Sunday, August 10, 2014

While Visiting an Old Stream that Loved Me

A single pebble holds the memories of all the ancient rivers that flowed over it, ingraining their essence in its smooth roundness. It has witnessed so much! Seen seeds turning into forests, a clutch of eggs turning into pirouetting shoals, a million lunar-cycles, cloudy sunsets. It lay there warmed by dawns, cooled by stars for ages - an elemental, pristine being. ah! Why don’t you see! I picked up the pebble you left behind; something of you remained in it as your hand, like those primordial rivers, caressed its surface, transferring a bit of yours into it. The pebble was warm. 

Ode to Memory

There is no misery more agonizing than being in love with love, that malignant, hugely dysfunctional, carcinogenic, drug. That strange thing that gives birth to so many cancerous feelings, eating into one's body, permineralizing it, replacing each cell with something volatile, limpid and effervescent. It’s not about falling in love with an object or a person that you cannot possess, that’s easy; but oh, the misery of falling in love with love itself. The feeling of plummeting into a vortex; the exhilarating heights to which one soars! Love, tremblingly delicate as the thrill of an old violin, toe-curling, teeth-peeling, stomach-churning, tear-inducing; every pain and joy associated with it! One longs to feel it at every waking moment for an eternity and is in distress when s/he can’t feel it. I desperately seek it in the cloud soaked twilights, in moonlight’s embraces, in lachrymose dawns, in the gathering storms, in the words of dead authors, in the eyes of dreaming strangers in cafeterias, laughs, ripples, rainbows, verses and vaporous hills… in everything that comes under my spectrum of aesthetics. I want to subsume in its intricacy, evaporate into its undulating caresses, disintegrate molecule by molecule into its translucent mellifluousness.

I try to create it; delving deep into nostalgia, conjuring it from memories, moments that made me want to die and relive it over and over again, an old sun-lit classroom, a hall filled with the twangs of a guitar, a teacher, a blue tie, a rain, a book, a lost pebble, a postcard, a touch.

Photo: Google Images

Read More:

Speech is redundant here, instead-
we balance the quietude on our tongues.
while inside us 
a thousand golden hornets
stir up a tempest. 

Image - Thomas Dewing

Ayemanam (A Project)

At Ayemenam imagining the shady, green spots where little Estha and Rahel must have played. An unfolding in my head, mossy feet and green air. 

Every belch becomes a song
- an ode to the last foraged meal;
salted sardine specters tip-toe-
over the rooms’s breath. 
the wee cat's whiskers twitch .

My grumpy old telly on a broken stand. 

Four haunting, profoundly peculiar and picaresque movies re-watched back-to-back. It was a life-altering pilgrimage into the alluring, langorous side of feminity consisting of dreamy nonchalance, amused curiosity, blissful madness, delicate lassitude and glorious indifference. Lucile Hadzihalilovic’s feature debut - Innocence, Lars von Trier's Melancholia, Sofia Coppola's Virgin Suicides and Peter Weir's Picnic at Hanging Rocks. All the principle characters are strange woman-like children and child-like women with an aura of nuanced unearthliness and gleeful remoteness about them. Phew!

Picture: Still from Picnic At Hanging Rock