I wish to engage in my faculties before the presence of light moves on into the interstellar heights of rotation and past the distances into other corners of the world’s big ball, I seek to enage in feasting off of this evening and its canvas of life and dwell in the open space that offered up the sky and if possible discerning whatever strikes my mind as it captures these glimpses into the normality of existence. I live beside a church which plays its music too loud and on the sides of my house is the headquarters of a missionary organization founded by a man who had been my childhood spiritual mentor. The buildings around me are all at eye level, there is a wide open ground beyond the church and its side tuft of high rising penguin type roof with a spire on the side where eagles often perched their claws just before the rose majestic into the heights of the skies to wander in hypnosis renewing their strength as their wings stretched forth gliding in the upper air currents of the heavens.
My subject of interest at the moment seems to be blocked as my heart has retreated into a cave of some sort, and my fingers stay suspended over the keys unable to find the chords. I have been feeling a little worried about the manner in which my sentences seem to lack the great richness of heart, they seem to be more and more ordinary like the sad streets connecting the colony, they strangely seem to lack character, and substance, I am relying more and more on poetic rhymes to play a symphony of words than truly exploring in great detail the nature of light, sound and people around me. I strangely seem to not see people when I stare at them with my eyes, I can make out their being there, but the townfolk’s menu of color seems vacant though I can see that they take great care to dress and look nice and presentable, my heart feels bothered by this rude nature of my heart to dismiss their appearances, my heart seems to struggle beyond the usual repertoire of words that I generally open to present such scenes, but strangely it feels like the words that I possess by nature of knowledge and the reality of the people in my town don’t see eye to eye. I run out of words and feel insecure as I attempt to describe them, I only rely on collective words to describe them, crowds, hordes, swarms, etc. I feel uneasy as my attention draws to a large amount of characters and away from my brief moments of romance with the unspeakable beauty of the skies, the mind has to be swept clean everyday I feel, freed of its clutter. That statement takes me back a few years down memory lane, to a former place of education, if one would arrive early in that compound with the big old gate with the school’s emblem, the morning sweepers would be methodically at work, sweeping with the collected bamboo sticks the length and breadth of the ground that lay littered with heaps of paper scraps that were mostly rolled in that childhood manner of crumpling them into a ball, and lollipop wrappers and sharpener covers, etc… The great cloud of dust that rose as they swept in grand sweeps the soil until its upper covers of mud had been collected in sizable mounds on the side, heaps that contained flowers of the pious tree gulmohar and the strange yellow flower of the tree with the thick stout trunk. Who am I in this town…? Why do I constantly seek to escape it….? I can see the stares into pools of soul anxiety trapped beneath cool, dismissive eyes, they feel the same riotous battle too, do not all town dreamers dream of big screen escapism and fame far removed from this neurotic town’s obscurity…?
I take in the open surroundings, there are houses to my side, the house closest to mine has a wondrous thin but thick cover of safari brown with finely finished edges and a roof that reminded me of this one film or was it an online story..? Maybe it was the latter, the heroine rests in Greece, she is a pirate and her friend an infamous general in the army promises to shelter her whilst the violent mob rule of the government scourges the island seeking her arrest, and this noble general has a villa by the edge of the cliff over looking the sea, the image I had created at that time of exploration into online fan fiction had had a similar roof, I lack a basic knowledge of architecture, I am thrilled like a child with emotional feelings when I visit great works of architecture which like art cannot be described with feelings, but for the sake of reading, I have to create the closest version of whatever it is I wish to see, for I learn that I see better when I write. The house nearest mine had had quite the history, when we had first arrived into this particular colony, it had lodged a family who later went abroad, and the mother had had two rebellious sons who the local school had deemed lost cases. As is the case with most failures of school prophecy, these sons of that wonderful mother later went on to study in schools and colleges in the States, in the town it is often treated with a sense of awe and a sad personal longing when one learns that a family has gone abroad. Oh to briefly visit the imaginations of lost ambitions of those sad souls who never could escape the sake of their ill determined fate, I can feel their great sorrow as they envision these boys who later became men overseas in the land of milk and honey and open freedom, I can see them think about a million unanswered questions, traverse the motifs of what ifs, themes of personal identity and insecurity clash, unseen forces wreck their souls with restless hapless frequencies frequent and seek to ruin their moods like visiting haunted ghouls. Sad, sad, Sad…. The person who came after, she had two sons too, I had briefly helped one of them call up the house of the local damsel, assisting their teenage love affair unaware of parents on both sides of the fence who assumed a naive young man with shyness in me hindering public presentable character, they were not wrong though. They had suffered the yoke of education as well, the older had suddenly developed a fire for Jesus, and he had long walked around with interesting books regarding the rude questions of Skeptics and the fiery sermons of A.W. Tozer. He was a nice young man, he later moved north and after Bible college had found a nice young woman who shared his burden for the gospel, love, fire and he bloomed well into a passionate preacher. I see ocassional clips on the internet, He encourages me well on my pilgrimage into the service far beyond the pulpit. The younger son had struggled to come into terms with the call of the gospel, rejecting it at first, then hanging out in the wrong part of town, brief flirtations with rowdyism and alcoholism, rebelliousness, then redemption when he asked the Lord to forgive him and accepted Jesus as his personal savior, he now works for a studio, he randomly shared his testimony once when not so long ago I walked the middle path of Zen. They too went away, they occupied a small humble abode behind my house in those days, when the road back then was not paved with sheets of tar but lay dusty with bulging rough rocks and haphazard stones, a danger for kids playing precocious childhood games barefooted and driving flashy bicycles with pink handlebars with colored paper strips hanging sideways. Then the house for sometime became old, progressed into soot and peeled off layers of white, its lifetime hanging on the balance, then the last occupants were a family from Kerala, who lived on the second floor with the side steps and an old couple who lived downstairs, the second floor couple were nice, the fair skinned man with an ever-smiling face often offered lifts and once taught me how to look after my former car’s engine. I apologize for the lack of fluidity in my thoughts, the language as offensive as the scratching on a sandpaper, but bear with me, I write with no electricity and my eyes are heavy at this point but I strive on. To conclude my useless meandering into the history of that particular setting of docility, I forgot to add a rather meaningful point but I wish not to steer away from the narrative, taking anything away from its restless distracted flow, halting and stilted though it be, it has built up quite nicely until this point…The old house was brought to the ground and a new more fancier one was built in its place, one with sliding gates, 3 floors and a humongous security guard on patrol through long mosquito ridden summer nights. The strangest thing was that no one lived there, in that house, the house was empty save for the security guard, and he was not allowed to go inside, he was just to stand guard and watch over the house during the long lonely watches of the night, luckily for him, the old man who walked with a discernible halt to his step struck up a friendship with the night keeper of the Church, and their violently dry coughs and companionable noisy talks often sounded lone in the content of the night, when eyes and souls rested.
The church was bustling with the intensity of preparations for Easter Sunday. The noise of kids had dimmed down from the afternoon, there had been quite some jolly excited sounds that had overtaken the usual dull pace of the afternoon, but strangely it had threatened me for a while, I envisioned an attack of the mango trees in the backyard, I pictured them slinging rude obnoxious stones at my precious canine and adventurous but yet misguided leaps over my gate to steal flowers and badam fruits. Thankfully nothing of that sort had transpired, the church opposite to my house at times offended me with its presence, not the church per se, but the tradition and the dogma that it was bound to, I had observed the parish over a long period of time, and though I felt threatened since I hardly knew them personally, I found certain likable characteristics in them, one being, the devout nature of their attending, their engagement in regularity to all church programs and functions and the presence of the common man who was the main attendee in that particular compound. But the ones who threatened me were the middle class members of that same church, they bothered me, I did not feel one bit comfortable with them, the church had had a troubled history and I certainly understood the nature of politics in regard to certain positions in the church, but what really bothered me was the sense of feeling judged and looked down upon that continually attacked me, passionate songs and the fatherly tone of the Pastor spoke over the mic as I continued my observation, his time was about to be up in this particular denomination, he would soon be replaced, his daughter had been married off just recently and there had been the usual ruckus of political tension that too often accompanies church elections, he was a wonderful man, always welcoming and eager to pray and it could be discerned that he had quite the fire for the Lord.
I turned my attention to the trees in my garden, this garden had been my mother’s great activity in the past before she had advanced upward in the managerial position at the hospital where she worked, I can still remember her watering the potted plants that were arranged on the sides of the walls, I remember many comments by friends who had visited my house in the past, I in awkward self consciousness always feeling poor and low would just show my house with a wide sweeping gesture, those dying flickering lamps of human companionship often remarked how wonderful and peaceful my house seemed… Which would be followed by the characteristic worldly attribute of asking the price of such an establishment, I was always uncomfortable around material possessions and fixed places of stay, how long ago seem those many years of tortured existence when I trapped in the flesh of the self detested its attributes for it attempted to control and dominate me, I was glad that freedom had come, Freedom offered by a man who hung on a cross to cover all my shame and to set me free from all further captivity.
I am constantly struck by own bizarre dualities, I would be lying if I spoke of my dual nature and forgot all the other meaningful connections to the depths of my soul and spirit offered by other aspiring characterisations. One moment i’d have such breathtaking command over my thoughts, gathering with gusto the details concerning the most mundane and the next minute afflicted by a confounding state of bleak despair, stumbling over the simplest of emotions, unable to find words to catch the tail of speeding fleeting feelings and cast into a stark fog of incomprehensibility. I do my best to capture feelings that are meaningful over the vast unconstricted plains engulfing the soul of memory but one learns more through stumbles and slippery trails that have to be conquered over and over again. And when failure happens and recovery seems so out of boundary, thats when I find myself at the beginning, I find myself holding a pen waiting for a moment of happening, waiting to feel the condition of my my mind, to feel its unheard sighs and capture its greatest longings. Parts of my writing emotion still bothered me, there were too many incomplete and profound characters that dwelled within me, I do not refer to demons, but rather I refer to those parts of my heart that have assumed characteristics singular and entirely original, there is a poet in my heart, a revolutionary, a pastor, a counselor, a wide open general emotion reader, past historic characters whose greatness so provoked and encouraged me to tame this reckless nature of my flesh’s self seeking endeavours. I needed a great discipline, I needed to acquire habits to overlap the lusty voices intent on leading me towards my greatest disappointments, I needed to reduce my drifting lapses into nothingness, my ever nervous anxiety regarding the future, my lonely heart that longed inadvertently for love like a rare drug, life seemed like a grand epic struggle between multiple parts of my mind that strived for complete dominance.
I seem to have forgotten the meaning of joy, as one grows older the vocabulary of pure unadulterated joy recedes into layers and assumes an almost rarefied existence beyond the reach of a mind bothered incessantly by the shocking nature of reality and the ever debilitiating pounding away of worry and anxiety. Moments of rapture like catching sight by accident, the acute richness of a deeply blue azure sky over the faintly whispering leaves absorbed in a luminous glisten of gold and green seems to be beyond reach of a self absorbed mind. The mind behaves in a preoccupied manner, it never stops, it keeps moving, wandering, to listen without the nature of though hindering one’s mind would be a luxury, a divine blessing and cause for happiness. To feast in the lulls of silence, where the whistling delicious exuberant rapture of a sparrow fills the mind with a sense of awe, or when the unhindered drops of water from a leaking tap cast one into a trance as they crash in silence, breaking away as they shatter into the dull hard flatness of the ground, I find a certain hunger stalk me when my mind and my body are starved of food and sleep, for in those depths of impoverished beauty, a need as burning as an undying flicker quickens. I feel a greater need to write than normal, truly comforting and brilliant insights do chance to flit across the vast landscape of my mind. Thoughts like clouds cannot be caught, one has to learn to see them, to tame one’s inner vision to focus with clarity the hidden meanings and signs.
My mind and my heart truly never seem to still, my mind pristine and aware but engulged in long periods of incomprehensibility, my heart meanwhile like a dragged victim, seems nagging in relation to the immense moods that unveil its many infinite designs, sensitive to picking vibes offered by the unseen world, timid in general, meek and kind of heart, and ever connected to the deep wells of emotion. Reality to me never truly reached the core of my being that lay beyond reach, that lay trapped in the worries and concerns of my own little world that lay deep cocooned under layers of earthliness, underneath feelings rich with restless weaving, to speak of that would require words that are never normal in anyone’s vocabulary. To denote the sheer depth of emotion that I relate to my inner world, the internal tapestry and weaving of magical artistry, the carefree emotion that I never need to rehearse as I were accountable in the nature of reality, the play of my mind’s inner screen, rolling over and over, trapped eternally at the mercy of my deepest desires and longings and dreams, unfettered, reckless and truly denoting the infinitesimal beam of one’s humble imaginative curiosity.
Before departing away from this tranquil state of envisioning the beyond, I seek to describe this one particular structure, like all structures that have not that touch of finality, the lump of bricks and cement loom as unfinished as my own great failures, but the bricks and cement appear to have a form as the day progresses, subliminal or not, to the eyes of this seeker and observer merged into the oxygen and the air, the man who always seeks to water it with stern predicament bearing strict eyes that departed not away from the boundaries of the fast progressing space of what would later be called a domestic place, his eyes at times bored into my head when in the few unexpected moments, the few metres away of diagonal distance was crossed over by the power of sight, the church’s pleading sounds made no difference to him, to him, the house of empty dwelling was his most fixed and consuming concern, for he watched over the laborers who adorned with cloths strung over head and dirt smeared over face and hapless long labor under the authority of the emperor of the skies who boomed down in rays forceful and visceral, a few cartilages of steel did chance upon my vision, skeletal glimpses before the flesh of concrete hid them, what thoughts did that man entertain in the depths of his heart…? For his stern gaze, probably protective of the future prospect of bringing over his two fine groomed daughters who both sported colorful characters, or was it the joy of finally settling down in a place certain and final..? Whatever his concerns were, they were not mine, I looked away, past the house with its array of brick red and watered grey, and into the heights of the dormant open sky where my spirit soared into, men and women, they never change, at some level they are all the same, I end with a silent prayer for all the persecuted martyrs and a gentle feeling emotion for my aunt who suffers from cancer. Until time next