The Checkpoint.

Over the last one year, I have discovered a brand new world, in a manner of speaking. Venturing into the blogging sphere has changed my life to a considerable extent. Reaching out to a multitude of  the most interesting people I have ever come across, with such ease, being able to project thoughts, having the opportunity to share ideas, and getting to know people from all over the world has been an experience so wonderful(on so many levels), that I find words to be grossly inadequate in expressing it.

Through this practice, I have also learned what it is like to see your writing slowly evolve, right in front of you. From edgy, angst-laced soliloquies to quiet ruminations. From cryptic stances, to declarative inferences. And looking back at it all, you realize with a shock that it isn't just your writing. It's you, who has evolved into a different person. That, is the beauty of it all. At any rate, having an anthology of thoughts has done me a whole lot of good.

With all that behind me, I'm looking forward to what lies ahead. Something different, something new. Reinvention after all, is essential to life. Cheers to a year of  personal creative freedom, and the opportunity to practice it.

And they even threw in some Baphomet.

So, the man who captivated me for ages and years, the one who haunted my imagination for the longest time, the one whose wit and charm I have been enamored by and obsessed with, the one who made history with the words "Elementary, my dear Watson", Sherlock Holmes-of the insurmountable talent for the art of deduction...

...is now Sherlock Holmes-The Action Hero in Love. 

And this, is why I never watch movies based on the books I like. The world is supremely disappointing to my imagination.

Amusing Pop Culture Moment of the Month #2.

The fine young women who chose to post the color of their underwear as Facebook status messages, thereby confusing the other half of the world enough to elicit a substantial dent in Googleland. All for a cause, dearies, all for a cause. Spreading awareness about breast cancer was the exact idea inextricably weaved in the cause&effect / intent&result. Sure. This innocent bystander has been amused greatly by the ensuing comments and resulting claims of righteous indignation in emospeak, right under "leopard-print" and the likes.

On the day the word poppycock was redefined, we stood on and watched. In fact, all out of brimming and overflowing respect, a label has now been dedicated to it on this blog.

I feel that the internet explosion has changed the way the world functions, and the intricacies of changing social dynamics are far from being sorted out. Truth be told, I come across jarring instances of the same every other day. From every random pimply creep with a shirtless picture of John Abraham on the orkut homepage(now Facebook too), over-zealous half-acquaintances who pretend to be my new BFFs by the power vested in them by Mark Zuckerberg, the many times that I have introduced myself to a complete stranger only to find out that not only do they know who I am, they also know what music I listen to and where I was on Saturday night, to the fact that I never knew my neighbor of 7 years before she sent me an add request. But what really makes me spell M-U-R-D-E-R is the aforementioned emospeak, which has transcended the internet. eVRyTYm i wk up 2 c n sms tht reedz lyk ds im lyk sooooo pisd, i wnna pt a nyfe thru smthin! lyk, uknw wht i mean?!!! lyk criously!!! "lyk" deserves the most painful death possible. Ripped apart, limb by limb, in slow degrees.And then this one person says to me that my use of the language is "uncool". Stupid is the new cool. Yo! Excuse me while I asphyxiate on fluffy pink cotton candy.

The Faustian Barter.

Your ages traded
with demons and gods,
the debts remain
do bear in mind.

Even if you tread
the earth like you own it,
it's only leaden feet
you drag behind.

Joy to the world!

All of my world-weariness, jadedness, and other forms of general cynicism aside, eating condensed milk straight out of the tin is one of the few perfect pleasures left in life.

Pardon the title of the post. But I knew it. This being-happy-with-a-vengeance business is making me not just STRANGER, but CREEPIER. And I'm in one of those moods. So THIS is what I give to you :

This, right here, is the reason why my driving tutor quit his job and moved to a remote village. It is also the reason why the rickshaw-wallas in my locality shudder and go poof at sight. And what gave my mom diarrhea, the first and only time she sat in a car I was driving.

 

I'm drowning myself in The Cardigans, The Cranberries and Garbage. And they go wonderfully with condensed milk.

The Quest.

I'm scouting desperately for a piece of music that hypnotizes me. The sort that fills you up, makes the air seem heavy, has you imagining sparks bursting out of the windows and puts the whole world on fire. The supposed Richard Halley brand of music. The closest I've ever come to finding it, is this :

I've been in love with Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. 2 since before I can remember. But, I seek more. 

Recommendations, anyone?

A Farewell To Arms.

Author : Ernest Miller Hemingway

Genre : Historical Fiction

Rating : 7.5/10

"If people bring so much courage to this world, the world has to kill them to break them. So of course it kills them. The world breaks everyone and afterwards many are strong at the broken places. But those that it will not break, it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these, you can be sure it will kill you too, but there will be no special hurry."

The book surprised me. After what seems like ages of having read works with too much matter and too little art, too much to think about and too little to visualize, I had lost my patience for Hemingway. Particularly since my previous experiences with him have been limited to his short stories, which I am a fan of. Yet, those were all small doses. And I had lost my taste for prose that makes you hear the chirping of the birds, that compels you to imagine the color of the flowers and the chill of the breeze it speaks about. About little details like the bits of paper strewn around the sidewalk, the glint in the bartender's eyes, and the likes. But this brought me back. With it's rich narrative and almost a constant digressional strain, that drifts away from everything you would expect from a book written about the first world war. It took me a while to warm up to it, but once I did, I enjoyed it thoroughly. The ending surprises you with it's abruptness. It grips you by the throat and haunts you for quite some time. Which is great, because I never liked happy endings anyway.

Wicked : The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West.

Author : Gregory Maguire
Genre : Fantasy
Rating : 7.7/10

Though there is a lot to be said about this book, I will refrain from doing so. Mostly because only after reading it does one understand why it garnered vast measures of applause and criticism, equally. At any rate, both won it a fair degree of fame. This is one of those pieces that come along once in an odd while, to only be either loved or hated, with nothing in between. It is not a book that can be recommended, for it can only be discovered.

To draw a background, Wicked is the story of Elphaba- a green-skinned girl who grew up to be the Wicked Witch of the West. Yes, the one from the Wizard of Oz, which is probably the single most widely known cinematic product after The Sound of Music. It is about the entire convoluted series of events that lead up to her encounter with Dorothy. Her birth, her growing up into a young lady who would later attend Shiz University as a student, a wry and ingenious account of her days as an angst-laden, precocious youth,  the things that caused her to give up the course and the pursuit of a normal life, her experiences and experiments, and her eventual face-off with Dorothy. Through the course of the story, Maguire weaves a delightfully intricate tale binding all the previously known characters of Oz in a completely different manner. The characters are very well formed, and it all comes together through interleaved political allegories, social dynamics, the intricacies of family, and satirical constructs. If there is one thing the author has to be credited for, it is his impressive use of language and an imagination that leaves you in awe, on occasions far more than one.

Not all will pick up this book, few will finish it, and even fewer would like it. But the ones who do, would  find themselves with some very good reasons for doing so.

Deck the hall with... err.. nevermind. #$%$%

It's 50 minutes into the new year, and the new decade. I'm at home, listening to Lady Gaga(again) and dancing in my pajamas. Also, I'm attempting to leap 5 feet into the air, and simultaneously catch the feat on tape. I have a gargantuan stash of processed chicken and chocolates in my refrigerator. Next, I  shall watch Monty Python and the Holy Grail for the nth time. Which, may I add, is the absolute height of brilliance in film-making.

This is the kind of life I live these days.

Je veux ton amour 

et je veux ta revanche.

Hardy HAr HaR hAR! I will be happy. Even if it does make me... STRANGER. 

Spilt Milk.

We that have done and thought,
That have thought and done,
Must ramble, and thin out
Like milk spilt on a stone.

                             -William Butler Yeats

Adam and Eve.

Marc Chagall

(1912, Oil on canvas)

I.Be.Scrooge.No.More.

Exams came and went. I went days without sleep, and I had to travel to a particularly godforsaken corner out on the outskirts of the city at 6 in the morning in the blistering cold everyday. It's so secluded, it's like falling off the face of Delhi. For exams. Tonnes of them. But, I live to tell. And the ordeal is over. Almost, barring one little bugger that will be dealt with on the last day of the year. And I shall know freedom. I shall taste the heady intoxication of fresh air after exactly 4 months. I will know joy. It is cold. COLD. I hate cold. If I had wings, I would definitely be flying south right about now. If I was an exotic furry animal, I would binge on chilly chicken till severe constipation kicks in, and hibernate till spring arrives. Sadly, I only screech like a bird and look like a polar bear. In fact, I have turned so white, high exposure shots fail to capture the thingamajig that is my nose. I am likely to be mistaken for the ghost of Christmas past. I hate being white. I had the best Christmas ever. Family flew in from places far and wide(with gifts that I am still stoked by), I met old friends from school. The kind of friends you feel like you "belong" to. That is something so rare, it surprises me now. I never realized how much I could crave for a sense of belonging. Strange, considering how wary I am of being tied down. Wary of feelings and words that evolve from strings to chains. Wary of people, wary of places, wary of time. Everything stagnates. I've been reading again. Heavy stuff. Makes me dream of strange things at night. I like nightmares more than dreams. I like cryptic ones more than anything. For two days, I've been strutting around in supremely fancy and equally painful pairs of shoes. And then bought another a few hours ago. I'm starting to look like those dainty delhi-brand GK-dolls I once coaxed A into running over in his snazzy car last summer, when we went out to smoke trippy shit. Retail therapy is chicken soup for a frozen-to-an-icicle soul. Adding a few books to the pile, I'm almost broke. Which is a strangely liberating feeling. I will now indulge in cheap thrills with valid reasons. Tomorrow, I will go shopping again for the third day in a row. And I will binge on chocolates with the voraciousness I remember being described in Les Miserables.

I feel numb. I feel hollow. I feel nothing.
The entire spectrum of my emotions has bifurcated into anger and apathy. Unequal parts.

There is a decision to be made. In view of my love for ultimatums and automated mechanisms, it will be made on the basis of the sequence of events leading up to midnight on New Year's Eve. I have no plans for the year end. I want to dance various parts of myself off. Including a major chunk of the brain that's giving me insomnia. The thing won't shut up and let me sleep. Opinionated little scoundrel. So... party, anyone?

Of Yearning.

There exists no room for discontent if there remains nothing to hope for. Nothing to strive for, nothing to peg your faith on to, nothing to plan your days and wrap your dreams around. One might as well live deliberately, if there is left nothing to win or lose.

But then, maybe discontent isn't a bad thing after all.

The Idealist Grumbles...

Choose your personal favorite cup of poison.

Guess what free will is all about. 

The Metamorphosis of Narcissus.

(The Metamorphosis of Narcissus - Salvador Dali - 1937)

I believe that art is not that which shows us the world as it is. It is that which lets us see a fragment of it through the eyes of the artist behind it. Which is why I nurture a strong dislike for the Impressionists and works from the Renaissance period. On the other hand, Cubist, Surrealist and Expressionist art fascinates me like little else in the world. It entrances. Hits you on many levels, bit-by-bit, blow-by-blow. It challenges your perception. Case in point would be the one above.

For the few who may not know, the legend of Narcissus goes thusly: Echo and Narcissus.

On the left, there is the figure of Narcissus, hunched over and peering into the pool. On the right, we see a decaying hand made of stone. It holds an egg, from which sprouts the narcissus flower. Notice how the two silhouettes are almost congruent.

And that, right there, is art.