Friendly Advice to a Lot of Young Men

Go to Tibet

Ride a camel.

Read the bible.

Dye your shoes blue.

Grow a beard.

Circle the world in a paper canoe.

Subscribe to The Saturday Evening Post.

Chew on the left side of your mouth only.

Marry a woman with one leg and shave with a straight razor.

And carve your name in her arm.

Brush your teeth with gasoline.

Sleep all day and climb trees at night.

Be a monk and drink buckshot and beer.

Hold your head under water and play the violin.

Do a belly dance before pink candles.

Kill your dog.

Run for mayor.

Live in a barrel.

Break your head with a hatchet.

Plant tulips in the rain.

But don’t write poetry

- Charles Bukowski 

Sketches - 1

Written more than six months ago:


I could never truly comprehend the different faces of her, the different phases of her, the different facets of her personality. Writers are those who  have been scarred by life. She was no exception. Life had dealt her many blows ,many many blows, some downright cruel. She found the courage to face them , to look life in the eye. She found the courage to get back on her feet every single time, to not be beaten, to not cower down, to never surrender. She found the courage to come out in the open , to express her individuality, to not hide who she was behind a veil of appearances. She wore her  scars proudly on her face. It gave her a rugged, enduring beauty much like a weather beaten rock that proudly faces the onslaught of the ocean.

Those eyes. Volcanic rock that protrudes from white sand, leaving red cracks in its wake. Those think strands of black interspersed by a few strokes of grey and white - an unfinished painting. The sharp line of her nose with a ringlet marking its end. The crimson amidst her brows the golden orbs on her ears the thin wisp of platinum on her neck. Her face. Battered yet proud. It was not a face you could easily forget. She was not a person you could easily understand.

Tiny Beautiful Things

Your assumptions about the lives of others are in direct relation to your naïve pomposity. Many people you believe to be rich are not rich. Many people you think have it easy worked hard for what they got. Many people who seem to be gliding right along have suffered and are suffering. Many people who appear to you to be old and stupidly saddled down with kids and cars and houses were once every bit as hip and pompous as you.
When you meet a man in the doorway of a Mexican restaurant who later kisses you while explaining that this kiss doesn’t ‘mean anything’ because, much as he likes you, he is not interested in having a relationship with you or anyone right now, just laugh and kiss him back. Your daughter will have his sense of humor. Your son will have his eyes.
The useless days will add up to something. The shitty waitressing jobs. The hours writing in your journal. The long meandering walks. The hours reading poetry and story collections and novels and dead people’s diaries and wondering about sex and God and whether you should shave under your arms or not. These things are your becoming.
One Christmas at the very beginning of your twenties when your mother gives you a warm coat that she saved for months to buy, don’t look at her skeptically after she tells you she thought the coat was perfect for you. Don’t hold it up and say it’s longer than you like your coats to be and too puffy and possibly even too warm. Your mother will be dead by spring. That coat will be the last gift she gave you. You will regret the small thing you didn’t say for the rest of your life.
Say thank you.

                                     - Cheryl Strayed


        Courtesy : http://www.brainpickings.org/index.php/2012/07/13/tiny-beautiful-things-dear-sugar/

Existence and Bliss

I wake up on a cold misty morning. Its drizzling outside. I shiver and get out of my sheets. The motion disturbs you and you instinctively put your arms around me. Don't go, they say. I'm only too happy to oblige.

I wake up to the aroma of filter coffee. As my blurry vision clears, I see that its drizzling outside. The sun is not fully awake yet. I take a mug of coffee and sit by your side on the porch. The hills. The grass. The birds . And you. Silence speaks more than words ever can.

Its a warm, lazy afternoon. One of those times when time seems to stand still and timeless works are meant to be savoured. Read to me she says. I do. The words of Tagore hold us both in rapture.

In the evening it rains again. The clouds conspire to keep us indoors. I stand watching her. She is lost in a world where only sound exists. Her hands slide effortlessly along the neck of the veena, producing sublime strains of music. Occasionally, she breaks into song. A concert for a sole, ardent admirer. I close my eyes and listen.

The rays of the sun bid one final goodbye as twilight turns to dusk. The cool rays of the moon bathe us in soft light. We walk, silhouettes in the near darkness. Whispered conversations. Laughter . We walk.


Thanks for the Inspiration :)

Under a Moonlit Sky - Conversations Between Krishna and Meera

Krishna: This painting. It  has so much to say. Who is she, Meera?

Meera: She? She is.. sensuous. She is poetic. She is lyrical. She is a dreamer. In an existential trance, she breathes romance. Paris. That is Paris pour elle. Amorous and vintage. Sitting there on satin sheets on an antique brass cot with a red rose in her hand, she feels intoxicated. But, it is neither the Cabernet red wine nor the breathtaking view of the city.  She is overwhelmed. By him. That man. The one. The one who couldn’t stand to accept the daily demonstrative love she felt in herself, and give back as good as she gave. So she sits there. Being sensuous. Being romantic. Seeking passion. Seeking some sort of counterintuitive romance in love.

Krishna: What happens when he comprehends? Some day. The depth of what he left behind. What if he longs for it? What if his hours are filled with yearnings? A yearning for what he once had only indifference and passiveness?  A yearning for homecoming.. into those very arms, in that very place, for that very hour?  What if his entire subsequent life has been a road leading down to that one end? To the beginning. What if he realises what he had always sought for was what he once had? Will his quest be futile? Will his passage be denied?

What will she say? Will she say nothing? Will she say it at all? Will she wait till the  moment passes, the light fades and the possibilities vanish?  

Meera: She would take a deep breath and tell him, “Look just a little too hard at me. Stand just a little too close to me. Let’s go back and replay all our scenes. Did we ever really share? Did we just soliloquize? Was I ever really there? If I leave this sheltered space, will anything be there? A place in time still belongs to us. So, I will wait in my cage for you. You'll see a side of love you've never known.”

Krishna: Some things never change, do they Meera?. Even with the passing of years.  Some things sadly do. He would have meant much to her once. Even after all these years he still seems to mean something to her. Did he take her world by storm? Was he the fulcrum around which her life revolved?  What did he represent to her? What did he give her?  What did he take with him when he left?

Meera: He had given her exactly what she had been meandering about looking for, that he was, at once, both the point and the purpose of her life, that he was, gloriously, it seemed to her, the answer! She wanted to believe in him, in his ability to transform her life for her, corral all those wild yearnings in her into something less wasteful, give her not just an appetite for the passion, but an exciting idea of it. She might be growing increasingly frustrated at his evasiveness about the romance she had in mind, hardening into a refusal to talk about it at all, but she still could not bring herself to walk away, to step bravely out into a life without him for the simple reason that such a life seemed too bleak and pointless even to contemplate. And now, when he finally comes along, is it sane to leave him with a half- hearted goodbye?

Krishna: I wonder.. Is it sane? Or are some doors closed forever? Do we outgrow certain people? Do we change, ever so gradually, until the love we had is just a mere sweet memory that has no place in the harsh light of reality?

Meera: *long pause* She tends to keep herself away from his goodbyes as she experiences an old familiar stirring, a growing restlessness that she dreads but recognizes only too well.

Krishna: Some things are best expressed via allegory, allusions or imagery. You speak in the language of images and words Meera. If people knew how to listen, they would understand what you have to say. That image was no random choice. It means something to you. It represents something to you. Maybe it is you. Maybe this tale is more than what it seems to be.

Meera: *deep silence*

-- By Shyam & Malvika.

    She blogs here.

For Conversations can be Poetry

Him:
      Epdi irukka ?

Her:
       I.
       Am.
       I read a lot.
       And have fewer conversations that I used to. But .. more quality.
       I am trying to embrace my aloneness.  
       Not give into any thing that will take away from who I am
       I brood.
       I ponder.
       I have changed.
       I am exceedingly detached
       And see through too many people to put on facades for their sakes

Him:
       You haven't changed that much
       The core is still the same you
       A little less fiery
       A little more balanced and at peace maybe
       But still overwhelmingly YOU
       I guess I know you well enough to say that

 Her:
       Is this a good thing or a bad thing
       Or just a means to a better end

 Him:
       Its just you being you
       And that is always good

 Him:
      I met someone. And while conversing with her, I understood a lot about myself.
      There are certain people who put you in your comfort zone
      To whom you can just be you.
      She is one of them.
      She thinks the way I do on a lot of things, maybe on a deeper level.
      While conversing I've gotten more in touch with who I am
      And all the order, all the prioritising is vanishing
      My mind has been thrown back to the questions I always used to ponder about . 
      Meaning.
      Identity.
      Purpose.
      Who am I truly ?
      What moves me ?
      What shapes me ?
      What I can I give the world ?
      Reading.
      Writing.
      Thoughts.
      Silence.
      Does it make sense?
      Does it remind you of our initial getting to know each other conversations?
Her:
      Yes.
      I think my life has been blessed to have many of those moments .
      Even if the people come and go .

Him:
      I was thinking along the same lines as well
      And people never really go
      A person whom youve touched that deeply
      You will never be a stranger to them
      You are not to me
      Even though its a year since we talked

 Her:
      That never happens
      But life happens.
      For sure
      So we wind and whirl away and occasionally meet
      Ever so often
      Or not.

This is not entirely mine. This has a co-writer who probably contributed more to this than I did.

Upheaval

Thrown out of my depth
I struggle
To stay afloat
And salvage what I can