Wednesday, February 02, 2005


Refractive orange Vagaries of the Orange Dusk cause the sun to dip slowly into the mutable ocean like a watery tea bag in the murky rippling brew. A distended swollen orb, like a bald head immersing itself into holy waters to wash the day’s pollution and is sunk and drowned. Holiness, like the ocean which seems like a long held breath that with practice will reach the finesse of the fakir and then the day will stretch into infinite light. The air straddles the sea breeze in a long salty, sensual ride to shore and it brushes my face with its whispery, grainy fingers. Alien gusts from feathery spans join the action as the black perpetrators hop and fly with refuse beaks and their three sandy toes. Everything is a unique assembly of energy.

Somewhere along this spectrum of creation I walked along the shore of an unfamiliar city. I thought to myself whether not being in love was more frightening than being in love and not being madly in love. Both were frightening and yet the latter seemed absolutely terrifying. All people have that existential playground where they believe that no matter how long they wait their turn, the sand pit at the end of the slide will never spray them with earthy happiness. Optimism is a quality that seems to have been replaced with brooding thoughts in my cluttered head. It seemed to be able to completely comprehend the uniqueness of my surroundings and yet drew a blank when it came to common life choices. “ Breathe”, he had said, “like you have an eternity for each motion. Your body will not fight you if you have faith in the premise”. And I drew a sharp inward breath and exhaled gently. Giddy with the gust I continued as my body slowly relaxed: feet, shins, thighs, belly, breasts, back, neck and then my head.

Even the guidance of my quasi guru cum friend seemed to bounce off my unreceptive body now. There I was, a stranger on a strange beach. A walking, thinking tense ball of string, defying gravity by ambling along the stretch rather than rolling down the slope into the vast water. I pulled out a pack of cigarettes that disclosed to onlookers a habit I swore I would give up by my 25th birthday. On the threshold of my 27th , I was still non-vegetarian and I looked with distaste upon the butts sticking out of the cellophane wrap and upon my own empty promises. These weren’t the only unbroken ones, habits or promises. The others I had broken were of eternal love and unconditional compromise. The minor vices were a lame, but momentarily effective catharsis. Its strange how small insecurities like not having a cigarette between your fingers at stressful moments can dissolve, even for a brief span of time, the larger ones.

Sickened by my last thought I threw the half smoked roll of tobacco and God alone what else into the sand and began walking briskly back to my car. It was a nice car, well maintained like everything else I owned, not spectacular, but nice. My life was like my car…. Nice. Atleast my car did not also take on my other characteristics or the engine would mysteriously appear in the front seat one day with all its wiring ripped out. I sat in the driver’s seat and warmed it to comfort myself before reaching into the depths of my bag for the keys. Gave me another moment of self pity. Pity is just failure giving itself dignity, like a beggar in a new cast off suit. I hadn’t really failed at anything; at least I didn’t think so. It’s just the paths I had taken that had come back to haunt me for a while. Nice. A counterbalance for the success. Like when as a school girl they would tell you not to laugh too much or you’d cry the next day.

The only good thing about Sundays was that the roads were relatively empty. Otherwise, they were just plain depressing and prompted unnecessary reflection into the past and the immediate future of tomorrow’s Monday. Maybe the screeching of Rob Halford would help calm my mind. “HE IS THE PAINKILLER. THIS IS THE PAINKILLER”. The loud music entered my head, filled a space and displaced my resignation to go to work in the next 24 hours. Somewhere along that course there would be food and rest. Both designed to placate me and set me up for their true deception by passing time. Life was kidnapping me and taking me through its journey and I felt not victimized, but blindfolded.


Blogger Roger Stevens said...

But other than that did you feel okay?

4:19 AM  
Blogger Ostrich said...

He, he, he... actually, the charecter in this FICTIONAL work is a projection of myself 5 years from now. editing chapter by chapter of material already there and posting it one by one... Have reached a roadblock with my book and hoping this will spur me to complete it swift and painfully!!! Post away, its very encouraging for me... more, more, MORE!!!!!

10:43 AM  

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