Final Resistance

A fast-waning interlude – between the act of returning to the world of the living, and the realm of the blighted nomad.

What does it really entail to give up an existence that has the appeal of not having come fully to fruition based on a candid realization that the sense of time gives us – that experience cannot be divorced from the cumulative number of years spent on a certain path in the hunt for the ideal. And what would I be giving up, really? – A cultured sense of self, an approbation of an irretrievable sensibility that effort spent on the cultivation of others’ comforts is a denial of some sense of individual liability? What have I gained in the interlude, is perhaps a more responsible question - A critic’s bemusement at the workaday travails of others, a brooding abstraction in the antics of the ant-like specimens of humanity, an unquantifiable tone of bas-relief perspective on the macro vs. the micro world of today???

I don’t know, and because I am on the threshold of stepping back into the factually industrious void, I cannot claim a captious objectivity. The reasons for the ‘treachery’ are tragically banal – money, a putative notion of responsibility, a driving concern that a sense of idleness is eclipsing the largely misunderstood pursuit of the artist.

“I take responsibility for my own life,” says the bird to the bee. "So, who are you to question its form?”

Journal Entry - 24th June 2009 - Richards Town, Bangalore

The reappearance of Violence in the R.E.M state. The gradual thinning of the angst in them to an amalgamation of long repressed demons, and then last night – to the familiar reflection of things happening in the waking state.

But they, altogether, make for a certain logical resonance deeper than what is accomplished when awake.

The absolute sense of the contradiction in immediate loss – What was once there is Not, anymore. The need to talk – a hollow prayer for a transference to an attitude of comfortable and durable volubility. The need to touch. To pay attention to. To give of oneself - Anything to delay the reflection, dreaded but inevitable.

A jolt of reality infused in all this meandering, brought on by personal circumstance – Cruelty. It is the only call we bring ourselves to confront when we mourn deeply and conscientiously, forgetting the presence of anyone else in the scheme of personal grief. The sense of I/Me alone in the suffering is difficult to overcome.

The future is a large Grizzly – something never actually encountered except in metaphor, but still large as life. An obstruction perhaps, but also a path towards, and a hazy glimpse at one beyond. It will become clearer with time, I suppose, but what is one to do but continue to be obscure. A mess of varied expectation, mostly fanciful.