Friday, January 23, 2004

I could do this. I really could. A hundred times over till it seeps into the pores in an indelible histology. And why would I do that? Because all it takes is a little practice. An appearance of ease and the familiarity of touch. Can I lead you through it again? That oft-repeated litany, that much-maligned tale. Will I have an audience at the end of it? Or is that like everything else impermanent and replaceable, the victim of the demand curve and the whim of a value proposition? May it be…because erase I cannot and forget I must not.

God, such a melodrama, such a story about nothingness. And in the next breath I will counter and make an insurgent plea for the value of my kind of nothingness. Not yours, never yours. Yours I will knock down with the surety of reason and the arrogance of audience. The benefits of being on the outside you see are as much mine as yours.

….could I be a little more specific? Of course not, that would spoil it all.

A story about all the right things though. The impossibility of ‘love’, the predictability of path and the implications of boredom. And it starts off beautifully, like all good stories do, in the most describable of weathers. Bitter cold, beautifully white and a rare neatness. The particularity and specificity of nature. Things in symmetry, colours in place and clarity in horizon. That is the kind of nature that lulls you into believing that it extends to all things purveyed by man, woman and dog. Not so, definitely not so. It might work…in rare instances if you have the perseverance to block sight and fog your glasses. I, unfortunately have had laser surgery.

So it starts and so it went on, in conscious abandon and unrelenting blindness. Or am I being too hard on the protagonists? Yes I am. Let’s face it, was happy while it was, marvelous actually. Like the taxis in the Bombay monsoon. Like motorbikes cruising through the valley. Like the mud splats on my jeans. And the Chinese food. And the key-chains. And the history. And the fibs. Carefully constructed, meticulously ‘alibi’ed.

Then why the angst? Because it’s not around you see. And what is, is ‘nice’, just plain, simple ‘apple-pie’ nice, linear and flat. It explains itself. It leaves nothing to construction and imagery. It falls into place. So boring.

What I’d like is for life to run all around the place and evade reason. I’d like it to live outside its plans and paths. I’d like it to fly and fall and scrape its knees. I’d like my life to be outside my directorial talents. To surprise me every day and take pleasure in my wide eyes. It used to. It really did used to. And then I got scared. And gave it up. And now I want it back again.

No comments: