Of Photos and Photocopies June 27, 2007

Chapter 1
Changing glasses and changing views?

I think the day’s coming closer. By the millisecond. And I still can’t feel the damn heat. Is this normal? People around me are melting like soft white plastic and I’m still standing hard like a pointed needle in a hay sack. One little shiny bit in the middle of a lot of flammable substance. I hope not to burn to ashes at the end in a split second on the doomsday. The day when the fire comes from the other end of the glass, from behind it. Through the speakers. The microphones squeak due to magnetic induction and other crap, and if that voice utters the damned ‘R’ word…gulp! I’ll be dead. But let me shove this negative perspective up a whore’s ass for once and look at things with a positive eye. It’s not what I’m used to ‘cos I generally follow a policy of expecting the worst and giving things a shot, ‘cos then you are happy with whatever happens at the end of the day. The sunsets…fine, for good…finer. And that’s my mindset now. The child in me just wants to be happy in any case. He’s not bothered about the existence of moon, or for that matter the meteors and comets. He just doesn’t care for what I get, or what my eyes see. But then he says that I need a pair of glasses now ‘cos I’m terribly short sighted, hmmm…smart kid I’d say.

Chapter 2
Preparation personified

So, he was here. The good old block of wood. With over 58 rings on his core. He knows pretty much all. He’s like one of those colored books of encyclopedias that were printed in the ’50s. The pages look yellow, but the stuff that’s in there hasn’t changed one bit. Most of the time, you under estimate its validity, and then it surprises you how the print on those historic pages are still applicable in “today’s” world. Magic! I tell you. The influential elder takes every footnote in this book damn seriously. I’m yet to take that much interest in encyclopedias, that’s partly because, I’m planning to print my own in a few years now, then I could lay it down in one of those rarely visited libraries and let it yellow over decade. Till the pages become as crisp as wafers. Anyways, the wood seemed pretty good, and it helped keep things afloat, nice and sturdy in a pond nearby. It seemed to know the right directions to float towards everytime. So glad that I’m a chip off this this lovely ship.

she was beautiful June 15, 2007

she stood there. right in front of the mirror. stroking her hair. stroking it gently. enjoying the company of her beauty. the mirror would smile. at her silly act. this was her routine. she’d do this everyday. and the hair would bounce back everytime she played with it. and she seemed so proud of herself. after an hour or so, she’d start over and enjoy it even more. she’d stare at herself over and over. admire her smile. eyelashes. soft skin. beauty divine. a lonely pearl necklace dangled on her thin neck. accenting it even more. and her so proportionally carved out body. could she be any better. she’d refuse to wear anything. she feared that cotton would scratch her skin and silk would be too heavy. that unclothed body was like that of an angels. all she lacked was a pair of wings and a golden harp by her side. and she’d sing with her lovely voice. soft like no other. a melodic angel. and her white skin would glow. lighting up the dark room where she sat all day. rarely she would glance out the only window in the room. and watch slow seagulls fly across the shore. they always seemed hungry and never satisfied with fishes. she would listen carefully for unusual sounds that the ocean sometimes made when the moon’s gravity would pull the water up. above the sand lines. but she never knew what made those seagulls fly or the ocean sing. and she sat there. alone. but she was comforted by her own self. a kind old man would occasionally visit her there. and she’d be thrilled. he was very old and kind. they would dine together sometimes. he never spoke a single word. and all she’d do was continue to hum and watch him curiously. after the first few visits they got along very well and had become the best of friends. she had started to enjoy his silent presence. after he left she’d sit there again on her own. with her diary. a fountain pen. and a bunch of old photographs. laminated and kept neatly in the lower compartments of the grooming table. this table and a nice cozy bed which was never used, were the only furnitures in there. she’d sometimes write about the way she felt, but soon she’d end up writing the same things she wrote almost everyday. she’d write about a small girl. and other times she’d write an agonizing story of a young man who was brutally killed in front of his 7 year old daughter. she never knew why she’d write such stories, but she would be surprised everyday to find those same two stories written over and over in that book. and then she’d read it again. and smile in a confused way. but that was a perfect smile. the best in this room. the best in this home. the home for invalids. beautiful she was. so beautiful it makes me cry.

drowning in the rain clouds June 6, 2007

it was a hot afternoon.
the sun was melting some old candles
lying in the corner of an antique wooden wall stand.

i hoped it would rain and cool down the flaming leaves of a 5 year old money plant
kept in a clay pot with warm water and steel nets
they were down, and i saw them lose color
and grow into pale shades of lime-sap. dull. dry.
their shapes lost, with excess moisture and burns.
much like how it was. like them, this day.
thirsty in a way.
crumpled and scratched. like molten bits of glass in a tray,
that had been handled badly and cursed to be brittle.
rapidly cooled. forcibly stretched.
filled with small air pockets and tanks.
it was meant to break and give up its stable form and state.
and the air inside
it never seemed to subside
it wanted to bulge and explore the outside
wouldn’t it love to explode?
but if it would, it would shatter
this thin glass.
strange laws.
physics and chemistry i guess.
but this was me. the glass.

eyes were dry
of constantly staring at inanimate objects
around the dull setting.
back, numb. from sitting on that steel chair
which was bought a few months back
in exchange for a nice cozy wooden one.

i had been trying to hold up some sand in the air.
but winds would blow it free
and set it flying to the west,
to the nearest ocean or a distant desert.
miles away.
waiting eagerly for this new batch of grains to arrive and add to its glory.
sand it was. an important element in the making of thin glass.

how it would change.
from brown dirt that sticks on to you without your intent,
to beauty, transparency and colored light
to be kept and praised
and polished with love and respect.

the bark infested with juicy insects and weed.
a time so rotten i’d say.
but it stood still. and seemed to be that way.
enjoying the company of its healthy parasites.
letting them draw all they want off its own body.
generous. pityful and trustworthy.

those hands were too lazy now
and the effects had started to grow stronger
they could no longer spin. or pinch
they were steady. as if everything had stopped
and as if someone stole the source of its energy
secretly during the middle of the day
without anyone noticing
thus was the day.

but nights.
most of the them were lost,
waiting desperately for a brighter day.
bright. hmmm.. is the sun up yet?
these candles just can’t seem to wait.

complete mountain expedition June 1, 2007

its a bad thing to end good things. and then it happens very often. so often that u get into the habit of ending it as soon as u get it started. i cud end this post right here and prove my point. but. i hate doing this. most of the times. but that’s what makes a good thing good. like that smell of a fresh pizza out of a coal oven, with its crust thickened and colored in a #C5A21, or that sound of a water evaporating over burning wet wood on a sizzler pan. it’s short. and that makes it good. the sound. only. but for me, time will define goodness. be it delicious food that lasts for 5 minutes, a football game of 90 minutes, or a bottle of beer that lasts for only about 30 seconds. somethings are best when they last the shortest duration. ooo.. even that 30 seconds of bang bang. power bang. that’s what i convince them with. or maybe like jimi and curt, who did their bit, real well. in their tiny lives. packed. punched. and weird. they’re all gone. but that goodness which lasted only an instance will keep them here. even now. even later in the evening. because it’s in your brain. already. like sparks which will ignite more substance then titanium melting in a hot furnace. short sparks. enough. a lightening. short. very. powerful. very very. strange things will be short. too.