"What can be more soul shaking than peering through a hundred inch telescope at a distant galaxy, holding a hundred million year old fossil or a five hundred thousand year old stone tool in one's hand, standing before the immense chasm of space and time that is the Grand Canyon, or listening to a scientist who gazed upon the face of universe's creation and did not blink?
That is deep and sacred science."
- Micheal Schermerabsolutely beautiful quote!
and have a look at this picture below:
Father of my land lady was an artist, so the whole house is full of paintings, sketches and empty wooden frames. This one is my personal favorite, feels like sitting in a small town European cafe, sound of a distant church bell falling into ears, looking at small passageway between the walls of houses painted with warm colors. Simply wonderful!
Every week or two the tiny flowerpot on a dining table gets new flowers. This time it were those cute yellow flowers (dont really know the name, ive always been lousy at remembering English names of different flowers!). The whole frame with thick layers of paint, light yellow wall in the background and bright yellow flowers contrasting it, what else one's eyes may need to feel delighted.
I used to think, what for waste money on flowers! That was utterly distasteful of me!
At Eternity's Gate
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Came across this sketch by Vincent van Gogh, known as At Eternity's Gate or by it's more solemn alternative name Old Man in Sorrow. Such a poignant piece of simple artwork by one of those artists who had a long personal relationship with dejection and sadness. It was after his young death preceding years of mental illness and anxiety that his work reached the heights of glory he deserved and influenced range of artists.
Last time I picked up a pencil to use it for a purpose other than
drawing triangles in geometry test was around ten years ago,
guess I was in 7th! Probably it was during that Maharashtra board's "elementary" or
"intermediate" drawing exam. Dont seem to remember exactly but I think I got a
miserable C grade in that exam!
Somehow got so deeply moved by van Gogh's drawings that I was compelled to open the door of my drawer and find that untouched HB pencil hidden underneath a big pile of junk and a small notebook, both were freebies from one of the engineering exhibitions I attended ;) Googled a sketching tutorial (Great one! http://www.dueysdrawings.com/eye_tutorial.html) and spent more than two hours of cozy sunday evening fumbling my way through shades of gray and lack of my skills. But eventually it turned out to be a rewarding experience. time worth spent! beginner's luck I may say!
I wish I at least had a 2B pencil, maybe a dark charcoal one and a quality fine grained drawing paper. Graphite HB and blank side of the chequered notebook page were real pain to deal with! Anyway im gonna go to an art supply shop and get me some real nice shading pencils and a sketching guidebook!
The Old Man and The Sea
“Up the road, in his shack, the old man was sleeping again. He was
still sleeping on his face and the boy was sitting by him watching him.
The old man was dreaming about the lions.”
These were the last lines of a small book which I picked up from a shelf tagged as "Classics" in a book shop. It was a little boring and I was quite inattentive while reading, chiefly due to the simplistic and minimalistic writing style which conflicted with my expectation of highly sophisticated style, especially because of its abode in the "Classics" shelf. Nevertheless I was desperately looking forward to the story, amidst my contradictory yawns, waiting for the fate of that old man to unfold. He is a fisherman with white beard and deep wrinkles, dwelling in a Cuban coastal town whose worn out pants stink with fish. Who has been returning from the sea every single of the last 84 days without catching any fish. All the fishermen from his neighborhood laugh and make fun of him, call his boat the unluckiest one, except a boy. A small boy with whom he used to sail, whom he taught fishing since the boy was five. Who, now by the strict order of his parents has to fish with other 'lucky' fishermen. He brings him food, he talks to him. He takes care of the old man in a strange unspoken way, mending the blatancy of words.
Before dawn of the eighty fifth day, the boy helps him prepare and wishes him good luck. The old man unfastens his skiff from the rock and sets out, hoping to catch a big fish he has been looking for since the last eighty four days.
After three days and nights of sleepless sailing, far in the deep seas, on a starry night the old man returns.. returns with...
And in the next morning,
“Up the road, in his shack, the old man was sleeping again. He was
still sleeping on his face and the boy was sitting by him watching him.
The old man was dreaming about the lions.”
were the last lines of a small book which I picked up from a shelf.
What makes it so special? I am not good enough with words and articulation of my thoughts to put the reasons into an understandable clear prose, why did it hit me so much? For the old man, was that a heart wrenching defeat or the greatest victory in its own wonderful sense? is that really the most important question? or the question should be "did it make him loose all the hopes and give up? with his deep blue eyes, defeated? or was he so very at peace, dreaming of lions that he once saw on the African beaches when he was young?"
Its was a story told with simple words and with a simple ending, still and all, left behind an extraordinary impression and an unsettling feeling. I did put that small novel back in its place on the wooden shelf, with its bound side outside, vertically showing off "The Old Man and The Sea - Ernest Hemingway". Then looked at the tag "Classics" and found a slow smile spreading across my face.
EVIL
Give me two thousand years and I'll be getting people to wage the most destructive war against each other and kill mothers, fathers, babies, sister, brothers and last of their sperms in the name of the new God, in the name of my religion and in the name of the fake paradise I will offer them. At the same time gift them a foul illusion to save their faces under the hood of 'my crooked invention'. I will force them to invent weapons of mass destruction that will amputate their bodies, burn their skin, show them the real meaning of slow painful horrifying death that they want for others for disbelieving their faith and invigorate the absolute annihilation of their own spirit through manipulation of guilt and remorse, through hatred based on their deep belief on figments of my imagination - revelations by dreams and holy fucking angels, through implanting bigotry deep into their character, through constant recitation of mysterious cryptic chants essential to please my brainchild, through heinous rituals that will help them murder their reason and logic, through 'self-proclaimed sacred' philosophy that will make them the most depraved of wild pigs, through subconscious machinations, through infiltration of their brains with the idea of my might and sorcery, through conspiracy.. through a corrupt bloody conspiracy. I will be the Satan. I will throw a spell of black magic that they wont be able to escape if they abandon the immense power of their reason, mind and rationality.
My sweat will be the only water they will
have to drink, my mercy will be their only blessing, my curse will be
their whole notion of horror, terror will be the only feeling they will be left to
feel, after a slightest denunciation of me and gratification of the greedy dark evil within me will be the essence of their existence. I will be
the manifestation of the evilest devil, fuck I will be the devil himself
in the name of their God.
This will be their punishment, for being imbecile piece of shit which believe with closed eyes, with closed ears, with a blocked brain suffering from self inflicted paralysis. without inquiring, thinking, asking, doubting. And I will laugh at
their rotten choice of blind faith over reason and I will mock their
gory crawling souls when they reach the gates of 'my heaven'.
Peace.
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