(If you only draw what you see, do you begin to see only what you draw?)
He rose from the leaf of paper below
The old city, full of warm cloth shops, made me feel at home
Tuesday, December 6
Brown day
(If you only draw what you see, do you begin to see only what you draw?)
He rose from the leaf of paper below
The old city, full of warm cloth shops, made me feel at home
Monday, December 5
dammit
i want to take it all back
everything i ever said to anyone
anything i ever did
right or wrong
good or bad
neat or messy
gray or green
i will absorb
silently
write in my books
and draw too
but
i don't want spoken words
and loud noises
horns
alarms
bells
take them away
please don't shout
don't scare me
if i'm going to be on the edge, then the edge might as well be grassy
don't be Nash's Purist, always
don' say one thing today and bury it 4 hours later
unless you're professionally challenged to hurt people.
i bang into walls
and corners
in the dark
well lit cubicles
tents
and corridors
leaving notes for cold machines was never my thing
but i did that too
(might be continued)
everything i ever said to anyone
anything i ever did
right or wrong
good or bad
neat or messy
gray or green
i will absorb
silently
write in my books
and draw too
but
i don't want spoken words
and loud noises
horns
alarms
bells
take them away
please don't shout
don't scare me
if i'm going to be on the edge, then the edge might as well be grassy
don't be Nash's Purist, always
don' say one thing today and bury it 4 hours later
unless you're professionally challenged to hurt people.
i bang into walls
and corners
in the dark
well lit cubicles
tents
and corridors
leaving notes for cold machines was never my thing
but i did that too
(might be continued)
Sunday, December 4
News update at 5 a.m.
Does anyone know how to revive a dried up old Rotring pen? I've tried everything. It's a .2 nib. I even soaked it in hot water to declog it. Still doesn't work. Please help!
So, looks like the 'high-kick-girl' is back. She's not in full form yet, but almost there. Here goes..
This is an ode to nincompoops and dunderheads. Big swollen heads who think that without their turning in the world won't spin. Sometimes it takes a long time to see that the halo on someone's head is actually an extention of their swollen heads. It takes a while to see the whole picture.I saw it now.I let the cold winter air grab me, as I stood out in the balcony, Without mules. It didn't hit me, this air was gentle and smooth. It grabbed me, nonetheless. I saw the sea. A sea of lights laid out for a nocturnal feast. I saw the trees doing a ballet. I saw the old man clad in white walking briskly. I saw the light. I saw that the halo was an extention of the swollen head.
And so, I send out a proper high kick, carried in all directions by the faithful winter air. It will go to many lands and convey my packaged gift in willowy strings, the high kicks I am sending out to all those nincompoops who think they are the pivot on which everything rotates.
May you turn on your own silly heads.
May the egotistical vertices be with you.
It isn't that everything's bad. It isn't also that nothing's bad. It's just that at this point, the bad is really bad. And it's confounding too. I mean, who can explain the horrible solution, a solution finding pro comes up with? How can anyone applaud such banal efforts?
I'm sick of my music list! I've heard everyhing I got, too many times over. Can anyone be a nice soul and send me some music...I know it isn't Christmas yet....but still....a good deed never hurt anyone too much...I don't know what else to say!
It's past five a.m.
My feet are freezing.
Fred's waiting for me over there. (i've had it with him! 14 and still rolling...hmmppff!)
I've had two cups of coffee tonight.
Yes, I know I'm writing things no one needs to know.
Tomorrow will not be a breakfast day.
I slept for 14 hours today (yesterday? I'm confused)
I'd been working for 24 hours before that.
I need some new midnight snacks.
I've been dreaming of eating jelly and I don't know why I'm craving for it.
I couldn't get past today's crossword.
I love yellow light, specially in winters.
I'm mad at someone for coming up with the worst solution ever.
As I write this, I crave for vegetable noodles with oodles of soya sauce.
Au revoir!
So, looks like the 'high-kick-girl' is back. She's not in full form yet, but almost there. Here goes..
This is an ode to nincompoops and dunderheads. Big swollen heads who think that without their turning in the world won't spin. Sometimes it takes a long time to see that the halo on someone's head is actually an extention of their swollen heads. It takes a while to see the whole picture.I saw it now.I let the cold winter air grab me, as I stood out in the balcony, Without mules. It didn't hit me, this air was gentle and smooth. It grabbed me, nonetheless. I saw the sea. A sea of lights laid out for a nocturnal feast. I saw the trees doing a ballet. I saw the old man clad in white walking briskly. I saw the light. I saw that the halo was an extention of the swollen head.
And so, I send out a proper high kick, carried in all directions by the faithful winter air. It will go to many lands and convey my packaged gift in willowy strings, the high kicks I am sending out to all those nincompoops who think they are the pivot on which everything rotates.
May you turn on your own silly heads.
May the egotistical vertices be with you.
It isn't that everything's bad. It isn't also that nothing's bad. It's just that at this point, the bad is really bad. And it's confounding too. I mean, who can explain the horrible solution, a solution finding pro comes up with? How can anyone applaud such banal efforts?
I'm sick of my music list! I've heard everyhing I got, too many times over. Can anyone be a nice soul and send me some music...I know it isn't Christmas yet....but still....a good deed never hurt anyone too much...I don't know what else to say!
It's past five a.m.
My feet are freezing.
Fred's waiting for me over there. (i've had it with him! 14 and still rolling...hmmppff!)
I've had two cups of coffee tonight.
Yes, I know I'm writing things no one needs to know.
Tomorrow will not be a breakfast day.
I slept for 14 hours today (yesterday? I'm confused)
I'd been working for 24 hours before that.
I need some new midnight snacks.
I've been dreaming of eating jelly and I don't know why I'm craving for it.
I couldn't get past today's crossword.
I love yellow light, specially in winters.
I'm mad at someone for coming up with the worst solution ever.
As I write this, I crave for vegetable noodles with oodles of soya sauce.
Au revoir!
For the sake of a single poem...
Listen, I'm really in an awful mood today. Some people have been behaving so strangely and for the whole wide spectrum of understanding human behaviour that I allow myself to do, I cannot fathom what Marc's motives are!
This is what I want to read. It's a great pickmeup.
Besides, it's the greatest poem ever written.
...Ah, poems amount to so little when you write them too early in your life. You ought to wait and gather sense and sweetness for a whole lifetime and a long one if possible, and then, at the very end, you might perhaps be able to write ten good lines. For poems are not, as people think, simply emotions (one has emotions early enough) – they are experiences. For the sake of a single poem, you must see many cities, many people and Things, you must understand animals, must feel how birds fly, and know the gesture which small flowers make when they open in the morning. You must be able to think back to streets in unknown neighborhoods, to unexpected encounters, and to partings you had long seen coming; to days of childhood whose mystery is still unexplained, to parents whom you had to hurt when they brought in a joy and you didn’t pick it up (it was a joy meant for somebody else – ); to childhood illnesses that began so strangely with so many profound and difficult transformations, to days in quiet, restrained rooms and to mornings by the sea, to the sea itself, to seas, to nights of travel that rushed along high overhead and went flying with all the stars, - and it is still not enough to be able to think of all that. You must have memories of many nights of love, each one different from all the others, memories of women screaming in labor, and of light, pale, sleeping girls who have just given birth and are closing again. But you must also have been beside the dying, must have sat beside the dead in the room with the open window and the scattered noises. And it is not yet enough to have memories. You must be able to forget them when they are many, and you must have the immense patience to wait until they return. For the memories themselves are not important. Only when they have changed into our very blood, into glance and gesture, and are nameless, no longer to be distinguished from ourselves – only then can it happen that in some very rare hour the first word of a poem arises in their midst and goes forth from them.”– Rainer Maria Rilke "For poems are not, as people think, simply emotions… For the sake of a single poem, you must see many cities, many people and Things, you must understand animals, must feel how birds fly and know the gesture which small flowers make when they open in the morning. …And it is not yet enough to have memories. You must be able to forget them when they are many, and you must have the immense patience to wait until they return. For the memories themselves are not important. Only when they have changed into our very blood, into glance and gesture, and are nameless, no longer to be distinguished from ourselves -- only then can it happen that in some very rare hour the first word of a poem arises in their midst and goes forth from them.
This is what I want to read. It's a great pickmeup.
Besides, it's the greatest poem ever written.
...Ah, poems amount to so little when you write them too early in your life. You ought to wait and gather sense and sweetness for a whole lifetime and a long one if possible, and then, at the very end, you might perhaps be able to write ten good lines. For poems are not, as people think, simply emotions (one has emotions early enough) – they are experiences. For the sake of a single poem, you must see many cities, many people and Things, you must understand animals, must feel how birds fly, and know the gesture which small flowers make when they open in the morning. You must be able to think back to streets in unknown neighborhoods, to unexpected encounters, and to partings you had long seen coming; to days of childhood whose mystery is still unexplained, to parents whom you had to hurt when they brought in a joy and you didn’t pick it up (it was a joy meant for somebody else – ); to childhood illnesses that began so strangely with so many profound and difficult transformations, to days in quiet, restrained rooms and to mornings by the sea, to the sea itself, to seas, to nights of travel that rushed along high overhead and went flying with all the stars, - and it is still not enough to be able to think of all that. You must have memories of many nights of love, each one different from all the others, memories of women screaming in labor, and of light, pale, sleeping girls who have just given birth and are closing again. But you must also have been beside the dying, must have sat beside the dead in the room with the open window and the scattered noises. And it is not yet enough to have memories. You must be able to forget them when they are many, and you must have the immense patience to wait until they return. For the memories themselves are not important. Only when they have changed into our very blood, into glance and gesture, and are nameless, no longer to be distinguished from ourselves – only then can it happen that in some very rare hour the first word of a poem arises in their midst and goes forth from them.”– Rainer Maria Rilke "For poems are not, as people think, simply emotions… For the sake of a single poem, you must see many cities, many people and Things, you must understand animals, must feel how birds fly and know the gesture which small flowers make when they open in the morning. …And it is not yet enough to have memories. You must be able to forget them when they are many, and you must have the immense patience to wait until they return. For the memories themselves are not important. Only when they have changed into our very blood, into glance and gesture, and are nameless, no longer to be distinguished from ourselves -- only then can it happen that in some very rare hour the first word of a poem arises in their midst and goes forth from them.
I forgot to mention the name of this great poet!
Rainer Maria Rilke
Saturday, December 3
Blue
This is for Illustration Friday.
A cow that got entangled in wayward barbed wire one afternoon. I was walking by with a friend. We called up Animal Help Foundation. They came and pumped some injections in the cow's neck and left it there because they didn't have the infrastructure t take care of big animals back then. The cow writhed in pain.
In the evening, my friend and I took food for the cow. From the distance we saw the swollen stomach. It had died due to shock and pain.
This is what I made that night.
Breakfast (and) days are back again
I had breakfast this morning. This is a piece of news that everyone needs to know today. It would've made the headlines but I was too busy working so I forgot to call the newspapers.
Breakfast was my favourite meal of the day. And then I became a nocturnal thingamajig. I started waking up only past one p.m., leaving no chance for a morning meal. There is a fitting ditty written by a friend, to breakfast. I shall have to ask him if I can put it up here. Of course, it'll have to be signed with a pseudonym, he'd never let it be any other way.
There's also another fitting piece of writing that i'd like to put up here.
Night makes the world another world.
The day's world is crowded with things.
You get lost in it.
Or they push you around.
To keep a hold on yourself
you have to ignore a lot of them.
You have to brush some aside to find your way.
So the more you see, the less you see.
The night rubs these out, or packs them all together.
And puts them on your shoulder like a blanket.
So you move with the owrld on your back, feeling bigger than you are -
one pice with nature.
Night's life is nature's life.
In the night's deep furrow
between two lidded leaves of sleep
like a night-lily opening on the waters.
It is as if all one's likes had joined in one person.
The bracing breaths of air
the coloured orbs of vision
the trees and landscape wrapped in sky's blue foil
the throbbings of the inner row of senses
and drawn one in
between two coagulated shadows
two lobes of intermeshing mystery.
there is no movement.
Just the thrill of pleasure.
No action
just the muted hide and seek
of an image and its shadow
in indecisive lineament
between two lidded leaves of sleep.
The day's light, then, cuts dead open
all life's mystery
sharpens the contours and shrinks
the inner core.
Cuts each limb adrift in autonomous action
the eye sees without knowing
the ear hears without feeling
the body acts without the inner push.
And the wish bud sears within its slender stem.
The lazy acts roll out
like listless coins
from a mechanical mint.
K.G. Subramanyan
Breakfast was my favourite meal of the day. And then I became a nocturnal thingamajig. I started waking up only past one p.m., leaving no chance for a morning meal. There is a fitting ditty written by a friend, to breakfast. I shall have to ask him if I can put it up here. Of course, it'll have to be signed with a pseudonym, he'd never let it be any other way.
There's also another fitting piece of writing that i'd like to put up here.
Night makes the world another world.
The day's world is crowded with things.
You get lost in it.
Or they push you around.
To keep a hold on yourself
you have to ignore a lot of them.
You have to brush some aside to find your way.
So the more you see, the less you see.
The night rubs these out, or packs them all together.
And puts them on your shoulder like a blanket.
So you move with the owrld on your back, feeling bigger than you are -
one pice with nature.
Night's life is nature's life.
In the night's deep furrow
between two lidded leaves of sleep
like a night-lily opening on the waters.
It is as if all one's likes had joined in one person.
The bracing breaths of air
the coloured orbs of vision
the trees and landscape wrapped in sky's blue foil
the throbbings of the inner row of senses
and drawn one in
between two coagulated shadows
two lobes of intermeshing mystery.
there is no movement.
Just the thrill of pleasure.
No action
just the muted hide and seek
of an image and its shadow
in indecisive lineament
between two lidded leaves of sleep.
The day's light, then, cuts dead open
all life's mystery
sharpens the contours and shrinks
the inner core.
Cuts each limb adrift in autonomous action
the eye sees without knowing
the ear hears without feeling
the body acts without the inner push.
And the wish bud sears within its slender stem.
The lazy acts roll out
like listless coins
from a mechanical mint.
K.G. Subramanyan
...
This is Jugular Bean's bunny
So I admit, I cannot draw rabbits. They look cute and so simple to draw, perhaps, but for the sake of crawling on all fours without haivng slept in the last 32 hours( a bit of exaggeration is hamrless, right?) , I cannot draw these cuddly wuddly creatures!!
Someone help me! And if you can't help me then atleast pray for me.
Thursday, December 1
Ta daa!
Thought I'd introduce Fred to all of you.
He jumps around and teases other animals, while his brothers laugh...
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