On November.

I had this conversation a few days ago (its not verbatim - I tried, but my memory- ugh.)
"You make good use of words, but don't you have better stories to tell?"
"Its probably because this is all I am willing to share of me via the electronic media."

I struggle with the comprehension of how real and unreal the internet (and the communication media supported by it) are at the same time - for me, they remain short of almost. It is credited with obviating physical distances; and I must be the only one who thinks that the opposite is equally true.

It's the growing up I have done in the last year (and I am still in shock) - I had no idea that I had such potential to mature. There is a certain appeal in being optimistic and happy - but what has changed (and I have noticed) is that I do not use them as blinders anymore. In any case, I seemed to have turned down my hysteria from high to sim; but more on that later.

There was a part of me that wanted to discontinue blogging because the difference is too stark;  but I reasoned that my writing here documents my growing up.  If I destroy it on an impulse, its very likely I will regret it later (like how I regret not saving my math mid-term exam paper from the 10th standard; my subject teacher, Tr. Chari had written 'good' for the logical way I had solved a question on taxation. I was foolish enough to part with it when I was cleaning my book shelves one day).

Changing tracks, it was my birthday last week; it was a day spent very well and in fantastic company - I was positively contemplative and I ate some very good food (two things that make me happy).
I also recalled how it was celebrated the year before - in freezing cold, on a sidewalk next to a park opposite my home, with cake and candles and grins and hugs.

With Manohar, Rahul, Ankit, Susmita, Manisha, Shilpa, Siva, Karthik, Vikash, Dvijotham (who did I miss?) Thank you, I am so grateful.

I missed Barry (and he reminded me) - thank you, you too!

Nov 2nd, 2011

Poem from a bus-stop wall.

I moved to Greenwood a few months ago. Now, school is about 3 miles away from home. I am trying to separate my academic life from the rest of me, so there can be a rest of me.
I take bus #48 to school, I try to come only as many times as is necessary - for classes, meetings and library books. If I get the chance, I like to sit on the seats that are higher (I think those are located just above the wheels of the bus) so I can look out the window at Greenlake and smile about how alive beautiful things are and how beautiful are alive things.
I read a part of this poem painted on the side of a bus stop and looked it up - and made me wish I could write so well. Lately, I have noticed how sterilized my writing has become - like they come out of a bottle of Dettol - squeaky clean and minty fresh.

So, the poem is a translation from Spanish, written by Pablo Neruda. Perhaps it is well known in the literary world - and I am simply an ignorant outsider.

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,

or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,

in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms

but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;

thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,

risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.

I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;

so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I do not exist, nor you,

so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,

so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

[I copied the lines from a website, and took the liberty to change a grammatical error in the last paragraph]