I’m sure you’ve heard it all by now, from “new year, new me” to “you do you”. Some of you know by now, I guess, that I’m a bit of a romantic. I like celebrations, and surprises. I like marking time with #emotion, and I like every thing about resolutions. I like (to) resolve. I like its steely glint. Resolve.
A mansion of a word, with tied up German shepherds in the snowy courtyard that have been trained to maim. A serial killer lives inside Resolve. He’s always eluded the thought police somehow. His murders are art, with blood flying like a Pollock painting in a Tarantino cafe wall. The soundtrack would have to be the sound of one hand clapping. But that only does justice to the wisdom in Resolve - the part that rings with the quiet firmness that is born at the moment of its realisation. The notional leap of Resolve is perhaps closer to a Zimmer Zinger. I believe that he actually dropped an antique grand piano from a height to produce a rare cacophony - a sound that would convey the heft of a modern Sherlock’s superior intellect and narcissistic swag. Nowadays, even though it is something of a public utterance, with the fanfare of social media excess, I feel like Resolve is more anchor falling on empty dock than grand church bell striking midnight on Christmas eve.
Resolve.
The Resolution, on the other hand is the symphonic twang of moral certitude and divine prophesy, embodied in the pious crowd that assembles for Midnight Mass on Christmas - my childhood was spent between two convent schools and a church with a parish. Resolution is that semiotic anomaly, that has resolved the problem of its self-definition as a noun, by suggesting the promise of its meaning - action. The proof of the resolution pie is in the action it births. In this regard, the resolution is present and continuous, hurtling into the future with the conviction of a nuclear bomb. It is the compromise between thought and action.
Honestly, I do not know why I have given so much thought to this idea, but I resolved to try not to do a self-care “new year’s” posts with advise, and recommendations this time. I tried last year - but that style is not for me, I think. I know little about the self. I did want to write about the future though, to rehearse reality, perhaps. Sometimes it is interesting to walk through the paths the mind makes. Who knows, perhaps your mind, dear friend, walks the same paths… eh?
I think music is about this. I spent the last few days exploring different raags with a friend. In Dhrupad pedagy, there is the concept of a डगर (duhgar). The artist sings a path that weaves through a particular set of notes that makes the raaga. This path is not the entire raaga, but it is a way through it, that is tread though by the voice. Not the forest, but the kachcha road. When a student walks the road that the teacher has beaten through the undergrowth, the student discovers the scenery on the side, and slowly other places to explore, emerge. The voice discovers sound as fallen ink infiltrates paper. New paths form. Every time a student walks through these pathways, the forest returns to its original form. But like magic, it is always more beautiful the next time you visit. This is the forest of “gharana”. As I walked through the paths my friend wove through the forest, I learnt, through song, that there are so many ways to love.
It is always miraculous - that moment - of empathy. when you find yourself in another’s vision. or even in a place or a time. Is this what they call nostalgia? Finding yourself again and again, outside the present. The tough part is to do it in the future. It is, by design, outside of time. The future hasn’t happened yet. This is why it can never resemble the past. Not exactly. Similar patterns could recur, of course - whether it is a single body, or a nation -but the details differ.
Some call this god. I see this as the freedom of thought. as opposed to say a scientific calculation of possibilities. But there is beauty even in that - in a set of permutations and combinations that conjure up just the right amount of invisible life. Art is a kind of algorithm. Artists, for centuries have tried to answer the question of god. Godel famously had formulated god in the midst of a mathematical equation.
Tell me, dear reader, isn’t all life just an attempt to turn space into place?
This is what I want to ask this of the world this year. Let us make a place…
What about you? I want to breathe the way vines breathe. I seek as they do - without a thought about the direction, always towards the light. The darkness is only to lose oneself, to willingly court the mystery of new places. The light, good friend, is so that we can find ourselves again, and see how beautiful it all really is. Don’t you think?
Happy New Year, hope 2023 is kind to you. If you like what you read, do consider ‘buying me a coffee’.
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Note: Those, not in India, who’d like to support the work I do at Poetly, write to me - poetly@pm.me. (Apologies, I will figure out international payments soon)
Also: I’ve been reading Linda Gregg’s poetry for years now. I’ve been really, really liking it. But I can’t find e books of her works anywhere, and I can’t afford her books at the moment. I’d be grateful to anyone who could share e-copies of her poetry. Thankyou in advance.
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