Ranting in the deep

There's nothing more troubling than not being able to write when I hurriedly get to my desk, pushing aside everything marked urgent, drinking coffee like a sugar starved junkie on acid and do what? sit and stare the screen for extraterrestrial powers to take over me and stab the urge to write  No, really. I can't care less about your cute poodle dying or your friend meeting with a terrible accident or even the tragic death of Arnold Swartz, which got me half paranoid an hour back. I don't think there's anything romantic about a Writer's block. its just a self indulging term created by some narcissist to deal with his menacingly inexpressible voice in his head. A degenerated excuse at its best.

The only good thing I see while experiencing this trouble is the reinforcement of the thought that I feel passionate about something in this world. something to strife for while inhaling someboy's second hand oxygen.something to translate my frustration into without having to consult a shrink. Something to wake up to next morning, apart from a bad hangover. If I die today, my only regret would be to have not written as much as I've always wanted to. if you're still not convinced how troubling it is for me to not able to write. Well, too bad. you've only come this far and that just proves my point. 

Reach

Emotions can't be trusted
When they are constantly waging war
against reason
But when i let my thoughts astray
they grab you like a child's embrace
Seeking
Surrendering-
A world of tranquility you carry
on your shoulders
The way dawn basks largeness
of the ocean
Allowing borders to blur
and distances to mitigate
through words unspoken
and bodies unfelt.

A broken tooth

Where do all the unfinished stories go? Do they pile up in a secret hole in the space, undisclosed to all its habitants. Could they evaporate into the atmosphere along with dust and sit somewhere in the infinite ozone. What if they are not as remote and unreachable as one would perceive them to be. What If they are used to exact revenge on people by being made to surface at inappropriate time, through inappropriate ways. Everybody loves a good scandal. In the age of digital township, the instances of information misuse have been reported to be alarmingly high. It would be incredibly foolish to go blind to their growing presence in our human world. Look around, unfinished stories, are born every day, mostly out of sheer negligence like babies born out of incompetent condoms. At the writer’s desk, jostling with literary bigwigs for space and recognition; in a director’s mind, playing themselves out in a loop until they lose steam and are shown the exit doors; In the lover’s eye, germing in the hollow silences of their distant conversation till the voice in their head intervenes and declares temporary truce.

Words once uttered cannot be discarded. They have lived their life, accomplished their purpose by fulfilling all mandates of successful communication and deserve to wear off from the cognition. But what about the unease inflicted upon oneself when one loses one’s thoughts tragically to another realm of time and space. These thoughts whirl around to form clusters of unfinished stories like packs of migrants forced to flee from their respective colonies inside our brains. They may not reach anywhere but what are the odds they wouldn’t reappear like pirates from a long lost ship. If proper stories, of proper length and proper breadth have the power to rankle with our brains, imagine what wreckage they are capable to cause us through the power of their deformity. Unfinished stories, uninterrupted by colons and periods, can become an unmanned river on a distant island preparing itself to flood havoc on civilisation.

What birthed them in the first place? Lack of concentration, self-censorship, procrastination. Some of the most illuminating words fall prey to the said factors. Several stories offer themselves as martyrs in pursuit of a better one. Others just lose sight of the writers because they were unimportant from the start, or so they it was believed. It’s a pity that their fate rests on a powerful and heart wrenching ending, in the absence of which they become victims of collective indifference. It is irrelevant who they feature as subjects or how intensely were they conceived. Their identity loses out of to their deficiency. Like a popular tape stuck inside the player, forced to leave the gathering full of enchanted listeners. On other occasions, they are forced to leap into nothingness because the situation demands so. Like death. Stories disappear mysteriously like its owners but are to re-emerge as memories with their obfuscated intentions. The lingering ache that our brain fails to recognise as memory is perhaps the distressing come back of unfinished stories- written in another realm of consciousness. Should the writer fear them as vestiges from his past or should he hunt them till they provide him a closure. The choice happens to be a privilege not enjoyed by everybody.

Mirabus woke up with a menacing headache. Her eyes were droopy from a disturbed sleep. Her mind was drained, writing an article about unfinished stories in her study last night. She watched the sun rays beaming on the lilac walls of her room with her half opened eyes. What a terrible terrible start. She reached out to the pockets of her nightgown as she desperately tried to recollect the dream in which she lost her back tooth. 

A life in letters

I have written three mails in my life. I am of course discounting the numerous replies to near and dear ones. When i say three, I mean three instances where I thought writing was the most satisfying way of getting rid of that uncontrollable itch of thoughts. One was to this guy I briefly dated in ACJ. I wrote to him so that I could provide him and mostly me a closure on how things went woozy between us and it was in the best interest of both of us to look for greener avenues in life. That one flowed smoothly since I has a lot of grudges against this dude and it was my best chance to vent out things that i couldn't tell him otherwise that his breath reeked of fish stink and he used to mumble in sleep each time he drank.

The second one was to my mom, again in ACJ. Funnily, this was a postal mail sent purely for selfish reasons. It was was my second month in ACJ and i saw those kids getting fat parcels from home with all sorts of goodies and affectation which made me feel horribly jealous and greedy but most importantly I wanted the warden to pass by my room and for once call out my name to hand me over "the parcel". Anyway, so I wrote to mom telling her about all the nice stuff that Chennai was all about which predictably ended in less than a page. So it was mostly about the assignments and grades and the false responsible talk. With my luck, all that mail returned me was a frantic, agitated phone call to which i remember replying "Yes, I am fine. I am not lonely... i am not going through racism here... No, I wouldn't entertain the idea of returning home without finishing the course".

The third one went to a friend in U.K. She and I have shared a great wordy relationship all through our graduation years. It was effortless to to open up to her mostly because she shares my aquarian quirks. those very quirks probably explains the drifting away over time. Neither of us made the initiative to remain in contact years after she moved out. She's a fine resilient soul, i bet she's doing wonders for herself.

Anyway, these are some of my favourite letters I've found online 

Famous love letter by Lewis Carroll

 Christ Church, Oxford, October 28, 1876

My Dearest Gertrude:
My Dearest Gertrude:

You will be sorry, and surprised, and puzzled, to hear what a queer illness I have had ever since you went. I sent for the doctor, and said, "Give me some medicine. for I'm tired." He said, "Nonsense and stuff! You don't want medicine: go to bed!"

I said, "No; it isn't the sort of tiredness that wants bed. I'm tired in the face." He looked a little grave, and said, "Oh, it's your nose that's tired: a person often talks too much when he thinks he knows a
great deal." I said, "No, it isn't the nose. Perhaps it's the hair." Then he looked rather grave, and said, "Now I understand: you've been playing too many hairs on the pianoforte."

"No, indeed I haven't!" I said, "and it isn't exactly the hair: it's more about the nose and chin." Then he looked a good deal graver, and said, "Have you been walking much on your chin lately?" I said, "No." "Well!" he said, "it puzzles me very much.

Do you think it's in the lips?" "Of course!" I said. "That's exactly what it is!"

Then he looked very grave indeed, and said, "I think you must have been giving too many kisses." "Well," I said, "I did give one kiss to a baby child, a little friend of mine."

"Think again," he said; "are you sure it was only one?" I thought again, and said, "Perhaps it was eleven times." Then the doctor said, "You must not give her any more till your lips are quite rested
again." "But what am I to do?" I said, "because you see, I owe her a hundred and eighty-two more." Then he looked so grave that tears ran down his cheeks, and he said, "You may send them to her in a box."

Then I remembered a little box that I once bought at Dover, and thought I would someday give it to some little girl or other. So I have packed them all in it very carefully. Tell me if they come safe or if any are lost on the way."

Lewis Carrol

.........................

Writing advice from C.S. Lewis to a young American fan named Joan Lancaster:

The Kilns,

Headington Quarry,

Oxford

26 June 1956

Dear Joan–

Thanks for your letter of the 3rd. You describe your Wonderful Night v. well. That is, you describe the place and the people and the night and the feeling of it all, very well — but not the thing itself — the setting but not the jewel. And no wonder! Wordsworth often does just the same. His Prelude (you’re bound to read it about 10 years hence. Don’t try it now, or you’ll only spoil it for later reading) is full of moments in which everything except the thing itself is described. If you become a writer you’ll be trying to describe the thing all your life: and lucky if, out of dozens of books, one or two sentences, just for a moment, come near to getting it across.

About amn’t I, aren’t I and am I not, of course there are no right or wrong answers about language in the sense in which there are right and wrong answers in Arithmetic. “Good English” is whatever educated people talk; so that what is good in one place or time would not be so in another. Amn’t I was good 50 years ago in the North of Ireland where I was brought up, but bad in Southern England. Aren’t I would have been hideously bad in Ireland but very good in England. And of course I just don’t know which (if either) is good in modern Florida. Don’t take any notice of teachers and textbooks in such matters. Nor of logic. It is good to say “more than one passenger was hurt,” although more than one equals at least two and therefore logically the verb ought to be plural were not singular was!

What really matters is:–

1. Always try to use the language so as to make quite clear what you mean and make sure your sentence couldn’t mean anything else.

2. Always prefer the plain direct word to the long, vague one. Don’timplement promises, but keep them.

3. Never use abstract nouns when concrete ones will do. If you mean “More people died” don’t say “Mortality rose.”

4. In writing. Don’t use adjectives which merely tell us how you want us to feel about the thing you are describing. I mean, instead of telling us a thing was “terrible,” describe it so that we’ll be terrified. Don’t say it was “delightful”; make us say “delightful” when we’ve read the description. You see, all those words (horrifying, wonderful, hideous, exquisite) are only like saying to your readers, “Please will you do my job for me.”

5. Don’t use words too big for the subject. Don’t say “infinitely” when you mean “very”; otherwise you’ll have no word left when you want to talk about something really infinite.

Thanks for the photos. You and Aslan both look v. well. I hope you’ll like your new home.

With love

yours

C.S. Lewis

.............................

 Maurice Sendak to a young fan

“Once a little boy sent me a charming card with a little drawing on it. I loved it. I answer all my children’s letters — sometimes very hastily — but this one I lingered over. I sent him a card and I drew a picture of a Wild Thing on it. I wrote, ‘Dear Jim: I loved your card.’ Then I got a letter back from his mother and she said, ‘Jim loved your card so much he ate it.’ That to me was one of the highest compliments I’ve ever received. He didn’t care that it was an original Maurice Sendak drawing or anything. He saw it, he loved it, he ate it.”

.........

Dear Amy,

I must write a special letter and thank you for the dream in the bottle. You are the first person in the world who has sent me one of these and it intrigued me very much. I also liked the dream. Tonight I shall go down to the village and blow it through the bedroom window of some sleeping child and see if it works.

With love from,
(Signed)
Roald Dahl

.........

After reading Yann Martel’s book Life of Pi with his daughter, a fan sat down to write this short note of thanks.

Mr. Martel —

My daughter and I just finished reading Life of Pi together. Both of us agreed we prefer the story with animals.

It is a lovely book — an elegant proof of God, and the power of storytelling.

Thank you.

(Signed, ‘Barack Obama’)

............

Famous love letter by Napolean Bonaparte

Until then, mio dolce amor, a thousand kisses; but give me none in return, for they set my blood on fire

wopycriter blues.

There is no such thing as dreamjob. Dream judiciously.

Everyone meet crusty.

It's a pity how man has found cure for most of the deadly, hard to pronounce diseases but fails abominably at finding a cure to eradicate spots. Giant crater like spots that make you wish you woke up with a beard. I would've stuck to don't -ask don't- tell policy but since this happens to be my first day at work and a lot of people have asked me about it, i feel obliged to finish the whiny introduction.

i've heard distressing stories from people on being bullied on the first day of their school because of reasons beyond their comprehension. Falooda says, he was called watermelon because his face swelled up from a medicine allergy on the first day of his school. I am reminded of my professor at J school who used to scratch his head when he was in deep thought only to stumble on a giant round lump on his head. We called him the man with three balls. I feel sorry for both Falooda and the professor after walking around with a giant spot on my chin that leeked like an open wound on my first day of work.

I had resolved to not squeeze it this time around but I was sincerely bored during the two and a half hour long HR induction presentation in the first half of the day. Squeezing spots make up for an interesting past-time if you care to observe. My hand strategically placed over my chin gave the impression that I was attentively listening the buggers on how to encash my maternity leave followed by "oh ofcourse, we hope it it doesn't apply to you".

Squeezing pimples might comes across relaxing while you're at it, it's real dangers surface hours later when you discover your spots spread all over your face like algae on standing water. Like all first-days, I was to meet a new person every hour. By the end of the day I was giving out the rehearsed expression of "Hi, i am anisha. i would be nice to you if you look away and ignore my spot". Obviously, it wasn't working. In reality, i saw a dozen of faces shrink with rebuke at my giant plop of oil. they looked me with derision of having to see a mutilated body. This is it. I am going to be crusty, the tadpole in the sea of creative sharks.

prelude

There is something deeply meditative about the tale of Intsy- the spider we learnt in formative years of school.

Intzy who embarks on a vertical trail to make its way up the wall. it falls down due to forces unfriendly to  gravity.

Intzy gets up,

tries again

falls.

gets up,

tries again,

falls miserably

wobbles but gets up

tries again

falls miserably

-repeat-

-repeat-

Job hunting fills you with emotions similar to that of Intsy's. I'm not here to romanticize his story of failure/success (depending on how you choose to see it), or whine about the harsh times of economic recession we live in which might have triggered the thought behind this note, but definitely doesn't serve the purpose of writing it.The difference between Intsy and me is not our struggle and hardship and our occasional resilience but our destination. While intsy's misery ends with his  successful walk up the varnished walls of the house, mine probably begins there. Having trekked the employment mountain, the next crucial thing required from you is to survive on breadcrumbs that are fed in the name of salary. More significantly to discover reasons to keep you motivated each day, to remain unaffected by mediocrity served to you in enormous portions. To abstain from the greed and overpowering consumerist logic of capitalism every time you're handed your pay cheque. To make a forceful decision of going home instead of heading to the bar after a rough day at work, to let go of the enraging promotion of the guy half as bright as you are, to remain sane and cheerful and optimistic and hungry for knowledge and learning. To remain you. To remain idyllic.

I haven't started working yet but I see a long undulated wall ahead of me. I am not intsy, the spider. I wouldn't rise up if I fall this time. I would run away to Dharamshala and donate my youth and dreams to a humble monastry. 

Alternatively, if i make a headway on to the wall, I promise myself to not get wasted by the abundance of contemporary materialism while ensuring i do not rot in one corner as a bigass bore.