Desolation Sound

It always leads to some level of caprice when I note, that I have indeed, missed writing on these lonesome pages. Days pass by and the perfervid pleas of the winsome words fall into desolation.

Today I saunter here with thoughts that make it, lets say, atypical. On a wet, dusky night, I was wondering what makes people love? We have enough valiant justifications out there( and poetry, may I add!) but do they lay open the inner tribulations of when love sprouts or dies a debilitating death. I agree, my quest still doesn't justify a post. Especially one after eternity.Let those words rest in desolation after all.

But I persist. And resist.

The interesting facet about love is not that it is overrated or underrated. It is just hard to understand. Is it more hard to understand then say another emotion, like anger?I would say yes. Anger or any of the various emotions one could experience in one's lifetime always is triggered by an external or internal cause that leads to an effect. Love on the other hand just happens. Sometimes we are actually looking for it (Ever heard anybody say, they were looking for a good 'cry'?). And hence the dilemma .

I believe why we love versus hate deserves a certain amount of consideration in the echelons of scientific research. Let's call it 'Analysis of the variance that is love' .

I believe there are chemical reactions that drive our being and love remains no exception. My question then is, has there been any thought been to stimulating the environment and food that one took when love happened. Should we actually make love happen? And what then, when it does? Do we look away with a certain prescind high handedness since it was unneeded? Is Love ever unneeded?

Maybe not.

Hence, I persist. Let those words free from desolation after all.

Obfuscated intermissions

I spent 2017 in a hyphenated daze after elections changed the world order. In my idyllic life full of intelligent banter, beautiful pictures and well coordinated chaos, this was akin to my favorite China breaking.

I did nothing. I did not march. I did not protest. I merely watched.

I wrung my well moisturized hands. The world can indeed go to hell in a hand basket . And sometimes the drugged  pain of watching it,is like the addiction of social media. You know it’s banal and you still click on the “like”.

What we need is a total rewiring of our perceptions.

A jump out of this muddle .

Welcome 2018. I am trying . 

Seeking Noah.

Hah! I say to myself, rather morosely. 2 years, and what do I have to say?Rather disingenuous this hiatus. Rather bereft of thoughts, 
these painted pages. 
My soliloquy was of no consequence. 
The world around me is imploding. 
My life remains a straight line .

After , what has been a tumultuous time in human history with 
the elections, the refugee crisis, unprecedented right wing nationalism, 
one almost wonders when the spiral will stop. Emotions run high. 
Anger subverts thinking. 

Who will be Noah this time around?

Complete

On a certain suburban weekend evening after running a sprint like marathon cycle of feeding, bathing , cleaning , entertaining my gleefully happy and hence clueless little children , I finally put them to bed and opened a cheap bottle of zin. As I paused , still tensed on what I had forgotten and mentally making a note of the next to do's and relaxed just enough that in exactly 2 steps I could still be ready to jump up and pat either one of them back to sleep, I was suddenly engulfed with a sense of fulfillment. Overpowering. And  I realized I was complete now . I would not change a single moment of this marathon.

In the parking lot

I think the ennui surrounding my existentialistic conundrum and despair is giving up on me and taking the long road home. It hasn't been how I expected "taking time off " meant. I am in a funk and it is boring. Even funny stories seem dim witted. So I wait patiently for leaves to fall, seasons to change and the car to start.

A more dynamic year , please!

11.12.13

I need to write something today just to make this date on my blog. I thought awhile ,what could I pen?No rambunctious thoughts , no witty sermons , no whiny cliches are resident anymore. Soul is troubled and far away. Muse alive ,urging me to complete my book and participate in my first writing competition.
I am content yet not happy. Missing pieces distort the mosaic of my existence and make it banal.
The 4 year old tells me her stories. The 10 month old guffaws. It's a wonderful life , I think . Let banality and sorrow rest for just another day. For today is just perfect.

A standstill.

Unbeknownst to the world and its impatience to get to that point in eternity when it will finally keel over by wars, famine,global warming, and just poor leadership, I exist. At this moment and in this piece of earth, where I plod through myriad to-dos and multiple breathtaking moments of pure innocence of a child not yet colored by the world that beckons her. I pause and I breath as I watch my little sphere of existence filled with people implode with worry, stress and just plain complacence or ignorance or just numbness as they trudge through their existence not feeling, not breathing , not pausing.

How will I write , I wonder? Where is the discourse, the angst, the questioning? Where is the edginess of the conversations that would awaken my muse and let it masturbate spilling its creativity onto my blank pages making it pregnant with characters, plot and beauty.