Rock Bottom

I remember it.

But I have no idea how I remember it. The memory is corrupted, somehow; it seems, to me. But I have no way of knowing. There is no way that you can trust a memory that’s 16 years old.

If it is that old, we live on disconnected fragments. Disconnection is the key, perhaps. We fill the gaps of disconnectedness the way we would imagine them to be. We pour wishful-thinking in it. Much time has passed. As a wise man once said, God gave us the ability to forget. Without wanting to, we forget. The blur remains. And we try to make sense of it. To no end.

Often I feel guilty of not remembering you all; you dead people. I do not know if I have let you go or if you have let me go. The guilt is not about how I would have saved you (though, that remains), but about how I would have spent time with you.

My best friend would call out this post and say how dark, my posts have become. She has said it already. I, however, will not deny what I feel. Mentioning death, makes this post dark. But it is not so. Death, as the cliché goes, is dark. And it is inevitable. Death, however, is not just the demise of a person.

1885: Coal Mining: Tadoba-Andhari Tiger Reserve

It is the end. End of things.

Death is a concept, not an event. Most of us cannot accept an end. It is the proverbial flogging of a dead horse. Instead of leaving the room, we concentrate on belonging. Without purpose. A promise of a long time ago, in different circumstance. Like flogging a dead horse, petting a dead horse is the same.

Undelivered.

Lies upon lies to maintain status quo. Till such time. It’s OK. Stop lying. Just say the word. Say no.

*

We will be free, eventually.

All’s Well; The Owl

One night, I was day-dreaming about being an owl. Not being an owl, actually, but looking like one. It was so late in the night, it was almost early morning. I don’t mean to say, ‘somewhere in the world, it was early morning’, but there, just right there, where I lay, it was so late in the night, it was almost early morning. You never know. (Neither do I)

It was like when once a friend said, “I am middle-aged.” I asked, “How do you know? Unless you know your exact life-span, you can never know when you are middle-aged!” I know the convention for using the term middle-age — I just think it is illogical.

Let me tell you of another conversation I had (and you may recall it, because I wrote about it, “some” time ago). Like Black and White. Whatever scale you assign for the colour range between black and white, both black and white are such tiny specks on that range, the range is almost completely grey.

It’s all sense-making. Late-night, early morning, young-age, middle-age, and old-age. Black and White. Day or night, human or animal, inside or outside. There is no sharp line that separates these pair of opposites, but a band or a scale.

Centuries of us all living together have forced us to make sense to and of each other. Irrespective of the language we employ, sense-making is the true semantic we deal in. When we made sense, things have been somewhat calm; when we didn’t make sense, we went to war; or created a Twitter handle. I prefer the Twitter handle. At least lives aren’t lost. Mostly.

Going to war is also sense-making; somewhat aggressive, but war is a means to make the other person see sense. War is akin to an actor on stage with a monologue. Who actually makes sense, however, depends on who wins the war.

I don’t know how you see it, but I believe we experience more than sense-making, naturally, i.e. when we are left to our own: not having to transmit the same experience, we aren’t limited and coerced to step-up or step down our experience to make sense – to someone else.

The experience is real even without the devices of language and expression. This experience is possible only when we leave the factory of shared constructs. And there’s nothing necessarily grand or glorious about these experiences (though, some may be), But perhaps you will agree with me my dear reader, what makes them grand and glorious, irrespective, is that they are our own.

Perhaps, you will indulge me further, by risking your “agreement” further, that these experiences matter more than sense-making. (I do not yet ask for the indulgence; only the consideration). The question that follows is how would you ask another to cherish these experiences without sense-making?

It’s just another random Thursday in my life, somewhere between late night and early morning. I am thinking: Owl: I almost look like an owl. Almost. Long way to go.

All’s well.

Divider

Optional Appendix

I recall a legend from my childhood. [I’ve over simplified it for this post; link for proper narration at the end]

/Digress Begin

Hiranyakashipu, a demon, once performed penance to Brahma (a God) to acquire immortality. PS: Demon wanted immortality to take revenge against Vishnu (another God). Brahma, though pleased with the austerity and penance, refused immortality (Bro-code). So, Hiranyakashipu chose the next best thing: a proper specification of how Hiranyakashipu could never die. He asked that he never meet his death (and this is just a representative list):

  • not in day, nor in night
  • not inside a house, nor outside
  • not on ground, not in the sky
  • not by a weapon
  • not by your creation
  • not by human or animal
… and the list goes on.
To cut a long story short, he wreaked havoc on the world after he got this boon, and the Gods kept going over the spec, wondering how to vanquish him. Then an avataar of Vishnu – Narsimha (Man-Lion), killed him.
A half-human, half-lion, who wasn’t a creation of Brahma, lifted him up, between earth and sky, on the threshold of a house, tore his entrails with claws, at twilight.
As mentioned, an oversimplistic story-telling. Hiranyakashipu was sense-making. In asking for the boon, he ignored possible experiences, and went with what was common grammar between him and Brahma. It did not include Vishnu’s experiences.

Detailed Story: Hiranyakashipu

/Digress End

A Dream, or Perhaps, Not

It was incomplete, but it was beautiful. That dream that was as true as I inhaled and exhaled.

Eyes wide awake, watching the reality around me; there’s a soft blur now, but the dream was sharp and real, when my eyes were closed and I, for a while though it may be, was in a different world. I was outside of me; seeing myself — it was a happy instance; which in this world it can never be.

1968

Yet, it was my world, and its reality was pure; like the crisp sunshine of these southern winter mornings that I feel on my bare neck, under the netted shadows of old trees. It was not another world for sure. It was a time: either experienced and forgotten, or one that was soon due. But one thing was sure.

It was a happy one.

We all know it; for that sweet smile that wakes from a dream, cannot be suppressed; even when aware and awake. It is an empty sense of a foiled recollection; but we know deep down why we smile.

In our innocence, we call it a dream.

Instead of Writing …

Instead of writing, may be I should draw something. Hmm. Here’s a box.

A Box

Why? I do not know. I just felt like a box. A box is nice especially when it encloses a gift. It’s not such a good thing when it encloses us. Some may say that a box is not good; it limits. Others may say that a box is good; it defines. Be what it may be, a box is just a box. It has no agenda. It seeks nothing. It’s a box and it continues being a box.

A box may make us happy or sad, but the box itself doesn’t feel anything. I like boxes. After I take out the things that come in these boxes, I never throw the boxes away.

Boxes come in a few colours. But, most boxes are brown. A dull uniform brown. I think, boxes should be made in many, many colours. Boxes don’t feel anything. So it won’t matter to them, what colour they are. But colourful boxes will make those who make boxes, happy. As well as those who receive these colourful boxes. Boxes travel a lot.

Boxes are cool.

A Vintage Moment

Not this one. This is just a moment in time; now.

Window Frame

In due course, it will be a vintage moment. When something wonderful was thought of and created, even if it was just in the tightly confined vast mindspace unlimited possibility.

Hello 2017

There’s an uncanny silence to the way this year has started. Not freaky or weird, just odd, perhaps. Not that I was expecting some big-bang event, yet that sense of a New year isn’t apparent.

Puducherry Boatman

Puducherry (Pondicherry), India. It was a good morning

One step that we take, crossing a milestone, is the same as the thousand steps we took to reach the milestone. The step itself, or the milestone mean nothing. It is the sense of that step that becomes celebratory.

It is that sense which is worthy of being cherished.

A Beautiful Story

I’d like to write a beautiful story. I am unable, however.

Because there isn’t one available. In contemporary strife and disharmony, the beautiful stories are lost. It’s not that there aren’t beautiful stories. There are, many of them. They are just smeared by swatches of current ugliness. So, we don’t see these beautiful stories for what they are. We refer to the ugly smudges.

Boatman - 3

From the stink and sludge of the faecal remains of an unnecessary and useless debate, we will have to rescue the beautiful stories; lest the smears become their identity and they sink to the bottom of the sink.

We shall not gather beauty from ugliness, nor intellect from a slow temperament, nor fiery passion from disciplined apathy, but in all things shall reap as we sow, and must sow the wind before we can reap the whirlwind. ~ Sri Aurobindo, in “Early Cultural Writings”

And that gives us hope; for the ugliness in which these beautiful stories lie with extended arms, is artifice; one swipe of our hands and we will see the beauty and embrace it forever. And it will be our own, forever.

All we will need is a gentle long wash & shower in cold water.

There is hope, yet.