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| From here |
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| From here |
I have been long since convinced that our entire existence is tied in with the world around us. The Gaia Theory hypothesizes just such an interconnectedness.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Of stardust and things beyond us
I have been long since convinced that our entire existence is tied in with the world around us. The Gaia Theory hypothesizes just such an interconnectedness.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Self-examination on a sunny day
We did not see the sun for close to a week in this part of the world. I was miserable! Apologies to all those who thought it was 'romantic'. I don't get it. One sudden cloudy afternoon is nice but a week of cloudy, damp days is just such a downer.
Today the sun is out in all its glory and I have spent an hour just letting its warmth soak into my bones. Maybe it's age or maybe I just appreciate these simple pleasures a lot more these days. A couple of weeks ago , for example, I found myself just looking , really looking at a gloriously blood red sunset.There is something to be said for mindfulness.
And then yesterday, at work, for a couple of hours a lovely woman came by and just lifted us all out of ourselves. It was Deepti Naval.
Today the sun is out in all its glory and I have spent an hour just letting its warmth soak into my bones. Maybe it's age or maybe I just appreciate these simple pleasures a lot more these days. A couple of weeks ago , for example, I found myself just looking , really looking at a gloriously blood red sunset.There is something to be said for mindfulness.
And then yesterday, at work, for a couple of hours a lovely woman came by and just lifted us all out of ourselves. It was Deepti Naval.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Frankincense is for remembrance
So, this is my 'Oman binge' part of the week /month. The 'Oman binge' is that part of the week/month when I cannot stop thinking about the place and very much resembles those moments of brilliantly unadulterated longing that strikes when thoughts of a beloved paramour come unbidden. And of late, the one thing that absolutely satisfies the craving short of actually packing my bags and hopping on a plane is the prose of Tim Mackintosh-Smith.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
I am one of Tony Judt's 'edge people'
My earliest and clearest memory is of the mountains visible from the windows of the living room of our flat in Muttrah, Oman. They were a mix of an unrelenting ocher and a darker shade of brown for 355 days of the year. And then with the winter rains , suddenly they burst forth in an abundantly rich green growth interspersed with tiny gushing white rapids of rainwater. This phenomenal display lasted about ten days and sometimes less. I don't remember feeling anything particularly by way of emotions looking at the scene. But I do remember not being able to look away. My four year old self of course had no specifically profound thoughts to think about those mountains. Neither does my adult self come to think of it . Perhaps this was when I began appreciating beauty for beauty's sake. And that isn't such a bad thing you know.
In any case I often wonder ( when I do wonder) about my identity in some vague and wondrous way. I do not seem to have one as an Indian at least not in the ways that I think about myself as an Omani and otherwise hopelessly restless wanderer. Can I possibly think of myself as an Omani because my earliest ( and happiest) memories are all of Oman? How could I possibly be an Indian if the only thing about India that I can say is that this is where my parents are from and this is where I studied for a few years in young adulthood. And yet, I suppose I am Indian too in more ways than a couple of pieces of paper can attest. And my parents themselves have in fact lived in Oman far longer than they have ever lived in India. Now you see why my profile says 'undecided'. I am a work in progress and quite confident will always be even as all that I am evolves and dilutes and concentrates in different ways. I am a mixed-up, deconstructed, reconstituted, twisted, completely wholesome, thoroughly unwholesome, thoroughly Omanized, Anglicized, 'Americanized', Indianized, 'Muslimized' ,'completely at peace with my mixed-up potpourri of an identity' mess. And I love every minute of it and all the perspectives it provides even to the point of a cultural schizophrenia. 'Cosmopolitan' does not even begin to define the messy, twisted spaghetti-noodleness of all the things that I am and will be.
And the point here, if one must be made , is that some time last year I found this beautiful piece written by that beautifully, achingly brilliant man , Tony Judt , just before his death and it's called Edge People. And this is what he had to say in it :
"I prefer the edge: the place where countries, communities, allegiances, affinities, and roots bump uncomfortably up against one another—where cosmopolitanism is not so much an identity as the normal condition of life. Such places once abounded. Well into the twentieth century there were many cities comprising multiple communities and languages—often mutually antagonistic, occasionally clashing, but somehow coexisting. Sarajevo was one, Alexandria another. Tangiers, Salonica, Odessa, Beirut, and Istanbul all qualified—as did smaller towns like Chernovitz and Uzhhorod. By the standards of American conformism, New York resembles aspects of these lost cosmopolitan cities: that is why I live here.
To be sure, there is something self-indulgent in the assertion that one is always at the edge, on the margin. Such a claim is only open to a certain kind of person exercising very particular privileges. Most people, most of the time, would rather not stand out: it is not safe. If everyone else is a Shia, better to be a Shia. If everyone in Denmark is tall and white, then who—given a choice—would opt to be short and brown? And even in an open democracy, it takes a certain obstinacy of character to work willfully against the grain of one’s community, especially if it is small.
But if you are born at intersecting margins and—thanks to the peculiar institution of academic tenure—are at liberty to remain there, it seems to me a decidedly advantageous perch: What should they know of England, who only England know? If identification with a community of origin was fundamental to my sense of self, I would perhaps hesitate before criticizing Israel—the “Jewish State,” “my people”—so roundly. Intellectuals with a more developed sense of organic affiliation instinctively self-censor: they think twice before washing dirty linen in public.
Unlike the late Edward Said, I believe I can understand and even empathize with those who know what it means to love a country. I don’t regard such sentiments as incomprehensible; I just don’t share them. But over the years these fierce unconditional loyalties—to a country, a God, an idea, or a man—have come to terrify me. The thin veneer of civilization rests upon what may well be an illusory faith in our common humanity. But illusory or not, we would do well to cling to it. Certainly, it is that faith—and the constraints it places upon human misbehavior—that is the first to go in times of war or civil unrest.
We are entering, I suspect, upon a time of troubles. It is not just the terrorists, the bankers, and the climate that are going to wreak havoc with our sense of security and stability. Globalization itself—the “flat” earth of so many irenic fantasies—will be a source of fear and uncertainty to billions of people who will turn to their leaders for protection. “Identities” will grow mean and tight, as the indigent and the uprooted beat upon the ever-rising walls of gated communities from Delhi to Dallas.
Being “Danish” or “Italian,” “American” or “European” won’t just be an identity; it will be a rebuff and a reproof to those whom it excludes. The state, far from disappearing, may be about to come into its own: the privileges of citizenship, the protections of card-holding residency rights, will be wielded as political trumps. Intolerant demagogues in established democracies will demand “tests”—of knowledge, of language, of attitude—to determine whether desperate newcomers are deserving of British or Dutch or French “identity.” They are already doing so. In this brave new century we shall miss the tolerant, the marginals: the edge people. My people.
So, this is me signing off for now firmly , stubbornly and comfortably perched on the edge.
In any case I often wonder ( when I do wonder) about my identity in some vague and wondrous way. I do not seem to have one as an Indian at least not in the ways that I think about myself as an Omani and otherwise hopelessly restless wanderer. Can I possibly think of myself as an Omani because my earliest ( and happiest) memories are all of Oman? How could I possibly be an Indian if the only thing about India that I can say is that this is where my parents are from and this is where I studied for a few years in young adulthood. And yet, I suppose I am Indian too in more ways than a couple of pieces of paper can attest. And my parents themselves have in fact lived in Oman far longer than they have ever lived in India. Now you see why my profile says 'undecided'. I am a work in progress and quite confident will always be even as all that I am evolves and dilutes and concentrates in different ways. I am a mixed-up, deconstructed, reconstituted, twisted, completely wholesome, thoroughly unwholesome, thoroughly Omanized, Anglicized, 'Americanized', Indianized, 'Muslimized' ,'completely at peace with my mixed-up potpourri of an identity' mess. And I love every minute of it and all the perspectives it provides even to the point of a cultural schizophrenia. 'Cosmopolitan' does not even begin to define the messy, twisted spaghetti-noodleness of all the things that I am and will be.
And the point here, if one must be made , is that some time last year I found this beautiful piece written by that beautifully, achingly brilliant man , Tony Judt , just before his death and it's called Edge People. And this is what he had to say in it :
"I prefer the edge: the place where countries, communities, allegiances, affinities, and roots bump uncomfortably up against one another—where cosmopolitanism is not so much an identity as the normal condition of life. Such places once abounded. Well into the twentieth century there were many cities comprising multiple communities and languages—often mutually antagonistic, occasionally clashing, but somehow coexisting. Sarajevo was one, Alexandria another. Tangiers, Salonica, Odessa, Beirut, and Istanbul all qualified—as did smaller towns like Chernovitz and Uzhhorod. By the standards of American conformism, New York resembles aspects of these lost cosmopolitan cities: that is why I live here.
To be sure, there is something self-indulgent in the assertion that one is always at the edge, on the margin. Such a claim is only open to a certain kind of person exercising very particular privileges. Most people, most of the time, would rather not stand out: it is not safe. If everyone else is a Shia, better to be a Shia. If everyone in Denmark is tall and white, then who—given a choice—would opt to be short and brown? And even in an open democracy, it takes a certain obstinacy of character to work willfully against the grain of one’s community, especially if it is small.
But if you are born at intersecting margins and—thanks to the peculiar institution of academic tenure—are at liberty to remain there, it seems to me a decidedly advantageous perch: What should they know of England, who only England know? If identification with a community of origin was fundamental to my sense of self, I would perhaps hesitate before criticizing Israel—the “Jewish State,” “my people”—so roundly. Intellectuals with a more developed sense of organic affiliation instinctively self-censor: they think twice before washing dirty linen in public.
Unlike the late Edward Said, I believe I can understand and even empathize with those who know what it means to love a country. I don’t regard such sentiments as incomprehensible; I just don’t share them. But over the years these fierce unconditional loyalties—to a country, a God, an idea, or a man—have come to terrify me. The thin veneer of civilization rests upon what may well be an illusory faith in our common humanity. But illusory or not, we would do well to cling to it. Certainly, it is that faith—and the constraints it places upon human misbehavior—that is the first to go in times of war or civil unrest.
We are entering, I suspect, upon a time of troubles. It is not just the terrorists, the bankers, and the climate that are going to wreak havoc with our sense of security and stability. Globalization itself—the “flat” earth of so many irenic fantasies—will be a source of fear and uncertainty to billions of people who will turn to their leaders for protection. “Identities” will grow mean and tight, as the indigent and the uprooted beat upon the ever-rising walls of gated communities from Delhi to Dallas.
Being “Danish” or “Italian,” “American” or “European” won’t just be an identity; it will be a rebuff and a reproof to those whom it excludes. The state, far from disappearing, may be about to come into its own: the privileges of citizenship, the protections of card-holding residency rights, will be wielded as political trumps. Intolerant demagogues in established democracies will demand “tests”—of knowledge, of language, of attitude—to determine whether desperate newcomers are deserving of British or Dutch or French “identity.” They are already doing so. In this brave new century we shall miss the tolerant, the marginals: the edge people. My people.
So, this is me signing off for now firmly , stubbornly and comfortably perched on the edge.
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| Got this beautiful pic of Jebel Shams, Oman here |
Friday, November 18, 2011
Benetton's efforts to undo hate
I am a Benetton fan and have been ever since I got my first t-shirt in the fifth grade. I have loved their products and have been a huge fan of their ad campaigns. The latest one is no exception. The visuals of the lip-locked sworn enemies are simply wonderful. My favorites are these:
I wish the company hadn't given in to pressure from the Vatican though. 'Constructive provocation' is a useful strategy when all else fails no?
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| From Huffpost |
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| From Huffpost |
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Odds and ends
I'm reading Walter Isaacson's biography of Steve Jobs. To be precise I began reading it the day after it first came out . In that time I have started and finished a couple of books and yet, with this one, I read a couple of pages every day or every other day. At times there is an urge to just go through the book in one sitting. But I force myself to go through it slowly- savoring it as it were. Don't get me wrong. I am not a 'fanboy' (girl?). In fact I have never even owned an Apple product! Nor am I one of those die-hard technophiles. But there is just something about the way this man lived that captures my imagination and quite frankly impresses me. And so the book sits there by my bedside promising to reveal another anecdote each time I choose to and I quite like the thought of that promise.
****************************************************
These words are at once the most uplifting and the most heartbreaking that I have read :
"Like writing, reading is a protest against the insufficiencies of life. When we look in fiction for what is missing in life, we are saying, with no need to say it or even to know it, that life as it is does not satisfy our thirst for the absolute – the foundation of the human condition – and should be better. We invent fictions in order to live somehow the many lives we would like to lead when we barely have one at our disposal...
Literature is a false representation of life that nevertheless helps us to understand life better, to orient ourselves in the labyrinth where we are born, pass by, and die. It compensates for the reverses and frustrations real life inflicts on us, and because of it we can decipher, at least partially, the hieroglyphic that existence tends to be for the great majority of human beings, principally those of us who generate more doubts than certainties and confess our perplexity before subjects like transcendence, individual and collective destiny, the soul, the sense or senselessness of history, the to and fro of rational knowledge."
Those are lines from Mario Vargas Llosa's Nobel lecture . Uplifting because it's true and heartbreaking also because it's true.
****************************************************
Visual inspiration for the moment are these photographs by a friend who is experimenting with analogue photography. Here are a few examples to whet the appetite:
****************************************************
These words are at once the most uplifting and the most heartbreaking that I have read :
"Like writing, reading is a protest against the insufficiencies of life. When we look in fiction for what is missing in life, we are saying, with no need to say it or even to know it, that life as it is does not satisfy our thirst for the absolute – the foundation of the human condition – and should be better. We invent fictions in order to live somehow the many lives we would like to lead when we barely have one at our disposal...
Literature is a false representation of life that nevertheless helps us to understand life better, to orient ourselves in the labyrinth where we are born, pass by, and die. It compensates for the reverses and frustrations real life inflicts on us, and because of it we can decipher, at least partially, the hieroglyphic that existence tends to be for the great majority of human beings, principally those of us who generate more doubts than certainties and confess our perplexity before subjects like transcendence, individual and collective destiny, the soul, the sense or senselessness of history, the to and fro of rational knowledge."
Those are lines from Mario Vargas Llosa's Nobel lecture . Uplifting because it's true and heartbreaking also because it's true.
****************************************************
Visual inspiration for the moment are these photographs by a friend who is experimenting with analogue photography. Here are a few examples to whet the appetite:
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| Photo by Nishi Chauhan |
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| Photo by Nishi Chauhan |
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Stars in my hand
The year 2001 was a strange one. We had lurched from one family crisis to another and from one health crisis to another. I was back in Oman working and living with my parents. The world was changing ( such a cliche!) in ways that we couldn't really fathom at the time. By November that year we were all fed up and antsy and needed to get out of the city. We decided it was time to leave the city and go away somewhere far away. Now, in Oman this is the simplest thing to do really. An uncle and his family lived in the seaside town of Sur - about 300 Km away from Muscat situated in the Sharqiya region. And so, it was to Sur that we decided to go.
At one time Sur had been a bustling port with trade routes extending to India and beyond. It was ( and still is) the location of one of the biggest ship building yards in the region. Great , beautiful wooden dhows stand in various stages of construction even today. On this trip we had another destination in mind. Remote as Sur might be ,cut off by mountains and the desert from the 'capital area', for those who have complete isolation in mind , the Shariqiya region has other hidden treasures as well one of them being Ras al Hadd. This magical piece of land lies almost at the exact point where the Gulf of Oman meets the Arabian Sea. There is a fishing village situated here. And in recent years this area has become the site of several archeological excavations.But more fascinating , this is also the place where wild sea turtles come ashore to lay eggs. In the months of May-October , literally hundreds of them come ashore and lay their eggs. The government, under the leadership of His Majesty Sultan Qaboos, to its eternal credit has worked tirelessly to successfully preserve this sanctuary for this endangered species.
We were of course late for what must be one of the greatest shows on earth. In any case, we decided a trip out to the beach was called for. A group of nine of us got together with two four wheel drives between us. We set out from Sur at 1.00 a.m. Excursions to the beach take place at night. These are controlled excursions and carefully timed so as to not interfere too much with the turtles. The drive out to the beach was a truly memorable ( and bumpy) one. There were no roads and the track passed between towering canyons and over mud flats and sand dunes. The landscape had an ethereal quality to it. Shapes and shadows of desert scrub standing guard over the ancient land lend a Daliesque surreality to it. Jagged peaks stretched up into the sky. The sky was an inky midnight blue with stars scattered across it. A half moon lay placidly dimly lighting our way. Considering the lateness of the hour, I had been expecting to doze off. But the scene before me was unreal and I didn't want to miss a single thing. Except for the fact of the cars and the presence of the other human beings in the vehicle with me, I would have had a hard time believing that we were still in the 21st century.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity and getting lost a few times , we reached the beach. As if to complete the picture of surreality, we were met at the gate of the reserve by a wizened old man dressed in a traditional dish dasha and carrying the only flashlight between us. No cameras or flashlights were allowed on the reserve ( which suited me just fine!). Besides us there were three tourists that brought the total number of visitors to 12.
We set off for the beach on foot. A silence had settled over the group and when we did speak it was barely above a whisper. The night and the place demanded that reverence. The beach where we ended up was a wide horse shoe shaped cove. The sand was white and gleamed in the moonlight. The sea was calm and the waves gently lapped the shore. A soft breeze was the only other movement in the still night. The cliffs stood there looking out to sea as they had perhaps stood for thousands of years. And then we saw her- a lone turtle gently making her way to the sea. The old man whispered to us that she'd probably laid her eggs further up the shore and was now making her way back. None of us moved as we watched her. There is something truly awe-inspiring about these almost primeval creatures- perhaps it's that sense of preternatural calm. They seem to carry the serenity of the deep seas as if they had somehow imbibed that deep, deep stillness. Today, I remember no details of her form save that she looked like one of the boulders on shore had decided to start moving and then there is one other detail- the trail of luminescence. As the turtle moved toward the sea, a trail of glowing blue lit up the path behind her. I bent down and scooped some of it up along with the wet sand. The bits of blue glowed - a deep electric blue. This was a kind of magic that I had not touched before. They looked like bits of stars in the palm of my hand. I looked down at my palm and I looked up at the sky. One felt like the reflection of the other. I wish I had been able to preserve it somehow- this physical evidence of that perfect moment. And then one by one the specks of blue went out as I stared at them. The turtle had left and I was left on shore looking out to sea.
( The Omani government has since opened the Ras al-Jinz turtle reserve in 2008.And trust me when I say that it will be well worth the visit.)
At one time Sur had been a bustling port with trade routes extending to India and beyond. It was ( and still is) the location of one of the biggest ship building yards in the region. Great , beautiful wooden dhows stand in various stages of construction even today. On this trip we had another destination in mind. Remote as Sur might be ,cut off by mountains and the desert from the 'capital area', for those who have complete isolation in mind , the Shariqiya region has other hidden treasures as well one of them being Ras al Hadd. This magical piece of land lies almost at the exact point where the Gulf of Oman meets the Arabian Sea. There is a fishing village situated here. And in recent years this area has become the site of several archeological excavations.But more fascinating , this is also the place where wild sea turtles come ashore to lay eggs. In the months of May-October , literally hundreds of them come ashore and lay their eggs. The government, under the leadership of His Majesty Sultan Qaboos, to its eternal credit has worked tirelessly to successfully preserve this sanctuary for this endangered species.
 |
| Ras al Jinz (Photo: from this blogger) |
We were of course late for what must be one of the greatest shows on earth. In any case, we decided a trip out to the beach was called for. A group of nine of us got together with two four wheel drives between us. We set out from Sur at 1.00 a.m. Excursions to the beach take place at night. These are controlled excursions and carefully timed so as to not interfere too much with the turtles. The drive out to the beach was a truly memorable ( and bumpy) one. There were no roads and the track passed between towering canyons and over mud flats and sand dunes. The landscape had an ethereal quality to it. Shapes and shadows of desert scrub standing guard over the ancient land lend a Daliesque surreality to it. Jagged peaks stretched up into the sky. The sky was an inky midnight blue with stars scattered across it. A half moon lay placidly dimly lighting our way. Considering the lateness of the hour, I had been expecting to doze off. But the scene before me was unreal and I didn't want to miss a single thing. Except for the fact of the cars and the presence of the other human beings in the vehicle with me, I would have had a hard time believing that we were still in the 21st century.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity and getting lost a few times , we reached the beach. As if to complete the picture of surreality, we were met at the gate of the reserve by a wizened old man dressed in a traditional dish dasha and carrying the only flashlight between us. No cameras or flashlights were allowed on the reserve ( which suited me just fine!). Besides us there were three tourists that brought the total number of visitors to 12.
We set off for the beach on foot. A silence had settled over the group and when we did speak it was barely above a whisper. The night and the place demanded that reverence. The beach where we ended up was a wide horse shoe shaped cove. The sand was white and gleamed in the moonlight. The sea was calm and the waves gently lapped the shore. A soft breeze was the only other movement in the still night. The cliffs stood there looking out to sea as they had perhaps stood for thousands of years. And then we saw her- a lone turtle gently making her way to the sea. The old man whispered to us that she'd probably laid her eggs further up the shore and was now making her way back. None of us moved as we watched her. There is something truly awe-inspiring about these almost primeval creatures- perhaps it's that sense of preternatural calm. They seem to carry the serenity of the deep seas as if they had somehow imbibed that deep, deep stillness. Today, I remember no details of her form save that she looked like one of the boulders on shore had decided to start moving and then there is one other detail- the trail of luminescence. As the turtle moved toward the sea, a trail of glowing blue lit up the path behind her. I bent down and scooped some of it up along with the wet sand. The bits of blue glowed - a deep electric blue. This was a kind of magic that I had not touched before. They looked like bits of stars in the palm of my hand. I looked down at my palm and I looked up at the sky. One felt like the reflection of the other. I wish I had been able to preserve it somehow- this physical evidence of that perfect moment. And then one by one the specks of blue went out as I stared at them. The turtle had left and I was left on shore looking out to sea.
( The Omani government has since opened the Ras al-Jinz turtle reserve in 2008.And trust me when I say that it will be well worth the visit.)
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Portrait of the blogger as a dissatisfied being
This morning on my way to work, while navigating the usual
obstacles on a typical street in these parts (cows, dogs, cow patties, dog
poop, garbage heaps, humans spitting,
loitering, moving along), I saw two tiny women lugging two huge bags between
them. At first, I didn’t really look at
what they were carrying. And then one of them dropped one side of the bag she
was holding and the other set hers down to help her companion. That’s when I
saw what their cargo contained – flowers. Fresh, fragrant,radiant yellows and reds
looked ready to spill from the bags. The sacks contained blowzy red roses as
big as small cabbages; rich yellow marigolds almost as big as my fists; tiny,
clean white jasmine. It was the sight of those flowers that pulled me out of
the funk that I’d fallen into.
I am not saying that my path to work in the morning has no
redeeming qualities. It does. The temperamental morning sun; the tall
trees lining the road that sometimes perk up with glorious blooms; the morning
hush (despite the idiot who must honk loudly on a relatively empty road); the
whiff of incense from the temple I pass – these do alleviate the drudgery of a
path often traveled. To be fair, it is more likely that the ‘oftenness’ of the
travel has more to do with my ambivalence toward it than the actual path.
This has often been a problem with me. I go out of my way to
avoid routine even if the routine is a comfort and even if the routine has a
purpose. Let me make it clear here that I am NOT an adrenaline junkie. I like
my adrenaline in moderate doses and occasionally. But I need novelty constantly-even if
the novelty is constructed into a routine.
I remember attending a meditation session with a Buddhist monk at a
monastery in Indonesia a couple of years ago. The one thing that he said that actually
comforted me was ‘Nothing remains the same and everything changes.’ This
morning it was the flowers that changed everything. There was a time when I would have thought
that those flowers meant something – was a portent of something wonderful about to happen. But now, they
are simply a moment when something beautiful fell right in front of my eyes and made me forget for a brief instant the filth and the chaos that were poised trembling over the next instant ...
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| Flower power : Blue lotuses at the Temple of the Tooth Relic in Kandy,Sri Lanka. |
Monday, October 31, 2011
Fall on the Heath
I went from growing up in a desert where there was a hot arid summer and a cold dry winter with sudden showers to living on an island close to the Arctic where each season was clearly separated from the other but always punctuated by a steadily falling rain. Now, I live in a city close to the Tropic of Cancer in a country that plays host to a variety of seasons in a dozen different places. And it is while sitting here waiting for the rest of my life to happen that I suddenly miss fall.
In my mind the season will forever be associated with the beginning of term. The word also brings with it a vivid memory of wonderful fiery colors , that strange quality of light that is at once luminous and cozy giving an instant air of intimacy and mystery.
I love long walks and Hampstead Heath was a walker's paradise. I discovered a peace unlike any other during those long walks alone on the Heath with the chill in the air , the strange hush, the leaves and their colors, my hands dug deep into my coat pockets sometimes seeing my breath in clouds , my desert bred ears stinging deliciously in the cold wind and the splendid colors of the sunset. The sunset was different from the brilliant displays of color of a desert sunset. This one was calmer somehow and closer- a cool observer of brilliant things. Over the next few years as I walked over the Heath through various seasons and in many different types of weather , I decided fall was my favorite time and made sure my fall walks were undertaken alone.
For some reason, fall is also associated with the intense earthy taste of warm gooey chocolate ,piles of books,curling up under pink comforters and rain drops on window sills...
In my mind the season will forever be associated with the beginning of term. The word also brings with it a vivid memory of wonderful fiery colors , that strange quality of light that is at once luminous and cozy giving an instant air of intimacy and mystery.
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| Found this photo online and it captures perfectly the quality of light in a way that I never was able to do. |
I love long walks and Hampstead Heath was a walker's paradise. I discovered a peace unlike any other during those long walks alone on the Heath with the chill in the air , the strange hush, the leaves and their colors, my hands dug deep into my coat pockets sometimes seeing my breath in clouds , my desert bred ears stinging deliciously in the cold wind and the splendid colors of the sunset. The sunset was different from the brilliant displays of color of a desert sunset. This one was calmer somehow and closer- a cool observer of brilliant things. Over the next few years as I walked over the Heath through various seasons and in many different types of weather , I decided fall was my favorite time and made sure my fall walks were undertaken alone.
For some reason, fall is also associated with the intense earthy taste of warm gooey chocolate ,piles of books,curling up under pink comforters and rain drops on window sills...
Khor Rori
There is a place in the south of Oman , about an hour's drive away from the city of Salalah. The place is called Khor Rori. It is an isolated stretch of sand and sea and cliffs that seems to go on for miles in either direction. In the midst of this immensity , there lie the ruins of structures from long ago of an old port town and some others that at least at that time hadn't been identified. Khor Rori was also an important point on the fabled Frankincense Trail that stretched from the Dhofar region to Jerusalem. I first went there in the winter of 2004. Having been brought up in the Sultanate , I still find it hard to believe that it took me more than 25 years to go explore one of the most beautiful regions in the country.
Phrases such as 'virgin beaches' are often thrown around carelessly. I doubt though anyone would understand what that truly means until one sees the beaches at Khor Rori. The waters of the sea in their shades of azure and cerulean and green takes one's breath away. Every legend and myth and fairy story you ever heard try to find space in your head. As cliches jostle around and as exclamations of 'ohhh!' and 'wow!' and 'oh my god!' peter out,you are left with perfect silence.
Silence is the only prayer acceptable in the end in this place. Even a herd of camels that tip toed down to the water was quiet.History and time and stories stop mattering. Maybe some people would call it good vibrations and maybe that is what I felt that winter. All I can say for certain is that I have never felt like that again- that feeling of privilege to be in a place that felt so preternaturally sacred. The sugary sand served up for my pleasure to accompany that pristine water and the purest of cerulean winter skies felt like it had been put there just for me. That moment in time was mine alone when everything came together- in perfect isolation.
Here's a site I found that has excellent photographs of the area and the more historic details. I particularly love the photographs of Oman taken by this gentlemen - Eric Lafforgue and his photograph of Khor Rori is simply stunning!
Phrases such as 'virgin beaches' are often thrown around carelessly. I doubt though anyone would understand what that truly means until one sees the beaches at Khor Rori. The waters of the sea in their shades of azure and cerulean and green takes one's breath away. Every legend and myth and fairy story you ever heard try to find space in your head. As cliches jostle around and as exclamations of 'ohhh!' and 'wow!' and 'oh my god!' peter out,you are left with perfect silence.
Silence is the only prayer acceptable in the end in this place. Even a herd of camels that tip toed down to the water was quiet.History and time and stories stop mattering. Maybe some people would call it good vibrations and maybe that is what I felt that winter. All I can say for certain is that I have never felt like that again- that feeling of privilege to be in a place that felt so preternaturally sacred. The sugary sand served up for my pleasure to accompany that pristine water and the purest of cerulean winter skies felt like it had been put there just for me. That moment in time was mine alone when everything came together- in perfect isolation.
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| Found this photo online |
Here's a site I found that has excellent photographs of the area and the more historic details. I particularly love the photographs of Oman taken by this gentlemen - Eric Lafforgue and his photograph of Khor Rori is simply stunning!
Falling in love
Discovering a new author is like falling in love. It happens in unexpected ways . You are forever changed and you begin to see things with greater clarity.
My current favorite author is Mona Simpson. I came upon her quite by accident or at least a round about route. I chanced upon her writing through reading about her brother -Steve Jobs. Whatever the initial reasons for reading her work, I have now come to love her writing. I am currently reading My Hollywood. There is something about the way she writes that just about breaks my heart. I find myself sucked into a world where I can hear the characters talk and see what they see and feel what they feel. This , for the longest time, has been my assessment of a good writer.
I have to say though this hasn't always happened with what are often called 'the classics'. I think the first time a 'classic' hit me like that was when I read Anne Bronte's The Tenant of Wildfell Hall.I eventually read that book at least 8 more times- cover to cover. I wish she had written more. Agnes Grey was touching but mostly in the sense that it was Anne finding herself as a writer. Wilkie Collins' The Woman in White was the second time that lightning struck. I neither wanted the book to end nor could I take my eyes off the pages even to go to the bathroom or to take the time out for a bite to eat.
Simpson, however, captures my imagination in a different way. Reading her book has been a bit like taking my heart out of my chest and holding it out to be crushed anytime anyone chooses. I have not set out here to write a review of the book ( plenty of people have already done that and in wonderful ways!). Instead , it leaves me wishing I had such felicity with words- the talent to evoke such images of the maps of the human heart. Her work feels like a cartography of that most mysterious of human organs.
I watch helplessly the unfolding drama and would like to get to the denouement. It might be crushing . It might be disappointing. It might leave a bitter taste in the mouth. But I must know.
My current favorite author is Mona Simpson. I came upon her quite by accident or at least a round about route. I chanced upon her writing through reading about her brother -Steve Jobs. Whatever the initial reasons for reading her work, I have now come to love her writing. I am currently reading My Hollywood. There is something about the way she writes that just about breaks my heart. I find myself sucked into a world where I can hear the characters talk and see what they see and feel what they feel. This , for the longest time, has been my assessment of a good writer.
I have to say though this hasn't always happened with what are often called 'the classics'. I think the first time a 'classic' hit me like that was when I read Anne Bronte's The Tenant of Wildfell Hall.I eventually read that book at least 8 more times- cover to cover. I wish she had written more. Agnes Grey was touching but mostly in the sense that it was Anne finding herself as a writer. Wilkie Collins' The Woman in White was the second time that lightning struck. I neither wanted the book to end nor could I take my eyes off the pages even to go to the bathroom or to take the time out for a bite to eat.
Simpson, however, captures my imagination in a different way. Reading her book has been a bit like taking my heart out of my chest and holding it out to be crushed anytime anyone chooses. I have not set out here to write a review of the book ( plenty of people have already done that and in wonderful ways!). Instead , it leaves me wishing I had such felicity with words- the talent to evoke such images of the maps of the human heart. Her work feels like a cartography of that most mysterious of human organs.
I watch helplessly the unfolding drama and would like to get to the denouement. It might be crushing . It might be disappointing. It might leave a bitter taste in the mouth. But I must know.
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