Winter is Coming?

Winter-1946, Wyeth
Did you feel the Sun woke up a bit late today?
Are the Shadows grown a little longer than yesterday?
Is the Light of the Sun blazing a little too much today,
As if there is no tomorrow,
As if to give her best before she goes down?
Has it rained the past fortnight?
Do I already see the leaves  turning yellow?
Isn’t that single Dahlia in the garden really a freak?
What is the hurry Ants?
Is that a berry you are fighting for with your partner, Mr Squirrel?
Isn’t it too hot today?
But you feel like savouring it while it lasts.
Autumn’s not started,
Yet I feel the Winter is Coming.

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If not now, when?

I see young authors, about my age turning out almost brilliant work. One or two are even younger to me.
I seem to think one day,  when I’m ready,  I’ll just pick up a pen and write a masterpiece to much international acclaim. I have a similar attitude towards art. I think I can make awesome art instead of actually producing any.
What I tend to overlook is the amount of hard work, the gallons of night oil burnt before any of these writers or artists produced their brilliant works.
Natural talent should not be a hindrance to working hard. Authors and artists as a rule have been at pains to improve themselves when they were young. Dürer must have produced an awful lot of sketches before he became that perfect draftsman. We do know Van Gogh toiled tirelessly before he finally found his own style. What about writers? Haven’t all of them contributed to small time journals, faced numerous rejections before finally the stars aligned and their work was ‘discovered’? Can we really forget those years of anonymity they lived in before fame found them?
I think of having an amazing place where I’ll switch on the yellow lamps as I enter the room, put on some classical music and then sit down to write those pearls of wisdom. Since yesterday I have been thinking if I really plan to do that then why wait for a special day. Start making that amazing environment, that room right now. But there’s no excuse for not making art.

So stop dithering. Write daily and sketch everyday.

Kafka on the Beach

I finished Murakami’s ‘Kafka on the Beach’ yesterday. I did not like it. There was a bit too much of magic realism for my taste. And what was he driving at anyways? One can blame me that I did not understand it, but it’s alright. I don’t care. I especially disliked and skipped the part where ‘Johnnie Walker’ cuts open the cats and eats their beating hearts. That was 4 or 5 pages I think. To come to think of it I think that’s what put me off. 

The most intelligent person in the world

Sometimes I doubt myself. What could be wrong with me that I find everything wrong in everyone? I find the way Mom and Dad muddle through routine things in school. 

I have been living in these quarters like a nomad. It is as if this is a temporary accommodation for me. I’m starting to think that I should do up my part of the house as I have my ideal house in my imagination. Complete with an art room and gym. Cosy and functional like I like things. We are almost certain to not move to the school in next two years because nothing has been constructed there for our accommodation. Then why not live nicely here itself?

I do need to control temper and my relation with other people. I have fought with him and also Dad today. My relationship with him has reached ennui. I spoke somethings I think which cause him hurt. That I was speaking the truth is a different story. Then Dad, I feel has very poor business sense. But I feel afraid myself in taking decisions. I would be shit scared when I will take over the school from him. But for now I feel happy to ridicule all his actions. I need to learn to be professional with him. Speak minimal or none at all. That is the only way to continue to live nicely I think.

Still hardly any news about my joining ship. He said he’ll send me within 10 days. But he could be bluffing I feel. 

I don’t know why I let him fuck up my mood.
I get damn irritated when he keeps asking for gifts. And when I say he does he says as I’d I will give him if he asks.
After all the gifts I’ve given him. I feel damn irritated by this.

I am looking at one  inmate of this hospital. He’s sitting on the porch of a little temple. It’s a new building. Every few minutes he gets up walks a bit, drinks some water and sits down at the same place again. He starts playing with his mobile again.  I remember being in this hospital all those years ago down with malaria. It was easier to not get bored all those years ago. If my memory is not playing with me, I remember,  i would look down at the little green gorge behind the officers’ ward.  There were no mobiles then.