I just watched what I feel is literally the best film I ever have. 
I just want to hug my friend who recommended it. 

Sometime this week I found something I wrote when I was about nine. It might be a made up episode of the smurfs. I've edited the language. Its rather cheesy. Not much has changed.


There was once a magical land far far away and in it lived lots of blue people. The blue people were musical people. They sang all the time. They sang as they slept, they sang as they awoke, they sang when they ate, they sang when they worked. They sang when they were sad, which was rarely, since they were always singing, and they sang when they were happy. One day an evil witch invaded the musical magical land and stole the music. The blue singers were horrified. There was death and destruction. The flowers died and the leaves fell. The sun set and it was dark and gloomy. People started fighting. The land of blue magical musicals hadn't seen a worst day since the beginning of time. 

There was an old wise blue magical musical person who lived in a small hut on a hill. Devastated (the original phrase was 'mad and sad'), and helpless the blue people went to him to ask what they should do. He was the wisest man in the entire land. When they told him about how their music, the air that they breathed had been stolen, he smiled calmly. 'It's there', he said, 'Look carefully'. Confused and still helpless, the blue people went back to their homes,sadder than they had ever been. They looked and searched for days for the music that the old wise man talked about, but with no results. One day, Tristan, a young blue magical musical person, sat near the river, remembering a time that he had sung to his sister. He played the episode inside his head. His sister was ill, and he had sung to make her better. He smiled sadly as he thought of it, and of how all their music had been stolen by the evil witch. He sat quietly near the river, remembering his song and he started to feel different. A flower next to him bloomed. He thought about what the old man had said and realized where the music was hidden. He kept singing in his head and flowers bloomed everywhere. He realized he had found the music. It was in his head.

I have been in my bed for days thinking about the couple of months I shared with someone who has now left to across continents. I was told not to wallow and get out and move on with my life, but I wasn't drowning. I was still consumed in whatever of him I had left, and didn't want to distract myself from any of it. So I wore an oversized stolen t shirt, smoked cloves, and lay around listening to music I couldn't bear till a couple of months back. I didn't want any traces to leave yet, I wasn't ready. The world's attitude to heartbreak(lack of a better word) bothers me. I'm not ill, and I don't need to be cured just yet. 

My sister goes to design school and needed to upgrade her virtual life our father has gone all out and bought us a macbookpro which is literally the most beautiful thing thing I have seen that is made by humans. All I have to do is slide my fingers around something called a trackpad and things magically happen.

I've had one of those weeks that feel like they're made of seven hundred days and not seven. One of those weeks in which wherever you look you're surrounded by people you love, you never get a chance to breathe alone, and at times you find yourself desperately wanting to. Where your head feels light because you don't sleep and you're constantly full but still hungry. I feel consumed. But not in a bad way. Today is the day that I have to start being a human being and not a drunk stumbling fool bursting with emotion at every moment. It was brilliant. 

The mac can talk.

“Once upon a time, there was a king who ruled a great and glorious nation. Favourite amongst his subjects was the court painter of whom he was very proud. Everybody agreed this wizzened old man pianted the greatest pictures in the whole kingdom and the king would spend hours each day gazing at them in wonder. However, one day a dirty and dishevelled stranger presented himself at the court claiming that in fact he was the greatest painter in the land. The indignant king decreed a competition would be held between the two artists, confident it would teach the vagabond an embarrassing lesson. Within a month they were both to produce a masterpiece that would out do the other. After thirty days of working feverishly day and night, both artists were ready. They placed their paintings, each hidden by a cloth, on easels in the great hall of the castle. As a large crowd gathered, the king ordered the cloth be pulled first from the court artist’s easel. Everyone gasped as before them was revealed a wonderful oil painting of a table set with a feast. At its centre was an ornate bowl full of exotic fruits glistening moistly in the dawn light. As the crowd gazed admiringly, a sparrow perched high up on the rafters of the hall swooped down and hungrily tried to snatch one of the grapes from the painted bowl only to hit the canvas and fall down dead with shock at the feet of the king. ’Aha!’ exclaimed the king. ’My artist has produced a painting so wonderful it has fooled nature herself, surely you must agree that he is the greatest painter who ever lived!’ But the vagabond said nothing and stared solemnly at his feet. ’Now, pull the blanket from your painting and let us see what you have for us,’ cried the king. But the tramp remained motionless and said nothing. Growing impatient, the king stepped forward and reached out to grab the blanket only to freeze in horror at the last moment. ’You see,’ said the tramp quietly, ’there is no blanket covering the painting. This is actually just a painting of a cloth covering a painting. And whereas your famous artist is content to fool nature, I’ve made the king of the whole country look like a clueless little twat.” 

Banksy, Wall and Piece

All day I have tried to dissect Banksy's work and intention to write a paper on it, and tried to be critical and displeased, but have only gotten more obsessed than I already was. In a time with no heroes(lack of a better word), Banksy doesn't aim but delivers to be one. Art in museums, he says, cannot change anything. Aesthetic enjoyment and upheaval cannot ever lead to transgression. It lames us. Distances us from the actual decay of the world. 

I can't say anything anymore because I am overwhelmed, tired, and don't have intelligent enough words to do justice to him.

If you haven't watched Exit through the Gift Shop, I suggest you do it now. And if someone wants to buy me Wall and Piece, I suggest you do it now. 

It bothers me that when I try to write about I'm feeling, I cannot string it into a coherent sentence. What bothers me is not my inability, but the compulsion to string a coherent sentence. It is an inherent inadequacy of Language, that it has been manipulated by order. That is has been twisted to not cater to the irrational. 

I just discovered William Matthews. He's brilliant. The first five lines are officially one of my favorite poem beginnings. 

Mingus at the Showplace


I was miserable, of course, for I was seventeen,
and so I swung into action and wrote a poem,


and it was miserable, for that was how I thought
poetry worked: you digested experience and shat


literature. It was 1960 at The Showplace, long since
defunct, on West 4th St., and I sat at the bar,


casting beer money from a thin reel of ones,
the kid in the city, big ears like a puppy.


And I knew Mingus was a genius. I knew two
other things, but they were wrong, as it happened.


So I made him look at the poem.
“There’s a lot of that going around,” he said,


and Sweet Baby Jesus he was right. He laughed
amiably. He didn’t look as if he thought


bad poems were dangerous, the way some poets do.
If they were baseball executives they’d plot


to destroy sandlots everywhere so that the game
could be saved from children.   Of course later


that night he fired his pianist in mid-number
and flurried him from the stand.


“We’ve suffered a diminuendo in personnel,”
he explained, and the band played on.

If you care also read Telegram from the Muse and Living Among the Dead. 

The good, the bad and the internet

On Friday I took the pilgrimage to Gurgaon to spend the night at my adopted family's, The Sen's. I've already teared up the blog with sentimental ranting about them so I'm not going to do it again. The teenage brat brigade announced as soon as I landed in their home, that it was ice-skating day. Ten years ago someone this might have been interpreted as a code or an imaginary game, but anything in possible in Generation Insane. Initially I was super apprehensive because I have never worn skates in my life and was tired of being reminded of my complete lack of athletic capability. But after I trotted on the side like an old woman for a bit I finally got over my fear of being on wheels and did alright. But my life's new mission is to learn how to whiz around on ice skates for which I will have to sell myself (Fake ice in tropical countries costs the world) or move to Canada. 
So on the way back from ice skating and the kids going to every single shop in the mall and claiming that anything inside ten grand is affordable (my bracket is five), we started walking home. 
After about ten minutes of walking we noticed a Ford Fortuner was trailing us silently. If S.U.V's are the jocks on the road, the Fortuner is football captain. Soon we realized that the driver had a gun and got into an auto and raced home, still followed closely. After a very scary twenty minutes, me and six teenagers(two of them being girls who were the asshole's main interest),  somehow got home to a couple of drunk parents watching C.I.D. 
While sitting around the table pretending to still be frightened but actually cracking up from moment to moment, Tan asks me if I remember the guy's face. Absolutely, I say. In no time a blackberry is out and in five minutes the asshole's face is on it. 
'Yahi hai na?'. 'Haan dude yeh kaise kiya tune?'. 'Abbe, aaj kal sab ho jaata hai'.
Tan had already thought of possible names while we were in the auto. Someone had talked to him before about a guy who lived near his house and owned a white Fortuner. ('People don't buy big cars if they don't want to be seen'-important wisdom from a 16 year old) . Someone on his Facebook 'could have been' this guy, or friends with him. After going through various photo albums, he found a photo of a bunch of guys in a Ford Fortuner. He slowly went to each one's profile and sought out the most probable, the face he remembered most. Because of Facebook, we had found his name, address, education details. They called the police and everyone took a good look at his photo knowing what the hell to do the next time they see him. The asshole driver had been found and warned and addressed by his name at first sight which had taken him by surprise and scared the shit out of him. 
Everyone is on facebook.
It didn't solve much, but to the kids, knowing that their dangerous stalker was on Facebook, he posed for pictures like them, and they knew his surname and ex girlfriend's details, made them feel better. 
Everyday, I mourn the loss of anxiety, the thrill of not knowing something, but sometimes it is time to accept that we live in an age of speed. We live by aggression, not passive patience. V and I recently found that the man who we love across continents has a girlfriend. Not out of malice but sheer curiosity and the ability to actually know, I found out who she is. 
My friend got into university to play guitar because he got the most likes on his song. 
My uncle told me that one time he had to wait five days for someone who lived in the same city to tell him that she loved him back. Recently I met someone from another country who is leaving in two weeks. Two days back, when I hadn't gotten a Facebook message for a whole 24 hours, I had several panic attacks. Between about fifty exchanged messages and ten encounters I believe that I have spent with someone a time that I know I will remember always. Our existence is no more fluid, we exist in fragments. We don't evolve over years, but go back and forth from time to time. Connections with the world and moments of definition are brief. Like the instance when someone offers you a light at a bar. Or when a song plays that everyone knows. Or when you write a sentence and it happens to make sense even for that second. We live in hyperspace. Reality disappears almost immediately after it is created. Right now I can feel one thing and in ten minutes I could be feeling another. It is an age of instantaneous indecision. 
  
Aristotle insisted that man is by nature, a social animal. We live communally. We exist BY people, not just with. To believe that technology has stolen an intangible human essence, one preserved over centuries is essentially wrong. There is no human nature, it constantly invents itself in changing realms of subjective truth. Today we live in Facebook, in twitter, in a world when you meet someone at a party the thrill is growing out what you already know of them. Growing is to realize people's lives always look better on facebook. Anything we know for ten minutes becomes mundane and we turn to google to broaden the restless limits of our knowledge. Collection, and not cognition has become the way of knowing. Technology and social networking must be used rather than as a huge sea to wallow and drown in as a tool to make whatever of our lives is left better. Because there is no complete escaping them. Everyone has an online fix. High speed internet is the new oxygen. We wake up in the mornings and run to our keyboards. Everyone is on a quest of connection beyond see-able limits. We write blogs, we go to chat forums. We fall in love with faces on our desktops, with words from unknown sources. Facebook is just the most self confessed of all. It is voluntary submission. It feeds into the notion that superficial knowing is complete knowing. On our blogs we rejoice in supposed anonymity, but pour more of ourselves onto the screen than on our Facebook profiles. Under the blanket of anonymity we transport more of ourselves for the rest of the world to know. 
The loss of a preceding era is natural but it is important to realize it is not possible to exist outside a system. I know none of this makes any sense but I have decided to wake up everyday and rid myself of a little melancholia. Be Nietzsche, not Rousseau. In non-pretentious coherent language that means something along the lines of not to mourn, but to celebrate. 
I totally want to be Rousseau though, all hot and brooding and shit. 
Look how cheerful Jamiroquai is.

All day I have read 'young successful(published) Indian authors' online, via their blogs and have gotten seriously pissed off. After writing this I am deathly afraid that at a lot of times I sound like writing that I hate. So I feign self hatred and claim transparency to make myself feel cooler and believe I am better than most my age because at least I KNOW that I don't(know). And I say it again and again so at least you will believe me, even if I don't. 
All I know is that I don't know anything, you know. 


“How often do we tell our own life story? How often do we adjust, embellish, make sly cuts? And the longer life goes on, the fewer are those around to challenge our account, to remind us that our life is not our life, merely the story we have told about our life. Told to others, but - mainly - to ourselves.” 
Julain Barnes, The Sense of an Ending