"What dreams may come" is a brilliant movie. Not for the story, though. The story was painted with wet paint all through and left me thinking about reality, life and death. And it reminded me of this! Though am almost sure I never read it as seriously and never realized how fantastic this was.
William Shakespeare - To be, or not to be (from Hamlet 3/1)
To be, or not to be : that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveler returns, puzzles the the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than to fly to others that we know not of ?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose their name of action. - Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Gray smells rain. And feels a sense of peace. As he lazily picks up a cigar and thinks of rain, his over-worked body seems to cry for a good night's sleep. 'Oh the night is still young', thinks Gray, while trying to see an image of cat in the smoke patterns of the cigar. He remembers how he kissed that woman all through the entire Gin soaked boy ! 'Like a teenager!', he thinks and smiles slightly.
Gray is a simple man with simple needs. He has this enviable life. Money, sex and TV ! He knows that someone would kill to live his life. But he remains unsure about whether to like his life. Not that he has a lot of choice.
A series of surreal, anachronistic encounters with the woman makes Gray rather excited. They lie on his couch, drinking just enough whiskey to feel happy, while he paints her yellow and blue and the man who sold the world plays along .
He talks to her about his life. And her view on their indulgence, sometimes, surprises him. 'I am a fan of your mind as much as I am of your body', he whispers into her ears after they have made love to Bob Dylan singing in loops. But she invariably smiles noncommittally and asks him 'what's my mind!'. After a lot of passionate exchanges, he strokes her face gently and says 'Your kids would be beautiful'. 'Yeah..', she tells him, 'I have to pick them up when I go back'. He smiles slightly and tells her , 'I like that the 'us' is uncomplicated'. She thinks she knows why she's with him .
Gray sleeps less and he likes that he wants the woman. He likes her mindfulness. Her scent. Her vanity. And her eyes. And once when their bare bodies lie entangled as they hear Can you take me higher , he asks her with the twinkle in his eyes ' How long will this last?' . She tries to ask him, ' This would mean... ?' . Before which he says 'As long as it can ..' .
And as they prepare to get along with the rest of the world, it plays All in all is all we are..
Thursday, June 11, 2009
I know what 'love her madly' would sound like if it were not a perfume. And the melody that it would be, would look like the horizon if it were not a sound. A purple horizon !
But the purple horizon seems surreal and thus cannot be a real perfume if it were not a sight . Thus the ethereal perfume that the purple horizon would be if it were something that can be felt and if it were not a perfume would be something elastic and sticky.
Something that is perceived as real by one sense might be surreal for other senses.
Senseless post, though