filament2
Friday, May 27, 2005
  From the room of memories

Its been a couple of weeks already since I returned from my long trip. I travelled quite a bit. I am toying with the idea of writing a travelogue... ? Writing from the experiences, the happenings, the memories of the sensory remains... ?

But I am not sure, I seem to be playing with so many ideas, actually not so many. I need to hold my hand and not let it shake under its own weight. Today, maybe I am taking decisions out of a different need.... need to slowly build a view out of the fragments and disjointed peepshows. A view which I can see calmly for some time, as I think of what to say, where to go, how to breathe.

Actually I was not very keen to go on this trip, it was going to cost much more than I could afford and I was not really sure of the logical consistency of doing so... Go to US to write poetry ? Whatever did I mean ? India has enough green space, free space.

I realize it was not about space, it was about getting away. Not just from friends and family but from my culture, country, context and everyday-grind. All the things which were slowly convincing me to be nonpluses, frozen... a mute spectator ?

I have a big problem - trying to figure out how to speak, being overwhelmed enough by impulses to speak, scream, yodel ! Not only is my culturing too politically correct, it is too perfectionist, it is too worrisome -- worried about the balloon bursting, and all the paper
snippets, all the shiny deco spilling out.

It is nearly midnight and I am realizing silence for me is not so good - as it is silence for me only means, not appearing to speak. Under my skin, behind my eyes, words are being translated to hysteria, ambition and paralysis, ruining all the dams I have built over the years.

 
Comments:
Are you different at home than you were at the Studio Center? More constrained. Does your family expect you to be a certain way?
 
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Lining the edge of consciousness with words which behave like timed missiles.

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