Day's begun well.
There's glee.
Monday, March 6
Sunday, March 5
Saturday, March 4
I want some answers
I can’t find my crowquill.
It’s what I write and draw in my sketchbook with.
Can’t find it.
I know it’s somewhere around but I can’t see it.
I wish they had some sort of microchip sensors or something that I could put on my small possessions to trace them because
I have a knack of losing things.
Isn’t there some sort of an award for the best thing loser or something?
Well, there should be one.
I’d get it.
A friend wants to write a book without bothering about grammar. He says he wants to write the way he thinks and he doesn’t think in commas and fullstops and if he wrote a book like that and the book talked about how he thinks of current affairs and what’s happening to the world and about george bush (yes, I know I should’ve written George Bush but my friend doesn’t even think in upper case), and if prophet mohammad were alive today the religion of islam whould be entirely different. He wants to know if people would buy something like that. He wants to know if they’d be able to understand what he’s trying to say.
I told him maybe they won’t understand it because if he’s writing the way he’s talking then they need to hear him first to understand why he’s writing the way he is and what he’s trying to say.Then I suggested he release an audio book instead.Of course I guffawed after that because I immediately saw him sitting atop a revolving dais or some such thing, talking like a new age guru or something like that. The image was hilarious.
Why am I talking about all this?
Because I liked his idea very much.
I think it’s real.
And I think it breathes.
And I think we don’t have genii in our generation (well, there’s definitely no one I know who could be compared to Mozart, nowhere even close to that) and I often wonder why. I know I don’t know a whole lot of people who could very well be genii or even /atleast turn out to be something like that. But it doesn’t stop there. I wonder what makes us stop short of just going ahead and doing it the way we feel it should be done because sometimes we do know how a certain thing should be done (if I’m talking subjectively, I’d talk about colours, that’s my forte, I could talk about how just a thin stroke of ochre could change the whole feeling of a painting, but I’m not talking about such miniscule specifics, they’d sound boring, perhaps) (and shucks, I’m completely confused now, I think I’ve forgotten what I was talking about).
Genius, yes, I remember now.
I’m not saying my friend is a genius. He could be one but I’m not saying he is.
What am I saying then?
Just that we need more
Thought,
Stirring up
Active action
We need more
questions
If you read what Rilke says in his second letter (I think it was the second one) to the Young Poet, you’ll understand why I think questions are so important. Unless the questions are identified, how will the answers ever be found?
That's why I think my friend should go ahead and write what he wants to, without bothering about punctuation and spellings.
Now back to what I was thinking of.
Yeah, the importance of asking questions, having questions.
So, I have a question.
Where's my precious crowquill?!?
It’s what I write and draw in my sketchbook with.
Can’t find it.
I know it’s somewhere around but I can’t see it.
I wish they had some sort of microchip sensors or something that I could put on my small possessions to trace them because
I have a knack of losing things.
Isn’t there some sort of an award for the best thing loser or something?
Well, there should be one.
I’d get it.
A friend wants to write a book without bothering about grammar. He says he wants to write the way he thinks and he doesn’t think in commas and fullstops and if he wrote a book like that and the book talked about how he thinks of current affairs and what’s happening to the world and about george bush (yes, I know I should’ve written George Bush but my friend doesn’t even think in upper case), and if prophet mohammad were alive today the religion of islam whould be entirely different. He wants to know if people would buy something like that. He wants to know if they’d be able to understand what he’s trying to say.
I told him maybe they won’t understand it because if he’s writing the way he’s talking then they need to hear him first to understand why he’s writing the way he is and what he’s trying to say.Then I suggested he release an audio book instead.Of course I guffawed after that because I immediately saw him sitting atop a revolving dais or some such thing, talking like a new age guru or something like that. The image was hilarious.
Why am I talking about all this?
Because I liked his idea very much.
I think it’s real.
And I think it breathes.
And I think we don’t have genii in our generation (well, there’s definitely no one I know who could be compared to Mozart, nowhere even close to that) and I often wonder why. I know I don’t know a whole lot of people who could very well be genii or even /atleast turn out to be something like that. But it doesn’t stop there. I wonder what makes us stop short of just going ahead and doing it the way we feel it should be done because sometimes we do know how a certain thing should be done (if I’m talking subjectively, I’d talk about colours, that’s my forte, I could talk about how just a thin stroke of ochre could change the whole feeling of a painting, but I’m not talking about such miniscule specifics, they’d sound boring, perhaps) (and shucks, I’m completely confused now, I think I’ve forgotten what I was talking about).
Genius, yes, I remember now.
I’m not saying my friend is a genius. He could be one but I’m not saying he is.
What am I saying then?
Just that we need more
Thought,
Stirring up
Active action
We need more
questions
If you read what Rilke says in his second letter (I think it was the second one) to the Young Poet, you’ll understand why I think questions are so important. Unless the questions are identified, how will the answers ever be found?
That's why I think my friend should go ahead and write what he wants to, without bothering about punctuation and spellings.
Now back to what I was thinking of.
Yeah, the importance of asking questions, having questions.
So, I have a question.
Where's my precious crowquill?!?
Friday, March 3
Thursday, March 2
James Taylor's singing now
If something seems right, I mean, really right; how wrong can it be?
(that looks more like an exercise in understanding italics or some such thing)
But really.
_________________________________________________________
And
it's important to understand colour.
No?
(that looks more like an exercise in understanding italics or some such thing)
But really.
_________________________________________________________
And
it's important to understand colour.
No?
Wednesday, March 1
Positive negatives
And before a single camera was born.
And when we weren't looking
something happened.
The picture came out
a
moonless nightsky
dark
but
I think
the film knew our secret.
And when we weren't looking
something happened.
The picture came out
a
moonless nightsky
dark
but
I think
the film knew our secret.
You
Uninvited, the thought of you stayed too late in my head.
So I went to bed, dreaming you hard, hard, woke with your name,
like tears, soft, salt, on my lips, the sound of its bright syllables
like a charm, like a spell.
Falling in love is glamorous hell:
the crouched, parched heart
like a tiger, ready to kill; a flame’s fierce licks under the skin.
Into my life, larger than life, you strolled in.
I hid in my ordinary days, in the long grass of routine,
in my camouflage rooms. You sprawled in my gaze,
staring back from anyone’s face, from the shape of a cloud,
from the pining, earth-struck moon which gapes at me
as I open the bedroom door.
The curtains stir.
There you are
on the bed, like gift, like a touchable dream.
Carol Ann Duffy
So I went to bed, dreaming you hard, hard, woke with your name,
like tears, soft, salt, on my lips, the sound of its bright syllables
like a charm, like a spell.
Falling in love is glamorous hell:
the crouched, parched heart
like a tiger, ready to kill; a flame’s fierce licks under the skin.
Into my life, larger than life, you strolled in.
I hid in my ordinary days, in the long grass of routine,
in my camouflage rooms. You sprawled in my gaze,
staring back from anyone’s face, from the shape of a cloud,
from the pining, earth-struck moon which gapes at me
as I open the bedroom door.
The curtains stir.
There you are
on the bed, like gift, like a touchable dream.
Carol Ann Duffy
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