The River flows

There are times in life when the world seems to stop and hold its breath, the time when you are the centre of a typhoon, the time when you looked out of your window in Kansas, like Dorothy, hearing your radio crooning Someone told me long ago, there's a calm before the storm. These are times when you look up at the sky and see the sun hidden behind a small cloud, with golden beams of light poking out from behind the fluffy pillow reminding you of old, decrepit houses and motes of dust exhibiting brownian motion; these are times, when you halt in your tracks and tell yourself you will remember it as one of those moments in your life that have contributed to the warp and woof of the pattern you were trying to weave out of your existence.

H and I were talking about these moments, once. He said that he had had only three of them in his life, I don't remember which though; I, on the other hand, have had many, times I've looked back upon like wayside inns are looked upon by a traveller on a lonely road. I've just remembered an old poem on the same topic, but I forget the name; a poem from another time, a time of the definition of man and the birth of duty, rebellion and all the many ideas that lie dormant in man's brain to be woken up like a ritual spell, man (or woman's) schooling, the time of second birth.

It is during times like this when one learns what life is for, if ever it was meant for anything. Not to get caught up in our mundane lives to the extent that we, to use an old lovely cliché, miss the woods for the trees (the cliché itself evokes lovely images of a country side awakening from a cold winter or drinking a huge draught of rain water in the Monsoons) but to realise that life is a river flowing with the beginning, current time (a great pun, if I do say so myself) and the end, etc etc existing together. You get the drift (another brilliant use of the English language, or is that usage?). For more details refer Siddhartha by Herman hesse.

In other news, our blog has been criticised for not being silly enough. It would appear that from being a stream of consciousness blog, though we would have preferred unconscious, we've tried to become gyaan gurus. This is, apparently not a good thing. One doesn't go to the circus to see the Harlequin quote Shakespeare. Though there would be nothing wrong with the Whiteface doing a nice Puck, if you ask me. On the one side, we've got this bunch of rowdy readers giving me grief and on the other we've got this quantity focussed taskmaster, H, who believes that we must be putting out the latest and best, hour on hour not realising the temendous pressure it is putting on his best writer. Anyway, such is life. So, yes, we'll go back to being silly for a time and forget all the order we've been trying to bring to the place.

"And the earth parted and the flames of hell surrounded him;
And the clouds wept and the fires of heaven rained down upon him;
And T screamed, I don't have a quote!"

T