June 16, 2007

Ode to the Wild Words…

Posted in Babbles at 12:31 pm by cassandra

woman writer

I was waiting for the time when the spring will blow its trumpet….
When will the warm breeze blow over me…
When will the gentle wind rouse me from the wintry sleep….

Once a poet called this wind…”Wild”…an exorcist…”breath of Autumn’s beings”…the spirit…the life of personified Autumn…
Like an enchanter…blowing away the dead…decay…pale….phase of life…
Anticipation of a future….revitalization…regeneration…
A life-size assertion…!!!…

This is the wind I was looking for…which will appear like a storm…carrying bits and pieces of words…and will drive the life out of soil…
A touch of life would I feel…in contrast to ‘a claustrophobic state of affair’…a divine touch…
I’ll be possessed…!!!…

Then I realized one day…
I mistook love for this wind…a muse for motivation…angel for tranquility…
Love was the rain…and washed away my words…
Muse was buried…in the darkness of the soil…
The angel I longed…dated back in history…
Where am I now…was I living in a world of fantasy…???…or I lost it…because of the foolish me…
I don’t know…!!!…

This should end my writings on writing…I have realized…even if I search for years…I’ll not find what really these words are doing to me…
And will remain a poor soul…eternally in quest of words…and will go on try to arrange them…shape them…in a strange sense of meaning…
I give up…!!!…

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June 14, 2007

a word on WORDS…(nothing to write)

Posted in Babbles at 12:09 am by cassandra

writing-2

At times when I am all alone…nowhere to fool around…or…no works to perform…I prefer to write…scribble…and savor the enduring pen-crafts of consciousness…
And that is the time…!!!…when I face my self…a persona that is hardly known to any one…not even me…!!!…

This is not my first attempt to know the chore of these words…but the desire it evokes…is still a mystery for me…series of phases…that keeps me alive…a process…that makes me…a woman…!!!…

On occasions I am really charged with scores of ideas….at that moment, emotively I don’t need to injure those leafy pages…the words then tend to flow ceaselessly…electrified in a way that they even don’t feel like waiting for me to guide…
But times like now…when I can’t find anything to write…or loose hold of my words…or…when all of my ideas vanish into thin air…I struggle…violently I look for them…a mad woman in search of abstraction…
Can’t locate them…!!!…

But I know…it is a cycle…once again the time comes…when I see them from a far distant island…Pages are once again soft…orgasmic progression of pen…overflowing ink…set of secret languages delightfully taking a shape…
I conceive…!!!…

A mystic effect on the writer it forms…transforms itself to be something paranormal…
No more a preserved text in a medium…not just a sign or a symbol…not a dated history…but…a web that entangles a self called writer…a claustrophobic state of affair…the poor soul scratches the pages of notebook with her nail-nib…
A piece is born…!!!…

June 5, 2007

cassandra weeping…

Posted in Babbles at 2:38 pm by cassandra

fant-1.jpg

Cried Apollo in Hyperion: “I strive to search wherefore I am so sad / Until a melancholy numbs my limbs.”

True…a sense of loss…melancholy…if really exists….kind of pre-empts the attention of poet’s (also the muse who writes) imagination and permanence…appearance and reality…thought and sensation…quiescent and rousing….
This oscillation….restlessness…in its essence…might…fluctuate from altruistic idealism…to selfish hedonism…
Poet’s quest for permanence…a lifelong spiritual guard….goes against…his awareness of human mutability….

…”If I am destined to be happy with you here, how short is the longest life!”…

Poet chases the eternal vanishing figure of his muse….in a mood of profound dejection….the aching heart….might be…metaphoric for the state of mind…key to which…is the mythological allusion to the river Lethe…the drowsy numbness…regressive movement…(sorry poet!!!)

…”if it were now to die / I were now to be most happy”…

Now the muse….what she goes through….suffering…?…agony…?…wretched…?…a Grecian urn…un-calendared past…un-divined future…defeats (tries to) the ruthless exactions of mortal plague…the eternally vanishing figure…most explicit exegesis of the crux…(disgraceful!!!)

The mourning poet cannot hear the mourning muse…he can at best….internalize the image…the symbolic muse…supreme power of art (witty)…ideal beauty (not pretty)…
Driven by his own artistic sensibility…poet…is trapped in the dozy deadness of reflex creativity…

(I really have no idea what this piece is about….just felt an urge to write….)