I do not live lavishly so the title of "prodigal" does not truly fit. However, I do have an abundance of resource which I take for granted. Such an abuse exists right here within cyberspace. To be specific...I can write, and in an instant, see my labors appear as if out of the ether.
This may not seem so extravagent to our newly minted cyber-credo society; alas, I am old enough to recall the not-so-long ago times when information had to be physically mined and publication was expensive and difficult.
You must also have something to say.
Months ago, I took the leap and began this meager blog in order to vent my spleen regarding the messages our society is spoon-fed and swallows like precious nectar. While this had satisfaction in it, it was not the whole meal (pardon me, but I might mix metaphor here and there).
Then I was shamed into a moment of satori. You may not see a respondent. It does not mean you are not read. However, if you blog (new verb?) only every couple of months, not only shall no one shall bother to respond, they not read at all.
Ergo today...
It was only sketches of a dream which took me here. I was back in Ooty (former British hill station in south India) and this time I had my own home. I was teaching in one of the private schools there and my life had some impact on young minds. There was meaning in my day.
I lived in an old British house like something you might find in Shimla in the far north. If you saw the film "Black," you might have an inkling as to how this room looked to me. I had a library/study in which I would write, read and take tea. The walls were polished wood bookcases filled with old tomes and art from around the sub-continent. I had drapes pulled back from my split-pane windows and the sun filled the room with its warmth.
I could feel (in my dream) that this room housed friends and loved ones. In this room, I had created works. I could be prolific there,
As you know, dreams last just a short while in our memory unless you do something with it almost immediately. For myself, I allowed it to become part of a morning daydream and I ran with it. It was lush and breezy. The scent of flowers came in from the garden. I could smell spiced dosa being prepared nearby. Ahhh...
This musing could become an all-day affair if I do not cease now. If you've been to Ooty, you may share in this daydream as you like. For those who have not...
Let us just say that India is a magical place. Sure, it is all of the things you've read about in Kipling, ad infinitum. Yet it is also none of those things. It is a country of dozens of nations where the written script changes along with the local language and, even then, dialect might change after 20 kms.
To condense it: India is the past and future all rolled up into the present.
- PAUSE -
I'll save my waxing poetic for another day. The main point of this is that there shall be more of these days.
I am rich, you see. I do not have hot and cold-running dollars spewing from every orafice. I am rich in that I have access. I have been allowed to labor in my life and reap some benefit from it. I have been blessed in that I can say I've some true friends that will always be there to share a moment or so without reservation. Many of these individuals live far from me, have a different political take or goals in life. This matters for naught. As I said, I am rich and I hope to forever combat the notion of being prodigal. I shall treat this cyber page as if ranting and/or sharing to said friends. Perhaps others shall share in return (be it pithy, pissy or gray).
I remember a notion from my youth. It was claimed (I cannot vouch for it however) to have originated from Grace Slick - "It all don't mean shit to a tree."
Voila!
No comments:
Post a Comment