more post per post ... apparently

Yesterday, it was a month to my wedding. Today, it is a day less than a month. This post, is unremarkable but for the fact that it is a marker of sorts. Let it speak for itself.

Here lies buried,

Under the pretext of a post that really isn't;

In a format that is neither poetry,

Nor prose,

Nor text;

More thoughts, emotions and turmoil;

More happiness

And

More hope

Than all the other posts

Put together.

Mistah Clarke - he dead!

Arthur C. Clarke passed away today.
First Asimov, then Carl Sagan and today Clarke.

I am not sure whether everyone will agree to naming them in one breath in one sentence.
For me however, this was the trinity that connected me to the universe and to the future.
They helped me think of life beyond what we see everyday and to imagine things beyond what we would probably imagine.

Asimov, Sagan and now Clarke ... he was the last of the trinity - a tenuous link to a world that has slowly all but disappeared into oblivion for me as I have grown older - and today, this was broken too.

I have no words to express how I feel. I am not sure why it feels so personal - enough to have caused me to log in and start writing this post despite a hectic schedule that leaves me with hardly any time to breathe.

I hope that in death, they are able to transcend the barriers of time and space that constrained them in life. To travel the universe at a whim. To see, to learn, to know and to explore. To be as unfettered physically in their new existence as their minds were in their old. To know the secrets of the universe. To be a part of that secret.

With sunset, slowly, the dream and the hope that I shall do anything that matches the contributions of these childhood idols is fading - replaced by the mundane thoughts of everyday existence.

Perhaps my only contribution shall be to add a line to the epitaph of every astronaut ...
- may his soul rest in space.

an idea and a dream

The other night, I thought I'd do a series on "The Prophet". Take up the same questions that Almitra asked the prophet, and in the same sequence, and answer them as I know best. It is one thing to read what Gibran had to say about those things and another thing to find out for yourself. Making a note of it here so that I can follow up on it later when I have more time.

There isn't much to write otherwise. I don't know whether it is the weather or something else. My throat is perpetually parched, my lips forever chapped ... I am reminded every time I smile ... which is not very often.Falling asleep is difficult and getting up in the morning is equally terrible ... I feel like Calvin - on Tokyo time.

And then the rest of the day unfolds ... between appetizing meals and tea breaks, I fight to meet or beat deadlines at work and at home. No time to think ... too numb to feel. Fighting to stay awake ... fighting to fall asleep ...

Life is a haze ... like a dream ... neither bad nor good. Just a dream. Something that you eventually wake up from. I wish I would wake up now.

Talking of dreams, I remember what I dreamt this morning. I generally don't remember dreams which is why this is even worth mentioning.

I was in a house. On a hill side. Like the houses that I was used to as a child. Wooden floors. A false ceiling made of woven jute, white washed and supported internally by wooden frames. Sloping tin roofs that end in gutters that channel the rain water down into tin drums for later use.

I was standing by a small window. Small glass panes held together by a wooden framework. All the woodwork - painted white - including the sill. White curtains. Printed. Small pink floral patterns. Drawn back so I could look outside. I could feel the cool of the cotton curtain against my cheeks as I looked out.

Looking out, across the overgrown garden, the hill fell off steeply and I could see water far below. Looked like a sea ... but too placid to be one ... a lake perhaps. The mist was rising and I could see some buildings in the distance drifting in and out of the haze.

New York? I thought. Till I spied what looked like Sears tower in the distance. Ah! Chicago then?

I turned my gaze to look left and saw the hill side rise away above me. It was dotted with thousands of quaint little houses. All overlooking the same scenery. I paused to soak in the beauty ... confused. I couldn't imagine where I could possibly be. A hill next to lake michigan with quaint houses on it? Made of wood ... on stilts ... with tin roofs .. painted red, green, blue ... huh?

Somebody sitting behind me in an old wooden easy chair reminded me that I was working too hard. The wood of the chair was dark. The back and the bottom was made of woven cane - brown with age. He was also trying to explain some other truths of life that I don't quite remember. I was not paying much attention to him. I was still trying to figure out where I was.

I tried too hard. It woke me up. Back into that sordid reality of bleary eyes ... heat ... chapped lips ... that hurt when I smile ...