Love: Forlorn, immaculate, impossible and imperceptible

The Brook

I come from haunts of coot and hern,
   I make a sudden sally
And sparkle out among the fern,
   To bicker down a valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down,
   Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorpes, a little town,
   And half a hundred bridges.... - Alfred Lord Tennyson

So is life. 

Forlorn, for till you attain, there is only sadness..
Immaculate, for I couldn't find anything purer..
Impossible: Didn't you see it from the beginning?
Imperceptible, for if it was, it wouldn't be as forlorn..


For you can love without being loved.. and that doesn't make it any dearer

Fiction

Foreword

Its funny what classical music does to your brain. Fiction has always been farthest from my mind. But I couldn't just let go of this chain of events, completely random and fictional that set into motion this post. I love this format because I can continue if I want to or just leave it here. Both will make it interesting in its own way.

Title Here

Chapter 1

The aroma of dosai and sambar wafted in. Is this what they call food nostalgia? There was no way of course that there could be dosai or sambar here, at 6:30 AM on the platform. Which platform? That was obvious, it was always the same train. Which compartment? Ok it might seem impossible to cover all the platforms during rush hour to look for someone getting into the train. But therein lies the catch, our train had only a single women’s compartment. That she will use only the women’s compartment was a highly intuitive wager on which the odds were not good. But that’s all I had going. Hell, I had taken a week off from work. No one at home knew I had done that. I had to establish a pattern. Of course, knowing where she lived would be too much. I couldn’t fathom the consequences. And of course knowing where she worked couldn’t be harmless, but did I want to risk it? All these strange thoughts were making me excited, akin to the hyper-caffeinated manner. I never liked the sensation when I chose dark roast by mistake at work. The rest of the day was doomed. Too twitchy, you feel like the heart is ready to burst out of the rib cage, seems like eye balls are going crazy, even when you just stare at the screen. Can’t read, have to tap the floor until the guy in the next cubicle looks at you. He is too polite. That’s all he will do. Just smile at you. I hate people who took “Lage raho” to heart. Just simply hate people who wish you in the elevator without even knowing you. Just simply hate the need to thank people for doing their duty. Hate the fact that I can’t swear when I want just because I don’t have my own room at work. But you know what I hate the most? The fact that I conform anyways. No free will, no ability to make change happen. I am just a worm in a huge container of flour. I can eat, reproduce and die, hopefully if they don’t use the flour long enough. Don’t sieve it or worse, don’t cook it. Parma understood this, used to heal it with Zen. I have no real clue what Zen means. I tried to read a book when I was young. “Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance”: couldn’t go beyond 40 pages. But it was about something about reconciliation, of the way to anneal contradictions while acknowledging their presences. That’s what Parma did. You are a “flour worm” and butterfly at the same time. Funny Parma chose butterfly. I love it at several levels. Of course just the beauty and flight lend it romance. And the metamorphosis: that’s the best. I could see myself there. Born as a wretch. Sleep for a while, get up as a butterfly. Lead an ethereal, perfect life, taste the honey, lay the eggs. I have no clue if Parma had this in mind. Parma just gave these pearls here and there.

Inspired

This is an impromptu post.

Out of sheer exhilaration.

The buzz you get out of extreme physical exertion is unmatched.

Except by:

1. Soul-stirring Music
2. Pure wit and sarcasm in prose

[Meme]: Untitled

I have been invited by Agila to propagate this Meme on untitled (random) abstract poetry. But a foreword.

It was around sixth standard I suppose, that while reading some novel with words that I didn't understand that I was nagging my mom for meanings of one word after another. After a couple of words, she got fed up and told me to refer to the dictionary. Alas, if she knew that she had committed an innocent act with grievous consequences. At that moment, I stopped caring what words meant though my vocabulary from then on continued growing frantically. I mean seriously. I have no clue what grievous means or frantically - I just assume some abstract meaning from hearing the phrase "grievous injuries" or "frantic pace" so many times. Or for that matter I don't know what abstract means.

So I broke down the meme: Random Abstract Poetry. I assume only one meaning for "abstract" and google reiterated it for me (This was the first hit when I wrote the post). I know poetry, of course. And knowing some math, I know what random is. So here goes (think you are rapping when you read this)

There is nothing called a "real" random number generator
They say.
But we all want one nonetheless
They say.
Here we show, Here we show
A psuedo random number generator,
that is not so psuedo
but so crudo
Just ask a kid at night
to count the stars as he might
And for each kid you pick
you get a truly random quick

Ok, so this is abstract (truly nature style: note the emphasis on "here we show", for the uninitiated, see this). Its random in two ways: its about random and it is quite random, I am surprised I was not under influence when I wrote this. And because it is random, it can be random poetry. It is difficult to refute the last point I hope.

So now I am tagging Amshuman who not only knows the meanings of the words he knows (nice play on words eh?) but also is an amazing writer!

WHY?

Why do I want to learn “Photography” or in other words learn the manual mode in a camera?

Today, I was going through a camera manual and I sensed a feeling of disdain when I looked at the “special scene settings”. The exact feeling that went through my mind was: “True photographers won’t use these settings”. Now, the real question is, did I want to become a “true photographer” or to take better pictures? Suddenly I realized the optimization the brain performs – use assumptions/stereotypes without going to their logical end, to prove if the assumption was true. Now I understand the meaning of the phrase “thinking something through”.

We require a lot of practice to spend some more time thinking. I know we have to achieve as much as possible in as little time, in other words, use “quick and dirty” methods, because increasingly the only yardstick the world uses to measure our life’s achievements is quantity and not quality. We find it increasingly difficult nowadays to measure ourselves with our own yardsticks rather than the one prevailing outside. The real challenge is to ensure that we don’t give in to the temptation of foregoing our internal standards to take shortcuts to appear cool/successful in other’s eyes.

Alchemist?

My mom wrote this poem nearly 20 years ago. She discovered it among her papers and e-mailed it to me today. As I read it, I couldn't help but notice the uncanny resemblance to the book by Paulo Coelho.

_____________________________

You run hither and thither
knocking at every door
searching everywhere

Flying high over the mountains
diving deep into the sea
seeking the unknown

chasing the mirage across the desert
Looking into the crystal glass
and the magic mirror

torn asunder by conflicting loyalties
or perhaps lack of it

Undecided Unconvinced
disturbed and perturbed

oh ! You Ignorant one
The Revelation waits to Transform you
If only you would look within yourself

Out of the world movie quotes

Shawashank Redemption:

Andy Dufresne: That's the beauty of music. They can't get that from you... Haven't you ever felt that way about music?
Red: I played a mean harmonica as a younger man. Lost interest in it though. Didn't make much sense in here.
Andy Dufresne: Here's where it makes the most sense. You need it so you don't forget.
Red: Forget?
Andy Dufresne: Forget that... there are places in this world that aren't made out of stone. That there's something inside... that they can't get to, that they can't touch. That's yours.
Red: What're you talking about?
Andy Dufresne: Hope.
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Andy Dufresne: [in letter to Red] Remember Red, hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies.

______________________________________

Andy Dufresne: Get busy living, or get busy dying.

_____________________________________________________________

V for Vendetta

V: They took your parents from you. They took your brother from you.
[Evey groans]
V: They put you in a cell and took everything they could take except your life. And you believed that was all there was, didn't you? The only thing you had left was your life, but it wasn't, was it?
[Evey sobs, "Oh please...?]
V: You found something else. In that cell you found something that mattered more to you than life. It was when they threatened to kill you unless you gave them what they wanted... you told them you'd rather die. You faced your death, Evey. You were calm. You were still.
[Evey continues gasping]
V: Try to feel now what you felt then.
______________________________________

V: Voilà! In view, a humble vaudevillian veteran, cast vicariously as both victim and villain by the vicissitudes of Fate. This visage, no mere veneer of vanity, is a vestige of the vox populi, now vacant, vanished. However, this valorous visitation of a by-gone vexation, stands vivified and has vowed to vanquish these venal and virulent vermin van-guarding vice and vouchsafing the violently vicious and voracious violation of volition.
V: The only verdict is vengeance; a vendetta, held as a votive, not in vain, for the value and veracity of such shall one day vindicate the vigilant and the virtuous.
[giggles]
V: Verily, this vichyssoise of verbiage veers most verbose, so let me simply add that it's my very good honor to meet you and you may call me V.
Evey Hammond: Are you like a crazy person?
V: I am quite sure they will say so. But to whom, might I ask, am I speaking with?
Evey Hammond: I'm Evey.
V: Evey? E-V. Of course you are.
Evey Hammond: What does that mean?
V: It means that I, like God, do not play with dice and I don't believe in coincidences.

______________________________________

Evey Hammond: [voiceover] Remember, remember, the Fifth of November, the Gunpowder Treason and Plot. I know of no reason why the Gunpowder Treason should ever be forgot... But what of the man? I know his name was Guy Fawkes and I know, in 1605, he attempted to blow up the Houses of Parliament. But who was he really? What was he like? We are told to remember the idea, not the man, because a man can fail. He can be caught, he can be killed and forgotten, but 400 years later, an idea can still change the world. I've witnessed first hand the power of ideas, I've seen people kill in the name of them, and die defending them... but you cannot kiss an idea, cannot touch it, or hold it... ideas do not bleed, they do not feel pain, they do not love... And it is not an idea that I miss, it is a man... A man that made me remember the Fifth of November. A man that I will never forget.
______________________________________

Pulp Fiction

Jules: The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the iniquities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he, who in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who would attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee.

_____________________________________