NASA- tales at night

2:49 am
Design Studio

random notes float in and out all around you.
the music shivers with you at night
i cant feel my toes but i know the floor is ice cold yet the smell of fresh tea being made in a electric kettle is enough is charge you .
My laptop screen smiles back at me.
usd at night tells me stories to keep me warm
 bedtime tales you cant forget....
and they have been relived year after year
as if the darkness was an excuse to share secrets.


the broken tt table
our deep blue cardigan
they feel closer somehow
my lonely matress back home  has nothing but a memory to keep it warm
from my corner i can see the world at night
a space frame for a sky
 stars dangle from the ceiling

and right now i can hardly feel my fingers
still you know theres something special about this cold air
some invisible ghost that tells you your doing something big
an idea pushes you towards brilliance

random notes still float in and out ...
and the music shivers with you at night



architecture student
usd

Chapter 4- SECRETS...

CHAPTER 4

SECRETS.....

.

Somehow its easier to forget, if your the only one who knows ..once a secret is out ..the memory is shared..often without knowledge....and one becomes many.

Soon you have a circle of secrets..so where do you stop?

and how do you forget?

because now, even  if  you kill your memory,remember, someone else is keeping it alive..hiding it somewhere you cant see......
but you can hear it breathing all around you..

So even if I cant remember who i am.... I know someone else does..

 Deia

Spain

My notes make little sense.i need to sit down and take a moment to breathe , the air always helps me..it feels different here.In one breath i can take in the whole village and their life.

I've been living in this village for the past five days like vagabond,wandering from place to place hardly eating ,hardly sleeping.

i feel dead..inside and out.

i havn't seen my face for days..just the ones of  people on the street.I see women pulling their children closer ..men checking they pockets candidly, and the beggars ? I could write a page about the beggars in spain...they treat me the worst.Yet we waste pity on them.

You never really know where you are, until you leave that place to live another's life.

I'm in spain,the village of Deia, a small coastal settlement in the island of Majorca.I suppose people might call it 'pleasant' , with its orange and olive grooves on steep cliffs, overlooking the mediterranean..Not too long back, there was another englishman here, Robert Graves ,a writer and poet, who fell in love with this village and wrote many stories centered around it during the first world war . He wrote 'Hercules My Shipmate' sitting at this at this very spot..apparently,its not doing me any good.

He lived here till he died ,and his house in now a museum.

I 'm nothing like him and no one gives me a second glance out of interest. i've walked through every street ,seen how people here live, i've had their staple food..which in this case was a thick stew  or a cake of eggs and potatoes..

i could talk about their art and music, but misery blinds me and hunger covers my ears...the rumble of my own stomach is all the music i can take.

i cant live like this...i've seen spain as it should be....and i've had enough.

but why am i here?

the question i seem to wake upto every morning, the one that slaps me across the face and yet never leaves a handprint.

i feel like tearing the world apart ,my head is breaking down to pieces.

i need to find water.Its the only element i understand.

remember robert frost

"some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice.."

water..this single element is all it takes to end all life.

the same liquid that quenches your thirst can drain you, squeeze out every last drop of life.

 some say drowning is best way to die.As if the means of death would really matter.

but its really quite simple you see ,we cant live in water, so what do we do?..we learn to swim,to make boats and ships and oxygen cylinders and pretend to have conquered water, because it satisfies this ego that we carry around with us....

what if you were pushed off the edge..

a tiny splash and your dipped into this freezing cold blur

 and you cant breathe..

how simple is the process of death?

everything is designed to be simple

and we try so hard to complicate it

we are fighters

 we cage animals,dig out earth, destroy forests and all this with a smug smile our faces.That ego that feeds on us..

I wonder who is laughing at us?

or even who we are trying to impress?

think about it, one big tidal wave and a million dead.

The money, the hours,the lives,the quarells are all washed away by  water

as if  you was cleaning the floor of all that mess

but this is not enough to prove anything

are we all just that blind..?

..we need to be powerful

so we create life....we replicate people.

test tube babies and clones..

and then, the next tidal wave...and eye for an eye makes the whole world blind

so really,

when are we going to stop punching ourselves on the face?..

...................................................................................

"padre?"

I turned around to see a young man..hardly 20 years or so

"what do you want?" i snapped

 ...after days of being spat at i was in no mood for courtesy

he was taken aback..he spoke back to me in english.

"I'm sorry sir, i thought you were my father from afar....you resemble him..he is also an englishman,"

the boy spoke quite fluently ,i was amazed.he seemed so distant ,yet too close.

"i'm not ,as you you can see now.leave me alone" my voice was gruff,sore from thrist.

"i dont think he is coming"

"i never asked, did i?"

the boy stared staright at me.He had a peircing gaze, beautiful brown eyes, somehow very familiar.He was pleasant on the eyes,this kid.I never noticed before...and I, notice everything.

" i think you should come with me."he said

" and why would i?"

" you hardly seem in a position to refuse my offer either way,what do you have to lose?"

i thought for a second,another day spent wandering aimlessly was of no use to me.

" fine, i hope you have bread whereever you live "

he grinned,charming , this boy.He is used to getting his way.

"my mother will be pleased"

"to know that her son has brought her a replacement?"

he shrugged,still smiling

" you enjoy sarcasm"

"no, i was being rude"

.........................................................................................................................................

'pueblo'

i think that means village in spain...

The villages here comprised of parchment coloured dwellings stacked close togather with little windows to peep through.i'd call it 'pleasant', very convincing too.We climbed higher , it was exhausting to this boy jumping over ahead of me...i hate the young.

I wonder how old i am? i seem to be perpetually tiered.

I realized now that within the past week i had unconsiously slept throughout daylight.Deia at night speaks a different tale..one that can hardly be called 'pleasant'.But the village hides these secrets in daylight, using her utter transparency as a veil to cover herself.

And then,thats when it happened.

I stopped climbing and stood still...my body wasn't responding ...because i remembered...In a flash like lightning,it all came flooding back..or atleast part of it....and for the first time i knew.

i knew why i was in spain..In this particular village...i knew this boy and his father...but importantly i knew what i had to do.

...................................................................................

Chapter 3- Water

“If words can whisper a thousand lies

And dreams destroyed turned to ash

If blood covered a carcassed earth

And no one one

 but i lived to tell the tale….

………………………………………………………………………………………………..

…we need to be different to get along.…its ultimately all an act of balance….so that we don’t end up like players on a football field where this one big dream of a football gets kicked at, tossed and passed on 

and god is the golee.

When I was thirteen I knew this boy..this huge bulk of a bully you’d generally run away from, except that…he had magic fingers.he definetly wasn’t brilliant…but somehow whatever he put down on paper seemed big.like he had accidentally stumbled upon something extraordinary that would burst from the seams of his head and he was too blind  to see. 

I was jealous.

Years later I found out what his secret was-it turns out he was blind ,

for the first ten years of his life.so he doesn’t remember the world as we see it…he created his own world in his head….imagine this child playing architect in that scale…..he’d never seen anything before  …he built his entire world around him .

his trees, his rivers, his sand and cities could be …anything.because he’d never seen any of these before. So that’s what he did he created his own little world in his head…and lived in it.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Chapter 3

WATER...

I dont like crying ..its ridiculous and makes absolutely no sense.why must water come out of your eyes when your being ripped apart on the inside...

why cant we just breathe fire instead?

I've come a long way since that day at the train station and i've learnt so much..maybe a littl more than what i'm supposed to know. Everyday i wake up with a new peice of the puzzle ,like a alzimers paitent on reverse...recovering slowly to a deadly past he'd rather not know.

I scribbed something yesterday ..on those little brown tissues from the restaurant..the ones that are stuffed in my left coat pocket.I usually dig in to find new pictures everyday..some i remember but a few others have strokes i hav'nt seen before and i cant understand these ..as if my fingers moved with another's mind.

i woke up today with so much in a shady motel downtown.The papers were in espaniol..i'm in spain...

and within the rest of the day i need to figure out how and why.

I dont like the people here ..the women are coarse and the men half dead.The owner eyed me suspiciously as i walked out , he must have known i wouldn't return.

the streets look half dead...i wonder where in spain exactly i am?i walked faster as i noticed clouds slowly draping the sky grey...The rain disturbs me..it always has…all this water falling from the sky.how cold its touch feels…. i can see the people eying me from the streets,peeping at me from the windows high up...i stand out easily.

But I can ignore the eyes...the wide young ones ,the sly grey ones...even the yellow ones of a street cat dont bother me....infact i like his gaze the best..non-judgemental but observant.i wish this beast could talk.yet the scribbles are bothering me..i can feel the crumbled sheets as i dig into my pocket..i need to figure then out first.

Chapter 2- Memory....

CHAPTER 2

................................................................................................................................................

When I was five years old, I drew a picture, of a house.

My dad told me I was going to be an architect.

At five, my crayon drawing decided my career.

………………………………………………………………………………………………

I drew pictures just like all the other little girls.

But my house wasn’t smiling…I thought it looked like it was.. amazed. or curious …

it was as if the picture was asking me

“ so this is how you decide?”

Funny , how I just ....always knew .

………………………………………………………………………………………………

.... all i remember is all i have.

  

Date :unknown

Place: home

my memories are in patches……patches that cant be sown together because there is no needle and no thread… 

It was a Sunday.i know that for sure because everyone was home and that didnt happen often with me.

The aroma of cooked spice and oil had filed in from the kitchen and was slowly drifting out into the dining ..

i couldn't see my face in the mirror but i  remember brushing faster.

It was a typical day.i know that too..because I could predict every next move .. No surprises...not even in the headlines… people were killed at car crash ....some other people were murdered or kidnapped..a few random terrorist attacks...a very distant  relative passed away..we were the same blood but i didn't know him.. its almost funny how i didn't feel a thing….yet,very typical… .

But never get too comfortable with typical…because that’s when extraordinary decides to hit you like a bombshell.

………………………………………………………………………………………………

6:25 pm

Train station

Sometimes yesterdays feel like tomorrows..and there are never any todays…because today happens and were rushing all the while.and it feels so easy to get lost in between…thats when we stop moving.

And somehow you know that your not supposed to stop..that you should keep running even though your exhausted. And tiered.

So why do we keep running. Why cant stop and just give up?

 Maybe its because we can see the big picture far ahead…because once your done growing up you realize that there is something bigger than you and me …something that we are supposed to know…something that we are here to find out…something so big that you can never wrap your arms around it…you have to see it from all sides to figure it out.

So that’s what we do…all the while…we try to figure things out

And fit yourself into this big puzzle the world turns into..thers so much happening and your this one insignificant piece..but you don’t want to be that piece..so you try to do something more meaningful… and somewhere in between that selfish path, you see something more …. you realize that its not the pieces that matter but the big picture…the big pictiure that the puzzle is made to create 

So whether I’m chasing trains,chasing deadlines or chasing time..its the big picture that im really chasing after……   Pointless.isn't it?

………………………………………………………………………………………………

On My Own

So i've been talking

 ..a lot..

and Thinking about it for so long...

And i'm done waiting.

So

I'm writing

Fo real this time

and my novel?

here is my first chapter to all those who will ever read this...

dedicated

to all those who have ever been confused 

and frustrated

with big dreams

and loved being that way

My Book

Across Time

……………………………………………………………………………………………….

CHAPTER 1

“but all  time  stopped for that one  moment

And the world stood still, waiting for me …”

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………

The first time it happened …was almost three years ago 

but I stopped counting that very moment.

My life moves along like an alarm clock …if you keep your ear really close you can hear the sound of my footsteps .But maybe not on that day .

Because I recall It was pouring outside,the sky was dripping …I only remember the blinding darkness and occasional  hazy patches of lights that blurred past me on my way…..i could see some others rushing towards the subway , eyes glued to their watches…..watches…useless toys .. a hindrance …to misinterpret the concept of time.

I remember how it seemed like that day had been wiped of colour, the grey skies, the grey suits , the umberellas .. hats. Coal tarred roads... grim ashen faces..how these people strive to live their lives in the greying future.

Grey…..grey shold be the lack of colour…its neither black nor white..but in between..somehow we are all like that…stuck in between..never completely falling ,never completely certain

If Grey is the colour of everything in between I understand it

. .

You should all know, that I am different. I didn’t live with these… people. Moscow at sunrise, lunch near Notre dame, Evenings with fujishima and venice by sundown.1866, 1605,2045,1101 ..years , hours , minutes , seconds have no meaning for me…time is merely an illusion………

Page 2

Date :unknown

Place-Great Briton

Its freezing in October..I have to pull my jacket closer as I reach the station ,the newspaper boys greets me with his yellow smile ,the exuberant grin that often adorns the faces of the young

 “Great Briton, 1846” 

I smile back  and toss him a penny…he thinks this is going to give him a start in life..a better chance…but I’ve seen him years later after the war at the same station, in the biggest island in Europe.

An old man half bent with age

“Great Briton, 1929.sir”

His sad eyes light up for a second as he hands me the paper, the flicker of envy that I remain untouched by time .somehow, I always felt like he knew my secret.

I wish he did….

I start scribbling the moment I’m seated…, my large sheets of paper strewn all around me.but for the first time I’m uncomfortable…for the first time I feel like I’m being watched 

I swivel in my seat only to find this little girl standing right next to me. She was clinging hard to her mother’s skirt, struggling for balance ..but all she sees is me.she watches my hands, the way my fingers move as if nothing else existed. For a moment fear grips my heart and I wince under her piercing gaze.

i wonder what will happen to her.

Who will she be? 

Out of all the people I see , big people in a bigger world leading big lives,

 This little thing threatens me.

I get down at the next stop…I have to clear my head of these thoughts…on my way I pass the st. Paul’s cathedral…Christopher wren…nice man..good architect. but I didn’t come here all the way to meet him.

The bell tower strikes tweleve times , a shrill annoying noise echoes  through those silent streets ..i know this silence…its the silence that follows a heavy downpour..and accompanies recuperation ..that short period of silence where everything slows down for a brief moment ..no fast cars, no crowded streets,no busy people hurrying somewhere,no anxiety, no  footsteps….except mine.

 I remember running faster , hoping I would’nt slip.i was never a good athlete .if I had a watch I would probably have timed myself…its funny how time plays these little tricks on me…I can imagine the world laughing , silently watching everything everywhere like all this was just a big joke…23,24,25 yes I was there!

I was heaving.. not because of the running..but because I was scared...actually scared is an understatement..i was frightened to death..like there was this heavy cold stone lodged in my chest and I couldn’t breathe hard enough to push it out. a few short moments is all I had left. I could already see the towering building coming into view in front of me….it had to be done now…

I could feel that crumbled piece of paper in my pocket…my only clue to who I was..they say some people keep photographs....i have a  page from a diray. everytime I’m confused I take out this piece of brown paper..this remainder so .even if I’m not sure of who I am now…at least I can depend on who I was a long time ago..