My immediate needs

-> An yellow rainbow
-> A switch to turn my thinking off
-> Chocolates that wont give me calories
-> Gentle rainswhen the sun is high
-> Warmer weather inside the office
-> Lotsa sleep
-> Loved ones to speak my mind off ...IN PERSON
-> Some interesting food to eat...(interesting = anything vegetarian Indian)
-> More music
-> A walk in the woods

A snap-shot of me

Off-late I m caught up in a sand-storm of emotions , thoughts, that my visibility is close to zero and am acting in very strange ways.Ways I ve never seen myself walk and thoughts I ve never thought.

Last noon , I had been to the library to pick books for my week's reading and was overwhelmed by their multitudious presence , that I shed a tear or two.Dont know if it was the numerous options I was presented with , that made me feel overwhelmed...or is their proliferous presence just the last straw?

These days I m more comfortable having books and music around, rather than people.Not that I hold anything my loved ones or the human race , may be I m losing my ability to express myself.I dont want to try...not for a little while.

Another thing I m actually trying out is to test the limits of my humility and sometimes I m surprised at how untamed my ego or pride (I dont know which one) has grown , without me noticing. But I m being a prudent master.

If only a visit to the library , the choices , if they overwhelm you , these are some books that may appeal to you:

I , Rigoberto Menchu
Bridge across forever , Richard Bach
Crossing borders , Rigoberto Menchu
House made of dawn , N. Scott Momaday

I read this post after having typed it out and it simply is a medley.If you can make a little sense of this , call yourself 'lucky ' :-)

Catch you later...

A self-inflicted murder

She walks the name-less streets, amidst the face-less strangers;
Even if they did have names or faces, it really dint matter.
She speaks the language that will never be understood.
Being understood is of no good either.

She stares deep into the wilderness , which is all within her;
Even it were otherwise , she does not know where to go.
Her stead-fast walk looks impressive ,
despite her tattered clothes.
But looks can be very deceptive,
the truth remains: She has no place to go.

I made her that way, haggard, torn and numb.
I stole her of her joyful smiles and
marred the beauty she was meant to be.
She is now many a times stoned,
but she gives a smile so dumb.
Pity ...her cradle is her coffin.

She was given unto the hands of a stranger to her heart.
It was I who did it.
What hurts her most is not the stones nor the stranger,
but the fact that she is abandoned to eternity.
And the doer of the deed is abandoned as much.
Wounds heal, pain fades ...scars remain.

Happy Independence Day India :-)

A snap-shot of me

Yesterday , I waded in the waters of a calm , clear , beautiful lake.I was thinking about the turbulence that the previous day's rain should ve brought upon the lake.I watched a leaf fall...ripe and gracious.I walked over lots of them,I heard them rustle under my feet.

I like the woods ...the crickets , the bees (or may be the wasps..I cant tell between the two) , the earthern-smell,the calm waters, the trees, the breeze ...especially after a rain.They feed my senses and do something to me which i donot know what...something very good.Not a passing feeling...but a staying calm.

I dont know if I m calm or at peace or contented or am simply tired.What ever it is
I like it now.I like what I m in the woods.

I read this:

"I wrote a poem to the moon

But no one noticed it;

Although I hoped that late or soon

Someone would praise a bit

Its purity and grace forlone,

Its beauty tulip-cool...

But as my poem died still-born,

I felt a fool.



I wrote a verse of vulgar trend

Spiced with an oath or two;

I tacked a snapper at the end

And called it Dan McGrew .

I spouted it to bar-room boys,

Full fifty years away;

Yet still with rude and ribald noise

It lives today.



'Tis bitter truth, but there you are-

That's how a name is made;

Write of a rose, a lark, a star,

You'll never make the grade.

But write of gutter and of grime,

Of pimp and prostitute,

The multitude will read your rhyme,

And pay to boot.



So what's the use to burn and bleed

And strive for beauty's sake?

No one your poetry will read,

Your heart will only break.

But set your song in vulgar pitch,

If rhyme you will not rue,

And make your heroine a bitch...

Like Lady Lou ."

- Robert William Service, "My Cross"

And it made perfect sense to me!!!