Method for Madness

It won't take a Holmes to see that I've been in a bit of a funk recently. And, of course, that I have made valiant efforts to pull myself out of it. How successful the attempts were is a story for another day. :)

"Now, young lady, one reason for the long face and the intensely crabby manner...and a categorical one, if you please."

"Eh? Reason? I'll give you reasons."

"Go ahead."

"It's like this", I pause to moisten my lips, and Sense can see that I am beginning to quail. "Like this", I pick up where I left off, only I have nowhere to go with my explanation. "I'm low and blue and disorganised and cluttered and thoroughly muddled", I rattle off defensively. Let's see if she can fault that. If you ask me, those are substantial reasons for as long a face as anyone can choose to make.

Sense is not impressed. It won't take a Holmes to see that either.

And that is how I find myself standing at my desk, pencil and Post-It in hand, ready to draw up a to-do list. Sense tells me four-fifths of the funk comes from being behind schedule on practically everything - stuff I'm supposed to do and extra stuff that I've taken on in fits of enthusiasm.

"It would help if you restricted hobbies to after you finish urgent, deadline-driven work", Sense says pointedly, glancing at my oil pastels and the three books I recently picked up.

"But I like these bet-..." Off her expression, I allow the protest to peter out. [What?! You wouldn't want to mess with her either, when she looks like that.]

"Right". I dutifully put my dissertation material and a couple of other books (which, in all fairness, deserve a lot more time than I have given them so far, seeing as how I took this up - it wasn't forced on me) on top of the desk, aligned neatly in the centre, one sharpened pencil, a new eraser and a blue ink pen lying beside them.

I tack the Post-Its onto my cupboard and determinedly put everything else away. Taking a deep breath, I laugh scornfully at the blues in my head. That'll show them! Congratulations, I smile beam at myself in the mirror.

Then I pull out a Wodehouse, and begin reading.

.

Pffrt.

Take a look. Take one look at the entries all over this page.

Blue, blue, blue. And then some.

I'm fed up already. I shall stop being blue.

:)

Bring out that geometry set.

Like a ball of blue wool unravelling. Or bits falling out of a mosaic. Why, in the name of all that is straight and simple, would this decide to happen now?

Questions, questions. Or a storm - make that several storms - in a teacup.

Maybe you could tell me why...

1. ...our firmest resolve is only as strong as we are in our greatest moment of weakness.

2. ...we think twice before talking to a friend sometimes, but don't hesitate to trust a total stranger.

3. ...we secretly believe in things that we're cynical about aloud.

4. ...I'm here thinking profound thoughts when I have a paper I must necessarily hand in tomorrow, waiting to be begun.

5. ...all wisdom comes three days too late.

6. ...we feel gelatinized, as it were, somewhere between the past and the future, even when we're actively living the present.

7. ...there's a disconnect.

8. ...and it happens when it is least convenient.

9. ...writing a letter long-hand still feels more satisfying than typing an email or writing on somebody's wall (or pillar, or post. Whatever.)

10. ...we're reluctant to admit to feelings, half-afraid that acknowledging them will make them more important than they already are. Or even that they'll actually come true. Makes sense for things we fear, perhaps. But for things we wish for...?

11. ...with every new person we meet, and every addition to the list of networking sites we're members of, alone-ness becomes more accentuated, and solitude more precious.

12. ...people think it is sacrilege to disturb someone playing a videogame, but don't think twice before barging in on someone reading or taking a solitary walk.

13. ...we come away feeling like we didn't talk about all that we wanted to, from people we like spending time with.

14. ...parallel realities - that of the head and that of the world - fall into synchronization sometimes. They shouldn't. It throws things out of gear.

15. ...we overanalyse.

Incompleteness

A series of fractions will sum it up the easiest.
Question marks, half-measures
and the odd, half-bright spark.

A systematic sequence of etcs and et als;
one ellipsis after another,
everything in an untiring loop.

Like a mathematical derivation gone awry midway
and refusing to make sense
in spite of covert adjustments.

Or an essay that winds its tedious way around the point,
or along it, or beyond, or close
without ever really getting to it.

One picks up the threads easily enough, doesn't one?
But before they can be woven in
they usually tend to run out.

Dancing in the rain...

...is reclamation of the self.

About Them

I'm a child of the seasons. The elements are my best friends.

The rain, and the rain alone, knows all my secrets. It gathers in my palm and slips out of my fingers, tinkling like a musical note. It runs playfully down my nose and bounces off my cheeks. It tickles the soles of my feet as I stomp recklessly, deliberately into puddles. It comes when it wants to, never mind the calendar - an unpredictability that I adore. It laughs and whispers and cleanses, keeps time as I dance in uncompromised freedom. It leaves me whole and alive.

The wind shares my wanderlust. It unravels memories and makes promises. It throws windows open and shut. It blows away the dust and brings stray petals and blades of grass in. The wind is chatty and communicative. It reads my mind and cackles in delight at foolish ideas, reprimands me when I'm stupid, sighs meditatively at profundity, and has made a ritual out of its goodbye hugs.

The sky is my canvas, my very own book, my own silver screen. It indulges my fancies and whims, allowing me to trace faces, trees and giant koalas among its clouds, to wink back cheekily at the stars that peer out every night. On stormy days, when enormous blue-grey and black clouds billow by, it hurries them along sometimes, so that the moon is visible to me. And it remains there, faithful to its promise as only a best buddy can be, blue and endless and full of love.

The sun knows its way around my moods. It gets ever so slightly warmer when I'm shivering; just a teeny bit milder when I am hot and bothered. It plays tricks on me and gets away with all of them, because it knows it is one of my weaknesses. Trust a best pal to be so affectionately annoying. I don't remember ever having wished for anything that the sun didn't grant. I don't know of anyone else who blends so much power with such gentleness.

And the earth...the earth grounds me, allows me to spread my roots even as it encourages me to explore. It is warm and loving and stable. It squishes between my toes when the rain comes visiting...the rain lingers on in that invigorating smell long after it has gone. It blows playfully into my hair when the breeze drops in. It takes inordinate delight in baking under the sun and making it impossible for me to move barefoot in my own garden. It allows me to nestle, to roam free.

And that is why this time of the year, when my best friends congregate as one season gives way to another, owns me completely. I belong to it, no questions asked. I belong to the musky mornings, the golden afternoons and the coffee-and-cinnamon-flavoured evenings. To the fresh green leaves making a tentative appearance on every branch, and as much to the golden-brown ones underfoot. To the sky, still choosing between baby-blue and slate. To spring, poking its head around the door, almost as if to ask, Is it time yet? And to winter, packing up after an especially fierce visit. To the summer that has probably begun to stir, the monsoon that isn't due for another four months, and the autumn that knows it can afford to rest the easiest.

If it were physically possible, I would give them all a gigantic bear hug.

Blended. Molten.

How is this blue so blue?

I'm on a palette, somewhere between green and  turquoise in a whirlpool of no particular colour. So I can take my pick. I can choose to be passionate magenta dabbed with yellow. Or earthy brown with a hint of cyan. I stretch my hand and dip a hesitant finger into the vortex, spinning all the colours just a wee bit more. Like ribbons and bunting bundled into old brown bags after a fete. A lone wisp of red escapes the blending, falls out of the bundle and onto the freshly-mowed lawn, startling a millipede into faster, more fluid movement.

Grass, trees, roads, people, traffic. A page in a book. A roll of film.

A blur.

Twenty-four.

The paint is creamy - soft, multi-hued ripples collapsing in on themselves, melting into one gigantic drop of being.

Voices meld into each other, competing to be heard; some striving to hide. They coalesce into one confused babble - the opening bars of Hey There Delilah, a semi-familiar 'Hey!', echoes not entirely identifiable, and the click-tick-tock of a fan overhead. Voices and faces that match, and others that don't. And so there are two worlds operating in parallel timezones, in twin realities. Living, breathing, walking noisily, busily by. Finishing unfinished business. All of it in soft focus. Like sunshine filtering in through foliage.

Like creamy, multicoloured dollops of paint. Dollops that fall onto paper with a convincing plod. Plod. Like a raindrop on a leaf.

Tilting lazily towards the tip. Elongating to cover distances, shrinking back to move forward. Like quicksilver, or a snowflake. Dancing along serrated edges; a cascade or a shower, all in one drop. Off the leaf, into a puddle below, in a ripple that melts into one gigantic drop of being.

Twenty-four.

Strange. The ripples swirl and disappear. Like mildly acrid wisps of smoke from a candle just blown out. Allowed to drip into a bowl of water, the freshly molten wax shows up as miniature pearls. Creamy white, convex, flawless.

Flawless, unending, perfect, clear. Just the same as an April sky. Or the colour of a baby's eyes. Like rivers and oceans in kindergarten finger-paintings. Like bell-shaped Majorelle flowers that are hard to tell from butterflies.

How is this blue so blue?

I lift my finger out of the palette and rub the paint into my palm. Decidedly smudged. No colour in particular. Then I dip my finger into the wayward wisp of red and dab on some of that, too.

Twenty-four.

"Yes, Ma'am". I sit up straight.