Stakes

What is at stake is the inching towards perfection. What is at stake is the creation of a magnificent representation, of feeling, far superior than it's original. Worthy of enamouring the weaver.

Ah no, what was never at stake was its worthiness amidst the beholder. It never was. It was not about meaning, or moving, or affirmation.

What was always at stake was the creator, not the beholder.

***

What is at stake, is the seizing of each moment of seizable discrete time, living it to the vibrant fullest. What is at stake is the feeling of life, at each of those units time. The beating of the heart; the fluttering of eyelids; the dilations of irises.

Whether that be through unravelling the mysteries when plagued by curiosity. Or be endeared in nature's embrace, or in loving, and being loved; or in creating a Galatea, and falling in love, and living a life of adoration and admiration and servility; or staking one's stake in with the commonwealth's, for love, or to set oneself right.

What is never at stake, is going through the constructions of society, and fighting to see meaning and beauty in the motions. Nay, unless it is in those motions that one finds completion.

***

What is at stake is always ahead, is always from within, until there is nothing more to stake. That is the moment of completion. The moment of finitude. The moment we grace the end with satisfaction at having staked, and won, and at having left nothing behind. May we all be blessed with finitude.


[big acknowledgement to Kana, for reading, liking, owning, and changing this. but i'll keep the structure, K; it is more dense that what I would like for poetry]

Descending into poetry

A lick of feeling whipped off the eddies of my soul. I throw it at the wall, and the pandora bursts, led artfully to create vivid graffiti. My little feeling is an opera centre-stage; majestic, lone, classic. I behold that art of my feeling. And as such perceived, twice removed from the chaos of its origin, moves me, brings me to peace.

(I, perchance, have no right to be feeling x amidst the multitude n of alphabets, so much more grave than x. And yet, here I am with x; my soul craves satisfaction; cringes from lack of attention; yearns for resolution. Locked up with her, I glance into her beautiful deep brown eyes, swirling in and in into her irises. A glance of flame, a pat of inspiration, and here I descend into poetry. Ah poetry, I could dance away the Milky Way with you. Whither have you been.)


[thanks Kana for the comments. i've edited a bit. will rework-repost later.]

Inchworm

Inchworm, inchworm, measuring the marigolds,
You and your arithmetic,
You'll probably go far...

Inchworm, inchworm, measuring the marigolds,
Seems to me you'll stop and see,
How beautiful they are.

(To Sunniva.)

silent secrets.

treading the world
little light feet
ever so careful
nimble
droplets on a lotus leaf.

networks
nudges
cause and effect
cracks on glass
find a place
in your heart.

privileged, guilty.
heedy, helpless.
you watch
and take lighter steps.

Pushpa enjoyed everything

"Pushpa enjoyed everything in the social circles of Bombay..."

It's been two years. The paperboat has sailed a little further, soaking in a bit more wetness as it went. More humility was learnt. A bit of arrogance and naivety chopped off. Life has been safe. Academia. Aha. Very safe. Afternoon's rice and evening's curry have been the issues of the day. Don't worry, we're all safe.

"In the social production of their lives, men enter into relations independent of their will..."

Lessons have been learnt through bad investments of time and energy. Tales have been realised for what they are, tales. Each lesson saw the addition of another Post-It reminder on the inside of my cupboard. Have quite a few now. I've loved, and lost... Hated love, and then realised that, indeed, to have loved and lost was better than not having loved at all... I've avoided people and places... I've haunted people and places... But, I've also made peace... I've met all sorts of people. A different kind of all sorts of people. Either they are different, or I'm wearing a new set of synthetic a-priori lenses.

"I have... some other commitments"

Existentialist angst achieved new depths. Susceptibility to weakness experienced, and realised. Written, not. Read, not so much. Thought, not so much. Known myself more, not so much. New skills learnt, naught. Old skills lost, quite a bit. Everything I was proud of about myself - love, principles, commitments - has melted away, leaving me disappointingly naked in the penetrating Hyderabad afternoon sunlight. But thankfully, it causes more worry than pity.

"The truth is, I had completely forgotten her"

I made some amazing friends. Some amazing, simple, beautiful people. Not more of the middle-class balderdash of fake interest, sympathy, and ego massages. No more hanky panky "oh, you lost the sock your mom gave you, that's terrible, here let me give you a hug, would you like to talk about it". But true middle-class survival for existence; you listen if you are made to, you talk if you can make someone listen. And the truth, always - you are alone. Many lessons in life were undelibratingly learnt. I wish lessons in class had proceeded so as well.

"If I may, if you permit me, I was wondering..."

Who am I? I'm no one. I'm just a person you have met. We can have a chat... Catch a chai or wine. Or take a walk. Or we can climb a tree. That's who I am. A person to be with you right now, right here. You have ideas? I would love to hear them, and think them through. This naked hamster loves to play with your ideas. That's my vocation and avocation (If I say chalo, need to be getting back to work now, you know that I don't like you and I think your ideas are stupid or inconsistent; I don't have any work...). And that's who I am. I also like silence. A lot.


But, Pushpa enjoyed everything in the social circles of Bombay... The greens, the trees... The people... The ferris wheel... The talks, the walks, the debilitating heat... The birds... The poetry... The pictures... The mineral water... The love... The hate... The weakness... The strength... The books... The ideas... The aesthetic... The insolence... The subalternity... The silence... The teas... The rocks... Pushpa... Enjoyed everything... And I'm going to miss you all.

The Grand Hotel

An infinitely large hotel (a truly Grand hotel) with infinitely many guests (a “full” hotel, by finitist standards) can always fit one more guest in, by moving each of the guests already occupying a room to the room next to it (thereby leaving room one free for the newcomer). In fact, it can fit infinitely many new guests in (by, this time, moving each guest to a room with a room-number twice as large as the one they were occupying, thereby leaving all the odd-numbered rooms free for the infinitely many newcomers). And, if infinitely many guests move out – it will still be full.

William Lane Craig (1991) “The Existence of God and the Beginning of the Universe.” Truth: A Journal of Modern Thought. Volume 3.


Two morals:
(1) The [physical, macroscopic] real makes an unsuitable host for actual infinity, because
(2) Even when it comes to infinity, our intuitions are modelled on the finite

Rather a simple solution: Infinite sets are a different kind of sets, than finite sets. They have radically different properties. (Georg Cantor, 1932)

Interesa? http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Georg_Cantor

Could I riddle you a smile?

(Til deg, T...)



blip blip blip blip
The fireflies pop av og på
before a lake behind
(that aspires to capture the heavens
and make it its own;
stupid lake
vet ikke at
the heavens are eons away
and a tad bit bigger
than itself)

And life plays out in a series of ballets,
Craftspeople we, weaving carpets
of sensitive twirls and curls
each weave intending into a coherent whole.

In a quiet trance of meditation
ask yourself the riddle
of life's existence;
i have no answer,
but it does seem beautiful,
to exist at all.
and to know that existence is.
("Not beautiful" The Kulk would say, but "Sublime.")

Distangling each weave,
i realise,
there's nothing left!

Mayhaps an simplification, but-
There is no ought-to-be.
Would i be audacious enough to claim that there ought not be an ought-to-be?
Nay. I give you that.
Baskets are beautiful people.
In the weaves, there emerge the oughts and nots;
but, if you will it so, there need not be
an ought to be.
Si?

Sigh. If you keep that aside,
we can still dance to the rhythm of life.
Lub dub, lub dub.
Because life is.
And, why not,
smil :)