Meta Moment

This evening, as I undertook the somewhat womanly chore of fumigating the house,
I moved from room to room
with an outstretched cup of lit incense,
smoking out the demons from the corners where they are wont to sit when no one is looking

I caught myself in the slanting golden light from another room:
The shadow on the wall stood out starkly.
Hair framed around my face,
my silhouette both particular and generic
But the intention conveyed itself.
Tendrils of dark smoke rose steadily from the shadowy hand

I looked at this woman.
Encapsulated in a slice of cinema. A sharp moment of awareness.
A moment infused by the now.

Tutored by my influences to find that romantic, I did.
But every moment, they say, is that way.
Every moment, if you can look at her.
From a little distance away.

A little distance.                            Away.

Booster dose

You tried to prop me up
Run on my own steam, you said.
Devised a propeller for my use, a conduit to rarefied fuel
and it does well
for the most part

I thought we were okay
Why then, did it feel like I was living on the breath you had given me last we met
That I was running out
subsisting on the last few painful drags

You came yesterday, I looked upon you, and you looked (sidelong, fleetingly) at me
and you did that thing
the being inflates with the pleasure of fresh life
like parched earth squirming to life at first rain
like leaves nodding in the south-western breeze

We’re ok now

Heap of sand

Trickling away a grain at a time, the sands of life.
An unconscious moment here, a compulsive thought there
Too much attention to the incessant circuits of the mind
Too much staying
with the mundane, the cyclical
with the body's pains, its myriad niggles
with the same thought that has come around again because I ogled at it when it went by last

Adding up to a heap of sand in the hour glass.

Megha chhaaye

Cusp of a fresh new season and it is time for that almost obligatory change-of-season post.
So we take down this reference to vague, internal worries and wonder all over again at the clouds of life that drift, drift, drift as we stay constant.

The new haiku on the header goes:
cloud animals—
the summer slowly
drifts away

How the Oregon-based poet Clayton Beach knows the ways of our Indian monsoons, I don't know. But he does seem to sense the mood of the monsoon's approach this year. Not thunderous, not dramatic but gentle, almost. Already, the advance guard of clouds is nudging the summer away.

A few more days for Hyderabad, it is almost time.

Status: Arrived

Listen:

You don’t have to put any kind of strenuous practices
upon yourself in order to realise the Self.
The Self is the most natural.
It is the mind itself that is both entertained by
and entangled in so-called spiritual practices for self-realisation.
Though some practices are good and necessary,
many are aimed only at the ego.
Left unnoticed, they will keep you in a limited state of mind,
perhaps a spiritual mind even,
whereby you believe you are merely a 'person'
on the road to becoming the Self.
Your true Self however, does not need to practice anything,
for it is unchangingly perfect and timelessly present.

~ Mooji

Source Code

Because

Because I downloaded the blogger app that lets me blog on the go.

Of course, the instinct has tapered off these days... I remember a time when I reached for the laptop almost every day.
Now, there is much to say, some things too important, the rest not at all. So what to say, then?

Nevertheless, a post.