Digression Session

As usual, my utterly brilliant thoughts and philosophies drift through the windows of my mind in the five seconds before sleep or the five seconds before the red light changes to green.
It's not that I have become uncreative or suffer from lack of information. My academic pursuits stress on newspaper reading (even if, currently that is restricted to reading Klose's statement about Villa or the latest Sudhish Kamath movie review-always an addiction) and more. I suppose the inner rebel in me baulks at any compulsory reading right now. (this phase probably explains why I end up reading sodium content on the back of Hippo Chips packets and why EAT HIPPO, NO FIGHT. All this and I don't even eat or like chips.)

Bad, bad attitude since that's most certainly not gonna help me through the last and maybe final year of school. Ever.

In all seriousness, I did read a really really good book recently. Less of a book, more of a reliving. It was Wangari Maathai's 'Unbowed', and it has like a lot of other autobiographies, become an inspiration to me. Her immense strength of character and unyielding spirit that enabled her to take on the entire Kenyan government is amazing to read about. Makes me think about how insignificant my own inner ghosts are and how much easier to override. Such a long, long way to go.

Anyway, I digress (just read an email forward on age-related attention deficit disorder which sounded disturbingly familiar). The purpose of this post is to reminisce about my fruitful youth. Ah, the days of totally incomprehensible physics classes where I would sit in the backbench, sketching storyboards and scribbling 'movie' scripts, writing songs for 'musicals' starring my own imaginary star cast (this is the origin of Kingdom of Estarra. More on that later). This was the creative explosion. Years of guitar classes, nights of songwriting (my guitar, Dominic still bears the pen marks), 2 am story inspirations. (I actually miss school days where I could hate the subject and thus, rebel in my own geeky way. What I've been studying since have been purely my decisions and hence I have no choice but to like it. Aargh, the tragedy of getting what you want in life...)

In college, I got lazy. My friends and their lives were highly inspiring in terms of story fodder but I somehow couldn't translate that into fictitional material. What a waste. My only expression was when first-year-college-turbulence showed up in the form of poetry. And that remains my saving grace when it comes to writing even now. Scribbles on the back of my Entrepreneurial Development or Globalisation notebooks (but never EVER during Ethnicity, Culture and IR) . Poetic license abused to the nth point. Romantic, free-flowing verse inspired by the evening (usually cloudy) sky, the fluorescent green, erm, greenery outside. No John Mayer lyrics coming to mind, nothing interesting to sketch. Twenty boring minutes to the bell.

The point of this rambling (yes, there is one!) is an official declaration of my commitment to writerhood. No, not as a recreational activity on this blog during internship (blogging has always been a staple feature of all my internships since they have all been desk-bound) This is the statement: I'm going back to my creativity-fueled fourteen year old self (and only THAT aspect of my fourteen year old self) because creation is the only proof of existence. Truly. And thought-generation doesn't really count. What's the use of these great, fabulous ( I'm assuming) thoughts if they're withering away in the recesses of my mind?

And by writing, I mean consistency. Not this two voluble blog posts in one night thing. Steadfastedness. Regimenal. Creative cardio.

Talk to me!

I recently learnt that I have absolutely SO MUCH to say. My dear friend Jhinks tells me "Talk to me. I want to know about YOU" (and this is saying something. We've been really really close friends for the past 12 years). But by the time I get to the phone, it's silence on my end. I simply recycle old conversations, old pre-concluded ideas. What am I afraid of? Not making sense? Improper sentence construction? Bombing on the punch line?
So that's when I started to realise. That I'm most comfortable with a pen in my hand, a keypad beneath my fingers or a keyboard staring invitingly up at me. But that's not good. I love people. I love the energy that is diffused in the process of human conversation. Hands waving, eyes lighting up, sharing of ideas, using words, words, words. I love words. I know words. The written word is my weapon and unfortunately also my crutch.
During my internship, I met the most fabulous people. People who truly communicate, both with soul and word. My work guide (the coolest mentor in the world, I absolutely adore her) is one person who astounds me with her sheer gift of communicating exactly what I've been feeling for ages. When she talks about world music ('music of the world' as she says, is a better term), I can't help but simply bob my head up and down, eyes round with excitement because I'm in absolute agreement with what she says. The people here are honest and spontaneous. I've never felt so refreshed in a conversation.

I wondered what made me switch to listener mode. Is it my role as love counsellor? Is it my fear of appearing ignorant? The only person who I am the biggest chatterbox is with my mother. And with her, I'm exactly whom I find it difficult to be with: a self-absorbed, non-listening, dominating monologuist (is there a word?) But even then, I am not completely honest. The mental screening still takes place. The opaque bubble is soundproof.Fear of judgement, fear of appearing weak or flawed. Fear of trusting? Fear of revelation, of being exposed to reveal less than I believe I am composed of.

Ah, the futility of fear.

Enough! Conclusion: I'm going to practise the art of conversation. And that means not keeping my phone on silent, not shutting up when group members exceed beyond 2 and basically.....

being myself. The most cliched and yet the most fundamental aspect of being human.

Amarte es igual que jugar ruleta rusa (Irrelevant. Just words from the song I'm listening to)

I miss Spanish. I know I can study on my own, seek out Spanish books, learn a word a day, revise my verbs and hello, read my Spanish copy of Paulo Coelho's 'Brida'. BUT I miss Spanish as the Spanish that is easier to FEEL in. I miss Spanish as the language that I wrote my first ever full-fledged song in. I miss Spanish and alongwith my discovery of the Latino explosion, not as limited English popsters but as genuine pop-rock phenomenons back in Spain and Colombia (I don't have to mention who I am talking about, EI and S). I miss Spanish as I miss ninth standard. I miss ticklingly chilly Madras winter on long drives to Kotturpuram as the same album played on repeat for months. I miss 'Quizas' by Enrique Iglesias. It's on my iTunes now. But I miss the context I first listened to it in. I miss the freshness of discovery, the thrill of learning, so much unlike the relative monotony of revision. I miss my Peruvian Spanish teacher, our initial limited conversations as he helped negotiate my first steps into the language that I was already so in love with and the language that would become so close to my heart.

I am not brilliant at Spanish. I don't even know what level I am at. And months of non use have probably rendered my tenses rusty. But when Juanes, Enrique, Shakira, Antonio Banderas, Alejandro Sanz and Marc Antony speak to me, something happens. I am at once familiar and immediately far away. A fourteen year old whose world changed just because she had a language to speak to herself in, to communicate those feelings that English so restricted.

Siempre digo que ingles es la lengua en que yo puedo pensar y hablar pero es español que es la lengua en que yo puedo sentir, la lengua de mi corazón.

Stay the same

Rain does its 180

The city that was edgy (sorry, understatement), bursting at the seams and ready to bite is now tamed after a nice bath. The survival instinct that rises to the surface when we are confronted with the sun's blade is now pacified, receding to the corner where it deserves to be. You now feel like living and not barely surviving. Being and not having to be. I'm ready to look at strangers' faces, glareless. I'm able tolerate the not-so-favoured tracks on my iPod when on shuffle. I'm capable of smiling a lot more.

Life is better when it's wetter, atleast in this corner of the globe. Peace descends as there's a lot less to complain about it. And whatever there is to complain about, erm, well, I don't quite remember it.

And this is one of the reasons my birth month ROCKS.

And Happy Saturday to You Too

Today I am much better reconciled to life. My life. Perhaps it is because it is Saturday: less of man and machine on the road (the city even looks cleaner!), the thought of one and a half days of weekend stretch before me temptingly, the thought of hanging out with an ancient (in terms of friendship length) 'friend'/almost sister/partner in self-deprecating hilarity Jhinkers for lunch. Perhaps it's because I did make an effort and dressed better (be proud, K!), albeit a little A/W 2009 than sweltering-still-feels-like-May-Madras. But ha! Guess what? It rained (or drizzled. I was asleep) last night and I woke up to cloud cover on this glorious, glorious day. Not that that helps the heat, but it sure helps my mood. Anyway, my amaaaaziiiing (seriously, it's like my dream workplace/industry: world music but that's not the only reason I adore it..looong list) internship office is air conditioned and brightly coloured. So with thoughts of the above image in mind (courtesy:365tweexcore.tumblr.com I think) I am reconciled to my life. And I wish you all the love and colour in the world.

Sunglasses Don't Help

Oh ever so inspired. Browsing through blogs of pastel colours, fading afternoon light, summer dresses, street fashion and quotes from songs, I am in such a mood to take photographs. Alas, the world on my screen does not replicate itself outside my window. Memories of my morning brush with reality cause me to shudder. Traffic was stationary, unrelenting and cacophonous. The stable (the politest word I can think of) wheazhherr we are 'aaving is as soothing and pleasant as watching your face melt into pools of hot wax and needing a bath right after you've had your third can be. My former affection for mankind and its associated decision to embrace all humanity lies forgotten in a dusty drawer of my mind, abandoned because my contact with fellow traffic-goers is reduced to angry glares (caused more due to blinding sunlight rather than emotion) and short bursts of honking. It's Madras, as my mother says, you NEED to honk a lot.

Anyway, much as I love the city-town of my birth, I have to accept its ugliness. Its acne scars, its bald patch, its chapped, bitten lips. I dream of meadows and inns by the sea (that movie 'Nights in Rodanthe' spoiled me.). It's not that I want a vacation (oh yes oh yes I do). It's more that I want some prettyness in my day. And my December interest in dressing up has deserted me (ah, alliteration). It's too hot to think up combinations. I stare at the wardrobe in my 9 am moodiness (8-11 am = least favourite time of the day) and pull out whatever is loosest, long-that-can-be-rolled-up-sleeved. Scrounging around for colour, I do try, but the above description takes precedence over colour and joy.

So I wear black (thank God my office is air-conditioned), pile on some beads (that were 'stolen' from K) almost as a compulsory tribute to K's fashion-ness and smile as I think of him and shuffle out. I reach the computer and then see what I see : http://thesartorialist.blogspot.com/. People seamlessly incorporating fashion into their day; people making an effort. But wait, what do they have that I don't (besides model physiques/figures that fit all kinds of clothes)? OH YEAH, NICE WEATHER.

It's okay, God. I deserve to whine. Almost 22 years of this climate and I see it getting worse. What with the population and the malls (oh come on, MORE malls!) and the cars and the malfunctioning traffic lights. I will be strong, oh God. Just grant me some all-expenses paid tickets and accomodation at a nice North American town by the sea.