Again...

For some reason, since this morning I find myself hearing refrains of "Dogs" (Floyd) with particular reminiscences of "...who was only a stranger at home...". And that's why I decided to visit this foster home of mine again this afternoon. Yes it's my blog I am talking about. It has started resembling one of those half-constructed, iron-rods protruding one storeyed buildings on a hot June afternoon somewhere in a village in Bihar. Basically, you wouldn't really stop by at such a place for a cool refreshing drink. I know it's been abandoned for a while now.
But things will change. Back to what they were. When somebody would pull over onto the drive-way and actually order a ginger ale at times.

I am using this a convincing ploy. They say what you write, gets etched forever. Somewhere in the digital sandbox perhaps I am drawing something. And hoping it will stay. And surive. And help me survive...

Thoughts of thoughtlessness...

It’s funny when thoughts vanish just as you put the pen to paper. Or, as is more appropriate in these online times, as you put your fingers on the keyboard. It’s like picking up a furiously ringing phone only to hear a bleak dial tone as you make vain attempts to elicit some other response by repeatedly shouting Hello into it (and then looking at the receiver as if a ghost got the better of it).
Or when you switch on the TV to find a blank, blue screen (Although with all the crap that they show, perhaps the b. blue screen has its own use). Remember “Tom… No Answer”? (Brush up on your Mark Twain if you hadn’t done so in a while). That’s what it’s like. Like somebody putting a glass wall just before the waves hit the rocks, leaving them literally high and dry. A gush of feelings, ideas, emotions, like criss-cross shadows struggling to share the spot-light, not knowing that shadows don’t survive spot-lights…

Like a bunch of five year olds learning to play football, the aim being just to hit the ball somehow, the goal would take care of itself. Like me writing all this without any goal in mind. Only the shadows of those kids, like multi-colored laser lights at once blinding you, and leaving you in the dark simultaneously.

Sunday afternoon

There are perhaps countless ways to spend it.
There are quite a few who use it to catch up on lost sleep during the week. On the other hand are those who sleep nevertheless, albeit to hoard a little bit for the coming week.
Some love to eat their heart out on a Sunday afternoon, others choose this day to refrain from eating, for the sake of their heart.
Some listen to loud music, others use this time to remember foregone shades of tranquility by abstaining from any external sources of sound.
Some go online to relive their virtual lives and “catch up” with all the action they’ve been missing, while others unplug themselves from all those bits and bytes that bite into their usual waking life.

In short, Sunday afternoon is perhaps the time when in time and space, you can observe the maximum number of contradictions (at least on Mother Earth, ain’t too sure about the other Mothers…)

Matter of fact, out of all those innumerable ways to spend a Sunday afternoon, chronicling the arbitrary possibilities in your blog is also not such a bad idea perhaps?

Home again...

Hey it's me. Back again. Like one of those little kids who ring your doorbell and then run away... Only to come back later after half an hour and smile sheepishly. I know that's how it has been with me. Ringing familiar doorbells. Then running away, and then concocting smiles, sheepish or otherwise. But coming back nevertheless, almost religiously. Meandering, fumbling footsteps, finding their way to the altar.

But as I mentioned in the last post as well, some big changes have occured. Those once-in-a-lifetime kind (at least that's the premise that one continues to live with). One way tickets. You can only look back and wave your hand at your previous self. And look at the tracks you covered and the fences you have jumped over. Very interesting feelings if you actually start thinking about them.

And now that we have arrived again, that's exactly what I will do for a while...

Strange...

...Ever wandered into an old room that's been locked for months? Ever smelt that air when you open up that left-in-the-corner box? Ever held that doll in your hands and became oblivious to the dust around?
And ever found your way back to your blog after more than a month?

It's a pretty similar feeling. Like losing your way around and then finding yourself walking into the gates of your garden.
Yes there've been changes. Rather big changes. But as Rush would say, "plu ca change, plu c’est la meme chose" (The more that things change, the more they stay the same). Perhaps the weed has grown a little bit in this garden, perhaps the birds have become more comfortable, perhaps there's some moss on those unturned stones... But my garden is still the same. Almost.

Isn't it strange that it's in the most unexpected of moments that we do what we had always expected from ourselves...
That it's in the nearest corner of our garden where we find the most overlooked flowers...
That's it in the eyes of that broken doll in which we find our deepest secrets...

"And if you listen very hard, the tune will come to you at last..." (Stairway to Heaven, Led Zeppelin)