Travelogues of an exiled mind part I

I just went around the world, just a little bit. Saw things that I wanted to see all my life. This is a beginning of a process of posting thoughts that I wish to crystallize over time and mindspace.

It is the sense of exile that is sinking into me like a ikebana bouquet in a fertile soil; beautiful but sinking.

Christian art - Its simple, varied, within a few borders and repititive. It maybe because that it is just one figure that dominates the canvas: Jesus. Then he has his apostles and saints. Kings and queens jostle with Popes for space. Resuurection, the Virgin Mary and angels are spread all over the space as parboiled rice grains spread on tarpaulin - capable of quenching hunger, simplistically beautiful, numerous in form of the same thing.

I just hate Baroque art. Its claustrophobic in shine and excess of detail in cramped spaces. Grandeur is celebrated in gaudy explosions of an artist's sense of paean sining and history recording.

Loved seeing Dali's sculptures and his nauseatingly appealling obssession of the persistence of memory.

The theft of the East amazes me, and the gumption of flaunting them is even more amazing.

This brings me back to the sense of exile. Mental uprooting is worse than the exodus. It also gives a sense of freedom from all moorings. When do say that I belong? It is when you identify your existence with a world around you. I have thirteen different places to say I belong. Yet that can't be, paradoxically. So I belong nowhere. Its a rich emptiness like an aromatic vacuum - scaringly sparse and yet inescapable.

Going from existential angst I go into existential numb.

Will continue/

Undulating lines

The catharsis of insolvent memories
Seeps out in tears and pretentious smiles
In Pather Panchali
In La Pieta.

Fields of brown singed grass
Flow over the taut bosoms of virgin
Mindspaces
Contemplating coition and moksha.

Semblances of sanity visit
Whistlestopping executives on Divine duties
Balancing up the piled up stones
Pyramids of hopes and supporting lies.

Still there exists my own grasps on reality
Clutching door knobs of rooms
Housing all dreams
Sheathed underneath mommy's saari. Safe.