Incoherence, elaborated

There are an awful lot of metaphors that liken life to water. To live happily one must flow contented, one must always move, etc. etc. Fluidity is critical. So what of the rocks along the way, the stones that shatter calm surfaces to create ripples? What do you do when life casts pebbles at you and seems to enjoy it?

From a mass of incoherent ripples, I attempt to find flow again. Some interruptions are mild, a few ripples and the surface reforms. Others are even simpler, and flat stones skim off the top effortlessly.
And some days are like God/life is a kid with nothing better to do, and stone after stone after stone is cast in, shattering stillness hard and creating a mess of silt and froth that gets in my eyes and ears and mouth, making me lose all perspective. Calm stemming from insight is impossible, and I spew grit out of my mouth, shake my head and clench my eyes shut, just trying to clear things out so I can flow again.

One part physiology, one part ego. A huge chunk of petty annoyances. People acting up, atmospheric pressure lows. A friend's illness that none of us can control. Cast them in one after the other, all together... and the ripples clash and surge and I am lost. Where do I find the strength to pull myself together again, to flow contented and find purpose?

For now I flounder, from ripple to drop to splash, I attack each problem with no strength. What I need is to go deep, to find my footing on bedrock. Instead of flailing to create more confusion, I must perhaps let myself sink. Through cool calmness, soft filtered sunlight and the weightlessness of water. Sink lower still, until my feet touch the ripples on the sand beneath, and feel them give way, re-forming around whatever touches them.

Immersion in stillness, emotional and metaphoric, is the only way to not let the splashing on the surface reach the core.

Butterflies in the brain

"Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.
Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain."

Words help, sometimes. Wise words by minds so great, sometimes they help with the understanding of the present. Of some questions. He tells me why there is pain, but I knew that already. I'm ready to understand- just not sure what the lesson I'm supposed to understand is. Isn't the master supposed to show up when the student is ready?

And now that I begin to write, the title of the chapter, atleast, is clear.

Living with uncertainty.
Drawing once more on better words - "And much of your pain is self-chosen"
"You must want to fly so much that you are willing to give up being a caterpillar."

So technically, the uncertainty should end when I've figured out how to deal with it.
When I can stop focusing so much of my energy on the problem, it will cease to exist. Just like vaporising a cloud. Or casting a Patronus charm.

* Random quotes and paraphrasing from multiple sources- I'm fairly sure anyone reading this will know what they are :)

Winter within

It's the holiday season, and everything is bright and cheery. Everywhere you look there are holiday lights and christmas spirit, and yesterday I was tempted to take pictures of all the neighbourhood houses that have been hit by christmas bombs, and put them up here. Today, however, is a different story. Today feels like a tree I saw this morning- just one bare scrawny thing with no leaves, but hung here and there with leftover christmas ornaments. In the dark, the lights twinkle and you cant see the bare bones of it. In morning light it's just sorry. Like a pathetic attempt to gloss over the bad bits, as if a few laughs could hide the fact that there is nothing beneath. The strange thing is that the tree itself would be quite lovely on its own- stark and bare against winter white. It is the cover-up that makes it sad.

Today, I am not even tempted to remind myself of favorite sayings, or inspire myself to be better. Sometimes, it must be okay to just be a caterpillar, curl up and sleep. Sometimes, when you spread your wings, you don't fly, you only open yourself to hurt. Sometimes, wounds are better left to air and dry, rather than fester under the fake brightness of a Mickey mouse bandage, or a smile.

So just for today, there is no cheer, no message of hope to myself. Only a reminder, that sometimes hurt is okay.

Argh

Snood and Tetris- totally addictive, the perfect grad student TP. You match up the pieces, and when you get the pattern right, it all falls apart. And for some reason that makes you a winner.And when you win all it means is that the pieces come at you faster, and you have to figure out the patterns quicker.

Talk about crappy metaphors for life. And I play these to get away from my so-called work. I don't even want to think about what that makes me.

Sunscreen for the cynic

"Never take anything in life too seriously, including me and yourself."

In a completely (oxy)moronic way, I find myself drawn to that line over and over. Beyond all logic, I try to reason that sentence out. Like a lost key, I fit it into every single lock, trying to figure out where it fits. I'm not sure what I'll do if I find out. But I carry it around and test it on almost every situation, just to see how far the little cogs and wheels inside the lock spin, twisting into kaleidoscopic new perspective. So I hang on to those words, as what remains- after love and friendship, walking barefoot through night rain in Pune and conversations from Bombay to New York to Bangalore and beyond.. what remains of it all is these words. Like a real-life game of rock,paper and scissors- what survived is the one thing that defeated the rest.

In real-life terms,however, that doesn't make sense. Evolution craves balance, and one thing that shatters (or feeds on/ overpowers) the rest cannot indefinitely survive. So there must be a lock, somewhere, that is strong enough to withstand that key. I know for sure the statement must unlock something, and the day I find it, hopefully I will drop the key, as I have the rest of the memories.

What holds together..

The last few weeks have been a bit of an emotional roller-coaster, making me question relationships I held dear for so many years.

Childhood friendships are sheer unquestioning acceptance- The neighbour's kid is my friend because we play together every day. The girl I sit next to in class soon becomes my best friend. My parents told me not to play with the rough kids, so they aren't my friends. Adult relationships tend to be similar- not unquestioning, but more accepting- I can play tennis with you even if you support the politicians I hate. You're a content mother, so I'll overlook the fact that you have no ambitions to a career like mine. The lines are clearer, yet fuzzier- I have learnt not to broach uncomfortable subjects, make small talk, and accept that someone who disagrees with me on some things may be the most passionate supporter of some of my other causes.

The big realizations come from adolescent friendships- the ones forged in fire, where passion and ideals and big dreams are the bedrock of the relationship, and they're held together by the mundane cement of life- We share the same dreams, so we drool over the same books at the book fair. Go to the same concerts, and like the same coffee shake at Barista. And then we grow up, grow apart, and real life happens.

Some relationships hold so strong over years of not talking, as if our minds grew in the same ways even without words or contact. Others fall apart- without the mundane to hold it together, the deepest dreams and highest passions crumble to extinction.

And I find myself aching for lost time. When love was unquestioning and absolute, when I took a silent stand to be there for a friend no matter what. My idea of "no matter what" accounted for bad decisions, tough times, and the other person waking up to the realization that they were wrong. I even accounted for the possibility that maybe I would reverse my opinion of what I thought was a bad decision, imagining myself gloriously open-minded and forgiving in my outlook. I considered geography and careers, time zones and lifestyles- the perfect plan for life. I could and would make this relationship work, no matter what.

Except the one thing I forgot. The other person. Perhaps we had already grown apart, or perhaps we were never together. The realization was mine- That sometimes a bad decision is merely the lack of decision, not a conscious choice at all.

I can account for everything in my "no matter what", but it takes two people to make a relationship work. And a conscious choice by both. Whether it is the child next door who chooses to come out and play with me, or the mother who overlooks my career choice as I do hers- it takes a conscious choice. A mindless, circumstantial drifting together of two people is not a friendship, it is a convenience.

And conveniences, like plastic grocery bags, are disposable, recyclable, and not worth a second thought.

(What do you know? Even at 27, I learn something new every day.. Maybe there's still some growing up to do, and life isn't as jaded as I thought it was! )

Come, tell me a story..

My earliest memory of a book would be from when I was about six or so. I'm not sure why, perhaps the lack of a babysitter, but I spent three hours after school everyday (atleast it felt like that much time) waiting for my mom to get done with her classes. I read before that, fairy tales and the brothers Grimm and the little match girl and little stories from the Panchatantra. But that book from the musty school corridor stands out.
It was the wizard of Oz, and sitting in a darkening corridor in an almost-empty school, it was so much more fun to be out in Kansas or Oz, both equally fantastic to a six year old in Bombay. Now that I think of it, I'm not really sure how I managed to read at that level- Did I understand everything I read? Who taught me the big words or told me that emeralds were green? I don't remember asking those questions, or any of the other details my mother does, but the book stayed with me like a little secret, three hours of childhood solitude expanding into an omnipresent cosmos of words swirling in the brain.

I don't remember a time, before or after that, when stories haven't been a constant presence, whether I'm looking for one or telling one or reading one. The only important part is sharing them- Few lasting stories live on memory alone, they need re-telling and re-thinking and constant life infused into them. Real stories grow with us and change as we do, as memory and experience meld together. Real stories hold us to our roots, reminding us of honor and doing the right thing when every brain cell screams with anger and a desire to hurt. Real stories warm and comfort, reminders that things can turn around overnight even when they are at their bleakest.

So come, tell me a story today.. Even a little one will do- just as long as it means something to you. It could be six words long to sum up your life, or an epic poem of your love. It could be a fairytale that you loved, or a tale about Cinderella slippers that you wore for a birthday long ago. Perhaps a memory, of schoolyard bullies. Or a wish unfulfilled. But tell me about something that touches your heart. An experience or a memory, fact or fiction... come, share a story today.

Writing, writing

When the mood is right, words flow so freely, half unconsidered, drifting in the rhythms of what I last read or who was on my mind.
Other times, I spend days mulling over the ideas of other minds, weaving them together to form a coherent enough mesh to hold my own leap of faith, a list of references to justify every thread of the net that holds up the hypothesis. Sometimes the threads congeal to the perfect shape almost effortlessly- Three days of mulling things over, and writing from 3 am to 10 am produces the near-perfect hypothesis (for my needs of the moment), and the perfect language, and it is done.
And on yet other occasions I spend months on end sifting through things- papers, ideas, plagiarism in hope of inspiration, endless drafts, help from mentors- NOTHING.

There is no formula to writing, even after all these years. Outlines, schematics, moods and inspiration- they chase after each other in a dance I cannot put my finger on. All I know is that I run with them, no matter how tiring it gets, until we come together fingers entwined in one last inspired whirl of a finish. The roots of inspired writing that soars above the rest are simple perspiration- the mental kind.

Is it presumptuous to call myself a writer, or write about writing before I have actually written? To speak of inspired writing that soars, when almost no one else would agree? Perhaps.. But when I write like that, it lifts me above the ordinary, and that high is all that matters :)

un-organising

Everywhere I look are signs to help me. Find time to exercise ! Unclutter your desk space! Thirty organising tips ! How to find time for everything you want to do NOW!

Yes, my days overflow into one another, last week's to-do lists often spilling over into next month. I look them over, re-evaluate and promise to attack the neglected tasks with more vigor. I tell myself I can do more if only I'm more organised, more focused, more efficient.. a little more of everything. One of my favorite magazines has a little footer at the bottom of each page, which goes "If you have ten minutes.. do this!" "If you have 20 minutes, do that!" "If you have an hour, you can take in the latest CD/ book/ movie/ inspiring cancer survivor story!"

The latest article I read along these lines was about meal planning- How, if I only plan out the meals for the week ahead beforehand, I can order the ingredients online, pick them up at my local supermarket, and save myself so much time every single day. Of late, my culinary interests have ebbed and waned, but overall I've cared more about what I eat than I ever did before. Conscious choices- Strawberries without the sugar, just pure fruit. Lets try steaming an artichoke today, shall we? Chocolate-orange noodles.. why not? Hands wander over strange vegetables at the store (Ghost pumpkins, anyone?), and new flavors fuse with the familiar to create comfort and excitement in my kitchen.

Why would I want to trade in a lazy Saturday morning of wandering around the stores for meal plans and ten minutes more every day? And by the same token, I could be more organised, so I'd have more time to relax and spend time with people and things I care about- but thats what I usually waste my time on anyway- Lounging around on the sofa watching old movies with A, or rummaging at garage sales for silly funny treasured finds, long after-dinner walks... If I have time enough for these, why be more organised?

Some claim lost time, others a lack of space,
I plead life's crippling embrace.
Laundry, food and other necessities
Fill voids where words might have been.

Work

To be praised simply for what you are is a strange feeling. Like praising water for liquidity, or fire for burning.

To touch fully that innate quality is the only thing we are taught to strive for- a point where there are no lines between the doer, the object and the observer.

Why would I want to do a thing like that?

Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed- interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisure wear and matching luggage. Choose a three piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing sprit- crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing you last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself. Choose your future. Choose life... But why would I want to do a thing like that?

- John Hodge, Trainspotting

....
Some quotes slide through peripheral thought the first time they go by. And then they come back and stick in my head, nagging until I look them up, and read them ten times over on an idle Saturday morning.

Perhaps the hardest thing..

.. is to stand by and watch someone else learn what I already know.