Monday, February 28, 2005

It's been a long day and I haven't written for fear of lapsing into melancholia. The weekend was good, yet terribly draining and it's now beginning to take its toll. When I can least afford it too. But first things first...

Got a rejection from this major grant that I had my hopes illogically pinned upon...also figured that life is not as within my control as I would like it to be, famous last words indeed. And last, called home to demand tickets to get back...not that my parents aren't used to such calls, they tend to take them within stride for good measure. If anything, my father was surprised that he hasn't heard this stuff from me in a while. What can I say? I am angry, petulant, crazed, melancholic, sad and tired all at the same time. But again, they tend to wash upon me in alternate waves of intellectual distance and intense messy intimacy. The latter of course being the parts that I cannot manage.

Management is a dangerous word; it indicates suppression, diversion, negation and destruction all at the same time. Incredible amount of intelligent, directed violence that I know I am well capable of. Scary. And reckless. So coldly reckless. And yet I know it is not important that I am feeling out of control. Because it will settle in, if not into indifference, then certainly into ennui.

Tuesday, February 22, 2005

One's best self. Such an elusive concept. What ought to be as opposed to what is. Because we do not care to admit what is. Or at least I don't. Phantasma and illusion. Sometimes I think that is the only truth there is. And morning is not the best time to be pontificating on the answer to life. And this just popped into my mailbox.

I could love you
as dry roots love rain.
I could hold you
as branches in the wind
brandish petals.
Forgive me for speaking so soon.


Let your heart look
on white sea spray
and be lonely.

Love is a fool star.


- Carl Sandburg

Monday, February 21, 2005

I don't know what to do.
Thought for the Day/Night/Whatever time you may choose to inhabit

Life is too ordinary for love to be anything less than magnificent

- Dream for an Insomniac
It's been a good weekend, just back from good wine and conversation. B is a good person to talk to, he makes sense and more importantly, he makes sense in grammatically correct, linguistically elegant sentences. And he has the ability to verbalize beauty, something that I only manage in rare instances of inebriation. Our schedules hardly match but when they do, it makes for a very fulfilling account of time. Bless him and bless his kind. And it was K's birthday today. I called and we spoke for what was probably the longest I have spoken to him in some time. And I so love him. For what he manages to be despite the breaks in time and the gaps in memory. He's important, that is all I will say for fear of over-extending myself. Important. Nice neutral word that.

And I'm just taking a break from work to rant. Well, considering that is the extent of my ambitions for this space, I think I'm doing very well. Stuck in my writing again. Sometimes I think it is not inability as much as inertia that hinders most of my work. If I could work myself into permanent frenzy I think I would do very well.

Saturday, February 19, 2005

Saturday night mayhem again. Deadlines looming over my head and the usual fear of writing staring stark into my furrowed forehead, all of it can be worked out tomorrow. I really have to get to writing the article before it gets too late.

Tomorrow night I'm out again which means all of that which can be done needs to be done in the day which means I'll have to wake up in the morning. Damn Damn Damn! Why won't the day start at 1 and go on till 4 in the morning? What is the point of being up with the Sun? The Sun knows its job and I know mine, why do we need to get going together? It's almost like women and rest-rooms!

I have been dreaming all afternoon. Old friends and new ones and soon to be old ones. One frame after another..Words and faces and frowns and spaces. I could be a full-fledged screenwriter if I could transcribe from my dreams. But I woke up tired. I think I need a break from people.

Sunday, February 13, 2005

These are what I'm sending out to my loved ones tomorrow;)...I would send this too, but can't be bothered that much!

Saturday, February 12, 2005

The lines of the face are eluding my senses...it is all an amorphous mess and mass, awaiting force, one way or the other. Perish or preserve, dissolve or resolve...really bad rhyme I know!

Words notwithstanding, this deserves closure. Really. The problem is that it hasn't been opened enough to close. Postmodern and ironical and strange and funny and insignificant and sad. And I haven't the heart to relegate it to sepia pictures and dog-eared albums. Yet. Much of my activity seems to concentrate on aesthetic control over the past and sensory control over the present. Feel just enough to make it pretty enough to douse in formaldehyde. My scientific origins are serving me well. Inspite of all the crummy consciousness of self and soul. All other conditions remaining constant, I will continue to run without understanding what running entails.In the long run, I am definitely dead.
Going out in a bit...work can wait...I need to ward off all these melancholic obsessions first...yesterday was an eye-opener in more ways than one, pity all the battles of my life happen when I'm not even there. Maybe that is why...

Am going to see Evam Indrajit for the second time in June. Years, lives and livelihoods have passed in between. For the better no doubt.
Just back from a friend's concert. The band was stupendous as usual, except that I have now begun to recognize the songs, which given the fact that they're in Spanish definitely makes me think I need to broaden my Friday night choices. They were good though and the lead singer is a student in the department, wonder what he's doing training to be an anthropologist! Pretty mellow otherwise, hung out in the afternoon with R and V over beer and fries, then chatted some more with R about holocausts, fiction, life and weed, hung out while he played me some music and then took off for the Flamingo Cantina...all in all, I like the look of the weekend...

On other fronts,I'm bumping into people I don't want to bump into. Tell them to stop haunting me and tell me to stop looking for them. The Greeks and Thanatos are infesting my brains...was it they that said, 'Who the Gods want to destroy, they first turn mad'?

Thursday, February 10, 2005

Mid-afternoon! I'm bored...and what else is new? Thinking about the paradox of consciousness, the sheer tenuous unsensory nature of that which eludes sense...and that which we struggle to be sentient about...

Tuesday, February 08, 2005

What kind of life do words lead? On the continuum from power to impotence, where would I place what? The continuum itself is such a paradox. Power as the right to kill and impotence as the inability to create. Between the two, the world stands annihilated. Armageddon this and paper soldiers these.

Amma goes to the temple, so does thatha. And thatha is a story-teller, an inhabitor of other worlds. Krishna and Radha and Nachiketa. Amma lives in hope, of this world and its possibilities. Amma is thatha's daughter. She was born of him and he calls to her sometimes. And their worlds manage to meet. Thatha lives in a village, amma in a town. Amma talks about the village and her sisters and her friends and her bicycle. It is a pretty world and a world, unchanging in pace, colour and significance. A crutch, a stick, a cause and a memory. Faint memories growing stronger everyday.It makes her smile and it makes her talk. It gives her words beauty and her life immortality. Nostalgia is definitely not so easily derided.

And worlds have been left behind and new worlds call. And the possibilities of the latter and the losses of the former make for an uneasy supper. Hope is good, so is memory and so is strength. Words, words, words...stories and tales and truth and lie.Ether and camphor, love and loss, sight and smell.

Monday, February 07, 2005

The sovereign is he who is, as if death were not. . . .

- Georges Bataille

Sunday, February 06, 2005

It's been a wonderful weekend. The city, the sights, the people and the blinkers. I haven't thought, fretted about or groaned over school for all of the last three days. And I wonder if I could stretch this weekend to encompass a lifetime...empty question this and confusing lives these. Work and sleep in no particular order of emphasis are now staring me in the face...

If the memory of happiness were to replace the ability to be happy, would that suffice? What happens when the memory and possibility of the absolute collide with the efficiency and the reality of erasure? Don't ask me, all I have are eighteen-wheeler truckloads of questions...the answers are not even at the stage of planning, forget commissioning and manufacture...nothing makes sense and not that sense is available for the making...

My phone calls for the day are done and everybody I love is either sad or angry or worried or stressed...and I am too far away...absence is such an uneasy excuse...but the day has ended and maybe tomorrow I will be around...maybe...

Tuesday, February 01, 2005

Can anybody tell me a story about schizotypy?
A bad memory is a useful thing, it's the senses that betray you.
It's the middle of the night and despite well-intentioned resolutions of early to bed and early to rise I'm well and truly awake. My book awaits but am reminded of a conversation this evening, about academics and their fragile egos. And how grad school is but a gradual erosion of one kind of ego and its reproduction into another, far more dangerous construction of elitism and mental fanfare.

I don't know. I remember working and facing similar experiences in terms of having to deal with professional power relationships and learning to not only work around them, but lie, manipulate and wax eloquent in the hope of being on the upper end of continnum someday. And I am not too sure if I will not go back. Somehow it seems like today is always the dress rehearsal to a never appearing tomorrow. And dress rehearsals, while fun, are not potentially risky. There is no audience to appease and no performance to pull off. It is all a tacit recognition of the frivolity of life. Passing time between the cradle and the grave...

And of course, when I have bills to pay or lives to lose, I no longer continue in the fantasmic assumption of my middle-class stability. But as I keep asking people who are definitely wiser and warmer, what is this all about? Why must we live after all? And why isn't euthanasia legal? Why is everything except life a choice? Or are the choices but Kafka's hundred gates that stave the message and the messiah? Hell and damnation, I need chocolate. Going to get some.