Let me tell you about colors.
First came yellow. Bright golden sand in the afternoon sun, the sun white-hot, the sand golden, changing shades every second, a distraction...The color of light. When you see people in this color, you can trust them.
Blue. A lovely word that rolls off your tongue, a lovely color, a piece of sky. This you can stare at forever without taking your eyes off for a minute...
Red. Lust. Love. Loss. Blood. Passion. A rose by any other name?? This is a color that once you're smeared in it, there's no way you can get it off you. Or get it off the canvas. There it will remain under all the other colors you've painted over it to hide the shade. Other colors change when mixed with this one - you'd get wine red, lavender, lilac...so you need to be sure of what color you need. And deal with red in your own way. Blood congeals. The bruises change from red to purple to brown to yellow and disappear. Disappear. Maybe.
Black. Night. The color of a certain kind of fear.
Oh, other fears are orange-red. This is the fear that you can feel permeating throughout your body, like molten lava...it burns and freezes on you at the same time. The lake of fire. A kind of hell.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Words, Music and Images
In the beginning was the word. Scribbled on walls, you think you are the first to dicover language, not yet aware of those ancient writings on other walls that weighed a life and passed judgement in just four words; not aware of their power. How a woman by changing a single word caused the exile from Eden, and gave a meaning for the word 'loss'.
Here, you just begin to discover, unearth, ascertain, learn...and what do you learn? That words have different meanings based on tone, time, thought, who said or wrote it, ...so you learn that you'd be a fool to trust them...you bend words, it takes on a new guise. And so you learn to tread carefully. You learn there's a virtue in silence.
Then you hear the words, and the sound astounds you, the music gets to you. The haunting has begun. The music haunts the silence you had wrapped around yourself for protection. Its the only way now for others to get through to you. Its the way you think you'd be able to get through...everything. So you teach yourself to listen to the music behind the words that people speak to understand what they really mean. But sometimes, the music is too loud, the words faint, and once again - its a kind of loss.
You make up for this loss with the images that rise in front of your eyes. But this is a last conscious move. For the images become indelible. And most times its not just another pretty picture. Sometimes these are just dark shadows that flit across the room, the spaces in your head. And these may lead to nightmares. Sometimes. Most times. A positive side to this is you don't forget. The downside - you remember...
Here, you just begin to discover, unearth, ascertain, learn...and what do you learn? That words have different meanings based on tone, time, thought, who said or wrote it, ...so you learn that you'd be a fool to trust them...you bend words, it takes on a new guise. And so you learn to tread carefully. You learn there's a virtue in silence.
Then you hear the words, and the sound astounds you, the music gets to you. The haunting has begun. The music haunts the silence you had wrapped around yourself for protection. Its the only way now for others to get through to you. Its the way you think you'd be able to get through...everything. So you teach yourself to listen to the music behind the words that people speak to understand what they really mean. But sometimes, the music is too loud, the words faint, and once again - its a kind of loss.
You make up for this loss with the images that rise in front of your eyes. But this is a last conscious move. For the images become indelible. And most times its not just another pretty picture. Sometimes these are just dark shadows that flit across the room, the spaces in your head. And these may lead to nightmares. Sometimes. Most times. A positive side to this is you don't forget. The downside - you remember...
Friday, July 21, 2006
The Funeral Planner
When I'm dead, and assuming I'm not thrown out to the vultures and there'll be someone around to bury me, here's a list of how I'd want it done. [How I love making lists].
1. Red and black balloons. End of the 'service', please release 'em to the skies dear friends, romans, countrymen. (Did I forget to mention I want to be buried under a tree? Any tree that has red flowers, which will drift and rest on my grave every fall.)
2. Ice-cream. Death by Chocolate. Served to all kind enough to attend. (Folks, I'm real grateful, but not all that grateful - sorry, no booze).
3. Music - now this is difficult. Since I can't make up my mind about this, lets just say rock? No, don't throw stones, just play Everything Burns, In the End, Going Under and Coming Back to Life. In that order. Now those are for me. If you folks want something else, bring your own CDs and dance.
4. Now very important: 2 minute eulogies, I rather listen to the songs from down under than well-thought out lies. (Again, I've assumed someone will want to say something, and that someone will attend. With optimism levels as high as this, I'm goin to have a very long life.)
That's that. Finis. Let me get on with life.
1. Red and black balloons. End of the 'service', please release 'em to the skies dear friends, romans, countrymen. (Did I forget to mention I want to be buried under a tree? Any tree that has red flowers, which will drift and rest on my grave every fall.)
2. Ice-cream. Death by Chocolate. Served to all kind enough to attend. (Folks, I'm real grateful, but not all that grateful - sorry, no booze).
3. Music - now this is difficult. Since I can't make up my mind about this, lets just say rock? No, don't throw stones, just play Everything Burns, In the End, Going Under and Coming Back to Life. In that order. Now those are for me. If you folks want something else, bring your own CDs and dance.
4. Now very important: 2 minute eulogies, I rather listen to the songs from down under than well-thought out lies. (Again, I've assumed someone will want to say something, and that someone will attend. With optimism levels as high as this, I'm goin to have a very long life.)
That's that. Finis. Let me get on with life.
Sunday, July 16, 2006
Another Kind of Death
when you feel like you contain nothing
except ashes, smoke and dust
when you stare at walls and realize
that you built them
when you stumble through ancient paths
and clutch only air
when you hear laughter bounce off the floor
and cannot remember how to smile
when you feel the rain on your face
like stings of poison darts
when you see visions of words
fade into shadows in a purple sky
when you know you cannot
give anything in return
when you don't know a thing
except that you can't live
this way
except ashes, smoke and dust
when you stare at walls and realize
that you built them
when you stumble through ancient paths
and clutch only air
when you hear laughter bounce off the floor
and cannot remember how to smile
when you feel the rain on your face
like stings of poison darts
when you see visions of words
fade into shadows in a purple sky
when you know you cannot
give anything in return
when you don't know a thing
except that you can't live
this way
About Death
Yesterday I went for a walk. 4 hours. 2 hours in the light drizzle. Didn't cover much of a distance as I paused now and then, watching the trees, the flowers on the ground; stepped aside to let other pass by, stopped for the cars to whiz by. And a long pause in front of the cemetery on the Dead Zone (as a friend once called it).
No, I didn't go inside, just stopped and stared at the graves - some fondly remembered and smothered with red flowers, yellow flowers, (I don't know anything about flowers, and I don't think the dead care much either); some forgotten, some with elaborate heavy tombstones (to keep the dead from escaping the depths and wandering I suppose), and some with plain slabs of granite...dearly beloved...here lies...born - dead...
Thought of all those dead and gone to some other world, heaven, hell, planet Z, who cares...what kind of lives they must have led, no, more important, what kind of death? Is there a difference in the death of a 20-something and an 80 year old hag? People sigh 'oh but its not fair, he was so young...' and 'oh thank god her suffering has come to an end'.
What I think is that it is just selfishness of people that speaks in both cases - you sigh when a young thing dies, cuz he or she isn't goin to contribute to your household expenses anymore; or if they were wastrels, there is yet the possibility that they would have turned a new leaf and if nothing else, take care of their old and dwindling parents. As for the 80 something who dies, a burden is off their heads, all the expenses and the trauma of taking care of a cantakerous old geezer is over for good.
That's just about it. All the pain you feel is for yourself, cuz what you feel is an amputation - that a person you need to feel needed has left you. Forever. The grim reaper with his sickle chops more than one in a single sweep. You get to keep the scars.
No, I didn't go inside, just stopped and stared at the graves - some fondly remembered and smothered with red flowers, yellow flowers, (I don't know anything about flowers, and I don't think the dead care much either); some forgotten, some with elaborate heavy tombstones (to keep the dead from escaping the depths and wandering I suppose), and some with plain slabs of granite...dearly beloved...here lies...born - dead...
Thought of all those dead and gone to some other world, heaven, hell, planet Z, who cares...what kind of lives they must have led, no, more important, what kind of death? Is there a difference in the death of a 20-something and an 80 year old hag? People sigh 'oh but its not fair, he was so young...' and 'oh thank god her suffering has come to an end'.
What I think is that it is just selfishness of people that speaks in both cases - you sigh when a young thing dies, cuz he or she isn't goin to contribute to your household expenses anymore; or if they were wastrels, there is yet the possibility that they would have turned a new leaf and if nothing else, take care of their old and dwindling parents. As for the 80 something who dies, a burden is off their heads, all the expenses and the trauma of taking care of a cantakerous old geezer is over for good.
That's just about it. All the pain you feel is for yourself, cuz what you feel is an amputation - that a person you need to feel needed has left you. Forever. The grim reaper with his sickle chops more than one in a single sweep. You get to keep the scars.
Friday, July 14, 2006
Pretense
Everything. Including this.
To write or not to write, that is the question. I chose to write. (Please note the past tense). But looking back, I wonder what... e-learning courses that nobody reads, leave alone learns (whoever said instructional design is teaching?), insipid poetry, this blog and another, and not much else...damn, how do I account for these three years of my life??
Ok, I'll break this up - what do I do in a day? (NB: List not exhaustive)
1. 4am: Get out of bed, turn on the music, go to the balcony, wait for the sun
2. 6am: Walk out for a cup of tea.
3. 6.30am: Office
4. 7am - 8pm: Work (On an average. On good days its 5pm, on bad its 10.30pm)
5. Get home (in 1.5 hours after exit from office, whenever that is)
6. Listen to loud music all night, play guitar if I'm in the mood, read 10 pages or an entire book...
Oh, go on long aimless walks...
Sleep - not much.
And in the middle of all this - obscure words emerge, and its very vagueness reveals all I want to hide...it shames me. So I thought a break from words, friends and all the things that matter to me would help. It didn't. Then I thought to bare my soul will be the perfect thing, for who believes what you write anyway? I'm telling you stories. You're the greater fool for reading all this trash.
When despondency seeps into words, its a deluge, there's no such thing as ebbing the flow. Except a fullstop. Like this. And other things. Try punching the wall, real hard, and then type. You'll see.
To write or not to write, that is the question. I chose to write. (Please note the past tense). But looking back, I wonder what... e-learning courses that nobody reads, leave alone learns (whoever said instructional design is teaching?), insipid poetry, this blog and another, and not much else...damn, how do I account for these three years of my life??
Ok, I'll break this up - what do I do in a day? (NB: List not exhaustive)
1. 4am: Get out of bed, turn on the music, go to the balcony, wait for the sun
2. 6am: Walk out for a cup of tea.
3. 6.30am: Office
4. 7am - 8pm: Work (On an average. On good days its 5pm, on bad its 10.30pm)
5. Get home (in 1.5 hours after exit from office, whenever that is)
6. Listen to loud music all night, play guitar if I'm in the mood, read 10 pages or an entire book...
Oh, go on long aimless walks...
Sleep - not much.
And in the middle of all this - obscure words emerge, and its very vagueness reveals all I want to hide...it shames me. So I thought a break from words, friends and all the things that matter to me would help. It didn't. Then I thought to bare my soul will be the perfect thing, for who believes what you write anyway? I'm telling you stories. You're the greater fool for reading all this trash.
When despondency seeps into words, its a deluge, there's no such thing as ebbing the flow. Except a fullstop. Like this. And other things. Try punching the wall, real hard, and then type. You'll see.
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