He wrote his own obituary
For the words come out right
His will said he had no heir
For he never owned enough might
He wrote to complete his story
Lest it should be misinterpreted
By the flickering candlelight
Every night to himself he read it
He wrote on stacks of bar napkins
As light as his heart heavy
Fallen legend with little fortune
Toast to last days of fake merry
Time flew, none on his side
He failed to be anyone's bother
'Cause he wrote and he wrote and he wrote
But never could read another
Sunday, April 12, 2009
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4 comments:
Isn’t indulgence a good thing, like the best of things? Like indulging in amusing, in surprising, in challenging, in tiring, in exciting one’s own self? Like losing one’s self completely within the labyrinth of one’s mind?
We do read others. All of us do. But do we read ourselves enough, I wonder. I mean, are we done with ourselves? I’m not even sure I’m one-quarter of a way there.
You know what I think? As in from my viewpoint?
I believe The Writer, while he exhaled the last token of air in his lungs, felt himself to be the most satisfied man on the face of the earth. He might have died a happy man or a sad man, that I don’t know, but he died a content man. He understood his philosophy, the philosophy of his spent life, and there in lay a beautiful beautiful feeling of closure.
Oh absolutely. He did die a content man. That was the whole purpose, despite all his shortcomings and perceptions about him. My brother kind of raised the same question there!
I guess I did confuse myself somewhere there but was trying to make sense of it. Like when I say his heart was heavy, why would that be given he was content. Why would he want to read another if he was content? But aren't there always instances in one's life where you wish you had done something differently but its a feeling that only lasts a little while and then you attribute/blame it on the circumstances or simply the kind of person you are? I guess like everyone The Writer is full of paradoxes himself and he loves it. He enjoys the complexity of self and like you so eloquently pointed out, indulges in it.
The best thing about your comments is that I actually get a different perspective or just clarity on what I wrote! Thanks!
P.S: This was very fleetingly inspired by a scene in Amadeus
There’s quite a precise word you use there – paradox. And you know, there’s one paradox that always does reside within all of us, especially the creative ones.
Kindly bear with me here.
This paradox is one of self-righteous in its nature. Allow me to elucidate it with a classic example.
I take Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead, a book at the altar of which many worship and the steps of which I haven’t even set my eyes on. Yet I know many friends who happen to be devotees and I have debated the same, and I happen to have garnered some sort of idea on the structure of the book.
I assume you’ve read it, and you would agree with me that the book sides with Roark. The man who is supremely aware of his philosophy, and content all the same. He doesn’t consider it worthwhile to mediate into others misdeeds, which stands him squarely opposite to Toohey, who is hell bent upon transforming the world opinion along his lines.
Now, if Rand supports Roark, why would she indulge in a self righteous 50-page speech and why would she side on with Roark, for she herself and all her life has been as forceful a voice as Toohey.
I believe, ditto with us. We aren’t that good at understanding others without falling into needless kitsch. We always carry the burden of subjectivity and humanity, often forced. At the same time we’re better equipped to understand our own selves, and yet this is what we intend to project to others so that others could learn, whilst those others are caught up in the same paradox. I hope you get my point. That is why honest reflections are often mistaken for indulgences, especially in art, and clear ones are considered monuments of achievement.
I might be wrong here, and grossly so. I don’t know.
I feel like commenting here because honesty always draws me in, it always does. I want to know what’s going on between those words and how it reflects to me. And often I do not understand your poems, I’m awfully bad at getting them, but when I do I only realize what I am actually not getting/missing on other occasions.
A P.S. from me too: - If you ever get a chance please do read Christopher Priest’s The Affirmation. What you so beautifully and concisely put in these 16 lines, he indulges in a book for the same.
The Fountainhead actually happens to be one of my favourite books, not that I read too much. From what I have gathered of Ayn Rand in the past year, the book is an exaggerated version of her very strong pro-capitalist views :) Her writings actually are quite an irony considering where on one hand Roark always strived to maintain his artistic integrity, it is Rand herself that setup the first censor board for movies in the US, curbing anything that let artistic freedom be!
Coming to subjectivity and humanity, I'm not sure I quite comprehend the context in which you mean it but (this may be related or not) when my brother asked me why the poem was short and he felt that I could perhaps give a background on how Thw Writer became the way he was, I thought it was quite unnecessary. I did not want to justify him; portray him as a victim of circumstances, a man born cold or simply a self-indulger.
Frankly sometimes I don't understand what I write either but it could be my Id talking and I don't wanna overlook it :)
As for this discussion, I regret to say that this is all the intelligence I can conjure up *snicker* I do like to think of myself more as a singer than a writer! Do send me your email id, I shall mail you a song we recorded at MICA. My email id is: archita.trisal@gmail.com
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