Here I Am

Here I am, 
with a small stone and a long shot, 
trying to slay the giant of apathy
who lives inside of me. 
I'll need a little help, 
I'm a little out of step, 
and my aim's not what it used to be. 

Here I am, 
in the den with lions, 
and angry wildebeest 
who are roaming wild and free. 
I can see them quietly prowling, 
I can hear their stomachs growling, 
and I have a sudden urge to pee. 

Here I am, 
with five loaves and two fish, 
trying to drive away the hunger 
that burns inside of me. 
I know it's not a lot, 
but it's all I've got, 
please make it last for eternity. 

Here I am, 
picking through the debris, 
when I pray I know you listen, 
and things dont seem so crazy. 
People say that's nonsense, 
and put it down to coincidence, 
but I'm not sure I agree. 

So, here I am, 
like David, Daniel, 
and that packed-lunch kid, 
on my own little journey. 
The road is hard and narrow, 
but I know you watch the sparrow, 
and I pray you'll look out for me.

The Solitary Mango

When we were growing up in India, there was a mango tree in our backyard that produced one single mango per year. I have no idea how or why it did this, it just did. Around March or April, it would be nearly covered in white flowers, and it would seem like at least some of them would make the obligatory transformation into fruit. And yet, in a matter of weeks, all the flowers would disappear and by the summer, there would be just the one mango dangling bravely from a little branch somewhere. While most people would be disappointed with this dismal output from an otherwise normal-looking tree, we knew better. Experience had taught us that the single mango would be the sweetest, juiciest mango any of us had ever tasted. (Even now, all these years later, I can recreate the taste in my head).

So, from the moment the tiny fruit was first spotted, it became an annual tradition to tend to it. This involved making extra sure the tree was watered regularly, and - once it was a certain size - covering our little mango with clear plastic to make sure it was protected from birds. Finally, after watching it grow to about the size of a (small) baby's head, and turn from green to a sort of yellowish-red, we would pluck it. It was always a special moment, holding the fruit of that tree's labour, knowing it was going to be full of A-grade mangoness. And it was. Together, we savoured the flavour of that solitary mango, and waited until the following year.

What I learned from that mango tree was this- if being prolific is not your style, being a perfectionist definitely should be. Also, if people recognise what you produce is good - however small or limited it may be - they will usually help make it great.

Good times are on the way

I'm tired
of being tired
but wary of being weary,
I'm hard-wired,
permanently anxious,
never unhurried,
somewhere in my stomach,
a giant butterfly sleeps,
I sit still cos I'm worried I'll wake it;
I don't crack a smile
cos I'm worried I'll break it,
if my face was a screen
it would scream 'Please wait...
preparing to hibernate'.
My battery's running low,
my system's a bit slow,
and probably needs an update.
The birds sing but it's not yet spring,
it's only winter on repeat,
and then there's the rain,
the slow drip, drip, drip of pain,
making the misery complete...

But-
despite the wind and the sleet,
the word on the street,
is that good times are on the way;
And so I pray,
for people both home and away,
knowing that in spite of the night,
somewhere else it is day.
How easily I forget to remember
that age, like a mortgage,
is just a number;
our frost-bitten dreams in December,
are still resolutely undead,
so finally I rest my head,
a pauper on a king-sized bed,
knowing good times are ahead,
some good times are ahead.

This morning on the way in to work, there were the usual garden-variety traffic jams, road blocks, diversions, invisible Men at Work (you can see the signs, but never the men. The only explanation is they're invisible. Personally, I would change the signs to Goblins at Work). Cars and their drivers were both frosty. Halfway into February, the sun still had its Out Of Office on, but there was the faintest whiff of spring in the air. It was either that or the air freshener in my car. (Long story but the essence is that this now works because my heating vents now work -hooray!-but then these probably work because the fans have unfrozen and that must mean that spring is indeed on the way.) Come on, Sun, stop slacking off and get to work!

Anyway, there I was, about ten miles in to my commute, singing along to Van Morrison and settling into auto-pilot when the dreaded flashing lights appeared in the distance... It meant only one thing. Major Accident. In my mind, I started the now familiar process of resigning myself to spending most of the morning in the car (hooray again for heating vents) when I noticed the lights were actually flashing on the other side of the road and it was the oncoming flow of traffic that was blocked, not ours. In a situation like this, I would normally just count my lucky stars (it's usually just the one star so it doesn't take too long to count) and then turn my focus back to covering as much distance as possible until the next incident on the road. This time, however, was slightly different. ..

A few years ago, when my fear of flying was at its worst, I was told by more than one person that travel by road was significantly more dangerous than air-travel, in terms of the odds of being in a fatal accident. I'm sure this little fact was meant to make me feel better at the time. Only problem is that these days, at 80 miles per hour, with the car in front swerving dangerously, and a fine mist forming across my windscreen, I suddenly wish I was in a plane.

Meanwhile at Junction 4, my car was still about 20 yards from the spot of the accident but I could tell it was serious. There were about three fire engines, two police cars and an ambulance. And smoke. Most likely, there was a fatality. As our queue of traffic inched slowly forward, I wondered whether it was purely a voyeuristic instinct that made people stop and stare, or whether there was something deeper going on; a collective realisation, perhaps, that that car could so easily have been ours, the people inside could just as easily have been us. Unconsciously, maybe both man and machine were coming together in a show of respect; taking a moment to whisper a prayer before moving on.

The fact is -without wanting to sound too dramatic- sometimes taking a car onto the motorway feels like the modern-day equivalent of taking a horse into battle. At any given time, people are up against some combination of fading light, mechanical failure, snow, fog, sleet, road-rage, fatigue, and speed guns. Every so often, you flirt with your own mortality. Not everyone makes it out alive, the rest merely live to fight another day.

Dear Mr President,

Last night I had a dream and you were in it. It was a dream of two parts, but both parts played out in my head in scenes from the movie 'Gladiator'. In the first part, you were standing up in the Emperor's box of the amphitheater with your arm outstretched and your thumb sideways in the air. There was an eerie silence as your thumb quivered slightly, and then a roar as you pointed it slowly downwards. In the second part, you were down in the dust of the arena, wearing a gladiator's armor that was lightly speckled with blood. You took off your helmet, raised your head to look up at the cheering mob and screamed "Are you not entertained?", your eyes ablaze with near-incandescent rage. The crowd continued to cheer while you dropped to your knees and wept. Then everything went dark.

I woke up to the news that you have now rejected another four mercy petitions, and seven more are on the way to you. Afzal Guru, the man whose plea you rejected a week ago, is now dead, killed to satisfy the collective conscience of our great nation. For what it's worth, my own conscience does not feel satisfied; in fact, of late it has been feeling distinctly uneasy. It is unnerving, particularly as it has forced me to examine my own flaws. I suspect there are many who feel the same way, even if only somewhere deep inside their being where these types of thoughts reside. But collective conscience, I assume, is more of a metaphysical thing, something greater than the sum of our individual consciences. I can see why the concept is comforting.

Anyway, I do not want to waste too much of your time. I am sure you have better things to do than read the nocturnal ramblings of a disenchanted citizen. The truth is, I cannot claim to have any knowledge of these people's innocence or guilt, or indeed the pressures that no doubt come with your job. You are, after all, both the Emperor and the gladiator. But before I go, I just wanted to share a little bit of dialogue from another movie called 'Schindler's List' which I would highly recommend that you watch, if you ever get the chance.

Oskar Schindler: Power is when we have every justification to kill, and we don't.
Amon Goeth: You think that's power?
Oskar Schindler: That's what the Emperor said. A man steals something, he's brought in before the Emperor, he throws himself down on the ground. He begs for his life, he knows he's going to die. And the Emperor... pardons him. This seemingly worthless man, he lets him go.
Amon Goeth: I think you are drunk.
Oskar Schindler: That's power, Amon. That is power.

Thank you, Mr President.

"The harder you work, the luckier you get." This quote has been attributed to a lot of people, including, for some strange reason, Jon Bon Jovi. My personal theory about this is that a lot of folks mention him as a source purely because his name is fun to say out loud (you just tried it, didn't you?), and not because he is also a sage/philosopher in addition to being a musician. Of course, there may be people who will claim he is both, while others may provide compelling arguments as to why he is neither, but that is not the point of this post. (As usual, my train of thought is pulling away slowly while I'm still running along the platform.)

Anyway, to continue... most cricket fans (of a certain age) will recall the moment Brian Charles Lara pulled a Chris Lewis delivery to break a 36-year-old record for the highest individual score in Test cricket. What is less known is that when Lara rocked back to play that shot, his foot brushed against the stumps and disturbed the bails. Amazingly, those little pieces of wood did a little split-second dance and fell back into place. The difference between Lara's eventual record score of 375 and 365 (hit-wicket) was a few measly millimetres. For those who think I've just made this little story up, please refer to evidence here.

Obviously, like many obsessive cricket fans, I relate most of what happens on the field to life in general. On this occasion- the profound (non-original) truth is this- at that moment, with a young man on the verge of one of his greatest sporting achievements, the universe conspired to make it possible. Put another way- those prepared to put in the 99.9 percent will, in almost every case, get that final 0.1 percent to fall for them too (call it luck, fate, destiny, match-fixing, whatever). Without the first, you can't really complain about the lack of the second.

Heights by great men reached and kept,
were not attained by sudden flight,
but they, while their companions slept,
were toiling upward in the night.
--- HW Longfellow/ Jon Bon Jovi

Arthur Ashe, the first African-American to win Wimbledon, tragically contracted AIDS from a blood transfusion during a heart operation. As his health deteriorated, he was once asked by a reporter how he felt. Had he ever asked himself ‘Why me?'

This was his response: “If you start asking that,” Ashe said, “when do you stop? If I asked why I had a bad heart, or why I got AIDS do I also have to ask why I won Wimbledon? Or why I’ve had this kind of life? When something bad happens, people have this way of forgetting their blessings. I don’t. I’ve had a wonderful life.”
He died on this day, 20 years ago, aged 49.

You can read more here:

There are times when you find yourself moving to the fringes of a certain circle. How you feel about it about depends to a great extent on whether it's happening to you, or you're making it happen. Either way, it helps if you realise that the fringe of one circle is often the epicentre of another. (Overlapping circles, you see.)
So, go ahead and be on the fringe if it works for you, but make sure you're in the centre of the ones that matter. Most importantly, pick your circles- small, big, whatever. Don't let them pick you. 

Enough. I'm starting to sound like I know what I'm talking about.

RIP Frosty

 

We built ourselves a snowman,
he lasted through the night;
the next day he got his head kicked in,
even though he was white.

Sometimes silence is silent.
Other times, it is a deafening wave of
sound, swirling
around inside your head,
amplifying sighs, whispers,
countless unsaid words.

Sometimes silence is a
warm blanket, to wrap around
oneself on a cold night, before slipping
into the sort of child-like, dreamless sleep
that adults often only dream of.
Other times, it uses its cold finger
to heartlessly lift your cover, smiling
benignly as thoughts escape like shadows
and linger on the wall.

Sometimes silence is like the best kind
of friend- constant,
non-judgemental, wise.
Other times, it is an awkward
guest, a pleasant surprise when
they arrive, but
then never quite leave.

Sometimes silence is fresh snow,
glistening in the late evening sun,
giving itself up to footprints.
Other times, it turns to ice,
and you must tread lightly,
feet suddenly unsteady; to talk
is to feel
like learning to walk.

Sometimes silence is the 'e'
at the end of love,
completing it, without having to say it.
Other times, it is the silent 'r'
at the end of stranger. Not quite
estranged, but always a danger.

So what's the one thing you've done today that will actually mean something five years from now? And if you've not done it already, how long are you going to let regret and discontent stop you?

Discontent is a bit like the mold currently spreading across my bathroom ceiling- once it sets in, it's tough to stem the rot. As for regret, that's going to feel a lot worse five years from now. It may not feel like it just at this moment, but life's too short. So, dance while you can still hear the music.

Do it now.

When I was about ten years old, my Dad carried an old wooden piano that he found at a relative's house, up a hill in the rain. I watched as he grimaced under the weight of it, and then stood helplessly as he buckled and fell onto the wet ground.

Some things I will never forget, and that image of my Dad struggling to carry a piano that he hoped one day I would play, is one of them. I think it is because to me it is like a priceless artefact; tangible proof of the depth of everything good a parent invests in their child. It is the purest form of love- an unconditional love driven by nothing more than a desire to see them chase their dreams.

One day, I hope to do the same for my child- but in the meantime, that single image from my childhood reminds me that I owe it not just to myself, but also my parents, and anyone who has invested anything in me, to be spectacular; to repay belief with effort, to never settle for mediocrity. And to never, ever, forget.

Sometimes in life you manage to convince yourself there's some sort of cosmic significance attached to the fact that you and someone else are together, adrift in a particular moment in time, journeying toward an uncertain but shared destiny. 
In reality, however, they're just in it for the ride. And when the journey's over, they will walk away, pausing perhaps for a moment, but never quite looking back. 

Who's your Richard Parker?

"And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never find it."

- Roald Dahl

In my opinion, this is one of the best basketball ads Nike has ever made. It is only 30 seconds long, and contains no shots of Jordan flying through the air or slam-dunking the life out of some basketball. It doesn't even have a basketball. All it has is a man, talking about how he's just a man.



On a related note, maybe Sachin Tendulkar should do a similar ad.It could go something like this:

28 times I've been dismissed in the 90s.
37 times I've made a century in a losing cause.
I have dropped 112 catches, some of them sitters.
I have failed over and over again in my life...and that is why...
I'm in the Rajya Sabha.

I'm joking, obviously. I love Sachin. And as Sachin ads go, this is one of my favourites. It also shows that Sachin can never be just a man. Too many people need him to be so much more. 

The Inmates are running the Asylum...

...is the phrase I associate most often with the situation in India in the aftermath of the gangrape and murder of the young medical student. While a city burns and a people rage, our leaders have sat and fiddled with the sort of indifference that even Emperor Nero would have been ashamed of. Elected representatives, heads of various bodies and religious leaders have all displayed the same levels of bewilderment in the face of what may yet be a significant event in the evolution of a collective conscience. As a leader, saying or doing something that is subsequently perceived by people to be the wrong thing is understandable. Ambivalence is not. 

Meanwhile, as the legal proceedings began, there was talk of denying the accused representation. This will only make a mockery of the judicial process and this terrible tragedy will be even sadder than it is now. Whether we like it or not, those men have a story which is also our story. It is imperative that we hear it.

Please God, let this man be as awesome as he seems.

My Friend for Jan is... Jan! (von Holleben)

About six years ago, I stumbled across Jan's work when I was doing some research for my Masters dissertation. I wrote to him asking if I could reproduce one of his photographs for my project named 'Dreams of Flying' which was also the title of his photo collection. Jan not only granted permission to use the photo, but sent me a high-res version of it.

Fast forward to last month, and Jan noticed copies of his limited-edition 'Dreams of Flying' books were being sold on eBay for approximately 250 euros. In comparison, my 'Dreams of Flying' poem was being sold pretty much nowhere for approximately nothing. Anyway, just for a laugh, Jan decided to give away free copies to the first 15 people who e-mailed him. I was the 15th. And so a week later, I got my copy of 'Dreams of Flying' in the post along with a signed postcard, just in time for Christmas. I then sent him a copy of my 'Dreams of Flying' poem via e-mail to complete the unlikely loop.

Jan is currently travelling in South India; last I heard he was trying to cross from Tamil Nadu to Kerala. He is a multi-award winning photographer (fact) and all-round nice guy (opinion). You can check out his work here- http://www.janvonholleben.com/

PS: If you would like to be considered for my Friend for Feb competition, please feel free to send me something exciting in the post. Unless your name is Feb, in which case you're a winner already.

This is a special announcement. Clocks have now gone back one hour. Please be aware that we will be moving from BST (British Sad Times) to GMT (Grim and Miserable Times)

Goodbye sunshine, hello Seasonal Affective Disorder.

After you've searched far and wide for happiness, imagine for a moment that happiness comes looking for you.
Will you let it in? Or leave it waiting at the door?

Belfast

In a land with forty shades of green
a stream
gently flows, charting an uncertain path
to an unknown destination.

Leaves, autumn's snow, drop
unrushed, into the shallow end
while in the bend,
bubbles pause
to speak in hushed tones.

In the distance, H&W cranes
watch over a city,
while a mother,
getting ever smaller,
but just as constant, no less stoic,
waves in a rear-view mirror.

Somewhere, in a warm corner
of the memory,
there is laughter.

In the air,
thoughts unravel,
while below, a patchwork of fields
stretch out
like a grandmother's quilt,
well-worn,  familiar,
quietly falling apart.

It is only the body that travels, never the heart.

Greetings

While most other life forms in this part of the world are preparing to go into hibernation, I am making my first tentative attempts to emerge out of mine. Until, of course, the clocks go back (which is in roughly two weeks) and whatever little resolve I have will then freeze under an avalanche of snowflakes and thermal underwear. But enough. Before this little island is taken over again, Narnia-like, by a seemingly perpetual winter, let me try and get some words in.

So, where to begin? 

In the last three months, a number of significant events have taken place in my life. I realise that some (if not most) of these will be of little interest to anyone but me, but here is a shortlist anyway (in somewhat random order of significance- in keeping with the beautifully upside-down-inside-out nature of my present condition). Now, on with it- mild frostbite is already setting in.

I married an amazing woman.
I flew for 14 hours non-stop and didn't throw up once. I repeat- I didn't throw up once.
I learned how to tie a reef knot.
I laughed. Loudly. Several times.
I woke up in one continent and went to sleep in another.
I met people who'd last seen me when I was still in diapers and talked funny.
I sang 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star' in public with my wife and sister.
My uncle passed away two weeks before he was due to travel to the wedding.
My grandmother's leg prevented her from making the final leg of the journey to the wedding. (the awkward pun is a defense mechanism)
on more than one occasion I experienced, as Colin Firth famously described, 'stirrings somewhere in the upper abdominals which were threatening to form themselves into dance moves'
I carried a baby (not mine) through airport security.
I traveled in an official Government of India car.
I met Bruce Lee. He was moonlighting as a waiter in an Italian restaurant in China.
I married an amazing woman.

That is all for now. I shall keep you posted on the weather front.

Seeing as you're one of only two people I’ve known literally my entire life, I feel as though I know you enough to say what I’m about to say.

There are things to be said about sharing what could be perceived as 'private' thoughts in a 'public' space, but we'll save that conversation for another day.

For now, what I want to say is this-

I don't know whether you're the first person I saw when I peeled my little eyes open for the first time, chances are it was either you or a nurse. It definitely wasn't Dad, because he only arrived a couple of days later, armed with a smile and unrealistic expectations of what a new-born baby was supposed to look like, and compared me to a jaundiced rat.

But this isn't about me, it's about you.

I don't remember lots of things before a certain age, I just know they happened. Like how you used to drop me off at playschool, read me stories, and allow me to put all kinds of crap in your handbag everywhere we went.

Other things I do remember, like the time you took me to the barber just so I could have my hair styled in some ridiculous style that was fashionable at the time. And then we got soaked in the rain on the way back home and I cried because my ridiculous style was ruined and you spent an hour trying to recreate it for me.

And the time you took me to buy football shoes and you let me have the expensive ones even though they weren't that much better than the cheaper ones and then you carefully poured wax along the stitching so they would last longer. They didn't last all that long but the memories, those last forever, you don't need wax for those. I remember them like it was yesterday.

And then as we got older and bigger, and you got older and smaller, there were other things. Like the countless times you carried those massive tins of flour from the chakki even though they seemed to get heavier with each trip. And those big bags from the vegetable market that you hauled all the way up the hill because we were too busy being busy to help. I also remember the time I woke up in the middle of the night because I had a nightmare that involved you not being around anymore and you sat up with me and explained the concept of death as best you could to a 12 year old. And then soon after, even when things were difficult, you stayed strong and got on with it with a combination of grace and fortitude, that I still, after all these years, struggle to comprehend, but will always admire you for. And even when you were weak that was ok because sometimes it takes a special sort of strength just to show weakness.

You are my rock, my ever-present guiding light, a light that never seems to diminish with time but instead grows brighter with every passing day. You are amazing in every possible way. And never let anyone tell you otherwise.
I love you mum.

“Time is too slow for those who wait, too swift for those who fear, too long for those who grieve, too short for those who rejoice, but for those who love, time is eternity"

- Henry Van Dyke

A big shout-out to my friend Shane Sandhoefner, who a year and a half ago pulled this poem from out of his shirt pocket and read it out at my farewell meal in Cambridge. And with whom I met up again last week on a boat in Richmond. I hope to see you again soon, my cricket-loving, Bob Dylan-quoting, Shawshank Redemption-watching friend.

In the meantime, here it is- a damn fine poem on a..umm.. damn fine subject.

My Time with the The Ajay

We met in Cheltenham Spa
which seems unlikely on the face of it,
but is i suppose only as unlikely as meeting
anyplace, in a certain sense.

He tried his luck at fleeing,
but i caught up and sat right by him.
The past makes a sound much like
the gentle hiss of a heating vent.

Mondays and Fridays were the heaviest-
we renamed assets till our eyes were numb
and fiddling with the feisty pair-split,
bu by god, in the end they fit like a glove.

Parth couldn't tell my voice from his,
which presumably led them to think
it was actually me who came to visit,
me they took out to dinner.
Abdul sent me his best wishes,
and now Vaibhav thinks I'm the one going to Pearson.

The Ajay taught me cricket,
you've got to grip it and rip it-
and we did so at a local park,
where The Ajay nicknamed me Parth,
which added to the general confusion
especially for Charlie and Dawn.
So i nicknamed him Shane,
but it never quite caught on.

We all saw him at karaoke.
He sat down and was suddenly
straight from the 1970s,
almost put his arm around me
with his feet tapping along
to Lola, or some other song,
and we finally sang us some Dylan
because we're both like rolling stones.
We're always moving and spinning
downhill, we're like gravitational poems.

The world is draped and limited
in strange ways, and the words stay
just a few centimetres from
the tips of our tongues.

But we can still smile softly
at the familiar shapes,
these ever-numbered days,
and laugh thinking
that some things hang around,
like an ink stain on a thumb.

I am my Dad, who ran the last kilometre of my first half-marathon with me,
just to see me cross the finish line.
I am my Mum, who makes sure I’m wearing fresh socks,
but loves me even when I'm not, which is almost all the time.

I am my Ammachy, who taught me -with modest success- to speak up,
and my Appacha, who taught me the magical properties of silence.

I am Johnycha, who signed the first cheque for my university degree,
Mathewcha, who got two speeding tickets to drive me there,
and Maavan, who drove 200 miles to bring me back
(after another bout of flying fever).

I am Sushil, who has become used to giving up half his room,
with- what he must by now consider- alarming regularity (liberties, bruv).
And also Santosh, to whom I didn't repay the favour,
leaving him to curl up instead on the floor of my cold flat,
wearing two layers of clothes and a hoodie.

I am my brother Vijay, who called me achacha maybe once,
my little sister Sujaya, who called me it five times,
(and has long since swapped it for more colourful terms of endearment)
and also Hannah and Rachel,
who call me it whenever their Dad is in the room.

I am Gisamama, who has my specific medicational needs covered,
Anniemama, whose knowledge of Mumbai Marathi comes in handy,
and Liz, who will (hopefully) service my lifetime dental plan.

I am Maavi, who still considers me young enough to buy presents for (hint, hint)
and Shantamama, who gamely endured me every summer for many years,
when my brother and I would descend on Karikattoor,
and then proceed to soak the chicken feed in kerosene,
and break her hanging flower pots
(while making sure to fling the incriminating evidence into the nearby field).

I am Bobbycha, who made the first cricket bat I ever owned,
and Jobycha, who meticulously painted and varnished it.
I am Babuchayan, who repaired everything I broke or tore,
(but couldn't do much about the flowerpots).

I am Anil, who drove a white toy police car across Ammachy's lawn,
and Sunil, who drove a slightly more imaginary one in Pune,
(mainly by carrying around a large rubber washer and making engine sounds).

I am every single individual separately, and all of them together, all at once.

I am who I am because of everyone.

Sachin's Dilemma

So the wait is over, the ton of tons has finally arrived. It is a staggering milestone, a cricketing Everest that may never be scaled, on par with Don Bradman's 99.94 average. Or maybe it will, who is to say? It may well be conquered just by virtue of its presence- it is now a target, an opportunity to dream the impossible dream, and on another day, another man may flirt with immortality. But until then, it will stand there, gloriously out of reach, a reminder of a time when giants mingled with men on a cricket field.

So now what? At what cost has the quest reached its conclusion? Does Sachin walk away now and prove beyond doubt this was his sole motivation to keep hauling himself out onto the field of play after that glorious April evening in Mumbai when he held the World Cup aloft? Or does he persist despite the lengthening shadows, raging against the fading of the light, ignoring not just his creaking body but an increasingly disenchanted public? At what point does the Master start to overstay his welcome? And who will tell the Emperor he's not wearing any cricket whites?

The photo encapsulates his dilemma. While the one fan stands with folded hands in awe and reverence, waiting expectantly for another miracle, the other looks like he just wants the noise to stop. Both must be voices in Sachin's head, both louder now than they've ever been.

Which one will he listen to?

Every three or four days a week, i take my place alongside other bleary-eyed commuters on the eastbound Picadilly line heading into Central London.

I flick through the morning paper and wait for the inevitable announcement that begins with the words 'We apologise for the delay, but...'

But most days, i also think.

I think about how much more attractive people seem the moment they smile.
I think about whether my shoes are too red and whether they're sending out the right message about me.
I think about where I've been and where I'm headed (apart from eastbound on the Picadilly line)

Most of the time, however, my mind is occupied with one single recurring thought-

Is it worth it?

When I was a child, i thought the Snooze button on my alarm clock actually paused time.

Now as a slightly older child, i no longer think this. But at approximately 7 o'clock every morning, i wish more than ever it was true.

So after a week of lying flat on my back, drifting between delirium and despair, and puking my guts out- I'm back in the land of the living. But only just.

Miss me?

Dear M25

I love you, but please sort your life out.

Life is short enough without my having to sit for hours on end in my car, staring at the number plate of the car in front and imagining I am on Countdown (it's a really lame version of the game, and I can never get words longer than three letters) I mean, come on- I’ve seen cars move quicker on a production line.

Also, what is up with all the cameras? I almost feel like a celebrity on a red carpet; except of course the road isn't red, and, (no offense) not nearly as smooth as a carpet.

I know it's not all bad. Perhaps I'm being a bit harsh. For instance, it's great that you're getting wider. It appears to be a slow and painful process, but the last thing we need is for you to start downsizing like everything (and everyone) else these days. Also, you have a sense of humor. for e.g., every time I see this message on one of your screens: JUNCTION 15, 16 MILES, 18 MIN, it makes me laugh so hard that sometimes I spill my coffee all over myself because it almost always takes me about 500 MIN to get anywhere near JUNCTION 15. Also, that bit where you have a 50 mph average speed limit on the one section of the road where people can actually move faster than 30 mph? That’s hilarious, really.

And then there are those times, every once in a while, when you- with sparkling streetlamps hanging around you like a necklace- seem to almost glow in the pale light of the setting sun. Those are the times when everything seems right with the world, the road seems to rise up to meet my little car, and, for a few glorious moments, it feels like just you and me.

I think we'll be ok, the two of us. I'm not really looking for a long-term relationship at this point, but we could definitely get along and maybe see where the road leads? I'm just worried that if we don't work out our little issues, we could end up going round in circles. Or one big circle.

See you tomorrow.

If you're reading this, that means you're alive.

Whatever your circumstances, whatever else is going through your head right now, that is the single most important fact of your present situation.

These precious moments- make them count.

Despite death being the only certainty in life, why do we still insist on living like we're going to be around for ever?

Another gem from Seth Godin:

Once the water is deep enough that you must swim to stay afloat, does it really matter how deep the pool is?

Dear NY Times

Thank you for your letter stating that you are rejecting the poem I sent for inclusion in the Arts section of your esteemed publication.

I regret to inform you, however, that after careful consideration, I have decided that I will not be taking your rejection personally and my enthusiasm for writing is in no way diminished by this latest development.

Your letter has been retained for my records and will, in compliance with my own personal policy on this sort of thing, be destroyed in 6-8 weeks, or when I next clear my desk, whichever occurs earlier.

Once again, I wish to thank you for taking the time to write to me and I wish you good luck for all future rejection of my work.

With best wishes.

My Medium-sized Resolution

So on day 2 of the New Year i learned that i am no longer a Medium shirt size. I am now, at least according to the label on the Hollister shirt, a Large Dude. (steady, ladies) Things were further complicated by the fact that i was a Small at NEXT. (I’m going to have to treat that as an aberration)

So, having initially decided that i was not making any resolutions, i have now resolved to strive to become a Medium Dude. And just to show that i mean business, i actually bought the Medium shirt which, at some point this year, will fit like a glove. Don't hold your breath, though. I'll be the one doing that. (chances are, that's the only way it will fit)

Tip for the month: If you’re trying to squeeze into a shirt, buttons are not your friends.

Tip for the year: The quest to be Medium is not to be confused with the quest to be Average. That’s a mistake I’ve often made.

Happy New Year.

It's important to look forward, but also to look back to see how far you've come. The only problem is that you can't do both at the same time.

So, as 2012 rolls around, which one is it going to be?

A quote for the end of one year, and the start of another

I find I'm so excited, I can barely sit still or hold a thought in my head. I think it's the excitement only a free man can feel, a free man at the start of a long journey whose conclusion is uncertain. I hope I can make it across the border. I hope to see my friend and shake his hand. I hope the Pacific is as blue as it has been in my dreams. I hope.

- Ellis Boyd 'Red' Redding (last lines from Shawshank Redemption)

Two songs...

...which I'd forgotten how much i loved about ten years ago. and love just as much now.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to be free



-------------
The space between
The tears we cry is the laughter that keeps us coming back for more
The space between
The wicked lies we tell and hope to keep safe from the pain
Will I hold you again?

The Three Stages of Life

1) You believe in Santa Claus.
2) You don't believe in Santa Claus.
3) You are Santa Claus.

For my sister on her 21st birthday

Seems like just yesterday
you were reaching
for my ear lobe
or the wrinkled skin
around my elbow, (whichever was closer)
while sucking
your two middle fingers
and leaving tooth marks
that eventually developed
into what, I remember thinking
at the time, would be permanent scars.

Of course, they weren't really permanent,
were they? Because they've gone,
along with every other visible sign of your childhood.

You went:

from kicking at the air
in front of strangers
with tiny chubby feet
by way of greeting,
to donning
skinny jeans that
seem perpetually in danger
of being not quite long (or skinny) enough.

from dimpled chin
to pimpled skin in a heartbeat,
And yet, now your face
shines with a resplendent grace;
your kohl-lined eyes being just
about the only features I recognise
from old photographs.

It’s one of those things I can't explain,
You seem so different and yet the same.

I guess you just Grew Up without telling me.

One of these days
you should come round.
Try and make it for a Sunday,
We can go to the fairground.

We can hold hands,
buy some popcorn to share.
I'll knock down some tin cans
and try and win you a bear.

When we get really cold,
we'll drink some mulled wine.
And when we're really old
we can think back to the time
when all we needed
was a Sunday at a fairground
to make us happy.

I don't know about you, but at some point over the course of my professional career, I would like to sit in on a meeting where one of the following phrases is not used:

pedal to the metal/ rubber meets the road
gaining traction
gathering momentum
the upshot is...(my personal favourite)
back to the drawing board
going forward
at the end of the day

This is by no means an exhaustive list, but i'm exhausted just typing these. The wait for a meeting without one of them continues. I'm not holding my breath.

Because, at the end of the day...

Wood, steel and skin
he said,
were the three things
that made
the sound seemingly
take on a life
of its own, and meaning
like so many words
unsaid;
that, and the strings
that he picked apart
like thread, each
one vibrating with a sense
of its own unique purpose.










Wood, steel and skin
and a boy, alone,
making a sound
come alive
as though it were
made of
blood, flesh and bone.

And I,
watching it take flight
until it disappears from sight.

Soumik Dutta played the Sarod at Clare Hall, Cambridge. Summer 2010.

No offense, 2011,...

...but i think I'm about ready for 2012 now.

Mirage

Somewhere between the prison
and the sea,
she waits, my love.
Faced with choices she shouldn't
need to have to make,
my love.

In the distance,
a roving beam of light
casts shadows across the bay,
turning sand dunes into
the humps of a hundred
camels.

The lights of the old factories
blink,
on and then off,
in silent morse code;
while wisps of smoke rise
triumphantly from giant
cigarettes and disappear
into the moon.

All around her, life goes on;
but tonight
she stands alone under the stars
and waits,
faced with choices she shouldn't
need to have to make,
my love.

Yesterday my life flashed before my eyes.
But i was busy so I recorded it to watch later.

Besides, there's always eye player.

Aisle 13

She was rummaging through the 'Reduced to Clear' section.
He was shaking squash bottles and placing them back on the shelves
(because he didn't like the look of sediment at the bottom.)

They ended up talking about how they put the blue in blue cheese,
and the general over-use of the word please.

At the checkout, he bagged her shopping and bragged about his taste in wine.
Her 14 items totaled £ 8.79.

"Every little helps", she said, and shook her head from side to side.
He smiled and they left together for the Park and Ride.

On the way, she opened a tub of yoghurt and licked the lid.
not quite happy ever after though; they split before the milk did.

I'm odd; you're even.
Together, we're slightly uneven.
In hindsight, it was never quite right; 
I suppose we were never going to fit.
I'm a ball, but you're no socket.
You're a small hand, and I'm a deep pocket.

Still, who knows?
You can swing, I can shuffle,
Who's to say we can't dance our way 
out of circumstance?
I'll give it a go if you give it a chance.
Go on, one more go, if you give it a chance.

Solitary Oyster...

...is off to go and be solitary. Will be back soon. Maybe.

The Question I Wish I Asked Ms Roy

Two weeks ago when Arundhati Roy floated into a room in London to enthusiastic applause, I sat and gaped like a star-struck schoolboy. There she was, the woman who wrote the book that I've loved more than almost every other book I've read. The woman who achieved Big Things with the God of Small Things. There she was, a vision in lime green, glowing with the sort of grace and charisma that turns nearly-thirty-year-old men into, well, star-struck schoolboys.

Over the next hour, words seemed to come dancing out of her mouth in sentences so delicious you could almost eat them. Sentences that weren't anywhere near as clumsy (and creepy) as that last one. But anyway... my point is, if I hadn't felt like I suddenly needed to learn the English language again (starting with the alphabet), and if I had gathered enough courage to ask for the microphone, and if I had managed to close my mouth and re-open it long enough to actually speak in a coherent manner, and if I could have decided in my head exactly how I was going to address her; if all these things actually happened (and is it any surprise that they didn't?) then this is what I would have asked:

Dear Arundhati/Ms Roy/Mrs Roy/Ma'am,

If you don't mind, I'd like to read a line from a book you might recognise (and at that point I would have held up my copy of The God of Small Things which I had taken along specially for the occasion).

'Ammu,’ Chacko said, his voice steady and deliberately casual, ‘is it at all possible for you to prevent your washed-up cynicism from completely colouring everything?'

I'm not suggesting, of course, that anything you said here today contained any cynicism, whether washed-up or of any other variety. I am worried, though, that cynicism may turn out to be the only natural response to the events taking place in that incredible country we call home. To the point where it becomes a sort of defense mechanism. I worry that our fierce love for India will somehow morph into an equally fierce disenchantment. And that we will, like Ammu, fail to see all that is still truly magical about it. I worry that we will reach a stage where we believe our Humpty Dumpty Broken Republic will never be put together again. That what we've lost will never be recovered.
That we will never again know Love, Hope, Infinite Joy.

Because is it even possible for a country to unsell its soul?

PS- I love you.

People never die, they're just playing hide-and-seek with the rest of us. And they've found the best hiding place ever. They give us little clues along the way, reminders that they haven't really gone anywhere and that we shouldn't stop looking. So they seem to jump out at us every once in a while- when that one song plays, when you hear their voice on an old voicemail message, catch a glimpse of their picture, or read a letter they wrote before the hide-and-seek began.

"I'm here", they seem to say, "you're getting warmer". And then one day we will finally find them and they'll come out of their hiding place and ask us how we never saw them even though they could see us the whole time. And we'll have to admit that some things you just can't explain. Like how you can feel someone's presence without actually seeing them. And how even after so much time has passed, they look exactly the same. And then it's our turn to hide.

One day I will find you, my friend. Until then, rest in peace.

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine as children do. It's not just in some of us; it is in everyone. And as we let our own lights shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

- Timo Cruz in Coach Carter (2005)

Songs often have the magical capacity to permanently store memories that you thought were lost forever, only to release them when you're least expecting it. They're not always good songs, and not always good memories.

But everyone once in a while, you get both. Like I did today.

Tick tock, tick tock...

This year's already been significant for several reasons, despite the fact that we're only about four months in. My dad's turned 60, my sister's just turned 21. This blog is five and in a few months i will be, erm..., 25. India's won the World Cup. And I’m packing my things into boxes, in preparation for another move.

Meanwhile, the clock keeps ticking. It's only at times like this, when you momentarily stop to catch your breath, that you hear it. The passage of time is a grim inevitability and no amount of cheerful cuckoo clocks can alter the fact. I've often wondered why people say they're killing time, when in truth it's always the opposite. Time's the one killing you. You try everything you can to outrun it, but in the end it catches up. Sometimes it's a like a pick-pocket, stealing second after valuable second while you're busy looking the other way; at other times it jumps out at you from out of nowhere, turns your hair grey and leaves you for dead.

On the plus side, it's almost summer; the season that somehow makes things seem alright, the one season that somehow manages to suggest that dreams, however implausible they might seem, may just come true.

Everything (and everyone) looks better in the sun.

Video of the week #1

From a purely comedic standpoint, it has to be said that this would have been a LOT less funny if the kid had a t-shirt on.

A Final Note on the Cricket World Cup

This is for all those who thought the Australians were too clinical, the Pakistanis were too gifted, the Sri Lankans were too familiar with the conditions and the big occasion.

For those who thought the Indians did not have the stomach for a fight, that we would take the role of host nation to its natural conclusion and let one of our guests walk away with the trophy. Because that's the Indian way.

This is for all my jaded, battle-weary friends who thought bleeding blue and feeling blue amounted to the same thing.

This is for the cynics, the non-believers, the ones who assumed disappointment lurked just around the corner but now find it was actually glory all along. For those who are still somehow surprised that a group of talented, motivated, well-prepared individuals actually achieved something on a global stage. Yes, they won. And yes, it means you can, and should, win too. Deal with it.

This is for all those who would struggle to name half the Indian squad but now have Sachin's smiling face on all their Facebook profiles. This victory is yours too, of course it is, but remember to wave the flag even when the chips are down. Especially when the chips are down.

This is for Suresh Raina, who, when asked whether Ashwin's absence would hurt India's chances against Pakistan, answered in just three words - "I am there". For Dhoni, who said "Banish Pain" in a slick Nike ad campaign but then went out and banished it for real. For Yuvraj Singh, who, for once, echoed the thoughts of Indians everywhere when he said "Tonight is going to be a good night", after the win. For Sachin; special, special Sachin, whose smile alone was enough to light up the Mumbai sky. Who still, after 22 years, plays every game like it's his first. For Virat, Munaf, Zak, Bhajj, Viru, Ashwin, Nehra, Gautam, Yusuf, Chawla, even Sree. You did it.

But most of all, this is for India; that magical, maddening, jigsaw-puzzle of a country, that today celebrates as one.

Jai Hind.

My problem with Facebook...

...is two-fold.

Firstly, everyone is on there. Which probably doesn't sound like a problem at all. Surely it’s great to have everyone I've made even passing acquaintances with in the past two or so years, all one place, nicely stacked up alphabetically, with pretty pictures to remind me of what they look like? Well, yes. But then again, no. Because all that's happening now is that everyone goes into a pile- and the more people get added to the top, the more the rest at the bottom get lost under the near-constant stream of status updates, photo-uploads and daily horoscopes. On more than one occasion, I've logged in specifically to send a message to someone in particular, and then logged out 30 minutes later without having gone anywhere near either his wall or ceiling. This probably says more about my own attention spans than Facebook itself, but I have a niggling feeling that there is more information on a daily Newsfeed than an average human of normal intelligence can hope to fully process in one lifetime.

“But that's what filters are for”, I can hear you yelling, while angrily waving your optical mouse. To which all I can say is- “Calm down, let go of the mouse, and no-one is going to get hurt.” With the rodent- related crisis successfully averted, I will add that surely there comes a point in any social medium when even all the filters you can think of will not make one iota of difference. Allow me to present Exhibit 1: Log into You Tube. Type in ‘laughing baby’ in the search field. Change the Upload Date filter to - This Month. See you in ten years.

My second problem is that it's making me lazy. When you're pretty lazy to begin with, this is a big problem. So where earlier I would take an active interest in my friend's lives, now I just passively keep up with them by flicking through pictures of their new car or kitten. This is fine by itself, but- and I am sure there is an economic theory about this- the more information I am bombarded with, the more likely it is I will miss something. Again, I have the niggling feeling there are more important things going on with my friends than their preferred shade of nail polish. Maybe there isn't, and maybe it's just me, but the niggling feeling persists.

This is made even worse by one simple fact- nothing of real value ever falls into your lap. Or an inbox. The most treasured friendships are always (or at least very often) the ones you have to work at maintaining, ones you consciously make time for. The best stories or articles are usually the ones I seek out and discover myself, instead of linking to them from a forward or RSS feed. The most interesting events take place in the real world, in real life, not in Farmville. Surely we're missing out?

“But..!”, I can see you thinking again, “Surely it's way more efficient to do it this way, because if I was to send a personal message to one friend per day, it would take me six months to get through my list. And that's without even replying to the replies.” To which I would be tempted to say- “Ha! You only have 150 friends?! What are you, a loner?”- but I wouldn't say it, because I don't have that many more than you, and I would like to add you to my list. And then we can keep in regular touch, mainly by exchanging pokes.

And so for one closing thought: If I think it's bad for these two main reasons and possibly loads more, what is Facebook good for? Well, for one thing, I could now take this well-constructed piece of socio-cultural analysis and stick it on my profile, where it will instantly be in the virtual faces of about 500 people. Which is approximately 500 more than the number of people who will see it here. Question is, do I really want to add one more item to that wonderful Newsfeed and deprive all those people the immense pleasure they will undoubtedly feel if and when they find this on their own?

Decisions, decisions.

The Sound of Silence

"a roaring river of rubble; an entire town lies in ruins..."
"a cascade of cars, bobbing like rubber ducks in an endless bathtub..."

These were just a couple of the statements used by solemn-voiced television reporters last Friday as the world's eyes turned to Japan. I am all for a turn of phrase, but when juxtaposed against images of a terrible tragedy, the words just seemed absurd and contrived. It was clear what was happening, we get it, was there really a need to put on this kind of literary-style commentary as well, just in case we missed something?

As my uncle and I flicked through the channels, the lines between reality and fantasy appeared to blur. The visuals had taken on the look of a mid-budget Hollywood production. Ground shots, aerial shots, shots from the inside of a building, from under a desk. And the commentary seemed to get more and more ridiculous. "You've seen this view" they seemed to say, "but have you seen this one? How about this one?", and on it went.

Finally, we stopped at one particular channel. And we looked at each other in amazement. There was no commentary. In fact, there was no sound at all. All they had was footage, with a ticker at the bottom of the screen summarising the unfolding events. What else was there to say?

I remember a friend once telling me about an orthodox Jewish tradition where the only response to tragedy or intense grief is - silence. Similarly, the Bible tells the story of Job's friends coming to visit him in the midst of his suffering. When they realised the full extent of their friend's plight, they were so saddened that they sat with him for three days- and said absolutely nothing. They knew that there are some voids that words- however well-intentioned- can never hope to fill.

In the 24/7 world of 'info-tainment', however, there is simply no time for silence. One person's world unexpectedly shattering is another's breaking news.

Last week I learnt...

That saying hello to a bird (a real bird, with feathers and wings and things) and having it say hello back is ridiculously satisfying. Especially when you didn't know it was the sort of bird that did that.

Me to friend: I've always had a way with birds. They get me.
Friend to me: That's cos you're on the same wavelength, birdbrain.

Yup, walked into that one.

And the Aaascar goes to...

Meanwhile, away from the cricket field, it was a close contest between Aishwarya Rai and Mallika Sherawat this week for the Outstanding American Accent Award.

In the end, though, it was Mallika all the way.
It's Baallywood, baby...!

http://movies.ndtv.com/playvideo.aspx?id=192183&type=oscars

(Please click the link; I insist.)

The strange case of Shanthakumaran Sreesanth

As much as I don't want to seem like I’m defending him, it appears these days the guy just can't catch a break. You know things are messed up when your own teammates - including your captain - start slagging you off to the press. His reputation, while entirely of his own making, now well and truly precedes him.

While there is no doubt that he needs to tone the aggro down *several* notches, by trying to beat him into submission the team management risk throwing him off his entire game. Trouble is, that way, nobody wins. He will go the same way as Irfan Pathan (albeit for slightly different reasons) and Team India will end up losing their best swing bowling hope since, well, Irfan Pathan.

And let's be honest, how many fast bowlers have there been that aren't at least slightly nuts? Akhtar? Check. McGrath? (more cold-blooded assassin than all-out nutcase, but still- check.) Donald? Check. Almost every insanely quick West Indian? Check.

When he's not making psychiatrists reach for their notebooks, Sreesanth is (according to Wikipedia) a student of psychology himself. Maybe that will help sort himself out.

Didn't work for me, but you never know.

This time

This time, we hope the exploits of 1983 will finally be equaled.
This time, we hope the shame of 1996 may be cast aside.
This time, we hope the disappointment of 2003 will be forgotten.
This time, we hope the ghosts of 2007 will be exorcised.

This time, we hope the image of Sachin Tendulkar holding the World cup aloft under a floodlit Mumbai sky will be the defining image of our times; and that our kids will grow up with it rubber-stamped on their minds, like Kapil's image on ours.

This time. We hope. Again.

The Good Stuff

My favourite family trip is one we didn't actually go on.
And I mean that literally, not as a mildly philosophical reflection. The year was 2004. We arrived at the train station to travel to a wedding the next day, with a few days of holiday added on. For a change, we were an hour early. For those who know us well, that would have come as a particularly surprising bit of detail. Yes, you read that right: we were an hour early. So we found a bench, watched mice run along the tracks, and chatted till our train arrived. It was 10 pm.

When the train pulled in, it was mostly dark, and the only people stirring were the ones about to get off. Everyone else was comfortably asleep, even the passengers in our berths. We checked the numbers again and, yes, they were definitely our berths (who were these people? not just sitting in our seats, sleeping in them!) So as my dad and I proceeded to gently prod them to life while also moaning about the state of the Indian Railways (which, we both agreed, suffered from the same problem as the rest of the country- i.e. a worrying lack of berth control), somebody checked the passenger list stuck beside the door. Our names weren't on there. Surely there was some mistake? Maybe this was the wrong carriage? Checked again, not on there. And so off we got, before waking up any more passengers - sleeping peacefully in their rightful seats- for no reason whatsoever.

And there we stood, huddled around a sheet of dot matrix printed paper stuck to a train that was about to pull away into the night, wondering how not even one of our five names were on there. Surely this new computerised system wasn’t that bad? We looked at the tickets again. And this time checked the date. And then the date on the screen above. Our tickets were for the previous day. We hadn't been one hour early. We were 23 hours late.

Still, looking back at it now, there was something about those sixty minutes spent at the train station and the approximately sixty seconds spent on the train. Sure, we were going to miss the wedding. And of course, we couldn't really tell people exactly why we were going to miss it (at least, not for another seven years, after which I was going to put it up on this blog, and even then it's not like anyone’s going to actually read it on here).

But the fact remained that we had just found ourselves in a ridiculous situation. Together. And despite the fact that family life is, for the most part, a series of ridiculous situations, this was a shared experience that we were unlikely to forget. Which is just as well, because the five of us have never been together on a railway platform since.

Point is, sometimes the stuff you think is getting in the way of good stuff is the good stuff. I suspect that even my mum, who had inadvertently booked our tickets for the previous day, will smile every time she thinks of this. And so will the rest of us.

Wedding or no wedding, that's the kind of thing you just can't put a price on.

Your moment is waiting, honest

This is the latest film by Kerala Tourism to promote God's Own Country which i came across at some point last year and I stumbled upon again a few days ago. I'm still not sure what i think about it though. It's clearly an ambitious attempt to depart from the cliched coconuts-ayurveda-backwaters formula, but I suspect God himself might struggle to recognise his country as depicted in this super-slick art-house production.

And if He is (for argument's sake) scratching his head over this one, what will the average western traveller, at whom this campaign is presumably aimed, make of some of the images? Or is there an exclusive group of theatre-going, gin and tonic-drinking travellers out there who will 'get' this kind of thing? I don't know. Have a look for yourself.

As for me, I can't get past the whiff of dull sophistication. Maybe i just miss the coconuts.

Time to start writing... (again)

This week's motivation to get off of my hindside and do something came from a blog post from Seth Godin. If you haven't heard of him, you should check him out at http://sethgodin.typepad.com/

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In and out

That's one of the most important decisions you'll make today.

How much time and effort should be spent on intake, on inbound messages, on absorbing data... and how much time and effort should be invested in output, in creating something new.

There used to be a significant limit on available intake. Once you read all the books in the college library on your topic, it was time to start writing.

Now that the availability of opinions, expertise and email is infinite, I think the last part of that sentence is the most important:

Time to start writing.

Or whatever it is you're not doing, merely planning on doing.
--------------------------------

There's a lot of things I'm merely planning on doing, but i think at this point writing is pretty high up on the list. So, thanks, Mr. Godin.

I'd better get on with it now.

Dear Sun

This morning I watched your desperate fight to emerge from between the clouds. It appears your months of being stifled and smothered into submission are almost at an end.

I applaud your efforts to rise up against those caped and hooded villains of winter. We missed you and hope that you continue to wage the battle that we all, in some way or another, wage every day.

Take comfort from the fact that history and poetry, to name but two things, are on your side. Just like evil is eventually vanquished by good, darkness is always overcome by light. Your victory is in sight.

So rise and shine already.