A Life in Indigo

The Offering

noreply@blogger.com (Rashmi) — Sat, 17 Sep 2011 00:33:00 +0000

(Dug into the archives for this one. Thought the space could do with some updating.)

Moments fall from my eyes
and collect in a silver bowl
cupped in my hands, my small offering
glinting softly by the light of the moon.

I bend over to see my reflection
and your eyes look back at me,
shining dimly like starlight scattered
on a snowy meadow at night.

The moon behind you throws
its protective silver cloak
over your shoulders. A stray breath
meets the shimmering surface

and the ripples make the moon move
like a thousand reeds swaying in the wind.
I raise my hands to the sky
and make my offering to the argent god,

releasing my intent into the prussian blue.
I close my eyes and let go of the bowl,
wondering if the sound of its free fall
will be broken by your cradling hands.

Pottery

noreply@blogger.com (Rashmi) — Sat, 16 Jul 2011 21:02:00 +0000

Had an interesting morning learning the basics of pottery. Quite relaxing indeed.

That's an electric potter's wheel with the first cone of clay in the center. Went from this first attempt:

to this, with about five more in between:

Forgot the camera, so phone had to serve as stand-in.

Nice, sunny summer day here. The solstice is way past, but it's still not fall yet (phew). Hope all is going well for all of you.

Final Cut

noreply@blogger.com (Rashmi) — Thu, 14 Oct 2010 18:38:00 +0000

Strange are these seas,
the waters dark and silent.
The north star is hidden,
her compass broken.
She held the rope firm
so his stroke could fall dead center
and he could drift alongside,
the shadows between them
now the only string
that binds him to her.
She can’t see the mooring line
that lies limp in her lap.
Her fingers caress the frayed ends,
the texture oddly tender.
The cut is fresh.
The fibers of the rope still tingle in anticipation
of the next twist that made it whole.
Like a lost limb, it thinks the rest of its length is still at hand.
She hears his wake fading in the dark stillness,
a gentle lapping of water that once mingled with hers.
She reaches for the lantern hidden under the bow.
The flame is low but burns still.
She cups her hand over the thin glass,
feels his warmth radiate up her arms into her chest.
She returns it to its resting place,
packing it safely,
for at the end of this darkness,
its gentle ember will ignite the dawn
of a thousand radiant suns.

Wind

noreply@blogger.com (Rashmi) — Fri, 16 Jul 2010 03:22:00 +0000

An alien wind blew across her face,
a wind that didn’t belong there,
like an uninvited gale over lands
already laid claim to by a choking stillness.
It rushed across crow’s feet and furrows,
blackheads and blemishes,
trying hard to stir tiny remnants
of days long swept away.
Trees swayed hard in the face of that wind,
grasses bent over and touched the earth.
Not a leaf nor twig was left unturned
as they scattered over paths
once gently trod by life.
The echoes of those footfalls
had long since been buried
under an epitaph that read
“Here lies the promise of eternity.”
She turned her back to the wind
and returned to her tomb.

The Bard

noreply@blogger.com (Rashmi) — Mon, 21 Jun 2010 22:06:00 +0000

The Bard ca. 1817 by John Martin (1789–1854). Oil on canvas.
Inspired, it is said, by a Thomas Gray poem based on a Welsh tradition that said that Edward I after his conquest ordered that any bards found be put to death.

Radio Silence or Nonsense non-verse

noreply@blogger.com (Rashmi) — Sat, 29 May 2010 23:27:00 +0000

Waves of static shouldered sound,
bridged the miles, carried word
of steeds of steel and words in a seal
of moments shared in timeless days.

Through hot sun and a windy breeze
rides a far rider riding far, further away,
his back to the east, face to leftern sea,
following a rainbow to where sky meets earth
and his fortune kisses a golden beach.

Back east near a rill an apocalypse came,
the road fell away, the cliff drew near.
Suspended animation over the valley floor,
too far above to see the rocks,
soon bones will shatter, all will be lost.

The chute, where’s the chute?
Shoot... there is none.

Darkly come dreams of flowing lava,
clutching, holding, can't go, can't go.

Dove too deep, tugged too hard,
line snapped in two, the connection lost.

Now reach for the tuner, but can’t hear a sound.
Short waves, long waves, now emptying waves,
carry dimly diminishing sounds of static
that wait for a breathless vacuum once more
and a deafening quiet to boom through the box.

“Radio what’s new... someone still loves you...”**

(**The last brilliant lines courtesy of Queen.)

First Buds of Spring

noreply@blogger.com (Rashmi) — Sun, 04 Apr 2010 16:39:00 +0000

They're alive! The trees are alive!

For some reason this sight reminded me of "Moths" by Jethro Tull, even though summer is still a while away. I love those lyrics.

Moths...Jethro Tull
The leaded window opened
to move the dancing candle flame
And the first Moths of summer
suicidal came.
And a new breeze chattered
in its May-bud tenderness ---
Sending water-lillies sailing
as she turned to get undressed.
And the long night awakened
and we soared on powdered wings ---
Circling our tomorrows
in the wary month of Spring.
Chasing shadows slipping
in a magic lantern slide ---
Creatures of the candle
on a night-light-ride.
Dipping and weaving --- flutter
through the golden needle's eye
in our haystack madness. Butterfly-stroking
on a Spring-tide high.
Life's too long (as the Lemming said)
as the candle burned and the Moths were wed.
And we'll all burn together as the wick grows higher ---
before the candle's dead.
The leaded window opened
to move the dancing candle flame.
And the first moths of summer
suicidal came
to join in the worship
of the light that never dies
in a moment's reflection
of two moths spinning in her eyes.

Little Things

noreply@blogger.com (Rashmi) — Wed, 31 Mar 2010 23:58:00 +0000

I don’t think I’ve ever been quite so happy at the sight of flies. At the stables today, walking through a stall that had recently been “used” by a horse, I actually saw flies and I felt strangely elated at the sight. It must have been the specter of spring that did it. If the flies are out, spring's gotta be near.

It’s the little things in life.

Oh, yeah.

It’s always the little things.

..........

Yesterday at the lone bookstore that serves oh, about a 30 mile radius (could even be more), I picked up a book for one quote that caught my eye:

When you cook potatoes, you need to keep the fire going for at least fifteen or twenty minutes. You cannot eat raw potatoes. In the same way, you have to cook your anger on the fire of mindfulness, and it may take ten minutes, or twenty minutes, or longer.

-- Thich Nhat Hanh, “Taming the Tiger Within: Meditations on Transforming Difficult Emotions”

What a pearl of wisdom. And that’s not sarcasm. My only question is, what if it takes longer than you can count in minutes? What if it takes days or months? Or years even? Does the anger cook down to a point where it burns to a coal and transforms into something unrecognizable? Or does it simply evaporate like water left on the fire too long?

..........

The sun is back to setting over the river and will soon be at a point where it’s straight in my eye as I sit at my table. But where previously I have wished for the sun to go away (you tend to do that when it beats down on you relentlessly 115-degree day after 115-degree day), I now wish for the sun to stay, since it really doesn’t show itself much from November to March.

..........

And the point of this blog... was...?

The Fourth Dimension Blog

noreply@blogger.com (Rashmi) — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 16:46:00 +0000

Getting back to writing is sometimes more of a task than I would like to think. There are phases, it seems, when words flow and some when words dry up. And sometimes I just want more hours in the day to do everything that I want (this includes a healthy overdose of daydreaming). But as H. Jackson Brown, Jr. said, "Don't say you don't have enough time. You have exactly the same number of hours per day that were given to Helen Keller, Pasteur, Michaelangelo, Mother Teresa, Leonardo da Vinci, Thomas Jefferson, and Albert Einstein."

Oh well. I stand chastised.

In the last month or so I wrote a tiny amount of stuff that didn't see light of day on this space. Primarily because I thought it was too lame. So my little OpenOffice.org file grew by two pages (yeah... prolific...) and I didn't quite know what to do with it. Till an old school friend of mine and I got back in touch. As she mentions, we've known each other since 1983 (and no, I don't care to count how many years that is, I'm in denial) and ever since I can remember, our interactions have been far from mundane. Interesting, quirky, even life-changing at times (thanks for all that support back in '02, G, couldn't have done it without you).

Anyway. In the last few years she discovered a passion for poetry and recently started a blog called The Fourth Dimension Blog, which is an off-shoot of a community by the same name on Orkut. She and a friend of hers intend to review poetry posted on the Orkut community and so provide a sort of feedback forum for writers there. Insanely enough, she would like me to review some of the stuff that appears there and as an introduction, posted my lame poem there. Being the good friend that she is, she said she loved it. And so I am grateful to her and emmah for their feedback.

Meanwhile, back at the homestead... March isn't over yet, so I'm keeping the bubbly fully corked till Spring finally arrives. Hope all has been well with everyone.

Cheers!

Hopeful Twilight

noreply@blogger.com (Rashmi) — Mon, 01 Mar 2010 03:49:00 +0000

Something Borrowed

noreply@blogger.com (Rashmi) — Sun, 14 Feb 2010 23:20:00 +0000

A passage from "My Lost Youth" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:

There are things of which I may not speak;

There are dreams that cannot die;

There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,

And bring a pallor into the cheek,

And a mist before the eye.

And the words of that fatal song

Come over me like a chill:

"A boy's will is the wind's will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

Untitled

noreply@blogger.com (Rashmi) — Sat, 06 Feb 2010 02:25:00 +0000

a constant presence
a constant absence

a veiled sun

an eclipsed moon

a piece of time
that fell from the tiled backwash
of moments created
under clashing stars

a piece of time
ground to dust
that fell into the cracks
between the floorboards

a blackened stain
on an oak table

a dust mark
on an empty wall

a whiff of fragrance
in a dresser drawer

a fading image
trying to break its way out
of a dull silver frame
from another life

a guitar without a pick
echoing songs never sung
on the days when music
should have filled the shadows

the darkness of dusk

the lightness of dawn

a constant presence
a constant absence

A Tiny Post...

noreply@blogger.com (Rashmi) — Thu, 04 Feb 2010 04:58:00 +0000

...as promised.

sometimes you have to listen to the borg...

"resistance is futile."

This Little Space

noreply@blogger.com (Rashmi) — Wed, 03 Feb 2010 04:09:00 +0000

Is it just me or is time feeling like it’s really flying these days? Somehow I thought January would stick around a little longer. I guess it had some place to go. Oh well. I’ll make do with February instead.

Since I’m not an “established writer,” I guess it falls to me to toot my own horn. For those who’ve been following this space for a while (and my most humble, gracious thanks to those who do), you know that I’ve been contributing off and on to this blog called Six Sentences. Well, the editor there decided to publish a little collection of sorts called 6S, The 6S Review, Issue I and thought to include one of my pieces in there. You can find the book here. Okay, end of plug.

Meanwhile... It’ll be almost three years since I created this space and about a year since I started updating it on a regular basis. And it’s grown quite a bit, my little nook. There were months when I was writing here almost every day and months like the last three when it was tough just to think. In retrospect, though, it was a balanced enough year... 75-25 in favor. That’s not a bad ratio, if you think about it. I was tempted to say 70-30, but then I decided to be charitable about it :-). Either way, it was still a good year. And I’m thankful for it.

I’ve often struggled with the fact that this space doesn’t really have any true purpose or direction. I mean, it’s not like it’s built around a central theme. It’s not a poetry blog. It’s not strictly about my life. It’s not all about the arts. There is no one central idea except what strikes my fancy. It’s quite scattered, in fact. In strictly journalistic terms, that’s a Very Bad Thing. But this isn’t someone else’s newspaper or magazine. I’m done with that for now.

This, then, is little bits and pieces of my mind that I choose to put out there. And as for the lack of structure, that’s kind of like my life so far... can’t stereotype it, doesn’t necessarily follow set rules, doesn’t always conform and if left to its own devices, finds its own true path.

Checking back in...

noreply@blogger.com (Rashmi) — Wed, 20 Jan 2010 22:44:00 +0000

First, here's wishing you a happy new year. It's still January, and though it's nearly the end of the third week, I still think it's acceptable to wish people a good rest of the year.

It's been a month since I’ve posted anything. It only took that long for me to finish “The Cellist of Sarajevo,” and, as always, it was a nail-biting finish to the deadline (read as: finished the last half 45 minutes before book club began). Not that I’ve read all the book club reads in the two (wow... two) years since I’ve been with the club. Thankfully, it’s not the kind of rabid reader group where not having read the book for some reason or the other morphs you into a lawless outcast. But this was one that I wanted to finish before we all met last evening.

It was a very good read. I had no idea it was based on an actual event till I read the author’s afterword. The story centers around a cellist who decides to pay homage to 22 people who were killed in a mortar shelling attack while waiting to buy bread in an already war-torn neighborhood during the siege of Sarajevo in the early '90s. He does this by playing Albinoni’s Adagio in G Minor at the site of the shelling every day at 4 p.m. for 22 days. This incident actually did occur on May 27, 1992 and a cellist, Vedran Smailovic, did indeed play the piece of music as described. He was able to leave Sarajevo and now lives in Northern Ireland, according to the author, Steven Galloway’s afterword. The novel Galloway’s constructed is fictional and revolves around this cellist. It was refreshing to read a well-written, well thought out book after a while.

Adagio In G Minor - Tomaso Gio...

The piece of music itself is beautiful. It is sad yet uplifting in its own way. Interestingly, The Doors also played their version of this adagio and it appears in the 40th anniversary box set album and during ending credits of Oliver Stone’s 1991 movie “The Doors.”

There’s a lot to be said for the power of music. On days when I listen to music I always find a certain peace, as though all is right with the world. Music, to me, is a basic expression of thought and emotion. Sound came before words. Words can describe music. But you don't need words to understand it. A true piece of music comes from somewhere deep within a composer's soul.

It’s hard not to be touched by the sound of someone’s soul.

Downside, Upside

noreply@blogger.com (Rashmi) — Mon, 21 Dec 2009 22:43:00 +0000

Today was the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year, the day with the least daylight hours. In the western world they call it the first day of winter. (Maybe they should switch things around and mark Thanksgiving as the first day of winter, but that's just me.)

The downside? It only gets colder from here on out. We've already had a few days with temps in the minus fahrenheits. And there are only more such days to come in the next three months. No respite till March, certainly not up here in the vast desolation of the frozen tundra.

The upside? The days get longer. Minute by minute, they will get longer. And that is a huge upside. At least for me. Call me nuts, I still think the winter solstice should be celebrated as the start of a new year. What better marker than more daylight every day? The sun is out longer, the voices of angels in the air move from whisper to song... and there's definitely more cowbell on the horizon...

A Piece of Auden

noreply@blogger.com (Rashmi) — Sat, 19 Dec 2009 19:29:00 +0000

Saw “Four Weddings and a Funeral” last night again. (I couldn’t tell you how many times I’ve seen it, because I’ve lost count.) It was on Turner Classic Movies. Fitting, I think. It is a classic. Great writing, good performances, wonderful moments... the whole package.

The highlight of the movie for me is the scene in which the character Matthew (actor John Hannah), recites the poem “Funeral Blues” by W.H. Auden at the funeral of his partner Gareth. If you asked me for a list of favorite poems, this one would be among the top few. And Hannah’s recitation of it is outstanding. (Click on that link and read the poem as you listen to him.)

Funeral Blues
by W.H. Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

One would think this was written during moments of indescribable loss. There is speculation that Auden (Feb. 21, 1907 – Sept. 29, 1973) wrote this for a lost partner. However, the documented story is that this was written for the soprano Hedli Anderson and in fact had an earlier version, which was a parody of a poem mourning a politician and was written for a play. I guess we’ll never really know what spurred the poem. I’d like to think it was a good idea brilliantly executed.

On another note, have started reading next month’s book club read, “The Cellist of Sarajevo” by Steven Galloway. It’s turning out to be a good read. Let’s see how it ends up.

Men's Fiction

noreply@blogger.com (Rashmi) — Fri, 04 Dec 2009 01:48:00 +0000

Between keeping the dog out of trouble, cat 1 from licking at her sore and cat 2 from becoming a closet hermit (he sleeps in his cube in our closet... and I really should have thought more before naming the animals... I kind of like cat 1 and cat 2 but then it would have devolved into agonizing over which gets called 1 and which 2... I mean should the girl cat have been 1 and the boy cat 2 but that would be favoring the female or should boy cat have been 1 but that’s patriarchal... I’m rambling...)...

Let’s start that again.

Between keeping the pets happy and myself sane (and that’s a tough job in and of itself), I found this interesting site that calls itself the first and only journal devoted to men’s fiction – Bull: Fiction for Thinking Men. Now, they do confess to not knowing what exactly men’s fiction is and say that it’s probably got to do more with style than content. On their submissions guidelines they solicit stories that “address men's issues, span male perspectives, or otherwise appeal to a male audience.” They “love the off-color but still have some class... it ain’t the place for trash.”

Naturally, one is curious. So I took a look at their current issues online. All the authors appear to be men and most of the stories are definitely from the male perspective. And yet, some of them are stories that you could find anywhere, not necessarily only under “for men.”

Which begs the questions...

What DO men like to read when it comes to fiction?

Can women writers cater to this genre? Or would a woman writer’s name cause the male reader to interpret the writing as female-oriented despite content and style?

Think films for a second... chick flicks, bromances and out-and-out testosterone-filled action movies. An Ang Lee can direct a movie like “Sense and Sensibility” and interpret an inherently female mindset with sensitivity and accuracy and it’s not such a big deal. But when a Kathryn Bigelow directs an action movie (“The Hurt Locker,” “Near Dark,” “Point Break”) based entirely around men, it’s hailed as a great day for women directors.

Conversely, it seems that the literary world’s corridors of contemporary romance fiction are largely dominated by women and a lot of people seem to think men can’t write romance fiction as well as women can. The Telegraph of the U.K. had an interesting debate on the subject three years ago.

But back to the spark behind this particular post... men’s fiction.

Anyone out there have a take on this?

I'd Like to Thank...

noreply@blogger.com (Rashmi) — Thu, 26 Nov 2009 01:18:00 +0000

I guess we all have something or the other to be thankful for (the millions of turkeys that made the ultimate sacrifice in the name of gastronomic pleasures aren't thankful, of course, but... you get my drift... and yes, for the record... I'm a vegetarian, but if you like turkey, go for it...)

Among the obvious: loving family and true friends; the grace of God for the roofs over our heads and the walls that keep the elements at bay; good health and the jobs that keep the home fires burning; the sun that warms and the moon and stars that light the dark nights; the dreams that spur us on and the ability to work hard that helps us realize them...

Among the not-so-obvious: the sweet old lady at the checkout counter and her bright, warm smile that makes even the worst day all better; warm puppies and loving cats (yes, they do exist); artists and musicians and the pictures and songs they create that remind us of all that is beautiful in this world; the young man who stopped and held the door open while a mother of four navigated her way out of the store; the weird and eccentric nutters, who can at times challenge our ways of thinking and help us see things differently, or help cement the way we think about things; the Internet; the summer and winter solstices; the four seasons (Vivaldi's, too); the earthy smell of the stables and horses; dry spices; the scent of lavender; the color maroon; sandalwood incense; a good conversation; warm sand; fresh snow; tylenol; coffee; dark chocolate... It's a long list...

What are you thankful for?

"This Big Dead End"

noreply@blogger.com (Rashmi) — Thu, 19 Nov 2009 15:06:00 +0000

So, here's a scene from one of my favorite movies (yours too, go ahead, admit it...) that's been playing around in my head for a couple of weeks. If I can find a video clip, i'll upload it, but for now, try and remember the raw emotion of the moment when Meg Ryan was wailing and Billy Crystal was trying to listen:

Sally: And I’m gonna be 40.
Harry: When?
Sally: Someday.
Harry: In eight years.
Sally: But it’s there. It’s just sitting there like this big dead end. And it’s not the same for men. Charlie Chaplin had babies when he was 73.
Harry: Yeah, but he was too old to pick ‘em up.

Frodo

noreply@blogger.com (Rashmi) — Sun, 15 Nov 2009 21:57:00 +0000

The newest addition to our little brood.

How Much of the Writer is in the Writing?

noreply@blogger.com (Rashmi) — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 21:52:00 +0000

An anonymous commenter left an interesting question under one of my posts asking, “I wonder, how much of a writer writes about him or herself in their work.” I was going to comment below it in reply, but I think the question is actually interesting enough to devote a post or two to.

When you start writing, almost every instructor (or how-to book) tells you that the best place to start is to “write what you know.” I would love to be able to attribute that to someone famous, but the origins of that little pearl are unfortunately lost in the misty morass of humanity’s creative output (if you know who said that, please let me know).

Now, unless you’re a born Nobel laureate in literature, when you’re starting out it’s always good practice to write what you know because that’s the only way you can check on the authenticity of your writing voice. You know your subject, or the emotion or feeling behind the character you’re writing about, and so are more clearly able to express what you want the reader to experience. As you progress, though, and become more confident in your voice, imagination does begin to take over, especially when creating fiction. Writers develop situations and characters that are compelling or interesting to pursue.

And here’s where my answer to the commenter comes in. In some cases, like in autobiographical writing, it’s a no-brainer: Yes, it’s all about what the writer thinks and feels and goes through in life. When it’s a work of fiction, it’s entirely possible that there was a starting point in the author’s experience somewhere that led to the piece, a trigger point, or incidents in a writer’s life that he or she used to create a fictional story around. Margaret Mitchell, for instance, is said to have drawn from her encyclopedic knowledge of the Civil War era and some dramatic moments from her own life to create “Gone With the Wind.”

It’s also entirely possible that there was no such incident or experience that led to the creation of the piece of fiction a writer has created. I’m quite sure that JRR Tolkien, for instance, didn’t actually come into contact with brave little hobbits and magnificent ents or time travel to some mythical past to scale treacherous mountains and wade through murky swamps before he wrote “The Lord of the Rings.” And Dame Agatha Christie wasn’t actually involved in the alarming numbers and types of crimes she has written about in her books. For more examples, delve into any amount of pulp fiction, crime noir, historical romances, etcetera.

And yet from the reader’s perspective, understandably there are pieces of writing that seem to reflect a writer’s deep personal experience. The only way to find out, though, is to come out and ask. Will you get an answer? It depends on the writer.

As I wrote in a past post, I like the response Don McLean gave when asked what American Pie means.

“You will find many interpretations of my lyrics but none of them by me… sorry to leave you all on your own like this but long ago I realized that songwriters should make their statements and move on, maintaining a dignified silence.”

Checking In...

noreply@blogger.com (Rashmi) — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 15:19:00 +0000

Ah, well... it's been a while. After a busy, somewhat harrowing first 10 days of the month, things are finally settling down. For those in the loop... we finally decided to get only one puppy. And so Frodo it is. Needless to say, he's an adorable, energetic, willful and playful little hooligan. I could go on and on, but I'll save everyone the sap. Photos will in all likelihood follow soon.

And oh, before I sign off, if you're an Aerosmith fan and were worried that Steven Tyler was going to quit the band (yes, rock news was apparently rife with rumors allegedly started by guitarist Joe Perry), you can breathe. Tyler, it seems, was back on stage with Perry at Fillmore New York and was quite vehement that he was not intending to quit the band. Phew. Close call. Certainly made the book of small spats, this one did.

Music of Me

noreply@blogger.com (Rashmi) — Sun, 01 Nov 2009 04:47:00 +0000

Ever since I can remember, I’ve always tried to have an open mind about different genres of the arts. It could be openness towards different kinds of music, or reading different kinds of books... always tried to be inclusive as opposed to exclusive. And I'm always a little amazed when people refuse certain types of books or music in their lives or say they “hate” certain kinds of music or books or art or what have you. Like detesting the opera or hating rap or never reading science fiction to the point where it becomes a passionate revulsion.

Maybe it’s just a problem with the word “hate” and the sense of intolerance harbored therein (pointing, of course, to my intolerance of intolerance, but that’s leading me down a road I don’t much care to walk on tonight, so I’ll get to the point I thought of to begin with).

The reason I mentioned being open to different kinds of the arts was actually in reference to my music collection. Have you noticed that no matter how large a collection you have, you land up defaulting to a few select albums when you do listen to music? It definitely happens to me. Of late, especially when I’m in the car and going somewhere I know is going to take me at least half an hour to get to (not hard out here in the sticks), I find myself wanting to listen to Coldplay’s “Viva La Vida (Prospekt’s March Edition),” the soundtrack to “Across the Universe,” Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Chronicle, Vol. 1” or Joni Mitchell’s “Both Sides Now.” At home it’s either the sacred Hindu chants of the Guru Gita and the Rudram or the soundtrack to the 2005 “Pride and Prejudice.” Before this the top favs were the soundtrack to “Pulp Fiction,” Sting’s “Brand New Day,” U2’s “The Best of 1980-1990,” collections from The Buddha Bar... I could go on, but you get the point.

It’s not that I don’t want to hear those songs any more. It’s just that for the moment I’m kind of happy swimming in the tunes that I do hear. Almost like if you listened closely, you will find some bits of me in each of these albums or songs, the bits of me that are in play currently, so to speak.

Make sense?

Lampson Falls and a 6S Entry

noreply@blogger.com (Rashmi) — Sun, 25 Oct 2009 00:13:00 +0000

Cloudy, gray and rainy up in the north country here today, but we sallied forth nonetheless, hoping for a break in the weather, which we got, mercifully. It's the tail end of the fall, so the colors are not quite as brilliant, but still, we managed to catch a few good scenic views. Lampson Falls lies on the west edge of the Adirondack preserve and, according to the Department of Environmental Conservation, boasts a drop of about 100 feet. Corny as it sounds, I have to say that it was hard not to disregard the "Last of the Mohicans" theme going round and round in my head as we walked the short but rather beautiful trail to the falls. Enjoy the photos. Note: Clicking on the slideshow will take you to the Picasa page, where you can see larger photos.

On another note, one more 6S entry was used today. Check it out if you're interested.