From the tops of mountains, they'd sling rocks at the moon to curse the gods

And we'd imagine new craters until we fooled ourselves and they became giants.

So that songs would be sung of their greatness and stories told of their trials and tribulations.

Planting a small, but powerful seed within each of our minds - one which caused us to ask ourselves an exciting question. Can we be more?

Theirs was a false sense of defiance. For they were no giants.

But as men do, they rode the rivers of our expectations - and we loved them for this, so did they love us back.

-Aspire, Conspire, Inspire-

The following post is a compilation of journal writings from July 14th and 16th which came together to form something worth posting...

It was my intention outright to be an open canvas to the colourful strokes which India would paint on my mind, heart & soul. To listen and watch over speaking and acting. To become a pupil to the 'tissue' which binds the people here together by assuming a spot within the web and allowing the experience to run through me.

The ideas which I take away from this - which now form a powder keg around which we dance with lit matches - must be regarded in a similar fashion. I have poured these ideas out, but they are now children that must be raised by a village, for as they grow, they will assume their own pace and frequency. This is paramount. It will then be our choice to meet, or not to meet this frequency. We must respect that with or without us, this idea will move forward - most likely in light-years, so strap in for the ride.

The Idea will grow as a Tree

(The Mind)

At its inception, the tree sprouts roots and fortifies itself. Its principal action is clear, strong, sturdy. Growing upwards and outwards it draws from these fundamental roots that were formed in conversations with the soil. It is from this base, and this base only, that its ascent to the clouds will begin. For in drawing from such a confident base, the tree may branch outwards, certain of its connection to principal.

As opportunity presents itself, it will be met by branches. During this period, growth of the roots shall continue in response to the action above ground. At the end of each of these branches will emerge leaves. They will stretch to seek sun's benevolence, and the faith which connects these two things will feed the tree in its aspirations upward and outward.

It will be fueled as a Fire

(The Heart)

All parts of the tree are combustible. It would be foolish, however, to allow the flame to dominate the tree. But when a branch is selected, it will give of itself in and extraordinary way. It will burn long and bright so that its heat and its glow draw people in, captivating them and often drawing other wood as kindle.

The fire will both demand and give much.

It will be shaped and cradled by the River

(The Soul)

The universe conspires. For good for for bad? No, it is unwise to assume either. It conspires forward, winding and weaving through a tryst with forever.

Our role in this is equally minute and enormous, as we are connective tissue within this universe. To discard our intricacy or importance denotes foolishness, as does regarding it outside of or above the system in which it exists.

And the truth remains - the universe conspires. To its own amusement? Sometimes maybe, yes. Nevertheless, time forges on, forcing our scope inwards. What are we to make of this? Surely in the midst of a chronology strewn across the depths of space, our existence is but a blink of the eye... But in that moment of darkness, with eyelids shut, what a beautiful moment it surely is. We are here. And though I am humbled by this fact to the point where my knees would buckle, I will remain upright and dynamic. I will conspire as well, and I will ride this river to whatever end, as a train passenger who rides silently to the end of the rail - a spot which will present itself in time, for it has been conspired...

The Fire - The Tree - The River...

The Heart - The Mind - The Soul

Post 5

Lost in the public 'masses', it is often that we loose our emotional sense of those around us to the physical complexity we are presented.

But what a fascinating display it is to look beyond the simple physical presence - to see each action taking place around you as it is pushed & prodded by the expectations that precede it.

This is typical for relationships into which we settle. It is said well in 'The Alchemist' (Paulo Coelho), that when you spend a lot of time with someone, you allow them to develop expectations for you. These expectations are subtle weights to an otherwise boundless potential to explore, yet often a fair price to pay for the comfort this type of relationship offers.

We seek a balance, while the answer lies at our feet...

'From you, my friend, I will expect the unexpected.. For while we are confined here in body by time, I understand well that your spirit and mind travel in light-years, and would request that you allow mine the same courtesy. And when the universe conspires such that these paths of ours collide, let us sit back and marvel at the settling debris. For it was out of a similar 'big bang' which we credit our existence... we would be foolish to expect less of our encounters ;)'

In between pictures...

'Often while traveling with a camera we arrive just as the sun slips over the horizon of a moment, too late to expose film, only enough time to expose our hearts' - Minor White

Thanks to the generosity of Eve Kachaje - a great friend and mentor to me - I've had the chance to play photographer here in India this summer. I've never been one to travel with a camera, so there's been a learning experience tied to the small machine.

While traveling, the camera assumes an interesting role. When we arrive at scenes which we hope to 'capture', it becomes a link to the future - through which we would project this experience, either for loved ones or onto our own memories, clouded by time. But through what lens will we capture this moment? At what exposure? Shutter speed? Angle? - Premier Canadian photographer Ted Grant once said, 'When you photograph people in colour you photograph their clothes. But when you photograph people in Black & White, you photograph their souls'. -

So we resort to a frenzy of pictures, in pursuit of the accurate capture of these moments of beauty - often small windows of time which flee from the shutter of our cameras.

As I said, its been a process of adjustment for me traveling with a camera this summer. I've been notorious for leaving the 'Canon' behind, only to arrive empty handed at moments which take my breath away. And when 'a picture's worth a thousand words', I shudder to think of the task at hand in putting to language the gaps I've left through my photographic folly.

Not to be deterred - I put the question to the world wide web. Why is it that a picture's worth a thousand words? - I was surprised with what I found out.

The word photography comes from two Greek words - photos (light) and graphos (writing)... 'Writing with light' (love it) - Writing in the language of light? (even better). I'm no stranger to new languages - albeit slowly, I have engaged with new ones before. What I have found is that in doing so, it’s best to cut ties to your own so as to see the world through the eyes of this new dialect (don't believe me? www.rosettastone.com) ;)

This being so - I must then look to what allows our cameras to write in this 'language of light'... it was time to sit down with the 'Cannon' (again - thanks Eve :P). It asked me this...

'With what lens is it that you view your day?'

and

'To what extent do you leave your heart exposed?'

It explained to me,

‘Time flies by in the blink of an eye. But leave your shutter open for long enough, and you’ll come away with a magnificent imprint of what’s important around you. And when that image before you isn’t quite what you wanted, realize that it’s often just a matter of adjusting your angle.’

~

‘When words become unclear, I shall focus with photographs. When images become inadequate, I shall be content with silence.’ –Ansel Adams

… it is often in these moments of silence - in between photographs - where the spectacle of 'photos in graphos' comes alive.

-G

Post 3 -'Return to the River'

‘Tucked away in the heart of the Alliance Francais courtyard, we exchange visions for this country by which we are so enthralled. Our words float on air which dances with the rising steam of our tea – tea that keeps the passion behind these thoughts at bay.

Still, something is aflame here. And it keeps us captive – sitting, talking, dreaming- all in hope that we might return from our ‘escape’ ignited. That words will do more than dance from our mouths – though amusing that may be. We hope for something of more resonance – a dream with a direction that lives in the marrow, not simply the skin.

For the Indian street is a river, and its current is quick to wash away hopes which we would merely drape over ourselves – no matter how proudly we may wear them...’

I wrote last about Bangalore at first glance. I left off in search of a ‘boat’. I return to you now – almost a month later – as my thoughts cycle back to ‘the river’ at the heart of the city…

This is a place in which you must listen and think for a long while before speaking. It has been my intention to do this in my first month here – and in this pursuit, so have I begun to construct my boat. For the river that I saw in the streets of Bangalore upon initial glance has proven to hold truth that runs much deeper than the physical sense to which I initially applied it. It is a metaphor which I believe permeates to the question of the Indian nation - a question for which the pursuit of an answer holds a storied, perhaps even ‘divine’ history.

Following Independence in 1947 – it was the quest of a nation ‘to build the noble mansion of free India where all her children may dwell’ (Nehru), ‘to join a struggle for such democracy’ in which the ‘differences between Hindus and Muslims’ are forgotten, so that only Indians remain, ‘engaged in the common struggle for independence’ (Gandhi). It was these inspired words - spoken at the ‘origin of the river’ that was now a free and democratic India - that would penetrate to the marrow of a nation for the next 63 years.

So as we stow away in restaurants and pubs, lounges and living rooms – dream sequencing stories: past, present and future – we weave threads of hope which embroider this vision. And from these retreats we emerge well dressed, in cloth spun from whispers of words from the past.

But -

The Indian street is a river - a spectacle of thousands of voices, each fixed to the unique ebbs and flows of their cultural past. And together they form a thunderous current, one which would drown even the strongest of swimmers - so we aspire to build boats. They will be crafted from the very voices they set to navigate, sanded down by a keen ear and a strong mind, shaped by the cause that was planted in the marrow of the people, now a near century ago. They will be oared by passion - the kind which burns brightly and deeply, fixing the path in even the darkest of storms. May it burn eternally, for it was ignited at 'the river’s origin' with these immortal words...

‘"Long years ago we made a tryst with destiny, and now the time comes when we shall redeem our pledge, not wholly or in full measure, but very substantially. At the stroke of the midnight hour, when the world sleeps, India will awake to life and freedom. A moment comes, which comes but rarely in history, when we step out from the old to the new, when an age ends, and when the soul of a nation, long suppressed, finds utterance. It is fitting that at this solemn moment we take the pledge of dedication to the service of India and her people and to the still larger cause of humanity.”

-Jawaharlal Nehru, Aug. 15, 1947

*(For the remainder of Nehru’s speech, visit http://www.mapsofindia.com/personalities/nehru/message-to-nation.html)

*Fittingly enough, the name Nehru comes from the Hindi word 'nehar' - in English, 'a canal' :P

POST 2

(May 30, 2010) – Now, a little over a week into my experience here in India, my head begins to settle somewhat. I’ve used a number of times, the expression that the city has ‘slowed down’ for my purposes. Images no longer whiz by, nor are rejected by an overwhelmed mind, and the defense mechanisms which had flared up on initial contact with the chaos of Bangalore now begin to unclench just a bit.

There is a great beauty to this place, although it is dulled by a relentless wear & tear. Yet even in the mass of people here there is something to behold, a beauty in the struggle – to coexist, to hash out some form of personal rhythm against the persistant beat of the city, to not only live, but live vibrantly.

On the plane ride from Toronto, I read Hermann Hesse’s ‘Siddartha’ – on recommendation from my Toronto based mentor and friend, Azmi Haq. On a number of occasions, I was forced to put the book down in order to manipulate & examine the author’s ideas before internalizing them. Upon finishing the work, I’ve begun to play with Siddartha’s concepts – of mind, of soul, and of the act of life in whole. In this first week, for a number of reasons which I will explain, I’ve been chained to the author’s conclusions on ‘Samsara’ (the ‘game of life’ – fraught with temptation – one which leaves hearts both empty and full, bonded and broken), and his exploration – through Siddartha’s character – of the wisdom in a river.

First let me start with the latter of the two, for it is in the imagery of the river that I might best describe my week-old understanding of Bengaluru. And it is from the river’s bank that I have watched this city – overwhelmed by its size and speed, deafened by its noise. Yet as one who stands at rivers edge is often consumed by, and ultimately deterred from the scene before them, my three months here binds me to stay, and in doing so affords me the luxury to become a pupil of this giant body.

As I sat on the river bank this past week, my scope retreated inwards, perplexed by the outward chaos that it had encountered. In doing so, it asked many questions…

“For one who sought to be a boatman on this massive stream, you have arrived with neither ship nor oars?”

-A fair question this was…

“And what do you know of water but from being a passenger on the backs of other ferrymen?”

-Similarly, well placed…

At this, I was forced to rise to my feet, to walk to the river’s edge. As the water ran by my feet, I followed it – as it ebbed and flowed, dove and surfaced, swirled and gurgled – till it disappeared downstream. Then my eyes returned to my feet and found new water, which danced and jumped, swept and crashed, and eventually – too – disappeared downstream. The river seemed to slow down, and as it did, it entered my mind – dancing and flowing, ebbing and crashing, much to my amazement.

This has been Bangalore over the past week… I now set for wood, and instruction on how to build a boat… :p