I sat in yoga pose
Content with the world
I had woken early
I was an early bird
I looked out the window
My phone began to ring
I looked at the wall clock
I began to think
It was 8.20 AM
The previous evening
I had set an alarm call
To ring at eight fifteen
Well frankly I thought, the alarm had
called me from the past
.
.
.
Then I realized,
My wall clock was fast.
--Amber Light
Friday, August 19, 2011
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
A Mini-Ode to the PC and the backspace key
I hit this wretched backspace key
More than I ever write
My blinking cursor goes left
More often than it goes right.
If it were not for the computer
I could never ever rhyme
If it were not for this machine here
I'd perhaps be a mime.
-- Amber Light
More than I ever write
My blinking cursor goes left
More often than it goes right.
If it were not for the computer
I could never ever rhyme
If it were not for this machine here
I'd perhaps be a mime.
-- Amber Light
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Musical Memory
That voice, that delicate twist in tune, every variation in beat, every little imperfection, takes me back to that moment in time when I first heard it. It takes me back to every instance since.
Does that mean if my life had a continuous soundtrack, I could remember every instant of my life forever?
I remember every lyric of a song even after years of not having heard it. I can hum the instrumental fillers and tap out the beat on my table (or in my head). To an extent that I freak myself out about how I could possibly remember that detail.
After having thought about it enough, I am convinced that this could only be possible because our brains are made to understand and communicate through music much more efficiently than any thing else in the world. Which means that our memory is able to interact with music better than words.
Does that mean if my life had a continuous soundtrack, I could remember every instant of my life forever?
I remember every lyric of a song even after years of not having heard it. I can hum the instrumental fillers and tap out the beat on my table (or in my head). To an extent that I freak myself out about how I could possibly remember that detail.
After having thought about it enough, I am convinced that this could only be possible because our brains are made to understand and communicate through music much more efficiently than any thing else in the world. Which means that our memory is able to interact with music better than words.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Wishing I was there
There is something very romantic about being a tourist. You see people and places and admire them. You imagine what it would be like to live in those pretty places. You dream of their perfect looking lives and wonder if there is that life in store for you sometime. You wish it was, because it looks so perfect and you have this idealized view of yourself and your life in the future.
I remember visiting Bangalore as a child and wondering how exciting it would be to actually live there. A city full of neon lights and buzzing restaurants and different people, exciting events happening all the time. When I did live in Bangalore, I don't think I enjoyed it as much as I had dreamed I would as a child.
I sit on my favourite bench here, watching tourists from different places, races, cultures and think of their exciting lives. I think of the fun that they will have in their next destination. I think of the people they will meet, the food they will sample, the places they will admire and wonder if there is any of that waiting to happen to me. And while I dream on, I catch them looking at me, with the same wonder and longing in their eyes as when I look at them.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Some Resolutions
1. Eat appropriately when hungry
2. Live mornings
3. Get rid of addictions
4. Create habits
5. Spend time creating
6. Allow inspiration to present itself and be open to it when it does
7. Solve problems rather than try to bury them
8. Respect time
9. Stop to evaluate impulses before acting on them
2. Live mornings
3. Get rid of addictions
4. Create habits
5. Spend time creating
6. Allow inspiration to present itself and be open to it when it does
7. Solve problems rather than try to bury them
8. Respect time
9. Stop to evaluate impulses before acting on them
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
The Bench
She looked around 20 years old. She wore a strapless white dress with red flower prints and some flecks of green that dropped to a little below her knees. She moved chairs back into position and as she did, she turned her back to me, revealing a glossy red ribbon tied into a bow around her waist. She seemed just a little conscious of her dress and tugged at it slightly.
She was tall, but her dress made her look smaller. She was not skinny, but you wouldn't call her chubby either. She had slightly freckled, fair skin.
She wore her long hair in a complex braid that rested on her right shoulder. She wore blue flat slippers with a thin strap that she held on to between her second and big toe. She wore a silvery anklet only on her right ankle. She held a tray in her right hand, with a couple of beer mugs on it, hoisted slightly at shoulder level.
She often slipped into a narrow doorway and re-emerged, each time with that tray in her hand. She came back to serve some new customers, very cheerfully.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
She wore her short hair with a middle parting. She had black rimmed glasses. A fluorescent green polo t-shirt, with khakis folded upto below her knees. She wore black strappy sandals. She was about 5 feet tall and a bit stout.
I could imagine her at a desk, or a store, but not at a job that required the attention and admiration of other people. But of course, my opinion is based on her appearance, the way she sloppily and very ineffectually tried to catch someone's eye with a wave, the way she wore a handbag as well as a backpack on each of her arms, looking quite uncomfortable. I lost sight of her many times as I tried to observe the details of her appearance, specially because of the person with bubblegum pink hair who was walking a little away from her.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"What time the ice cream shop close. Because I like to eat ice cream." Two girls sat down on the bench next to me. They were obviously not from the same place, did not know each other very well and not comfortable with speaking English at all. Yet, they shared laughs. They made a very active and enthusiastic attempt to be friendly.
They left my bench and went over to another one when it became vacant. I wondered, where the conversation would have gone from that point. What do you talk about after asking about the closing times of ice cream shops. What do you say after sharing tremendously unique details like your love for ice cream.
I glanced sideways at them again, expecting to see moments of awkward silence that have crept in to their conversation and I was surprised to see them still at it. I could not hear them talk, but I could see their faces reflect genuine interest in what the other had to say.
She was tall, but her dress made her look smaller. She was not skinny, but you wouldn't call her chubby either. She had slightly freckled, fair skin.
She wore her long hair in a complex braid that rested on her right shoulder. She wore blue flat slippers with a thin strap that she held on to between her second and big toe. She wore a silvery anklet only on her right ankle. She held a tray in her right hand, with a couple of beer mugs on it, hoisted slightly at shoulder level.
She often slipped into a narrow doorway and re-emerged, each time with that tray in her hand. She came back to serve some new customers, very cheerfully.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
She wore her short hair with a middle parting. She had black rimmed glasses. A fluorescent green polo t-shirt, with khakis folded upto below her knees. She wore black strappy sandals. She was about 5 feet tall and a bit stout.
I could imagine her at a desk, or a store, but not at a job that required the attention and admiration of other people. But of course, my opinion is based on her appearance, the way she sloppily and very ineffectually tried to catch someone's eye with a wave, the way she wore a handbag as well as a backpack on each of her arms, looking quite uncomfortable. I lost sight of her many times as I tried to observe the details of her appearance, specially because of the person with bubblegum pink hair who was walking a little away from her.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"What time the ice cream shop close. Because I like to eat ice cream." Two girls sat down on the bench next to me. They were obviously not from the same place, did not know each other very well and not comfortable with speaking English at all. Yet, they shared laughs. They made a very active and enthusiastic attempt to be friendly.
They left my bench and went over to another one when it became vacant. I wondered, where the conversation would have gone from that point. What do you talk about after asking about the closing times of ice cream shops. What do you say after sharing tremendously unique details like your love for ice cream.
I glanced sideways at them again, expecting to see moments of awkward silence that have crept in to their conversation and I was surprised to see them still at it. I could not hear them talk, but I could see their faces reflect genuine interest in what the other had to say.
Friday, April 15, 2011
What you are not
The movie came to an end. The giant screen went blank after the last credit rolled out. The song phased out. The silence echoed through the huge white hall. He looked at his reflection on the screen. He continued looking at it for a while.
It was late at night and the moon lit a large part of the hall, making it look silvery. The windows let in the cool air and he felt himself going back to his childhood when he would sleep on the open terrace under the summer moon. Since the time he could afford it, he had bought houses on the topmost floor of increasingly tall buildings. Every one of them with a skylight. It was a feeble effort to try and shut out the lights of the rest of the world while he tried hard to remember that childhood.
Nobody knew who he was or what it was like being him. Every body wanted to be him, dress like him, talk like him. But every one who did an imitation of him, did it differently, depending on the movie that they had watched. Because, in no two movies did he repeat himself. There was no characteristic expression or gesture that he carried from one movie to the next. Even when he played the same kind of role, they turned out different. Film makers had to fight their urge to allow him to play the same story with a few changes here and there, simply because his ability to bring a character to life inspired them to explore their own creativity.
He, on the other hand, loved the details that writers put in outlining his characters. There was depth and life in the roles that he played.
That night he lay on the cool white floor under the moon peeking through his skylight and he thought of his last conversation with his manager. People wanted to make a movie of his life. With him in the lead role. "It will be the easiest role you have ever done. No month off to get in to character, no research and no crazy costumes. Your fans will love it, easy money and little work. You can make the movie and then make it to that vacation you have not had for the past 15 years."
The moon had moved right in the middle of the skylight. He knew that he wouldn't make that movie. He had always known that his life would catch up with him some day. And he had known that when that happened, it would be the end of his career and life as he knew it. How wrong they were. It would be his toughest movie ever. He would have to take that vacation first. He would have to find who he was. And when he did find out, that would be the end. He would no longer be able to play any other role.
He thought of that night long ago. He had just come back home from the movies. He had watched his favourite super-hero thrash evil and turn back time to bring back the dead. He felt himself flying as the hero flew. He felt victorious when the hero won. He lived that life for 180 minutes and then wanted more. That night on the roof he had decided, that he would be that guy in the movies.
He had been that guy all these years. Now people wanted him to play himself. He would have to go back to that night. He would have to be that hero again. He would have to turn back time to bring himself back.
The skies were becoming light and Manu looked outside the window. He had lots to write yet. He had so many details to fill in.
He would have to make it this time. He remembered his last bitter fight with his agent. "Everyone writes stories for movies. Who ever has heard of an occupation as a short story writer. If you want me to continue as your agent, you have got to write a movie script for me." How hard was it anyway.
He couldn't decide if his actor's childhood would be shown in a montage of clips or with a voice-over. How to fill in a 2 hour movie with just one actor and a voice over. There would have to be so many more people in a film actor's life of course. How would the story end. How would he depict these words without actually using them.
Manu went on writing, breaking just for badly made meals and a few hours of sleep in between. At the end of the month, he found himself standing over his paper basket. There were more sheets in there than in the pile that he felt he could keep. He still had a long way to go. He would have to make it acceptable to his nitpicking agent.
At the end of the next month, he looked at his story again. It had all the elements. His principle character was sketched out. The other characters had their roles well defined. There was a plot. There was a climax. The ending had a twist. It was perfect.
He sat down at his computer and typed in his story. Thanks to push button publishing, Manu had his next short story on his blog.
It was late at night and the moon lit a large part of the hall, making it look silvery. The windows let in the cool air and he felt himself going back to his childhood when he would sleep on the open terrace under the summer moon. Since the time he could afford it, he had bought houses on the topmost floor of increasingly tall buildings. Every one of them with a skylight. It was a feeble effort to try and shut out the lights of the rest of the world while he tried hard to remember that childhood.
Nobody knew who he was or what it was like being him. Every body wanted to be him, dress like him, talk like him. But every one who did an imitation of him, did it differently, depending on the movie that they had watched. Because, in no two movies did he repeat himself. There was no characteristic expression or gesture that he carried from one movie to the next. Even when he played the same kind of role, they turned out different. Film makers had to fight their urge to allow him to play the same story with a few changes here and there, simply because his ability to bring a character to life inspired them to explore their own creativity.
He, on the other hand, loved the details that writers put in outlining his characters. There was depth and life in the roles that he played.
That night he lay on the cool white floor under the moon peeking through his skylight and he thought of his last conversation with his manager. People wanted to make a movie of his life. With him in the lead role. "It will be the easiest role you have ever done. No month off to get in to character, no research and no crazy costumes. Your fans will love it, easy money and little work. You can make the movie and then make it to that vacation you have not had for the past 15 years."
The moon had moved right in the middle of the skylight. He knew that he wouldn't make that movie. He had always known that his life would catch up with him some day. And he had known that when that happened, it would be the end of his career and life as he knew it. How wrong they were. It would be his toughest movie ever. He would have to take that vacation first. He would have to find who he was. And when he did find out, that would be the end. He would no longer be able to play any other role.
He thought of that night long ago. He had just come back home from the movies. He had watched his favourite super-hero thrash evil and turn back time to bring back the dead. He felt himself flying as the hero flew. He felt victorious when the hero won. He lived that life for 180 minutes and then wanted more. That night on the roof he had decided, that he would be that guy in the movies.
He had been that guy all these years. Now people wanted him to play himself. He would have to go back to that night. He would have to be that hero again. He would have to turn back time to bring himself back.
The skies were becoming light and Manu looked outside the window. He had lots to write yet. He had so many details to fill in.
He would have to make it this time. He remembered his last bitter fight with his agent. "Everyone writes stories for movies. Who ever has heard of an occupation as a short story writer. If you want me to continue as your agent, you have got to write a movie script for me." How hard was it anyway.
He couldn't decide if his actor's childhood would be shown in a montage of clips or with a voice-over. How to fill in a 2 hour movie with just one actor and a voice over. There would have to be so many more people in a film actor's life of course. How would the story end. How would he depict these words without actually using them.
Manu went on writing, breaking just for badly made meals and a few hours of sleep in between. At the end of the month, he found himself standing over his paper basket. There were more sheets in there than in the pile that he felt he could keep. He still had a long way to go. He would have to make it acceptable to his nitpicking agent.
At the end of the next month, he looked at his story again. It had all the elements. His principle character was sketched out. The other characters had their roles well defined. There was a plot. There was a climax. The ending had a twist. It was perfect.
He sat down at his computer and typed in his story. Thanks to push button publishing, Manu had his next short story on his blog.
Monday, December 13, 2010
The Universe Speaks
Music makes the world seem worth it all. The heartbreaks, the sorrow, joy, love, nature, everything makes sense. Life should be written to music.
Sugary sweetness, overflowing and sickening is okay but for a very very short while. Like a 3-minute song with lots of repetitive chorus that sounds like sugar-high cheerleaders, the most annoyingly catchy tune. Hearing the same song years later reminds you of the time you heard the song first, how foolish you were back then. How much more foolish you are now.
Dance music is like the heart beat. Life dances to it. The sun sets, trees grow, trains rush keeping beat to this music.
Sad music is pure joy. There is a sense of pure love that washes all over and hushes the mind filled with thoughts that are so fast and mixed up that they hurt. Sad music wishes all that away.
Violins and guitars are the voice of the universe talking to us in the language in which everything resonates.
Lyrics to a song are sometimes like sugar in honey - pointless, sometimes like a fly in honey - annoying, and sometimes honey itself - sweet.
Sugary sweetness, overflowing and sickening is okay but for a very very short while. Like a 3-minute song with lots of repetitive chorus that sounds like sugar-high cheerleaders, the most annoyingly catchy tune. Hearing the same song years later reminds you of the time you heard the song first, how foolish you were back then. How much more foolish you are now.
Dance music is like the heart beat. Life dances to it. The sun sets, trees grow, trains rush keeping beat to this music.
Sad music is pure joy. There is a sense of pure love that washes all over and hushes the mind filled with thoughts that are so fast and mixed up that they hurt. Sad music wishes all that away.
Violins and guitars are the voice of the universe talking to us in the language in which everything resonates.
Lyrics to a song are sometimes like sugar in honey - pointless, sometimes like a fly in honey - annoying, and sometimes honey itself - sweet.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Friday, October 8, 2010
Why blog?
I recently started writing at a new blog : lifeandpepper.blogspot.com and I have been thinking about why I write on a blog made public for everyone in the world to read and write some thing there while trying not to talk about my identity in the real world while also giving out the blog address to people I know personally. (Phew, long sentence)
What do I write on the internet for. Is it some kind of deluded sense of being a good writer / an attempt to improve on skills / a record of life and the way I am going through it / trying to tell people "look I exist, I am witty, I am talented!!!!" and sounding like a big bore really.
If you blog, tell me why you do. I want to know what the reason for this endless number of blogs that are written and very rarely read.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)