Thursday, August 27, 2009

Dreams are surprisingly energizing. I go to bed every night hoping that I dream well. Many a time I don't. Many a time my life extends into my dreams and many horrific things that I hope never come to fruition release themselves into my non-waking hours. They are so obviously a result of my fears that clearly, the Freudian preconscious has been quite useless in censoring them. The lazy bastards need not even employ subterfuge; they come to my dreams just the way they do to my conscious life.

Other dreams are un-interpretable though. They are full of danger and intrigue and Bond-like* plots of fate and pistols. Surprisingly detailed too. Last night for example I dreamt of a protagonist who escaped from a room with a large iron door sealed by one of those revolving seals, the kind you find on a ship hatch (Too much Battlestar Galactica?). The same dream also involved a housing tenement off North Lamar. Not to mention many fields of beet, potatoes and flowers that I/ the protagonist (who was sometimes a man) skipped and scrolled over in an attempt to flee a clearly slow antagonist (one who wore a cap with a frond). I/we were also surprisingly nimble around corners, fleeing many durwans in a house that looked like a cavern. Oh, and the part where I/we were jumping over beets is when I woke up, heart threatening to jump right out of my lazy body that craved a little more sleep.

And now I am up and about, rustling breakfast, breathing deep, stretching, sinewing and slowly getting out of these interesting dream worlds, so much more desirable than this morning mine.

I hope you all have wonderful days/ nights wherever you are. I leave you with a thought for tonight.



* James, not Gold and not even Jail.

Sunday, August 23, 2009

I do not like working in the evening. The day demands release while the mind insists that so much more can be done. My mother was right when she said that one must go play in the evening.

I feel like playing. I feel like galloping. Rolling, twisting, turning, falling. Until the body heals, I must hibernate.

The night is an altogether different story though. It is so nice this night. The crickets hum, I can hear myself go clackety clack on the keyboard and the mind is quiet, but not dull. It can think, but not so much that it stem action. The lights are dim and warm, the window wide open and the brick walls still and comforting. And outside, a vast land that cannot come into my warm home. For tonight at least.

Since I can hardly say it well enough, another one for the night.

From Vikram Seth's Golden Gate; an excerpt

Dark night, and silent, calm, and lovely,
That stills the efforts of our lives,
Rare, excellent-kind, and behovely
No matter how the poet strives
To weave with epithets and clauses
Your soundless web, he falters, pauses,
And your enchantment slips between
His hands, as if it's never been.
Of all times most inbued with beauty,
You lend us by your spell relief
From ineradicable grief
(If for a spell), and pain, and duty.
We sleep, and nightly are made whole
In all our fretted mind and soul.

Thursday, August 20, 2009

Rigor Mortis -- A story in many parts

Part I

It began unknowingly. Life. One the first day of her life she was but a foundling. As we all are on the first day of our lives. A screaming, misshapen, monkey like foundling. Her parents were in the room, she was surrounded and cosseted, she was protected and loved. People waited at the end of long telephone lines and invisible satellite waves to hear of her coming into the world. Future aunts gossiped about the length of her mother's labour and grandmothers hoped she would be fair. Grandfathers grunted into the phone their approval while uncles yelled across the room to their nieces and nephews, the news of another. She was willed and she was wanted.

Foundling nevertheless. For death had abandoned her. Her being would now solely be defined by this. By the act of life.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Letter to somebody I knew

We haven't spoken in a while. But today I read something you wrote many years ago. You wrote about confusion and force and love and wrangling, rambling touch and sound. It reminded me of who you used to be. It reminded me of who I used to be. And I am still that. And I trust you are too. And yet we do not speak.

It is perhaps well. Because imagine wanting to be who we were. And reminding one another everyday of the person we used to know. Forcing one another to be what was most dear to us about ourselves. Imagine.

You were beautiful though. As I think, was I.
Write before the word escapes you. I woke up and was reading old emails from old friends, confidantes and rivals. They are sparkling and ticklish and staccato-ed and all over the place. And so driven. Life gushes out; the words gush out like the life they are struggling to remake. One rock at a time. Smoothing over; strangling, jumping, words. Stumbling over each other struggling to say something.

And this is what is different now. This is what we struggle to find; in beer bars and jazz concerts and airports all over the world. We all maintain our weakening bodies and our tired minds even as we seek that time when things were open.

Is it possible? To be quiet and bright at the same time?

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Back in Austin after what seems like an eternity. The day is ending and more shall be said soon enough. Until then, a little Shakespeare for the night.

Prospero:
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

The Tempest Act 4, scene 1, 148–158