Sometimes I feel there is so much that has been lost in transitions. Sometimes even things. Something was lost from the absurd collection of zillions of ticket stubs. Three favorite t-shirts too. And so many succulent slices of memories.
In between planes and trains. In between houses, stations, metro rides.
Yet I am addicted to transitions. Transitions make me feel my own skin, and everything beneath. The closest I am to being aware of being.
Being stationary makes me feel like a tree being teased by the storm. Storm pushes it around but doesn’t let it break free or when it does, it’s only to kill it by breaking it apart completely.
Dr. Faustus by Christopher Marlowe has been one of my most favorite books from my English lit grad portfolio. I had one of the most amazing moments of my life while I was writing a tutorial on it ages back. You know those moments while writing when you are simply possessed, in the most brilliant way possible. That.
Re-reading it now since I have a short story idea based on one interpretation of the play. And also re-reading it because it’s so fucking brilliant!
Give me your hand
Make room for me
to lead and follow
beyond this rage of poetry.
Let others have
the privacy of
and love of loss
Give me your hand.
Oh man. What a Sunday it turned out to be. It was as insipid as so many of the last few Sundays have been, with almost everyone in a foul mood, snickering at the fact that it’s a Sunday. The sun was as harsh as it has been since the last few days. To give you an idea, it was 42.something degree Celsius yesterday in Delhi. And then my mom came to my room where I was twisting and turning in the bed aimlessly. She announced that it was going to rain. I didn’t want to believe it. I got up suspiciously after about five minutes and walked across to the balcony, with doubt and cynicism pervading through my mind and body. But then in the next two minutes, the sky exploded.
The first girl to make me believe that it wasn’t a mirage was dancing on the ground, constantly asking her mother, who was still in the clutches of her balcony, to join her. Within the next few minutes, the park downstairs was full of men, women and so many children. And finally it sank in. I ran up to the terrace, and was joined by my brother, then a neighbour friend, then her mother-in-law and then my mother and then so many other people on the adjoining terraces. And then we all just soaked in and danced and smiled and splashed and swayed to the music of the rain. I had never seen so many people so insanely collectively happy at the same time. I fucking love rains.
“Hey. Could we do that again? I know we haven’t met, but I don’t want to be an ant. You know? I mean, it’s like we go through life with our antennas bouncing off one another, continously on ant autopilot, with nothing really human required of us. Stop. Go. Walk here. Drive there. All action basically for survival. All communication simply to keep this ant colony buzzing along in an efficient, polite manner. “Here’s your change.” “Paper or plastic?’ “Credit or debit?” “You want ketchup with that?” I don’t want a straw. I want real human moments. I want to see you. I want you to see me. I don’t want to give that up. I don’t want to be ant, you know?”
Waking Life (By Richard Linklater)