intent-driven vs (negative)-look-back driven

performance factor/ not authoring own story as we go

we need one daily scott adams essay

 There is no shortage of wealth in this world - of leisure, of dignity, affection ... what this world lacks is a wealth of credit, and in the sisyphean endeavour to even out the distribution of this, real wealths have been destroyed, not looted, destroyed. 

I have a tendency to shut off completely, and go along with whatever is in vogue in the current micro-society ( meaning bunch of two-three people I am around)

as a result, I have no continuing efforts or results, on the ground. In my mind - yes, but not on the ground.

I also have developed the ability to not complete any task set before me. I blame this squarely on this phase of life not being built on bedrock, but off of other people's roofs or walls. The hesitancy to commit given the lack of bedrock or sky, has run for decades now, and half-assery is now detectable in my blood cells, under a microscope.

This gives me considerable unease, which can be masked by eating, reading blogs, doing THAT one thing to keep the nearest boss happy, while slow-death-ing the soul work.

 sometimes , you meet life 

you blink

then it's twenty-five years later

in other news

the beanstalk attempted to bake bread again

the beanstalk added a lot of dutch cocoa powder

the beanstalk forgot to add sugar

the bread came out amazingly well

in shape, texture, and sponginess

looks chocolatey, 

tastes like a naan

"If you think this is your country, your government, your people, then you've completely misunderstood the nature of the beast. Remember Hobbes ... are you a person or an cell in a leviathan ?"

The agent looked steadily at Jeepley. The record of traces and sightings lay on the table between them, with its worn cover facing up.

 it's not a line

but a cloud

to cross

one side ends in stone

ether waits on the other

side

Jeepley goes around

 Jeepley got off the boat and tested his legs on terra firma, glad that they held, then quickly walked to dock office. It was deserted,  as was the road outside - no taxis or buses. The faded timetable in the office  said the minibus was expected at 4 and he had an hour to kill by then. He sat down on the single bench, and looked out over the water. The plan was still going as per schedule.

The minibus dropped him off at a section of the road which looked exactly the same as any other, while the driver gave him instructions  . Walking through two wooded plots, which he was sure was someone's estate- he was trespassing no less, he turned left at the heap of coloured rocks, and climbed up the slope to the cottage. It came into view after a turn in the road. It was a pretty road, with large trees on either side, and the sky was blue,   that he forgot all of the City  as he huffed up the path,   with  an eye on the loose stones.

The key was under the mat. He let himself in. He met the other guests at tea time. A pair of glasses read a book,  immobile except to occasionally turn a page . A grey sweater smoked a cigarette on a chair in the garden.A squirrel ran up a tree, being late for its tea perhaps.

 The housekeeper manifested in the kitchen at sunset, and began to cook. At the dinner table, Jeepley looked around to see if a Queegeeg would show, chuckling mentally.  

The ship was expected to cross the town in a day or two. Lots would happen then. Until then there was dinner and a walk.

I have a soft corner in heart for Rudyard Kipling's Kim (the more  I think about it, the more I believe my heart is entirely made of soft corners, with no hard center) .When I read Kim I of course put myself in his shoes. When i read any Holmes story, it takes me to a safe & predictable world where truth and good prevail.  I recently read Mary Russell's The Game ( Laurie King) . It didn't disappoint( unlike Doyle, the plot isn't linear, but meanders and regularly submerges itself in the background ...)

The story follows Holmes & Russell's search for a missing Kim in an Indian princely state. They find him, Kim has a child now - a boy - who joins their adventures, they are captured , rescued, and afterwards, Kim disappears into the mountains. 

Now to have Kim grow up, have a son ( me too), and then disappear into the hills - makes me feel like I am losing myself ,that i am somehow free no more, and will have to work to the whims of the world from now on.. I feel like every bus ride is a imposition, so every car ride, every interaction forced, and every meal a passing compromise. Escape comes in the form of books (like the Game), or tv now and then, but then the chains slip back. An inversion has occurred - earlier, I used to throw off the yoke of work at home, and would be free. now like air, that  yoke has permeated every moment , and it's not just work, but the responsibility of it ,for others, for small ones, and old... the self is feeling so neglected

edit : 14 Mar addition

In 'Kim', the llama returns to the mountains after vainly seeking his river in the plains. That felt a bit.  Now after the reunion, we lose Kim too, and while Holmes can return to 221 Baker street ( did you know it was just two bedrooms and a sitting room, no more ? I knew but didn't 'know' know ....  I do now...).

I have neither the mountains nor 221b.  I feel like when we set out on a train journey with my friends, and halfway, they got off midway, for an adventure, leaving me to continue amidst unfeeling strangers... carrying the fast fading memories of the bonhomie and the rush of youthful exuberance. College was a bubble where dreams took birth, avoiding and barely surviving the pre-liberalisation vibe of home and school. Job was where the dreams took root and put forth tender leaves. Now, having baked in the city for donkey's years, ground to a dust, body and soul past rebelling, the bare rememberance of the dreams' existence  causes panic and palpitations. I refuse to step down from my mind world, and be part of this tissue of life of this city... and yet I cannot do anything else... day by day, breath by breath I am pushed to the edges, from thereof to become the landscape, the uncle, the local, whom the kids dream of escaping, into worlds gotten through their books and series'... and  I used to be them, and haven't made my escape yet. coming home to my parents' world , taking up their roles,  is bittersweet, but also heartbreaking, also gloomy beyond description, soulless void , dark and despondent..

the people who made me, some are gone in this world, some in other ways... who will know who I am what I was ,... what am I without them, was I ever anything ?