O Captain, my Captain!

(image courtesy: Pinterest)

It has been more than a week and the world's back to its usual, sad rounds. But some things take time to sink in. Even when you are far, far removed from its bleak actuality. You are still capable of feeling that ache, however feeble and tangential. You are still shaken, for days together, by the tragedy of it all. Such is how some people touch your lives. And he was one of them. 
  
Farewell, Robin Williams. Thank you for the laughs. And for that eternal twinkle in your now-happy, now-sad eyes. You'll be missed. Terribly.

Writing, editing, remembering

"Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depth of your heart; confess to yourself you would have to die if you were forbidden to write.”

~ Rilke

"Has she stopped writing?", asks a somewhat worried father to the husband, and before the latter could come up with a suitable answer for one who harbours strong hopes of seeing his daughter as a successful writer some day, the father concludes, "I can see her writing has deteriorated a great deal after your move back to India."
During this habitual weekend phone conversation, the daughter lurked conspicuously in the vicinity, trying to be a part of it while idling with a cup of tea and a fat, never-ending Barnes and Noble copy of Anna Karenina. But somehow the sharp din of the word 'deteriorated' reached her ears and stayed there for some time. It wasn't like she waited to be told about it, because she knew, deep down in that iffy corner of her heart, that there is some truth in her father's doubts. That these days, she cannot write.

For a myriad of reasons, both wrong and right in their own situation, it has been like this for the past couple of months. True, there's an absolute lack of inspiration in this coldhearted, perpetually shrouded by pollution city. Concrete cannot lead to creativity. Period. Then there's this recent job, where I sit, for the most part of the day, editing manuscripts of others' writings. When you have to pin, tuck and shape someone else's stories, it's a little difficult to find your way back to tales of your own. While being a part of their imaginary worlds, I often get wrung out of mine. 

And then, the autumn child remembers. With uncountable sighs. It must be autumn somewhere. The leaves must have turned somewhere. The trees must be spitting flames somewhere. It must be like this somewhere. Somewhere, but not here.

Flight

A black-headed gull in flight on Liberty Island, NYC

Last night Rumi spoke to me, in my dreams... "I want to sing like the birds sing, not worrying about who hears or what they think." Or was it the wee bit o' crack between sleep and consciousness?

I wake up and wonder - how hard is it to be a bird? To fly? Just spread your faith and glide on it, as if you belong there. As if the sky is yours and its feathery, fathomless infinity your clothes. Wear the engulfing yet liberating azure.

At times the brisk air catches you unaware, shaking a string of stories and songs. You might waver and fall, but fall you must. For as a phoenix you will be reborn, shedding the ashes of rejection and rise again from the very embers that had gulped you so thoughtlessly once.

And when in mid air, just remember - the ominous land and the embracing skies are balanced by you, within you. Soar higher or crash. It is just you.

That's it.

Will they come my way? I am tired of this wait, for the words. I can't write. I have been trying, trying rather hard, to write a few simple words that make sense, as a result of which I have five incomplete, badly scribbled posts. And I have this dreadful feeling that I won't be able to finish them anytime soon. All I have are thoughts, a chaos of clumsily jumbled thoughts which disappear the moment I start to type or pick up a pen. It's not only with words, but with everything I love. I can barely read a page before I get all restless and edgy; I am tired listening to the same songs again and again; and there is nothing exciting about this place that inspires me to grab my camera and go shot after shot till I'm happy. I feel a strange loss. Probably it's plain boredom. Or just the jitters of a new place. Whatever...

I remember holding on to One Art by Elizabeth Bishop six years back, after I had read it for the first time, when 'losing' had seemed my way of life. Perhaps I must do so now.

The art of losing isn't hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three beloved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

-- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster.