Once a blue moon, something would happen that messes up certain plans. There will be forces on either side which hold you and get you through things that not just make sense, but also, try to harm you. Certain things are meant to be let go of.
Once a blue moon, there will be happenings that are terribly upsetting. And that’s okay. There will be consequences for every single thing that you do. Once a blue moon, there will be ways for things to unfold in better ways. There will be things that work, things that don’t.
Once a blue moon, your energy will be depleted. There will be words to take care of. There will be work, there will be joy. There will be everything that you need there to be. Things will happen on its accord, because you write. Because you’re there. Because you let things be.
Once a blue moon, you will be the joyful shining moon that you are. There will be enough for everyone to feast, because people feast on the blue moon. There will be wooden spatulas, there will be curses, there will be spells. There will be yew trees, Geraldine.
Once a blue moon, your work will see the light. Your differences will be recognized. Your treatments will ensure that they work for everyone else, as well. There will be enough to go around. There will be enough to go around…
Often we wonder about our meager contributions to the world, the small changes that we have made as existing, active entities. I have found, among sheaves of pages, art and among the eyes of fellow unlucky ones, despair. In this same world, where such blinding beauty exists in words, lines, shades, shapes and symphonies, there also exists both structured and random ugliness in lives.
In art, we seek the ideal. We reach out into the void to create beauty and ascribe labels to the techniques of our quests. As for the pain in the world however– working for justice seems harder, darker, a braver feat. While beauty is of the universe, justice is of the society. As a denizen and child of both, I have no choice but to seek beauty and justice. And yet, there feels this need to rate one above the other — to prioritize, to choose…
Beauty or aesthetic art for justice is not a rare concept. But how much change can that bring about? How much of pain can beauty take on? Will it ever be enough that both are sought, or will one be compelled to choose? Even if that happens, it does not make sense to leave one for the other; for what becomes of the universe without society, and what even is society without the universe?
We paint galaxies and golf courses, write sonnets and villanelles, act roles of a tyrant, a slave and a priest– willfully, to rediscover the very things we recreate. We create to make space for the present and make sense of the past. We create so that the future can analyze and exact wisdom, can criticize and marvel at mediocrity. Because from the vantage point of Today, nothing seems brilliant. In fifty or hundred or a thousand years, our very existence may seem like a testimony to excellence, to persistence and to infinite domination. So transient, this art. But then, what isn’t?
The disorientation you feel after putting down a good, or even a mediocre book, is a testament to the human tendency of escapism. You might not want to get lost in the contrived philosophical, borderline impossible lives of unreal teenagers and yet, and yet in a whirlwind of language and good metaphors, you awake after living in the dreams of those very characters.
Or them having lived in yours.
Does it matter? Because at that moment of awakening, after those few hours away from your predictable, dreary, plot-less life, people around you and those characters seem interchangeable. Your self seems terminable.
You could simply wear another skin and become that single most interesting character, who is the ‘saving’ grace of the book. As if that could make up for your inability to ‘save’ the real world, like you dream of.
For that moment, like those few hours, lost to rhetoric, you could breathe from a different skin.
And it’s difficult to wake up from that- the awakening is even incapacitating, until you manage to jot down exactly why it is so, and slowly prepare your brain to return to reality. Not to mention, comfort your own suddenly insecure skin.
City- the word is tiny; implications are numerous. Lets start from the ever beloved cliche of ‘making dreams come true’. The City is a favorite setting for those looking to go from rags to riches; yet it can also be a grave witness of downfalls, from heights to being homeless. The City is like the city-dweller: aggressive, multifaceted, always lively and never alone, yet lonely as one can be.. They may wave and wish and smile yet you sometimes wish it was half as genuine as it appears to be..Different shops have the same brands, different streets have branches of the same shops, yet every street if unique, every shop booming with activity. There are more pedestrians than cars in the City and more cars than any other living species, except perhaps pet dogs… City dogs are a delight to gaze at- they are seen strutting along with the same gaiety as old Earls or Counts going for rounds across their land. The functions are similar too; there are not a lot of expectations from those who know them but they inexplicably enjoy their lives in the lap of luxury. How might the skyscrapers seem to them, I wonder? Do they feel like a Lilliput too? If I ever had a pet dog or any pet for that matter, while living in the City, I’m sure I’d transmit vibes of Lilliput-inferiority onto it when I take them for a walk; I hope that doesn’t happen… The yellow cabs move around the various streets like old worn out leopards. This concrete jungle even roars unanimously; rather, the dragon in the underground cave roars. You hear it every time you walk past the manhole or the slab covering an opening into the dragon’s lair. You hear it huffing and puffing and you wonder at how activity mirrors above and below the ground. The traffic, is a well oiled machinery that moves, stops, waits and moves again, repeating the rhythm that has echoed for decades since the establishment of traffic lights. These lights seem as if they are made up of starlight- white, yellow, red- enclosed in a box. This starlight governs the life and and times of the city-dwellers much like the stars in the sky are said to govern the lives of men. It IS the starlight of the city-dweller, perhaps his favorite one as the real stars remain hidden behind the neck-hurting heights of concrete. Here cultures meet, languages die and creoles are born. Grey is the Green; trees are as rare to find as an idle person. The City has a fierce beauty, a forceful charm that is shoved into your face, that you cannot ignore. There’s less to look and more to see, less to listen and more to hear. As enticing as it is, activity and artificiality for me gets tiring after a while.
There is one thing though- the City doesn’t make me feel.
This is no place for melancholy and there’s even less space for peace and silence. No emotion, just existence. During the times when I prefer that, I feel glad to be here. That’s when I see it as less of a jungle and more of a .. well, busy space.