THE AISLES OF PARADISE

It is indeed my great pleasure to see you once again, my dear, perceptive reader. In the three weeks or so that I have been away from you, trust me when I say that I have thought a lot about you. Funny thing, memory, isn’t it? Perhaps I delude myself in believing that you are still out there, that you are still listening to what I have to say; whereas in reality, you could be a million miles away, on an endless beach of white sand somewhere in the tropics. Wait…. Did I say ‘reality’?? Scratch that. What indeed is reality? I say you are out there, eagerly hanging on to my every word, and so, you are.

This little flight of fancy I indulge in is all very well and fine, for it doesn’t have any ramifications. And yet, in some kind of cosmic tragedy, we, the only mammals to have the ability to imagine in a sentient manner, are the only ones so fettered by our trappings that we dare not. Our lives are filled with the harsh realities of the ‘real’ world, and we are left disillusioned, indeed if not disgusted. But then where can this little bird in our head, so eagerly beating its wings against its cage, take flight. Why, inside our head, of course. We have a whole little world in there, don’t we? The world of our pasts, the world that lead up to the now, that will lead on to the morrow? Isn’t it just lying there, our experiences, just waiting for us to unleash our complete repertoire of fancy on it?

Your memories are yours and yours alone. They aren’t controlled by the vagaries of what we, in our naïveté, call civilization. They are yours to do as you please. My dear reader, perceptive as you are, you may realize that I am partly rehashing over an earlier piece of mine, but bear with me nonetheless. For memory is indeed a strange thing. You realize that there is no such thing as an ‘accurate’ memory? There is only a platform, a viewing station, so to speak, from which only the keenest of observers can see, floating in the mists, other platforms, other viewing stations. But the coup de grace is yet to come. One must realize that there is no need for an accurate memory. Our perceptions of right and wrong, our judgment of true and false will suffice to show us the path.

But memory can indeed deceive, as many through the ages have pointed out. But it is indeed a sweet deception, one I welcome, not shun. Life is in trauma, not specifically, but very generally. Look around. It is akin to the seething froth of water on rock so feared by mariners. And yet, we must, as must they, endure it. And the lifeline we cling to, the sight of land, to stretch the metaphor a little further, is memory, and the dream of things to be. For the past and the future are not distinct, they are not separated by the now. On the memories of your yesterday are overlaid the dreams of your tomorrow, and the paths that you walk as you stroll through this wonderland are akin to the paths of Eden indeed.

Condemn one not for clinging to ones illusions, for it is a lifejacket to a drowning man, water to a parched throat, a lone sunbeam through the clouds of a thunderstorm. Instead, look to join him on the paths he wanders, and then make your own way. Look around, and try not to separate the ‘have beens’ from the ‘should have beens’ and the ‘should bes’. Instead, marvel at the kaleidoscope that arises at the fusion of the three, and enjoy. Make peace with the past, and look forward with hope to the future. Life is hard, and such stolen moments, trysts with ones self, are what make it worth the while.

With that, I shall take my leave of you for now, my dear reader, if indeed you are there at all. But I shall leave you with a very interesting thought…. Memory is a strange thing. It disappoints at first, but it is a way of holding on to the things you are, the things you love, the things you wish to never lose, and the things you wish time ignored. In a world that changes too fast, sometimes all one can do is hold on to memory, and wish one another a happy life…… and good luck.

THE BLIND SPOT

My dear, perceptive reader, take a look around you. Not just your usual dismissive glance, but a real long look, beyond the obvious facades and into the souls of people. And while you are at it, do me a favor. Pick one person out of the crowd, preferably someone you know moderately well, and write down his/her flaws. Not just one of those politically correct endeavors you see at 8th grade ‘Truth or Dare’ games, but a comprehensive list, ranging from anything you don’t really like about that unfortunate individuals looks to any major character flaws (maybe, as a means of whiling away the time, he rips the head of Barbies, you never know). And when you are done with his character analysis, turn your perceptive gaze indeed upon yourself and repeat the same exercise.

Perhaps I flatter myself in assuming that you, my dear reader, actually spared the time to humor me, and perform my little exercise. Nevertheless, it is an assumption I shall take the liberty of making, and hope to predict the results of the experiment. If you have indeed done as I asked, and taken it seriously, I’m willing to wager that the list of faults for the unwittingly compromised soul you chose reads far more than your own. And here at last, long-winded as the journey may have been, we at last come to my point. Why cant people recognize and accept their flaws, their shortcomings, and take corrective measures? Why do we live forever in denial? Why does the blade of your critique, so glinting in the morning sun when it is poised to come down on your hapless companion, suddenly get so dull and blunt when poised over your own head?

Naïve question, say you? Perchance you be right. We humans always have a tendency to neglect our own faults and shortcomings. And while this blind spot seems to be inevitable, perhaps it is best that we get rid of it. All it achieves is to stop us from recognizing where we are inadequate. And when we don’t even admit to ourselves the obvious, that we simply aren’t good enough in certain aspects of life, how ever are we going to take measures to correct it? Wherever I go, I see people waxing eloquent on how the judging criteria were prejudiced, how the judges were incompetent, how they just had an off day, how their inadequacies could perhaps be overlooked as they were depressed because of the weather, how they hit their head on the bedpost in the morning, and that snowballed into a miserable day!! The same hold true not only for organized contests, but for life in general. You make your own luck. On a popular musical talent hunt on television, contestants galore implore for a second chance because of a sore throat. They say it really isn’t their fault. Assuming indeed for a moment that you do have a sore throat, it still remains your fault. You should have taken care of your health better. I hope you perceive my point, dear reader.

Instead, admit to yourself that you really weren’t good enough to win on that particular day. You were beaten by somebody who was better than you. Fair enough. So you need to get better. Do it!! Do not hide yourself behind the cheap and transparent facades you erect. Conversely, knowing how bad you are implies also knowing how good you are. Be not ashamed of either fact. Know exactly who you are better than, and also exactly who are worse than, and in what aspect. Perhaps I am not the best person to give you advice, my dear reader, but I implore you, suffer it but this once. I await your replies, and until the next time we meet, my dear reader, fare thee well!!

A LETTER OF MANY TRUTHS

My dear, perceptive reader, perhaps I have been too liberal with the words musings or thoughts. Perhaps what goes through my head are not thoughts after all, perhaps they are merely thoughtlets, stray clouds that pass across the blue sky of consciousness. Perhaps you think me pretentious and stuck up. On the other hand, perhaps you don’t. Perhaps you even like me a little. Perhaps by virtue of my letters to you, for that is what this address holds, my letters to you, you have formed a picture of me. Perhaps the picture you formed is accurate, perhaps it isn’t. Either way, I must thank you, my dear reader; for you have read the outpourings of my soul, and stuck by me no matter what kind of drivel I subject you too.

You see, that is the beauty of the letter, that sheet of paper on which there is a real script, a real hand, in real ink. It leaves a lot to the imagination of the reader, to construct the writer out of naught but that sheet of paper. While dealing with a letter, you must treat all on that sheet as fiction, and all in your head as reality. What was the writer thinking when he wrote that letter? Was he thinking about you, its grateful recipient? Was his mind wandering across plains uncharted? Look at the strong hand, the words fluid. Surely the writer was in good health. Or perhaps he wasn’t. Perhaps he didn’t want his reader to worry about him.

A letter is that medium which allows dreams to come closer to reality, for what is reality? It certainly isn’t one fixed, immovable, stolid object. Indeed, it is fluid, like the clay of a kindergartener, molded to suit ones tastes. Your reality is shaped by the tint of your eyes, by your hopes, your dreams, and your memories. And if a letter causes your memories to change, to come closer to your dreams, then that is the way life should be. What happens when you are confronted by the fact that your dreams are…just that..dreams?? We live after all in a sea of perennial hope, and life is richer for a shattered dream than no dream at all.

One may say that in today’s digital world, with instant messaging at ones fingertips, we have no need for the institution of the letter. We may know all about the one with whom we converse in a matter of minutes. To such, I say, perhaps you miss the point. This is not about knowledge, but about that which sustains us all, our imagination. IM is too clean, too sterile; it doesn’t inspire one’s imagination the way a letter does. Have you never dreamt when you were a little kid?? Never dreamt of your life that shall be, of the people you shall meet?? Well, here is your chance to merge that dream with the people you did meet. A little indulgence in fantasy never hurt anyone.

But this is not an exhortation to dream big. It is one to dream small. Dream about what should have been, not what is. Dream about the next person you want to meet. Dream about how an old friend you haven’t seen in ages would be like now. Dream about what you would say when you found the person you know you want to spend the rest of your life with. Dream about that person from your past, whom you wish you hadn’t hurt, or about that girl to whom you wish you’d said more. Dream about your fiftieth birthday, and who you want to spend it with. Dream about that day when you are eighty, when a chess game is all you crave for, a chess game with a friend, a friend who once, wrote you a letter.

Dream about me. My letters to you contain a wealth of information about me. My dear reader, you and me, we have a past. Do not forget it. If I ever hurt you, my dear reader, forgive, but do not forget, and be assured I won’t either. If I ever delighted you, treasure that memory for ever. Let your memories of me get mixed up with the way you wanted me to be. Bring this image of me into your present. Take it with you into your future. This is my legacy to you.

So, my dear reader, this, and all that came before, and all that shall come are my letters to you. It is a letter of truth, certainly. But that truth is for you to see as you wish. Read them, and form your construct of me. Make me a prince, or make me a pauper. Make me a poet, or an ignoramus. Mold your memory of me to any form you wish, for that part of me which I’m surrendering to you by means of this letter, that part of me in your head, is for you to do as you please. And send me your letters, so that I may do the same. Rejoice in the fantasies of the mind. But tarry awhile, and ponder this, dream free, for your dream is your own, and none else can shape it. It is yours and yours alone. Until next time, my dear reader, fare thee well!!!

THE WORD UNSPOKEN

My dear, perceptive reader; I was watching 'The Wonder Years' last evening and one episode in particular inspired me to pen down my first piece of verse in a long, long time. Now, i realize it isn't anything great, no rhyme, no meter, just vers libre, but i believe it says something.

Poets write, bards sing
Men from world over come… come to hearken
For that is the power of the word written
It can and does make gloomy rooms undarken
And you, my lad, strapping and young
Where goes you now? Partake you not
of words that drip like honey from their tongue?
Nay, say you? the sun is for souls unfrittered?
Words are fair, indeed…
Of rainbows and clouds they sing
But what knoweth they of the heart
That like a chime bell rings
Words brighten a room, say you?
Perhaps you speak the truth
But what, ask I can the word do
That a soft hand on the back cannot?
Leave I my heart in the frigid air of winter
Warm it certainly your words do not
Life is but a tapestry, words the dye
But look, look at the patterns beneath
And for my part say I,
Blow out the candles, let the room darken
And let me hear in the night the word unspoken.

Until next time then, goodbye, my dear reader.

SELENE’S BOW

My dear, perceptive reader, I come back to you today with an incident, an anecdote, if you will, which set off a rather…….shall we say, unusual chain of thought within me.

About half a week ago, I saw one of the most beautiful sights of my life, a lunar rainbow!! The light of the moon differentially refracted by the mass of the clouds framing her face, creating a ring of colours, like a halo around a saint, only this was no ordinary saint I saw that day, assuredly, it was a bearer of the passion.

But, unfortunately, I had on me at that time, no way to capture the moment. So, trudging back to my room, I put out my feelers by means of that most loyal of friends, Google!! On a whim, I searched for rainbow paintings, and found not a few, but absolutely NO paintings with a lunar rainbow as the artists muse. So I asked myself, as I ask you now, my dear reader, why the lopsidedness? Why are the bursts of vibrant colour considered the sole prerogative of Helios, who cries rivers of gold? Why is Selene (Luna of the Romans) relegated to a backseat, her display of colour considered merely an aberration, something adorable, no doubt, but yet not grand or worthy of immortalization through the hands of an artist? Why must this fairest of the gods; pale maiden with the very stars as her freckles on her fair visage, sister of the Sun, mistress of the silver chariot, dispeller of the dark, temperamental as a teenager and yet mature and consistent as a matriarch, why must she be marginalized thus? This favorite of many poets, especially love poets bathes the world with her silvery light, especially beautiful when it caresses the water of a brook, bringing the feeling of romance. It is said that Selene's moon rays fall upon sleeping mortals, as her kisses fell upon her love, Endymion.

Why do we express awe at the sun and its majesty and yet treat the moon as naught but a toddler, to be coddled but yet not taken seriously? All this does is expose a larger malaise in society, our inability to break free of the bias of the collective consciousness. We form our opinions based on the opinions of our fathers and are very reluctant to discard and/or change them.

To be very honest, I am afraid of the sun. The idea of so much power in the hands of something so temperamental, so unstable terrifies me. And yet, on the other hand, Selene like a mother comes out and coddles me each night. Even on the nights she is absent, I still feel her presence, and know she is watching over me and smiling. Her power is subtle, a far cry from the blazing infernos of her brother Helios, and yet it is no less strong. She is, after all, the mistress of the waters. From her immortal head a radiance is shown from heaven and embraces earth; and great is the beauty that arises from her shining light. But then one wonders, why is she not accorded the same status in the Pantheon as is her brother? Is it just a lack of fear, a narrowness of perspective? Why, my dear reader, does one not realize that the light of the moon, while just as useful as that of the sun, poses no threat at all to us. It is a benign light, a light born of the smile of a lovely lady, a fair goddess. And yet, she looks down upon us and weeps, but even in her weeping she gives to you, my dear perceptive reader, her “Rivers of Silver”.