waking up...

I do not expect the children of this world to have contemplated jazz or been part of some funk or the other. But then again, I do not expect the children of this world to be following my blog either, at least not yet, which is why I venture into writing this lofty but still crucial point as to how Joel the singing frog came to be.

What do you think of the morning? Do you know what is best about it? I cannot stand in your shoes to answer my question, but if I had to voice for myself, I believe that the most incredible thing about the morning is the fact that one can empathize with it. It’s a time of the day that actually gives your money’s worth and it gives you that for free. A rainy day to me is dull and gloomy, a representation of inactivity, a day in which I won’t go out to play. It could be recognized as a source of life, of freshness and hope and sustenance, but not to me. That’s exactly what the morning does to me – gives me the unbeatable feeling that it’s a new day, every day.

We assume life to be this stock-market curve, what with its bulls and bears and burns and bruises. But it’s clear of all continuity, it actually offers us a chance that way and it does that every morning. We wake up, we feel the sun on our faces and it helps widen our eyes by cringing it further, helps beat some sleep and wakes us up to what awaits. And there is this lull, a static period where everything goes quiet and there’s time to restructure, to reorganize and rank our armies right. Moments where the past is but a jagged visual of this desolate movie that we once watched, one that doesn’t deserve much of disk space and so we have our random access clear of worries and worms.

A time when, for me, all is clear and I see every little thing for exactly what it is and nothing else at all. And that’s exactly what I intend to bring out with this song – an intended ray of hope, more self-directed than ever.

It’s a good day. Every day.

the Singing Frog

I hope this isn’t like John Mayer singing ‘Daughters’ out of the blue, squeezing it between a ‘Come Back to Bed’ and an ‘Only Heart’ – like sense between romance and chauvinism. Actually, I don’t think this is a ‘Daughters’, this is more of the Nick Drake inspired thought than one of John, the kind that’s left behind inside your head, the residual remains of a certain ‘Northern Sky’ or a ‘From the Morning’ more than the vapour that entered and left without a word of goodbye.

Ryan Gosling has much to contribute to this too, he voiced-over for the cartoon without pay particularly because I did the honours, I just… worked upon an already-existing plate. Here’s what came out of that:

The intention is the reach: To be lovable, to be received and to be listened to. As a person, I still see myself as the liberalist-ethical crossover and I don’t want the upcoming to be caught in that tangle – it’s harder to fight it when you’re not aware, and trust me: It takes time to be aware. It takes longer to get things under control – a time-span I don’t know of considering I’m still somewhere in the middle.

Hence, a note to all the parents and elder brothers and elder sisters who read my blog. For lack of a better medium, at least temporarily, I’m having to resort to the tabooed (internet) to get to the disallowed. So, if I could get your permission with the assurance that I’d be polite, I’d take to corresponding with the kids from now, updating them with bits of my life that I feel would be no different from theirs, except for some clarity of thought. The idea is not to nurture through counsel, but to lead by example. Not that I deserve to be one, I’m far from a role model as anyone can be.

But maybe that’s what makes me all the more suitable.

So, as said, here’s where the Writer takes a bow and introduces the act. And Joel, on his part, doesn’t just sing well, he also happens to have an amazing voice – you’d have to wait for that, though. I’d leave it to your imagination, until then.

artwork - one

The mind's intention to be flashy is hard to contain. It is hard to satiate as well, a twin-paradox of sorts. Black and white bloomed to colour and made me feel like I've tried to say too much with too little that it gave the effect of a gagged-conversation between deaf-mutes. 

actually wrote a poem to go with the picture, aimed to be mutually-explanatory. I don't think I got that effect, though. Hence abstaining from writing the same out.

Or very well, here goes:

winter smiles her toothy smile,

looking out from eye to eye;

her teeth are but a broken lot,

the night around in anguish, laughs

so wake up to the coming day,

go grow her out,

help burn this cave;

and something like:

stride ahead and reap some fun,

for like they said it, here she comes.

Don't blame me. I quit poetry - there's better in store elsewhere, or so I believe.

Starting off

Exactly a day after I was told that I was a beautiful person – a remark that made me wish I was. Not that I live a double-life to have provoked that, but… not that I don’t either. There is inevitably a contrast and a resulting cover-up but not to myself. On second thoughts, I do not think of it to be a concealment either, for it is but a parallel to innocent introversion except there’s a marked difference of clarity. In other words, it is not a retraction to shell but a pair of binoculars from my bedroom window with indefinite sight.

Her comment made me reconsider, to look ahead and think back from there. And this way, I founded ‘Joel the singing Frog’ and I found him to be a symbol, a key to inevitable happiness and emotional contention (at least from my present foresight) and I couldn’t let him go from there. He kind of stuck to me; kept ringing inside my head – singing inside my head.

No more a secret, it is a dream to grow kids with some healthy manure than chemicals and pesticides, even if that means they’d remain seedlings forever. I find myself willing to risk that consequence for the sake of progression that could emerge otherwise, and I hope I get someplace with this line of thought.

Wish me luck, whoever.