Showing posts with label In passing... Kaudagala. Show all posts
Showing posts with label In passing... Kaudagala. Show all posts

27 August 2020

15:53

By Malinda Words

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Black and white AND/OR color?


First of all, contrary to popular assumption, black and white ARE colors.  ‘In black and white’ of course has connotations that have little to do with color. This, then, is about metaphor.

Ajith Fernando has penned a pertinent note on an old theme: ‘If one’s world is black-white then coloring it is your responsibility. If you lament the lack of colors, the first accused in this crime is no one else but you.’

Black-white, needless to say, is color-poor. Richer would it be if things were splashed with a full palette. Ajith’s mild admonishment is for those who bemoan but do nothing, not even the can-be-done parts of dispelling the gloom.

In essence, it’s a different way of saying ‘stop cursing the darkness and light a candle.’  But no, even when there are candles around, there are those who will suffer the darkness until power is restored (in the case of a power failure in the middle of the night, for example). We never have enough, but we don’t bother to consider the possibility of making do with what we do have. We don't say, 'it's not enough, but let's do our best to make it enough.'

We don’t have a full palette, but we are not completely without color. We can use them or wait for eternity for that magical set of crayons, pencils, watercolors or oils that can give us every conceivable shade. I am willing to wager that even in the unlikely event of being gifted such a complete range, we are unlikely to use them all. Think back on the first set of crayons someone gave you. Weren’t there some which disappeared from constant use, others that shortened to stubs and still others that retained original length? That’s how it is in coloring. We can color with what we have but we will complain until we are in possession of a wider set of option, to most of which we won’t give a second thought.

There’s a flip side to this as well. A lot of color is also a lot of noise. We are blinded to the details when we are forced to gaze on a bright flush of color. There are separating lines which define things, but color has a way of pushing them to margins of the invisible. What we are left with is a blur, a handsome swish of different brushes dipped in different cans of paint; and we lose the faculty of distinguishing one thing from another. We end up misnaming, misdefining and being misled.

There are times when we have to retire a lot of colors so we can obtain something at least half-way stark to facilitate comprehension. We need to break things down to constituent parts. Color, metaphorically, can and does gloss over a lot of injustice, for example. In fact color can turn falsehood into truth, injustice into justice, nightmare into the sweetest of dreams, vile and selfish intent into benevolent compulsion.  

Black-white to Color or vice versa, as Ajith would say, it’s all up to us. Well, we are not in total control of course for we neither have a complete palette nor a delicate eraser that can push aside lie and distortion. Nevertheless as long as there’s mind and heart, as long as we can imagine and have the strength to scratch away certain deceiving surfaces, we can unravel the real.
 
As Ajith’s observation implies, there could be more than one culprit for the crime of lamenting beyond reason, but we can only deal with that which we can control. Things are seldom completely out of control. There’s a brush and some colors we can use to turn life from dismal to palatable. There’s an eraser that allows us to get things or say things in black and white — just so it’s not all gray.

Up to us.  To the extent possible.

Other articles in the series 'In Passing...':  [published in the 'Daily News']   
 
Eyes that watch the world and cannot be forgotten 
 Let's start with the credits, shall we? 
The 'We' that 'I' forgot 
'Duwapang Askey,' screamed a legend, almost 40 years ago
Dances with daughters
Reflections on shameless writing
Is the old house still standing?
 Magic doesn't make its way into the classifieds
Small is beautiful and is a consolation  
Distance is a product of the will
Akalanka Athukorala, at 13+ already a hurricane hunter
Did the mountain move, and if so why?
Ever been out of Colombo?
Anya Raux educated me about Juvenile Idiopathic Arthritis (JIA)
Wicky's Story You can always go to GOAT Mountain
Let's learn the art of embracing damage
Kandy Lake is lined with poetry
There's never a 'right moment' for love
A love note to an unknown address in Los Angeles
A dusk song for Rasika Jayakody
How about creating some history?
How far away are the faraway places?
There ARE good people!
Re-placing people in the story of schooldays  
When we stop, we can begin to learn
Routine and pattern can checkmate poetry
Janani Amanda Umandi threw a b'day party for her father 
Sriyani and her serendipity shop
Forget constellations and the names of oceans
Where's your 'One, Galle Face'?
Maps as wrapping paper, roads as ribbons
Yasaratne, the gentle giant of Divulgane  
Katharagama and Athara Maga
Victories are made by assists
Lost and found between weaver and weave
The Dhammapada and word-intricacies
S.A. Dissanayake taught children to walk in the clouds
White is a color we forget too often  
The most beautiful road is yet to meet a cartographer 

02 March 2020

08:50

By Malinda Words

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Distance is a product of the will


More than forty years ago the Reader’s Digest published an article about Antarctic exploration, in particular the journeys of the Norwegian explorer Roald Amundsen. I remember the description of the man’s determination, how he passed the grave of another polar explorer, Xavier Mertz, who perished in an ill-fated journey Douglas Mawson and Edward Ninnis (who fell into a crevice along with a sledge carrying most of the food stocks).  

Such men and women go where others have not and wouldn’t dream of going. Of course the North Pole, the South Pole, Mount Everest or the deepest point in the Mariana Trench are not destinations that excite many. Different people, different life-goals. And yet we celebrate people who test their resolve, physical and mental strength against the harshest conditions. The triumph of the human spirit warms many. 

This is not about the Hillarys and Edmundsens. It’s about distance, which of course can be taken literally or metaphorically.  This is literal.

A few miles beyond Manampitiya on the road to Welikanda is a signpost. ‘Aselapura.’ It’s at a turn off to the left. The destination was not South Pole. There were no hidden crevices to be wary of. Considering such dangers, this was a heavenly road. 

A question from the ‘explorers’: kaudagalata kochchara durada?’ They were going to an ancient monastery and wanted to know how far they had to go. It wasn’t hundreds and hundreds of miles, this they knew, but it was late evening, they knew of the threat of elephants and wanted to know if they could reach their destination before dark. 

They were informed that it was 21 kilometers away. That’s long. That’s a lot of time on such roads. They decided to go ahead.

A few miles down the road, they came upon a canal. They met a man after they crossed the bridge who said ’11 kilometers’ and indicated the route they should take. Another kilometer, the same question and a different answer, ‘around three and a half kilometers.’ 

It wasn’t dark yet. There was a hill to climb. Distance to go and time it would take can be misleading, but again the consensus was, ‘let’s go as far as we can.’ It was a judgment call on the time to head back. 

So they climbed a rock, stopping along the way to take in ruins and caves and of course a breather. They didn’t make it all the way to the top, but were close enough to get a fantastic view of the surrounding terrain. Paddy fields, jungle, some houses that probably made up a village or two, and other rocky outcrops which probably had at some point been resident to meditative bikkhus. All green in different shades. Late evening sky. A nice breeze. A moment to remember. 

They got back before dark and there was still enough light to enjoy the view from the tank bund of Kaudagala Wewa. Enough time for a bath.  

Not the most arduous of journeys. None of these people were anything like Admundsen, Ninnis, Mawson or Mertz. There’s a way, however, in which a number (if it’s large) or a time (if it is late) can make people hesitate or stop altogether. Then there are occasions when such things don’t count. 

Sure, there’s destination, but then between ‘here’ and ‘there’ there are innumerable places endowed with enough memorable-wealth. Sometimes destinations are 21 kilometers away, sometimes even further than that. Hundreds of miles. Sometimes just around the corner. There are innumerable reasons to stop and turn back. Then there’s something that spurs you on to places not marked on map and forgotten by history. They call out to us. And then weariness abandons, time of day becomes irrelevant and we don’t notice the crevices along the way.  

Will. Hard to measure. It consumes distances by miles or kilometers, stops time. It did this for Admundsen. It can do it for those less driven, less equipped physically. 

malindasenevi@gmail.com


Other articles in the series 'In Passing...':  [published in the 'Daily News' on Monday, Wednesday and Friday every week]

Routine and pattern can checkmate poetry
Janani Amanda Umandi threw a b'day party for her father 
Sriyani and her serendipity shop
Forget constellations and the names of oceans
Where's your 'One, Galle Face'?
Maps as wrapping paper, roads as ribbons
Yasaratne, the gentle giant of Divulgane
Katharagama and Athara Maga
Victories are made by assists
Lost and found between weaver and weave
The Dhammapada and word-intricacies
S.A. Dissanayake taught children to walk in the clouds
White is a color we forget too often
The most beautiful road is yet to meet a cartographer