For Now We'll Make A Vow

Many writers and creative artists go through period of self doubt and uncertainty, where they are not sure if what they do is of any value in the larger scheme of things, or even in the relatively smaller arena of craftsmanship or social chitter chatter. In my case, that has been the dominating feeling about almost everything I have turned to. There have been multiple periods of my life where I have totally turned away from the pursuits that my muse led me towards, often with self destructive and self defeating loathing and anger. Hold that thought.

All of these periods have yielded to mornings when the birdcalls have convinced me that there is a message in everything, that the call of the divine is often misheard, that to give up is to betray the cause. What that cause is is another question altogether, since my mission seems to be to rail against all that is popularly perceived as fair, pleasurable, right, and perhaps even noble. With the gusto of a long abstinence joyfully broken, I tilt at the windmills again, firm in my conviction that if we did not choose simplicity, time would force it upon us, that commerce needs us to be blind to the consequences of our actions, and that Marcus Aurelius any day outlives Mark Zuckerberg.


So here I am again, wondering if I have anything of value to share with you Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. My vanity does not take much convincing, but my gut worries about the consequences of being truthful about what you feel in the times we live in today. I strongly believe that events like the Babri Masjid Ram Janmabhoomi, the 9/11 attacks, or the Las Vegas shootings are not about religious beliefs, economics, or gun control. I believe they all arise from a fundamental alienation from the principles of natural living. I am no Dabholkar, Pansare, Kalburgi or Lankesh. I do not come from the pain or conviction that the journalists of Raqqa is Being Silently Slaughtered came from. I like my life and the fact that I am alive. In other words, I am a coward - rational maybe, but a coward all the same.

Bowling Pins

Every night a spider spins
A humble clever web between
The banister and the elevator door
At the entrance to my office.

I know why Spidey does that;
For life, for preying, sustenance,
The drive that makes us all do
The things that we do.

Every night when I go down
The stairs to stretch my legs
I knock it down without knowing,
Till it silky irritates my skin.

I do that a few times each night
And every time the web is up.
Each time I knock it down
Spidey just builds back up.

In human terms I wonder how
Often it must happen to us
Before we finally give up,
Or whether we ever will.
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