deferred live

Today is only yesterday's tomorrow.                                                                   

Hello World!



This is the story of being old and wise.

And when I’m old and wise
Bitter words will mean little to me
Autumn winds will blow right through me.
And someday in the mist of time
When they ask me if I knew you
Id smile and say you were a friend of mine.
And the sadness would be lifted from my eyes
When I’m old and wise.

About me, myself and my ways and non-ways. About my non-sense. About not being a thought leader. About being humane. About my sound, my books. Not about falling in love, but most certainly about love. About yesterday, and about the attempt to live today and about not thinking too much about tomorrow.

This is the story told through the words of my peers. Because Let the words be theirsCassidy, I’m done with mine. This is a story about me me me and me. Since the canvas is the cloud, it can be read by anyone. And so anyone may form any opinion about the usage of peer and such words. I really do not care :-)

This is also an anthology, or an attempt at such. Without the convention of any library indexing kind of thing. Like a fluid flow of the self. If you happen to be here and if you think that this strikes a chord someplace, somewhere; it will be nice to have a coffee and cigarettes. 1

I have always been intrigued about spontaneity or the lack of it, in our daily awakening hours. More often than not, the words we utter are already said in our minds before they become audible. In effect I do the words twice, without and with decibel. So is the case with emotions. Very rarely do I express anything absolutely spontaneously. Is it me and my times or is it how the human being is supposed to be? Does spontaneity take a back seat with an increase of “information”? Does the modern existence leave very little space for spontaneity? To me, these are the questions of intrigue. And so the name of my muse is deferred live. An existence which is more often conceived in mind and then lived in reality.

Langston Hughes wondered about deferred dreams, in the poem Harlem.

What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore-
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

And then in Tell Me he asks again and again.

Why should it   be   my   loneliness,
Why should it   be   my   song,
Why should it   be   my   dream
  deferred
  overlong?

His deferred is different from my deferred. There is a tangible possibility in his. Mine is an effort at the study of the not so obvious omnipresent.

………

Hello World is a favourite uttering of mine. It is a tad formal than Hi World :-) And it is the first legible sentence that I printed on a screen. I heard three or four possibilities of words uttered first, by me. But “Hello World!” is definitely my first sentence on a head-full system. Here’s to Hello World! and noname.c



Footnotes
  1. Directed by Jim Jarmusch, this is a masterpiece []

End of footnotes

June 26th, 2008 at 12:55 pm