Knowing Self - The Journey - III

To go back to where the thought began, just imagine what my mind would conjure up when something closely relative happens in my life or I hear that somebody else had a certain kind of experience. Whatever that may be, I’d have relatively a large number of opinions or prejudices or perceptions. Of course, I’m lucky I do not indulge in blabbering away those becaus

e another thing that reading teaches or cultivates within a person is the ability to understand that freedom of opinion is a self centered aspect and it involves largely, understanding the person to whom you are portraying the opinion towards. Clint Eastwood mentioned it right when he said “Opinions are like assholes, everybody has one”. Might sound a little coarse but that’s the truth.

You can say so…but, you cannot argue and win so …’cause it’s just an opinion. In fact, opinions should stand as the beginning of a conversation and a discussion instead of being the end of it. You should listen to them and then let the imagination flow from there on wards.

  

But the interesting aspect of writing is that all these opinions – our own as well as somebody else’s can be presented in a manner which is acceptable to all parties concerned. This was a trick essentially; amazingly; unexplained within me. I pop an opinion about something or mention a point of view, the person to whom I partake this goes into a tirade on the dismal nature of my argument and pooh-poohs my theory and lets me know that I’m not worthy of even sheer mention.

I take the same thing write down the complete incident and also harp my opinions and disagreements about the thought add a little bit more due to the argument that took place and then publish it in some godforsaken, murky tabloid anonymously. The guy reads the same crap and later mentions that the subject matter of the article relates with the pow-wow we had. I’m sitting there acting all surprised. “Really!” But this time he says it all makes sense and my point view for him (now that it comes from some other mouth which has no face and has been published) makes all the sense in fact, he says unlike my thought or even his own original thought it has all the bearings of a perfect set solution to whatever the issue was. “Ridiculous!” I kept mum and moved on, as usual.

How is it that I got attracted to poetry? From what I remember it was William Wordsworth’s “Daffodils” and Robert Frost’s great poem "The Road Not Taken". It was not just the poetry but it was the person who first read it out to me and also explained to the intricate details. I was young and everything around me was romantic, loud, happy-go-lucky and boisterous. I wanted a peek into everything and I embraced all expressions with delight. The person who read this out to me was a wonderful woman and a great teacher. She made me sway to the tune of the daffodils. I could easily see those flowers swinging in the wind and so well embedded it is within me that I can still feel the elaborate happiness that it gave me.

“The Road Not Taken” was a masterpiece. Even at that tender age I could fathom the fact that I have just read or heard something really worthwhile, something which I would never ever forget. It’s etched within me. So here goes a part of it:

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;      

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

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I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood,

And I— I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

Then I was glued to Frost, who wouldn't be; that another poem that comes to the fore (of course a million others also might love to quote) is “Miles to go”. An exceedingly pleasing work of art using the simplest of imagery and no grandiose words. Within its simplicity lies its wisdom.

Whose woods these are I think I know. 

His house is in the village, though; 

He will not see me stopping here 

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer 

To stop without a farmhouse near 

Between the woods and frozen lake 

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake 

To ask if there's some mistake. 

The only other sound's the sweep 

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep, 

But I have promises to keep, 

And miles to go before I sleep, 

And miles to go before I sleep.

Now these are just presented here so that the widening of my mind is understood as I slowly and steadily enter the world of art. My friend Ashish, Dinesh and I had discussed the nature of Francis Bacon’s essays and Oliver Goldsmith’s classic piece of work on Pigs and Chinese cuisine. The discussion about who is great among Shakespeare and Marlowe and the extreme regard for anything which was closely related to Hippie culture was always something which we all looked forward to. Janus Joplin’s famous line “All I wanted to do with my life was get stoned, get laid and have fun” was in the forefront of our minds limited growth. We loved that line we felt one with that line of thinking with a few corollaries added to it. The corollaries made us what we are because it got personalized.

“All I wanted to do with my life was get stoned, get laid, listen to music, read all, travel and blossom for nothing but myself and just myself”

Guess what! We follow it to the T. I do and from what I know the other two also does.