Monday, February 10, 2003

Let me do my thing

This music this moment this time. This life this beauty this breeze. This tree this place this world. This me this you this simple plan.

So, he sat there and began writing. He wrote without memory, without thought without plan or structure. There was no agenda and no anxiety. All that really mattered was that he was recording this moment in time in all its uncrafted beauty. Why had this suddenly become such an urgent need in his life, he wondered, as his fingers continued to fly on the keyboard. This had never happened before and that was the joy of it all. Whereas he would earlier have lost a moment by invariably not being in it, ignoring it, comparing it with the past or waiting for it to change into the future. There was impatience and reminiscing, but no witnessing nor participating. Not always, but often. And that seemed to have become transformed into this wondrous delight, this call from within to simply witness and record and celebrate and appreciate. There was no urgency in this, he could write anytime, anywhere and without any posturing. It was as spontaneous as breathing. Well perhaps that was an exaggeration but it came close. Obsession seemed to have shifted from the body and mind into the heart. That was it! His focus had shifted from living instinctively and intellectually into living intuitively, then.

One day perhaps this too would pass and he would switch to a different state of being. Although he wondered what could possibly be more satisfying than this, and then stopped. Don’t compare and don’t anticipate. That had pretty much been the modus operandi in his life these past thirty five years and it was finally time to simply shed that shell that had encased his presence.

Lovers and corny music. Deepak Chopra singing with Demi Moore. She still sounds kind of sexy, he sounds like a total dork. There! I just did it! I found someone to laugh at. What are they talking about, he wondered? Something about love and losing power and how she loves herself and she loves him and she loves him and she loves herself. Yikes. It all comes to a full circle. Love the voice of the woman in the background – middle-easternish. But Deepak sounds really corny, he grimaced. You’ve always been connected to me? Concealed in me? REVEALED in me? Okay, that’s it. He picked up his belongings and started moving them around busily. Closing books and capping pens and fiddling with the mouse. But somehow he still couldn’t bring himself to stop recording his life. It seemed to have a life of its own. How, he wondered, if he even did manage to create a concept for a book from all these ramblings, would anyone be able to edit this stuff and find anything that makes sense? Wasn’t his problem, he thought, brushing aside another mind-generated useless worry about something that was nowhere in the nearness of time in happening. Time, that other word that was so the key to unhappiness.

But more on that later. He stretched and scratched and yawned. Swaying involuntarily and almost irritably at the music. Irritated by his irrational joyousness he guessed.