S.

i could not even imagine my past; and when i think of it now, it seems to be showing me the life of some other persion. and that other person is what i repudiate; my whole 'self' is someplace else ... when i think back ... to all the delirium of my then self ... i seem to be observing the obsessions of a stranger, and i am stupefied to learn that that stranger was myself.

-- e. m. cioran
___

S left yesterday for a new job in the uk, and i'll miss him terribly. from being my politics tutor as an undergrad to being my phd supervisor, he was also always a friend. and to think it all started so serendipituously. it was my first day in the city, just off the plane, and poking my yet-enrolled nose around the uni and signing up for courses and tutorials. "fresh off the boat!" he said, when he spotted me scribbling my name onto one of the notices pinned on the wall. i had signed up for his tutorial.

that was four years ago when i was living a different and previous life; who'd have known how S, with his encyclopedic mind and formidable intellect, would deeply indebt me, would come to be someone who'd play an important and transformative role in my life.

the past year that he was marked an extraordinary deepening of our friendship. a particular incident had to happen that scuppered everyone's aspirations. at his most distraught and frustrated moment he had said, "something good must come out of this." and indeed there were happy endings. the past year had been an incredible one with S, with our once or twice weekly cook-ins, generous wine and coffee and music and conversations. to say i'll miss him and i'm sad that he's left is to put things mildly.

hopefully to better verse and voice

i like the fact that this blog exists. a handful of friends and a few fingers of students know about it, and i want to keep it that way. i'm a very private person, not very lively and certainly not loud and going by developments over the years, these traits look set to persist if not deepen.

most of all i like the fact that i'm writing for myself and no one else and i'll make sure this credo remains. i need an outlet to write, and i realise i type better than i pen and i need somewhere to store my writings that can be accessed and added wherever and where else perfecter than the Net?

the torrential downpour last week was an experience that only drove home this point. i had a brolly but no matter, i was soaked, my bag was soaked, my books (to kill a mockingbird; naipaul's essays) were soaked, my mont blanc pen got lost amidst the wet flurry (i cry), and my notebook that i pen thoughts in occasionally was reduced to something that can only be described as watercolour impressionism gone mad (the artist, incidentally, had used only one colour - montblanc blue).

the books should be fine, maybe after a few years the pages would be straightened out (if only gay people could be restored like that, hallelujah, but would they want to? restored to what?). my notebook's a new one, having recently filled out the older (and by far the most precious) one, so the damage was little. i can always re-write my thoughts and second drafts are usually better versions.

my greatest loss was the pen - not because it is expensive (it is), but because it has sentimental value and my name engraved. it is like possessing a first edition of a beloved novel by a favourite writer - beautiful, well-made, poetic, timeless. these are rare qualities in our ugly, gaudy, commercial age where today's fashion is tomorrow's trash. these are qualities that varnish objects priceless. i'll certainly buy another to replace the loss, but identical to its predecessor it may be, beloveds have only one life, one death, and another would never be the same. and especially writing instruments, that for me with a literary disposition and aspiration, they are rich in tradition, history, and symbolism. it is a pen and not a pen and not just a pen especially a well-made pen of vintage. i'll find an occasion to justify a new buy, and mark a new beginning. hopefully to better verse and voice.

on that hopeful note, here's One Art by elizabeth bishop:

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

---Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Elizabeth Bishop