The Post
I’m not really sure if there’s a particular format or style for a blog. Some people I suppose, may use it like a diary, but I’m sure that very few people would want to read the nitty-gritty details of my daily life with such gems as, “I brushed my teeth three times today instead of the usual twice.” Though given the current obsession with reality shows, I can’t be sure.
Instead I suppose a blog is supposed to be more profound. Of course the profundity/profanity would depend on the writer I guess – you could write your blog to make it sound like a newspaper editorial (and I mean a respectable newspaper like The Hindu, or The New York Times) or you could make it a record of your random rants and ramblings (Check out some of the blogs listed on the sidebar).
Mine will probably tend towards the latter, though its classification is really left to you, Dear Reader. It will serve me as part podium, part cemetery for dead poems. I choose what parts of me to present here, but if you believe Poirot, talk to a person long enough and they will tell you what you need to know.
Skipping back a bit, on that note on writing and reality shows, I suppose I had better mention the Flux Factory, where in a living exhibit the very process of writing is showcased. I won’t spend more time on it here – the idea is interesting, though I believe it might not look deeply enough at the intricacies of creativity. Still, it will probably show some previously ignored aspects. For more details read here.
I suppose I can safely say that the monsoon has started. While it does not rain everyday, and we haven’t yet had one of those stretches when it rains for days continuously, we are getting the old sound and fury + assorted tears from Mother Nature with greater frequency. Memories of monsoons for me deal with my school days, as by this time school would have started. Muddy roads, with streams running down the sides; watching pieces of paper race down the gutter (this was in class 9 or 10, mind you); having my umbrella blown inside out by the wind. I remember one time during an English class, it started raining, and our principal, Suma Miss, who was also our English Drama teacher, stopped the lesson for a few minutes so that we could go the window and enjoy the first rain of the season. It was a small thing, but it’s one of the fondest memories I have of her.
Right now outside my window it’s the bluster without the precipitation. A few years ago in Delhi, while I was working on a summer project, we used to get the occasional respite from the 42C+ heat when a magnificent thunderstorm would hit the city. More of a lightning storm really, as we would get a fantastic display of what appeared to be cloud to cloud discharges, with very little sound. That was slightly more sinister somehow, as you now expected the lightning to creep up and tap you on the shoulder without warning. It was not a monsoon shower – it was probably the result of some low-pressure system that had crept in from the Mediterranean via the mountain passes. We really should keep an eye on those passes – everyone from the Aryans to Alexander to Mohammed of Ghauri/Ghazni seem to creep in that way. Still, I suppose the clouds can be given a season pass.
The mumble rumble outside my window finally delivered – the rain is coming in (well, not into the room, I closed the windows) at a steady rate. The current has also gone, but I’m typing this on the laptop, so I’ll finish this off before I go. More later. Adieu, my silent readers. I hope you have not joined the vast
majority.
addendum: Shortly afterward, the current returned for about 10 seconds and then went again - and apparently stayed gone till about ten in the morning. Plus, it rained all night. Finally around 10.20 am the current came back, but it also started pouring like Noah was in town and then animals were already piling in ten by ten.
On a parting note, I give you a haiku, of sorts:
Darkness passes fleeting across the land
Clouds; Their shadows
Fall like rain.
Instead I suppose a blog is supposed to be more profound. Of course the profundity/profanity would depend on the writer I guess – you could write your blog to make it sound like a newspaper editorial (and I mean a respectable newspaper like The Hindu, or The New York Times) or you could make it a record of your random rants and ramblings (Check out some of the blogs listed on the sidebar).
Mine will probably tend towards the latter, though its classification is really left to you, Dear Reader. It will serve me as part podium, part cemetery for dead poems. I choose what parts of me to present here, but if you believe Poirot, talk to a person long enough and they will tell you what you need to know.
Skipping back a bit, on that note on writing and reality shows, I suppose I had better mention the Flux Factory, where in a living exhibit the very process of writing is showcased. I won’t spend more time on it here – the idea is interesting, though I believe it might not look deeply enough at the intricacies of creativity. Still, it will probably show some previously ignored aspects. For more details read here.
I suppose I can safely say that the monsoon has started. While it does not rain everyday, and we haven’t yet had one of those stretches when it rains for days continuously, we are getting the old sound and fury + assorted tears from Mother Nature with greater frequency. Memories of monsoons for me deal with my school days, as by this time school would have started. Muddy roads, with streams running down the sides; watching pieces of paper race down the gutter (this was in class 9 or 10, mind you); having my umbrella blown inside out by the wind. I remember one time during an English class, it started raining, and our principal, Suma Miss, who was also our English Drama teacher, stopped the lesson for a few minutes so that we could go the window and enjoy the first rain of the season. It was a small thing, but it’s one of the fondest memories I have of her.
Right now outside my window it’s the bluster without the precipitation. A few years ago in Delhi, while I was working on a summer project, we used to get the occasional respite from the 42C+ heat when a magnificent thunderstorm would hit the city. More of a lightning storm really, as we would get a fantastic display of what appeared to be cloud to cloud discharges, with very little sound. That was slightly more sinister somehow, as you now expected the lightning to creep up and tap you on the shoulder without warning. It was not a monsoon shower – it was probably the result of some low-pressure system that had crept in from the Mediterranean via the mountain passes. We really should keep an eye on those passes – everyone from the Aryans to Alexander to Mohammed of Ghauri/Ghazni seem to creep in that way. Still, I suppose the clouds can be given a season pass.
The mumble rumble outside my window finally delivered – the rain is coming in (well, not into the room, I closed the windows) at a steady rate. The current has also gone, but I’m typing this on the laptop, so I’ll finish this off before I go. More later. Adieu, my silent readers. I hope you have not joined the vast
majority.
addendum: Shortly afterward, the current returned for about 10 seconds and then went again - and apparently stayed gone till about ten in the morning. Plus, it rained all night. Finally around 10.20 am the current came back, but it also started pouring like Noah was in town and then animals were already piling in ten by ten.
On a parting note, I give you a haiku, of sorts:
Darkness passes fleeting across the land
Clouds; Their shadows
Fall like rain.
posted by Rare Hand Axe at 6:44 am
1 Comments:
I miss the monsoons. I miss the messiness and the squelchiness and above all the noise. In England the rain is as silent and apologetic as the people.
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