A Solitary Afternoon Drive

It would be presumptuous of me to call myself a writer. I like putting down some words every now and then. It makes me feel better. I know that the next couple of days and nights following the night that I’ve written something go rather well. I feel good; lighter somehow.

The muse is elusive if there is such a thing as a ‘muse’ for someone who claims not to be a writer. I shouldn’t need a muse. When I write it’s about things that make an impression on me. I seem to want to anchor these impressions somehow so that they never leave me, so I know for sure that I’ve lived through a time and not just skated past. Some folks like to get tattoos to commemorate an occasion, an event, a love, a belief…unless they’re doing it so they can feel the sweet pleasure of pain that convinces them that they are alive and in the here and now (I’ve heard that proffered as a reason once) …but perhaps I ground myself or find a way to get settled into this life my marking up empty spaces with my words.

Why I do this, I don’t know. I do it for the reasons noted above, but I still can’t answer why I feel the need to anchor an experience or impression with words in the first place. Nothing changes our status as a fraction of a speck in the universe, after all. I will never understand or be able to get at the roots of my compulsion to write but it does make me feel good and I have nothing against trying to feel good every now and then.

Back to the elusive muse…I suppose even non-writers need muses. Is the muse governing the words I’ve written so far? Don’t really think so, these words don’t appear blessed by a muse. But whenever the muse or whatever it is that compels me to write is absent or is sunning him/herself in the Greek Islands somewhere I feel miserable. That’s when ‘The Imp of the Perverse’ emerges and manifests itself in various forms, prompting me to recall the long forgotten words from some short story I read a long time ago, “Lie thee down oddity” (if someone remembers which story, which author etc., please remind me).

And so I make a promise to myself to find a quiet place, free of distractions, where I could play archivist to every thought I’ve had and every banal experience that seeps through my consciousness. I marvel at Kerouac’s writing his “On the Road” on a single scroll of paper…did he take breaks or did he fill up this scroll in one sitting? And what about the writers, who find a quiet place in their home where their desk faces the wall instead of a window, so they can write, or take undisturbed dictations from an intravenous muse?

Perhaps non-writers don’t need such arrangements or rearrangements of their physical surroundings, what do they need - a richness of experience, friends, dramatic lives, a purpose, some direction?

I am afraid I lack all of the above. I don’t know if it’s because of the way I treat life…the richness of experience bit. I think I never open myself up enough for the entire spectrum of colors to come flooding into my consciousness; a puritan at heart perhaps who looks longingly over a tall and insurmountable fence at all the life that’s being lived on the other side.

Friends…now I have no idea why that particular ship sailed by without unloading any passengers of note…acquaintances aplenty but friends…not sure. Of course there are certain acquaintances who feel like friends and I wonder why I am not being more wholehearted in calling them friends. Perhaps I am as mixed up about the meaning of friendship as I am of love.

I repel drama in my life, I like keeping things even-keel and inert; there are fewer disappointments and upheavals this way. Every now and then drama rears its ugly head but I greet it with stoic and stony silence until it beats a passive retreat. For instance in a certain car conversation with DH, my sanity was preserved with my non-reactive posture.

Lastly, direction…this one leaves me completely clueless and baffled. It implies a goal orientation, a sense of ambition perhaps or a smoldering passion that lights a path.

So what can a non-writer write about when faced with such emotional dearth?

Perhaps she can write about some random thoughts that pass between her ears, en route to the ether, about the solitude she craves every now and then, the time to be herself. Perhaps the solitude in her mind is like nothingness…no cares, no responsibilities, no demands on her time…so she can do what she wants.

She gets it, she gets her solitude and she takes herself on a long drive, listening, really listening for the first time, to the songs that she’s heard a million times before…the voice of Paul Simon talking about the train in the distance and the thought of a “happier” life being woven indelibly into our hearts and brains. She thinks of all the things she has and the things she’s desired, including this much anticipated solitude of hers and realizes that something is still missing that would make her happier. If happier is always the ideal then whatever becomes of happy?

The long drive still isn’t over and the CD changer in the car moves to the next CD in the line up of six CDs…her favorite old Hindi film songs in the golden voices of Lata Mangeshkar and Asha Bhosle. She wonders why she likes old songs so much, why she is so closed to the new sounds that emerge from the next generation of musicians, why does she refuse to yield. The image of Frankenstein comes unbidden to her mind…a lot of the new music is a remixed version of the old and no one ever thought reanimated death was beautiful. One wants to preserve memories in their pristine form and not taint them and warp them into something barely recognizable.

As the drive continues the conversation with DH is still fresh in her brain, after all it happened during a car ride. She thinks about a dinner with ‘acquaintances’ ten years ago at an outdoor restaurant in Cannes with a childless couple who had long since decided they didn’t want children and one on the brink of expanding their family and in the throes of associated decisional dithering. The childless couple, especially the lady, liked to punctuate her sentences with the word, “why?” This interrogative stance usually left the people she was conversing with progressively dumbfounded until they were left blubbering, “Because!” like an ornery child. The question at the heart of our conversation was, “Why should one have children?” Her belief was that it was out of selfishness that one had children.

Ten years hence and one child later, the words, “It is selfish”, still echo in her head, especially in the context of her recent conversation with DH…one where it does seem that the reasons for having a child are selfish; an assurance of some form of illusive and minor immortality; a way to leave a mark…once again, like getting a tattoo, like filling up empty spaces with words…a way to convince oneself that one was present, one was around…even if the brain that benefited from such a form of convincing will be as extinct as the convincing and determined action one took.

And then the drive is over, she arrives at the destination of choice…a bookstore/café…where she’ll try to observe people, overhear snippets of conversation, sip a latte, leaf through some new-fangled magazines and the ‘classical’ section of the music aisle, looking for something to be passionate about or finally a direction in the jumbled mess of crossroads she faces.

Beach and Cliffs

Drawings

What Have We Here?

I am reading about the strangest things these days, sparks of enlightenment in the most unexpected areas. First there was the surprising and strangely heartening news item about Iceland, sometime in September last year, when they picked a "lights out" day. Everyone was expected to turn their lights off -the municipal organizations, several cities all agreed to turn out the lights in an coordinated effort. All this at the suggestion of a Andri Snær Magnason, a poet, on the eve of a film festival so that people could enjoy the best film show there was - the Aurora Borealis - in a dark night sky.

Whenever I come across news items like that I feel strangely and inexplicably happy and contented, overwhelmed at people coming together for beauty, for sharing a collective sense of awe. That news was unforgettable to me.

Then just recently I read about the people who are dedicated to the cause of controlling light pollution. Apparently John Bortle has come up with a scale that measures the darkness of our skies and I was so surprised to learn that there isn't a single place in the United States that would get the highest dark sky rating of Class I.

Last year when I was flying back from my trip to the Grand Canyon I thought I saw the darkest and most desolate areas of southwestern United States. I remember thinking how dark it must be there at night and what a sight it would be to catch a glimpse of the Milky Way in all its glory, just as it appeared on the postcards they were selling at the Canyon gift shops. But now I learn that even these darkest of all places in Arizona and Utah may only qualify as Class II.

We have flooded ourselves with indoor lights, outdoor lights, floodlights to such an extent that the night skies have dimmed and the stars and planets that Galileo could observe with his naked eye or even the most primitive telescope aren't visible anymore with more powerful optical devices. How sad is that? It is certainly sad enough that we can't look up to the stars anymore and feel the overwhelming sense of awe and wonder or realize the speck-like nature of our existence...one may say stargazing isn't really of consequence in the grander scheme of human existence, that it is something that can safely be relegated to the realm of poetry and philosophy... but then shouldn't we at least worry about the fast diminishing energy reserves? That's if that is of larger consequence in the grander scheme of human existence?

The other interesting thing that appeared on the widescreen of my internal plasma TV was the vigor with which some New Yorkers fight for and defend their right to a bright, sunny and green Central Park. They offer up resistance to the construction of buildings that could cast a long shadow and snatch sunbathers' stretch of sunshine. There are all kinds of shadow casting measurements and petitions to the city whenever a new tall building threatens with its dark shadow.

We have people fighting for light, we have people fighting for darkness and today I find there are people known as freegans who routinely fend for themselves in garbage cans to make a point about wastage. In countries like the United States, where food is cheap, enormous quantities of food get discarded simply because they are a day past the "Sell By" date. I can't sound self-righteous here, I too am guilty of such wastage.

There are those of us now who are ashamed at our behavior and there are those of us who are dedicated to shaming us offenders, the freegans, the crusaders for dark, the crusaders for light, the ones who are rejecting the fruits of capitalism and unchecked hubris and embracing all things natural and green and then there are those of us who give these souls the thumbs up in their endeavors but refuse to change our ways, we are hypocrites in the sense that we are the ones - the 'vice' - who regularly pay our tribute to 'virtue'. But there's a third set of people, those who still aren't convinced that after several centuries of wasteful overheating perhaps a mechanism somewhere needs to act as a philosophical or intuitive 'thermostat' that could once again restore balance and order.

Maybe one day these sparks will come together as a brilliant flame and light our paths again

The Sparrow Whisperer

He wore baggy shorts and a skin tight, white undershirt. He sported several frightening tattoos on every inch of exposed skin. He wore glasses, they were as thick as the bottom of old-fashioned Coke bottles and yes, he was muttering, like so many New Yorkers found deep in meaningful conversations with themselves or perhaps with the other within.

I stood a step behind him, waiting for the light to change so I could cross the street, but the traffic was gridlocked and when the traffic is gridlocked and pedestrians can't cross the street with ease, they turn to look at each other and exchange glances in unspoken commiseration before collectively deciding to walk between the gaps in the cars to reach the other side.

I exchanged just such a meaningful glance with this tattooed man in front of me as he turned around and, as he did, I caught a glimpse of his outstretched arm and extended thumb. The man wasn't alone.

I stared at his traveling companion and then at him as an involuntary smile formed at my lips and threatened to spread across the boundaries of my face. But New Yorkers don't smile. They are focused. Smiles detract from focus. There were no smiles forthcoming from the man with the interesting travel companion.

He faced forward again, ready to cross the street in long strides, never taking his eyes off his outstretched arm and thumb. I stayed right behind him. My destination happened to be in the same direction. The man was a head-turner alright! Every vendor, every walker, every shopkeeper looked up at him and his passenger and tried their best not to smile.

He was whispering and carrying out an intimate conversation with an audience of one; a deep understanding exchanged through frequent nods and head bobs with an audience that appeared more captivated than captive in any way.

There have been books written about horse whisperers and dog whisperers, what I witnessed this day was my very first sparrow whisperer.

Why Crows?

So once again I am reading about crows. It is a good thing that things that hint at concepts like ‘recurring motifs’ don’t impress me much. I might say, “Hmm…now that’s interesting!” But I don’t then start thinking about what if anything it could possibly mean.

However, when something happens 3-4 times over 3-4 weeks, one wonders why. It is possible to go through one’s life without noticing or being aware of certain things. But then there’s the moment when awareness does hit. It could be the most banal thing, like a car with an unusual color, one you’ve never seen before but once you’re exposed to it you see it everywhere, it makes for a permanent fixture in your line of vision. Wonder if something like that is going on with the crow business.

First there was Ashish’s unfortunate crow menace that we all read about. Then I read Louise Ehrdrich’s novel – The Painted Drum – where a character is constantly taunted and laughed at by ravens (I am not aware of all the distinctions between ravens and crows – in my mind they’re the same). The following week, on Facebook, someone asked the question – “What if you were a crow?”

As if the third corvid mention wasn’t curious enough, as I was browsing through The Guardian, I see Madeleine Bunting’s review of Kathleen Jamie’s new book – Findings – which appears to be mostly about…what else…crows! The review starts thus:

Here's a slim book to squeeze into that last corner of the holiday suitcase. It coins a new word for a new enthusiasm - corvophile - and it's guaranteed to ensure that you never look at a crow in quite the same way again.

Why crows everywhere? What could it possibly mean? Why does Madeleine Bunting call corvophilia a new enthusiasm? And the scary thing for crazy Internet addicts like me is that after all this crowing about crows I might end up following all kinds of links to learn about crows and what makes them tick!