BINARY LITERATURE
I am a wordsmith. I construct the concrete jungle/jingle of words to make a living; mostly prose but the hapless heart sometimes strings together the rhymes of a soulful something I never could gauge- rather in hindsight I could not believe my own repertoire!! Not that I am totally unpalatable, but as modesty clouds my judgments, I stutter to waste words of self-indulgence.
Nowadays there aint anymore pen and paper! The royal blue, the washable black ink pots and the blotches of ink stains on the table cloth; many a crumpled draft resting in the basket-of-waste! The fountain pens seeming aristocratic in the pen stands with the gleaming clips of signature brands- parker, the waterman.
The fluid motion of a titanium tip on the paper whites gave birth to expressions! They would take a while to dry into permanence and as long the moist ink
Till then, the volatile, sublime words seemed so vulnerable- like one harsh cross and its existence would be denied, as just an erratum in the mindscape!
How the spin yarn would hop around the realities of past, present and future to knit the vibgyor of social romance! There would also be the imaginative sauce, lending the yard of unsure intrepid ventures, making the presentation wholesome.
But now… they just have ‘keys’ unlocking the dogmas of the literary world. The letters encased, molded in electronic instruments generate binary logic and voila! There is born prose- there unfurls poetry! With a ‘press’ the traces of iterations are erased! The neat whites with smart alphabets arranged- like sure as clock work! Perfect!
The colors and font styles change with a ‘wish-button’ and suddenly no one cares about the hand writing prowess! The signature style of different people, the funny twists and turns of the cursives- all smoothened by the lathe of science!
Grammar is corrected; spell checks and suggestions for proper and better usage…. Touches of unforeseen mistakes, the unusual ways of portrayal or even ‘unknown errors’ which spice up the literature seem to have been imprisoned like bugs in a fly catcher!
Letters are no more posted. The blue inland letters, the ocher hard board post cards and the air mails do not fly around the geographical bounds abuzz with stories, emotions, anecdotes, advice or acknowledgements…
Words have dried as the buttons do not leave a trail of unsure footsteps. The screen behind the mirror no longer stands tall beside the creations of wonder.
And I?
Writing in stories of the yore… when the train of thoughts would run the crests and troughs in the hollow of my brain and slowly approach the epicenter of explosion! And there would be born a prose- a story! The whites would be blotched, the hands would be spotted with the inks and the sun would have slipped back under the western horizon- after a tiring watch over my ‘germinations’! Inevitably it would be the starry night with a cool zephyr tempting the sheaf of papers to escape from the writers’ confines, when the mitosis, meiosis would give birth to the stories…
Somewhere even the nature around would bless this humble word-monger! But now… when I try to hold the oar strong, I falter… the boat seems over burdened and the tides seem too high against the dingy… it’s a scary feeling…
For now I do not know if the broken emotions make its way around in unsure words, if strings of imaginations paint a canvas in myriad hues… and if there is any error between the covers…
I do not sell anymore, for I have no story to call my own… for I never sold stories, I never created illusions… and I never really knew how to dodge the realities of life. To key in words of proportionate emotion, doctored inference and articulate reactions, I never did learn.
But one last story would I write… and I know, the hand would not shake and the letters would roll out with dignity and honor. That would be the story of ‘the days of our lives’ and that would complete the journey for a wordsmith- and it would be done in style! Remember folks… honesty, in words and purpose, never fails an author… on paper the confusion prevails, but in the binary existence of jet age, we might not reveal the inner moistness, under the dermis.
But when the ink dries on with a lasting impression on the papyrus… the shared expanse of life strengthens the cardiac inside! Then we call it a ‘words-worth’!!
Nowadays there aint anymore pen and paper! The royal blue, the washable black ink pots and the blotches of ink stains on the table cloth; many a crumpled draft resting in the basket-of-waste! The fountain pens seeming aristocratic in the pen stands with the gleaming clips of signature brands- parker, the waterman.
The fluid motion of a titanium tip on the paper whites gave birth to expressions! They would take a while to dry into permanence and as long the moist ink
Till then, the volatile, sublime words seemed so vulnerable- like one harsh cross and its existence would be denied, as just an erratum in the mindscape!
How the spin yarn would hop around the realities of past, present and future to knit the vibgyor of social romance! There would also be the imaginative sauce, lending the yard of unsure intrepid ventures, making the presentation wholesome.
But now… they just have ‘keys’ unlocking the dogmas of the literary world. The letters encased, molded in electronic instruments generate binary logic and voila! There is born prose- there unfurls poetry! With a ‘press’ the traces of iterations are erased! The neat whites with smart alphabets arranged- like sure as clock work! Perfect!
The colors and font styles change with a ‘wish-button’ and suddenly no one cares about the hand writing prowess! The signature style of different people, the funny twists and turns of the cursives- all smoothened by the lathe of science!
Grammar is corrected; spell checks and suggestions for proper and better usage…. Touches of unforeseen mistakes, the unusual ways of portrayal or even ‘unknown errors’ which spice up the literature seem to have been imprisoned like bugs in a fly catcher!
Letters are no more posted. The blue inland letters, the ocher hard board post cards and the air mails do not fly around the geographical bounds abuzz with stories, emotions, anecdotes, advice or acknowledgements…
Words have dried as the buttons do not leave a trail of unsure footsteps. The screen behind the mirror no longer stands tall beside the creations of wonder.
And I?
Writing in stories of the yore… when the train of thoughts would run the crests and troughs in the hollow of my brain and slowly approach the epicenter of explosion! And there would be born a prose- a story! The whites would be blotched, the hands would be spotted with the inks and the sun would have slipped back under the western horizon- after a tiring watch over my ‘germinations’! Inevitably it would be the starry night with a cool zephyr tempting the sheaf of papers to escape from the writers’ confines, when the mitosis, meiosis would give birth to the stories…
Somewhere even the nature around would bless this humble word-monger! But now… when I try to hold the oar strong, I falter… the boat seems over burdened and the tides seem too high against the dingy… it’s a scary feeling…
For now I do not know if the broken emotions make its way around in unsure words, if strings of imaginations paint a canvas in myriad hues… and if there is any error between the covers…
I do not sell anymore, for I have no story to call my own… for I never sold stories, I never created illusions… and I never really knew how to dodge the realities of life. To key in words of proportionate emotion, doctored inference and articulate reactions, I never did learn.
But one last story would I write… and I know, the hand would not shake and the letters would roll out with dignity and honor. That would be the story of ‘the days of our lives’ and that would complete the journey for a wordsmith- and it would be done in style! Remember folks… honesty, in words and purpose, never fails an author… on paper the confusion prevails, but in the binary existence of jet age, we might not reveal the inner moistness, under the dermis.
But when the ink dries on with a lasting impression on the papyrus… the shared expanse of life strengthens the cardiac inside! Then we call it a ‘words-worth’!!
Labels: the inkz dried... the penz lost n the keys of my laptop seem alien... where have the 26 gone??
posted by der Bergwind @ 9:45 AM
4 Comments:
Awesome(I wish I could paste the expression on my face while reading this post). Tell me one thing how do you write posts like these? It takes me atleast two reads with phull concentration to understand ur post. I am sure writing something like this would take me atleast 2-3 centuries(if I stay alive for so long). I am really fond of maintaining personal notebooks and diaries and have plenty of them and collecting pens is another hobby I have inherited from my dad. My fascinattion wid Ink pens is still continuing though I don't use them very frequently but still(my fave ink is Turquoise blue in Chelpark)...I think my flow of thoughts is better expressed when I write them rather than typing them.
somya..
hehehe.. two reads to hit the jugular :) i think i should try to make it more lucid naa?? but somehow it happens n the abstracts entwin n its maybe the idea also never comes out to me in simple ways.. watz the use to look at plain glass when u can have a kaleidoscopic view- effect :)
ya, i simply love ink/fountain pens.. even blue is my fav color!! royal blue... n letterz i still write :)) kinda totally different fell must say!
n sumhow have stopped writing into my diary 'chum'... n agree!! when u scribble in the 26.. its just so more complete- the keys never could open the sublime feels of wordz.. aint only wordz naa??!!
wow brilliant!
Keshi.
Would you care to get a collection of your blog posts published?!
Have mourned the passing away of an era where life was on the "slow lane" and much better. It is a little annoying to live in times where even a long email is a rarity and, many a time, even frowned upon
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