Saturday, December 24, 2005

snapshot

Waves rise high and can be measured at thousands of feet-aspirations trying to out-beat one another. The same turn effervescent froth soon, barely able to grip onto land, scrambling on the shore to carry back a fistful of sand-thus becoming the nemesis seen later on corroded landscape for not holding on, not helping them with a foothold. Whose fault is it, the nature of aspirations unable to sustain solidarity, retain form and strength yet aimlessly trying the same dart that is bound to indent but not stay on? Traffic, blaring noise, acoustic assault! Pensioner’s paradise this? December 2002. Home. Culture shock all over again? No, can’t be this pretentious. It’s been a year, maybe a little over. Day 4, it’s like I never went away. Trailing through the air, nostalgia associated with fragmented fractured living, compartmentalized components. Bittersweet and eclectic with different flavors like Indian curry and just as unhealthy as any overdose. Yet, the blasted addiction to pleasure as such, pain and tragedy that brings ones complete attention to halt on the immediate occurrence. Boy meets girl? A silhouette by the moon, placid, drenched with honey, cloyingly sweet. Looks straight out of a bollywood movie-play whichever duet you’d like from any, it’ll fit. The boy’s eyes look avariciously, enthralled his fantasy is being fulfilled so he can relinquish his search. The nagging feeling that it’s not the right image the soul seeks though. Assault on the senses, the silhouette turns and smiles. The feeling-a lack of perfection in the imagery will not recede, causing him to wriggle. Physical touch, tingle down my spine, the kiss, the feeling of a soul wanting contact, external and internal cords connect, intertwine. Then being told that the fantasy fixation is not you, now naked, vulnerable and lying there, hoping that the next cold withdrawal were a bullet. Privileged as a whore…. Purpose? Existence and purpose, reason for the masochistic self-subjection, I ask myself. Did I ever remember asking for this? REASON. Science as a ray of hope, a display of intelligence. Here’s an appetizer: how does the universe work-mechanistic newtonian clockwork or fluid einsteinian dynamics? Within the green lined avenues of a flux maze that exists on its own accord in space and time, challenging to be tamed and leads into the next spiral of questioning… Yes, neurons function exactly as they were made to, firing appropriately at the right moment, helping manifest the observed behavior. Accuracy… Not quite precise you see. Does thought precede material change that manifests behavior or is it an uncut circle wrought with ambiguity? So lets answer this in a precise scientific manner if you please, where we work as machines and don’t have to deal with the frill pressures of social accommodation. We are here to set the ladder rung right, behavior as a consequence of physiology. Yet tarnish we must the integrity of our unique work culture-whence I wrench my teeth in frustration at the needless humanistic aspects that creep in and make the iron pig. Tinges of the ‘heathcliff syndrome’, the little boy standing on the other side of the window, outside. The elephant headed God Ganesha, pray to him before beginning a task. He is sitting on the throne studded with rubies, extends his trunk lovingly to bless, to purge, to heal. "Yes, you were meant to be a giver forever". Have I been cursed instead, left barren and ‘heathcliffed’? Nature of aspirations never lets hope die…the black cumulo-nimbus can wait. This is all about black or white and everything in between. Michael Jackson? Yeah know this name, which never really did anything more than stimulate my cochlea, but no, this is not about him. Subway city, black tunnels, colored scarves on colored skins. How those eyes of mine scour through multitude heads, eyes are the windows to their souls? "Fair and lovely, apply for 6 weeks and see astounding result, great light skin, glowing and fair, resplendent and lovely". I look down at my hands and sigh at the hunt for fairness, one of the many of my homeland’s obsessions. Now the bodhi tree revelation dawns half across the world as the understanding seeps in about man’s eternal color categorization and why not? We are indeed colored from within with dollop shades of grey. Immortality, death stark contrast you say but look closely. The gripping pain in my chest tonight, as on million other such, tormented by the loss severed oh-so-suddenly, separated now not in space but in dimensions. Resting peacefully, heaving heavily with the thought of a smashed love story. Suddenly, no more tears, just as before, seized by the fear I always face, am I a masochist? The great dance. Nataraja, another name for lord Shiva, part of the Hindu trinity- the destroyer. Splendor ash-laden coal black skin, matted hair, the great tantric stands on his one foot with balanced levity, gyrating to emanating mellifluous tones cloaked under the raw beat of the mhrundhangam (an Indian drum). The preserver, lord Vishnu, sparkling blue skin, yellow robes, gold glittering, diamonds radiant, a persona of refined masculinity- the savior. They make love and a son is born