Saturday, August 28, 2010

Writing as therapy

Some of us go to the shrink to deal with our emotional and mental distress, and there are the few of us who take to the written word to stay sane in our own way. And yet there are still more of us who resort to other acts to keep going in life — like a good cry or just sporting the damn-all attitude.
Writing is cathartic — that is emotionally purging. When we are distressed or have something weighing on our mind, sometimes we just pick up a pen and scribble on a notepad. This simple act, which we indulge in without much thought, is a form of therapy. What you do when you visit a shrink is you tell the person your deepest, most personal stories — things you refrain from even sharing with your friends or family. Talking becomes an emotional outlet, a valve that releases all the tensions wired in your brain. You feel good and "light" after such sessions. Writing works almost the same way. When you pour out word after word onto a white, all-absorbing page that never questions, never gives a frown, or is never shocked of your ways, you feel a load has just been unburdened. All your problems don't go away, but you definitely get a breather —  it is like giving an exhausted boxer a few seconds of rest so he can continue fighting. I guess this is how most of us deal with life. A little research on the Internet on writing as a form of therapy showed up a good number of results. Wikipedia explains it as a form of "expressive therapy" that not only eases pain but "strengthens the immune system." Writing as a therapy is practiced in a group and even administered by a therapist. "Assignments may include writing unsent letters to selected individuals, alive or dead, followed by imagined replies from the recipient or parts of the patient's body, or a dialogue with the recovering alcoholic's bottle of alcohol."
So give in to writing. There is nothing to fear. Your notepad doesn't judge.



Saturday, August 21, 2010

Another Visit to the Oracle: Atwood

I've taken up aphorism. Cryptic, they say.
Soon I'll get everything down to one word.
All crammed in there, very
condensed you understand, like an
extremely small black star. Like a
black hole. Like a dense potential.
Like the letter A.

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

A shotgun for a bunch of words

A crow came calling yesterday. I woke up yesterday morning to find an unlikely visitor perched upon the curtain rod, nervous and clearly out of its comfort zone. It has been ages since I last saw a crow, and it gave me a start to see the black poor jittery creature all bundled up in the corner. It was clearly disoriented and looking for a way to get off the room. It even got a couple of its feathers clipped in its attempt to find an escape route. After 10 to 20 minutes of fumbling and chasing around, my brother finally got hold of it, took it to the terrace, and set it free. Quite the opposite of Ted Hughes' crow, but nevertheless, I was reminded of his poem. Love this poem.

Crow Goes Hunting

Crow
Decided to try words.

He imagined some words for the job, a lovely pack-
Clear-eyed, resounding, well-trained,
With strong teeth.
You could not find a better bred lot.

He pointed out the hare and away went the words
Resounding.
Crow was Crow without fail, but what is a hare?

It converted itself to a concrete bunker.
The words circled protesting, resounding.

Crow turned the words into bombs-they blasted the bunker.
The bits of bunker flew up-a flock of starlings.

Crow turned the words into shotguns, they shot down the starlings.
The falling starlings turned to a cloudburst.

Crow turned the words into a reservoir, collecting the water.
The water turned into an earthquake, swallowing the reservoir.

The earthquake turned into a hare and leaped for the hill
Having eaten Crow's words.
Crow gazed after the bounding hare
Speechless with admiration.