The Violet Drive

noreply@blogger.com (thelostcause) — Sat, 15 Sep 2012 02:09:00 +0000

dear patrick,

noreply@blogger.com (thelostcause) — Mon, 28 Nov 2011 20:06:00 +0000

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep…tired…or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old…I grow old…
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

   - Prufrock, T.S. Eliot

She’s got everything she needs/she’s an artist, she don’t look back

noreply@blogger.com (thelostcause) — Wed, 16 Mar 2011 20:22:00 +0000

The desultory evening breeze is marking maps in the air, like sequined spirals in glass marbles. The trees seem surrounded by the dreary feeling of accustomed darkness, cowering under the silent leaves like a witness to an unsuspecting stranger. The leaves are trying to convince them that perhaps the dark is not so bad if it comes on slowly, you have time to get used to it.

The metropolitan night is the silhouette of the half-moon against gritty glass buildings, neatly wrapped around the reluctant air. You lift your gaze from the concrete sidewalk and watch her resolute steps, she moves from the doorway like a messenger from radiant climes; you remember the words ‘lights will guide you home’ from a long forgotten song. She brings with her a broken waltz, hanging to the rainbow threads of her miniature jacket. The songs she has smuggled through porcelain walls, carrying them in a glass bag, making sure not to let anyone notice. These are the songs that shall cut with tender grief; these are the words that shall levitate in the congealed air you breathe.

She whisks a lazy wisp of hair off her shoulder while you brag of your misery. The night wears a veneer, trying to hold itself together like a flapping tent. For a brief enchanted moment, she weaves a porous cosmos with bejeweled words suspended like little constellations that you marvel. A chance witness to her words, even the night is jolted out of its despair and nods pleasantly, being addicted to momentary strands of cheery thoughts. Much like the resurgent smile on a sulking guest’s face when offered the dry vermouth, everything becomes illuminated in that universe she’s winnowed away from the outside world. Time’s running out, you end up measuring the lengths of her words against the indefinite seconds; a grain of sand, a speck of dust, a pinch of salt, you hope something blocks the hourglass’ throat.

She takes brisk, busy steps; the oblique, interlaced red bricks of the road quickly dissolving one into another; you can see them getting smaller as she pulls away.

Whence no farther

noreply@blogger.com (thelostcause) — Tue, 23 Nov 2010 19:53:00 +0000

In the damp corner he sat alone, thinking of matters only known to him – wraithlike September wind and solemn dirges, furtive coincidences and freckled hands. The door guarded with the wintry pall of silence and the slavish blinds on the window shut like an octogenarian’s eyelids, his room was a dark recess befitting a grim Tibetan monk. The world belongs to those who wake up early; he remembered having heard that somewhere, however, still not ready to resign himself to the chirpy enthusiasm of the clockwork outside the walls, he preferred the enveloping kindness of the night.

He noticed the falling sand of the hourglass emptying in a minute and fifteen seconds; it seemed to have gathered time, he thought to himself, the last time he had counted the seconds, it stood at 72. A pretty little bulwark of papyrus surrounded him in a half circle – dead men and their printed words of wisdom. Chances are, you could pick a book and he’d tell you who the writer’s third cousin was, or which literary technique he’s adopted on page 317. It was in such gimmicky overtures of pubescent quasi-intellectual kitsch that he felt reassured; amidst the crowding wails of Nineteenth-century graphemes, he was an autodidact monarch watching over his second-floor empire at the bounds of boundless void. Nothing else mattered, except solitude and an endless wait. Being alone in the vacuum of the small room, he had become remarkably skilled in taking inactivity to a level never before reached; even trying not to think for increasing stretches of time. Like an indolent ingénue, he kept his gaze as empty as possible.

In another time, he was fascinated by calculus, constantly amazed by the theoretical possibility of splitting something into a million discrete pieces and then joining them all together to recreate what existed before. Although he suspected a logical fallacy, like a child in an amateur illusionist’s workshop trying to pick a trick; it seemed too good to be true even if it happened only on paper. All said and done, the euphonic chimes of mathematical reasoning soothed his nerves whenever he faced any perturbations of the worldly kind. However, this was when preoccupations almost never outweighed the immediate, and science seemed to be the biblical saviour. Sure enough, he bypassed that vaguely incipient age.

At half past six, he tried getting up and put on a shirt, stained with the afternoon tea. Reasonably sure that it’s dark outside, and his invisibility ensured, barring a few subservient streetlamps, he decided to venture outside. In the filtered moonlight and the half glow of miniature deodars he felt settled momentarily, before trifling in paltry fancies, “these Scandinavians have no idea what they’re missing out on, no wonder they’re a hypomaniac bunch. Imagine a midnight sun! Wait, but they also have polar nights. Ah, well.” It’s a Keats-walk, he thought to himself, he had always liked his sonnets; it’s a funny feeling admiring someone who died younger than you are. Tiny nacreous pebbles dotted the street, each step merging with memories held in violet mussel shells. White sheets of paper, riddled with the abandoned baritone and soprano clefs; he seemed surprised at this sudden discovery, at any rate, this city did not resemble a place for musical geniuses. A million ways of composing a life, and yet one always manages to choose the most inadequate notations. Metres ahead of him, a kamikaze walker navigated briskly, measuring the length of each step, until a petulant, creaking stone found the direction of his toe much too alluring; the burly model of kantian positivism giving a faustian fuckyou to the world.

Behind the theatrical curtains of deodars and firs, stood a sculptured plateau; a silent memento mori for wanderers, a prosecution witness for man’s hopeless stupidity. Reaching a vantage point, you sit and raise a moist gaze and grieve at the shelter of a desert pond, much like a convict condemned to drift in the infinite maze of regret and redemption.

He lay there for an hour, in that antechamber of time, in a glancing reflection of his unending days, days of white heat and distilled cold. Amidst the collected artefacts of the unyielding daily humdrum, he had developed a predilection for afterthoughts. “How obsolete, the desultory ramblings of the blasé; how singularly disappointing, the howling of rogues.”

"Decidedly the night is long and poor in counsel."

- Malone Dies, Samuel Beckett

Register

noreply@blogger.com (thelostcause) — Tue, 09 Mar 2010 20:16:00 +0000

And then some days, you take out the cotton balls out of the spare room.
To dip them in the blue-grey ink of your sorrow, and spoil pages with rhymes.

Happy Birthday

noreply@blogger.com (thelostcause) — Wed, 27 Jan 2010 22:02:00 +0000

They chant in unison, the twenty-five flickers of flame,
Busied by the convex glassed beads; the pebbles of blazes slain.
Settling down in a palette, the greasy involutes,
Quirked in space, glued together for safekeeping time.

The waxwing in the clock sings a thread of a ballad,
Years, abstruse, can not betray their fluidity to her.
The lilacs, watching through the fragile blinds,
Line up gracefully for the tinkling chimes.

Outside the window, dew floats on a mauve cloudlet,
Strayed from the velvet mist, it rests on the solitary rosette.
The shadow lines spin on the ground, weaving a sunburst.
And the forlorn autumn leaves pause and brood;
Throwing a glance to the glazed sun and the greying twig.

Songs I didn't tell you about

noreply@blogger.com (thelostcause) — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 20:41:00 +0000

Keep Me In Your Heart - Warren Zevon (Link)
Moon River - Audrey Hepburn (Link)
Song To The Siren - This Mortal Coil (Link)
At My Window - Townes Van Zandt (Link)

noreply@blogger.com (thelostcause) — Mon, 28 Sep 2009 18:18:00 +0000

Ek ilzaam hai kuch khwab ke baseron pe;
ek tarikh aisi bhi, jab naqsh-e-shaam laayi puraane rang.
Daayron ka sehra kabhi utaare, kabhi odhe chale hain;
aarzoo faqat itni, der hi sahi, mumkin hai phir seher hogi.

Orange – Brown

noreply@blogger.com (thelostcause) — Wed, 04 Feb 2009 20:03:00 +0000

“orange, how he is so strange, wanders in woods n meadows, dsnt long for sun or shadow…”

“One of my favourite words is ‘eunoia’, it means ‘beautiful thinking’. Aristotle said it forms the basis for a man’s self-conscious love of others. Did you know that it’s the shortest word with all the vowels?”
“No, I didn’t.” – Brown replied.
“Do you like it?”
“Yes, it’s interesting.”

Orange had always had a latent streak of survivalism; his Eucharist had nothing to do with breaking the bread or wine, but turning a few pale pages of his Walden. He was working toward something for quite sometime – a thatch, to be made entirely of long, dry leaves. No tarpaulin – nothing artificial. The tilt toward being the wanderer had been a steady one; it wasn’t a swift, quirky enlightenment that jutted out of the subconscious, but a rather painfully slow movement made more interesting by its distinctly anti-diegetic pattern. He didn’t want to be a non-conformist because it offered a breeding ground for bodhisattvas, but because the modern world’s parlance had him searching for his own words. The new road was taken more in tentativeness than the lightness of being. Like Gadamer, he nurtured a deep interest in the mysteries of human understanding, but unlike him he did not have any hermeneutical bigger-picture in mind; the concerns being self-reflective and immediate than allegorical. It was to satisfy such primitive needs as tolerance, self-preservation and tranquility that he had found a refuge in the wilderness. He did not possess any illusions about sudden polemic interventions that might suffice as a breather. The charm was in the remains of stasis.

The thin sheaves of Brown’s notebook were indicative of the slices of her world; words written in blazing hurry and yet each one wearing a prehensile look around itself. A cursory glance presented a picture with wild, bright brushstrokes, and it was only when the canvas was stretched that the complete form appeared. Brown’s world was a study in contrast; there was a genuine affection – at times, suffocating – for the human vaudeville; there was no hint of tiresomeness or self-deprecation in her acceptance of the ordinary, the crowd or the regular, small houses on the roadside, smoking chimneys, trains and caps and chocolate milk; yet there remained a constant longing for liberty, a latent lingering elixir that urged for a flawed and uninhibited march through everything that was rooted and old, everything that reveled in self-decay. Brown often imagined a literal run through sand and silt – vulnerable to wind and rain, yet intrinsically incapable of joining the mud. Brown had sketched out a personal template of life with innumerable questions and a few validations – life that was frantic and solitary, precociously cheery and forlorn, unchained and spontaneous – a life fascinating in its otherworldliness and epic in its details.
Mastroianni said that too much idleness is a sign of mediocrity, and so was always busy with phone calls; Brown – the world was her phone and it kept calling in. From a distance, the overlap between the affection for the humanity and the unwavering desire of surrendering to everything nature was willing to offer – the mighty white mountains, old trees with no names, grey goblets of rain, fall and spring – seemed jotted thick with specks of alarming contradiction, yet if one were to observe closely, it became apparent that there was no design, no jigsaw pieces – it was one simple and fluid deterministic precursor to her way of life – alien to the disorientations of the modern world, and yet always accommodating. The thrownness of human existence didn’t perturb Brown, as much as she appreciated the contingency of the events under which freedom exists, it caused no inclination to run near or distant from it, it could never repress or banish her personal views about idealism – be it sceptical or pantheistic. Under such apparently simple outlook, the deterministic de rigueur of identity was developed, built by constantly applying oneself in the tasks – an exercise that ultimately excavates purpose like it did for Sisyphus. The pursuit not aimed for personal glory or justification for being different but to confront the ever-present dissonance of mortality. If there were to be noticed a positive assessment of anomie in human character, Brown’s near-clinical and yet astonishingly natural way of dealing with the paradox of bustle and quiet, of solitude and inclusiveness, of glass buildings and wild trees offered a profound evidence of the alternative.

“I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.”
– Robert Frost

bonjour tristesse

noreply@blogger.com (thelostcause) — Sun, 04 Jan 2009 21:11:00 +0000

Around 5 a.m., the day holds promise; it truly does. A couple of years back, I said this to an old friend. We had been talking all night – he doing most of the talking, and I, the listening – the night ended and we decided to take a walk around the restful houses. I was asked if we should go to that old, grey-with-dust Kali mandir, ‘yes, why the hell not.’ Early mornings, the only two creatures actively looking at the world are birds and dogs. Dogs are the better observers of the two, there is a weary sense of quasi-ridicule stamped on their faces, the unkind drool merely a precursor to the gob of spit in the face of humanity; though I suspect if they have read their Henry Miller. Early mornings are a welcome relief for them too – minimum interaction with their best friends. Birds are different though, they are deliberately amusing; I wonder how effective such a plan could be – amusing others just enough to cover one’s disgust. But birds do it all the time – they keep chirping, can’t stop it.

If one puts aside the abstraction of it, Pascal has a lot to offer through his wager; one must continue to have belief – it could be just the absent reality, or aided by a bit of resourceful imagination – it is impossible that the rational is only a depository of truth; the imperceptible elements of the rational need to pass through the refuse of error and doubt, only then can the rational demand the grand apotheosis which it so hungrily demands. There is a near-elegiac realization when one evaluates the rational and the urgent deification it calls for. To disavow the frailty of the mind, the finer spaces of heart, the engulfing silence would be a treacherous assault on human condition – something that the infinite fragments of the rational can never redeem. Perhaps there is no poisonous harm in relying on reason when one analyzes the conservative remedies for the human condition – but I do not see any perceptible unraveling – in all probability, there is none; which is why the prevalent massive eminence on belief must not be frowned at. There is everything to gain.

Hugo says something about belief.

So a beast comes and goes,
Roars, screams, bites.
A tree is there,
its branches bristling,
A paving stone collapses
In the road that carts crush
and winter ruins.
Under those thicknesses of matter
and of night, tree, beast, stone,
weight that nothing raises,
In that terrible depth,
A soul dreams.
What does it do?

que la raison ne connait pas.

Bombay

noreply@blogger.com (thelostcause) — Sat, 29 Nov 2008 18:23:00 +0000

Kanta Devi wiping out her tears in Chinnore. The Britisher with a reverberating ‘No!’. The Times Now correspondent with the cracked voice. The POV shot of the rabbi's wife in Nariman House. The IT professionals in the Hyderabad cafeteria. pigeons. Versace. The Jai Hinds for MARCOS. Major Unnikrishnan's mother. ‘We’ve lost the live pictures.’ The American quoting Yeats' 'tread softly because you tread on my dreams'.

noreply@blogger.com (thelostcause) — Fri, 10 Oct 2008 21:33:00 +0000

"My God, a whole moment of happiness! Is that too little for the whole of a man’s life?"
-F.D.

tout est grâce.

noreply@blogger.com (thelostcause) — Sat, 26 Jul 2008 15:32:00 +0000

I don’t think optimism is passé. People who have a reason to look for the brighter side, however invalid it might appear to others, are less prone to stupidity than someone riled by private inconveniences borne out of nothing but a misplaced anger for their universe. When I say optimism, it is markedly different than the boyish naiveté one used to indulge lying mad in youth. Such a feeling is the result of a behaviour looking for the purpose within the mind and not in the elements outside of it; and linking the nature of that purpose to the external: a gust of howling wind, little bulbs of rain, the gaze of a child. The paradox here can not be missed by anyone with a working mind –if the objective is the disassociation of the mind from the external, then why is it that the purpose of such disassociation is only for enabling the individual for harmony with the world outside of it. It is only through a series of studied observations that the inner dialectic of this relationship can become apparent for a stranger.

There is no leitmotif for the truth; no baroque edifice appears on cue, so to help the stranger to recognize it. It is visible as much in the slightest signs as the most elaborate plans of showcasing the realms of humanity. The contiguity that evolves between the nature of such a truth and the identity of the slightest sign of action based on a pure thought has that unspeakable attribute to it – spirituality. The child watering the beat tree in Tarkovsky’s Sacrifice raises the issues of such contiguity. Through an action, seemingly so routine and devoid of any diabolically grand plan, the essentially bare nature of goodness becomes visible, and such a goodness has usability too –the morphed tangibility of such an action can not go unnoticed. Any infliction of such truth that comes with no baggage is welcome, even for the most cynical of strangers, acceptance of such truth often disguised in illicit humour. Humour is in fact the most obvious and inadequate weapon that the stranger possesses, for it does more to destabilize the internal coherence, even the most primordial argument used by the stranger: the futility of it all. It is quite extraordinary, the simplicity of this argument, ‘in the end, it does not matter.’ For not only it bares the proclivity of the desire born of nothingness, but also, in the most blunt fashion, places the blame to the opponent, in this case, the universe. It is hard enough to locate the seriousness of the claimant, after painful scrutiny for the omnipresent naiveté, one realizes the fallacy of favouring the absence of any action. In a ritualistic world, things would be simpler, and colourless. In a ritualistic world, philistines would be Greeks. In a ritualistic world, life would be meaningless. Because it is not so, and because ‘ritualistic’ is still a bad word, the absence of action hinged loosely to a strange moral indolence can only lead to the dark cavity which the stranger has preordained in a twisted nihilistic surge.

Why be tethered to the vile paroxysm then? Shan’t it be lovely to restore such memes of strangeness and binding them with good reason? For lack of sufficient proof, I doubt whether it will serve the purpose. Scepticism of any order is clearly the most treasured possession of the individual, and strangeness is borne of that very skepticism, the mandate for the disbelief contoured completely by the personal world. It is unfair to ask for a verdict from the jurisprudence constricted between the rational and the personal. It is unfair to expect limpid abstraction in the universe. It is never unfair to hope –never to the internal.

Deliverance

noreply@blogger.com (thelostcause) — Sun, 22 Jun 2008 18:42:00 +0000

I have a secret and unyielding admiration for people who believe in the idea of destiny; not the ‘devil-may-care’ kind whose mandate of skirting responsibility for their actions comes from a perverse distortion of the word, but a very thin section of the group who have an abstract, nearly spiritual association with it – people who go through their lives, routinely, each day with those old-fashioned ideas of sympathy, compassion and a belief in the greater order of the things. At first, and particularly to a disbeliever, it looks at best, sophomoric, and at worst, funny. For someone who acts out his will for leading his life, going through the motions with the peculiar tendency of weighing every thought, asserting every action, there is an inevitable rush central to such a character – a rush for gathering every experience, of accumulation, of getting their feet wet when the tides come ashore. Clearly such a rush is not invented overnight, but is borne of an age of internal struggle, a self-referential void acting something akin to a negative-centrifuge attracting a run toward it, and the individual runs toward it in a mix of self-loathing and the kind of abandon that overpowers one when absolute certainty meets the eye. The deliberate and absolute rejection of the external creates an internal stasis, which to the outsider, borders on negativity in its truest form, resulting in a practical alienation of the individual, and this person then takes refuge in the grandeur of the absurd.

In contrast, a very few number of people lead their lives covered in that most unfashionable of colours – simplicity; their words not covered with quotes from the great thinkers of the past, and their actions not substantiated with the most vital effects. A life with minimal affectations, where action takes precedence over thought, and time is liquid, assimilating the range of actions in a day, marking the contours of the intentions spread throughout the living minutes of the day. Such a life is governed not by the immediacy of events but a distant, almost invisible sense of purpose that acts as the thread for joining the simplest of acts - lending a pen perhaps when you needed one or listening to a mild grievance.

The dilution of rationale while making a choice between the legality or taking a moral recourse, per se, for actions over thought create the peculiar dilemma of making up a hierarchy of intellect; it does not offer a simplistic set of dictums for the evaluation of the intent, but a coarse division among the sets of individuals one ought to belong. So, resting your most undecorated thoughts on that elusive and ugly thing called destiny could be a regular fit for the heathens; if one doesn’t believe in my absurd, then he is most suitable for the peasant category. It is amidst such triviality that the handfuls with a nearly austere belief in the word trudge toward the real. It may result in a series of uncalled for diversions – an occasional harshness, a hint of unrequited love even – but the trudging goes on, perhaps in search of a lost memento that should enable an identity to the whole process. When such a person says, “It’s not destined…” it contains more than an admission of self-limitation; it’s a realisation acting out the person’s innermost thoughts that secure finality through the most intangible tethers; a finality eked out of simple, regular facts. Any such confrontation with a multitude of seemingly regular facts is harsh; harshest for the individual who doesn’t have the latent support of destiny.

How does one then meet such facts?

A non sequitur, at best

noreply@blogger.com (thelostcause) — Sun, 09 Mar 2008 16:23:00 +0000

To process the utility of the absurd and in effect tracing a path for the awareness of the absurd, one reasons with the self for the difficult task of evacuating ‘answers’ for the purported identity of the self. This ‘tracing of the path’ bears with it a deeply interesting dilemma: what to make of the path once it has been traversed and where to turn back? The inquiry into the ‘utility’ enables the traveler with arguments associated with the questions about the sustenance of existence and the issues related to philosophical suicide. By far, the most interesting part of the territory is the inquiry into the mind of the absurd man, one who has realized the absurdity of life; someone who, by the methods of sustained observation or sheer misfortune, has seen through it all! A decision has to be made by the absurd man now, in dealing with this grievous revelation, the man essentially faces two choices: to adapt, for want of a mellower word, to this new life-order, or to revolt against the mundane. The revolt of the absurd man is physically manifested in suicide; the act of giving up the body is sought as the reply of the rebel absurdist. Philosophical suicide is thus the ultimate act of getting back at the meaninglessness of man’s existence. It’s not so much the weary soul as much as it’s the disinterested spirit of the absurdist that results in his exercising the option of the suicide. The adaptive absurdist, on the other hand is anything but disinterested, he is in constant pursuit of the design to tackle the routine of the life.

This pursuit is essentially a personal tryst with the self; it is not so much in retaliation to the absence of meaning in the immediate outer world but for the subterraneous personal truths that effect an alternate private reality of the absurdist. Is there then an intentional mutilation of soul to counter the mutilation done by the absurd? The awakening of the man to the routine of the world around him: the rituals of home, getting up, traffic, work, traffic, home, sleep; if one so much as contends this awakening to the making of an absurd, then it follows as an immediate truth that the retaliation of the absurd man has to be directed within and not at the torments of the world. This act of experiential reconciliation is not without its risks though, a mammoth one at that! The implied obscurity of this existential attitude makes it vulnerable toward the truths in the world, the privilege truths. The attempt of the absurdist forever lies in his overbearing desire of breaking the cycle, to come out of the clockwork for once and all. And toward this, he relies on his intentions of mutilation of soul, and the premise of converting intentions into habit and finally into the absolute. Is there then a formula for this man to stupefy this transitivity that everyone is so boastful of?

Men who expend themselves for their actions consider not morality as their guide or ethical dilemmas as their obstructions; their thoughts are governed by the fairly simplistic assumption that every action has the consequence that either validates it or cancels it. Armed with this simple yet effective truth, the decisions of the thinking man are made and the actions carried out. There is a catch here though, if every action does have an equal mandate, why not then turn the world into a royal show of debauchery! Consequences offer legitimacy to virtuosity as well, since it is almost as indifferent an action as any.

That life gratifies far less than it irritates makes it as much fun as glancing at your train to forever that just left at the platform right opposite of where you’d been waiting for half of eternity.

Yes, it is almost as much fun.

A young poppy, with crimson petals.

noreply@blogger.com (thelostcause) — Fri, 21 Sep 2007 20:55:00 +0000

In praise of bad music

The irritating refrain, for instance, that any refined and well-trained ear will immediately refuse to listen to, has been the repository for the riches of thousands of souls, and keeps the secret of thousands of lives, for which it was the living inspiration, the ever-ready consolation, always lying half open on the piano's music stand - a source of dreamy grace for those lives, and an ideal. Those arpeggios too, or that 're-entry' of the theme, have aroused in the soul of more than one lover or dreamer an echo of the harmonies of paradise or the very voice of the beloved woman. A book of bad romances, worn out by over-use, ought to touch us like a cemetery or a village. What does it matter if the houses have no style, if the tombs are overladen with inscriptions and ornaments in bad taste? From this dust there may arise, in the eyes of an imagination friendly and respectful enough to silence for a moment its aesthetic disdain, the flock of souls holding in their beaks the still verdant dream that gave them a foretaste of the other world and filled them with joy or tears in this one.

5.

Life is strangely easy and gentle for certain persons of great natural distinction, witty and affectionate, but capable of every vice, even though they exercise none of these vices in public, and even though it is impossible to say for sure that they are guilty of a single one of them. There is something supple and secretive about them. And then, their perversity adds a certain piquancy to the most innocent occupations, such as going for a walk in the garden at night.

Proust hadn't turned twenty-two yet, he was a disinterested law student, so as boys his age normally do, he started observing people. The Parisian elite were the sitting duck for his innate imagination, and well, he started weaving some stories and clever lines around them. Pleasures and Days is mandatory reading for those who boast of an unusually sharp wit, and more so for those who are yet to frame a sentence where 'memory' exists unaided by 'guilt'.

Home, Wimbledon, etc.

noreply@blogger.com (thelostcause) — Fri, 06 Jul 2007 08:40:00 +0000

The last two weeks have been moderately good; one of the prime incentives of being at home has been following Wimbledon with religious sincerity, though this has been the most frustrating edition with the wretched English summer. Until today just a single day of play has remained untouched by the ever uninvited rains, and that was last Monday! But none of that can take any credit away from the level of play being witnessed at the grass courts of All England Club. Federer has been regal, hardly breaking any sweat yet, Nadal, as always, has been chasing down everything thrown at him and returning with interest! But the most champion-like display at this year’s edition has been Justine Henin’s, the sheer ease with which she has routed her opponents can only be witnessed to be believed, of course there was that match with Serena Williams to be taken care of, but then when that one handed backhand thundered down past her in the first set, Serena knew what she was up against. Having said that, I feverishly hope she doesn’t have to face Venus on the 7th!
Will be meeting a really old friend tomorrow; that should take care of the evening. What else? Yes, am through with C&P, and am relieved, the last few pages kept reminding me of Bresson’s Pickpocket, the undertones of moral redemption through love; something which is sure to revolt a considerable chunk of underground men, but then, that’s how it is.There are still twenty more days to be taken care of, but they will fall into place, as does everything. Adieu, adieu, adieu.

A Letter

noreply@blogger.com (thelostcause) — Sun, 08 Apr 2007 16:18:00 +0000

We find it difficult to talk to each other. We're both rather shy, and I tend to retreat into sarcasm. That's why I'm writing. I have something important to say. Do you remember last summer, when that awful rash broke out on my hands? One evening we were in church arranging flowers on the altar, preparing for a confirmation. Do you recall what bad shape I was in? My hands all bandaged, and itching so much I couldn't sleep? The skin had flaked off and my palms were like open sores. We busied ourselves with daisies and cornflowers, or whatever they were, and I was feeling irritable. Suddenly I got mad at you and challenged you angrily, asking if you actually believed in the power of prayer. You replied that you did. In a nasty tone I asked if you had prayed for my hands, but it hadn't occurred to you to do so. I melodramatically demanded that you do it then and there. Oddly enough, you agreed. Your compliance enraged me, and I tore off the bandages. You remember the rest. The sight of those open sores affected you greatly. You couldn't pray. The entire situation disgusted you. I came to understand you later, but you never understood me. We had lived together for some time at that point. Almost two years, which at least represented capital in the face of our emotional poverty. Our caresses and our clumsy attempts to evade the lack of love between us. When the rash spread to my forehead and scalp, I soon noticed how you avoided me. You found me repugnant, though you tried to spare my feelings. Then the rash spread to my hands and feet; and our relationship ended. That came as a shock to me. I had to face the fact that we didn't love each other. There was no way to hide from that fact or turn a blind eye to it. I have never believed in your faith, mainly because I've never been tortured by religious tribulations. My non-Christian family was characterized by warmth, togetherness and joy. God and Jesus existed only as vague notions. To me, your faith seems obscure and neurotic, somehow cruelly overwrought with emotion, primitive. One thing in particular I've never been able to fathom: your peculiar indifference to Jesus Christ. And now I'm going to tell you about answered prayers. Laugh if you feel like it. Personally, I don't believe the two are connected. Life is messy enough, without taking the supernatural into account. You were going to pray for my weeping hands. The rash left you dumbstruck with repulsion, something you later denied. I went berserk and tried to provoke you.

"Be quiet! Since you can't pray for me, I'll do it myself! God, why have you created me so eternally dissatisfied? So frightened, so bitter? Why must I realize how wretched I am? Why must I suffer so hellishly for my insignificance? If there is a purpose to my suffering, then tell me, so I can bear my pain without complaint. I'm strong. You made me so very strong in both body and soul, but you never give me a task worthy of my strength. Give my life meaning, and I'll be your obedient slave.”

This autumn I realized that my prayers had been answered. I prayed for clarity of mind, and I got it. I realized that I love you. I prayed for a task to apply my strength to, and I received one. That task is you. This is what the thoughts of a schoolmarm might run to, when the phone refuses to ring, when it's dark and lonely. What I lack entirely is the capacity to show you my love. I haven't a clue how to do that. I've been so miserable; I've even considered praying some more. But I still have a shred of self-respect left in spite of it all.
My dearest, this turned out to be a long letter. But now I've put down in writing what I never dared say when you were in my arms. I love you. And I live for you. Take me and use me. Beneath all my false pride and independent airs, I have only one wish: to be allowed to live for someone else. It's so terribly difficult. When I think about it, I can't see how I will be able to pull it off. Maybe it's all just a mistake. Tell me I'm not wrong.

- Märta in Winter Light

Midnight Rambler

noreply@blogger.com (thelostcause) — Fri, 09 Mar 2007 19:45:00 +0000

There is only so much one can talk about the great thinkers and philosophers of the world. There is only so much one can talk about intellectualism and how it diminishes one’s appetite. A day comes, a day like any other, or is it a continuum of such days? I’m not sure which one it is, but I am most certain that it’s one of the two mentioned; Yes, so it arrives, with the peculiar stench of finality that tells you that its over now, and you stand amazed, hesitating to ask something, perhaps more in the line of, “but, what took you so long?”. But then you get hold of your wits, you’ve to maintain your composure, repress those churlish thoughts; you’ve mastered this art over the years, after all. You put forward your most engaging smile.

Adolescent intellectualism is very hard to get rid of, I’m not sure if it’s the excitement of reading something ultra-unconventional or experiencing the depths of human existence that allures the sensitive young man towards the big books of wisdom or the pristine pieces of art. It’s a heavy bait, all right. Nothing can substitute experience though, it has to be earned; you can’t borrow it from Sartre.
It’s such a terrible thing to want to work hard and not being able to find the motif. Too much thought clouds the judgment, there is so much happiness in working hard, and I’ve reminded this to myself since long and also the fact that lassitude makes such fine company with the budding intellectuals. I must confess that occasionaly there are moments of madness though when I swear to put everything back on track, determined and energized, but then the old laxity strikes and brings a smile with itself, laughing aloud with the expression that says, “Huh! You never were one of them.” never mind the fact that sometimes I actually want to be one. Long-term plans don’t really excite me, for all I care we all end up dead in the long run, it’s the basic, daily rigour of surviving each day that thrills me the most, everyday I make plans and watch them going down the drain. There is no substitute in the world for the joy that it gives me. By the way, I hate the word ‘masochist’, I think it’s very self-indulgent and I also hate this whole brouhaha over the confessional style of writing. I have never been a great fan of this method of looking inward to search for the answers; depths of human soul repel me, it’s too dark in there. Existentialism is a pile of shit, anyway. I hate megalomaniacs; I am one. It’s pathological, thinking about oneself, this inflated sense of self-importance that makes you believe you can do anything since you’re above anything, literally. Well, it never takes me too long to realize the fallacy of it all, or I may say, I’m not really allowed this privilege to float around, really.

Companionship is overrated, period. More often than not it results in stilted experiences, contrived words and dissembling actions. I have had the most sublime thoughts when I’m alone, in my room doing absolutely nothing at all. My window overlooks a patch of trees that provides the most ideal setting for the transmigration of the life-altering ideas that I get almost every day, without fail. I have drastically cut down on my reading; it’s a waste of time mostly. Words don’t excite me any longer, I remember I read somewhere about the distinction between identity and make believe, like when I write ‘pen’, it’s not actually a ‘pen’ but its representation in the form of premeditated symbols. You get the idea.

I almost loathe the way I write, still I’m not going to delete this; it must act as another reminder of the things I have failed at.
There are too many Is in this post.

so little time, so much to do...

noreply@blogger.com (thelostcause) — Wed, 21 Feb 2007 10:45:00 +0000

to live, to search, to hear, to listen, to stop, to hide, to rise, to hurt, to cringe, to love, to deny, to falter, to lose, to watch, to wish.

Untitled

noreply@blogger.com (thelostcause) — Wed, 06 Sep 2006 21:33:00 +0000

Broken Limbs. Tethered Prosthesis.

The Diary of A Sick Man

noreply@blogger.com (thelostcause) — Wed, 16 Aug 2006 15:42:00 +0000

25.07.06

Now that I’m in the late stages of convalescence, it is but fitting to collect all the randomly dreary thoughts that traveled through my mind in gay abandon and through the weirdest routes.
Having reached home with a five-day old fever and without even caring to know who exactly my uninvited companion was, I decided to put to good use, as they say, the forced extra-time that I had been bestowed with, but of course in my own private boring way; reading boring books and watching boring movies!
It all started in the sincerest fashion and no audible protest was registered by my body as I continued to feed my intellectual soul in glee. Finally, it started to seem possible to finish Proust’s marathon and my face began to radiate as Plath poured mercury in my mind. This well-meaning exercise continued for a week and it seemed divine by any standards, I began to feel good. Then as a certain Mr. Joyce had claimed years ago, the body made a vicious return, all rambunctious and determined to scourge my most pedantic life.
Then the strangest thing happened. A seemingly willfully developed dislike made its presence felt for everything that is beautiful and sublime. I tried watching Belle de Jour and couldn’t stand ten minutes of it.
This anathema continued for an unending array of days, first cajoling me into acknowledging its existence and then quite unwittingly reminding its aftereffects.

Resistance is a hard thing to come by; in the days to come it was observed that it was not so much my unwillingness to confront the reality but just a pathetic attempt to invent an alternative while still conniving with the original!
I can see that I’m deviating from the issue here; the intent for writing this piece was not to make a mockery of all that is sublime and beautiful, but simply to ascertain the fundamentals that drive us to seek pleasure.
Figuratively speaking, I had dived from the top of the cliff into the lowest depths, deliberately avoiding the beautiful; I embraced all that was mediocre. I switched on the Television and started looking for the lowest common denominators of ‘the good thing’. The regressive, 'let’s-so-not-burn-the-bras' programs on TV channels appeared to be my saviour angels. In their perceived mediocrity, I found a stillness that seemed soothing and enlightening. Indeed it was a revelation for me, the assurance that TV offered was life-affirming; watching the depths to which the essence of a man’s life, a woman’s too, (apologies to Agnes Varda) can go down to was indescribably reassuring. I was feeling comfortable, positively reassured by all the dead faces, putting up an act so bravely. If this was the world I was supposed to resign to, I was just too happy to embrace it. I reveled in their silly jokes and their avant-garde tears. I didn’t want to let go of it; to hell with all that was sublime. I didn’t want to be a bore.
This was the dream. Wake up.

Note: This post was another futile attempt at benzedrine humour. Those who didn't get the italics need not be disheartened; develop four more legs, start crawling.

Persona

noreply@blogger.com (thelostcause) — Tue, 13 Jun 2006 18:37:00 +0000

Persona (original title: Cinematographet), Ingmar Bergman's seminal 1966 film is important for various reasons. One of the rare films that manage to keep a stranglehold on its audience even after years have passed; the emotional and intellectual commitment shown by those who have experienced this masterpiece is beyond comparison.

The idea of the film emerged while Bergman was enrolled at a psychiatric clinic; the fact that Bibi Andersson and Liv Ullmann had a strikingly physical similarity only helped Bergman to achieve what would later be known as his subliminal masterpiece.

The plot is fairly simple and apparently this is what makes it possible to encourage the viewer in taking a plunge. The story takes place at a seaside residence, Elisabet Vogler (Liv Ullmann) is a well-known actress who has stopped speaking, she is being taken care of by Nurse Alma (Bibi Andersson). The companionship is very special in its auxiliary nature; Nurse Alma seems to have found a patient listener and Ms. Vogler appears to be happy in the seclusion. During one of her soliloquies Alma tells Ms. Vogler about her seemingly innocuous sexual experience with a boy, and how she was perfectly happy at that moment. A tumultuous change appears in Alma's behaviour when she discovers that she may have been just an object of study for Ms. Vogler. The film literally breaks apart at this moment; Persona is one of the most prominent examples of using Verfremdungseffekt. The audience is forced to come out of the reverie and to accept the film for what it actually is. The next half of the film shows a vindictive Alma seeking a triumph over Elisabet and getting bereft of her identity in the process.

Of all the films I've seen, few remain open to as many interpretations as Persona does. It is nearly impossible to form a definite opinion after the first viewing. One of the more popular interpretations is that Alma and Ms. Vogler are the same person with the nurse being the external appearance of Elisabet who remains the quiet inner self. This is vindicated when the blind Mr. Vogler recognizes Alma and she, though initially startled, plays the part happily.Alma also tells Elisabet during one of their conversations that she feels Elisabet to be very similar to her.A slightly more disturbing idea is that the roles or the personas of the two get merged and in the end, totally reversed; so Elisabet becomes Alma. The affinity shown by Alma towards Elisabet suggests how she wants to be like her and we see a quiet approval in Ms. Vogler's eyes. Thus begins the slow usurpation of Alma's identity which is evident when Elisabet looks at Alma after deliberately stepping over a shard of glass left by Alma. The transference that Alma shows towards Elisabet in the first half of the film and most notably the second part of her repeated monologue suggests that she acknowledges this change and perhaps even approves of it. Both have an ambivalent attitude towards their motherhood with Elisabet taking postpartum antipathy to a new height and Elma being remorseful for her aborted child. This realization marks a stark change in her expressions while delivering the monologue the second time, assuaging some of the anguish that she shows earlier.

In a final valiant attempt, she cries out "No, no I'm not you; I'm myself". The mise en scène of the film where everything appears together to conjure away the doubts that may have beset the viewer; it deals the final verdict that may seem like a betrayal to even the most discerning eyes. This completes the destruction of Alma's persona and being taken over by Ms. Vogler who walks out, victoriously, of the residence in the end.

The underlying pessimism and the use of dreams in an attempt to explain reality are some of the distinctive attributes of Bergman's films. Persona frustrates, alienates and elevates; in the process leaving a question that persists for longer than one would like it to be, for it seeks no answer.

Slice-of-Life

noreply@blogger.com (thelostcause) — Sun, 28 May 2006 20:01:00 +0000

“The overwhelming assurance of absurdity in your life makes it a joy to watch.”- The faithful reproduction of words a well-meaning friend had said, rather written, to me a few days back. I was slightly amused at his phrasing of words, now don’t get me wrong, finding the next-door-Beckett is always enchanting, but then again, I do have this habit of taking things personally, you see. Hence the most logical thing to do was to ask for an explanation which I did much so earnestly, and then the wait for an answer began. But I must remind you dear reader that these days I can only afford to wait; thinking and fasting are out of the window. In due course of time, another mail arrived, detailing events from my life that seemed to highlight a penchant for absurdity; in ‘capitals’ mind you. I must tell you that I was nearly convinced, all left hung to dry and shine with a vitriolic smile to boot, but then common sense prevailed, after-all what’s the point of doing Critical Thinking101 if you can’t even defend against an unwilling opponent!
Thus began the autopsy of the chronicle, the details of which are far too disturbing to be published here. The conclusion though, dear reader was that just like any other normal bloke around town I’ve had some really absurd experiences where I’ve acted rather absurdly (deliberately? – now that’s contentious) and have led my well-wishers to nurture such depressing (?) thoughts. Anyway the point is that my life is just as absurd as yours and that doth make me happy. (1)

The internship is going just fine and for a change the people appear to be good-natured on the whole and efficient in parts. A few unrelated incidents over the last two weeks have challenged my perception of the Delhi-folks. A lady and a gentleman seem so profusely eager to help in every whichever way and at every possible instance, the lady in my division of the company where I’m interning and the gentleman in the company shuttle. I’m offered lunch because the office-food appears to be bad and I’m given all the detailed information about which route would be shortest and easiest for me to follow. It seemed odd initially as I’m not really fond of over-friendly and gay people. I seldom smile in return of a favor and I’m claimed to be haughty. Things have settled down for better I think; I switch modes while talking to them, try to sound nice and sincere and sometimes manage to smile too. It’s good, really.

Vernon God Little, the book, is brilliant in parts and quite good on the whole, owing its brilliance mostly to the spurts of wisdom by Mr. Little. Never in my life have I met such a character who is so fond of, well what else but the F-word! Tony Montana may come as a distant second in this regard. Though I must admit nobody else gives it such delightful overtones. Having said that, it will be grossly inappropriate to compare him with a certain Mr. Caulfield, both of them operate at entirely different levels. While The Catcher in The Rye has long been the anthem of teen-angst, touching more lives than perhaps any other book has, VGL does hold its own. Interspersed with bouts of guilt, self-doubt, rage and every other idiosyncrasy that comes with the package deal of an ultra-modern society, it manages to be funny and that’s what makes it a worthy read. Pierre is a breath of fresh air, a former conman who uses his Booker prize money to pay off debts!, and yes, he is 'dirty but clean'.

The most important thing to do this summer is to read Proust. I have, after much deliberation, started reading the interminable Remembrance of Things Past. I am enjoying it.

(1): Don’t mind me; it’s the heat, you know.

Roll-over-Model

noreply@blogger.com (thelostcause) — Mon, 03 Apr 2006 10:36:00 +0000

It’s no secret that during one’s “growing-up” years, everyone, or rather most people, have a certain figure around them that they tend to look up to. In moments of gnawing desperation, in the briefest of elations, in the most blithesome of periods there is someone out there to whom we attach our fears and desires, the little victories and the crushing defeats. And it is in this correspondence that we seek a salvation whose identity is far more valuable to us than the real thing itself.
There are many things about a boarding school that can be claimed to be wonderful, but the one thing that stands out is the influence the seniors tend to have over the little kids. After all these years, it seems quite amusing how seriously these kids take themselves and their seniors. For the newest boy of Std. VI, there is no one as smart and heroic as that senior of Std. IX.

For me it happened a week after I had joined the boarding. Away from home for the first time and finally coming to terms with the reality of living on my own, I decided to try and make some friends after almost a week had passed. Everyone used to swarm the playground at exactly 4:00 in the evening, the biggest ground that I’d seen till then was a natural at multi-tasking. It handled all the aspiring Tendulkars and Romarios with a sense of equanimity that was positively reassuring. And it was here that I watched something that I always dreamt of, someone bowling left-arm fast, and fast it really was. Batsmen ducking for cover from the rising deliveries seeking a rendezvous with the helmet. I knew, there and then, that I’d turned into a fan. I nudged my friend and fellow admirer, asking him who the centre of our attention was. “He is my House-captain”, my friend answered in self-reflected glory. I couldn’t envy him more! And from then on, the surprises just started to unfold, my hero, it seemed, had taken on his brave shoulders the responsibilities of everything that carried any notion of awe or respect or admiration. He was the champion of the academia, splintered wickets on will and was the cynosure of all eyes when he took the field in M.P.Hall and cut to size the minnows in debates.
Days passed, many of them; slowly even a hopelessly pessimistic soul like me developed a liking for the new school. I consciously decided to start making friends, many of them; tried my hands on every single sport that existed within the boundaries of my 40-acres heaven. In no time, I found a place in the class cricket team, impressed friends with my little off-breaks. The extracurriculars were a source of wonderment, it was new and hence exciting to me; I started participating in every event in sight, pestering my House Captain to let me. Surprisingly, I managed to do quite well in these big-time competitions thus making my House proud, and friends envious.
But all along, the only source of constancy was the admiration for my hero. And then the most dreadful thing happened, or so it seemed in those days, I somehow won a debate defeating my hero. The only thing I felt that evening was a crushing anger at myself, not for a moment did I feel proud or happy or ecstatic, I was plain angry with myself. For I realized that I had betrayed an unspoken treaty between us, one of unconditional honour and respect, and I became conscious of the fact that something had changed with this new development. This conscience, this pricking conscience started playing all kinds of games, and I imagined all sorts of ways of making it up, from writing an apology letter to doing badly in all the future events, but could not settle to any remedy for the sacrilege. And so the days passed and the torment continued until I decided to just let it go. And then I grew up, realized that my hero too possessed feet of clay, that he was just as human and as fallible as my fumbling fat friend. The admiration slowly turned to normalcy and then indifference.
Now that I look back at it, from a comfortable distance and with reserves of earned experience, I realize that maybe I was being too harsh on him by putting him all dressed up on the pedestal, or maybe this naiveté was a good thing after all, maybe I was just a little kid then and too busy looking for my heroes without being aware of my undoing. Whatever it was, I know it’s not coming back and hence this fondness for the things past.

Retrospect is a beautiful thing.