Sometimes I feel like a lamb. Mostly, I try to be a lioness! This is so strange that we keep up pretences to convince ourselves and maybe, others too, that EVERYTHING IS ALRIGHT! But is it? What is it that makes us become these different individuals than who we really are? Because we are all searching ourselves in this big crowd of a world.
A lot has happened in the past few weeks. I think I have just fallen in love with who I am as a person. Do I sound narcissistic? I mean, there are times when we don’t like ourselves. I was probably dwelling on the same feelings. I no longer do. The events that changed this thinking are fairly normal, everything that happens with a regular person. I met new people because of work, got out of my shell, realised the love that lies outside in the world and here I am, all new and fresh as a dew! It’s wonderful, like an elixir that’s working on me right now. Good people always bring the best in us! I also saw a movie I had been told about long ago. It was so simple and heartfelt that I couldn’t be any more grateful than I am now to have watched it albeit a little later. I also happened to attend this most amazing workshop ever on Accessibility for the Visually Challenged. The experience not just made me more optimistic about being myself as an enlightened individual about living life but made me feel eternally grateful about being alive and healthy and an absolutely privileged individual.
When I do think of all the irregularities we see and come across our daily routine, it makes me wonder if in running after our dreams and carving out an existence, has made us forget the essentials of being humans with the capacity to sense and love and feel emotions? Have we stopped being sensory to little things like holding hands and feeling the touch and warmth of the people we try to gauge everyday or are we really becoming ignorant to the pleasures of taking in the aura of people we meet? I do feel very, very happy to have become awakened to this new sensation about myself. I am overwhelmed to have met like-minded individuals, who I was discussing about with another friend are such rare species to find, just a couple of days ago. She said, why don’t we come across and maintain lifelong relations with people who share our thoughts and mind? I remember replying, variety is spice of life to which she let out a big sigh. So here is the beginning of meeting not just like minded individuals who share our anxieties and our concerns for the world but who truly are immersed in the very dynamic association of leading lifelong friendships for the better of everyone they meet and touch lives. I feel hopeful about being able to influence and be influenced by people of as diversified vocations as I take a keen interest in. It’s thrilling to be part of this beautifully intense, chaotic, neurotic yet a desirable world only because of all these spirited people.
I got caught up and obsessed with sculptural edifices for the entire day yesterday. Somehow a dream from Jhumpa Lahiri’s An Unaccustomed Earth made me think of winding, narrow brick lanes and stone sculptures set on pedestals, looking over pedestrians and tourists walking in their slow pace. I ended up browsing pinterest and creating a sculpture board there, pinning and collecting more than 150 sculpture images in about two hours. Was it worth spending two hours on looking at pictures? I definitely think yes. All sorts of stories and theories accumulated in my mind while staring at each one of them. I saw the classical sculptures by Michaelangelo, Bernini, in ancient Greek and Hellenistic styles, by Auguste Rodin as also a lot of garden sculptures and with experimental material usage like hairpins, plastic, masking tape, brown paper. It amazed me and filled me with an acute curiosity to know of what went through the sculptor’s mind when he embarked on creating one of his creations. Sculpting is so much more intimate and passionate as compared with other art forms. It requires a close understanding and openness with the subject.
When I see intricately carved anatomical details in marble, something about the human physical form intrigues me with a compassion so overbearing and overwhelming I can’t quite express. Why have we caged our bodies and our souls in shrouds of fabric is beyond my comprehension?! It seems morally very correct to respect and obey the rules of staying in a socially-knit community but the very emphasis on putting it under a policing eye is retrogressive. It means that we are fighting against the geographies of our bodies and an existence that threatens to becomes volatile if suppressed too long. Surely the ancient Roman and Greek civilizations saw the human body as a more artistic entity and less as a moralistic proposition as we have now created it to be many centuries later. It’s very fascinating to note that while the ancient people had more tolerant and liberal art senses, us modern humans sadly seemed to have shunned the progressive mantle over art.
This very dangerous assumption that our geographies instead of expanding our sensibilities have instead had us descending over a comparative physical existence is saddening. Our capacities for generating personal physical boundaries beyond the ones existing due to a social code of tradition are immensely vast. Each one of us devises a socio-geographical relation with another individual, a place, an entity for our own personal worldly pursuits. Does this then mean that our understanding of ‘being’ is an imaginary concept? Do we belong to some place or just create a visual in time to pacify our restless spirits? There seem to be an availability of monstrous possibilities of our choices, each hurting or helping our individual aim to get through a day, week, months and years, together. I have always felt that not knowing is the biggest salvation as also a great discomfort to many of us who speed through moments hurriedly without stopping by to take in the happenings. It is in this nowhere of crevices that we stop when the world seems to be running away from us. Only in moments of solitude do we look out for the geographies of nothingness and understand the complexities of our contradictory behaviour in private and public space. It is this inward awakening of the darkness and suffering which engulf us, that we truly begin discovering and altering the geography of our existence. Borges wrote about the thousands of images from which he shall pass to one; from a highly complex dream to a dream of utter simplicity.
I started reading The Outsider by Albert Camus last night after a not-so-great reading week. It dawned upon me as I started going further in the book that this was about a man, a young bloke who is seemingly unambitious about his life. I instantly wanted to shut the book and stack it away from my reach. While we all know that Camus’s writing is depressing as hell, this book particularly came as a surprise to me. The young man who perhaps mirrors a life most of the people live, subconsciously, mostly to just fill their stomachs, work the grind of eat, sleep, earn money, raise families and then die, here this young man doesn’t seem to have a purpose in living. He works at a small office, is unresponsive to work in the manner that when his boss asks him about shifting to and working in Paris to head operations of their office, he declines the opportunity. The woman who he is friends with asks him if he’ll marry her and he replies saying if she wants marriage he’ll marry her. There is no love, passion, or a burning desire in him to spearhead his life in the way most hot-blooded young people do. He is surrounded by depressing and utterly miserable neighbours, one of whom is an old man with an old species of a dog that keeps barking; another is a frustrated man who keeps a mistress and then gets jitters on spotting a group of Arab men among whom one is the brother of his mistress who might thrash him for ill-treating her. Algiers has a dry hot climate which means the author completely took advantage of the fact that such a depressing setting would naturally have characters who live sorrowful lives. All of this is terribly miserable and I didn’t want to associate this misery into my life especially when I feel the dull rains are already creating a not-so-pleasant atmosphere where I live, putting me into a foul mood for hours at a stretch.
I have never hated the rains with such a dramatic intensity as I am hating it this season. Usually Camus’s writing which I associate with depression anyway, perks up the thinker (if I may say so) in me. I had also begun reading The Plague last month when a friendly bookseller gave his beloved copy to me seeing my love for Camus. I have to write here that even the most dreary landscapes have come alive in my imagination but the ones mentioned in The Plague just refused to get away from my eyes. I dreamt about plague ridden ancient citadels of Rome for weeks at end. Something about ancient cities and their perishing reasons that come down to either geographical or biological upheavals has me interested for a long time. But my reluctance to focus on Camus’s writing in either The Plague or The Outsider has got to do with his basic premises of treating the subjects. As a young woman who looks towards life with passion and soul, I abhorred Mr. Meursault’s character for its lifeless and cold attitude. I might just as well start resenting existential crisis solely for the reason of having read Camus’s extreme characters who don’t fit in society. I know that is the point of his writing but I have this sliver of hope for everyone who shows signs of instability and boredom with their lives that they can shape their existence in a better way if they take it upon themselves rather than giving it up altogether on destiny and fate. I am huge believer in active and sustained course of actions rather than passive submissiveness to problems. It doesn’t help when one reads Camus and decides to compare everything that he so vividly, I must say, paints with his words. They prick and trick us into believing everything he writes to be true. A good writer must be successful at doing so to his readers, but it becomes burdensome when such questions harm us more than solving our existing crisis. For all of Camus’s writing strength, I generally give up his books halfway during my first read and reread them usually after a long time just so to dust away the seeds of misery he seems to be planting in his readers’ minds.
I have seen young readers in their early twenties’ read Camus and I have always wondered at their thoughts about this writer and his depressing take on life and humans. I started reading Camus fairly late in my life, after I turned twenty-five. It also perhaps was good because his hold on sorrow and its depths would have otherwise crushed my senile self in my early reading years. Some writings we must read at an age group when perhaps they are long past their relevance. I certainly don’t regard reading to be a compulsive vocation as a person but it’s always wonderful to have an alternate world of theories where we can dwell as freely as we wish to. The real world often traps our minds and degenerates them with the material availability of possessions, but the reading world opens up channels of vast multiple routes that we can hop into without their implications burdening our souls. This is the reason why Camus is so successful in hammering his readers with a guilt of looking into their behaviour and finding something amiss that tries to shatter their protected bubble of existence. So often, he breaks my anger into different balls of satiated energy that I throw back into the world and announce to my heart and mind that spirits once ignited are hard to extinguish by mere mortals.
Years ago, when I first read ‘A Tale of Two Cities’ and last week when I re-read it, I realized this one feeling I had even then that no matter who you trust, however trustworthy and kind they seem, you’ll end up getting betrayed and hurt. And, its very true even today. Human nature just hasn’t evolved over time. These characteristics of Anger, Jealousy, Hatred are still pretty much alive and kicking us with their ugly heads more than ever. Dickens knew what he was writing. Us, humans- we’ve set up boundaries for everyone, even ourselves. We won’t cross them even when we know we are wrong, or mistaken or that someone is in distress because of us. We love massaging our petty mindsets about our greatness and our potential when the only thing that should really matter is being a better human being. A better person to our own selves and to others. That would do a big service to the entire mankind than anything ever done. Of course, we are bound to get disappointed with people because we tend to measure and see everyone according to our set notions and ideals of perfection. For this to not happen, developing an attitude of kindness largely helps. Try accommodating people’s whims and eccentricity because they are just how we look at them through our eyes. If we think they are betraying us, yes it’s largely a figment of our own imagination. And Lord, how abundantly are we blessed with a wile imagination! What I always feel through all of this is the loss. Sorrow washes over me and refuses to let me part with the goer’s belongings. Not material but meta-physical. Yes, they reign on in my mind for a long time. It’s absurd to think I would give so much importance to someone so that they eventually affect my life. Yes, despite trying to get a firm hold over my attachments and the greed for human association and feeling loved by all, I fail mostly.
Human life is dreary. However, one thing that helps me get over the chaos life presents is kindness. Be kind to your own self and you shall see the kindness in the world. Yes, it sounds idealistic, and many of us are idealists who live in a seemingly bad world of competitive edge and being better than others surroundings, but this world of kind people is possible. It’s not just an ideal. It’s a way of living life. Let it go. Let things unfold at their pace. Learn to forgive and forget. That’s how meaningful your existence will be. Hold grudges and we hold hot cinders in our heart forever. Who burns? We do. How to avoid being burnt? Simple mantra- Let it go. There are plenty of happy tales untold in the world. They need our voices, happy, excited, gleeful voices. Let’s go unveil them. Or we could sit all day long mourning our losses. I think not. Happiness beckons. Spread the love and cheer. One life, is all we have! Make it remarkable. Amen.
I was going through my diary entries from last year and found the following lines written on one of the pages.
‘Summer days I remember
The Sultry melanch’
I don’t quite recall now why I have left that word incomplete and where do these lines belong. I have never left anything unfinished and this is really a mystery to me. The first two entries on the diary page are lines from Dylan Thomas and T.S. Eliot. It’s quite strange to be honest. I have googled a very many combinations of these incomplete lines but nothing has turned up so far. I am not sure if this is a poem or a verse. Aah! I wish I could just go back to last year when i was writing it and finish the lines. I get quite restless if I can’t decipher a puzzle. And this is nothing short of a mystery.
I suppose its time hasn’t come yet. Someday I will know what words come next to melancholy. Right now I feel what Virginia Woolf once felt.
I wish it were possible. Things come to such a standstill when we don’t know what it is that we are looking for. There is a constant search for something that we haven’t seen and yet we long for it. Longings and belongings also bring a great grief for those who cling to them. One of my favourite poems by Dylan Thomas is Love in the Asylum and he writes in there,
A stranger has come
To share my room in the house not right in the head,
A girl mad as birds
I may without fail
Suffer the first vision that set fire to the stars.
I forever feel enamoured by that stranger. Is it me or my imagination that each poet tries to tell me what I don’t wish to accept about myself? I am learning to embrace both the stranger and the girl who’s mad as hell but knows she can get out of this misery to fall into another reverie, even if it is not forever.
All writers are a sum of their experiences.
Heard this in an independent movie I saw on a dreary rainy morning. It might be a little delusional to write about seeing the starry night before it started raining so hard that it was impossible not to curse the fat raindrops for blocking my glasses. I ate a giant scoop of cold ice-cream that cut harshly through my teeth and sent shivering down my entire body. I walked in the rain, aware of the water gushing through the streets and through my summer sandals. I don’t know why I wear them usually in the rains. Something about splashing water around the ankles makes disliking the rains a little bit more acceptable.
Last night, I had strange dreams about my friends who are readers. I met them in my dream while they were tying their shoelaces, ready to spring through glass doors with yellow walls. Amusing how I can recollect these little details but not the actual conversation from the dream. One of them was crying over something and I hated seeing this in the dream. She is a very strong girl and not even in my dreams could I ever imagine somebody like her in tears. I hope she is all right, Would it be strange if I call her and share the dream? Maybe in a few years, I will tell her about it. It’s amusing that my dislike for rain is creating such wistful moments in my head. I went on the terrace and tried not to get drenched in the rain while looking at people moving in the streets trying to avoid the gushing water from the cars. People look so different when viewed from a distance. Everything they do, unmindful of someone else watching them is sheerly surreal. And the rain doesn’t seem too mindful of my thoughts when I make my disdain so visible to others who love it. Some days are sweet, some hardly pass by without a mention of all things sorrowful.
I wish to drive away these images stuck in my head of the people I’ve been before and turn a new leaf every single time I look up at the sky. I hope whoever is reading this knows I am speaking to you and those delusions you and I keep having about the universe we know doesn’t exist but still don’t stop dreaming and believing in it. All things matter just in this moment, as I write this, it is raining outside and through the windows I see the yellow skies, depressing as hell and yet recollect how once upon a time I walked through such rain to meet myself. It was, but, a long time ago. I remember a guitar string and the music we thought we heard through the vacuum, of the conversations I thought I will never forget throughout the life but whose beginnings I’ve begun to lose somewhere in my mind itself. I am not sure if I am making them all up, or just recollecting the fragments in a vain attempt of trying to keep you near me, in myself. If only it were possible I’ll never let you go, your words, your laughter, the way you look at me that cuts through my soul, and makes me uncomfortable as if you know what I am thinking. I wish that moment never passed by but now that it has, all I do is close my eyes and look through my eyelids, remembering you. Seeing through your honey-eyed gaze, I feel so new. Come soon, whenever you can. Know that I am here, waiting to talk to you in person, our late-night walks and defending ourselves against our thoughts. It is such a comfort to walk side by side, engrossed in the meaning of words we fight for, never realising these stay only in bits and parts of talks I struggle to keep pieced together in my mind.
This is where I head in my reverie when I think of you and all the people we’ve been before. Tricking me into revealing something and reviving the old memories because someday even those might fade away. Slowly there will come a time when I’ll forget dates and time and moments of the day I can so vividly recall now. Whenever that happens, I will be happy if I have you to share this, knowing you will always fill in the blanks of things I am forgetting. If only I had a memory chalet and I could keep you still in it.