heroes. Finding oneself then, with so much guidance and so many truths flying around invisibly, seemed like an entirely worthwhile and absorbing preoccupation. Not that it doesn't anymore- I'm still only 20. But i do occasionally have to justify the Masters to myself.
But today as I was thinking about it, as I do every other day, there was this feeling that came over me, not overwhelming in the least degree, but one which quietly shook my senses. This is what it was- I felt that I was reading not in order to seek reality but to reaffirm the reality and solidity, if you please, of my existence. It is like the painting of Turner's where the pale pink-yellow light of the morning sky gives shape to the shipping vessel on the horizon, a vessel which has no contours of its own.
Do i find my sense of being in words? Or is it that because of this cultivated habit of looking at words and real, lived life in a perpetual antithesis of reflection, I am falling into the trap of the literateurs, the novelists, the scriptwriters, songwriters et al? I verily believe its neither. It seems I, possibly like 'many others'(the community of the imagination which is conveniently called upon to review my thoughts and share good music with yours truly now and then)- yes, as I was saying, we seem to be walking on Derrida's moebius strip, anxious of falling off at any moment to land up free falling into the abyss of signifiers and equally anxious to latch on to the strip itself, hopelessly penning down cleches to save the 'reality' of innumerable experiences in the 'reality' of memory.
So really, seeing as I'm now conscious of being on the strip and can occasionally look down into the face of terror,its quite natural that I can't do without literature. Without the pressure of cramming for exams perhaps- no, definately. But not without lit.
So why is it that i continue with literature?
Perhaps that question is best answered by tracing the journey from its origins. Undoubtedly the first stage of reading, that stage when meaning and motive had no demands on the consciousness, was positively thrilling and no, not unreal, but paradisical. And then to get initiated into the 'study' of literature, not only for the purpose of obtaining a degree, but also finding the 'inner light', the 'path' or whatever one chooses to call it, a study that seemed supremely satisfying at moments when one discovered heroes. Finding oneself then, with so much guidance and so many truths flying around invisibly, seemed like an entirely worthwhile and absorbing preoccupation. Not that it doesn't anymore- I'm still only 20. But i do occasionally have to justify the Masters to myself.
But today as I was thinking about it, as I do every other day, there was this feeling that came over me, not overwhelming in the least degree, but one which quietly shook my senses. This is what it was- I felt that I was reading not in order to seek reality but to reaffirm the reality and solidity, if you please, of my existence. It is like the painting of Turner's where the pale pink-yellow light of the morning sky gives shape to the shipping vessel on the horizon, a vessel which has no contours of its own.
Do i find my sense of being in words? Or is it that because of this cultivated habit of looking at words and real, lived life in a perpetual antithesis of reflection, I am falling into the trap of the literateurs, the novelists, the scriptwriters, songwriters et al? I verily believe its neither. It seems I, possibly like 'many others'(the community of the imagination which is conveniently called upon to review my thoughts and share good music with yours truly now and then)- yes, as I was saying, we seem to be walking on Derrida's moebius strip, anxious of falling off at any moment to land up free falling into the abyss of signifiers and equally anxious to latch on to the strip itself, hopelessly penning down cleches to save the 'reality' of innumerable experiences in the 'reality' of memory.
So really, seeing as I'm now conscious of being on the strip and can occasionally look down into the face of terror,its quite natural that I can't do without literature. Without the pressure of cramming for exams perhaps- no, definately. But not without lit.
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