schneider

In limbo

2011-01-12T10:01:00.000-08:00

Three years, since I wrote a word here, or even glanced this way. But the stories here don't seem to have faded at, all. There's such a strong permanence. A part of me wishes to rid myself of any association with these thoughts from the past, but then, they are a part of me that won't fade. They'll linger on as long as there is enough space in a parallel existence. A digital world trapped in a physical one. I'm returning to existence now, waiting on another story to load, slowly.

the last time i ever..

2007-03-01T20:18:00.000-08:00

in bed,
was the only time you ever
looked into my eyes,
in the dark.

.
.
.
12.10 am
trying to sleep
esbjorn svenssons trio - o.d.r.i.p - if we meet again - i'll tell you how i feel - i'll tell you how its real.
tingle toes
open window
mildly blue veil
piano fingers
a last tune before sleep comes
tell it all in this moment,
if i never get the chance.

mergers and acquisitions

2006-09-22T05:23:00.000-07:00

what are we? match makers or breakers? (at the risk of sounding like carrie bradshaw)
we meet on the terrace high above the rest of the city after we have finished our individual endeavors, conquests, acquisitions of the day. High, up against the millions of ‘stories’ below. We come to talk of our own stories. Together we weave relationships, sorrows, needs, mere-mortals, future plans, aspirations and many things that one brings to such heights. We come here to throw it all out at the rest of the world, to shout from the rooftops. Puff, swig, lump in my throat. Gulp.

We want to be loved. We know what we want. We pursue our desires and we eventually succumb to these, no matter what. We meet on the terrace to listen to each other. We are friends and we carry our transparent souls hidden inside transparent hearts held within transparent bodies, so that when our hearts are clouded with pain, you will see it and make it go away.
And we all long for the unconditional eternal glory of love.

We are suddenly surrounded by theories on the psychosomatic behavior of middle-aged mortals. Sip, yack, nod. We brush it away. You struggle to find what you want. We will be your match makers and your match breakers beside you, against match-seekers and heart-breakers.
Parallel lives.
Your ache today, my ache tomorrow.
Double fold.
That’s why you know.

Whenstheday repeat after me whatstheday?

2006-09-20T05:49:00.001-07:00

Today is a day of words repeated, said over and over again, work incomplete, giggles, nicola conte, crude jokes, missed jokes because the headphones were on, tiger ramesh, e-signatures, shades in the room, peach tea, cream cracker, lemon rice, sideways glances, presentations, leaning on the balcony rail, wrong cds, quiet in the corners, lack of quirky links from c2k, lunch breaks, tea breaks, no office boy, horoscopes, blogs revisited, in-ertia, mild electric shocks, beeping ups, evening to come, pebbles, enjoying nicola conte, tapping feet, eccentric events to come, one-two-three-four, basketball in the studio, single dribble, inside room-outside room, web web web, i-pod earphones, funny grin, confused look, foggy steamy sunglasses, gym to go, rewind, frantic phone calls, phone calls for other people, useless hutch offers, multiple windows, restart, stubborn text, admirable photographs, too much..punctuation.
A silent smile.

Hibernate.

The evening continues elsewhere.

The Conspiracy

2006-09-17T21:46:00.000-07:00

I will wait for you no more. I want to tell you all but can you hear me? You look away. If I could hear your mind right now, I would hear groans. How can it be so different? When we are together and when we are not.
You will hear me not.
It slips through the slimness of the crevices of my mind. The thought persists though. It comes up ever so often when I am not with you. I plan for the moment when you will hear me. The conspiracy of the unhappy mind.

I wonder how to end this remorse, without fooling myself that it is over not. For there has to be a final moment, full of potency, that fills up every little moment that lies inside you. The moment of the ending. I wait for this moment. It fades a little every time I’m with you but shines up like embers when I am not.

I wait. I long. The moment shines up.
Just then the phone rings. Something hidden somewhere is playing a horrible game. I like it not. I want not to be a part of it. I want to change the ending still.
Still it. Placid times to come in my head.

multiply

2006-09-17T21:45:00.000-07:00

Osama was just 11,maybe 12. She got her first period while she was hanging in a well crying out for her mother. A punishment for not being boy-enough, She was unable to climb down a tree that she had rushed up in order to prove that she is really a boy. A girl so little, made to fear so early. Women is Afghanistan in the time of the Taliban. Fear, the type that you and I will probably never face. As we mature, so do our fears. They seem to multiply as well. Will it continue to be like this week after week after month after life?
Waiting for time to pass. Trying to fill up emptiness. Going through the phone book to see who might shine up to fill up this Sunday gap. Listening to converting vegetarians. Loud. Dancing alone. Prancing alone. Waiting waiting. Stop thinking. Flipping through magazines in Greek (I shit you not). Haiku (right now I have no patience for the type)
We create networks, social networks to fill up these gaps? Why do we let ourselves get so lonely? Can one be lonely, bored and morose only when they are full up with themselves, so full that they become blind to progress, things larger than themselves that demand their attention?

At times like this I wish that my brain could function the way it did when I was 5.
Such littleness it can be capable of.
The music tears through my head. Deafen me so I can’t think anymore. Scratch chin, look up at screen. I’m writing instead of sipping on a long island iced tea. The beer bottle lies empty in the trash. The beer that I finished alone. The phone beeps with another plan for another week. They multiply and I can’t keep track, but what about now? It beeps slightly again as it locks itself.

I live alone.

Race to the finish line

2006-09-12T00:20:00.000-07:00

Running, looking around and I’m alone. Its not really a race if I’m the only one innit?
The fun of it is in the beginning, the middle, close to the end. All along you’re playing levels with the players. A step forward, two steps behind. Overtaken. The rush of it keeps you going. Sure the finish line is always in view from the beginning. But it’s the race that has to be completed. the race is the playground.

And now I’m alone innit?

No winner.

The seconds tick away. Endlessly. Never stopping to give this speeding mind a moment to catch up. Adjust the volume, the tempo. Just can’t get it right.
Every thing has its moment and when this passes, often there is silence. Sitting out, watching the rain, up on the concrete watching the city, the lights in the houses, the old man watches. Look away, the clouds threaten, the wind shivers.
Pace up, pace down, the green doesn’t squint.
There are new pictures on the wall.
Old pictures see the light again.
On a new wall.
New pictures
The woman in red floats about mysteriously, a special gift. A witness to the torment.
I look at the silver, it throws me back with such pity. Distorted eyes, goldfish, its spews out more water. Sighhhhh.. Angry words, sound alien to my ears, come out of my mouth? I miss the clothesline again. The concrete beneath my feet continues forever, turn around, the chairs, one a permanent picture of deterioration, the other, attempts to heal itself, holds onto the weave, black illusion forms.

- But why can’t you talk about it?
- Uhhh
- Can’t let it be.
- All I want… want want want want (echoes in my ear)
- Fine.. we agree?

I look back. Did I miss the ribbon or was it the clothesline again? No one’s cheering. But I’m across the finish line.

passion in munich

2006-08-25T02:27:00.000-07:00

On August 5th my fav friends Kanyika and Nikhil got married in one of the most entertaining and alternative weddings i've attended. I realised when i saw the story of nik-nak and kan-kin (was it not?), what a fairytale time they've had, leading upto the big moment. they're moving away to far away lands to start on a four month (well nearly!)long honeymoon. the ultimate gift for K would have been a breakthrough technique of not only packaging but also transporting fresh gobi manchurian to munich just about..every weekend?! K's wedding gift to all of us was to be a photo-copy of her deliciously detailed and brilliantly compiled collection of receipes. The request still stands :) In the meantime, as i was flipping through an old book, i came across this yummy sounding receipe:

This receipe (which you should try and let me know if its any good)is dedicated to K and N, for a happy life full of passion!

(really i know you're thinking, 'who puts up receipes on their blog unless they've tried them out, right?'. but if K can make ANYTHING taste scrumptious, so can you!)

Passionfruit Cheesecake:

Ingredients: (Serves 6)
. 350 gm soft cheese
. 50 gm castor sugar
. 300 ml fresh cream
. 1 tsp vanilla essence
. 100 gm digestive biscuits
. 60 gm melted butter
. 250 gm rasberries
. 1 tsp icing sugar
. 1 tsp lime juice
. 100 ml passion fruit puree

Method:
To make the blance, cream the cheese and sugar until fluffy. Whip the fresh cream in a bowl until it is slightly firm. Fold this into the cheese mixture and add vanilla essence. For the base, place the biscuits in a food processor and blend until fine. Melt the butter in a small bowl and add to the biscuit mixture. Then spread over the dish / mould. Set in the fridge for five minutes. Take it out and spoon the cheese mixture into each mould or dish. Leave it to set for two hours. The sauce is made by blending the rasberry in a food processor. Pass through a sieve; add lemon juice and icing sugar and pour over the blance before serving.

(passion fruit puree?) guess it goes in somewhere!

try it this sunday!

damn you RAM

2006-08-23T23:10:00.000-07:00

The illustrator file is still saving.
I went for a walk into town, watched the sunset and its still saving its precious little image in my home. Why does it take 1's & 0's so long to do their jiggy little dance in my home? Man group dire straits is belting it out fast enough to put your lamborghini to shame, but we too shall be patient like the lizard that sits by the stream of light, close to the ceiling waiting for a fat juicy fly (aka dinner) to fly past and just when i begin to occupy more space in space and my hopes of the file having finished its business soar, my peepers, pretty black (no make-up) peepers, steal a glance at the screen and the darned indigo blob is as incompletely rectangular as ever. Every muscle in my right arm begins to respond to the texture that is forming under its shadow. Even here there are layers, though not correct punctuation, we shall leave that to the imagination of the reader....
*sighhhhh

The Spirit in Silence

2006-07-18T23:58:00.000-07:00

yesterday as the four of us sat upright, staring at our crowded screens, silent momentarily, just seconds away from returning to our furious lives, i sat fiddling with my nails. not knowing where to look. at the screen in front of me, a stolen glance at A and N to see how they were dealing with the silence, into my head maybe.

this silence after we received this mail from a friend:

" At 6.24 pm today there will be a 2-minute silence observed across the country as a mark of respect to the bomb blast victims. NDTV has announced some special locations in each city where there will be gatherings. But you could do this wherever you are.

If ever there was need for `spirit', it is now. People rushing back to work 12 hours after the bombing under the guise of "we always bounce back" is mistakenly understood as `spirit'. We do it because we've become immune - and thankful that "it did not happen to me". Raising our collective voice against injustice, against politicians, against unfair practices, and forcing positive change is the only time we can ever talk about our `spirit'.
Hopefully, the 2-minute silence will be a start. "

we all have our own ways of dealing with these things. its not alright that 360 people are dead from a natural wave that swallowed them. it doesn't compare. it never can. so lets not. i've been through a calamity and i KNOW that it affects you only when you're IN it. so if you really want to make a difference even feel it, you'll have to become it.
we have been silenced already. for one, no one except me can read this unless the lords decide to lift the ban off blogspot. we can't seem to be able to make up our minds. for every protest we retaliate with silence?
what a confused kid.

we condemn it, can we stop it?

questions grow in silence.

A New Escape

2006-07-15T00:17:00.000-07:00

so last night was the first party at the very very new FUGA! if you haven't heard of it its because it will be opening up to all soonly. the party was for the designers and architects and all the important people who made FUGA possible. i felt right at home. its rare(atleast for me) to feel at home at a swanky lounge bar!
to tell you a little more about my new muse. FUGA is the newest coolest lounge bar in bangalore. FUGA = ESCAPE (in italian) very cool!
its red and white and silver and green and all those lovely glittering colours and the first ever absinthe bar in our city! a humungously well-stocked bar, yummy starters, fine music, a dance floor with an evil holed wall, very pleasant staff and lots ans lots of SPACE. now, where do you find that in bars nowadays!!

if anyone asks you where you heard about FUGA first, rememeber the green fairy told you.

Schneider Returns

2006-07-13T02:43:00.000-07:00

the funny thing about not writing forever is that you get the jitters when you do it after nearly (what feels like) a decade. its like trying to brush rust off a favourite toy that was made in russia and somehow made its way into your collection. And now as you were trying to dig out some imporatnt part of your life, you found the russian metal toy, rusty and sorry..

i spend some more time polishing my net avatar everyday. i take care of it sometimes more than i groom myself. words and images carefully chosen to best fit the personality in question. strange how our toys change.
so today i got me a new template. a new beginning. 'the return' i callit.

spawned identities
life verbatim?

Slightly out of Sync

2005-07-18T02:32:00.000-07:00

its been a while...but i'm coming back.

The first presentation ever:
The 4 of us (this is including Michael, who has become an integral part of the project, but excluding umang who had to be an extra ‘hand’ at the factory) today presented the sync project (which apparently was much awaited presentation) to a part of the Srishti community.
How it goes.. (luckily smriti made notes and my brain was perked up, though I rarely ever be like that in presentations, and I am yet to look at the notes)..
Important point: we lack clarity in the face of an exhibition that has to go up in a month and backed by a process that feels like it started yesterday. But then it’s a sin to defend yourself, and I agree, so we won’t.

Setback: time is running out ladies! Isn’t it always? But seriously, it’s the sole reason for my headache right now. I don’t think anyone can quite grasp the tone of these statements so lets take that as a given. There is no intended tone.

Diploma order: each one of us has to have a very clear thread or role that we are playing in this project. It is a diploma requirement. Meaning we can’t create that individual thread through a document that happens in retrospect, post-exhibition.
What if each one of us were to take up a story that we found interesting and follow that to feed into the content of the exhibit, says ashok.
Hmm.. point taken
If this is a collaborative project each one of us has to own something in the project? We know what that means, but to put down, there is a database of images, so far, that we all shot together. We ‘all’ met the lithograph poster-makers and we ‘all’ had an analysis. Everyone has a notion in his or her head of how this project must work out within the formal framework of a diploma project.

Re-align. Time. Distribute tasks. Maybe a little more organized amidst all the chaos.

Ayisha: the use of fiction to present the narrative. Re-iterated. Would help to ground the project in its context. Maybe we need to take a slightly extreme stance on what is being said in terms of it being about the future and all that.

So WHAT is the project about?
What IS the project about?
What is it ABOUT damn it!

Mapping. There is a sense of macro and micro in any give situation, may it be physically located or simply in theory. What devices can be used to bring about the very crucial highlighting of the concepts that we have used as metaphor so far. Such as, impermanence, structure or the lack of one, mobility etc with regard to the institution. Does the interaction desired in the exhibit imply collaboration to the user at all?

Documentary mapper: non-linearity of the kind where you are documenting something as it happens or before it happens. And then perhaps after it happens.
create a timeline

Over and out.

a breath of life

2005-02-03T23:56:00.000-08:00

Day three

Has kabir gotten under your skin yet?
Can you think of his metaphors when you think of life? Fragments of reality further fragmented, momentarily by a sensation. The passing of a feeling through your body, like a flash.
Sounds work on my body sometimes like nothing else can. I can feel myself letting a part of me go. Literally, its like if you were on a trek and you got stuck on a really steep slope and you could see your destination far far away in the distance. It was right there and you could see it. What was thing weighing you down, holding you back from your destination. The one thing that didn’t matter, once you had set your eyes and every part of your body upon your destination. Everything else suddenly became a burden. Everything you’d ever carried… and then you could just throw it all away in a moment. And that would be true emptiness. That’s what emptiness feels like. You can feel empty when you stare at the sky, you can feel empty when you look in someone’s eyes. You can feel empty when you cry really hard and then your eyes hurt and everything feels blurry. You can feel empty when your breath is sucked out of you and then sweeps back in with such a force. It is the might in emptiness. Emptiness can only make you feel nothing with such lightness. So unbearable.

And then every breath you take is a breath of life and life alone.

I know its not kabir.
But something does seep deeper in me. With every passing day. Something grows and something dies. Every day.

When I dream a dream that I remember and it has no sense of time. Excites. Make a connection with another being outside of my consciousness. How many beings do we contact, communicate with, outside of our consciousness? How many of them do we really know?
Did it matter yesterday when you told someone something that you didn’t want to tell them? Or that they perceived it in a way that you didn’t want them to? Did you let it be? Draw you into smallness.
Sometime you just want to feel like an ant. That small. Like the dot of a space that forms when you clench your fist really hard and here’s just enough space for a little pin to squeeze through.

If I just put down everything that my mind could contain you would never be able to get away from where you are right now.
You would fall into the depths of chaos.
In me. Is me. If me. Can be.

kabir ki kahani

2005-02-01T01:01:00.000-08:00

Day one:
Severe immersion
We read an excerpt from the book “the bijak of kabir” by Linda Hess.
“Numskull! You’ve missed the point”

I wrote in my log….
This is not the first time that I have come across the notion that knowledge cannot be acquired by reading books. It is through experience that one truly learns.
At first I was hostile towards this notion. From the day that we are born books have been shoved into our hands. How can someone suddenly tell me that there is no learning from books? Should I never touch a book again then? Is that what is being implied? Extremist position.

But I’ve come to understand this notion a little better. I believe that it is important to be in a state of mind, a kind of composure - of body and mind that comes about through meditation – which creates an aura in which there is better learning. I can still read a book, which might not be the ultimate mode of learning. Sometime a feeling of thoughtlessness takes over. Words roll out, as if they construct themselves out of no thought.

Does kabir speak of ignorance? An excerpt from a book on Tibetan philosophy which seems kabiresque..

“Gautama felt as though a prison which had confined him for thousands of lifetimes had bee broken open. Ignorance had been the jail keeper. Because of ignorance, his mind had been obscured, just like the moon and the stars hidden by the storm clouds. Clouded by endless waves of deluded thoughts, the mind had falsely divided reality into subject and object, self and others, existence and non-existence, birth and death, and from these discriminations arose wrong views – the prisons of feelings, craving, grasping and becoming. The suffering of birth, old age, sickness and death only made the prison walls thicker. The only thing to do was to seize the jail keeper and see his true face. The jail keeper was ignorance. Once the jail keeper was gone, the jail would disappear and never be rebuilt again.”

In the past week, we have been reading endless notions about truth and fearlessness. Fearless speech and fearless listening. I would like to add to it the notion of fearless thought. Fearless thought comes out a kind of state of mind that is more sub-conscious than conscious. It is the part of the mind that has developed through the realm of experience.
Immersion requires fearless thought.
It might seem as though kabir speaks of only one truth. He speaks of the act of being witness to truth. And he gives us his testimonies of the truths that he has witnessed.

We come across the argument of authorship and authenticity, the same as in art. But in the case of kabir, it is believed that kabir is said to be authentic when it is internalized and understood by the listener. Kabir has disappeared behind his poetry. This is when the reader/participant becomes the author.

This is going to be a week of song, inspiration, metaphors, meaning, truth.
I shall bear witness.

The Body In Question

2005-01-28T01:35:00.000-08:00

January 28th

Mapping unknown territories.
Where do our territories intersect with those of other people?
Is it through common experience?
Does the body perceive similarly what every person’s mind conceives differently?
Through these experiences- we, each in our own way,
Construct realities.

“The foreigner has no self.”
Which part of us is foreign to us? Foreign to what? Foreign to the rest of ourselves?
Is being foreign- a feeling of disconnectedness and seclusion from the ‘whole’?
When does the foreigner reveal itself to us?

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
Just an aside.
The night I read Kristeva, I dreamt of Raymond from Albert Camus’ The Stranger.
I was taking Raymond to the psychiatrist for therapy. My relationship with Raymond remained unestablishd throughout the dream. The psychiatrist was not at the clinic and so in an attempt to get in touch with her, I tried to call her from the clinic phone. But the attendant wouldn’t help me and in all this confusion, Raymond managed to escape and run away. I lost Raymond.
And then I wandered around on the streets (of Bombay, near Churchgate station!) looking for Raymond. While I was wandering about, I ended up at a stall selling stoles and scarves. I remembered that I was supposed to be looking for Raymond only when I bumped into Avy (faculty at Srishti) who emerged from the station among a bunch of commuters. Avy helped me look for Raymond, but we failed to find him. At this point the dream kind of transited into another dream.

Speeks the truth

2005-01-27T01:34:00.000-08:00

January 27th

Freedom
Duty
Criticism
Danger
Truth
Frankness

Reason enough to speak the truth.

Fearless speech exists in my diary. For in it I speak the truth. Mend myself.
I make myself vulnerable.
Before you die of curiosity, (either you don’t take much interest in that kind of trivia, or you’ve given up, or you’ve just plain forgotten) tell you why this blog is called schneiderspeek.
Schneider is a dear friend who listens.
But Schneider has now found a little space on this www.
Schneider speeks.

Can you be a parrhesiastes if you speak the truth for yourself? Does it apply to oneself?

Problematization of the moment.
Incomplete.

Republic Day of the nation

2005-01-26T01:32:00.000-08:00

January 26th tick tick formerly known only as the Republic Day of the nation.
Renamed, due to a severe impression on my memory by a giant earthquake, Earthquake Survival Day.

I have dreamt of the death of my parents several times. It bothers me terribly. I fail to understand its significance.
Do people undergo therapy for the trauma they experience when they lose people close to them?
Why are we reading ‘trauma and recovery’ by Judith Herman?
Where does something stop being an exercise? A piece of reading that has been given ‘as part of Sanjit’s course?’ I would have read this essay anytime. Because it has significance to how we treat our lives. We’re all therapists, in a way. Otherwise, we would be one messed up mass.
I’m relieving myself off the day, when I speak to my roommate. We have testimonies to share everyday. Some of us choose not to share them. And then we have different ways of recovering.

How can art and design aid in recovery related to trauma?

As designers, we’re venturing into new spaces, many of which deal with people who have undergone trauma. It is extremely important to go into these spaces with informed views on how to conduct and interview, even a conversation with someone who has undergone a traumatic experience.

Can we design products, spaces, experiences that aid in recovery related to trauma?

Shrink-in-me.

lost in a city

2005-01-25T01:30:00.000-08:00

January 25th
I had never gotten lost in a city.
This is a log that I had written after a day of wandering around Bangalore. My experience of a derive in Bangalore city.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

At about 10 this morning, my angst burst through in a stream of uncontrollable tears. A half hour later, after I was urged to immerse myself in a medium, to understand a language, I was on my way home to pick up rolls of black and white film. I was going to tend to my self through my own eyes. Everyone’s out there just waiting to let you know yourself better.
I went out to shoot photographs, and I ended up capturing thoughts, stories, and moments. It felt like I was finally talking to people.
I haven’t even developed my photographs yet, but what I am about to narrate is my day’s experience, of having done something like I was doing it for the first time.
So I haven’t shot with my SLR for over two years now. Photography, to me was a new medium all over again today.
On my way to the city, I wondered where I wanted most to go and shoot. A place that I’ve never been to before. But in a city, that’s often hard to find. I ventured into the majestic city area of Bangalore, with the challenge of finding suitably exciting frames in an extremely crowded place. There was no empty space. The moment the bus pulled into the bus stop, I was reminded of Bombay all over again.
I remember having spoken to a photographer called chirordeep that I’d once met in Bombay. And he had mostly shot in Bombay, and his photographs at first conveyed a certain calm and empty space which I didn’t relate to Bombay, and so they seemed untrue to the subject. But that evening on my way back home, I thought once again of his photographs, played them in my mind, and then I realized that he seemed to have actually, through the emptiness, captured the moments of solace that we all seek in a city. Spaces of emptiness and calm that we long for but don’t seem to find easily.
I was looking for images with interesting light conditions. Throughout the day, I met different kinds of people. People who were intrigued by the looks of a girl wandering about bravely with a camera, some who were a little annoyed because maybe I was breaching some sort of dog –like boundaries that they had created in this vast public arena. Some asked me what I was doing, where I was from, and why I was shooting photos. A lot of people asked me to shoot a picture of them and eagerly posed for me.
I had to pretend to take photographs of many and then nod and smile like I had taken a picture of them.
I apologized to a guard in an underpass subway, for having appreciated some beautiful light that was trickling into the otherwise dark and dingy subway.
In the flower market, a shopkeeper told me something in kannada, I’m afraid I don’t know what he said, but his flailing arms said, “go away from here”.
This makes me wonder, what the people who sit in these same places every single day, think when a stranger walks into these spaces, not to buy anything or meet anyone, but just for a few moments to point a camera at them. Am I breaking some kind of norm? Disrupting someone’s peaceful existence? Being a little superficial?
After a point, I lost all sense of direction and therefore control. I let myself wander around.
In the market, I was accompanied by a drunken man for some distance. He insisted on pursuing a conversation with me. He first tried to speak in kannada, then in Tamil, then in Hindi and finally in some broken English! After some time I had to tell him to stop following me.
A little distance away, I met my next door neighbour.
At a park, I was able to communicate to a woman, who had longed for someone to speak to her in that very language for 15 days.
And I’m back home now, where I’m most comfortable.
I do feel an inkling of satisfaction. I think somewhere I found some spirit.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

“From the lack of discipline emerges surprise,
the unforeseeable and the capacity for investigation,
not in order to corroborate an intuition
but to discover unimagined outcomes.”

January 24th

2005-01-24T18:24:00.000-08:00

Sudden attack.

Failed attempts to express myself. I’ve often wondered why it is that the only times that I feel like writing, or capturing my thoughts, are times when I ‘feel’ something deeply or intensely, or even severely. All other attempts seem to be an awful tug of war with myself. This is an attempt to capture my thoughts as the week proceeds, dot dot dot

When I think back of when I first stumbled upon the term ‘art’, it takes me way back to art class in school. When I made pretty drawings and gifted them to people, that was an act of wholeness for me. And I could communicate through this act.
Estella Majozo speaks of the dream space, and it made me think of the concept of involuntary memory that I had read about recently. It is infact a concept that I like very much. Scott Lash explains that involuntary memory is something that you can’t quite grasp, something that you’re reaching for, or searching for. Something that might be lost. And it is also in the unconscious and dream like. Involuntary memory is the symbolic. It is our lost childhood. And in a way in our conscious state we are always reaching out into our involuntary memory to make sense of what we are.
But involuntary memory is something that is forgotten and from the past. Then can we have access to this kind of memory only through our dreams? Is it possible to reach out to it in our conscious state?

We are nostalgic about our past. We have memories of our past. But is it possible to be nostalgic about the future? In a sense, it is different from fantasy. A fantasy of the future becomes a memory. Isn’t it possible then to be nostalgic about the future?
The way we make sense of the world brings us to the concept of identity. Through our dreams we make sense of our identity. And therefore our identity has much to do with our past and what is lost. And it is also our perception of everyday things which seep into our memory, become memory, and surface to reveal our identity.
Memory. Marks. Identity.