What is this life, if full of care
We have no time to stand and stare?
Thus wrote W.H.Davies, a poet I studied while at school. To his credit, I still remember most of the lines, which proves how wonderfully memorable the poem must have been.
I regret to say though, that I'm not much good when it comes to implementation,the follow-through, so to speak. In my defense, I have no stream to navigate myself through, and there are no woods in the vicinity, as for squirrels, I really do wonder if they even manage to lay their furry little paws on any nuts these days, what with the recession and all.
In short, I'm a failure at the art of leisure.
My mind refuses to let me be. I'm so bad that, even at a yoga class, I have to be convinced to lie down for the shavasana. Being on the move all the time is the only way to be in my book. Of course, that's a horribly wrong way to live, because when life does decide to pull the brakes on you, you feel like someone has sucked all the oxygen out of the atmosphere.
That's precisely what happened to me. I managed to land up in a profession where one has two choices- be ultra-busy and non-selective about what one does, or be ultra-choosy and sitting at home a lot.
Three guesses for which choice I'm currently living with the consequences thereof.
To make matters worse, I'm not in the least domestically inclined, and before you label me as a feminist, let me also state that I'm rendered thoroughly helpless without my driver. He is, quite literally, the only way out for me. Oh, and also, I cannot bear to go into restaurants and movie theatres alone.
Permit me to feel a tinge of self-pity at this juncture.
Of course, there are tons of things that one can do to keep oneself occupied. I've started on some Hindustani lessons, as well as some Hindi lessons, because really, the two are mutually-dependent on each other. I spend a lot of quality time with my dog Cuddles, and blatantly ignore my other dog Pooch, who doesn't seem to mind anyway. I play the piano when I'm in a good mood, and hammer at the keys in an anti-tuneful fashion when the good mood is on sick leave. I manage to remember to change the varnish on my toes every week or ten days, something I've never been capable of until now. I'm still a manicure virgin though. There, I said it.
The only time I'm ever able to relax these days is when the sky turns a promising shade of grey. That's right, the prospect of rain cheers me up immensely. The sound of thunder is music to my ears, the flash of lightning that splits the sky and throws it open is the stuff that my dreams are made of. The glistening green outside my window giving in to the wind without a struggle makes me close my eyes and sigh.
And then, truly, I'm content to just stand and stare.
P.S: The poem's title is Leisure. Go ahead and google it.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
HIS Story
I was woken up by a teary phone call early in the a.m.
'Michael Jackson is dead!'
Sleepy as I was, that line jolted me to 100% wakefulness. I ran into the living room and turned on the television. So the teary phone call was not drunken gibberish, it was true. The man really was dead.
And I don't know why, but I felt a stab of loss and sorrow wrench my heart. Quite understandable, I suppose, the man was a legend, a prodigious musical talent. And unlike the other pop monsters, he really lived up to his title, 'King of Pop'.
His music was a huge part of my childhood, without me even knowing it. I've never owned a tape or cd of his, yet I know all his tunes, and the lyrics to some of his songs. And I've always thought him to be the greatest stage performer that ever lived. Madonna, who calls herself the Pop Princess really doesn't even begin to compare. To me, she will always be the Queen of Gimmicks, a true expert on reinventing and selling oneself to the world. But MJ was just pure raw talent all the way.
As a musician, his death is affecting me in ways I never expected it to. And this sort of thing has happened to me once before, when a theatre director whom I'd worked with passed away very suddenly. I didn't cry that much at the funerals of family members. And the truth is, I wasn't mourning the loss of a person, but of their work and the tremendous effect that body of work had on me. Same goes for MJ.
I'm sure I'm not alone in this. When I walked into the kitchen this morning and announced it to my mom, even my maid seemed shocked and saddened by it. Like her, most of the world is going to mourn the loss of his phenomenal musical contribution.
But now, for the ugly part, the child-molestation scandal. How many of you have NOT heard an MJ joke on the matter? Sure, he was acquitted, and the media finally stopped torturing him, but the man never recovered from that episode. Now that he's no more, the same media is praising him, his contribution, mentioning how, even at the trial, he was enough of a performer to get up on a car and dance for his fans. Well well, the winds have certainly changed direction.
I suppose even the common man tends to eulogize when the occasion is death. But why do we feel the need to condemn the living? Take MJ for instance, now I'm not here to judge whether or not he was guilty of the charges made against him. And quite honestly, I don't care. I know a lot of people who've done worse, and have never had to pay the price for it. I've seen the footage of his ranch, 'Neverland', it really reminds me of one of his songs, 'Childhood'. It's the price most child artists pay for their privileged lives. And then, somehow, it makes sense, his whole connection with children.
His life was unconventional to say the least, bizzarre at times, amazing most of the times, and good or bad, we shall all miss him.
May his soul rest in peace. Amen.
'Michael Jackson is dead!'
Sleepy as I was, that line jolted me to 100% wakefulness. I ran into the living room and turned on the television. So the teary phone call was not drunken gibberish, it was true. The man really was dead.
And I don't know why, but I felt a stab of loss and sorrow wrench my heart. Quite understandable, I suppose, the man was a legend, a prodigious musical talent. And unlike the other pop monsters, he really lived up to his title, 'King of Pop'.
His music was a huge part of my childhood, without me even knowing it. I've never owned a tape or cd of his, yet I know all his tunes, and the lyrics to some of his songs. And I've always thought him to be the greatest stage performer that ever lived. Madonna, who calls herself the Pop Princess really doesn't even begin to compare. To me, she will always be the Queen of Gimmicks, a true expert on reinventing and selling oneself to the world. But MJ was just pure raw talent all the way.
As a musician, his death is affecting me in ways I never expected it to. And this sort of thing has happened to me once before, when a theatre director whom I'd worked with passed away very suddenly. I didn't cry that much at the funerals of family members. And the truth is, I wasn't mourning the loss of a person, but of their work and the tremendous effect that body of work had on me. Same goes for MJ.
I'm sure I'm not alone in this. When I walked into the kitchen this morning and announced it to my mom, even my maid seemed shocked and saddened by it. Like her, most of the world is going to mourn the loss of his phenomenal musical contribution.
But now, for the ugly part, the child-molestation scandal. How many of you have NOT heard an MJ joke on the matter? Sure, he was acquitted, and the media finally stopped torturing him, but the man never recovered from that episode. Now that he's no more, the same media is praising him, his contribution, mentioning how, even at the trial, he was enough of a performer to get up on a car and dance for his fans. Well well, the winds have certainly changed direction.
I suppose even the common man tends to eulogize when the occasion is death. But why do we feel the need to condemn the living? Take MJ for instance, now I'm not here to judge whether or not he was guilty of the charges made against him. And quite honestly, I don't care. I know a lot of people who've done worse, and have never had to pay the price for it. I've seen the footage of his ranch, 'Neverland', it really reminds me of one of his songs, 'Childhood'. It's the price most child artists pay for their privileged lives. And then, somehow, it makes sense, his whole connection with children.
His life was unconventional to say the least, bizzarre at times, amazing most of the times, and good or bad, we shall all miss him.
May his soul rest in peace. Amen.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Love is a many Squandered Thing
To hell with flowers, poems and chocolate-coated hearts. Let's come to terms with the real deal.
First up, love does not make the world go around. What it does is, it makes you go dizzy trying to figure out it's intricacies and legalities. And while you're spinning like a top on a tight-rope, it makes you lose your sanity and sends you plummeting down, down, down.
Second, love does not come free. I mean, who are we kidding? If you want someone, you've got to woo them big-time. And when you've out-grown them, you've got to pay even more for a good divorce settlement. Falling in love ain't free, and these days, falling out of it ain't cheap either.
Third, love is no longer a many-splendored thing, it's a many-squandered thing. A lot of people have wasted themselves away on some elusive person. And then, there are the gluttons for punishment, like yours truly, who manage to turn self-destructive at every turn in the maze of life. Sigh sigh sigh, heaven help us all, and then some.
I don't know about the rest of the world, but something has gone awfully wrong somewhere. Or maybe our grand-parents and past generations were putting on a grand act of finding happiness and companionship right into their 80's and 90's. Or maybe they had too many children, and that distracted them from issues of marital discord. I mean, feeding half-a-dozen mouths must have posed quite a challenge. Not like today, when one's only child is curled up in front of one of many flat-screens at one's not-so-humble abode(who says money can't buy you love? Ask any kid these days, they'll give you the right answer). It can't be the couple's fault that they don't have enough problems to distract them from the issue of whether or not they are soul-mates and made for each other and what not.
But then again, this is the age of recessions and life-threatening farm flus (swine, bird, cow's left hoof etc). The age of fast-food because it is forbidden to spend too much thought or time on nourishment, of breast implants because we are too scared to eat and develop mammary glands as God intended them to be (does anyone know of a Bengali lass who has needed implants in any part of her body???).
Possibly, we are too busy to allow ourselves the luxury of growing into someone, because the falling bit is easy, it's what comes afterward- getting up, dusting oneself, and walking hand in hand, that's the difficult part.
At this point in time, I must issue a disclaimer- I am probably guilty on all of the above-mentioned accounts, but be kind enough not to hold it against me.
Just now, it occurred to me that growing to love someone is a bit like wearing new shoes. At first, there's the thrill of spotting THE pair in a display window, the unbelievable luck at being able to afford them, the joy of trying them on and knowing, just knowing that they fit just right. Oh, it all adds up to heaven, shoe heaven, but still...
Then, as always, one must descend down to earth. Back home, and in the not-so-flattering white light, the shoes lose a bit of their shine. Still, one loves them. Till the first day one wears them, and curses and clutches one's ankle, wincing in pain, and trying to hobble through the last few steps, the relief at taking them off, the ghastly horror of counting the blisters on one's poor feet.
Still, one has invested money, so one shall put up a brave front, and invest a bit more money in band-aids, but wear the shoes, and slowly, ever so slowly, wear them in.
And then, magically, they become 'the' pair again, the pair that manages to look good with everything, the pair that one doesn't leave town without, the pair that one picks out when in a dilemma, or a hurry, or just in a bad mood. If they're good enough quality, they will last. If a strap decides to disassociate itself from the rest of the sandal, it's still nothing that a visit to the cobbler can't fix.
But these days, people just don't know how to wear shoes in. One blister, and that's it, they're out of the game. Or even worse, they don't mind wearing a pair that's a size too small, as long as it's pretty enough or the socially acceptable designer brand. Achilles' heel seems to be having a revival , and shoes are having to bear the brunt of it.
It does remind me of a certain glass slipper and the enormous trouble a certain prince took to find the dainty foot that fit into it. I'm not even getting into the 'happily ever after' bit. I'm sure there was a disclaimer hidden away somewhere, beautifully concealed by illustrations of soaring castles and happy horses prancing across a page of endless green.
Now I can live with the fact that princes are a dying breed. I can live with the fast food, and not being blessed with Bengali genes. I don't have a flatscreen or the farm flu, and I'm ok with that.
But hey hey hey, don't hold out on my glass slipper.
First up, love does not make the world go around. What it does is, it makes you go dizzy trying to figure out it's intricacies and legalities. And while you're spinning like a top on a tight-rope, it makes you lose your sanity and sends you plummeting down, down, down.
Second, love does not come free. I mean, who are we kidding? If you want someone, you've got to woo them big-time. And when you've out-grown them, you've got to pay even more for a good divorce settlement. Falling in love ain't free, and these days, falling out of it ain't cheap either.
Third, love is no longer a many-splendored thing, it's a many-squandered thing. A lot of people have wasted themselves away on some elusive person. And then, there are the gluttons for punishment, like yours truly, who manage to turn self-destructive at every turn in the maze of life. Sigh sigh sigh, heaven help us all, and then some.
I don't know about the rest of the world, but something has gone awfully wrong somewhere. Or maybe our grand-parents and past generations were putting on a grand act of finding happiness and companionship right into their 80's and 90's. Or maybe they had too many children, and that distracted them from issues of marital discord. I mean, feeding half-a-dozen mouths must have posed quite a challenge. Not like today, when one's only child is curled up in front of one of many flat-screens at one's not-so-humble abode(who says money can't buy you love? Ask any kid these days, they'll give you the right answer). It can't be the couple's fault that they don't have enough problems to distract them from the issue of whether or not they are soul-mates and made for each other and what not.
But then again, this is the age of recessions and life-threatening farm flus (swine, bird, cow's left hoof etc). The age of fast-food because it is forbidden to spend too much thought or time on nourishment, of breast implants because we are too scared to eat and develop mammary glands as God intended them to be (does anyone know of a Bengali lass who has needed implants in any part of her body???).
Possibly, we are too busy to allow ourselves the luxury of growing into someone, because the falling bit is easy, it's what comes afterward- getting up, dusting oneself, and walking hand in hand, that's the difficult part.
At this point in time, I must issue a disclaimer- I am probably guilty on all of the above-mentioned accounts, but be kind enough not to hold it against me.
Just now, it occurred to me that growing to love someone is a bit like wearing new shoes. At first, there's the thrill of spotting THE pair in a display window, the unbelievable luck at being able to afford them, the joy of trying them on and knowing, just knowing that they fit just right. Oh, it all adds up to heaven, shoe heaven, but still...
Then, as always, one must descend down to earth. Back home, and in the not-so-flattering white light, the shoes lose a bit of their shine. Still, one loves them. Till the first day one wears them, and curses and clutches one's ankle, wincing in pain, and trying to hobble through the last few steps, the relief at taking them off, the ghastly horror of counting the blisters on one's poor feet.
Still, one has invested money, so one shall put up a brave front, and invest a bit more money in band-aids, but wear the shoes, and slowly, ever so slowly, wear them in.
And then, magically, they become 'the' pair again, the pair that manages to look good with everything, the pair that one doesn't leave town without, the pair that one picks out when in a dilemma, or a hurry, or just in a bad mood. If they're good enough quality, they will last. If a strap decides to disassociate itself from the rest of the sandal, it's still nothing that a visit to the cobbler can't fix.
But these days, people just don't know how to wear shoes in. One blister, and that's it, they're out of the game. Or even worse, they don't mind wearing a pair that's a size too small, as long as it's pretty enough or the socially acceptable designer brand. Achilles' heel seems to be having a revival , and shoes are having to bear the brunt of it.
It does remind me of a certain glass slipper and the enormous trouble a certain prince took to find the dainty foot that fit into it. I'm not even getting into the 'happily ever after' bit. I'm sure there was a disclaimer hidden away somewhere, beautifully concealed by illustrations of soaring castles and happy horses prancing across a page of endless green.
Now I can live with the fact that princes are a dying breed. I can live with the fast food, and not being blessed with Bengali genes. I don't have a flatscreen or the farm flu, and I'm ok with that.
But hey hey hey, don't hold out on my glass slipper.
Friday, June 19, 2009
The Talented Mr.Toohey and friends...
My days are getting longer, endless almost, since I'm currently not employed (hmph!). And so, in a bid to keep my sanity levels in check (quite a task) I have taken to re-reading old favorites, and have just gotten started on The Fountainhead.
I shan't insult your intelligence by attempting to introduce the classic or the woman behind it. Instead, I shall launch into what's been tickling my grey matter, as a consequence of my choosing to read it yet again.
Admission 1- the book scares me, both with it's brilliance and it's timeless prophetic quality. Not prophetic in the sense of '1984' but in the way it reflects a quality about the world that has just refused to change- not then, and certainly not now. It's the very same quality that the character Steve Mallory is so afraid of. And like him, I'm afraid of it as well. I see it everyday, in people I know, or thought I knew at one point of time. I wonder what's changed- I or the people around me. Sadly, I don't have an oracle to consult on this matter (no, there's no oracle in the book, it was just my own wishful thinking).
Admission 2- this book reminds me of the film, The Talented Mr.Ripley. I don't quite know why, maybe it's the persistent quality of pretense, no, misplaced identity, that both Peter Keating and Mr.Ripley possess. Even so, Mr.Ripley is more like a Roark turned psychopath-with-a-traumatic-childhood. The absolute single-mindedness with which he devotes himself to the task at hand is mind-boggling, before it turns obsessive and with fatal consequences. But his virtuosity at the piano, which no one acknowledges, cannot be attacked, or even questioned. Peter Keating, on the other hand, is far more pitiful, and far worse, even though he never kills anyone in his quest for acceptance.
Still, the master of pretense is undoubtedly the talented Mr. Toohey. Really, he is far scarier than the great Hannibal Lecter himself. It's one thing to eat a man's brain, it's quite another to eat his soul, and worse, to savor it so immensely. He is, by far, the most vile character I've ever come across in a novel or film. To turn a man's weakness against himself and to do it with flair, that has got to be the most potent form of evil genius ever bottled and sold.
And now for the good stuff...
Admission 3- this book makes me believe again. In what, you ask? In miracles, the kind that come after waiting patiently for many many years, while constantly working hard and holding one's head high and not allowing public opinion to influence one's decisions or patterns of thought, but miracles nevertheless. It makes me want to shrug off my mantle of cynicism, and give the world another chance, and yet another. Or maybe, it's just me giving myself another stab at daring to dream, freely and innocently.
And now for a laugh...
Admission 4- another favorite book of mine is, ahem, Bridget Jones' Diary. I love it, I really do, it is the only book I've ever read that has actually made me laugh out loud. And while I don't wish to identify with Madame Jones, I wonder what kind of classic we'd have on our hands if we plucked her out of her diary and plonked her smack in the middle of the Fountainhead, ranting and raving about fuckwittage and craving chocolate croissants. I mean, I am in awe of Dominique Francon, but Ayn Rand uses the adjective thin far too often for my liking. And that's what I love about Bridget- her clumsy, messy, yet adorable ways. Granted, she is a bit too concerned about her appearance, but we aren't all blessed with killer metabolic rates, and I'm sure Madame Francon put a lot of thought into her seemingly effortless graceful attire (mentioned in great detail throughout the novel), and Ayn Rand just probably forgot to mention it.
And now for the men, mmmm...
Admission 5- if a comparative study were to be made of leading men, it would be a close call between Mark Darcy and Howard Roark, as to MY personal choice of leading man. Everyone else is too goody-goody, or deliciously bad. But deliciously bad, even when it's as delicious as Jude Law( refer the Talented Mr.Ripley), is not for me, I think. Mr. Roark, now that's a real man, he can't quite be classified as good or bad, and he's definitely not ugly. Sadly, in the real world, men who are that individualistic, are just as often the cads, unlike Mr.Roark who manages to stay true to his lady, despite her frequent marriages to other men, her noble intentions notwithstanding. One does wonder if there are other little details that the author forgot to mention-an affair or two that Roark might've had, while waiting for Dominique to return to him. Of course, they would've been meaningless, and even so, I'd forgive him anything.
Mark Darcy is on my list purely on the basis of his geekiness. I love geeks. They are just too good to be true. And if they're even half as yummy as Colin Firth, well, only an idiot would pass that up.
That having been said, I do applaud the many little people who've contributed to the basic fabric of the novel. It couldn't have been easy being Katie, neice to Toohey, jilted by Keating in favor of the leading lady. I can't begin to imagine the trauma of having to deal with both those men on an intimate basis. And one mustn't forget Alvah Scarrat, a man misunderstood and underestimated in the presence of other towering personalities. Gail Wynand, deserves more than special mention, I think. A gentleman's gentleman is what he was, and probably dishy as hell as well. This fleeting mention does no justice to him and his turn-about in the novel whatsoever. I see shades of him reflected in Francesco (from Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged), another one of the author's almost-heroes, whom I happen to adore, and it really gets my goat as to what Madame Francon and Madame Taggart did to deserve such phenomenal men, and to have to pick and choose between them.
In closing, I apologize if I've left anyone out. There's only so much I can write about, and sadly, my attention span comes with an expiry time. And to those of you who haven't read any or all of the above-mentioned books, I do hope to have piqued your curiosity levels enough to run out and get your copy.
I shan't insult your intelligence by attempting to introduce the classic or the woman behind it. Instead, I shall launch into what's been tickling my grey matter, as a consequence of my choosing to read it yet again.
Admission 1- the book scares me, both with it's brilliance and it's timeless prophetic quality. Not prophetic in the sense of '1984' but in the way it reflects a quality about the world that has just refused to change- not then, and certainly not now. It's the very same quality that the character Steve Mallory is so afraid of. And like him, I'm afraid of it as well. I see it everyday, in people I know, or thought I knew at one point of time. I wonder what's changed- I or the people around me. Sadly, I don't have an oracle to consult on this matter (no, there's no oracle in the book, it was just my own wishful thinking).
Admission 2- this book reminds me of the film, The Talented Mr.Ripley. I don't quite know why, maybe it's the persistent quality of pretense, no, misplaced identity, that both Peter Keating and Mr.Ripley possess. Even so, Mr.Ripley is more like a Roark turned psychopath-with-a-traumatic-childhood. The absolute single-mindedness with which he devotes himself to the task at hand is mind-boggling, before it turns obsessive and with fatal consequences. But his virtuosity at the piano, which no one acknowledges, cannot be attacked, or even questioned. Peter Keating, on the other hand, is far more pitiful, and far worse, even though he never kills anyone in his quest for acceptance.
Still, the master of pretense is undoubtedly the talented Mr. Toohey. Really, he is far scarier than the great Hannibal Lecter himself. It's one thing to eat a man's brain, it's quite another to eat his soul, and worse, to savor it so immensely. He is, by far, the most vile character I've ever come across in a novel or film. To turn a man's weakness against himself and to do it with flair, that has got to be the most potent form of evil genius ever bottled and sold.
And now for the good stuff...
Admission 3- this book makes me believe again. In what, you ask? In miracles, the kind that come after waiting patiently for many many years, while constantly working hard and holding one's head high and not allowing public opinion to influence one's decisions or patterns of thought, but miracles nevertheless. It makes me want to shrug off my mantle of cynicism, and give the world another chance, and yet another. Or maybe, it's just me giving myself another stab at daring to dream, freely and innocently.
And now for a laugh...
Admission 4- another favorite book of mine is, ahem, Bridget Jones' Diary. I love it, I really do, it is the only book I've ever read that has actually made me laugh out loud. And while I don't wish to identify with Madame Jones, I wonder what kind of classic we'd have on our hands if we plucked her out of her diary and plonked her smack in the middle of the Fountainhead, ranting and raving about fuckwittage and craving chocolate croissants. I mean, I am in awe of Dominique Francon, but Ayn Rand uses the adjective thin far too often for my liking. And that's what I love about Bridget- her clumsy, messy, yet adorable ways. Granted, she is a bit too concerned about her appearance, but we aren't all blessed with killer metabolic rates, and I'm sure Madame Francon put a lot of thought into her seemingly effortless graceful attire (mentioned in great detail throughout the novel), and Ayn Rand just probably forgot to mention it.
And now for the men, mmmm...
Admission 5- if a comparative study were to be made of leading men, it would be a close call between Mark Darcy and Howard Roark, as to MY personal choice of leading man. Everyone else is too goody-goody, or deliciously bad. But deliciously bad, even when it's as delicious as Jude Law( refer the Talented Mr.Ripley), is not for me, I think. Mr. Roark, now that's a real man, he can't quite be classified as good or bad, and he's definitely not ugly. Sadly, in the real world, men who are that individualistic, are just as often the cads, unlike Mr.Roark who manages to stay true to his lady, despite her frequent marriages to other men, her noble intentions notwithstanding. One does wonder if there are other little details that the author forgot to mention-an affair or two that Roark might've had, while waiting for Dominique to return to him. Of course, they would've been meaningless, and even so, I'd forgive him anything.
Mark Darcy is on my list purely on the basis of his geekiness. I love geeks. They are just too good to be true. And if they're even half as yummy as Colin Firth, well, only an idiot would pass that up.
That having been said, I do applaud the many little people who've contributed to the basic fabric of the novel. It couldn't have been easy being Katie, neice to Toohey, jilted by Keating in favor of the leading lady. I can't begin to imagine the trauma of having to deal with both those men on an intimate basis. And one mustn't forget Alvah Scarrat, a man misunderstood and underestimated in the presence of other towering personalities. Gail Wynand, deserves more than special mention, I think. A gentleman's gentleman is what he was, and probably dishy as hell as well. This fleeting mention does no justice to him and his turn-about in the novel whatsoever. I see shades of him reflected in Francesco (from Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged), another one of the author's almost-heroes, whom I happen to adore, and it really gets my goat as to what Madame Francon and Madame Taggart did to deserve such phenomenal men, and to have to pick and choose between them.
In closing, I apologize if I've left anyone out. There's only so much I can write about, and sadly, my attention span comes with an expiry time. And to those of you who haven't read any or all of the above-mentioned books, I do hope to have piqued your curiosity levels enough to run out and get your copy.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Out of sync with the world
I'd like to supplement myself
With something of the world
Gone by- A shadow, splintered
Or pin-prick punctures caused
By shards of shattered glass
I'd like to live to tell the tale
Where so many others failed
To see the epic unravel- And
When ghost ships moored across
Unstable waters, how they sank
Without a trace, without so much
As a sunken treasure- Not so much
To discover, as to teach the truth
To someone who cared to know
Even if, many years later, even if
All that mattered was the shell
The conch call of duty- Labors
Of love, contained within so many
Bosoms, lost at the bottom of
The bottomless ocean of secrets
I'd like to know what's real for once
To see for myself, that all this is not
For nothing- It is part of a greater
Pattern, I cannot claim to understand
I dare not choose to unravel, or
To loose the colored threads weaving
In and out, soliloquies sharing space
On a stage- Despite knowing there is no
Room for all, knowing someone must go
Take the final bow, move toward exit
With something of the world
Gone by- A shadow, splintered
Or pin-prick punctures caused
By shards of shattered glass
I'd like to live to tell the tale
Where so many others failed
To see the epic unravel- And
When ghost ships moored across
Unstable waters, how they sank
Without a trace, without so much
As a sunken treasure- Not so much
To discover, as to teach the truth
To someone who cared to know
Even if, many years later, even if
All that mattered was the shell
The conch call of duty- Labors
Of love, contained within so many
Bosoms, lost at the bottom of
The bottomless ocean of secrets
I'd like to know what's real for once
To see for myself, that all this is not
For nothing- It is part of a greater
Pattern, I cannot claim to understand
I dare not choose to unravel, or
To loose the colored threads weaving
In and out, soliloquies sharing space
On a stage- Despite knowing there is no
Room for all, knowing someone must go
Take the final bow, move toward exit
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Hurrah for kitty!!
My mother has just informed me that kitty is no longer an orphan!!! The lady upstairs made a few phone calls and managed to find her a home!
Right now, she's probably snuggled up on a rug, licking her paws contentedly, her belly full of warm milk... At least that's what I'd like to believe..
Anyway, all's well that ends well.
Right now, she's probably snuggled up on a rug, licking her paws contentedly, her belly full of warm milk... At least that's what I'd like to believe..
Anyway, all's well that ends well.
Ode to Kitty
Yesterday, I was on my way home, when at the traffic signal, I caught sight of this tiny little kitten scampering between cars. Finally, it sat itself in the middle of the road just behind my car, mewing piteously. Miraculously, the car behind stopped. I told my driver to get out and fetch little kitty.
He knew better than to argue, I think, and so he got out and brought the little thing to me.
Kits looked around frantically, obviously terrified by the sudden change of scene. She fit quite easily in the palm of my hand, that's how tiny she was. She had the most enormous grey eyes, and her scraggly white fur had turned to grey too, owing to the smoke outside, I suppose. I found her quite fascinating and tried to take a picture on my phone, but she wouldn't sit still long enough for that.
Once home, I felt quite pleased with myself till my mother appeared and gave me a 'what were you thinking' sort of look. I explained that I couldn't just abandon the poor creature. Then she pointed out to me the existence of our two dogs, decidedly anti-feline, who were, at that very moment, showing far too much unhealthy interest in what was crouching on my palm.
I managed to shoo them away long enough to pour little kitty a saucer of milk. I tilted it so she could lap it up without too much effort. Satisfied, she sat back and took stock of her new surroundings. The barking from behind the closed doors made her shiver, so I stroked her behind her ears and tried to calm her down. The lady upstairs is a cat-lover, so I thought she might have some ideas on what was to be done with kits. Post-rescue operation, I'd run out of ideas myself, and mother made it absolutely clear that no kitten was going to survive for long at our house. Her views were greatly reinforced by the incessant barking and sniffing.
It's not very nice going from kitty-saver to kitty-abandoner. But alas, what was I to do? Kits was transferred to apartment no.5, and the dogs finally calmed down.
Now I'm no cat-lover, never have been and never will be. But the mere suggestion of vulnerability in any living thing arouses this life-saver instinct in me, without ever thinking about the consequences. And that's alright when it happens to be a little kitty, or a puppy, or even a baby anaconda. But when it comes to people, I'm not so sure.
I've come across so many people who put their own lives on hold, just to be there for someone else. That's very nice and good when you're part of a charitable organization, or providing emotional support for a friend who's going through a bad break-up. It's perfectly fine when someone takes time off to help someone else cope with the loss of a loved one.
But what happens when someone you love is draining you of energy you can ill-afford to give them? Where does one draw the line really?
I've seen it happen to other people. I never thought it would happen to me. But as the cliche goes, you never know how hard it is till it happens to you.
No, I'm not talking about little kitty anymore. I'm talking about me putting myself on hold to be there for someone else, because I loved them that much. But beware, love can be abused, without either party being aware of it even. You don't turn into an emotional doormat unless you lie yourself down before the other person and say to them-go ahead, wipe the dirt from the big bad world onto me, I can take it.
What I failed to realize was, that dirt doesn't just disappear. It weighs down on you for a long time afterward. It renders you helpless and scarred for a while. It's almost like going into a war-zone and expecting to return unscathed just because you weren't in the direct line of fire. And trying to be there for someone when you've reached that state, well, it's a bit like the blind leading the blind.
Sometimes, it's better to let go, be it a kitty or a person you love. The world is not so sentimental anymore, everybody moves on, and fast.
This morning, I saw kitty with a group of neighborhood cats. The lady upstairs has released her from safe custody. She really doesn't have the space or resources for another cat. But kitty doesn't seem to mind. She knows how to get around. All she needed was a ride out of traffic and a saucer of milk.
He knew better than to argue, I think, and so he got out and brought the little thing to me.
Kits looked around frantically, obviously terrified by the sudden change of scene. She fit quite easily in the palm of my hand, that's how tiny she was. She had the most enormous grey eyes, and her scraggly white fur had turned to grey too, owing to the smoke outside, I suppose. I found her quite fascinating and tried to take a picture on my phone, but she wouldn't sit still long enough for that.
Once home, I felt quite pleased with myself till my mother appeared and gave me a 'what were you thinking' sort of look. I explained that I couldn't just abandon the poor creature. Then she pointed out to me the existence of our two dogs, decidedly anti-feline, who were, at that very moment, showing far too much unhealthy interest in what was crouching on my palm.
I managed to shoo them away long enough to pour little kitty a saucer of milk. I tilted it so she could lap it up without too much effort. Satisfied, she sat back and took stock of her new surroundings. The barking from behind the closed doors made her shiver, so I stroked her behind her ears and tried to calm her down. The lady upstairs is a cat-lover, so I thought she might have some ideas on what was to be done with kits. Post-rescue operation, I'd run out of ideas myself, and mother made it absolutely clear that no kitten was going to survive for long at our house. Her views were greatly reinforced by the incessant barking and sniffing.
It's not very nice going from kitty-saver to kitty-abandoner. But alas, what was I to do? Kits was transferred to apartment no.5, and the dogs finally calmed down.
Now I'm no cat-lover, never have been and never will be. But the mere suggestion of vulnerability in any living thing arouses this life-saver instinct in me, without ever thinking about the consequences. And that's alright when it happens to be a little kitty, or a puppy, or even a baby anaconda. But when it comes to people, I'm not so sure.
I've come across so many people who put their own lives on hold, just to be there for someone else. That's very nice and good when you're part of a charitable organization, or providing emotional support for a friend who's going through a bad break-up. It's perfectly fine when someone takes time off to help someone else cope with the loss of a loved one.
But what happens when someone you love is draining you of energy you can ill-afford to give them? Where does one draw the line really?
I've seen it happen to other people. I never thought it would happen to me. But as the cliche goes, you never know how hard it is till it happens to you.
No, I'm not talking about little kitty anymore. I'm talking about me putting myself on hold to be there for someone else, because I loved them that much. But beware, love can be abused, without either party being aware of it even. You don't turn into an emotional doormat unless you lie yourself down before the other person and say to them-go ahead, wipe the dirt from the big bad world onto me, I can take it.
What I failed to realize was, that dirt doesn't just disappear. It weighs down on you for a long time afterward. It renders you helpless and scarred for a while. It's almost like going into a war-zone and expecting to return unscathed just because you weren't in the direct line of fire. And trying to be there for someone when you've reached that state, well, it's a bit like the blind leading the blind.
Sometimes, it's better to let go, be it a kitty or a person you love. The world is not so sentimental anymore, everybody moves on, and fast.
This morning, I saw kitty with a group of neighborhood cats. The lady upstairs has released her from safe custody. She really doesn't have the space or resources for another cat. But kitty doesn't seem to mind. She knows how to get around. All she needed was a ride out of traffic and a saucer of milk.
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