There is no excuse for hypersensitive people, least of all for those who cannot control their emotions in the midst of a heated discussion. In short, there is absolutely no excuse for me.
This is what comes of a complete inability to accept my mistakes.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Sunday, December 16, 2007
December 2007
This December, life brings me a Christmas Party, an Oracle Certification, a trip to France, a trip to Italy, and another New Year. In the flurry and bustle of the first four, it may happen that I have no time to acknowledge or salute the last and the most important- so dearest 2008, I hope that you will bring me
a) a continued sense of love, security and peace, which, now that I have them, seem indispensable.
b) some ambition, which I seem to have lost in a labyrinth of fun and laziness.
c) lots of powerful poems with which to conquer the world.
d) a Swiss trip for my family.
e) those couple of things that I've been hoping will happen, and I do not mean Cycle 2 of OneSource Conversion.
I have been thinking of a poem on a poem. So I think that I will proceed to write it now.
And if I'm not back here until next January, a very Happy New Year.
a) a continued sense of love, security and peace, which, now that I have them, seem indispensable.
b) some ambition, which I seem to have lost in a labyrinth of fun and laziness.
c) lots of powerful poems with which to conquer the world.
d) a Swiss trip for my family.
e) those couple of things that I've been hoping will happen, and I do not mean Cycle 2 of OneSource Conversion.
I have been thinking of a poem on a poem. So I think that I will proceed to write it now.
And if I'm not back here until next January, a very Happy New Year.
Monday, December 3, 2007
The Hungry Tide
Excerpts from The Hungry Tide, Amitav Ghosh
**
How do you lose a word? Does it vanish into your memory, like an old toy in a cupboard, and lie hidden in the cobwebs and dust, waiting to be cleaned out or rediscovered?
**
Look, I’m alive. On what? Neither childhood nor the future grows less…More being than I’ll ever need springs up in my heart.
- Rainer Maria Rilke, The Duino Elegies
**
Then we heard the settlers shouting a refrain, answering the questions they had themselves posed: 'Morichjhapi chharbona. We'll not leave Morichjhapi, do what you may.'
Standing on the deck of the bhotbhoti, I was struck by the beauty of this. Where else could you belong, except in the place you refused to leave.
**
Maybe what's left of us
is some tree on a hillside
we can look at day after day,
and the perverse affection of a habit
that liked us so much it never let go
- Rainer Maria Rilke, The Duino Elegies
**
Postscript: In the reading of a book, in the transfer of the self from the here to the imaginary, there is a skill that is rare. If I told you, I have this skill, I can disconnect from myself, like pulling a plug out of a socket, and connect into the electricity of this book, watch the tides, the Irawaddy Dolphin, the lines of Fokir's body, the tawny eyes of the Royal Bengal Tiger; if I told you this, you would not understand, you would not see it as a 'value add'. And is it a value add? Does it make me a better person to feel a book, to see it, instead of merely understanding it?
That is probably an irrelevant question. If more being than I'll ever need springs up in my heart, what is that to anyone else? They have their own beings to contend with.
I have constantly to remind myself that I am not unique by virtue of my experiences. Only by what I choose to make of them. Which is nothing much.
**
How do you lose a word? Does it vanish into your memory, like an old toy in a cupboard, and lie hidden in the cobwebs and dust, waiting to be cleaned out or rediscovered?
**
Look, I’m alive. On what? Neither childhood nor the future grows less…More being than I’ll ever need springs up in my heart.
- Rainer Maria Rilke, The Duino Elegies
**
Then we heard the settlers shouting a refrain, answering the questions they had themselves posed: 'Morichjhapi chharbona. We'll not leave Morichjhapi, do what you may.'
Standing on the deck of the bhotbhoti, I was struck by the beauty of this. Where else could you belong, except in the place you refused to leave.
**
Maybe what's left of us
is some tree on a hillside
we can look at day after day,
and the perverse affection of a habit
that liked us so much it never let go
- Rainer Maria Rilke, The Duino Elegies
**
Postscript: In the reading of a book, in the transfer of the self from the here to the imaginary, there is a skill that is rare. If I told you, I have this skill, I can disconnect from myself, like pulling a plug out of a socket, and connect into the electricity of this book, watch the tides, the Irawaddy Dolphin, the lines of Fokir's body, the tawny eyes of the Royal Bengal Tiger; if I told you this, you would not understand, you would not see it as a 'value add'. And is it a value add? Does it make me a better person to feel a book, to see it, instead of merely understanding it?
That is probably an irrelevant question. If more being than I'll ever need springs up in my heart, what is that to anyone else? They have their own beings to contend with.
I have constantly to remind myself that I am not unique by virtue of my experiences. Only by what I choose to make of them. Which is nothing much.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
150 kmph
I think it is only the young who are romantically affected by speed, songs, and their various associations.
Only when you are still young, you feel the adrenaline rush when your car eats up the miles, and you are part of the little world that is listening to the same song, watching the same lights flash past.
Only when you are still young and rushing along in a car, you feel that you are rushing towards all that is still unachieved, all that is still desired, all that is still to come, to be, to touch your life and to shape it.
Only when you are still young, you can be Don Quixote in a car, and it is only the next day that you recognise all the windmills. Power, Glory and the cool version of Happiness.
Yo!
Only when you are still young, you feel the adrenaline rush when your car eats up the miles, and you are part of the little world that is listening to the same song, watching the same lights flash past.
Only when you are still young and rushing along in a car, you feel that you are rushing towards all that is still unachieved, all that is still desired, all that is still to come, to be, to touch your life and to shape it.
Only when you are still young, you can be Don Quixote in a car, and it is only the next day that you recognise all the windmills. Power, Glory and the cool version of Happiness.
Yo!
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