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23

Jul

20

Jul

At Times

Courage, please soar and rise within, every time there is an attempt to intimidate me.Tell me I am strong, tell me I belong, to the place of the brave.

14

Jul

The Sinking World

It’s not that she didn’t want to wake up with strained blinking eyes to greet the first streaks of morning, all happy and bursting with life. It’s just that she didn’t want to. Nothing inspired her about her surrounding - her bed, the white wardrobe door, that deep colored curtain, or that mirror standing still across the room. She woke up every morning and looked around feeling strange, and stranger. As if life had uprooted itself and landed somewhere millions of miles away, where the palpable kinetic energy that surpasses reality, enters her blood stream and dives into the unknown, was gone. All of it. 

Why did people make such a big deal about waking up feeling like it’s a new day and that statement alone was enough to make you feel powerful, she did not know. She didn’t feel anything near it. Perhaps it’s one of those cliched facades of waking up and dreaming you have a different life, which her surrounding repeatedly told her that it wasn’t. It’s like taking a dip into the middle of the ocean, yet feeling like standing in the middle of a room, eating your breakfast cereal, watching your favorite tv show, warming your couch. But you are not in your element. You are under water, in a different world, watching yourself do boring monotonous things without any meaning while this world swam around you, constantly reminding you that it exists and you are a part of it, yet not really a part of it.

Where was this annui and fear coming from? When will this ambiguity be lifted? She did not know.

So she quietly got up, put on her mask, decided to ignore everything and go about her day. She ate her breakfast cereal, watched her favorite tv show and then turned off the television and sat in silence. 

~ Inspired by The Sinking World, by Andreas Franke

Fantastic concept

asylum-art:

Mohawk Project – The new project of underwater photography by Robert Staudinger and Andreas Franke 

After “The Vandenberg, Life Below the Surface” and “Stavronikita Project“, here is the new project of the Austrian photographer Andreas Franke, the third part of his series “The Sinking World“. This new series of photographs entitled “Mohawk Project“, uses, as the previous two, remnants of a submarine warship, here the USS Mohawk CGC, to give birth to surreal and aquatic life scenes, mixing with talent underwater photography and digital retouching. The highlight of the show: Andreas Franke then displays his amazing compositions under water, using the shipwreck as an amazing art gallery, only accessible to divers. A fascinating project!

21

Jun

asylum-art:

Glass Gellage by Michal Macku

Since the end of 1989, Michal Macku has used his own creative technique which he has named “Gellage” (the ligature of collage and gelatin). The technique consists of transfering the exposed and fixed photographic emulsion from its original base on paper. This transparent and plastic gelatin substance makes it possible to reshape and reform the original images, changing their relationships and endowing them with new meanings during the transfer. The finished work gives a compact image with a fine surface structure.

- William Ernest Henley

- William Ernest Henley

10

Jun

Waking Up

Hiding behind the lines

soft and squashable

Like smooth canvas paper

We fade.

07

Jun

tylerknott:

Typewriter Series #802 by Tyler Knott Gregson

tylerknott:

Typewriter Series #802 by Tyler Knott Gregson

thingssheloves:

Hotel entrance by jrobertblack on Flickr.

Conscious Uncoupling | goop.com

11

Apr

Weightlessness

You said the shadows wouldn’t chase me, they won’t chase me

 But they did.

You said I wouldn’t hurt me, no won’t hurt me,

 But I did.

They said not boxes but circles, just circles

They came out square

I said time time, like storm before rain,

But the clouds,

 They come every day.

The diamonds went dime, not stolen, never far

All gone worthless, so bland, so dull

The mirror read stories of faces, long gone places, Something else more shapeless lay trapped, unrecognized.

Longing, just longing, to climb out again

Where lights and bubbles, earthly fairies play

Instead I felt naked, and barren, and frail

 I’m scarred, I’m scarred, I’m scared

I’m barely there.

19

Mar

10th Anniversary

image

image

March 19th, 2014 —

Today is the 10th death anniversary of my aunt, my mami. It’s the same year my family and I immigrated to Canada. 10 years have passed since I have resided in North America, and nothing pulls me back homewards other than my grandfather, and the loving memories of this woman who smiles in these pictures. On paper she died of a massive heart attack, but in truth she died of a broken heart.

I remember her exactly as in this picture - always smiling, always jolly, the heart and mind of a saint. She was one of the most beautiful and gracious women I have ever known. It was almost sinful, I thought, to be so pure and angelic. She was strong and resilient, but I saw her tears while watching silly family dramas on the telly on random afternoons.

She too, like me, left everything and all she knew behind in India, to live and make her life with the man she loved. She loved him for 10 years since she was 13 years old. Once she opened her eyes to the wonderful possibilities of romance, and once she knew love, she only knew how to love my uncle. Love stories like their’s was only written in fairy tales I thought. After her passing, I realized I thought right. Not their marriage, but their love, specifically her love for him, is what kept me going when I was a budding teenager dreaming of big things and wild romances. I used to think, here is a real example of what true love is. 

She taught me how to love, how to be kind, how to be strong, and how to be vulnerable. She was a dedicated principal of her school, a compassionate mother and a wonderful sister to my mother. When she died, hundreds and hundreds of people came to pay their respects - her students, their parents, all my school teachers who were her closest friends and colleagues, to long distance relatives and staffs who had worked with her. Her legacy and her testimony lay bare for all to see, as every single person I passed wept and shed tears for her. She was that kind of a woman.

I will always remember the last time I saw her alive. She was already suffering from a heart attack that began 8 in the morning. Clenching onto her chest and her face completely drenched in sweat, cringing in unimaginable pain. The last look from my mami was from the open window of our car, as my parents rushed to take her to the nearest hospital. It was a glance I exchanged with her for bare seconds before they took off. Her face had a look of shielded despair - neither one of us knew what was going to happen. A silent fear of the unknown engulfed me at that moment. But I will never forget her face. People look for context in serious situations all the time, I don’t know what her glance meant. But all I knew was she looked at me straight into the eye, still strong and resilient, still bold and fighting in her own sweet way. 

I miss her so much, every so often. It took me years to overcome her passing. I somehow kept thinking she was going to walk through that door, any second now, for months and months till we finally left for Toronto. I visited her grave every time I have been back, somehow hoping she could hear me every time.

She was my second mom, the woman I aspire to be in life and the angel on earth who died for those who did not have the guts or the will power to believe in her. But I will not let that disappear. I strive to keep her legacy, her memories and tales of her beauty alive through me, my kids and every generation to come. 

Rest in peace, mami. I love you so much.

the art of honest conversations

I feel that the art of honest conversations has died somewhere along the road. I noticed this deterioration over the years - somewhere between age 16, when knowledge was being shoved down my throat whether I liked it or not, and age 26, when I was well past the drunken college days and making plans for my future. At first I thought it had to do with age and maturity, but then I realized it had to do with people. Especially the quality of people you choose to surround yourself with. If there are way more small talks going on at random and not enough sincerity and truthfulness, then your life lacks an honest conversation. Your life lacks clarity.

Small talks absolutely exhaust me. There is only this much of superficial nothingness I can handle over and over again with the same people, who I know in my heart, are never going to be, well, “honest” with me. I used to find really fantastic people to talk to in my teenage and young adolescent years. These human beings were full of depth, perceptive and sharp by nature, witty in humor; people who knew and understood life inside out and had the same unquenchable thirst and excitement for knowledge as I did. We could discuss Beethoven, Pablo Neruda’s poetry, private family/relationship matters, the diversity of the human mind to why pigs can’t fly. Everything was done with candor, wit and honesty. And let’s be honest, these conversations cannot happen if the other person isn’t ready to receive that level of honesty. It’s a two way street. So even though a lot of us crave honest conversations, I simply feel there are not enough people out there anymore who are open to receiving it. 

Some spend a lifetime not knowing what an honest conversation is. They think they have it, but most of the time it turns out to be just an idea of what they think it is. I often associate honesty with depth. As hard as it is to find honest people, it’s perhaps harder to find those who’s life lessons, learning and adventures, have given them layers of skin and growth, made their minds more prominent and deep. The hardest is to actually speak with transparency and connect with someone like that after all that trouble of finding them.

People seem to be so guarded these days - most I have encountered seem to wear at least ten different masks in their lifetime. Why is it so hard to see that we are shackled and bound by these masks of repression? These masks will protect you but will they fulfill you? 

Everyone is protecting themselves so they don’t get judged, misunderstood, ostracized or ignored. Too afraid to make mistakes. Somewhere down life’s path, we begin to control our natural instincts until we are all the same people moving in and out of the same light and darkness, never knowing what could lie outside that morose monotony. Some are too afraid to be honest. Most are not comfortable having that level of a conversation. So what’s the point really, of waking up every morning and filling your heads with all the things you have to do in a day? Who will be the witness to your life other than you? Do we not owe it ourselves, to make those connections, to reject traditional inhibitions and submit to the raw and candid conscientiousness that we all innately possess? 

06

Mar

Wonderment

If bad things happen to good people, I must be a good person.