(no subject)
I was looking at pictures from this past weekend. Basking in the narcissism of my youth, I have been revisiting these images since they were first moved over to this screen. I have very few folders organised in the i-photo library. The powerbook is old and scratching memories alone weakens me. I enjoy those billion other unorganised images for some time while they are recent. Then I forget, believing that I am looking better each time.
Half-asleep I clicked on a folder titled "papa50th". I first looked for a face that recently called me, very unexpectedly. Nocturnal restlessness like such leads to unrewarding ventures and often heightened senstivities.
Did I ever mention how there's a higher immediacy in the processing of my thoughts as slumber strokes many a folk that lay separated by the walls that be? I often count on the nighttime to dip my hands in mad-art although the few times where time's pressure withholding, I have worked in sunshine, I have been more stably successful. But I enjoy madness more. I enjoy being more sensitive about what I do, at night.
I clicked randomly around the images till my thoughts quietened. A pair of glasses unavailingly stood between those loving and the loved. My father smiled generously while choking on tears longing to stream past his attempts. He stood there, slightly bowed with the surprised happiness of the evening.
For my father's 50th birthday, my mother managed to invite anyone who ever meant anything to him while keeping the whole evening a complete secret. Some of those she reached out to had changed phone numbers twice or more since we last saw them. I reached India two days before the day. My present to him was a silkscreen print commemorating this birthday with an image of the Hindu temple from Banaras, a city where he attended engineering school. Fluttering over the temple I placed an oversized east Indian butterfly in fuchsia and blues and covered the entire yellow of this gift in calligraphy copied from an English butterfly collector's journal.
My cousin looked over him rejoicing in the happiness of us. There is overwhelming beauty in this family of us.
I came across a thought this weekend of there not being any coincidences and unknowingly I stumbled upon these images after ages, on july 11th, 2005, exactly a year after this birthday.
I would rather let myself break into a frenzy of tears in celebration of the love that reflects in those gracious eyes of my father's. He brought me here, far from home but left me with the unrelenting strength of his love. I don't let my knees bend often enough to acknowledge these thoughts too frequently, half afraid of their depth. I will never stop counting my blessings but the daughter in me is calmly reassuring me of the validity of this infrequent vulnerability. I breathe heavy with pride even while I look at these words blurring in front of my clouded eyes. I wish, atleast once in my life I will gift my father the same intensity of pride, if for but a moment.
I love you papa. Happy birthday.
.
.
.
Turning back she just laughs
The boulevard is not that bad
Piano man he makes his stand
In the auditorium
Looking on she sings the songs
The words she knows, the tune she hums
.
.
.
And as I keep my head perpetually capped in the reality of moving back I echo to my heart that I will not make the mistake that others did. I will reach out to the roots before I outgrow them and stoop in my weakening heights and lop sided foundations. My family is where I will be. What am I holding on to? Tight lipped and shut eyed I am going to let this time in between sink me in a rewarding world of creation and I will let myself believe that by the time it's time, it will all be okay.
Half-asleep I clicked on a folder titled "papa50th". I first looked for a face that recently called me, very unexpectedly. Nocturnal restlessness like such leads to unrewarding ventures and often heightened senstivities.
Did I ever mention how there's a higher immediacy in the processing of my thoughts as slumber strokes many a folk that lay separated by the walls that be? I often count on the nighttime to dip my hands in mad-art although the few times where time's pressure withholding, I have worked in sunshine, I have been more stably successful. But I enjoy madness more. I enjoy being more sensitive about what I do, at night.
I clicked randomly around the images till my thoughts quietened. A pair of glasses unavailingly stood between those loving and the loved. My father smiled generously while choking on tears longing to stream past his attempts. He stood there, slightly bowed with the surprised happiness of the evening.
For my father's 50th birthday, my mother managed to invite anyone who ever meant anything to him while keeping the whole evening a complete secret. Some of those she reached out to had changed phone numbers twice or more since we last saw them. I reached India two days before the day. My present to him was a silkscreen print commemorating this birthday with an image of the Hindu temple from Banaras, a city where he attended engineering school. Fluttering over the temple I placed an oversized east Indian butterfly in fuchsia and blues and covered the entire yellow of this gift in calligraphy copied from an English butterfly collector's journal.
My cousin looked over him rejoicing in the happiness of us. There is overwhelming beauty in this family of us.
I came across a thought this weekend of there not being any coincidences and unknowingly I stumbled upon these images after ages, on july 11th, 2005, exactly a year after this birthday.
I would rather let myself break into a frenzy of tears in celebration of the love that reflects in those gracious eyes of my father's. He brought me here, far from home but left me with the unrelenting strength of his love. I don't let my knees bend often enough to acknowledge these thoughts too frequently, half afraid of their depth. I will never stop counting my blessings but the daughter in me is calmly reassuring me of the validity of this infrequent vulnerability. I breathe heavy with pride even while I look at these words blurring in front of my clouded eyes. I wish, atleast once in my life I will gift my father the same intensity of pride, if for but a moment.
I love you papa. Happy birthday.
.
.
.
Turning back she just laughs
The boulevard is not that bad
Piano man he makes his stand
In the auditorium
Looking on she sings the songs
The words she knows, the tune she hums
.
.
.
And as I keep my head perpetually capped in the reality of moving back I echo to my heart that I will not make the mistake that others did. I will reach out to the roots before I outgrow them and stoop in my weakening heights and lop sided foundations. My family is where I will be. What am I holding on to? Tight lipped and shut eyed I am going to let this time in between sink me in a rewarding world of creation and I will let myself believe that by the time it's time, it will all be okay.