In Which We are a Tad Sappy in the Grand Old Tradition of the Thing

Sometimes,

I wish

there was something between us.

Something…anything…just so that I could look you in the eye

and smile;

just smile, damn it; but we aren’t even acquaintances.

And it hurts; at its corniest, it hurts,

that you don’t know me and I don’t know you

And yet that I wish -

sometimes,

I wish

that I knew you and you me;

just so that I could say hi

and have you say it, back to me.

On Being Delusionally Optimistic

There is always a point every semester – during project submissions, end semester exams and other law school trappings when the work from weeks past has pilled up, when deadlines have been stretched out to the extent where they have lost all their linear quality, that I get delusionally optimistic about my ability to get my work done. And then suddenly, I find all the time in the world to do the most inane of things – such as learn Japanese by repeated viewing of Death Note, or read up Wikipedia’s entry on Wikipedia, or write blog posts instead of law review articles…

NAZE??!!!

that’s ‘why’ in Japanese in case anyone was wondering.

On Writing…I think.

I found this little…something  in a forgotten word doc:

To write would be an awfully tiresome venture,

and yet to read and to know

that one has not written and has not even tried -

Slaughtered before utterance half thoughts of mine-

waiting forever for the other shoe to drop.

Perhaps it is the Cinderella tale all over again-

left with one shoe? What would you do?

For the other one, start a quest?

Or grumble at being an unlucky fool?

I think this was a result of reading a qoute by Henry Miller on writing  at the time and and hence the title of the post.

Burn, Burn, Burn

I found this, a few days back, when I was blog hopping:

The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk,

mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time,

the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing,

but burn, burn, burn.

I don’t know the context of these particular words but now  I am filled with the urge to read more of Jack Kerouac.

A Stirring (albiet late) Ramble on December Love, New Year Cheer? Hah! What Hogwash, & Lame Squad Among Other Things

Come Jan 4th, the snow on my Blog disappears for good and I wanted to write this post before that. I don’t know why they – the wordpress people- can’t let the snow stay (fall?) till late Jan; then again, I see it as one more of those inexplicable reasons why December stands out for me.

I Love December. Passionately. Completely. With all my heart. That’s right, I love… a month. This shouldn’t really come as a surprise. I have, after all, expressed my innate fondness for the Microsoft Office assistant cat, tea, words (my favourites at the moment being ‘Exquisite’ & ‘Slaughter’!) etc which are all borderline obsessive. A love for a month seems saner in some respects, especially when it comes with good reasons.

As any self obsessed kid/human being, my initial reasons for loving December centered on the one and most important fact:  My ‘Happy Birthday’ is in December! I was and continue to be extremely pleased with ‘my being’ and loving December – which bought me gifts and a day when I was fussed over more than usual- came naturally.

One of the earliest memories of my childhood (which is also one of my few early memories not directly connected to food) is that of come December my dad fiddling around with the Diwali lights, usually stowed away under the kitchen cabinet, which we would then put up around our house in Lucknow. They were meant to be Christmas + New Year decorations, but they invariably went up before my birthday, which I always took as a subtle yet obvious indicator of my own self importance! Did I mention I was self obsessed?

Out of the dozen or more schools I’ve been to, a few have been of the Convent variety. This entailed that come December, if you were in the lower grades, you were lined up and taken to the music room and taught to sing carols. By rote. Not that I minded, really. Because once you’ve sung your carols, and done the Christ is Born Play (I was always chosen as one of the Three Wise Kings!) you got to stay at home, for over two weeks! That’s right – Christmas Break! I spent most of that time, glued to the idiot box watching every single glitzy glatzy Christmas special that could be called forth, by the judicious use of a remote control. I loved them all – I loved each and every commercialised moment of it.

At home we usually had our very own fake Christmas tree with fake gifts – little matchboxes and soap boxes covered in decorative wrapping paper.  I never really believed in Santa but I always opened each and every soapbox and matchbox after the decorations came down hoping against hope for some sort of magical transformation. Never did happen (surprise, surprise) but I did it anyway.

I remember last year, before the whole ‘cusp debacle’, having a time pass discussion with a friend of mine on famous people born in the same zodiac as our inconsequential selves. Now my friend was clearly winning – throwing out one name after the other. I was generally wracking my brain for someone so famous, that he/ she would trump all her bigwigs.  Enlightenment hit a few moments later and I blurted out with unparalleled fervour: JESUS CHRIST WAS CAPRICORN!!! He was a freakin’ Capricorn! I won that argument hands down. (Though now that I think of it there are apparently some inaccuracies about his actual birth date and worse, my actual zodiac. Sigh.)

The point of these disconnected vignettes is to merely point out the obvious. I love this month and so, I should be excused from participating in the terribly traumatic end of December that New Year entails. Why, I fail to understand, does everyone count down the last year (and my dear poor month) with such visceral enjoyment?

The truth is, I think, that I am so determined that I must and should love this month that good stuff happens. My results when they come out bang on in the middle of December, turn out to be pretty well decent; being the first year that I am spending December away from home, my dad pays me a surprise visit; as a founding member of the Lame Squad (The Squad can be described at best being well – Lame and is open to membership to all those who can answer this profound question: What is the Lame Question?) I get the best Double Chocolate Truffle Cake possible from them!

A friend of mine, tired of my rhetoric question of ‘How can one not love December?’ told me during Christmas Brunch that she was forced to love the month as I would scream bloody murder otherwise. All I can say to that is ‘see? I seem to rub off December cheer even on people around me!’

I end this long rambling with a little reminder for next…this year. Around the end of this year say December, if you see a girl grinning like a maniac, and humming Christmas carols under her breath and looking way too pleased with life in general. Forgive her for her weird good cheer. You see, she is in love.

And to think you have that pill for a cold.

Because of my propensity to read everything in my vicinity, I chanced upon this gem the other day.

Warning at the back of a strip of Erythromycin Estolate tablets:

Hepatic dysfunction with or without jaundice has occurred, chiefly in adults, in association with Erythromycin Estolate administration. It may be accompanied by malaise, nausea, vomiting, abdominal colic and fever. In some instances, severe abdominal pain may simulate an abdominal surgical emergency. If the above findings occur, discontinue Erythromycin Estolate promptly.

er…is that before or after I have that unwarranted surgery?

Connecting Imaginary Dots

It was the 8^th afternoon of the month of December. Slowly but surely, an entire class attending a lecture on Science, Technology and Law was being put to Death by Power Point. One brave individual, who rallied, was rewarded with a seemingly inconsequential piece of mindless information:

“The International Seabed Authority, under the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea 1982 , has a wing to spearhead exploration of the deep-sea bed. This wing is called the Enterprise.”

Perhaps one must congratulate her keen sense of observation. More likely, one must feel pity for the weird wiring in her head, which made this (un) necessary connection:

ENTERPRISE =

Ergo, Dude, some negotiator sitting at a top level UN Convention drafting meeting was a total Star Trek geek! OMG, V. Cool.

Even more appropriately, perhaps, one must pity the fact that in the sum total of the five lectures that day, this minuscule connection was the only thing that made her grin.

Tall Tales On Books – Abandoned And Unread

I like to think, that I am one of those people who read. I also like to think that I am a modest reader. Sure, I was part of the extremely silly (but clearly superior) bunch of idiots who thought they were way cooler than everyone else in class, because they had read the Lord of the Rings before the movies; but, for most parts I know that though I read, there are just too many freakin’ books in the world, for me to make a dent, any time soon.

But here’s the thing. I usually finish the books that I start. Really. Even if, somewhere within the odd first fifty pages – I get the feel that I really do not want to find out what happened between the chic and the groping tentacles, I still finish the book. Force of habit; a wish to be fair; respect for the outrageous amount my dad probably shelled out for the glossy paperback. Call it what you will, but I nearly always finish my books.

Except when I don’t, and then because of my love for lists, I keep track of them, remember why I didn’t and find out why others did. I am not surprised that I can’t think of that many. But here’s what stands out in no apparent order:

1. Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy

I bought War and Peace, and Anna Karena together, when I was probably in my eight or ninth grade, from the cute-but-poor-second-hand-bookseller outside my favourite bookshop in Hyderabad. I got through War and Peace not just because of my tenacious will, or because I was full of pity for Pierre whom I couldn’t bear to abandon mid-book/s conflicted and so very puppy-like lost, but also, I admit for what its worth, for the very superficial reason- that I wanted to be able to say that I had read it; that I had read War and Peace. To begin Anna Karenina immediately after that was nearly impossible for me, especially since I knew what happens in the end. I remember talking about Anna Karenina in all-brazen indifference on messenger to my friend once. My exact words are not what I remember. It was probably something very aseptic, Anna Karenina? She dies, right? Or, something akin but I remember my friend’s response and it was, I swear, like I could hear him talk and he said, “she dies, yes” but the sentence didn’t quite end there, as if there was more to that ending that I could…should find out by reading the book. I think I’ll get back to the book…someday, all because of a two lined conversation on it on messenger.

2. Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand

There’s no easy way of saying this. In fact I am slightly scared saying it, considering the fanatics I know who worship this book and call it life altering. But I couldn’t get through it. In fact, it is probably one of the few books that I have chucked away physically because I couldn’t stand it. (Another one which comes to mind is Alcott’s Good Wives which gnawed away on all that was special and precious in Little Women but for the record I finished it and wrote an alternate version of it and my mind rests easy on that account.) Getting back, I don’t really know what it was that pissed me off about the book. It disgusted me for some reason, and I take solace on what someone told me about Ayn Rand’s books. You either love them or hate them. There’s no middle ground. I doubtless fall in the latter category and all the purported wisdom of the books is lost on me. Such is life.

3. Cyclops by Clive Cussler

I don’t remember much of the very little that I managed to read of this. I am not a big fan of the Cold War books – “must stop the Evil KGB” kinda lost its charm after the first few dozen books I read in that genre. (One of the really tongue in cheek lovely pieces set in the Cold War period that I really like is a short science fiction piece by Michael C Clarke featuring bumbling Floridian bureaucrats, fake icebergs, and Russian spy ships but that’s obviously another story altogether). Anyways, I vaguely remember something about the Russians in this one. That wasn’t, however, the reason I stopped. There was something about a colony on the moon, which I am totally okay with. But this colony was called Jersey Colony and I just stopped reading after that, because I don’t care if you decided to name it after the State or the cows but after all the awesome names we’ve come up with for astronomical objects, if you are going to have a colony on the moon don’t you dare call it something so very bland! (And this is coming from someone who was completely okay with Planet Bob in Titan A.E! I have a sneaking suspicion that the fact that it came out in Matt Damon’s voice made it seem like a really good idea at that point of time. )

4. The Mayor of Casterbridge by Thomas Hardy

I had read a lot of Hardy back to back by then. I read Return of the Native, I read Tess of D’Urbervilles, I read A Pair of Blue Eyes, and then I got to The Mayor of Casterbridge. And what can I say, except my will gave out. I am not against unhappy endings per se; sometimes I am appalled by the saccharine sweet endings that are cooked up in books (coughharrypottercough). Perhaps Hardy captures life, as it is in some… most cases, but I couldn’t bear the gloom and doom, okay? My very simpleton needs for some hope and happiness reasserted themselves and I abandoned the book before the really gloomy bits began.

5. This Book I Began But Sadly Could Not Finish

This one I really regret. I was taken to one of my relatives’ home, and as my mum and the aunty gossiped their way into the Guinness books, I sat dour faced while my equally unhappy near aged relative fiddled with her thumbs, yawned and generally wished me long lost and staying that way. At last, desperate for some sort of escape, she sighed and said: would you like to see our books? What can I say? I am sure she had nightmares of the unholy gleam that filled my eyes at the statement.

So I got escorted to what I have to admit was a decent hoard of books and because I had no pretensions (and because really how much longer could my mum gossip?) I chose a thin volume of something, which I have but a vague memory of. Sometimes I think it was a play. Sometimes I think otherwise. It had a girl who was engaged to an unscrupulous jerk of an officer, and there was some rebellious individual who barged into her rooms at night. I know it sounds nearly too overdramatic and reeks of the romantic bug but I remember thinking the girl was pretty cool and level headed. Sadly I got dragged away before I could get much further. Years later, when I was dragged back there, I lurked around trying to find the book, but I was bitterly unsuccessful. Even my desperate attempts to get my near aged relative to divulge the name of the book proved fruitless because, get this, she couldn’t remember! As if! If that isn’t part of some devious dastardly plot to…do something, colour me Purple!

Then again, I sometimes think that it’s a good thing that I never finished it. What if, I had hated it? For now, I am okay with the undone memory of the book in my head. I’ve even nearly forgiven that near aged relative. Because there is something in thinking that someday I will chance upon the book again and I’ll get to read it. It’s just one of the countless things to look forward to in life.

Musing And Love For A Johnny Cash Song…

Well, we’re doin’ mighty fine, I do suppose,
In our streak of lightnin’ cars and fancy clothes,
But just so we’re reminded of the ones who are held back,
Up front there ought ‘a be a Man In Black.
Johnny Cash – Man In Black

The truth be told I can’t stand explicitly stated ideals. It’s not the ideals that I oppose, not really. It’s just somehow for me to hear them out loud is to belittle them. Perhaps I am embarrassed of ideals, of the equal parts fervour and fake-ness they can inspire. You wanna save the world? Do it! Subtly I say. Too much hypocrisy is attached to ideals and that too not even the explicit obvious type. It’s hypocrisy born of fickleness. So you see a movie about dyslexic children, who have to find their way in big bad world, or do a project about the tragedy of child soldiers, and you are affected by it you say, so much so that you were moved to tears cursing the extremely competitive world we live in where there is no place for deviance, or couldn’t sleep a night thinking of those unfortunate child soldiers, but then what? Do you pack up your suitcase and move out of the rat race? Do you spend the next week too thinking of those children? No, Not really. It’s not that they want to be hypocrites; it’s just a phase or a fad to state their ideals.

We’ve had two semesters of sociology, where you pick up these social issues, discuss and debate on them…and the class drags on with arguments and counter arguments and I am part of it too…but over the year I have got more and more sick of it. Of the arguments and counter arguments, of the attempts to find the real problem, the real villain, the real solution. Coz the heated debate, the search for the elusive solution ends with the bell. You close your books and groan over the fact that the next class is Contracts and that’s that.

I know I sound callous, and frankly I worry sometimes that I don’t care enough. Perhaps stating ideals inspire some – the few in a million who’ll actually make a difference someday and perhaps my problem is that I don’t think my ideal spewing acquaintances are going to be those people. Perhaps I am being a jackass at analysing others and their need to be uthophic. Perhaps it’s the thought that counts or some bullshit like that.

Well, there’s things that never will be right I know,
And things need changin’ everywhere you go,
But ’til we start to make a move to make a few things right,
You’ll never see me wear a suit of white.

Ah, I’d love to wear a rainbow every day,
And tell the world that everything’s OK,
But I’ll try to carry off a little darkness on my back,
‘Till things are brighter, I’m the Man In Black.

Ps: I actually just want to say that I love the song, and I guess I am not anything but a fine hypocrite myself.

—————-
Now playing: Johnny Cash – Johnny Cash – Man In Black
via FoxyTunes