As I write and as you read, its but one small momentary break in our lives that are running in an endless loop of existential indifference.
One day is a circle. One circle is a trap of continuous reaffirmation of narrow existence. In a world that is only dismantling itself with every passing hour, we have taught ourselves to comfortably ignore each of those things and people who ask too many questions and break through our inertia.
This is not to challenge redundancy....I am too nicely ensconced in it to do that. But perhaps catching this moment of a break...this instance of partial awareness of the bleak side of our world...this will help ease a bit of the existential angst against my own apathy and indifference?
There are a million things which prick and another million things which mock our perceptions of life and living...
I can already sense a reluctant full stop coming.....the break didn't last all that long now did it?
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
“The Laurel and Hardy Love Affair” by Ray Bradbury
He called her Stanley, she called him Ollie.
That was the beginning, that was the end, of what we will call the Laurel and Hardy love affair.
She was twenty-five, he was thirty-two when they met at one of those dumb cocktail parties where everyone wonders what they are doing there. But no one goes home, so everyone drinks too much and lies about how grand a late afternoon it all was.
They did not, as often happens, see each other across a crowded room, and if there was romantic music to background their collision, it couldn’t be heard. For everyone was talking at one person and staring at someone else.
They were, in fact, ricocheting through a forest of people, but finding no shade trees. He was on his way for a needed drink, she was eluding a love-sick stranger, when they locked paths in the exact center of the fruitless mob. They dodged left and right a few times, then laughed and he on impulse, seized his tie and twiddled it at her, wiggling his fingers. Instantly, smiling, she lifted her hand to pull the top of her hair into a frowzy tassel, blinking and looking as if she had been struck on the head.
“Stan!” he cried, in recognition.
“Ollie!” She exclaimed. “Where have you been?”
“Why don’t you do something to help me!” he exclaimed, making wide fat gestures.
They grabbed each others arms, laughing again.
“I-” She said, and her face brightened even more. “I-I know the exact place, not two miles from here, where Laurel and Hardy, in nineteen thirty, carried that piano crate up and down one hundred and fifty steps!”
“Well,” he cried, “let’s get out of here!”
His car door slammed, his car engine roared.
Los Angeles raced by in late afternoon sunlight.
He braked the car where she told him to park. “Here!”
“I can’t believe it,” he murmured, not moving. He peered around at the sunset sky. Lights were coming on all across Los Angeles, down the hill. He nodded. “Are those the steps?”
“All one hundred fifty of them.” She climbed out of the open topped car. “Come on, Ollie.”
“Very well,” he said, “Stan.”
They walked over to the bottom of yet another hill and gazed up along the steep incline of concrete steps toward the sky. The faintest touch of wetness rimmed his eyes. She was quick to pretend not to notice, but she took his elbow. Her voice was wonderfully quiet.
“Go on up,” she said. “Go on. Go.”
She gave him a tender push.
He started up the steps, counting, and with each half-whispered count, his voice took on an extra decibel of joy. By the time he reached fifty-seven he was a boy playing a wondrous old-new game, and he was lost in time, and whether he was carrying the piano up the hill or whether it was chasing him down, he could not say.
“Hold it!” he heard her call, far away, “right there!”
He held still, swaying on step fifty-eight, smiling wildly, as if accompanied by proper ghosts, and turned.
“Okay,” she called, “come back down.”
He started down, color in his cheeks and a peculiar suffering of happiness in his chest. He could hear the piano following now.
“Hold it right there!”
She had a camera in her hands. Seeing it, his right hand flew instinctively to his tie to flutter it on the evening air.
“Now me!” She shouted, and raced up to hand him the camera. And he marched down and looked up and there she was, doing the thin shrug and the puzzled and hopeless face of Stan baffled by life but loving it all. He clicked the shutter, wanting to stay here forever.
She came slowly down the steps and peered into his face.
“Why,” she said, “you’re crying.”
She placed her thumbs under his eyes to press the tears away. She tasted the result. “Yep,” she said. “Real tears.”
He looked at her eyes, which were almost as wet as his.
“Another fine mess you’ve got us in,” he said.
“Oh, Ollie,” she said.
“Oh, Stan,” he said.
He kissed her, gently.
And then he said:
“Are we going to know each other forever?”
“Forever,” she said.
*And that was how the long love affair began.
They had real names, of course, but those don’t matter, for Laurel and Hardy always seemed the best thing to call themselves.
For the simple fact was that she was fifteen pounds underweight and he was always trying to get her to add a few pounds. And he was twenty pounds overweight and she was always trying to get him to take off more than his shoes. But it never worked and was finally a joke, the best kind, which wound up being:
“You’re Stan, no two ways about it, and I’m Ollie, let’s face it. And oh God, dear young woman, let’s enjoy the mess, the wonderful mess, all the while we’re in!”
It was, then, while it lasted, and it lasted some while, a French parfait, an American perfection, a wilderness from which they would never recover to the end of their lives.
From that twilight hour on the piano stairs on, their days were long, heedless, and full of that amazing laughter that paces the beginning and the run-along rush of any great love affair. They only stopped laughing long enough to kiss and only stopped kissing long enough to laugh at how odd and miraculous it was to find themselves with no clothes to wear in the middle of a bed as vast as life and as beautiful as morning.
And sitting there in the middle of warm whiteness, he shut his eyes and shook his head and declared, pompously:
“I have nothing to say!”
“Yes, you do!” she cried. “Say it!”
And he said it and they fell off the edge of the earth.
*Their first year was pure myth and fable, which would grow outsize when remembered thirty years on. They went to see new films and old films, but mainly Stan and Ollie. They memorized all the best scenes and shouted them back and forth as they drove around midnight Los Angeles. He spoiled her by treating her childhood growing up in Hollywood as very special, and she spoiled him by pretending that his yesteryear on roller skates out front of the studios was not in the past but right now.
She proved it one night. On a whim she asked where he had roller-skated as a boy and collided with W.C. Fields. Where he asked Fields for his autograph, and where was it that Fields signed the book, and handed it back, and cried, “There you are, you little son-of-a-bitch!”
“Drive me there,” she said.
And at ten o’clock that night they got out of the car in front of Paramount Studio and he pointed to the pavement near the gate and said, “He stood there,” and she gathered him in her arms and kissed him and said gently, “Now where was it you had your picture taken with Marlene Dietrich?”
He walked her fifty feet across the street from the studio. “In the late afternoon sun,” he said, “Marlene stood here.” And she kissed him again, longer this time, and the moon rising like an obvious magic trick, filling the street in front of the empty studio. She let her soul flow over into him like a tipped fountain, and he received it and gave it back and was glad.
“Now,” she said, quietly, “where was it you saw Fred Astaire in nineteen thirty-five and Ronald Colman in nineteen thirty-seven and Jean Harlow in nineteen thirty-six?”
And he drove her to those three different places all around Hollywood until midnight and they stood and she kissed him as if it would never end.
And that was the first year. And during that year they went up and down those long piano steps at least once a month and had champagne picnics halfway up, and discovered an incredible thing:
“I think it’s our mouths,” he said, “Until I met you, I never knew I had a mouth. Yours is the most amazing in the world, and it makes me feel as if mine were amazing, too. Were you ever really kissed before I kissed you?”
“Never!”
“Nor was I. To have lived this long and not known mouths.”
“Dear mouth,” she said, “shut up and kiss.”
But then at the end of the first year they discovered an even more incredible thing. He worked at an advertising agency and was nailed in one place. She worked at a travel agency and would soon be flying everywhere. Both were astonished they had never noticed before. But now that Vesuvius had erupted and the fiery dust was beginning to settle, they sat and looked at each other one night and she said, faintly:
“Good-bye…”
“What?” he asked.
“I can see good-bye coming,” she said.
He looked at her face and it was not sad like Stan in the films, but just sad like herself.
“I feel like the ending of that Hemingway novel where two people ride along in the late day and say how it would be if they could go on forever but they know now they won’t,” she said.
“Stan,” he said, “this is no Hemingway novel and this can’t be the end of the world. You’ll never leave me.”
But it was a question, not a declaration and suddenly she moved and he blinked at her and said:
“What are you doing down there?”
“Nut,” she said, “I’m kneeling on the floor and I’m asking your hand. Marry me, Ollie. Come away with me to France. I’ve got a new job in Paris. No, don’t say anything. Shut up. No one has to know I’ve got money this year and will support you while you write the great American novel–”
“But–” he said.
“You’ve got your portable type-writer, and a ream of paper, and me. Say it, Ollie, will you come? Hell, don’t marry me, we’ll live in sin, but fly with me, yes?”
“And watch us go to hell in a year and bury us forever?”
“Are you that afraid, Ollie? Don’t you believe in me or you or anything? God, why are men such cowards, and why the hell do you have such thin skins and are afraid of a woman like a ladder to lean on. Listen. I’ve got things to do and you’re coming with me. I can’t leave you here, you’ll fall tomorrow. That means you, Paris, and my job. Your novel will take time but you’ll do it. Now, do you do it here and feel sorry for yourself, or do we live in a cold-water walk-up flat in the Latin Quarter a long way off from here? This is my one and only offer, Ollie. I’ve never proposed before, I won’t ever propose again, it’s hard on my knees. Well?”
“Have we had this conversation before?” he said.
“A dozen times in the last year, but you never listened, you were hopeless.”
“No, in love and helpless.”
“You’ve got one minute to make up your mind. Sixty seconds.” She was staring at her wristwatch.
“Get up off the floor,” he said, embarrassed.
“If I do, it’s out the door and gone,” she said. “Forty-nine seconds to go, Ollie.”
“Stan,” he groaned.
“Thirty,” she read her watch. “Twenty. I’ve got one knee off the floor. Ten. I’m beginning to get the other knee up. Five. One.”
And she was standing on her feet.
“What brought this on?” he asked.
“Now,” she said, “I am heading for the door. I don’t know. Maybe I’ve thought about it more than I dared even notice. We are very special wondrous people, Ollie, and I don’t think our like will ever come again in the world, at least not to us, or I’m lying to myself and I probably am. But I must go and you are free to come along, but can’t face it or don’t know it. And now-” she reached out. “My hand is on the door and-”
“And?” he said, quietly.
“I’m crying,” she said.
He started to get up but she shook her head.
“No, don’t. If you touch me I’ll cave in, and to hell with that. I’m going. But once a year will be forbearance day, or forgiveness day or whatever in hell you want to call it. Once a year I’ll show up at our flight of steps, no piano, same hour, same time as that night when we first went there and if you’re there to meet me I’ll kidnap you or you me, but don’t bring along, and show me your damn bank balance or give me any of your lip.”
“Stan,” he said.
“My God,” she mourned.
“What?”
“This door is heavy. I can’t move it.” She wept. “There. It’s moving. There.” She wept more. “I’m gone.”
The door shut.
“Stan!” He ran to the door and grabbed the knob. It was wet. He raised his fingers to his mouth and tasted the salt, then opened the door.
The hall was already empty. The air where she had passed was just coming back together. Thunder threatened when the two halves met. There was a promise of rain.
*He went back to the steps on October 4 every year for three years, but she wasn’t there. And then he forgot for two years but in the autumn of the sixth year, he remembered and went back in the late sunlight and walked up the stairs because he saw something halfway up and it was a bottle of good champagne with a ribbon and a note on it, delivered by someone, and the note read:
“Ollie, dear Ollie. Date remembered. But in Paris. Mouth’s not the same but happily married. Love Stan.”
And after that, every October he simply did not go to visit the stairs. The sound of that piano rushing down that hillside, he knew, would catch him and take him along to where he did not know.”
And that was the end, or almost the end, of the Laurel and Hardy love affair.
There was, by amiable accident, a final meeting.
Traveling through France fifteen years later, he was walking on the Champs Elysees at twilight one afternoon with his wife and two daughters, when he saw this handsome woman coming the other way, escorted by a very sober-looking older man and a very handsome dark-haired boy of twelve, obviously her son.
As they passed, the same smile lit both their faces in the same instant.
He twiddled his necktie at her.
She tousled her hair at him.
They did not stop. They kept going. But he heard her call back along the Champs Elysees, the last words he would ever hear her say:
“Another fine mess you’ve got us in!” And then she added the old, the familiar name by which he had gone in the years of their love.
And she was gone and his daughters and wife looked at him and one daughter said, “Did that lady call you Ollie?”
“What lady?” he said.
“Dad,” said the other daughter leaning in to peer at his face. “You’re crying.”
“No.”
“Yes, you are. Isn’t he, Mom?”
“Your papa,” said his wife, “as you well know, cries at telephone books.”
“No,” he said, “just one hundred and fifty steps and a piano. Remind me to show you girls, someday.”
They walked on and he turned and looked back a final time. The woman with her husband and son turned at that very moment. Maybe he saw her mouth pantomime the words, So long, Ollie. Maybe he didn’t. He felt his own mouth move, in silence: So long, Stan.
And they walked in opposite directions along the Champs Elysees in the late night of an October sun.
(I first read this in an old old issue of the Reader's Digest...which year i do not remember now...)
That was the beginning, that was the end, of what we will call the Laurel and Hardy love affair.
She was twenty-five, he was thirty-two when they met at one of those dumb cocktail parties where everyone wonders what they are doing there. But no one goes home, so everyone drinks too much and lies about how grand a late afternoon it all was.
They did not, as often happens, see each other across a crowded room, and if there was romantic music to background their collision, it couldn’t be heard. For everyone was talking at one person and staring at someone else.
They were, in fact, ricocheting through a forest of people, but finding no shade trees. He was on his way for a needed drink, she was eluding a love-sick stranger, when they locked paths in the exact center of the fruitless mob. They dodged left and right a few times, then laughed and he on impulse, seized his tie and twiddled it at her, wiggling his fingers. Instantly, smiling, she lifted her hand to pull the top of her hair into a frowzy tassel, blinking and looking as if she had been struck on the head.
“Stan!” he cried, in recognition.
“Ollie!” She exclaimed. “Where have you been?”
“Why don’t you do something to help me!” he exclaimed, making wide fat gestures.
They grabbed each others arms, laughing again.
“I-” She said, and her face brightened even more. “I-I know the exact place, not two miles from here, where Laurel and Hardy, in nineteen thirty, carried that piano crate up and down one hundred and fifty steps!”
“Well,” he cried, “let’s get out of here!”
His car door slammed, his car engine roared.
Los Angeles raced by in late afternoon sunlight.
He braked the car where she told him to park. “Here!”
“I can’t believe it,” he murmured, not moving. He peered around at the sunset sky. Lights were coming on all across Los Angeles, down the hill. He nodded. “Are those the steps?”
“All one hundred fifty of them.” She climbed out of the open topped car. “Come on, Ollie.”
“Very well,” he said, “Stan.”
They walked over to the bottom of yet another hill and gazed up along the steep incline of concrete steps toward the sky. The faintest touch of wetness rimmed his eyes. She was quick to pretend not to notice, but she took his elbow. Her voice was wonderfully quiet.
“Go on up,” she said. “Go on. Go.”
She gave him a tender push.
He started up the steps, counting, and with each half-whispered count, his voice took on an extra decibel of joy. By the time he reached fifty-seven he was a boy playing a wondrous old-new game, and he was lost in time, and whether he was carrying the piano up the hill or whether it was chasing him down, he could not say.
“Hold it!” he heard her call, far away, “right there!”
He held still, swaying on step fifty-eight, smiling wildly, as if accompanied by proper ghosts, and turned.
“Okay,” she called, “come back down.”
He started down, color in his cheeks and a peculiar suffering of happiness in his chest. He could hear the piano following now.
“Hold it right there!”
She had a camera in her hands. Seeing it, his right hand flew instinctively to his tie to flutter it on the evening air.
“Now me!” She shouted, and raced up to hand him the camera. And he marched down and looked up and there she was, doing the thin shrug and the puzzled and hopeless face of Stan baffled by life but loving it all. He clicked the shutter, wanting to stay here forever.
She came slowly down the steps and peered into his face.
“Why,” she said, “you’re crying.”
She placed her thumbs under his eyes to press the tears away. She tasted the result. “Yep,” she said. “Real tears.”
He looked at her eyes, which were almost as wet as his.
“Another fine mess you’ve got us in,” he said.
“Oh, Ollie,” she said.
“Oh, Stan,” he said.
He kissed her, gently.
And then he said:
“Are we going to know each other forever?”
“Forever,” she said.
*And that was how the long love affair began.
They had real names, of course, but those don’t matter, for Laurel and Hardy always seemed the best thing to call themselves.
For the simple fact was that she was fifteen pounds underweight and he was always trying to get her to add a few pounds. And he was twenty pounds overweight and she was always trying to get him to take off more than his shoes. But it never worked and was finally a joke, the best kind, which wound up being:
“You’re Stan, no two ways about it, and I’m Ollie, let’s face it. And oh God, dear young woman, let’s enjoy the mess, the wonderful mess, all the while we’re in!”
It was, then, while it lasted, and it lasted some while, a French parfait, an American perfection, a wilderness from which they would never recover to the end of their lives.
From that twilight hour on the piano stairs on, their days were long, heedless, and full of that amazing laughter that paces the beginning and the run-along rush of any great love affair. They only stopped laughing long enough to kiss and only stopped kissing long enough to laugh at how odd and miraculous it was to find themselves with no clothes to wear in the middle of a bed as vast as life and as beautiful as morning.
And sitting there in the middle of warm whiteness, he shut his eyes and shook his head and declared, pompously:
“I have nothing to say!”
“Yes, you do!” she cried. “Say it!”
And he said it and they fell off the edge of the earth.
*Their first year was pure myth and fable, which would grow outsize when remembered thirty years on. They went to see new films and old films, but mainly Stan and Ollie. They memorized all the best scenes and shouted them back and forth as they drove around midnight Los Angeles. He spoiled her by treating her childhood growing up in Hollywood as very special, and she spoiled him by pretending that his yesteryear on roller skates out front of the studios was not in the past but right now.
She proved it one night. On a whim she asked where he had roller-skated as a boy and collided with W.C. Fields. Where he asked Fields for his autograph, and where was it that Fields signed the book, and handed it back, and cried, “There you are, you little son-of-a-bitch!”
“Drive me there,” she said.
And at ten o’clock that night they got out of the car in front of Paramount Studio and he pointed to the pavement near the gate and said, “He stood there,” and she gathered him in her arms and kissed him and said gently, “Now where was it you had your picture taken with Marlene Dietrich?”
He walked her fifty feet across the street from the studio. “In the late afternoon sun,” he said, “Marlene stood here.” And she kissed him again, longer this time, and the moon rising like an obvious magic trick, filling the street in front of the empty studio. She let her soul flow over into him like a tipped fountain, and he received it and gave it back and was glad.
“Now,” she said, quietly, “where was it you saw Fred Astaire in nineteen thirty-five and Ronald Colman in nineteen thirty-seven and Jean Harlow in nineteen thirty-six?”
And he drove her to those three different places all around Hollywood until midnight and they stood and she kissed him as if it would never end.
And that was the first year. And during that year they went up and down those long piano steps at least once a month and had champagne picnics halfway up, and discovered an incredible thing:
“I think it’s our mouths,” he said, “Until I met you, I never knew I had a mouth. Yours is the most amazing in the world, and it makes me feel as if mine were amazing, too. Were you ever really kissed before I kissed you?”
“Never!”
“Nor was I. To have lived this long and not known mouths.”
“Dear mouth,” she said, “shut up and kiss.”
But then at the end of the first year they discovered an even more incredible thing. He worked at an advertising agency and was nailed in one place. She worked at a travel agency and would soon be flying everywhere. Both were astonished they had never noticed before. But now that Vesuvius had erupted and the fiery dust was beginning to settle, they sat and looked at each other one night and she said, faintly:
“Good-bye…”
“What?” he asked.
“I can see good-bye coming,” she said.
He looked at her face and it was not sad like Stan in the films, but just sad like herself.
“I feel like the ending of that Hemingway novel where two people ride along in the late day and say how it would be if they could go on forever but they know now they won’t,” she said.
“Stan,” he said, “this is no Hemingway novel and this can’t be the end of the world. You’ll never leave me.”
But it was a question, not a declaration and suddenly she moved and he blinked at her and said:
“What are you doing down there?”
“Nut,” she said, “I’m kneeling on the floor and I’m asking your hand. Marry me, Ollie. Come away with me to France. I’ve got a new job in Paris. No, don’t say anything. Shut up. No one has to know I’ve got money this year and will support you while you write the great American novel–”
“But–” he said.
“You’ve got your portable type-writer, and a ream of paper, and me. Say it, Ollie, will you come? Hell, don’t marry me, we’ll live in sin, but fly with me, yes?”
“And watch us go to hell in a year and bury us forever?”
“Are you that afraid, Ollie? Don’t you believe in me or you or anything? God, why are men such cowards, and why the hell do you have such thin skins and are afraid of a woman like a ladder to lean on. Listen. I’ve got things to do and you’re coming with me. I can’t leave you here, you’ll fall tomorrow. That means you, Paris, and my job. Your novel will take time but you’ll do it. Now, do you do it here and feel sorry for yourself, or do we live in a cold-water walk-up flat in the Latin Quarter a long way off from here? This is my one and only offer, Ollie. I’ve never proposed before, I won’t ever propose again, it’s hard on my knees. Well?”
“Have we had this conversation before?” he said.
“A dozen times in the last year, but you never listened, you were hopeless.”
“No, in love and helpless.”
“You’ve got one minute to make up your mind. Sixty seconds.” She was staring at her wristwatch.
“Get up off the floor,” he said, embarrassed.
“If I do, it’s out the door and gone,” she said. “Forty-nine seconds to go, Ollie.”
“Stan,” he groaned.
“Thirty,” she read her watch. “Twenty. I’ve got one knee off the floor. Ten. I’m beginning to get the other knee up. Five. One.”
And she was standing on her feet.
“What brought this on?” he asked.
“Now,” she said, “I am heading for the door. I don’t know. Maybe I’ve thought about it more than I dared even notice. We are very special wondrous people, Ollie, and I don’t think our like will ever come again in the world, at least not to us, or I’m lying to myself and I probably am. But I must go and you are free to come along, but can’t face it or don’t know it. And now-” she reached out. “My hand is on the door and-”
“And?” he said, quietly.
“I’m crying,” she said.
He started to get up but she shook her head.
“No, don’t. If you touch me I’ll cave in, and to hell with that. I’m going. But once a year will be forbearance day, or forgiveness day or whatever in hell you want to call it. Once a year I’ll show up at our flight of steps, no piano, same hour, same time as that night when we first went there and if you’re there to meet me I’ll kidnap you or you me, but don’t bring along, and show me your damn bank balance or give me any of your lip.”
“Stan,” he said.
“My God,” she mourned.
“What?”
“This door is heavy. I can’t move it.” She wept. “There. It’s moving. There.” She wept more. “I’m gone.”
The door shut.
“Stan!” He ran to the door and grabbed the knob. It was wet. He raised his fingers to his mouth and tasted the salt, then opened the door.
The hall was already empty. The air where she had passed was just coming back together. Thunder threatened when the two halves met. There was a promise of rain.
*He went back to the steps on October 4 every year for three years, but she wasn’t there. And then he forgot for two years but in the autumn of the sixth year, he remembered and went back in the late sunlight and walked up the stairs because he saw something halfway up and it was a bottle of good champagne with a ribbon and a note on it, delivered by someone, and the note read:
“Ollie, dear Ollie. Date remembered. But in Paris. Mouth’s not the same but happily married. Love Stan.”
And after that, every October he simply did not go to visit the stairs. The sound of that piano rushing down that hillside, he knew, would catch him and take him along to where he did not know.”
And that was the end, or almost the end, of the Laurel and Hardy love affair.
There was, by amiable accident, a final meeting.
Traveling through France fifteen years later, he was walking on the Champs Elysees at twilight one afternoon with his wife and two daughters, when he saw this handsome woman coming the other way, escorted by a very sober-looking older man and a very handsome dark-haired boy of twelve, obviously her son.
As they passed, the same smile lit both their faces in the same instant.
He twiddled his necktie at her.
She tousled her hair at him.
They did not stop. They kept going. But he heard her call back along the Champs Elysees, the last words he would ever hear her say:
“Another fine mess you’ve got us in!” And then she added the old, the familiar name by which he had gone in the years of their love.
And she was gone and his daughters and wife looked at him and one daughter said, “Did that lady call you Ollie?”
“What lady?” he said.
“Dad,” said the other daughter leaning in to peer at his face. “You’re crying.”
“No.”
“Yes, you are. Isn’t he, Mom?”
“Your papa,” said his wife, “as you well know, cries at telephone books.”
“No,” he said, “just one hundred and fifty steps and a piano. Remind me to show you girls, someday.”
They walked on and he turned and looked back a final time. The woman with her husband and son turned at that very moment. Maybe he saw her mouth pantomime the words, So long, Ollie. Maybe he didn’t. He felt his own mouth move, in silence: So long, Stan.
And they walked in opposite directions along the Champs Elysees in the late night of an October sun.
(I first read this in an old old issue of the Reader's Digest...which year i do not remember now...)
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Challenging procrastination.......
We’ve consoled ourselves by saying that we are only living up to our name....procrastinators we are and procrastinate we will....
But we seek to shed this burden now...where a million words come and go everyday...it is no longer possible to carry on that mantle of silence.
The last time we wrote was on the 19th of September 2010.....musings from a Sunday afternoon perhaps.....but all has to change now...or at least an attempt at change has to be and will be made.
may we say true..true not to the name but to the challenge of countering it....
But we seek to shed this burden now...where a million words come and go everyday...it is no longer possible to carry on that mantle of silence.
The last time we wrote was on the 19th of September 2010.....musings from a Sunday afternoon perhaps.....but all has to change now...or at least an attempt at change has to be and will be made.
may we say true..true not to the name but to the challenge of countering it....
Sunday, September 19, 2010
No-Title-Post…….
From a million and one fragments that the self is….from the dilemma that mind and heart are, we are nothing but a gathering of variables…
Where time is relative and a human construct enabling us to contextualize ourselves and our lives, moments stretch endlessly, moments spin fast out of human hands….
Where did time begin?
The first minute? The first hour?
There is chaos here…right in the middle of daily attempts to find peace and hold onto it…..A balance that disappears little every day. Or a balance that never was?
Discordant lives caught in desires of finding the pulse of the world…
Go…Go find the Flow…...of time, of the universe…in atoms, in quarks…
Things, ideas, people, events….flow all around. In deep circles…in lines that stretch far far back……
I could stand in the middle of it and it would remind me of some long ago learnt lesson in physics about eddy currents and a resistance right in the centre of the current. A stolen moment of individuality…
Battles continue. A warrior who never needed his sleep haunts, coming quietly along with the shadows of a daily existence... no war cries, no blood…a ghost battle? A battle with ghosts?
Type…delete….type…delete…again and again…String random words along together with a blindness that hopes to end in coherence…hit a line of dots when thoughts suddenly fall into pauses.
The break disappears….You start again…..
Some things end before they could even begin…..what you dreamt of nurturing, you kill…..strange attempts to preserve sanity. Births we do not remember and death we seek to forget…..was there one moment of death? Or was it a process? Moments stretched out over death?
You sit and watch from urban windows…..cities never sleep and we run into clichés. From the false safety of your high rise, you sit and watch….people, cars, money, smoke…you see everything creep and crawl…and race furiously by. Blood thumps along those streets….
They wait and watch. They run and chase….that frantic pulse of this city. You want to win it. You want to hold it in your fist….
No. Never.
In thousands they return. Each night. Small spheres of escape you build….home.
Eat. Talk. Laugh. Love. Go through the motions of living. The last hour of wakefulness ends….
Watch from your urban windows again…a city that never sleeps…nights not of inky darkness but of sickening orange glows. City lights brighten the night sky.
No stars to count.
Go sleep….go dream your uneasy dreams………..
G
Where time is relative and a human construct enabling us to contextualize ourselves and our lives, moments stretch endlessly, moments spin fast out of human hands….
Where did time begin?
The first minute? The first hour?
There is chaos here…right in the middle of daily attempts to find peace and hold onto it…..A balance that disappears little every day. Or a balance that never was?
Discordant lives caught in desires of finding the pulse of the world…
Go…Go find the Flow…...of time, of the universe…in atoms, in quarks…
Things, ideas, people, events….flow all around. In deep circles…in lines that stretch far far back……
I could stand in the middle of it and it would remind me of some long ago learnt lesson in physics about eddy currents and a resistance right in the centre of the current. A stolen moment of individuality…
Battles continue. A warrior who never needed his sleep haunts, coming quietly along with the shadows of a daily existence... no war cries, no blood…a ghost battle? A battle with ghosts?
Type…delete….type…delete…again and again…String random words along together with a blindness that hopes to end in coherence…hit a line of dots when thoughts suddenly fall into pauses.
The break disappears….You start again…..
Some things end before they could even begin…..what you dreamt of nurturing, you kill…..strange attempts to preserve sanity. Births we do not remember and death we seek to forget…..was there one moment of death? Or was it a process? Moments stretched out over death?
You sit and watch from urban windows…..cities never sleep and we run into clichés. From the false safety of your high rise, you sit and watch….people, cars, money, smoke…you see everything creep and crawl…and race furiously by. Blood thumps along those streets….
They wait and watch. They run and chase….that frantic pulse of this city. You want to win it. You want to hold it in your fist….
No. Never.
In thousands they return. Each night. Small spheres of escape you build….home.
Eat. Talk. Laugh. Love. Go through the motions of living. The last hour of wakefulness ends….
Watch from your urban windows again…a city that never sleeps…nights not of inky darkness but of sickening orange glows. City lights brighten the night sky.
No stars to count.
Go sleep….go dream your uneasy dreams………..
G
In A Defense of Theatrics..........
A nautanki, in the most philosophically possible definition, would be a person with a dramatic sense of experiencing life, people, time and emotions. Those who are self proclaimed dramatical personages or are seen as such by those around them, take the designation very very seriously. And they would all agree with me when I say that it takes a lot of emotionalism to keep up with the demands of the whole thing.
Now the problem as I see it is the way dramatic people are misunderstood. More often than not, these people and their reactions are laughed off and dismissed. What they experience is considered to be nothing more than an exaggerated version of the reality, if not a complete figment of their supposedly wild imaginations. They are at times even accused of lacking the finesse to appreciate the beauty of simplicity. And these to be honest, are really just some of the weird myths wrapping up the figure of the nautanki.
I am attempting only a small defense here.
And so I ask, what is simplicity? Is it not a relative term in itself, as indeed are all others? And then what is an exaggerated sense of living if life itself is an individual experience?
Many think of life as a straight road, living it from one point to the other…but is not a straight road as good as a clichéd style of murder? Like poisoning your victim or stabbing him while he sleeps?
But now take a detour……turn into alleys strange and unfamiliar…look into dingy bars…does it not heighten your experience of time? Does the detour not give sensuality to living? And strangle me if it does not extract grand and extreme reactions from you. A minute on the straight road would go by unnoticed. But if you think a minute in that dingy bar would go by without a mark, then perhaps….you really are much more stoic than I earlier warranted….think the slow tick tock of the old old clock on the wall.....and the glass of horrible beer stands in front. Sweat pours down your back.
And here comes in the drama…for without this particular effect, everything would be a dull and sad excuse for living…..
A flair for a full experience of your environment, a constant desire to maximize the emotions of time and events and the capacity to recount everything with just as color, should not I think be dismissed as wild imagination or histrionics. It is not a finesse they lack, it is the truth of their emotions they are readily sharing with the stone faces around.
Perhaps for as long as we live, drama should reign supreme in this world of soon-to-be zombies people. Theatrics is but the spice of life.
G
Now the problem as I see it is the way dramatic people are misunderstood. More often than not, these people and their reactions are laughed off and dismissed. What they experience is considered to be nothing more than an exaggerated version of the reality, if not a complete figment of their supposedly wild imaginations. They are at times even accused of lacking the finesse to appreciate the beauty of simplicity. And these to be honest, are really just some of the weird myths wrapping up the figure of the nautanki.
I am attempting only a small defense here.
And so I ask, what is simplicity? Is it not a relative term in itself, as indeed are all others? And then what is an exaggerated sense of living if life itself is an individual experience?
Many think of life as a straight road, living it from one point to the other…but is not a straight road as good as a clichéd style of murder? Like poisoning your victim or stabbing him while he sleeps?
But now take a detour……turn into alleys strange and unfamiliar…look into dingy bars…does it not heighten your experience of time? Does the detour not give sensuality to living? And strangle me if it does not extract grand and extreme reactions from you. A minute on the straight road would go by unnoticed. But if you think a minute in that dingy bar would go by without a mark, then perhaps….you really are much more stoic than I earlier warranted….think the slow tick tock of the old old clock on the wall.....and the glass of horrible beer stands in front. Sweat pours down your back.
And here comes in the drama…for without this particular effect, everything would be a dull and sad excuse for living…..
A flair for a full experience of your environment, a constant desire to maximize the emotions of time and events and the capacity to recount everything with just as color, should not I think be dismissed as wild imagination or histrionics. It is not a finesse they lack, it is the truth of their emotions they are readily sharing with the stone faces around.
Perhaps for as long as we live, drama should reign supreme in this world of soon-to-be zombies people. Theatrics is but the spice of life.
G
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
An update:
Since this blog came into existence, there has been few changes that need to be mentioned hereof.
We are (un) fortunately no more unemployed....(fortunately for us but definitely unfortunate for those who have employed us.. do they know what have they done?) Anyhow, yes yes we are employed and into no simple profession by any means. One is about to finish a year as a TEACHER! (my sympathies to the poor kids, what are they being taught? Anarchy?) and the other a Govt. Employee. One may add the latter has found just the right place to be. Where else in this world does one cultivate procarastination but within the walls of Government of India. They give the term a new dimension.
But one should not believe that the real cause will be waylaid because of this. Once a procrastinator always a .... well you know what. Typing the word again and again also takes a lot of energy. One digresses! yes, the real cause of spreading idleness shall remain our main aim. Look what we came out with after a year of non-activity.
We are (un) fortunately no more unemployed....(fortunately for us but definitely unfortunate for those who have employed us.. do they know what have they done?) Anyhow, yes yes we are employed and into no simple profession by any means. One is about to finish a year as a TEACHER! (my sympathies to the poor kids, what are they being taught? Anarchy?) and the other a Govt. Employee. One may add the latter has found just the right place to be. Where else in this world does one cultivate procarastination but within the walls of Government of India. They give the term a new dimension.
But one should not believe that the real cause will be waylaid because of this. Once a procrastinator always a .... well you know what. Typing the word again and again also takes a lot of energy. One digresses! yes, the real cause of spreading idleness shall remain our main aim. Look what we came out with after a year of non-activity.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
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