My Formalism Failed Me: Anecdote of Fastdious Regret

Formalism in life is not strictly about having your bedroom, living room and home office in apple-pie order and colour concordance without uncleared litter or unmanaged clutter. It’s an overall outlook that demands perfect pruning and levelling or balancing at whatever step life lands you in.

Visible material orderliness apart, it ascends to the plane of individual vision where the same neat-stacking tendencies show in organising thought content too, with precise categories correlated by clear lines and/or areas of similarity or contrast or overlap or intersection. Everything here is explainable, predictable and packageable by the instruments of logic. Even esoteric matters are neatly explained without bluff or rebuff. See, alliterating and rhyming also follow from that powerhouse of orderliness!

The two kinds of formalism more often than not co-exist in an individual. Modes of individual expression are the most powerful indicators of the convergence. Where the convergence is absent, or where the material orderliness does not marry mental organization, a serious personality rift, often going towards a drift, occurs. Very sad cases, such.

The most serious and perhaps the only cause of formalism initially present but later lapsing in manifestation are either the individual’s low energy levels that cannot meet the demands of spatial organization due to health debility, or a very low quotient of stretchable time. Leave out cases of brain damage resulting in aberrant states overall that does not pertain here.

Note that one has one’s vital time and stretchable time, the former for the most needed activities of daily life and the latter for self-inspired projection to the outer world. When such a thing occurs as paucity of creativity-enhancing energy or shaping-up time, the “primal fastidious,” as I would call such a fussy formalist, feels very low self esteem.

The worst thing about such a situation is, the fussy one cannot often, due to hampering pride go down to acknowledge drastic need of help, or withdraws fearing being dominated by helpers over-utilizing this huge idiosyncratic weakness. Or, in less innocuous cases, the candidate cannot trust another to do the job just as right and fears high words with the helper in the bargain. And simply recoils from asking for help.

Morbid fears are inbuilt in every obsession. But do not call this an OCD but a simple finicky aspect.

All three cases are highly deplorable and pathetic. Net result, a stubborn muddle that crucifies the helpless onlooker with more nails at every turn.

The stress-free solutions proposed by others will simply not be acceptable due to the psychological blockades of, shall we coin a phrase for another such circumstancial condition, “parity distrust?” Only choice, Hobson’s choice, is to sufffer hell and be absolved in suffering’s own purgatory to attain the paradise of a miraculous transformation in the state of affairs, if so granted.

Sounds very neatly argued, doesn’t it? Testimony of the first witness is strongest and best. So, take it from me, I’m living a moment of uncleared commotion around me in my physical world though I’ve proved to you hereby my mental organization is precisely intact.

My reasons have been forecast already– poor health that doesn’t give me enough tappable calories to haul or even rub off every noisome thing out of the way. And colour questions horrify me! Sadly, I cannot even use my abundant household and intellectual resources sufficient to manifest ten times the loved change, for my low energy levels and poor orthopedic prospects.

And I can’t have just anybody to finish the work after my heart for me, just because life taught me nobody applies as hard for another (unlike me), and I will not be able to hold my peace with laxity. Because thought systems are a tough mould with me. You think me conceited but I can’t counter it. Enough? Are you answered?

Let me now climb back with you to the adamantine thing of a word, Formalism. Now recognize it as the all-round luxury of the most blessed and comfortable souls in the Elysiums of the Earth. I think the Yale critics were just that, irrespective of individual biographies. And I suspect the inner world of the author of “The Waste Land” too was quite a settled one, for the same soul authored in a very laidback mode the Sacred Wood essays, reflecting calm poise and content. Envy finds many facile reasons for others’ victory. Again, unable to counter.

My Formalism… Simply failed me, for God and I really know what.

Altitude of Art

The Plastic Muse Art is not in any way limited to art forms,  I have always been fond of reminding myself. I have tried my hand at different art forms as a result, taking inspiration from the or…

Source: Altitude of Art

The Baby Knows Its Home

Goldilocks found the bears’ home

And tried to suit herself there.

Red Riding Hood trudged the woods

To find her grandma’s home.

Cinderella was made princess

By a fairy visiting her foster home

Only to give her a dream home.

Hansel and Gretel left home

To be brought back home with more love.

Rapunzel was taken away from home

To a tower that showed her a new home.

So the baby knows one starts from home

By daylight perhaps, and returns home

By twilight or star-light.

 

A little lass thinks of a home

She may help build as she cuddles

Her little doll or cooks with relish

With toy utensils over an imaginary fire.

A waif in the streets would pick up twigs

And splinters of wood to make her game

Of simulating home and kitchen as she

Watches a maid in tatters  beside her.

The modern feminist instructor preaches

To a bedevilled audience of the humbug

That feminine instinct is, and slams

The whole blame on patriarchy. She forgets

There was chemistry long, long before

A patriarch arrived in a prehistoric den.

 

The girl sees her mother bustling around,

Or rues she has no mother to fuss over her.

Less fortunate ones ardently wish

To be the thing they once missed.

The treats on the table and quilts on the bed,

Rich or low or inferior, would mean but the home

Making burning or smouldering homefires

Worth a million festive lights.

The girl would scarce wait to grow

To don the apron of a mother’s care.

 

Home is no structure– just a sensation.

It is vital as the air and water.

The baby crawling on the dirty floor

Of a shack or hovel feels like a lord

Who knows he won’t be spurned

As in aristocratic well-mowed lawns

Where the rich frown at his unscrubbed face

And convulse at his unkempt hair.

 

Home is where fancy flies highest

Without fear of falling or drowning,

Where one need not fear the silence

Of the court, and frolics and prances

Like a colt.

 

 

 

 

Buying a Home

I have oftentimes heard friends say,

“I want a home by the sea.”

They see the sea as accomplishment,

Accompaniment, a balm for tired minds

Bruised in the fray of life.

 

The sea is home to many;

From the hardy and sea-sick sailors

To the marines growing in her capacious womb

She is mother and provider, and educator.

Her lover, the sky, meets her ever to collude

With her; to guide aviaries who brace themselves

For flight from her vast preparatory shores.

 

But what business has man

To appropriate this home?

He trespassed into Diana’s kingdom

And is waging a persistent war

Against the martial Mars.

How many homes does he want,

This impostor and marauder?

Where does he mean to live in one life,

And where does he want to be buried?

 

All love to watch the grand waltz of these two,

The sky ad the sea.

They wish to move their homes

To this locale, this rendezvous.

Advertisements ask for a huge stake

To watch this role play in pastel costumes,

And highlight the climax when russet

And crimson splash upon the costumes.

Men are busy buying tickets for a lifelong

Attendance of the dramatic show.

Their selling agents bring all Nature

Into a microcosmic perspective;

A miniature where geography, topography

And meteorology appear in a frame of

One single place.

 

For a price earned by part of a lifetime

They bring into the span of a settlement

Streaming rivers and mangrove-lined lakes

As though the whole cosmos were here to behold.

 

Nature is more than perspective;

Larger, mightier, unrelenting,

Ruthless in bounty, salvaging

In disaster.

A window frame or balcony is too little

To know her role and field of action.

 

If you want a home by the sea

She will not say No.

She will educate you well on tasks

Of industry and domesticity.

Watch her cook, clean and serve

And launder as the sky holds the lamp

Of daylight for her,

Till she rests at night tired and content,

Like a wonderful, able housekeeper.

She holds her infants close to her

Maternal bosom heaving with love,

Singing lullabies and rocking , and

Making wishes on the stars.

 

You have a great neighbour to emulate;

A thing to show your friends,

But only don’t pretend it’s your pride

That such a one lives by your side.

 

 

 

Home and the World

There was a story from far Bengal thus titled;

This poet loved his home

And it also meant his homeland.

I long to return home

When I have had enough of the world

Or the world has had enough of me.

The world defines what I get

And I define what I give.

Such is the transaction

In this vast planet of business.

 

At the end of the day

I return to huddle in my nest

Or sprawl to my full length.

Here I am myself,

Sans witness, sans judge.

 

Here I feel brave to take on the world;

Where I do not see my image

In the eyes of a zillion faces.

Here I laugh aloud at the fool’s myth

Who claims the world is his home

To carry out his selfish will,

Till the angry gods make the sky

Arching high over him fall, filling

His world with its pieces,

Making him retreat to his nest

To ruminate over his folly.

Home is both comfort and clinic,

Things so readily forgotten while

Claiming a larger unearned home.

 

One is master but in the nest

One has feathered on one’s own.

The long wand of power is a prismatic thing

Dispersing greater fears coming one’s way,

Bringing counter-strokes that can bring down

High-rise nests over trees on citadels.

 

One who loves the home, and also

The wide world without bane,

Is most human of animals and

The real inheritor of the world.

As he walks out of his threshold

He steps into the Eden he has nurtured

Where no serpent dares sting the wise

And no Eve heeds his low treatise.

 

 

Why Talk of Home?

Many have sung of the homeland

And the hinterland,

Of seas crossed and homes purchased

From unopposing home-makers abroad

In the manner of a Columbus or Cook…

In short, homes conquered,

Households looted.

 

Sanctified homes withstood plunder.

Could adding a home to one’s own

Make one’s soulful home?

Could the comforts of the hearth

Be bartered for any settlement

Seized during imperial sojourns

And its innumerable halts?

 

One brags of seizing the homes

Of uncouth barbarians in a remote land.

Does one need to be vainglorious

Talking of one’s real home?

Is it had by valour or bravado?

It is not annexed by might or main,

Whose seal is the ground below

And roof atop loyal to the last.

 

Here cushions and pillows are not exhibits

Of deerskin or hides of exotic species

That surrendered once to pillaging weapons.

These things pamper one like the luxuriant lap

Of a fond mother whose live kitchen

Smells of rich dainties to have and to share.

Here one gives oneself, one’s true self,

To friends and kin and all one’s kind

In this domain all one’s own,

One’s only real blessing

And inalienable pride.

 

A home is not an asset in real estate;

It is the haven of the homing bird,

A place to return after all peregrination

Life reserves for the wanderlust.

 

And even when none greets one at the doorstep

The composite soul of the home

Where all bonds join their spirits

Would sate one’s deepest longing

For home, sweet home.

 

 

Home Away, Heart Aside

Home keeps us warm and well fed
But sends us away to get light and bread.
Some have a patch nearby where daily toil
Brings the fire and table’s spread.
Some move to lands so far
Where one needs must have a new bed,
Maybe coarser, or fluffier, but never
So restful as the homely bedstead.

Nowhere would one say, I love my bed
If there’s none to make a home
Or if there’s none to make a home for.
Home means more than one
Glad for the same reason,
Bound by the same season.

Home is not food or bed or caring
But all of these yoked by sharing.
Away from home the heart craves
For what it left behind in flight.
But as you near your door
The ground sends up a cosy wind
To embrace you under your very feet,
Forgiving you the desertion,
Welcoming you with benediction.

Home Without a Mate

If I toil all my life for a dream,
And I do get my dream;
If it is the envy of every dreamer;
If it has more colours than another’s dream;
If it has more music than another’s dream;
If it changes many hearts;
If it heats up many desires;
If it spurs every other dreamer,
Will my dream be won?

Which loner ever had a dream
Of which he was lone consumer?
Who would he crown with the wreath of dreams
In the kingdom of manifold bliss?
Which brood or mate to make up the sum
Which gone nothing remains?

A flute without a player,
A dessert without a guest,
A blossom without a gazer,
A loyal dog without a master…
Such is the quantum of pain
Gifts unused obtain.

One needs a mate to share the spoils
Of what little conquest one enjoys,
And if, God forbid! the nest be empty
Or the bed vacant of a mate,
Plenitude is to be rued forever
And leisure a thing of mortal dread.

The Cottage Door

One, two, three, four,
I run to the cottage door.
The name cottage fits my home;
I love to call it a cottage.
Here I play sovereign in the mansion
Or bedraggled pauper in the scanty hovel.
With the size I have given to it
It matches with any conceit.

I think this my Victorian terrace
From where I sight from out my book
Scenes of Hugo’s Notre Dam…
Cobbled paths mocking penurious streets…
Glamorous balls shielded from pestilent bouts:
I know the plenty from the pity.

I glimpse chapels, towers, chateaux,
And still feel proud though I own none;
I see rugged tents and makeshift shelters
And feel the pang though not my lot.

At night I pore into my fairy tale book
Over the light of a friendly candle,
And as my eyes feel heavy with sleep
I say, This is what prince and pauper seek.

My Window at Home

I talk of my troubles to my window
That opens its conscience wide for me
To see, know and trust without fear.
The gaze that meets the eye as I speak
Shows no sign of a sneer or scheme
Or of boredom or nothing suspect
To make me stop halfway through my tale
Or make me throw up my arms to the gale
To carry me far to the unnamed dale.

I see a tree or shrub that bodes no ill
Or a stretched lawn that bears no tale
Or a fountain that dances to the gale
Or a harmless landscape most like a dale.

One’s open window trades no ear
With a spying shadow lurking near
To let him move tidings I fear.

My conscience keeper, my window
Frets not as my tale rambles
Or when i twitch with pain
When my memory starts to rain.

My friend leads me on to unburden
The weight of my soul feeling no qualm,
Without telling a soul how mine grew foul
Due to the work of a persistent ghoul.

It lends me air to fly my woes through
And light to see my way through.

It has no guile to rebuff me
Or any gall to spite me,
Listening, lending a shoulder,
Caressing with the fingers
Of the wind flowing by through
The halo of its frame cupping
Rays of angelic light, delight.