The hope and excitement and escape that change brings. Hope is rampant. Excitement equally so. Escape is by far, though, the main reason. Escape from status quo, escape from the loneliness of Austin, escape from the unrequited life that is Corporate USA.
I hope to find a new job that takes me closer to the masses in a manner only direct work can. It should involve technology, broadly speaking. I dont even require there to be any connection to computers, though I would like to further my education in the objective realm of abstract science than the subjective and very real complexity of human emotions. The new job should take me to meet people for whom basic needs of sustained and good food, health and shelter are not met. These are the people who want help only as far as to help themselves pick up and walk and then run the rat race. I am not talking of the utterly poor, homeless people - their plight freezes me into a state of inaction overwhelmed by despair and powerlessness. Since I would like to do something, I want to be active. Hopefully someone stronger than me can take the cause of the homeless and do their part.
I hope to meet a girl and settle down in life, and staying in India affords more possibilities of this happening. A long list of prerequisites abound in my mind, and there's no way I am going to be able to explore a relationship discovered through one of these matrimony websites. There is too much expectation, time pressure, and upfront bias in the medium, and a few months into the process, a general sense of despondent stereotyping happens leading only to further disappointments.
I hope to develop and refine my quest for the Ultimate Truth. I hope to meet a guru who can guide my life, in whom I can find the confidence and trust to allay my doubts, in whom I can place my complete surrender without fear of judgement. There's also this small hope that my progress in the spiritual path is quick enough that I see the stated light of renunciation and quash other hopes and thence not feel the loneliness of missing life companionship.
I hope to take care of my parents in their old age and provide solace and comfort before they even voice the need. I hope to find in myself at the time of reckoning the strength they have so strongly displayed in their lives so far, the strength to serve despite the suboptimal control my father has over his emotions, the strength to be weak and judged but yet love and serve my ageing, wise, humble, incredibly loving mother.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Putting ideas on to clay and chart paper
Living by oneself demands a certain thought stream in keeping oneself fed, clothed, entertained, and overall un-frustrated with daily goings. There is naturally a sense of planning that creeps in – from the mundane “what shall I cook for dinner?” to the phone call from the equally lonesome friend looking for company to see a movie or play tennis. After spending a good chunk of the day in such planning, it is tempting to make a choice of seeing without observing, hearing without listening, gulping down without chewing. These do not form the ideal conditions for art as a hobby to flourish.
For many months now, I have had these two, unrelated, ideas. One is to freeze a beautiful chess position by bending metal wire arching over reflective, glass pieces of odd shapes and sizes inset into clay baked in the kitchen oven. This was to be an ode to one of my passions, which also unfortunately is one of the major time-sinks in the same passive manner that people have come to interact with the idiot box.
The second is to paint this image, in impressionistic style, of a fork in the road in a jungle, so to speak, with the left fork leading to somewhere explicitly colourful, sunny, obstacle-free while the right fork is darker, with impressions of snakes and other slimy creatures lurking in the shade that is too prevalent. There is this pair of eyes looking inward – both eyes, inward! – at the forefront of the fork, with a pile of books and sheafs of paper beneath. It suspended in mid-air and is translucent, like, with no body to hold it aloft and steady. Yet, steady it surely is. The judging eye. The all-knowing one. The eternally compassionate. Yet formidable in its assessment of right and wrong. Karma. Buddha. Baba. The observer is me. I am the one being judged. The eyes also guard the way, and seem to pointedly smile at my knowing my fate, my choice, my path ahead. But the observer also reads in the compassion of the eyes that the choice is not a Hobson’s one, that there is much distance to travel before the fork actually needs to be taken, that the fork is ahead of me and not already behind, that the choice is not presaged, that there is much more paper to be added to the sheaf on the jungle floor. Ah, the difficulty of verbalizing a mental image in the inherently restricted medium of spoken language!
The ideas happened many months ago. Impressionism as a style seemed a natural occurrence given my recently discovered love of colours, augmented vastly by the visiting Monets at the de Young. Chess as a thematic idea for artistic expression was inspired by some magical positions in a book compiled by, but of course, a Russian chess master. But since those flashes in the proverbial art pan, there hasn’t been the same mental aptitude, inspiration, motivation to see these ideas through.
Another reason, to add to having to live and fend for by myself, is the basic skills to realize these ideas are not yet honed by ages of intense practice as was and is the habit of the Masters of yore and present. In fact, I haven’t even gotten around to spending an entire day in the company of the metal wire or graphite pencils.
Photography happened serendipitously, one accident at a time. The time the Alaska trip came around, I was pleasantly surprised, nay, shocked, at how good the photos turned out when I hadn’t actually started that journey planning for or expecting a high standard of results. I am hoping that the same stumbling, bumbling, dilettantish approach at learning the ropes, enough to translate a mental image into a concrete cognizant outcome, plays out for these two ideas also.
For many months now, I have had these two, unrelated, ideas. One is to freeze a beautiful chess position by bending metal wire arching over reflective, glass pieces of odd shapes and sizes inset into clay baked in the kitchen oven. This was to be an ode to one of my passions, which also unfortunately is one of the major time-sinks in the same passive manner that people have come to interact with the idiot box.
The second is to paint this image, in impressionistic style, of a fork in the road in a jungle, so to speak, with the left fork leading to somewhere explicitly colourful, sunny, obstacle-free while the right fork is darker, with impressions of snakes and other slimy creatures lurking in the shade that is too prevalent. There is this pair of eyes looking inward – both eyes, inward! – at the forefront of the fork, with a pile of books and sheafs of paper beneath. It suspended in mid-air and is translucent, like, with no body to hold it aloft and steady. Yet, steady it surely is. The judging eye. The all-knowing one. The eternally compassionate. Yet formidable in its assessment of right and wrong. Karma. Buddha. Baba. The observer is me. I am the one being judged. The eyes also guard the way, and seem to pointedly smile at my knowing my fate, my choice, my path ahead. But the observer also reads in the compassion of the eyes that the choice is not a Hobson’s one, that there is much distance to travel before the fork actually needs to be taken, that the fork is ahead of me and not already behind, that the choice is not presaged, that there is much more paper to be added to the sheaf on the jungle floor. Ah, the difficulty of verbalizing a mental image in the inherently restricted medium of spoken language!
The ideas happened many months ago. Impressionism as a style seemed a natural occurrence given my recently discovered love of colours, augmented vastly by the visiting Monets at the de Young. Chess as a thematic idea for artistic expression was inspired by some magical positions in a book compiled by, but of course, a Russian chess master. But since those flashes in the proverbial art pan, there hasn’t been the same mental aptitude, inspiration, motivation to see these ideas through.
Another reason, to add to having to live and fend for by myself, is the basic skills to realize these ideas are not yet honed by ages of intense practice as was and is the habit of the Masters of yore and present. In fact, I haven’t even gotten around to spending an entire day in the company of the metal wire or graphite pencils.
Photography happened serendipitously, one accident at a time. The time the Alaska trip came around, I was pleasantly surprised, nay, shocked, at how good the photos turned out when I hadn’t actually started that journey planning for or expecting a high standard of results. I am hoping that the same stumbling, bumbling, dilettantish approach at learning the ropes, enough to translate a mental image into a concrete cognizant outcome, plays out for these two ideas also.
him
I don't want to stand out in a crowd but I want the crowd to notice me of their own accord. I don't want to show off but I want to be seen. I don't want to boast but I want others to praise. I don't want to be made the leader but I want to be elected. I don't want to make a fuss.
I worry about being judged, and I judge others. I worry about my impression in public, and I expect others to worry about theirs. I playact, all the time. I feel I am watched by someone, even when walking in a shopping mall knowing fully well there isn't a face I recognize from before in the vicinity. I feel someone is always videotaping me to show me later a frame and mock me, how I exposed my desires, my weaknesses, my ungainly gait, my bald head, my unkempt hair, my hairy nostril, my big nose, my slightly stooped stance, my nonexistent paunch, my ugly junior. That someone is usually the person I am trying to impress. Then, there are times when I want to make someone feel guilty about not choosing me, as a friend, as a partner, as a special person. For their guilt, I want the video to capture the charisma, the perfect conduct, the right answer, the wit, the persona, the knowledge, the intellect, the precise enunciation, the stance, the glance, the manhood.
I am cognizant of society and social conduct to the point of being empathetic to everyone in the room, even the miscreant. I feel as awkward in a situation as the protagonists. I want any imbalance to straighten itself out early without giving time for the resonance of emotional complexity to rock it even more. In circumstances, I "get" what is the right thing, and what is to be done. When asked, I am able to come up with a "correct" answer, an answer that makes me look smarter than I am, an answer that makes me a martyr, an answer that puts me further ahead in this path of where I want to go than where I am, an answer that pretends than the answer that should be. I have a good sense for the optimal, both in theory and in practice. I try to optimize my own life to the point of setting aside some key needs at times, to the point of planning down to a task hours and days ahead. I get no time to devote consequently to just being in the moment.
I can play the part of how someone wants me to be perfectly well. Come the time when I think I need the same returned to me, I tend to ask for it in the other person. I ask for fairness in giving and receiving, providing me with what I want to be, not what they want me to be. When I don't perceive this fairness, I get frustrated, irritated, feel done in, and let out my feeling of unfairness, sometimes insensitively.
I am the ego. I am myself. I don't like to be myself at times, I don't like to display my ego especially when people notice it for precisely what it is. Many people haven't done that, notice the ego for what it is. But the few who have done, I am worried about their judgement, worried about the truth in their judgement of me.
I worry about being judged, and I judge others. I worry about my impression in public, and I expect others to worry about theirs. I playact, all the time. I feel I am watched by someone, even when walking in a shopping mall knowing fully well there isn't a face I recognize from before in the vicinity. I feel someone is always videotaping me to show me later a frame and mock me, how I exposed my desires, my weaknesses, my ungainly gait, my bald head, my unkempt hair, my hairy nostril, my big nose, my slightly stooped stance, my nonexistent paunch, my ugly junior. That someone is usually the person I am trying to impress. Then, there are times when I want to make someone feel guilty about not choosing me, as a friend, as a partner, as a special person. For their guilt, I want the video to capture the charisma, the perfect conduct, the right answer, the wit, the persona, the knowledge, the intellect, the precise enunciation, the stance, the glance, the manhood.
I am cognizant of society and social conduct to the point of being empathetic to everyone in the room, even the miscreant. I feel as awkward in a situation as the protagonists. I want any imbalance to straighten itself out early without giving time for the resonance of emotional complexity to rock it even more. In circumstances, I "get" what is the right thing, and what is to be done. When asked, I am able to come up with a "correct" answer, an answer that makes me look smarter than I am, an answer that makes me a martyr, an answer that puts me further ahead in this path of where I want to go than where I am, an answer that pretends than the answer that should be. I have a good sense for the optimal, both in theory and in practice. I try to optimize my own life to the point of setting aside some key needs at times, to the point of planning down to a task hours and days ahead. I get no time to devote consequently to just being in the moment.
I can play the part of how someone wants me to be perfectly well. Come the time when I think I need the same returned to me, I tend to ask for it in the other person. I ask for fairness in giving and receiving, providing me with what I want to be, not what they want me to be. When I don't perceive this fairness, I get frustrated, irritated, feel done in, and let out my feeling of unfairness, sometimes insensitively.
I am the ego. I am myself. I don't like to be myself at times, I don't like to display my ego especially when people notice it for precisely what it is. Many people haven't done that, notice the ego for what it is. But the few who have done, I am worried about their judgement, worried about the truth in their judgement of me.
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