Tuesday, October 17, 2017


It has barely been a year since bags were unpacked on this shore, which I thought will be closest to that place they call home.
By now, have managed to sail with Jesus without the accompaniment of tea and oranges.
Friends who make this place home are a few time zones away, at least for a few years.
And, without the aid of therapy and the lines of Tathagatha, a few realizations arrive rain drenched, looking slightly awful without an umbrella.

There ain't going to be a place called home. Transit is where life is. The people I meet in transit, over a fraction of seconds, they are everything.

As I sit with Foucault and shed tears over a cup of tea, he makes a suggestion. May be it is fine to run forever, to new places, to new work. He offers to be there, on a wall in Boston or Santiago or somewhere else, to give company over new tales of heartbreaks, alienations, new kinds of genocidal mobs. They are all the same, still they are different. A change of scenery always looks fine, even if the story that you will carry across continents will be the same loop.

Friend, this is never going to be that happy marketing brochure story. This flawed, broken, wonderful, colorful, bleak, tear filled, joyful, mundane, exciting life. You are not going to check any of the boxes that they sell at the counter in standard human sizes. This is gonna be an experimental piece, always open to new ways of breaking and being whole again.

Don't lose heart in this bleak winter (though it is so sunny outside).
It is time to repack again.
What is winter to a nomad who knows another place where winter can unfold slightly differently.
Is thankful for the smallest things. Like that warm dinner with an almost stranger.
Or the warm embrace of a friend who is getting onto a plane to another time zone soon, may be for another 2 years before we meet again.

It is time for new work. New books, new diagrams, new proposals. You just cease to be a flute when you stop working. May be a year or two. Will give all I have again to this new project which is kind of flitting inside head. Will leave again for another shore, may be by that river. Though it is going to be cold there,  the buildings definitely neoliberal and the mobs a bit genocidal. But, aren't they all the same everywhere? At least I might be able to try out this new tune, which needs a lot more funding and an altogether different set of tools. Foucault says that he will come with me, wherever it is that the tunes will take us.

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