A Week in Italics…

And I dreamed I was dying
I dreamed that my soul rose unexpectedly
And looking back down at me
Smiled reassuringly
And I dreamed I was flying


It has happened many times before, but, then I only sensed the immense physical experience of it all. Felt the body, not the soul. That one evening was different wasn’t it?

I saw her briefly on the first day, I felt her near me. In her usual glory, she smelt of her untiring belief in tomorrow, her today, busier than she yesterday did. It was nice touching down at New York. That small fling, that long moment of yearning and the longer one that will be, of nostalgia.

Globalisation, the way the pundits speak about – has nothing to with countries, civilizations or people. It is a one big world in your head. The search is all inside. Violate the laws of anatomy and physics – twist and twirl your eyes inward and see inside – if your eyes strain to make meaning – then you haven’t seen anything.

Tom & Jerry are ubiquitous. It is not a cartoon show – it is the raw philosophy of communication and its misdoings. I saw, I didn’t need a TV to see Tom & Jerry. Sex & the City is a different version in the US.

I saw a country in untainted colour – without the tarnished colour of propaganda. I saw the colour as nature intended it to be. I saw humans without them being necessarily tagged by a country.

When the face of poverty becomes an intellectual discussion in an art gallery, the intellectuals miss the point. Poverty is pure and non-aligned in all respects; its misgivings are its own – they aren’t the shameful asset of any country or people. Poverty is as artistic as the ugly child who isn’t allowed to meet the guests.

I missed her more than ever before. More than I realised and even more than I could tell her.

Hospitality is now able to make a clear statement that you are unwelcome. That was a new one for me. Guests are coloured now. What happened to “cordial and generous reception of or disposition toward guests?”

Insecurity expresses itself in a seating pattern. Think about it.

There was a Celestine conspiracy to ensure that we got to where we were supposed to get. When you have only 15 minutes to board your connecting flight, it intervenes and the flight now leaves at 4PM instead of the scheduled 2:45PM. I love the game that devil and the divine play – the human is the bacon strip between the wholemeal and the white bread. I hate being that human.

Eventually, money doesn’t matter.

I don’t know a soul who’s not been battered
I don’t have a friend who feels at ease
I don’t know a dream that’s not been shattered
Or driven to its knees


Yet, every evening it comes to bed with you in the hope that you will nurture it, make love and make it feel alive again. Such a passionate love that is, it lingers every minute of the day.

Boston. I love it, what can I say.

In one corner in the heartland I saw hope. There is still a small space for the new minorities in an otherwise monotonous world of imposed beliefs. That I got to get to this corner because of a non-believer was a small triumph.

I saw death too. A slow, incomplete death of fear. I left it to rot on the side of Mass Pike.

Food is only as good or as bad as you imagine it to be. Taste is not an attribute of the tongue, it is an attribute hidden in your mind. Open your mental taste buds and you can experience a different world.

I’ll be back home the day after. That sounds really funny now. Even more than it did before.

Every moment was bloggable, yet I shall let it be. All’s well in the land of Gaizabonts.


10 thoughts on “A Week in Italics…

  1. I am glad that all is well in the end.
    I had multiple visions as I read you today. Some familiar…sad, some new. And most of them will stay within the realms of me for a while.


  2. Would be nice if we could get a tinted summary of every week’s summary there ever was.

    Somehow it is always better to get such an RSS-like post on everything that seems to catch one person’s attention. It reveals so much of that person as it doesn’t.

    Besides it is always nice to know what things catch the fancy of a person like you, saying as i must that i have been a recent fan of yours.

    Am a rabid fan of abstraction, and what better manna could i ask for when i have come upon a goldmine of abstraction.

    Do continue with them, for as long as forever lasts.


  3. ==GG:
    Welcome to Gaizabonts!

    Glad you chose to come out of the shadows 🙂

    I like the RSS metaphor for these posts, I called them OCPD posts, and the reason now fails to come to memory.

    I’ll admit however, the abstraction dilemma continues, as a few of my readers have gone silent on this blog since the abstraction came to the fore. Some even write to me offline asking what I meant.

    If you’d like to feed on abstraction, choose the abstract category or try Deep Recess


  4. I don’t know a soul who’s not been battered
    I don’t have a friend who feels at ease
    I don’t know a dream that’s not been shattered
    Or driven to its knees

    So True …at the moment I too am fighting myself, my spirit and situations. Trying to put back the pieces of the shattered dream together …at times I tend to feel I will succeed. At times I lose hope.. Yet my conflict still goes on …


  5. So what does it mean to say that the source of existence (i.e., God) is love? I would argue the question points to the metaphysics of love rather than simply saying that God creates existence (or, the world) because God loves it. If you want to check out my post, pls see: http : // deligentia.wordpress.com / 2009 / 10 / 24 / deciphering-god-is-love /


Use your Twitter, Facebook or your WordPress account to comment

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.