Friday, December 27, 2013

Many times I ask You...


My dear Soul
Many times I ask you- who are you, indeed?

Yesterday’s dream was of serenity and calmness
Today’s reality was of commotion and wilderness, you know
Yet even though when I was lost, you were still steady
That moment today when I tripped on the busy street
Was it because you had to stay and gaze the orange sky?

My dear Krishna
Many times I ask you- where are you, indeed?

Some children are dying of hunger, you know
Some men are still fighting over strips after a century
Yet you say you believe in humanity and not in its penury
That moment today when I saw the homeless man dying
Was it you who said that Karma is always in perpetuity?

My dear Music
Many times I ask you- how do you do it, indeed?

Cars shouted, trains whistled and that carcass from the street
Someone even fired a gun somewhere, you know
Yet you somehow found your way into my dull room
That moment today when I simply sat and watched the trees
Was it you who said that silence is my true beauty?

My dear Poem
Many times I ask you- why do you do it, indeed?

You felt what I feel, saw what I see, dreamed what I dream
Somehow, you even found an obscure rhythm, you know
Yet you remained in anonymity and perplexity
That moment today when I wrote you meaninglessly
Was it you who said that to mean is to simply be?

(Image- Boy with Pipe by Pablo Picasso)

Thursday, December 19, 2013

The Man from hundred years ago


As this night moved towards dawn
And I heard rain splattering on the window
I remembered that man from 100 years ago

Every morning he walked on the streets of London
And thought of all the heartbreaks he stored within
Lovers and friends, all had betrayed
Some for money, others for pleasure
A clerk, he earned a little
Just enough for some bread and a bottle
Factories soared all around him
And tall buildings had gone taller

As this night moved towards dawn
And I heard rain splattering on the window
I remembered that man from 100 years ago

Sitting in the chair he felt the nausea
As he watched the men in his office
Wildly chasing the day around him
Is this the advent of a new man?
The kind who thinks, multiplies but not feel?
Or the man was and has been
The fly that swirled in the garden
Thrust into an indifferent cosmos

As this night moved towards dawn
And I heard rain splattering on the window
I remembered that man from 100 years ago

Evening came and he walked home
Climbed three floors and thought some more
Another day entirely insignificant
Was his living a point at all?
When Mother had long gone
And wife had deserted for a richer man
Even the birds that used to sit at the parapet
Had migrated to a happier land
What was there was nowhere
All around just desolation and despair

As this night moved towards dawn
And I heard rain splattering on the window
I remembered that man from 100 years ago

The night had fallen
And he had drank more than his usual
What was and is and shall be
Thought he who is and pledged not to be
This end is an end, better than the beginning
For what started only stagnated
The decision was made and not in haste
All that remained was the final play

As this night moved towards dawn
And I heard rain splattering on the window
I remembered that man from 100 years ago

In a moment’s worth he was at the terrace
Desires and difficulties all had disappeared
God and Devil had dissolved in his soul
And no questions now remained
Stuttering he finally reached and climbed the edge
The last two breaths were not a complete waste
For the cold wind had now wrapped his face

Startled and scared I woke up with a shriek
With a pounding heart and sweat covered face
What I could have brushed as a mere nightmare
Struck me with horror as I rushed to the mirror
A hundred years had just condensed
Face of the man or the man with the face

As the night had reached the dawn
And sun rays had pierced the window
I thought of myself in the present
Heaven and hell, joys and sorrows
Nights and days, springs and falls

This one beautiful life has it all!


(Painting- Wanderer above the sea of fog by Caspar David Friedrich, 1818)

Saturday, September 28, 2013

While you are there somewhere


While you are there somewhere and I wait here
World sees another day of hope and despair

Thought of the summer that came and went
The first day of school and my total reluctance
Those teachers who thought I was a queer
While you believed I am just bored
Yes I have always been aloof and strange
Yet every day your hopes made me a simple man

While you are there somewhere and I wait here
World sees another day of hope and despair

The library of thousand books we built together
Has never let me feel alone again
While friends betrayed every now and then
You kept saying- just give, don’t demand
In all those books, I always found you in the end
Though in time there will be neither you nor I
Within the books our world shall remain

While you are there somewhere and I wait here
World sees another day of hope and despair

One day you said to me- time is the trick
And many things in this world to believe in
But let hate and violence not be one of them
We will meet for time shall come a circle again
Unconditional love, purity of man
Have to tell you then I didn’t fail
Lived by your lessons, shall do it again

While you are there somewhere and I wait here
World sees another day of hope and despair

(Painting- Woman with a Parasol : Madame Monet and Her Son by Claude Monet, 1875)

Saturday, September 21, 2013

Confounding states stuck in circles



The one who just died and the one who woke up suddenly
Talked all through night incessantly of karma and beauty
And the morning came and there was no motion of sanctity
What got preserved was ultimately reserved for the perplexity
As they went their ways and collided after one roundabout
Thought they met in a dream or that night from another journey
All came a full circle when one hundred years went by
As they met again at the roundabout and thought they had met before
What was seen was never there and all mad men were left with a stare

Every day they wake up to the day before and the one after
Caught between certainties and randomness of their being
Squeezed between timeless memories and progressive dreams
What is there when there is nothing in all the somethings
And in the frailty of simple and implausibility of complex
Those walk on the tightrope or that swim in the infinite green sea
Did they find the value of thoughts and caterings to emotions?
Or maybe all were just caricatures drawn on sands and washed perpetually

Between the crisis of identities and confusions of meanings
Those obscure moments of rain and sun on the glass pane
In all the shouts of dead silence and gambles of centuries
Pleadings of regeneration and tumultuous celebrations of vague
In all the mitigations of music and abstractions of words
Loss of all those paradigms that were never there or fair
Illusions of realities meshed in between here and there
When did we interfere when we were never somewhere

Unsure if there was a beginning and suspicious if there is an end
But then what’s within is what we miss everyday and everywhere
In our countless discussions and numerous fleeting emotions
Where is that consciousness that will wake us eventually
And put it to rest all ideas of God and Man
Why are we stuck when there have been and there will be
Eternal revolutions of time and convoluted visions in sunshine

Monday, September 16, 2013

Sometimes it so happens



                                                          
Sometimes it so happens
that I grow weary of all desires and all disappointments
and get tired of all fears and all fancies

Sometimes it so happens
that I can't listen anymore to all the endless talking
and get exhausted with all modernization and all competition

Sometimes it so happens
that I lose sense of man and all his incomplete solutions
and have no track of all mental stimulation and all creative propositions

Sometimes it so happens
that there is little left in man, woman and all other dualities
and hardly any discoveries in enigmas of relationships and all other ecstasies

Sometimes it so happens
that there is not much in all philosophies and all paradoxes
and in drawing those acute observations and finite conclusions

Sometimes it so happens
there is nothing to find in grand revolutions and petty commercialization
and in lofty ideas of purposes and self proclaimed patriotism

Sometimes it so happens
that I have no spiritual connotations and moral obligations
and no meanings in my poems, like this one

Sometimes it so happens
that I write nothing but except may be
and there is no pen or paper but only thoughts afloat

Sometimes it so happens
that I just sit in this cafe and look at the rain
and wonder if all leaves will get drenched or some shall remain

Sometimes it so happens
that's just my life is all about
and it doesn't matter much to me

(Image- Cafe terrace at night by Van Gogh)

Wednesday, July 3, 2013

The Absurdist's lens

“Stayin alive” plays on as Moriarty waits on the rooftop for the final chapter with Sherlock and you can’t help but break into applause for BBC’s TV series Sherlock, the modern take on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s epic. For me, Professor Moriarty’s reincarnation in the Facebook generation is a digression from a crooked genius in the original to an Absurdist in motion. While Moriarty has the certainty of his inevitable death on the rooftop sequence, he only reflects the boredom his life has been thrust into dealing with the ordinary and in creating distractions to amuse him, Sherlock Holmes being the most recent one. Moriarty listening to Bee Gees while calling Sherlock an eternal naïve for not catching the binary translation of Bach’s tune is a near about Absurdist and certainly as close as this generation can witness one.

Mersault, the protagonist of The Stranger by Albert Camus is a character that confuses you with the decision of what sort of emotions to invest in it. Is it empathy or objectivity or distaste for a total display of callousness and a hardened matter –of- fact approach to life? You are left undecided throughout and that is the whole symbolism Camus wants to exhibit for Absurdism and that’s exactly where the novel becomes an existentialist/absurdist tour de force.  While the source of all philosophical thought is wonder (Aristotle’s inference), Absurdism is distinct for its almost mathematical approach and the fact that it starts with the death of all philosophies. The whole idea of Absurdism centers on the confrontation or constant opposition between two ideals- man’s incessant desire to find a meaning and significance to his life and the universe that is silent, cold and indifferent to a single man in larger scheme of things and whose existence is there without any inherent meaning. Thus, while accepting that human beings inevitably seek to understand life's purpose, Camus takes the skeptical position that the natural world, the universe, and the human enterprise remain silent about any such purpose. Since existence itself has no meaning, we must learn to bear an irresolvable emptiness. This paradoxical situation, then, between our impulse to ask ultimate questions and the impossibility of achieving any adequate answer, is what Camus calls the absurd

Albert Camus extends the idea in The Myth of Sisyphus “There is only one really serious philosophical problem and that is suicide. Deciding whether or not life is worth living is to answer the fundamental question in philosophy. All other questions follow from that”.
What then is Camus's reply to his question about whether or not to commit suicide? What is the Camusean alternative to suicide or hope? The answer is to live without escape and with integrity, in “revolt” and defiance, maintaining the tension intrinsic to human life. Full consciousness, avoiding false solutions such as religion, refusing to submit, and carrying on with vitality and intensity: these are Camus's answers. This is how a life without ultimate meaning can be made worth living. As he said in Nuptials, life's pleasures are inseparable from a keen awareness of these limits.  In response to the lure of suicide, Camus counsels an intensely conscious and active non-resolution. Rejecting any hope of resolving the strain is also to reject despair. Indeed, it is possible, within and against these limits, to speak of happiness. “Happiness and the absurd are two sons of the same earth. They are inseparable” .
It is not that discovering the absurd leads necessarily to happiness, but rather that acknowledging the absurd means also accepting human frailty, an awareness of our limitations, and the fact that we cannot help wishing to go beyond what is possible. For Camus, happiness includes living intensely and sensuously in the present coupled with tragic (due to lack of inherent meaning), lucid, and defiant consciousness, sense of limits, bitterness, determination to keep on, and  refusal of any form of consolation. Camus is also similar in this to Nietzsche, who called upon his readers to “say yes to life,” and live as completely as possible at every moment. Nietzsche's point was that to be wholly alive means being as aware of the negative as of the positive, feeling pain, not shunning any experience, and embracing life “even in its strangest and hardest problems.

Now, returning to where I started: - rendering an absurdist theme to Shelock’s chief villain may or may not be accurate but definitely is a constructed meaning. Life, an abstract entity like fiction can also be rendered a constructed meaning but claims of a divine purpose or cosmic significance are nothing but a mere escape. Absurdism is one of the most attractive school of thought and resembles closely to Existentialism and Nihilism in its contents but divert significantly at the finer points. Here’s avery helpful chart I found: -










Life is no one single, simple thing, but a series of tensions and dilemmas. The most seemingly straightforward features of life are in fact ambiguous and even contradictory. Camus recommends that we avoid trying to resolve them. We need to face the fact that we can never successfully purge ourselves of the impulses that threaten to wreak havoc with our lives. Camus's philosophy, if it has a single message, is that we should learn to tolerate, indeed embrace the frustration and ambivalence that humans cannot escape.




Monday, June 17, 2013

Contemplation at the crossroad




Note to myself- Boredom has hit, yet again. So while I spend my time listening to Eric Clapton and digress the consideration of objectivity or the lack of it through variety of readings (short stories by Nikolay Gogol is keeping me interested these days), the fact has cultivated that abstract and intact are my ongoing relentless struggle with benign boredom. Now, on one side there are people who make me distraught with their endless talks of grandiloquent ambitions and sensational career pursuits; the other side is filled with my assimilation of spiritual garbage that has lost my enthusiasm and has brought me to a point where I have started asking the concreteness of all of it.

 I have grown up in a land where your credibility is measured by degree with no consideration of the fact that a certain dog food goes by the name “pedigree”! You need to grow up in India to understand this paranoia with having that xyz college brand while having no idea what that education is all about. It’s the fame derived from clearing some preposterous entrance exam so that your mother can have a smirk on her face when she talks about you with her social nest and your father can carry some significant ego about it.   Maybe, I am not a very ambitious fellow and I certainly do not see the point of going through all this unnecessary torment when whatever you would like to study is freely available on Internet or for a modest subscription of a nearby public library. That implies the only reason you want to have that price and glory tagged education is because you need a job to sustain yourself. Well, if the whole idea boils down to that then wasting day in and day out discussing just that is a sheer waste.
Let’s refresh ourselves and move on a bit to the spiritual side of life. Here’s a quote from George Harrison (lead guitarist of The Beatles):

Krishna actually was in a body as a person ... What makes it complicated is, if he's God, what's he doing fighting on a battlefield? It took me ages to try to figure that out, and again it was Yogananda's spiritual interpretation of the Bhagavad Gita that made me realise what it was. Our idea of Krishna and Arjuna on the battlefield in the chariot. So this is the point—that we're in these bodies, which is like a kind of chariot, and we're going through this incarnation, this life, which is kind of a battlefield. The senses of the body ... are the horses pulling the chariot, and we have to get control over the chariot by getting control over the reins. And Arjuna in the end says, 'Please Krishna, you drive the chariot' because unless we bring Christ or Krishna or Buddha or whichever of our spiritual guides ... we're going to crash our chariot, and we're going to turn over, and we're going to get killed in the battlefield. That's why we say 'Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna', asking Krishna to come and take over the chariot.

So anyone who has not yet read a book by Paramhansa Yogananda should definitely give it a try. More than anything it’s a treatise on faith and how faith itself is the miracle. For the last 5-6 years I have underwent a tumultuous ride where my mind has quizzed and questioned variety of spiritual perspectives. The problem being that I always wanted to reach somewhere through these self debates whereas the whole spirituality has been focused on making you contented in the state you are. To make the state you are in right now a joyous state. The whole act of surrendering to God or a divine idea or a philosophical ideology is to rest your mind at some place when its flooded and tired in solving a complex problem of life. When the mind has rested for a while, its faculties are renewed and the problem is solved, either through the acts of the renewed faculties or because time has healed the problem. Hence, the various interpretations of psychological time. I have come to conclude something- the more one intellectualizes, the more one moves in mind’s labyrinth. Maybe there is an end, maybe there is none. But the journey itself is ardently complex leading from one disappointment to another. In India, there is a lot of emphasis on searching for a spiritual guide. It is a great phenomena in itself  to be in close proximity with a Buddha or a Krishna but in my own search I have come across none. What I have come across is poor children standing outside the heavily adorned temples while rich hold their strict license on God through generous downpour of wealth. None of these religious facades have been able to address the issue of malnourished children and acute hunger of that old man sitting calmly in a corner. So what kind of God are we discussing here? A tyrant one? Well, there’s another option that I have seen most of the Indians I know have chosen- insensitivity. Blame it on Karma and endless life cycles and move on with your life to chase that dream to drive that fancy car or to put on the music and air conditioner and shut the semi tinted windows in case you already possess a fancy car. Or better still, not even chase a career but be delusional and believe to be spiritual and distinct. I have lost the point for such spirituality. I am going to take some break from that sweet word. I am sure I will re-visit it again.

As you can see I am at an interesting crossroad where a new direction at the intellectual level is sought. Perhaps, even that new direction shall become stale once that path would have been traveled. Perhaps, that’s life- you try to make it interesting everyday while your own mind makes it boring in few days.

Since we have had a hard discussion, let’s unwind with this beautiful Beatles song sung as a tribute by Eric Clapton to George Harrison. Here are two related beautiful moments:

After George Harrison's death , Dhani Harrison, his son, participated in the Concert for George on the first anniversary of George's death. The concert was organized by Eric Clapton and featured some of George's friends and collaborators, including former Beatles bandmates Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr as well as Clapton, Billy Preston, Ravi Shankar, Jeff Lynne, Tom Petty, Jim Keltner, and Joe Brown. Dhani Harrison played backup acoustic guitar for most of the concert. Before the finale, McCartney relayed to the audience, " With Dhani up on stage, it looks like George stayed young and we all got old"
On 14 April 2009, the Hollywood Chamber of Commerce posthumously awarded George Harrison a star on the Walk of Fame. After Olivia Harrison (his wife) gave a short speech about her late husband, Dhani Harrison uttered the "Hare Krishna" mantra





Thursday, February 14, 2013

Notes on Salvador Dali

                                       
     Have you ever displayed elephant skulls in front of your home or imagined being a fish, or find yourself fascinated with your own excrement? One very eccentric man did all these things, Mr. Salvador Dali, one of the most famous artists of the Surrealism time. But then, when was there a distinction between eccentricity and ingenuity. In a world now, where the quality of imitation decides the quality of art, Salvador Dali has been a refreshing break from all the left brainer's nonsense I hear everyday. Trust me, if you have never seen a Dali, then watch "The persistence of Memory" and let the Pink Floyd's song "Time" play in the background. Your mind will say a "thank you"!
File:The Persistence of Memory.jpgFile:DisintegrationofPersistence.jpg


My introduction to Salvador Dali and Surrealism in general is attributed to one very dear artist friend. Conversations with her made me read "The Secret Life of Salvador Dali" and since then I have believed that imagination is "real". A tough book book to read being as ambiguous as the man himself and being so whacky. Consider this, a man who dreams that his friend murdered him and then took his wife, goes on to have lunch with him the very next afternoon and then starts painting the dream!  I felt as if I was reading the incoherent ramblings of a man with a slight case of narcissism. This at times, made the book somewhat difficult to follow. But, I found it to be true "Dalinian" as he would say. Reading about the thought process of some of his work was most intriguing. He seemed to find the "art" in some of the most awkward places. 

Every experience, even seeing a hotel bellboy, spilling some coffee, or flatulence, had mystic and mythic meaning for him. Read just a few of his words, and you know that you can't just read his words. Ideas swirled around him in chaotic orbits, like his beloved flies. His writing makes me think of a show of fireworks, which an author tries to describe by tracing a few dozen especially brilliant sparks. Dali’s unique take on art makes his pieces worth looking at multiple times. Indeed, I can often look back on one of his works and notice a plethora of new things that I haven’t noticed before.For example, one of his paintings features a throng of nude women in strange poses. Take a few steps back or lose your focus on those three, and focus on the man in the front… What you’ll see instead of those women in the background is a macabre skull leering at you.

Three things stand out as invariant across Dalí's life, as he tells it. The second is Gala, his wife, muse, agent, and tour-guide to planet earth. The third is enthusiasm for everything, a degree of involvement with his world that permeates his vision and hearing, but also his senses of smell, touch, and all things of the body. That level of everyday intensity would stun most people in just minutes, and probably kill some. The first point in Dalí's world is, of course, Dalí



Dalí's achievement can be hard to grasp. It is all but de rigueur to say that it has been obscured by his flamboyant temperament and indefatigable self-promotion, and further trivialized by his pervasive influence - unequaled even by Picasso - that is not restricted to just legions of subsequent artists. There are entire genres of popular culture and kitsch that seem almost unimaginable without Dalí, including horror movies, science-fiction book covers and cartoons.

Dalí's paintings from the late 1920's and early 30's are among the most memorably, lusciously harrowing images of Surrealism. His serene yet nightmarish combinations of pristine planes and sudden eruptions of deformed bodies and tortured flesh are famously fraught with sexual anxiety and obsessions: onanism, scatology and fear of impotence. They affirm most explicitly Surrealism's first article of faith: that the uncontrollable forces of the unconscious discovered by Freud were the true governors of reality.

 The Persistence of Memory is one of Dali's best-known works, and as such, many people have most likely been exposed to it throughout their lives. Through its showings of soggy clocks and an Oceanside setting, the painting depicts Dali's view of how memory fades (or in this case, sags) over time. One thing an attentive viewer will note is the closed pocket watch, with its lack of distortion, implies Dali's view that memory can only be distorted if open (shared with others), rather than closed. If you look closely, you can see Salvador Dali's self-criticism come through in a brilliant way, in the central figure of the painting. The background of the painting, in contrast to the rest of Dali's works, are not terribly surreal, and indeed are quite beautiful in the more traditional sense, and they depict the shores of his native Catalonia. Surrealism is an art form which seems to be quite "love it or hate it". For me personally, I love this piece, though at first I found it quite visually disagreeable. Lovers of more conservative art will most likely not enjoy this piece, as it is highly experimental.

No matter how realistic or well done a piece is, the best pieces are always the ones that reflect personal feelings. Humans are naturally social people that communicate with each other verbally, physically, mentally and emotionally. If a work of art lacks all of the above, then it’s a dead piece of art that isn’t as appealing to the eye. When humans can sympathize with a piece of art, it makes the work all the more great. Dalí portrays his emotions well throughout his paintings in almost any painting he does. Anyone can look at his paintings and tell what his relative mood was while painting the picture.

One catastrophic event in Dalí’s life that is a turning point in his art is the death of his mother. The death of his mother causes him to change his styles from painting portraits and landscapes to borrowing many other styles and began reflecting his tormented soul. His love for his wife is also portrayed in his painting Galarina. His feelings of depression led him to painting gloomy pictures. Although not very easy to find the emotions Dalí expresses in his art when compared to Van Gogh for instance, it’s his feelings that are often being expressed in his paintings.
In all of Dalí’s works he clearly defines the idea of surrealism art. All of his art could be a good exemplar of surreal art..


 Salvador Dalí may not top everyone's list of modern artists, but he played one to the hilt. He treated modern painting as an experiment—often as not, an experiment in human flesh. He dabbled in avant-garde movements just long enough to break away, in politics just long enough to change sides, and in popular culture just long enough to have a run-in or two with the producers. He returned to a stock of images as they slipped from radical to obsessive to a cliché. He flaunted his talent, his virtuosity, and his command of illusion every step of the way. And all these extended to the artist's persona as much as to his work. From his melting watches to his long waxed mustache, Dalí became a public figure and a public favorite, like Picasso without the difficulty of Cubism. The profile will not fit everyone's idea of modern art.