Tuesday, March 27, 2012

Editing Blues

The place was some where between sleep and wakefulness. That is where self bumped into that old acquaintance who goes by the name "emptiness".

Self and Emptiness have sat together in the same bench, trying to learn geometry lessons in some long lost past. Then with some audacity powered by the halogen of half cooked dreams, self upturned that bench and ran away-into the haze of Shakespeare, Bronte and then progressively into  many things including Trinh Minha's surname and Benjamin's little lamb. As life took over, emptiness was thrown into one of those memory bins in the attic.

But in solemn evenings when Benjamin's little lamb has turned into mutton chops in some University plate, this old acquaintance will pop in uninvited. Then like most old acquaintances, s/he will start the most uncomfortable range of questions. Unless you have been doing regular spiritual push ups, this questioning round can turn you into a sorry looking blob. Self, of course, has bubble gum zen muscles which have been acquired after much mumbo jumbo and selective memory.

But then, emptiness is always prepared for some thick skin and given a  chance can seep right through.
"So,a..hem…. the glory of informed choices! But the prospect of mixing SD and HD footage seems to shake you to the core"

"And, all that mumbo jumbo..most people can take refuge in things that they know the least about. Isn't it wonderful to sit under the banyan tree of ignorance imagining Bodhisatva's tranquility?"

" …..the river ,… shoudn't you have…. imaginary porcupine …….. the reality of a crab dinner……!@@%^%&&*&()()()()…….??????????????"…."

"And, last but not the least…those crappy shaky footage…..Oh, that is all you have to shown in return for  spondylitis and the onset of probably obesity?"

Hell, how I hate that careless coffee for leaving the door open for the intruder!!!

Wednesday, March 21, 2012

Rejection Letter

Oh Yes, it has come in a while ago, like a very prompt guest-the rejection letter. Neatly typed words, arranged in the legal order of things.

I know the usual chicken soup soul lines-kinda by heart, pinned up near life's window. Whatever happens, does so for the best (does it???) or just plain "better luck next time". Forget the stacks of hours, days put in and make a plan for how to stack hours and days and months and may be years again.

May be at times you need to take a de tour. Have been working like a dog on one thing or other for a while. Films which get born with a stutter and in constant need for a psychoanalyst, footage which does strange yoga tricks and looks at you for re affirmation, edits which screech and roll with the smell of dawn and take away pizza all over them… And, on the stolen hours when you open the books, making sure that the rough cut is fast asleep, and wouldn't wake up and bawl again for more attention…Then the books tell you, how much more is there to even try to skip through and keep asking you if you have enough life in your years to take up their call.

May be you should tell them the ways you have come through….the water which washed you down to the sea, hills which threw you down so that you may learn to fly, the plain which made you break to hundred pieces so that you may learn to be whole, the strange geography which took you by the hand and didn't ask for your heart (making you pack your heart beats and wait forever for a stamp to send it)..


But then, one owes life all kinds of debts. The need to hold the brittle rays of sun as he dies over a cliff, the memory of roads and lanes and pathways and the zen in their eyes, the streams which want you to silently sit by their side, the shoes which want to become all weary from travel all over again………
It will be sad if you go before you have wrote all that is to be written or made all that is to be made.
But, it will be sader if you go before living all that is to be lived

Monday, March 5, 2012

From the poet's door

Time sometimes wears lazy flowing garments and walks through the muddy lane and houses with strange names. Some times it meets the old poet who is everywhere- in paper folders, cloth bags, key chains...

Some of the most beautiful lines ever penned down.. A grilled pathway and lines about the irrationality of borders..

Amidst manicured lawns, mud houses, tourists haggling over trinkets and notes of music in the air, time roams around like a stranger.

Leaves take as long as they want to fall down to the tune of the wind....Old books wait unhurriedly for a pair of eyes to reach them beyond the clouds of dust.

The cycle bells, security guards and random passers-by  move around, leaving enough space for the solitude of the painter.

May be on a sunny winter morning, the poet does move out of his clay impersonations...to take a walk through the shades of trees which made him pen down lines which drop down like tears and joy to your soul.