"All i wanna do..."

It has been established by people far smarter that- no writer writes in a vacuum.
Translation- Anything and everything written has buried deep in it a discourse it either conforms to...or attempts to rebel against (only to fail, later... tsk)
Further Translation- A writer Is influenced by his/her surroundings/environment/society..... Yes, even if you go and hide in the Himalayas and survive on a diet of Mountain Air and Goat milk.

According to Eliot, if you attempt to be a poet after the age of 25 you must be familiar with the classical tradition in order to either inculcate it in your work for a deeper understanding of the world or reject it for the same reason. (counts- okay, have about four years and a bit left before i panic..*breathes*)

But what i'm saying (rather painfully slowly actually) is that though writing is affected by lalalala.... blabla (how very unscholarly of me to not repeat)... Actions too Are influenced by the same... BUT, (and here is the fun part, feel free to re-define 'fun')... BUT another persons interpretation of our actions and what they stem from is what leads to-

a) A executing B when he had to slaughter C (lucky day for C.. Psst. *run now*)
b) Relationships Breaking (the most obvious one)
c) Relationships Surviving (you'll be surprised at how often the foundation for the 'forever' relationship is delusion and shared ignorance about reality)
d) Long phone conversations
e) 9 hour coffee dates
f) blog posts (many, and they'll keep coming)

On a different topic altogether, another 7 km walk home (voluntary, mood-ily)
gave me enough things to chew upon, right from the marvellous benefits of sunscreen and the idiocy of the person who forgets to apply it (oops) to how some things just weren't always worth fighting for. The Battle has been long and hard troops comments the bard, but now after only 8 years of the new age Trojan war/5 seasons of waiting for Godot/two weeks of Prufrock musing over coffee.... quit the field we should? The answer will await us all at the very end of the path, oh wait... I think we're already there.

I'm not caught between the moon and new york city (alternative once pointed out by Chandler to Monica, Friends... I must get out of this habit to provide references like this. Esh, assignment hangover).... But definitely scruffy around the edges at being glued to a pendulum.
One side slamming against Music and Lyrics...while Estelle's art beckons..and then the reverse.

Horrible parallels i know, but the best my cold-ed out self could come up with... *atishoo*....

Dayum, hate bloody kinda-winter-maybe-summer colds. Can the season Please make up its mind? Someone should.

Dee-rum-roll

Jean and i had a discussion bout existentialism and absurdity for about 100 texts which led absolutely nowhere (as is obvious). Sw and i figured it out in 3.
Sw- It doesn't make sense to kill yourself, regardless of Camus' idea.
Me- Yup.
Sw- We are brilliant :)

When it was discovered that an E51 has a 'Listen' feature in messages
S forwarded this -
"Ek chumma tu mujhko udhar de de. Badle mein UP bihar le le"
(Our tummy still hurts from laughing)

During Exams when stress levels tend to build up
S (to Sw and i both)- Conrad is probably laughing at all of us right now. From hell.
We never found out the truth about Conrad but it did drag a half choked laugh out of me...

Melancholic cause of a petty-phase that takes over everything and the advice is?
Sh-Drown yourself in something obviously bigger than yourself. Genocide, human rights has always done it for me. Puts everything in focus and slaps me into place. My problems are specks. I will live. So will you. And follow a path you're meant to.

Makes sense-eth plenty?
I love my friends.

Ps- S, have a great trip... and you'de better be back with uber-spicy-o stories.
*love*

Maybe its that time of the year. The time when you look down at your shoelaces and want to walk home just because it'll take you longer to get there. When you're buzzed into the happy zone, want to crawl out or rather lock the room..pull down the blinds..and pretend. Pretend that you don't have things to do.
When any form of conversation outside of your conscience is
a) a waste of time B- frustrating c) ridiculously inappropriate
When crummi-ness has reached a new peak in its (ironic) lowness. No, you want to not feel good about your marks even. Not even they deserve a pat on the head. Or maybe an ear fondle, like a dogs. Like a young dogs.
When eating too much and praying too hard have both passed as phases will.
When writing ridiculous nonsense fifteen times a day becomes just-another activity. When you're mad, but not quite sure what for or who at.
Wait, do know that. The self. Angry at self. Mad at self. Annoyed with self.
Royally pi***d with self (yehp, apparently p***** is now a banned word in the loving home).
You know in college, there are always those fantastic (girl-gang)moments when 3 bestfriends (forgive the cliche') sit down with the 4th and spend hours just talking out her woes. Though 2 of them had somewhere to go (for post-grad application work)... the third (yours truly) naturally just wanted to curl up in the sun... and the 4th. The 4th bore the brunt of our analysis. She seems happier now. The thing is, no ones life seems to be sans complications as of now.
Its either career-worry, boy-troubles, i-dont-care about anything dilemma or just plain i-wish-i-cared-enough-about-self. I don't know. These moments of bonding, they're great and all (probably helpful too) but somehow this phase doesn't see me wanting to let someone else figure this out for me.
Each time i let slide the responsibility of my Own actions, it comes back. Badly.
What would i love the most-est-est-est?
Beyond the obvious, i would love for life to stop being a bloody Ionesco play.
Anu wrote in her Rhino answer something to the effect of language as nonsensical and SK (teacher) scribbled a 'no' on that. I think that is a fantastic parallel (forgive the vanity).. Language has now Become nonsensical... not because of any innate flaw but because of the people who are using it.
Some to veil. Some to taunt. And yes, some to 'vent'.
Because of all the bloody jargon the sense (if ever it was there) gets lost.
I am sick and tired and sick some more of these 'Foolish Games'.
I'm sick of them.
I'm sick of second guessing if i made the right call by not giving every entrance exam in the country.
Sick of thinking about people who Indulge wholeheartedly in the same childish games. I am 20. and i am So over the games.
I don't want to care anymore.
I don't want to wonder why i Did care for ever so long.

At this point, i don't want to keep questioning myself.
There is a feeling lurking somewhere deep, that if this stuff doesn't clear up... chances of an implosion are high. And i'll make sure the people i care for aren't around to get burned. However, that being said... The chaos post it, should successfully erase those niggling doubts and probabilities.

Yes. And its never about weakness or strength... its not about becoming 'stronger' or otherwise. It is SO not about these things.
When i figure out what it IS about, a post shall appear. (naturally)
The baggage is too much now... might crumple.

Blu Blue Blu

I want to spill my guts- go into great detail about everything.
what i feel i've lost
what i feel i never had
the things i want
the things that i'll probably get
how the things aren't tangible
how they're more like ideas
i want to read tolstoy
i want to read sartre
i want to read kinsella
i want to read wodehouse
want to tell the world just how sucky the day was
how it had no right to be so
how i planned on this post being utterly meaningless
how that is nearly always my intention on a 'public' forum (rolls eyes)
i want to put into words, several hours
but that, is not gonna happen

feel low, sad and have no right to be any of that.
i don't like the sand and how deep my head is buried in it.
i want to not forget stuff,
not forget my notes
but i want to let go too
let go of all that doesn't replay well in my brain.

i think its time for winter to go.
i want to chuck the baggage.
and i don't care what colour it is.

ps- haw, said too much. *chuckles at the absurdity*

pps- i want to go back to painting
i miss how great it felt, even that aching back
it fooled one into believing that something worthy was being done.

Tch. how fancy. i miss the canvas and i miss the paint. bas.

(i am So gonna go read Kinsella now, one wish fulfilled) :)

Since there are simply too many things to say/think/blah-ify, i think this post will explode in a billion different colours of orange.

(pause)

Here is the basic problem. I want to dissect Slumdog Millionaire and throw it to a wild pig to poo over. While seeing it was able to appreciate the style and effect as a whole... However, the more i think about it (ideologically speaking) the more mad i get. It was just plain .... Grr.. okay, this is a very Achebe take on Conrad. To simplify, you're showing a tiny sliver of a humongous country to people (the audience abroad) who aren't necessarily aware of it (India) beyond the stereotypes of poverty, corruption and basic filth. Thank you for highlighting the largest slum in India but perhaps if a larger picture was considered then this effin exoticisation would stop. Stop.

Secondly, am getting tired of this accusation that the study of literature is in no way relevant to the 'real' world. But maybe its something of a relief to not care who the minister of foreign trade is. I don't see the great joy that it brought anyone. (okay, i'm just being grumpy because my current affairs knowledge needs to be brushed up) So, this is officially disqualified as complaining.

The pictures for the huge-family get together are out and posted all over (in secure albums online of course) Would like to post em here, but probably not the best idea. (duh)
Rest assured all cousins are faithfully portrayed as attempting the impossible (a fully un-choreographed dance in under 60 minutes of preparation)

The feeling of being pulled into different directions as well as pushed into a corner is getting a lot stronger. I want relief, please?

Been penning random thoughts on MsWord for the last 3-4 days, working out horrible with the whole spell-check thing mocking me and qualifying my work as 'fragmented'. apparently it's never heard of Indian english. (the 'e' is small deliberately, part of cultural assimilation bla)

On the bright-er side (note this is in bullet points and not mini-para's)

-I didn't watch Chandani Chowk to I-don't-care
-I didn't watch Ghaji-I-Forget-Thy-Name
-I did watch Accidental Husband but the blessed traffic jam made me miss 40 minutes out of 120... (thank god)
-I'm sticking to the main clause of my 7 day agreement with self (shh, its a secret)
-Slumdog Millionaire made me grumpy enough to blog again
-I'm gradually learning the political history of Latin America (gradually)
-With a friends help, i now know how to respond to a text sayin 'wuff' (i asked the text-er, hah)
-H-boy is in Shimla just soaking in the joy of an Art of Living course which i will later grill out of him. (I win, ultimately)
-Jean has to update me about the Jaipur Lit Fest (which sounds fabulous btw)
-Tomorrow is a Sunday :)

Sigh. Life Life Life.

The Blame Game- Sun Stands Accused

I blame the sun and hence light for all of this.

If there was no sun (light) there would be no life.

There would be no micro-organisms taking shape (as the theory of evolution suggests) and certainly no little creatures waddling about…of course no Adam or Eve (as the Bible propagates) and then no us since our initial parents wouldn’t exist (as the Bible continues to press)

There would be no pain or sorrow, no heartbreak or movies, no wide roads or messy cars

There would also be no sleepovers with 2 hours of sleep,
no rum and coke to toast your friends birthday to,
no comfortable mattresses to rest your behind on a cold winter night,
no music to sway to as the clock chimes a mournful 1 am,
no paneer rolls to munch on to ward off the nausea,
no wild speeches and groovi-er dance moves,
no cell phone videos to capture those pricelessly hilarious moments

There would be no next-morning shopping
No change in plans (as you’d rather walk home on a surprisingly sunny afternoon, and since you hate shopping anyway)
No sneakers to give you blisters
No headphones and no bollywood music
No Bollywood
No you buying your mum a book she really wants to read

No judgments, no opinions
No classifications at first glance
But also no friends who have your back
(and will scratch those who stab yours)

No moments when you hate everyone
(cuz they s*** and lie and are not good people)
But also no moments when you care about people other than you

No sense of nostalgia for the past, No living in the past
But also no happy memories to giggle over
(or smile serenely,whatever ones style)

No tears, no anger, no negativity at all
But also no scope to shape something positive
No initiative or learning
No joy,
No cosy talks till quarter to 6 in the morning

No calling friends at 1 am (just a LIL high)
No gabbing on the phone for hours and threshing out life plans
No 60.000 minutes spent, later, convincing the world that you in fact are totally not hung over
No diamonds to admire
No filth to despise

I don’t know how scientifically accurate this all is…
I shall continue to believe, that sun(light) is to blame

This same light that can shine upon the water and liven up the ripples
the same can brighten up reality and make it impossibly hard to evade
Like the fire in Frankenstein, it has in it the potential to destroy and also, Create

Hey You Sun there, the jury' out trying to figure out the verdict…
Till then, I shall get myself a snack
(or maybe sleep a little)

Ps- Kansha Happy Birthday again, thank you so much for everything
And just so it’s VERY clear, you are loved MUCH! (hah, awkward phrasing)
(and yes, the sleepover was beyond perfect!) :D

*Warmest Hug*

(Pps- Faith in certain spheres has most certainly been used up/eroded/taken away, either time will replinish it...or i will live without the trick knee that makes me buckle each time. In fact, screw it... that faith is rejected and thrown into the garbage- Bloody enlightening Sunlight, leaves no scope for doubt)

Finally- A Worthy Quote

As we flip the calendar, we need to keep flipping our mind as well. Often, our diaries are full of memories. Ensure that you don't fill your future dates with past events. Learn and unlearn from the past, and move on.- Ravi Shankar Ji

(Couldn't come at a better time. Thank you)

Lost

fingers of winter tighten their grip
the darkest hour before dawn
around me flits

In Freezing January
words are barely passing
with a 'D' on the scribbled score sheet
they fail me,
nearly tippin over the ledge
from the slippery point
where once, the moss used to rest
on its back, eyes fixed firmly ahead

colder with the breeze
and the river rushing past
over and around the steady black rocks
Oh Peter, you are an image of discomfort

i want the shawl and the welcoming fire
the cosy armchair i still desire
a canvas to paint
a thought to hold
to skip past the post
where thoughts are controlled

Fives miles down and then to the left
leaving all else behind
except that dead phone
a testament,
to the cord of connection snapped
by a once vulnerable
now firm and willing hand.
PEACE

Oh, plus a lil something i once wrote about Woolf. Purely Opinion based.

Out of the possible million things veiled in Woolf’s writing, one fantastic excerpt would be the thoughts of Peter as he walks away from Clarissa thinking “I can’t keep up with them…. Life, with its varieties, its irreticences, had been laid under a pavement of monuments and wreaths and drugged into a stiff yet staring corpse by discipline… One had to respect it.”

What I personally penned down (guided by A Ma’am) on a slim purple post-it was “History as exercising control over human beings. Cite tradition. Ironic- mind as controlled by strings. Choices are contained. (we)Assume we have youth and possibility.”

Yes, I can write a 10 mark answer using just that as a base, unfortunately we only have 15 and 20 mark answers… so will have to brush up on the other 155 pages as well. When people wonder what studying literature can possibly help with, I gargle out the possibility that information written centuries ago is not completely obsolete. What I really mean (and rarely articulate, barring class) is that it’s actually universally applicable and hides very current concerns. Through the thoughts of Peter, Woolf manages to talk about the fact that we all remain convinced that with youth and an apparent lack of obvious obstacles…we have, in us, the ability to make a choice and one that is not intruded upon by society. The illusion that we are ‘free’ when the word exists not, for each action that we decide to go forward with is already influenced by centuries of tradition weighing down upon us, so deeply internalized that it convinces one that the choice we finally pick is one that we innately want… not knowing that what we want has already been shaped for us before we could stammer out ‘momma’ aged a few months.

One had to respect it, thinks Peter… whether we think it consciously or not, we end up treading on the same worn out path time and again. Regardless of how many epiphanies we claim to have undergone, the crossroads are really not debatable. Hopelessly fatalistic is it? Or is it simply too uncomfortable a truth to accept immediately?

No one likes the pinch of the inevitable… I no longer wonder why Woolf ultimately killed herself… if the discomfort of acknowledging her thoughts as a possibility is so high… the pain of thinking them up only to write them out to feed to the prowling (ungrateful) masses must have given more strength to her stumbling journey towards that river which gurgled up to claim her.

In a fairly intense (even poetic) conversation with Jean, I happened to mention a dormant thought… one that I apparently felt very strongly for. I said to him, if you look at the essence of a person (their soul probably) as water or a flowing liquid that seems to travel over gravel and soil with experiences acting as the same… with each circumstance we go through being represented as the so called pollutants of the liquid- sand, soil, twigs, leaves. Then, and this is purely my opinion, the essence itself may carry these intruders on in life as the water keeps flowing to places new… however, the essence is not affected permanently by them but what they do manage to maneuver is how the past baggage allows us to stare at the new. Experiences of the essence as eventually affecting the perception of all that is to follow. The thing is, having always considered taking ones life a mortal ‘sin’ if the concept exists, how can I honestly let the word ‘strength’ rub shoulders with one who has willingly taken her own life? It’s possible, keeping in mind a belief of the essence and its journey, that the sheer weight of the discoveries Woolf made, was enough to push her over the edge, literally. Not advocating any form of massacring the self, but perhaps leaving a window open for Woolf and not condemning her totally… for in all fairness… the journey she undertook was littered perhaps with too many heavy branches and piles of mud that most would have crumpled under.

(Current in-mind Quote "a word after a word after a word is power")