From: fsjm@icomp01.lerc.nasa.gov (Joseph Mathew)
Subject: BEYOND THE SUN
Keywords: Say good-night Gracie
Organization: NASA Lewis Research Center, Cleveland, OH
Date: Fri, 4 Sep 1992 21:32:18 GMT




		          Beyond the Sun

	What can I write about her that you don't already know, or
know much better?  Along with many other suitors, almost a decade ago,
I requested an audience, found favor with her maids-in-waiting, allayed
the fears of her gatekeepers and ran up the driveway, a single
suitcase in hand, to the Palace. The Palace was enormous with many 
delightful rooms and I spent many hours in a few rooms. Alas, I don't
think I've quite seen her yet and am not sure that she lives in this 
Palace.  I confess to not searching earnestly, but it is her home and
it is a large home and I rather expected her to show herself to me as
I felt that I'd done my part by arriving at the Palace.  Besides,
there were distractions.  The rooms I spent my time in were fun to play
in.  I met many of her cousins, friends and attendants.  Some of her
other suitors were my friends, so I didn't feel totally alone, strange
as that sounds :-) (shouldn't expect too much from imagery).  In
travelling from one room to another, we sometimes met and shared
traveller's tales.  We enjoyed exploring some rooms together and then
went our separate ways.  We sometimes looked out through the same grand
windows at the sometimes too lovely gardens below. And, occasionally,
I thought I caught a fleeting glimpse of her or her shadow.
Occasionally, I judged her to be near by the fragrance that still hung 
by the shrubs where she'd paused.  Sometimes I wonder if I paused in
those same places too long and if I might have caught up with her if I
hadn't.  But, after eight years, I'm leaving this palace. Eight years
ago this was the only palace, but now I've decided to leave, and not
without hope that she might live elsewhere too.

	Sci is one of those rooms.   It was a strange room with
countless open doorways filled with lots of (estimated :-)) people
looking on, never to enter.  Being a shy person, I too watched the
orgy for a while.  What fun!  What variety of expression!  Some very
gifted, some very confident, if less well-endowed, and some,
hopelessly lost waifs. The most delightful to watch were the pompous
and the self-righteous---naked as everyone else but unwilling to take
of their top hats and bow ties.  And then I read a poem, in an old cultural
digest.  And I found a net friend.  And I walked right through the
room to a somewhat vacant corner and shamelessly displayed my wares. I
caught a few smiles and was even mildly engaged on occasion.  I cherish
the smiles and can remember a Top Hat who threw his umbrellas at me a
couple of times.  You shouldn't stop them from throwing, all too often
a mere childish, reflexive act, and so, ever fails to find their mark.
Once when I saw too many Top Hats, I didn't realize that some were
reflections in the mi^Rr^or held up by St. George and other
Medusa-slayers.  Parts of her petrified, but much of her lives on. May
I extend a welcome to some who are still in the doorways?  You may be
the deviants that we're looking for to take away the periodic tedium.

	Not all rooms were as delightful.  Once I walked into a
dissembled chamber on one of the upper floors, past a swirling
stairway and at the end of a freshly painted, petal strewn, corridor,
unwittingly drawn by the welcome sounds of music from within.  I was
not a happy camper, but I survived.  Her name, escapes you. :-)
Another room had an ante-chamber that was poorly lit with frightening 
frescoes on the walls. Was the red, blood, I wondered; were those dark
shapes, skeletons? Yes, and yes. Do I need the long confident strides
of the other visitors to get to the next room and to even get past it?
Should I back out, while I can?  I walked on and my eyes grew
accustomed to the darkness and the inner chamber proved to be more
welcoming.  There were treasures there that I could carry off with me
and the keeper just smiled and asked, '... another ring?  A
diamond-crested sword, perhaps?'  Thanks, but no; there is such a
thing as too much treasure! 


	On my third trip here from India, I was in the middle of my
Ph.D. program.  I called Cambridge home, being careful to make the
(snobbish :-)) distinction from Boston.  I knew exactly where to go to
when the plane landed.  This time, the airport would be familiar as
would the way to my apartment.  Nothing daunting.  When asked what I'd
do when I got in, I'd thought of how I'd have to vacuum my room (I
didn't), so as not to jet-lag in a month's worth of dust.  There was
no excitement at the prospect of resuming life in Cambridge, but it
didn't seem to matter, until I sat back in the taxi.  And then I
peered ahead into the future and wondered.  And I felt that I didn't
want to do this. I don't think I can make this my home.  I haven't
ever felt particularly patriotic, duty-bound or otherwise attached to
India, or Kerala, or even Trivandrum.  I had felt crowded growing up
in a very close-knit community and had enjoyed the freedom and
independence found in going away to study in Madras, to live in a
strange land among strangers.  The US seemed a natural extension.  I
have tried to suppress the feelings that I'd had on that taxi ride,
dismissing them as easily understood blues.  I have tried, perhaps
not with enough enthusiasm, to stay on the expected career path.  But
those feelings seem like some kind of a warning, as a distillation of
my true wants and fears unclouded by the notion of what I ought to do. 

	I would not call myself sentimental, though you might disagree:-).  
I don't know that I'm attached to anything and that has made leaving
against the counsel of conventional wisdom so much simpler.  Perhaps
it's a mid-life crisis.  Now, if only I had the money for a Porche.
It has been people---friendships---that I have valued the most but
beginning long years ago, I found that I couldn't hold on despite my 
best efforts  and deepest longings.  One can reason that one is
powerless against death, careers, loves that carry one's friends away
and that it ought not to interfere with a new opportunity.  But reason
is never comfort enough, though time is.  How often should one pursue
a friendship that's doomed to disappear?  How far should one reach in,
knowing that sooner, not later, one has to let go?  Is it better to
have curled up in the warmth of that particular person than never to
have been there at all?  I know what's logical.  I know what I ought
to do.  But I find that increasingly it's the knowing and not anything
visceral that urges me to press on.  To enjoy it while it lasts, and
somehow get through the pain of parting, because neither will be for
the last time.  The most surprising and delightful aspect has been
that, after all the time spent apart, when we meet, we resume as
though we'd never been away.  A toast to friendships then...


	Let me take care of your flaming as well, so that you who feel
the need to, can read the flames,

	"Lighten up!"
	"Get a life!"
	"Yo Baby!  Call me.  Let's do lunch. Not!"
	"Like we care!"
	
and return to your regularly scheduled programming.


	With good wishes to sci and fond hopes of vigor in ack, I leave,
without saying goodbye.  If I build a broad verandah, some of you are
welcome to sit with me and watch the rain.  We will serve tea.
Do bring your tales.

Joseph Mathew



T.C. 3-1712, L.I.C. Lane
Pattom
Trivandrum 695004
Kerala India

-- 


fsjm@bart.lerc.nasa.gov
Newsgroups: soc.culture.indian