Digging for Meaning

Since a few days, i had imposed a self-censor. I wouldn't use the adjectives 'beautiful' and 'kickass' (to be forever on a quest for beauty is not normal. i must taste some normality too once in a while); and i would try not to be introspective all the time. (trying not to be so 'full of myself' all the time, there's the whole world out there that needn't be reflected onto me..) but how else could I describe Jeanette Winterson's 'written on the body' but delectably 'beautiful' and what else can one do but reflect when confronted with such poetic mirror to our hearts. its one of those literary pieces which you want to hold unto yourself like your lover, for its beauty and for its truthfulness. I read half the book the day I bought it. and then tried to resume it the next day on local train. Now local trains are a many things, but definitely not a temple to beauty and truth. And this book deserves nothing less. It deserves to be re...

while walking back home today evening, i walked past a middle aged person. everything was normal about him. not too fat, not thin. slightly greying hair. he was wearing a sky blue shirt and dark blue pant. the sleeve folded once, presumably right after stepping out of office. He was walking sprightly. He was visibly very happy. he had a white handkerchief in his hand, which instinctively often went to cover his mouth. He was censoring his smile. The effervescent smile bubbling out of him, he wished to rein. his happiness sought expression. his sense of normal social conduct didn't allow for such excesses. His whole body was stiffening with happiness, as if in revolt to the censor. his gait's rhythm had broken. the personal human is caged by the social animal.

As a photographer, i work towards being a good voyeur. photographs as true portraits of the story. i try not to edit the pic far too much. I hate it when some photographers increase the contrast indiscriminately. there should be a politics to your actions. taking an arbitrary photograph of a poor person and then with increased contrast and sly cropping, trying to make the image say things it does not. its not honest. i had lately begun to appreciate video for this more. video with the evidence of continuity makes it a little more difficult for manhandling the story of the images. For the last 2 years since i started learning photography, I have categorically avoided taking portraits of people: picture of people posing, and picture of people voyeuristically. The problem with the pose: Pose reeks with obscene pre occupation with oneself - or from a wider view - with self importance of the homo posers. With digital photography, now any person who is moderately well to do, will have thousa...

our love was a bastard child you were strong and held your earlier one to your bosom with strength of mountains the merry little one you wish could have remained in womb never to come out. you refuse to kill it and wish to keep it away the bastard has a soul too it would rather die than be orphaned let it crawl back into you and dissolve in your heart it will be reborn on the new day of someone else.

i tell myself that i covet you a disease that can be undone. but my symptoms make me fear of something terminal of love requited in uncertain measures and of love in spite. of possibility that had been erased but for the intertwined lives. another flower must bloom on the grave of our memories i must die and be born again.