Infinity as a concept isn't exciting, it's disturbing. Anything endless is too much for the human brain to take. But it can be exciting when seen through something eee-nawr-muss. The size reminds us that grand infinity is present, and the boundaries stop that presence from going beyond a deliciously vague silhouette.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Which is why I love My Place.
When I go to My Place, I can see the sky set against the field. So in effect, I know where the sky begins. And ends. But the field is so fucking huge, that at any given point, I can’t see both extremities at once. And that gives me a curious sense of freedom.
At this point, one says things like ‘it’s my own special discovery and I have it entirely to myself’. Unfortunately, there are a few others who know about it. They go there too, even when I’m around. But yes, in a way, I still have it to myself. All I have to do is take a few steps forward. Leave those nameless faces behind. And then just forget about them.
Easier done than thought to be. For there is no dearth of distractions.
Just stare, stare at the sky that’s never quite the same colour. One day, you’ll find it a happy shade of blue- the blue of wide-eyed innocence and baby bedsheets. On another, it’ll be a blue so rich, so luscious, it seems liquid. And then there are days it isn’t blue at all but dark grey, like secrets that can’t be revealed.
It’s not all about the sky. There’s the wild, wild grass which at times is magically trimmed, and for the most part is magically overgrown.
There’s the long line of old wall, broken by cave-ins and rusty gates. The gates are rusty, because who uses gates when there are walls to scale and trees to climb?
I can do almost anything there. Think. Zone out. Sing and dance. Pretend to be on the verge of discovering a crime or confessing love to my Person. Anything I do there feels right.
Even voyeurism. Oh yes, I spy on people, on the innermost, secretest corners of their lives. I spy through the wall. Not a hole or a crack. But scribbles. I know that 'Lily loves Luke' was written by a lonely English student, obsessed with alliterations. I know that a certain dirty knock knock joke was written by a chubby, 13 yr old boy who peeks at the Calcutta Times when his parents aren't looking. I know that 'I was here. Yes, I.' was written by my kind of person, and probably the only one I would talk to in My Place. IF we met. I haven't met any of them. But I know all of this because I read walls for a living.
It's not an easy thing to do, and My Place never gives me a hint. Because it doesn't think of itself as mine. I can tell in the way it responds. For one, it hardly does. I’ve never felt it waiting for me. Or detected a sense of fulfillment when I arrive. But that has its own charm. Something that vast couldn’t possibly be owned, not by anybody. It’s free. And I feel free when I’m there. That’s about as deep as the bond will ever get.
It works for me though. It works just fine.
Posted by Anushka at 7:07 PM