All Posts

180517

1571 miles away or still at home, when your heart breaks, the hurt shows in your eyes and you end up at some god forsaken cheap bar at the other side of town, drunk on sorrow and pain, lock yourself up in the washroom and scream so loudly that no one can hear you. You cry the whole back in the cab, just sitting there looking at the city pass by you, not thinking, just feeling the hollow in your chest and letting the tears run across your face. People don’t matter then, you don’t care how it looks, you are done being brave. Heart breaks are tricky affairs. Never again.

It is easier to remain friends when one is younger

As we grow, we become occupied in becoming the centers of our own universes, I often say this. Every passing day of adult life, I find more evidence to reaffirm this notion. It was simpler you know, when we were younger, when we could share and talk and take a genuine interest in the lives of others. Growing up just complicates things. It becomes difficult to tell your friends about your life. Then you think perhaps you should move to a different circle of friends. Then you move, but oh look now you have drifted through too many circles – who are your friends, where are your friends?

Lifestyle

What I am going to remember of this time, right now in my life, is how much I liked it, how much I enjoy it, how much I wish the day had 36 hours and that all my days, well most of my days in the future could be the same – just lazying around, thinking, doing the thing I like the most, walking, writing … just simply being.

I am over a 1000 miles from where my home is right now and I am also over a 1000 miles away from my old thoughts and my old ways of thinking. They don’t really matter that much now. Yes, it took me over 1000 miles to see myself better, and for that heart ache to stop.

We are a little funny sometimes, us, people, me – so sure of ourselves while doing what we do, while doing what we can. I know I am not sure about a lot of things, and I am sure of that. You will say this is just a case of that odd semantic, I would say this is a laughing matter.

Walking to work, ordering lunch, walking to buy evening groceries, running in over 35 degrees, reading before sleeping, cooking in the morning, and then getting ready, all this while talking to those few who only care, who truly care, yes that is how life is right now, and I, and I, and I, I breathe easy.


In response to today’s WordPress Prompt

Thank you dear writers, dead and alive

b2bde033c44868096c05963c7b66a8f2

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time ;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Words of those far away, both in space and time, more often than not give you the much needed sense in this vile comatose age. How comforting it is to be in bed and to read the thoughts of those who lived in another time and with great foresight left us seeds of hope to plant in our dried up souls.

Thank you dear writers, dead and alive, for you bring to me what is amiss in humanity around me.

Translate

rain-birds-umbrella-pecs-bown

“Because it is occasionally possible, just for brief moments, to find the words that will unlock the doors of all those many mansions inside the head and express something – perhaps not much, just something – of the crush of information that presses in on us from the way a crow flies over and the way a man walks and the look of a street and from what we did one day a dozen years ago. Words that will express something of the deep complexity that makes us precisely the way we are, from the momentary effect of the barometer to the force that created men distinct from trees. Something of the inaudible music that moves us along in our bodies from moment to moment like water in a river. Something of the spirit of the snowflake in the water of the river. Something of the duplicity and the relativity and the merely fleeting quality of all this. Something of the almighty importance of it and something of the utter meaninglessness. And when words can manage something of this, and manage it in a moment, of time, and in that same moment, make out of it all the vital signature of a human being – not of an atom, or of a geometrical diagram, or of a heap of lenses – but a human being, we call it poetry.”
― Ted Hughes


In response to today’s Daily WordPress Prompt

A very short horror story – Blank Stare

Once,  when she was a young child, Katherine stared too long in the mirror. Looking deep into her own eyes, she climbed into her soul and could never really make it out. After that day, whenever Katherine stands in front of mirror, she sees a blank space. She sees no reflection, neither of herself nor of her soul.

When she is tired

couples-holding-each-other-lying-down-on-sofa

Sometimes when she is tired, really tired, tired of the world and its pretenses, tired of the humanity and the rat-race, tired of having a good time and living a good life, tired of doing the right thing over and over and over again, every single day, every single hour, tired of  all the struggle, tired of all the pain she has said good bye too, tired of being strong, those times, Miriam Chako wishes he was around, she wishes that he would keep his shoulder around her and hold her, her hair would be on his chest and they would not speak, he would just hold her, and everything, every single thing would be alright.


Supplement this with the reading Miriam Chako and the mistake

 

Alone-ness

ron-hicks-trouble-iitandtheworld-preeti-bhonsle

“Perhaps only people who are capable of real togetherness have that look of being alone in the universe. The others have a certain stickiness, they stick to the mass.”
– D.H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley’s Lover


The painting is called Trouble. It is by Ron Hicks.

Just a quick question –

Hey guys,

I am working on a piece on anxiety. And it would be super great if you could spare some time and just leave a comment below telling me how do you deal with it. Looking forward to your responses.

hugs, kisses and all nice things
Pecs

Travel tomorrow, to live today

Read : To all those who are sure of themselves. 

One doesn’t need to travel to open one’s mind, but traveling does open one’s mind. Moving away from the comforts of your immediate mental constructs, once you are on the road, you see the expanse of the world stretching along its paths newer ways of understanding life. Because no matter in which direction you move, there exists life which you have not seen, there exists life even without you ever have being.

How foolish it is then to think that one knows everything, that one has thought all that can be thought and that this is just how things are, how can they be different from what I already know. But my dear fellow, what do you know? You, who lives, in the narrow confines of diminishing meaning mistaking monotony for reality, you who has traded growth of mind for an illusion of security, you who laughs at any new exposure – mocking it, belittling it while clutching to the safety of your limited biases, yes you, tell me, what do you know?

Not much, you must admit. And therefore, my dear friend, this is where I must pull you aside, take your hands and give you my words – don’t settle. Not yet. Don’t settle for a reality decided for you by your immediate surroundings. Lift up your soul and walk towards others. Learn, see, be open. Love, laugh and live. Don’t get too comfortable in your own skin. Instead let differences mess with your mind, question what you know, doubt what you believe. Get out there and witness this multitudinal existence of being.

Don’t settle. Not yet. Not when you know that there are 7 billion other human-beings on this planet. These 7 billion people are living in over 200 different countries. And that is them doing this just now. Before there were fewer beings, and they have lived on, in future it is highly likely there will be more people and they shall carry on. Without you. So, while you are here, if you have not seen all that there is to see, then tell me what is the point to be?

The point is that of vantage. Every time you step into the shoes of a new man, you will attain the point of vantage. And you will see there is a delicate coherence in seemingly divergent independents. People everywhere are just the same. We all hate the same things – hypocrisy, lies, double standards, laziness, lack of spirit, lack of interesting things to say, suffering, misery, disease. We all love the same things – honesty, kindness, courage, bravery, simplicity, humility, compassion, hope, dreams. We all want the same things – a purpose, some meaning, few dollars, some success, a nice little house, good coffee, red wine, delicious food and someone to care.

There then now you know –  all of life’s meaning lies in the simple fact –  to live today, you must travel tomorrow.


Note – The second paragraph turns ironically meta – the narrator uses mockery against people who mock.

Kite Notes

Read : This is an open envelope to all those rebuilding themselves 

As individuals, we have grown up to be so by ourselves, liking the time spent in adding meaning to our daily existence that any kind of encroachment on this personal space induces a reluctance to interact, a reluctance which borders on repulsion. This form of independence of thought, space, and time, I know not, whether is the way to search for meaning but it certainly is life-affirming.  Any further attempt to expand thereupon would undermine the brevity of thought of the two lines. This thought ends here.

So hurt she was by all that had transpired that every time she subconsciously tried to try again she felt like she way playing with fire. Heart-breaks can be nasty business. Trying again puts you in a world of uncertainty, predictability and anticipation. To deal with these one requires courage, perhaps she had lost all of hers, it requires patience, maybe patience was her shield against the realities of her daily life,  it requires hope and as we know she had lost all of hers, a long time ago.

Did she want to try again and feel? She wished she knew. Her spirit had aged and it had become numb. It would require more than an answer for her to become one again. It would need a reconstruction. She would have to be built again. From scratch. And that takes time.

So she taps into her reservoir of patience and places herself before all else. For once, justice shall be done. For once, the world will get it right. And if the price to pay is to be by herself, then this thought ends here.


Note on Kite What I really like about the above composition is its being concise, connected and complete. 

Looks do matter

37889da8f3be40e8184f7c8933767830
From here

Dear ugly girl with a beautiful sister,

Everyone is not beautiful.
And of course looks do matter.
Don’t believe anyone who tells you otherwise.

And now that she is growing up and she is just going to get more beautiful. And since you are going to be around her, people are always going to draw comparisons, relatives are going to remark about your plainness, they are going to feel bad for you, boys are going to pay more attention to her, she will always be the first choice, her beauty will be revered and you are going to be side-lined. It is going to get tough and it is going to get worse, and don’t let any one else console you otherwise.

And you might suffer feelings worse than low self-esteem.
Yup, it is going to be horrible. Just horrible.

But then hopefully, maybe, maybe you will find yourself in a place where you will see that such subjective concepts as beauty do not really matter. Maybe you will have multiple paradigm shifts and you will realize that there is more to life than just being beautiful. Maybe you will meet wonderful people who will show that life is about learning, exploring, having fun, a few good friends, creating, and giving back to society. Maybe you will travel and meet new people who will be fascinated by the stories you tell them, or who will like you not for your looks but for your words, or for how well you play the guitar or how melodious you sound, or for how kind you are. Maybe you will study in a place where you will find brilliant people who are doing everything they can to change the world.

Maybe you will read, and read a lot and find out for yourself about the conventional and societal constructs of beauty and how the definitions of beauty vary from culture to culture, place to place, and you will realize how futile this beauty business is. Maybe you will think and you will conclude that esteem isn’t a byproduct of looks, but it is an amalgamation of real-deep virtues.

I hope you meet wonderful people and go to faraway places and fill your life with beautiful experiences and then, for yourself, find out that there is just so, so, so much more to life than looks and clothes and money.

I am not really that beautiful, or pretty. I have been surrounded by beautiful women all my life. And sure, there have been instances when men have paid more attention to these beautiful women than to me. Do I feel bad? Absolutely not. Do I feel jealous? Why should I? I really do not see why my sense of worth should be defined by those around me. I have dated some of the most handsome men in my circles, and the way they have looked at me has made me feel beautiful and loved and wanted. I have met their hot ex-s, and never have I felt insecure. Insecurity, you will learn if you choose to think, is a state of mind and nothing else.

See, the point is, it is your life, and it is your choice on how you handle it. You could either feel sorry for yourself, and be depressed and live in a way the society thinks ugly and/or fat people should live, or you could go out there and experience life, embrace it in its entirety and create for your own self a world which is the envy of others.

From,
Another plain girl

Different beds

ron_hicks_after_the_bath
Ron Hicks – After the bath

I am 31 and I don’t remember how many beds I have slept in throughout my life. You know how people always look forward going back to their homes, so that they can get back to their rooms and sleep in their own beds, and wake up to familiarity. Well, I don’t know what they mean when they say that. I have slept in so many different beds, in so many different places, and woken up to so many different settings, that sometimes now, when I get up, I forget where I am. Sometimes I even forget who I am.

It is a novel feeling.

Don’t get me wrong. It is not like I don’t have a bed. I do have a bed and I do have a home. The bed is mine, in a manner of ownership, but I don’t really own it, because I hardly lie in it. It lies there, in my home, night after night, it just lies there, neatly made covered with an expensive sheet it just lies there, empty. Night after night.

The bed that I am sleeping in these days, it is not mine. I don’t own it, the pillows it has are not mine, the sheets are. I do not look forward to getting into it at the end of my grueling days. You know it sucks, having that feeling taken away from you, that feeling of looking forward to crawling under the sheets into your own bed. I do not know that feeling and I do not look forward to getting into the bed that I sleep in these days. But then this is the only bed that I have, and for the days to come, until I get into another, this bed, I suppose, is mine.

Looking for something more long-term

Today Ann is in the mall, walking down the corridor of beauty parlors and salons. Her hair has been acting up lately, it has become dry – from the tips to the roots, as well as her scalp, her scalp has become dry too.

Ann does not like the things she cannot manage, every night before she sleeps she applies five different kinds of lotions, and shampoos and conditioners, and sprays and serums so that she can have the perfect hair the next morning. She must do it the previous night, every single time, because her hair is so unmanageable, she can never ever just wash it and let it dry out in the outside world. Because only she knows what she looks like in that time between when her is wet just after the shower and when it is completely dry. That in-between time is a secret that has been kept away from everyone, even her friends and boyfriends. That is why sometimes they think she is a little eccentric, but then, she is kind, so it really doesn’t matter.

What Ann hates about making her hair perfect is that she has to go through a tedious process every time she has to wash them. Every single time. She hates that. It is such a grand waste of time, she thinks. Every other day one cannot spend three to four hours just on their hair. No. There has to be a better solution, there has to be something that lasts long, really long.

So, she walks into the first salon she sees. For perfect hair, for the perfect you, reads the display of this salon. The salon people, the saloners, smile at her, greet her as she walks in. They ask her if she would you like to have a coffee ma’am, should they get her some juice. Yes, they know Ann at this salon. She is a regular.

Ann sits down with the head hair expert lady saloner.

What would you want to get done today Ann?

I want my hair done perfectly.

We can go in for your regular routine. Or you could try the new treatment which Lo’real has just released. Keratine Intense, it is called.

How long with this new treatment last?

2 to 3 months, followed by the usual touch-ups.

Do you have something that will last longer?

There is the botanical oils treatment. It will last around 6 months, but you will have to be in the parlour every month to back it up.

Still longer?

How long you do want it to last Ann?

Well, forever sounds about right.

The head hair lady saloner expert smiled.

No, we don’t have anything for that. But the Keratine Intense treatment should do you wonders for about 3 months. Shall we start it then?

No, said Ann and she got up and walked out.

The next salon display read – care for hair that lasts long. Ann smiled. Maybe this is it, she thought. She sat down with the head hair expert man saloner and went through the same exact conversation.

Don’t you have something more long term?

Your base genetic structure cannot be altered Ann. Your hair will remain how they are naturally. Nothing can be done about them.

So what are all these treatments that you so religiously recommend?

You want to know the truth?

Yes.

Quick fixes. That is what they are. Instant solutions.

Ah, I see.

Should we start with the protein treatment then?

No, said Ann, I am looking for something permanent, I am looking for something long-term. And she walked out.

She met Adam the same night. They had drinks. She told him of the saloners and of their quick fixes. Adam smiled.

Do you want to know the truth Ann?

Yes, Adam.

Adam lit a cigarette.

Look around you Ann, look at the society we live in. You want to lose weight, you go on a diet. You want perfect skin, you take a facial. You want good hair, you go to the parlour. You have a deadline to meet, you spend the entire previous night working. You like a guy, you sleep with him on the first date. It is not working out, you end it and you move on and you try again. It still doesn’t work out? You end it. You tell yourself that next time it will last. But how will it if you don’t stay?

We are living in a society of quick fixes. We are living in a society that seeks instant gratification. Managers are worried about their quarterly numbers. They don’t give a shit about the long-term growth prospects or the environment implications of their decisions. Everybody wants quick results. Now, I want this now! How can we ever achieve permanence like this? How can we ever built something long term like this?

Take your problem. You want good hair. Eat right, every day, every single meal of every day. Work-out. Meditate. Read. Research. Learn. Introspect. Reflect. Keep it natural. Do this for a month, then a month more, then a few years. You will have absolutely gorgeous hair. It is rather obvious is it not? Permanence is a continuance not an end result. It requires effort, it needs patience.

Triggers of Nostalgia

lovers-blackandwhite.jpg

I am standing in front of the mirror combing my hair, when suddenly I go back three years – I am in your bedroom, standing in front of the mirror, combing my hair and you are standing nearby, your hands folded, you are looking at me, and you are smiling. You look perfect, you say. I smile, you are so perfect, I think.

I am walking back from class and it is raining outside, the smell of earth after rain, petrichor it is called, hits me and I go back five years – we are walking towards the cafe, hand in hand, it has just rained, the smell of earth after rain is all around us, it is a perfect evening and I am with a man who will break my soul in a few months.

A handsome man held the door for me today, I smiled at him and said thank you, and there I am, an year back in time – I am standing at your door saying goodbye and you are not listening because you want to kiss me, and then we are kissing, at your door, your shirt still unbuttoned, we get in the lift and we are kissing, we are on the ground floor now, it is time for me to go, you are smiling at me and I am looking at you.

I am sitting at a bar with my friends, we are drinking and it is a jolly night. Someone cracks a joke, and I am with you six months ago – we are laughing and drinking and smoking and drinking some more, the waiters love us, we order some more, our favorite pastry, and then we talk, and then I shout and then you laugh, and man that was fun.

I am coming back from a football match, it is late in the night. There is a man walking in front of me, and he is wearing red color studs and I go back to nine years ago – I am the new girl in school, we are 17, you are the soccer star and I am the brainy girl, we are so young and naive and I blush when I find you staring at me in class, and you blush back, there is that day when we are all alone in the class, and you tell me you have a match and I wish you luck, I kiss you on the cheek and you are red in face. Ah, so young we were.

I am trying to cancel an online order, my net connection is a little weak, and I think of the book you ordered for me, gift wrapped with a note, and the care you took for the message to be precise enough to be flirty and concise enough to be harmless, in case the parcel was received by someone else. You had touched my heart then, and I had fallen in love with you.

I am walking down the wing, I see the cleaning lady’s stuff outside one of the rooms, and I think how different it was in my previous hostel, where we had to clean our room ourselves, there was the cleaning staff but all they cleaned was the hostel outside the rooms and I think of how shabby our rooms used to be and then I remember – I remember that one night in your shabby room with its messy bed and messier table, I remember I was wearing a skirt you liked and that we were standing in front of the mirror, you and me and we were looking at us, together as a couple, so hot, so young, so perfect, in the mirror. It was just a reflection, of our true lives. A rather misleading reflection.

Democracy – Leonard Cohen

“Democracy”

It’s coming through a hole in the air,
from those nights in Tiananmen Square.
It’s coming from the feel
that this ain’t exactly real,
or it’s real, but it ain’t exactly there.
From the wars against disorder,
from the sirens night and day,
from the fires of the homeless,
from the ashes of the gay:
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.
It’s coming through a crack in the wall;
on a visionary flood of alcohol;
from the staggering account
of the Sermon on the Mount
which I don’t pretend to understand at all.
It’s coming from the silence
on the dock of the bay,
from the brave, the bold, the battered
heart of Chevrolet:
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.

It’s coming from the sorrow in the street,
the holy places where the races meet;
from the homicidal bitchin’
that goes down in every kitchen
to determine who will serve and who will eat.
From the wells of disappointment
where the women kneel to pray
for the grace of God in the desert here
and the desert far away:
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.

Sail on, sail on
O mighty Ship of State!
To the Shores of Need
Past the Reefs of Greed
Through the Squalls of Hate
Sail on, sail on, sail on, sail on.

It’s coming to America first,
the cradle of the best and of the worst.
It’s here they got the range
and the machinery for change
and it’s here they got the spiritual thirst.
It’s here the family’s broken
and it’s here the lonely say
that the heart has got to open
in a fundamental way:
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.

It’s coming from the women and the men.
O baby, we’ll be making love again.
We’ll be going down so deep
the river’s going to weep,
and the mountain’s going to shout Amen!
It’s coming like the tidal flood
beneath the lunar sway,
imperial, mysterious,
in amorous array:
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.

Sail on, sail on …

I’m sentimental, if you know what I mean
I love the country but I can’t stand the scene.
And I’m neither left or right
I’m just staying home tonight,
getting lost in that hopeless little screen.
But I’m stubborn as those garbage bags
that Time cannot decay,
I’m junk but I’m still holding up
this little wild bouquet:
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.

 

Goblin Men

midnight_main

Here is a classic by Christina Rossetti. I came across this one while watching Midnight. Midnight is the tenth episode of the fourth series of British science fiction television series Doctor Who. It was first broadcast on BBC One on 14 June 2008. David Tennant, plays the Doctor in this one. It is quite an episode.


Goblin Market
BY CHRISTINA ROSSETTI

Morning and evening
Maids heard the goblins cry:
“Come buy our orchard fruits,
Come buy, come buy:
Apples and quinces,
Lemons and oranges,
Plump unpeck’d cherries,
Melons and raspberries,
Bloom-down-cheek’d peaches,
Swart-headed mulberries,
Wild free-born cranberries,
Crab-apples, dewberries,
Pine-apples, blackberries,
Apricots, strawberries;—
All ripe together
In summer weather,—
Morns that pass by,
Fair eves that fly;
Come buy, come buy:
Our grapes fresh from the vine,
Pomegranates full and fine,
Dates and sharp bullaces,
Rare pears and greengages,
Damsons and bilberries,
Taste them and try:
Currants and gooseberries,
Bright-fire-like barberries,
Figs to fill your mouth,
Citrons from the South,
Sweet to tongue and sound to eye;
Come buy, come buy.”
Evening by evening
Among the brookside rushes,
Laura bow’d her head to hear,
Lizzie veil’d her blushes:
Crouching close together
In the cooling weather,
With clasping arms and cautioning lips,
With tingling cheeks and finger tips.
“Lie close,” Laura said,
Pricking up her golden head:
“We must not look at goblin men,
We must not buy their fruits:
Who knows upon what soil they fed
Their hungry thirsty roots?”
“Come buy,” call the goblins
Hobbling down the glen.
“Oh,” cried Lizzie, “Laura, Laura,
You should not peep at goblin men.”
Lizzie cover’d up her eyes,
Cover’d close lest they should look;
Laura rear’d her glossy head,
And whisper’d like the restless brook:
“Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie,
Down the glen tramp little men.
One hauls a basket,
One bears a plate,
One lugs a golden dish
Of many pounds weight.
How fair the vine must grow
Whose grapes are so luscious;
How warm the wind must blow
Through those fruit bushes.”
“No,” said Lizzie, “No, no, no;
Their offers should not charm us,
Their evil gifts would harm us.”
She thrust a dimpled finger
In each ear, shut eyes and ran:
Curious Laura chose to linger
Wondering at each merchant man.
One had a cat’s face,
One whisk’d a tail,
One tramp’d at a rat’s pace,
One crawl’d like a snail,
One like a wombat prowl’d obtuse and furry,
One like a ratel tumbled hurry skurry.
She heard a voice like voice of doves
Cooing all together:
They sounded kind and full of loves
In the pleasant weather.
Laura stretch’d her gleaming neck
Like a rush-imbedded swan,
Like a lily from the beck,
Like a moonlit poplar branch,
Like a vessel at the launch
When its last restraint is gone.
Backwards up the mossy glen
Turn’d and troop’d the goblin men,
With their shrill repeated cry,
“Come buy, come buy.”
When they reach’d where Laura was
They stood stock still upon the moss,
Leering at each other,
Brother with queer brother;
Signalling each other,
Brother with sly brother.
One set his basket down,
One rear’d his plate;
One began to weave a crown
Of tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown
(Men sell not such in any town);
One heav’d the golden weight
Of dish and fruit to offer her:
“Come buy, come buy,” was still their cry.
Laura stared but did not stir,
Long’d but had no money:
The whisk-tail’d merchant bade her taste
In tones as smooth as honey,
The cat-faced purr’d,
The rat-faced spoke a word
Of welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard;
One parrot-voiced and jolly
Cried “Pretty Goblin” still for “Pretty Polly;”—
One whistled like a bird.
But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste:
“Good folk, I have no coin;
To take were to purloin:
I have no copper in my purse,
I have no silver either,
And all my gold is on the furze
That shakes in windy weather
Above the rusty heather.”
“You have much gold upon your head,”
They answer’d all together:
“Buy from us with a golden curl.”
She clipp’d a precious golden lock,
She dropp’d a tear more rare than pearl,
Then suck’d their fruit globes fair or red:
Sweeter than honey from the rock,
Stronger than man-rejoicing wine,
Clearer than water flow’d that juice;
She never tasted such before,
How should it cloy with length of use?
She suck’d and suck’d and suck’d the more
Fruits which that unknown orchard bore;
She suck’d until her lips were sore;
Then flung the emptied rinds away
But gather’d up one kernel stone,
And knew not was it night or day
As she turn’d home alone.
Lizzie met her at the gate
Full of wise upbraidings:
“Dear, you should not stay so late,
Twilight is not good for maidens;
Should not loiter in the glen
In the haunts of goblin men.
Do you not remember Jeanie,
How she met them in the moonlight,
Took their gifts both choice and many,
Ate their fruits and wore their flowers
Pluck’d from bowers
Where summer ripens at all hours?
But ever in the noonlight
She pined and pined away;
Sought them by night and day,
Found them no more, but dwindled and grew grey;
Then fell with the first snow,
While to this day no grass will grow
Where she lies low:
I planted daisies there a year ago
That never blow.
You should not loiter so.”
“Nay, hush,” said Laura:
“Nay, hush, my sister:
I ate and ate my fill,
Yet my mouth waters still;
To-morrow night I will
Buy more;” and kiss’d her:
“Have done with sorrow;
I’ll bring you plums to-morrow
Fresh on their mother twigs,
Cherries worth getting;
You cannot think what figs
My teeth have met in,
What melons icy-cold
Piled on a dish of gold
Too huge for me to hold,
What peaches with a velvet nap,
Pellucid grapes without one seed:
Odorous indeed must be the mead
Whereon they grow, and pure the wave they drink
With lilies at the brink,
And sugar-sweet their sap.”
Golden head by golden head,
Like two pigeons in one nest
Folded in each other’s wings,
They lay down in their curtain’d bed:
Like two blossoms on one stem,
Like two flakes of new-fall’n snow,
Like two wands of ivory
Tipp’d with gold for awful kings.
Moon and stars gaz’d in at them,
Wind sang to them lullaby,
Lumbering owls forbore to fly,
Not a bat flapp’d to and fro
Round their rest:
Cheek to cheek and breast to breast
Lock’d together in one nest.
Early in the morning
When the first cock crow’d his warning,
Neat like bees, as sweet and busy,
Laura rose with Lizzie:
Fetch’d in honey, milk’d the cows,
Air’d and set to rights the house,
Kneaded cakes of whitest wheat,
Cakes for dainty mouths to eat,
Next churn’d butter, whipp’d up cream,
Fed their poultry, sat and sew’d;
Talk’d as modest maidens should:
Lizzie with an open heart,
Laura in an absent dream,
One content, one sick in part;
One warbling for the mere bright day’s delight,
One longing for the night.
At length slow evening came:
They went with pitchers to the reedy brook;
Lizzie most placid in her look,
Laura most like a leaping flame.
They drew the gurgling water from its deep;
Lizzie pluck’d purple and rich golden flags,
Then turning homeward said: “The sunset flushes
Those furthest loftiest crags;
Come, Laura, not another maiden lags.
No wilful squirrel wags,
The beasts and birds are fast asleep.”
But Laura loiter’d still among the rushes
And said the bank was steep.
And said the hour was early still
The dew not fall’n, the wind not chill;
Listening ever, but not catching
The customary cry,
“Come buy, come buy,”
With its iterated jingle
Of sugar-baited words:
Not for all her watching
Once discerning even one goblin
Racing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling;
Let alone the herds
That used to tramp along the glen,
In groups or single,
Of brisk fruit-merchant men.
Till Lizzie urged, “O Laura, come;
I hear the fruit-call but I dare not look:
You should not loiter longer at this brook:
Come with me home.
The stars rise, the moon bends her arc,
Each glowworm winks her spark,
Let us get home before the night grows dark:
For clouds may gather
Though this is summer weather,
Put out the lights and drench us through;
Then if we lost our way what should we do?”
Laura turn’d cold as stone
To find her sister heard that cry alone,
That goblin cry,
“Come buy our fruits, come buy.”
Must she then buy no more such dainty fruit?
Must she no more such succous pasture find,
Gone deaf and blind?
Her tree of life droop’d from the root:
She said not one word in her heart’s sore ache;
But peering thro’ the dimness, nought discerning,
Trudg’d home, her pitcher dripping all the way;
So crept to bed, and lay
Silent till Lizzie slept;
Then sat up in a passionate yearning,
And gnash’d her teeth for baulk’d desire, and wept
As if her heart would break.
Day after day, night after night,
Laura kept watch in vain
In sullen silence of exceeding pain.
She never caught again the goblin cry:
“Come buy, come buy;”—
She never spied the goblin men
Hawking their fruits along the glen:
But when the noon wax’d bright
Her hair grew thin and grey;
She dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turn
To swift decay and burn
Her fire away.
One day remembering her kernel-stone
She set it by a wall that faced the south;
Dew’d it with tears, hoped for a root,
Watch’d for a waxing shoot,
But there came none;
It never saw the sun,
It never felt the trickling moisture run:
While with sunk eyes and faded mouth
She dream’d of melons, as a traveller sees
False waves in desert drouth
With shade of leaf-crown’d trees,
And burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze.
She no more swept the house,
Tended the fowls or cows,
Fetch’d honey, kneaded cakes of wheat,
Brought water from the brook:
But sat down listless in the chimney-nook
And would not eat.
Tender Lizzie could not bear
To watch her sister’s cankerous care
Yet not to share.
She night and morning
Caught the goblins’ cry:
“Come buy our orchard fruits,
Come buy, come buy;”—
Beside the brook, along the glen,
She heard the tramp of goblin men,
The yoke and stir
Poor Laura could not hear;
Long’d to buy fruit to comfort her,
But fear’d to pay too dear.
She thought of Jeanie in her grave,
Who should have been a bride;
But who for joys brides hope to have
Fell sick and died
In her gay prime,
In earliest winter time
With the first glazing rime,
With the first snow-fall of crisp winter time.
Till Laura dwindling
Seem’d knocking at Death’s door:
Then Lizzie weigh’d no more
Better and worse;
But put a silver penny in her purse,
Kiss’d Laura, cross’d the heath with clumps of furze
At twilight, halted by the brook:
And for the first time in her life
Began to listen and look.
Laugh’d every goblin
When they spied her peeping:
Came towards her hobbling,
Flying, running, leaping,
Puffing and blowing,
Chuckling, clapping, crowing,
Clucking and gobbling,
Mopping and mowing,
Full of airs and graces,
Pulling wry faces,
Demure grimaces,
Cat-like and rat-like,
Ratel- and wombat-like,
Snail-paced in a hurry,
Parrot-voiced and whistler,
Helter skelter, hurry skurry,
Chattering like magpies,
Fluttering like pigeons,
Gliding like fishes,—
Hugg’d her and kiss’d her:
Squeez’d and caress’d her:
Stretch’d up their dishes,
Panniers, and plates:
“Look at our apples
Russet and dun,
Bob at our cherries,
Bite at our peaches,
Citrons and dates,
Grapes for the asking,
Pears red with basking
Out in the sun,
Plums on their twigs;
Pluck them and suck them,
Pomegranates, figs.”—
“Good folk,” said Lizzie,
Mindful of Jeanie:
“Give me much and many: —
Held out her apron,
Toss’d them her penny.
“Nay, take a seat with us,
Honour and eat with us,”
They answer’d grinning:
“Our feast is but beginning.
Night yet is early,
Warm and dew-pearly,
Wakeful and starry:
Such fruits as these
No man can carry:
Half their bloom would fly,
Half their dew would dry,
Half their flavour would pass by.
Sit down and feast with us,
Be welcome guest with us,
Cheer you and rest with us.”—
“Thank you,” said Lizzie: “But one waits
At home alone for me:
So without further parleying,
If you will not sell me any
Of your fruits though much and many,
Give me back my silver penny
I toss’d you for a fee.”—
They began to scratch their pates,
No longer wagging, purring,
But visibly demurring,
Grunting and snarling.
One call’d her proud,
Cross-grain’d, uncivil;
Their tones wax’d loud,
Their looks were evil.
Lashing their tails
They trod and hustled her,
Elbow’d and jostled her,
Claw’d with their nails,
Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking,
Tore her gown and soil’d her stocking,
Twitch’d her hair out by the roots,
Stamp’d upon her tender feet,
Held her hands and squeez’d their fruits
Against her mouth to make her eat.
White and golden Lizzie stood,
Like a lily in a flood,—
Like a rock of blue-vein’d stone
Lash’d by tides obstreperously,—
Like a beacon left alone
In a hoary roaring sea,
Sending up a golden fire,—
Like a fruit-crown’d orange-tree
White with blossoms honey-sweet
Sore beset by wasp and bee,—
Like a royal virgin town
Topp’d with gilded dome and spire
Close beleaguer’d by a fleet
Mad to tug her standard down.
One may lead a horse to water,
Twenty cannot make him drink.
Though the goblins cuff’d and caught her,
Coax’d and fought her,
Bullied and besought her,
Scratch’d her, pinch’d her black as ink,
Kick’d and knock’d her,
Maul’d and mock’d her,
Lizzie utter’d not a word;
Would not open lip from lip
Lest they should cram a mouthful in:
But laugh’d in heart to feel the drip
Of juice that syrupp’d all her face,
And lodg’d in dimples of her chin,
And streak’d her neck which quaked like curd.
At last the evil people,
Worn out by her resistance,
Flung back her penny, kick’d their fruit
Along whichever road they took,
Not leaving root or stone or shoot;
Some writh’d into the ground,
Some div’d into the brook
With ring and ripple,
Some scudded on the gale without a sound,
Some vanish’d in the distance.
In a smart, ache, tingle,
Lizzie went her way;
Knew not was it night or day;
Sprang up the bank, tore thro’ the furze,
Threaded copse and dingle,
And heard her penny jingle
Bouncing in her purse,—
Its bounce was music to her ear.
She ran and ran
As if she fear’d some goblin man
Dogg’d her with gibe or curse
Or something worse:
But not one goblin scurried after,
Nor was she prick’d by fear;
The kind heart made her windy-paced
That urged her home quite out of breath with haste
And inward laughter.
She cried, “Laura,” up the garden,
“Did you miss me?
Come and kiss me.
Never mind my bruises,
Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices
Squeez’d from goblin fruits for you,
Goblin pulp and goblin dew.
Eat me, drink me, love me;
Laura, make much of me;
For your sake I have braved the glen
And had to do with goblin merchant men.”
Laura started from her chair,
Flung her arms up in the air,
Clutch’d her hair:
“Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted
For my sake the fruit forbidden?
Must your light like mine be hidden,
Your young life like mine be wasted,
Undone in mine undoing,
And ruin’d in my ruin,
Thirsty, canker’d, goblin-ridden?”—
She clung about her sister,
Kiss’d and kiss’d and kiss’d her:
Tears once again
Refresh’d her shrunken eyes,
Dropping like rain
After long sultry drouth;
Shaking with aguish fear, and pain,
She kiss’d and kiss’d her with a hungry mouth.
Her lips began to scorch,
That juice was wormwood to her tongue,
She loath’d the feast:
Writhing as one possess’d she leap’d and sung,
Rent all her robe, and wrung
Her hands in lamentable haste,
And beat her breast.
Her locks stream’d like the torch
Borne by a racer at full speed,
Or like the mane of horses in their flight,
Or like an eagle when she stems the light
Straight toward the sun,
Or like a caged thing freed,
Or like a flying flag when armies run.
Swift fire spread through her veins, knock’d at her heart,
Met the fire smouldering there
And overbore its lesser flame;
She gorged on bitterness without a name:
Ah! fool, to choose such part
Of soul-consuming care!
Sense fail’d in the mortal strife:
Like the watch-tower of a town
Which an earthquake shatters down,
Like a lightning-stricken mast,
Like a wind-uprooted tree
Spun about,
Like a foam-topp’d waterspout
Cast down headlong in the sea,
She fell at last;
Pleasure past and anguish past,
Is it death or is it life?
Life out of death.
That night long Lizzie watch’d by her,
Counted her pulse’s flagging stir,
Felt for her breath,
Held water to her lips, and cool’d her face
With tears and fanning leaves:
But when the first birds chirp’d about their eaves,
And early reapers plodded to the place
Of golden sheaves,
And dew-wet grass
Bow’d in the morning winds so brisk to pass,
And new buds with new day
Open’d of cup-like lilies on the stream,
Laura awoke as from a dream,
Laugh’d in the innocent old way,
Hugg’d Lizzie but not twice or thrice;
Her gleaming locks show’d not one thread of grey,
Her breath was sweet as May
And light danced in her eyes.
Days, weeks, months, years
Afterwards, when both were wives
With children of their own;
Their mother-hearts beset with fears,
Their lives bound up in tender lives;
Laura would call the little ones
And tell them of her early prime,
Those pleasant days long gone
Of not-returning time:
Would talk about the haunted glen,
The wicked, quaint fruit-merchant men,
Their fruits like honey to the throat
But poison in the blood;
(Men sell not such in any town):
Would tell them how her sister stood
In deadly peril to do her good,
And win the fiery antidote:
Then joining hands to little hands
Would bid them cling together,
“For there is no friend like a sister
In calm or stormy weather;
To cheer one on the tedious way,
To fetch one if one goes astray,
To lift one if one totters down,
To strengthen whilst one stands.”

9/11, Trump and Death.

Today, the 9th of November, is going to go down in history for several reasons. Modi’s demonetization of 500 and 1000 INR currency notes, Donald Trump’s becoming the US President, and closer home, literally, closer to home the death of a dear family friend.

He was one of my father’s closest friends. My father has lost too many close friends.

This friend, was a good, god-fearing man. Even in his last hours on earth, he was out there in the world helping someone. More specifically he was at a police station helping out a woman, when the attack of the heart came.

As daily routines command, more out of love than necessity, I called up my mother at around 8 pm. We are a very happy enthusiastic family, always eager to talk to each other. She seemed a little off today. I asked her if she was watching the telly. She said – no, we have just had dinner, your father is speaking to the DG, we might have to leave for the city in a while. I did not ask her what happened. I presumed it was some official matter. And I kept the phone down, envying the nature of my father’s job, always on the move, always something happening, how exciting.

Then my mother called me, an hour ago. She told me what happened. She told me that the dear friend is no more. She told me not to tell my brother. Not yet, she said, you are the older child, you can take it, he can’t.

I did not speak to my father just then. I let it sink it. It still has not.

A little after 10 minutes, I called my father. He said – yes, what is going on? I asked him if he was alright. He said – this is quite sad, very unfortunate, the dear friend was a god fearing man, an embodiment of all good values and virtues, the recent bypass surgery, that usually gives people a good 15 to 20 years, but this, this is the way of fate, sometimes god does things you cannot explain.

I said – yes, this is quite unfortunate, very sad.

Then he asked me about my exam tomorrow. I told him I was studying. Then he gave the phone to my mother. My mother said – the dear friend was over at our home this Sunday, he was asking for my astrological charts, he said it was time I start thinking about marriage. I told my mother – mummy sleep, it is going to be a hard day tomorrow.

Just that I did not say that. I laughed a little with tears in my eyes and silence in my soul. It is going to be a hard day tomorrow. His children are so young.

The world is silent. I have two exams tomorrow.
It is going to be a hard day.
What else can I say.

17 miles and a half , I

A beautiful piece of writing

Cigarettes and Equations

The corridor was long enough to see all the way till the end. You would walk it down to your flat. On the way you would be in your thoughts. In one of those corners where the wind if sultry, the weather was  warm. If the sounds made some sense some time, the conversations got even more indifferent.

He sat in one corner of his prison cell of a flat, okay may be a bit more upper middle class than that. And sketched up some goofy face of a guy. She brought coffee from a nearby  place.

That morning was particularly one of the better ones, he thought. The breakfasts needs to get crunchier, she thought. After a lazy coffee they did it again.

Later she thought again of what he said during the breakfast. She loved the deeper conversations even though down the long corridor, towards the end he…

View original post 236 more words

If you forget me

‘lf you cast me off and leave me
How should l live another day?

tumblr_n3hqzqjsfz1rplt62o1_1280 

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

Pablo Neruda


Maybe in response to today’s Daily wordpress prompt – Copycat

Waiting

15010-kurt-cobain.jpg

He is waiting
for honesty and truth
To claim their hold
on today’s youth
He is Gandhi,
and he lies still, waiting

He is waiting
For homophobics, and racists
and mysognists
to stop buying his records
and listening to his music
He is Cobain
and he lies still, waiting

He was brave when he was alive
He suffered and walked that extra mile
Our times suffer from a serious
want of courage
And Mandela is tired of watching
the grand justice miscarriage

Newton waits for mankind to think
Franklin waits for blood to be replaced by ink
Da Vinci knows that nature is waiting
For the wars to end, and them to start creating.


In response to today’s WordPress Prompt

Urgent

Hello, hi, are you listening?
This is kind of urgent. 

Yes? What is it?

Your box has arrived.
If you could sign here please?

Oh! Thank you! Thank you!
Eve honey? Your box is here.

Could you sign please?
You seem very happy with this parcel
If I may, can I know why is it so?

Yes! Of course! Not just know,
You may even see what is in the box.

Oh! You are most kind Mister…

Adam. My name is Adam.
And this is my lovely wife Eve.

How do you do madam?

I am very fine. Thank you.
Now shall we open the Pandora’s box??


In response to today’s WordPress Prompt – Urgent

Forget the butterfly

1-the-paper-kite-butterfly-in-black-and-white-zoe-ferrie

Today’s post is going to be an introduction to a character who has been dropping in and out of other people’s stories for a while now. We saw Adam first appear in Ann’s and Tom’s Empty story, then he made a little commentary while Lucy was driving into the city. Adam also passed a stray thought in Storm and in Unforgetting her words he chuckled slightly in the end. 

Many readers have been curious about who Adam is.
Below is his story.
I hope you enjoy reading it. 


Forget the butterfly

When Adam was 31, Adam realized that the only way to exist in this overwhelmingly distractive world of his, was to forget everything that he knew. He also realized that the only way to ever recall every detail of his life at any given moment was seemingly simple.

That evening when Adam forgot, and when he remembered, that evening when he existed in a flux between the past and the future, that evening when Adam just was, that evening when he came home he ran to his room, shut the door, took his dairy out of the cupboard and he began writing –

Somewhere along the line, we all remembered a little too much and forgot a much too little. We got entrapped in our own histories and our own pasts and remembered every insignificant detail about our own selves, going around clinging to our lives as if they were the only story playing out right now in the whole goddamn universe.

Every moment of our present is obviously deeply rooted and set in our past, but we do we have to remember all of it? Can we not forget it, not recall it, not say it, not discuss it?

Yes, it will be like it never happened, but it is in the past, it is not happening now anyway, and if you do not tell then it will not go away because, because, don’t you see?? Don’t you?? It cannot go away as it has already gone away.  

All that you have is your now, the past is not yours it is gone, the future has not come, it never will, you will always live in your present, only that is real. Everything else, nothing else for that fact, matters.

Adam closed his dairy, and looked into his present. After a moment, he closed his eyes. And he forgot everything that he knew. He forgot about the games he played as a child, he forgot his school, he forgot his friends, he forgot the books he had read, he forgot his favourite songs, he forgot the movies he had watched, he forgot his first kiss, he forgot the sound of the rain, he forgot his first crash, he forgot about the 12 accidents, he forgot about the men in his life, he forgot about his heroes, he forgot about the women too, he forgot about the night of 9th of July, he forgot all the money and then when he came to it, he paused, and then he forgot them too, he forgot his family.

That evening, Adam first became a nihlist.


Argument

indifferent two men.gif

“You see, this is what is beyond my understanding! How could the adults of our country allow such mindless-propaganda-filled-piece-of-crap-in-the-name-of-commercial -cinema to even exist? How could such movies be even making money?? How can people watch them? How come parents do not walk out in the middle of the movie exclaiming – well that is just goddamn hogwash? How come thinking people sit through 2 hours of such prettily dressed twaddle?”, he spoke, angry, dazed and confused.

“But that is how it has always been”, the man with indifferent eyes said.

“How long can this last?”, he asked. “It cannot last long. It simply cannot.”

The man laughed. “Stupidity has no expiry date,” he argued. “Throw in economies of scale and you can make profits even in the long-run.”


In response to today’s daily prompt . Image Link – here.