Exquisite

As the question of what is loveliest encounters, the usual suspects to affect the conscious are beautiful beings: animate and inanimate. A lovely face, lovely child, lovely gift and so forth.

What is loveliest isn’t an elusive question conditional to agreement about properties of exquisite beauty: is it that which appeals to the eye? To the heart? To the mind? Or to the spirit? One especially scarce commodity, i think, stands taller than its few contenders to the title: nature’s beauty can author catharsis far reaching in impact than simple admiration, kindness can endow bliss beyond the giver and the receiver. Good health foreshadows a healthy mind. These are worthy contenders.

A  quick aside. Quickly ensuing conclusion of it’s duty toward describing ordinary words, “lovely” metamorphoses into a collosal entity routinely encapsulating space and time into what it describes. If you think about it, there isn’t much left to describe beyond a lovely day and a lovely time (Which begs the question as what is meant when a day is said to be lovely, beyond good weather perhaps, and if that is adequate to make a day lovely).

Back to the original thought. If an object is to be loved on account of savoring and not only of yearning for, then freedom, is plausibly, the loveliest of all. We starve for freedom: of choice, of speech, of belief, from poverty, from slavery and several more hardships. And yet, for the few who enjoy it’s essence, nothing correlates so directly to their meaningful existence as freedom does. Good health, beauty and gratitude might go unappreciated, but freedom is enjoyed even if you refuse to. That’s why it stands tall. That’s why it’s beauty is exquisite. It is lovely.

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Music

If craft reduces original art to algorithm, and if technology reproduces everything described as an algorithm, then no other art form has been devoured and taken hostage to technology as much as music. It’s no coincidence toddlers can tell between music genres which follow a pattern as predictable as Japanese speed trains.

For heaven’s sake, “musicians” hardly hide the lack of originality – what with calling their “compositions” remixes. What can one say to that – “kudos to your honesty”? Must we then lament that most if not all popular music is an aftermath of teenagers fiddling digital knobs on iMac rather than musicians interacting with occasional melody or rhythm? Perhaps not.

Music attains, and some times hustles, value from how a listener responds to it irrespective of whether it’s genesis is it’s creators deep passion or plain mundane craft. Its evident electronic music creates unmatched euphoria and it counts for a lot of what music must do.

But, lament we should, oh lament we must for the ravishing remix of a transcending melody which must never be allowed reinterpretion into a 128bpm “track”. While wonderful, even novel, some melodies are better left untouched than be remixed by Mozart.

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Catch life

Life doesn’t pass by in time lapse view. Try as much as I might, I’ll never see the flower bloom; now it’s a flower bud and now it has blossomed.

Tonight, as I explained to our son that his cartoon time is over, tears engulfed his eyes as an intolerable sadness dawned on the sweetest face. I awaited his, now usual, vocal and unequivocal protest.

But, unbeknownst to me, our boy had grown up a little tonight. His scream didn’t burst out of him neither were furniture disturbed by his able kicks.

Instead, a gentle nod appeared as if he had to come to accept the inevitable. Then, his tiny index finger pointed to me and then to the empty screen on which his beloved cartoon had been playing just until half a minute back – the purpose of such a gesture unmistakeably wanting to ask dad to turn on his favorite cartoon.

He then stopped; actually he stopped himself. Tears which had engulfed his eyes began to flow down his cheek as if a river broke it’s banks. They were unaccompanied by a sound that might count so much for a distant whimper in an empty desert.

It was as if he put something ahead of his wish… As if to say to me “Dad, this really hurts. I chose in spite of this to listen to you. This grief is my choice tonight. These tears are my choice.”… It was as if he said “Dad, I love you”. It broke my heart and then melted it some.

He grew up unseen. Now he was just a baby, now he is not just.

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Think

Think about it.
You don’t think anymore.
Click, Click, Click and
Click is all you do.

A world of two digit,
knocked at your door.
It took quick command
as soon as you let it through.

You pursue wit,
like clams at seashore,
lunge in and out of sand,
all day and night too.

And you await a visit,
by a thought to adore,
but if it leapt to lend a hand,
you would have little or no clue.

Because, you’re automatic!
You don’t think anymore.
Click, Click, Click, and
Click is all you do.

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Stillness

A beautiful piece of music visited my dreams the other day. As I desperately tried to hold on to her, she refused to stay as if my mind wasn’t worthy enough an abode. She was, perhaps, right. All that I’m now left with are memories that she sang like a lonely chime and thousand violins. After her fierce departure woke me up, I could not recall the song or how she sang.

I woke up and felt soft breath of my wife sleeping on my shoulder. There is a calm about her. Not just in the way of her sleep, but even the way of her anger, exuberance and impatience. There’s a calm about everything she does and everything she is. Its contagious. A contagion  to which men, women, children and butterflies are not immune to. It has deeply affected me.  Lying in my bed with eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling lit by city lights – I clasped a stillness in the moment.  Stillness and nothing else – no fear, no anxiety, no greed, no guilt, no desire, no longing – just stillness.

The dream I just had woken up from also revealed upon inquiry that I heard my father laugh. He was a tough man when he lived. He grew bitter with life as his end neared him. I witnessed both innocence and joy betray his life with brutal discipline before entirely abandoning him. But to the final day of his life, when he laughed, he laughed like a child. I cannot imagine a gift more precious. From memories, I might recall nuances of his laugh, but its only through my dream that I caressed his joy and his innocence. How precious.

It was a dream as well of nostalgia. About the days I played with friends I couldn’t keep count of. About the days I played as rain bathed scorched fields, when we felt a cool from skies and warmth from earth together. Those were the days I was closer to green grass than I have ever since been. I was glad to have spent my life the way I did. I was glad I could spend it the way I did.

As I gazed around admiring how everything was where it belonged, a sanguine thought pierced into me. Isn’t this still moment what life IS? Nothing overwhelmed this moment, nothing happened in it and yet its depth and weight can hardly be grasped. This is a moment carved from my life. Isn’t this what it means to live? Then. Then. Then I wondered “what if…” and hurried back to dreams before that thought completed.

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Rhyme

My poems
Rhyme.
This won’t.

Spring

Here you are, you have now arrived; quite undeniably so. You still were making your mind up, not so long ago. You’ll be glad to hear, your return has eagerly been awaited just like before. So, Hello!

Now that you are here, you are welcome to stay for as long as you may. Wait. It is strange it must be said. Why is talk about you considered a cliché? even though so intensely for you, did we long await; I’ll concede, savories you bring with, are hard not to appreciate. But again, let me be straight; I’m not entirely convinced if you are all that great.

Yeah, I catch myself whiles gazing at cherry blossom. Not sure because its new or because its awesome. Sure, as soft warm sun caresses my skin, I wonder how long it has last since been. But again, let me come clean, cherry blossoms and warm sun aren’t entirely unforeseen.

So, here I am. Scrawling through this miserably inadequate verse; An aspiring, yet dreadfully incomplete romanticist; And what I’m good at is only just short of a curse; Because all I am is a good business analyst.