No , no headings this time, actually couldn’t get the appropriate one. Am dried out with names of movies, which I usually use as my headlines!!! May be Tammana , would be the right one. May be not. So , here am I , stuck in this dead air , trying to pose all happy with my stupid and dead boring days , as I try to act intellectual and all set to become a freelancer.
Oops, all dreams and no reality. So, a self declared addict to the net is all I do for my non existent living. It is not that I am not busy , I end up doing a lot of things , though which I am not sure is helping me to grow. The mails and friends, do all they can to keep me going , hushing me every time , I have a chance to fall into the pit of despair and frustration. Yeah , so am planning a lot these days , not that I did not for the last 25 years. A chance to dream and think big... to do more than I can think. Woof!!!
I try not to over eat , and that’s exactly the problem when u stay at home and is served platter of food , all ready to gobble down , not trying to think of the increasing waistline. But, hey , that is not what I will do . My last few jeans , all bought with my money…….(actually you know the worth of your money , when you stop earning I guess), have to be mine , and not get donated to someone who will enjoy the fruits of my hard labour .
That’s , what am trying to do ….to chase my dreams , to do all I want to. To escape my prospects of marriage…currently. Whom do you get married to? A guy all in smiles for you, nattily dressed and trying to find out, how good a cook are u? That’s all he wants to know…..doesn’t matter what u expect out of him. If he likes your looks, your family background, and your expertise on the range of dishes you can get him in minutes, you are declared all perfect to be the ideal wife. He will chase you, call you up at the strangest of hours to sugar talk, not knowing what to do to impress, to get the cook he wants. Till one fine day , you gather the guts to be rude and tell him to get lost . Leave me alone.
That’s what I am right now. Alone with my problems getting stacked more and more everyday. And I am walking…..walking …...walking. Now all I know is that I have to get it done, times running out , and my fight continues.
To win or to loose, time is the best judge. Let it take its time and decide.
Chase thy dream…………..
Thursday, May 27, 2004
A VISIT TO GRANDPA
The little girl popped her head out of the window. It was years, that she had felt the cool breeze brush against her cheek. It was exciting! The poppy flowers waved back to her, the garden bloomed with her sight. She couldn't be happier. Life was a fragrance - she enjoyed every bit of her newly found freedom. Ah! How she wished she could fly as high as the bird, a never-ending flight that took her to the land of fairies. The very thought excited her- she visualized the chocolate house, which had often come in her dreams. It would be real fun!
She started with that sudden cry- mamma was almost leaning on her and tears rolled down her pale cheeks. Her dream interrupted she was puzzled for a second. Soon she was customized to the room that she now had been staying for a year or so. Nancy-her nurse had told her one night that she would be free again, ready to play and run through those stretches of green meadow. She had not stepped on those soft grasses for months. She could not wait any longer! Mamma had explained to her that she would soon be having a new grandpa and she should always listen to him. She was glad, yet hesitant to live alone with her new grandpa. Mamma promised that she and daddy would soon be joining her and they would all stay together happily.
It was going to be a real holiday, yet mamma and daddy looked sad. She never seemed to understand them. Maybe the very thought of parting with her for a few days was making them sad. Of course she never had stayed away from her parent's -but that she was a big girl now, she could manage. She had never been so happy-there was a long holiday before her. A visit to grandpa! And she had already started packing her bags…
She started with that sudden cry- mamma was almost leaning on her and tears rolled down her pale cheeks. Her dream interrupted she was puzzled for a second. Soon she was customized to the room that she now had been staying for a year or so. Nancy-her nurse had told her one night that she would be free again, ready to play and run through those stretches of green meadow. She had not stepped on those soft grasses for months. She could not wait any longer! Mamma had explained to her that she would soon be having a new grandpa and she should always listen to him. She was glad, yet hesitant to live alone with her new grandpa. Mamma promised that she and daddy would soon be joining her and they would all stay together happily.
It was going to be a real holiday, yet mamma and daddy looked sad. She never seemed to understand them. Maybe the very thought of parting with her for a few days was making them sad. Of course she never had stayed away from her parent's -but that she was a big girl now, she could manage. She had never been so happy-there was a long holiday before her. A visit to grandpa! And she had already started packing her bags…
esthercandream
I actually can. Perhaps one of the reasons, why I am never bored in the most boring of places. Anything, a glimpse or a fact can just give rise to the dreamy dream. I stole the name- Esther Greenwood, to make it all mine. It’s a part of me, none of another, whom I have met only in pages that are half torn and forlorn. Yet, it is so much mine. A treasure I would not part at any cost.
It’s a long back story , how I got caught up with this character and the wonderful book of Sylvia Plath and always felt , I resembled her somewhere deep within. Not that we had very much in common in reality but the thoughts seem similar when you actually dug it out. So, I stole her, and wear her; as casually and coolly as my shorts and t shirts when in my most informal of self.
When everything seems to break loose and go haywire, all I pick up is the images or dreams that I hold close to. I dream. Perfectly and wonderfully, things that might never happen in the distant future. Yet, they seem to be with me, like a balloon trailing behind with invisible threads of hope!
I create images all over, like articles strewn everywhere about the sudden growth of spas in down south and visualizing and attesting then with proof enough to lure you there. Or at least make you dream.
The tulips or the beach, my desktop covers it all. It is an extension of my search, to create dreams that trace out the existential you. Dreams that can bring in the craving within you, to reach out for the deepest. There lies your soul, the one to be touched.
It breathes back life when rest ceases to exist, to make you dream to satiate the Dream. Dreams are all one has. Whether it is me or my dreamy counterpart- I can cease to be the hassled me: and be whatever I can dream of. Esther, that is she and also me, an identity theft. Not because I don’t have one but because she seems larger than life and does tango as brilliantly as she writes, in my dreams. She’s free, independent and the world at her feet. Didn’t someone say; success is all about living life the way you dream?
It’s a long back story , how I got caught up with this character and the wonderful book of Sylvia Plath and always felt , I resembled her somewhere deep within. Not that we had very much in common in reality but the thoughts seem similar when you actually dug it out. So, I stole her, and wear her; as casually and coolly as my shorts and t shirts when in my most informal of self.
When everything seems to break loose and go haywire, all I pick up is the images or dreams that I hold close to. I dream. Perfectly and wonderfully, things that might never happen in the distant future. Yet, they seem to be with me, like a balloon trailing behind with invisible threads of hope!
I create images all over, like articles strewn everywhere about the sudden growth of spas in down south and visualizing and attesting then with proof enough to lure you there. Or at least make you dream.
The tulips or the beach, my desktop covers it all. It is an extension of my search, to create dreams that trace out the existential you. Dreams that can bring in the craving within you, to reach out for the deepest. There lies your soul, the one to be touched.
It breathes back life when rest ceases to exist, to make you dream to satiate the Dream. Dreams are all one has. Whether it is me or my dreamy counterpart- I can cease to be the hassled me: and be whatever I can dream of. Esther, that is she and also me, an identity theft. Not because I don’t have one but because she seems larger than life and does tango as brilliantly as she writes, in my dreams. She’s free, independent and the world at her feet. Didn’t someone say; success is all about living life the way you dream?
ARE DIARIES THE ‘SECRET ANNEX’, WAITING TO BE REVEALED?
“This diary writing does not really count as writing”
Virginia Woolf.
The issue here is not about how diary writing is, but the essence of diary writing as a whole. A feature predominantly seen among women. It is strange that how women from ancient days have maintained their own diaries, while the arena of professional writing was handled by men. Why did not women step into the public world of writing? Why only diaries?
It is generally seen that, these diaries are records of thoughts unspoken, deeds which are not narrated. They are the space which is otherwise not provided. The diary comes as a storehouse of stories untold and hidden from the world. The diaries are a revelation of their emotional, psychological and social aspect. The diary lends them the space and the individual identity, they have been craving for.
The art of diary writing is an age long practice of unburdening the deepest thoughts. From the diary of Murasaki Shikibu of the Heian period, where she recounts her proficiency in Chinese classics to her fathers regrets in she being born a woman….that all her intellectual fervour has gone a waste. Even, Carolyn Heilbrun, an American literary critic considers,” In the old myths, weaving was women’s speech”. Old stories seem to be a confirmation to the fact that women wove to reveal, to counter their enforced silence, their own mutilation. Exactly, why women took to diary writing. Whether it is the weaving of Penelope, waiting for Odysseus (Homer’s Oddyssey) or the weaving mostly found in black literature. Alice walker’s The Color Purple (1982), is also the unbosoming of a fourteen year old Celie. The novel, written in the form of a diary is also the space Celie gets to reveal her torturous life. It is her space to revolt.
A study by James Pennebaker, Professor of psychology at the University of Texas, showed how this simple art of diary writing can actually lead to the improvement in physical health. It’s the platform, where one can be vocal about their feelings and thoughts.
It is the diary of Anne Frank, we are all familiar with, a true example of how her diary lived and grew with her and became her closest pal- Kitty. It is her personal account of her life, emotions and times of crisis and fear in the ‘secret annex” of an old office building. For Anne, a thirteen year old, her diary was her solace, comfort and inspiration-
“I want to write, but more than that, I want to bring out
all kinds of things that lie buried deep in my heart.”
Yet, her touching tale touches our inner cords. It is more than diary writing! It is the narration of human growth.
The content of women’s diary is focused and particular; the issues which are not otherwise shared or talked about. Their own dreams and frustrations. The meticulous details of their life and how, they dream for their own space at the end of the day. What, actually happens, when you don’t have a ‘room of your own’?
These diaries are basically, therefore the search into oneself, and the hope to liberate their existence through their private writings. The diary is the account of their life’s journey, their small accomplishments and the desire to be heard and recognized.
It is an escape from the fear of being labeled as the ‘madwoman’. To be heard is nothing wrong, to harbour and nurture dreams at par with men is normal. It is the age to voice opinions, not only within the hidden covers of the diary but publicly and openly. Is it on the way to create series of Bridget Jones? To trash what ‘men want’ and stack what ‘we want?’
Virginia Woolf.
The issue here is not about how diary writing is, but the essence of diary writing as a whole. A feature predominantly seen among women. It is strange that how women from ancient days have maintained their own diaries, while the arena of professional writing was handled by men. Why did not women step into the public world of writing? Why only diaries?
It is generally seen that, these diaries are records of thoughts unspoken, deeds which are not narrated. They are the space which is otherwise not provided. The diary comes as a storehouse of stories untold and hidden from the world. The diaries are a revelation of their emotional, psychological and social aspect. The diary lends them the space and the individual identity, they have been craving for.
The art of diary writing is an age long practice of unburdening the deepest thoughts. From the diary of Murasaki Shikibu of the Heian period, where she recounts her proficiency in Chinese classics to her fathers regrets in she being born a woman….that all her intellectual fervour has gone a waste. Even, Carolyn Heilbrun, an American literary critic considers,” In the old myths, weaving was women’s speech”. Old stories seem to be a confirmation to the fact that women wove to reveal, to counter their enforced silence, their own mutilation. Exactly, why women took to diary writing. Whether it is the weaving of Penelope, waiting for Odysseus (Homer’s Oddyssey) or the weaving mostly found in black literature. Alice walker’s The Color Purple (1982), is also the unbosoming of a fourteen year old Celie. The novel, written in the form of a diary is also the space Celie gets to reveal her torturous life. It is her space to revolt.
A study by James Pennebaker, Professor of psychology at the University of Texas, showed how this simple art of diary writing can actually lead to the improvement in physical health. It’s the platform, where one can be vocal about their feelings and thoughts.
It is the diary of Anne Frank, we are all familiar with, a true example of how her diary lived and grew with her and became her closest pal- Kitty. It is her personal account of her life, emotions and times of crisis and fear in the ‘secret annex” of an old office building. For Anne, a thirteen year old, her diary was her solace, comfort and inspiration-
“I want to write, but more than that, I want to bring out
all kinds of things that lie buried deep in my heart.”
Yet, her touching tale touches our inner cords. It is more than diary writing! It is the narration of human growth.
The content of women’s diary is focused and particular; the issues which are not otherwise shared or talked about. Their own dreams and frustrations. The meticulous details of their life and how, they dream for their own space at the end of the day. What, actually happens, when you don’t have a ‘room of your own’?
These diaries are basically, therefore the search into oneself, and the hope to liberate their existence through their private writings. The diary is the account of their life’s journey, their small accomplishments and the desire to be heard and recognized.
It is an escape from the fear of being labeled as the ‘madwoman’. To be heard is nothing wrong, to harbour and nurture dreams at par with men is normal. It is the age to voice opinions, not only within the hidden covers of the diary but publicly and openly. Is it on the way to create series of Bridget Jones? To trash what ‘men want’ and stack what ‘we want?’
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