Monday, November 30, 2009

before bed...


So it is this to which you have come, perhaps this to which you have been reduced. Though not solely reduced, something more than that, because there is a softness and a cradling in this place you find yourself.

Listen. Eating stale namkeen, unable to throw it away because it was so good when it was fresh. Oreos, water, mango juice, chana for snack, breakfast, dinner, filling in the cracks between planned meals which start off later than intended and become adventures in themselves leading somewhere unexpected, but maybe no lesser for that. Hair pulled back into the all-utility-no-how-do-you-do ponytail, whisps pinned up and twisted round to avoid distraction, though a glance in the mirror reveals their protest in the form of flagrant disregard for gravitational norms. Move books aside to shake out blankets, the crumbs and wrinkles which have made their homes in this place-of-sleep-cum-workspace. Snap blankets up into the air, watch them descend like parachutes, replace and reorder books, computer, tape, camera, namkeen, George, re-situate for continued involvement in whatever it is you're doing, were doing, should be doing. Cough syrup made of honey and little else smoothes dis-ease in mind and spirit, perhaps more-so than in body. Back to work, and it seems like I could do this. I really think I could.

++++++

Classic rock, or at least dated rock, undoubtedly questionable rock, service comes not so far into the stay to the surprise of the lord-creator herhimself, WWF playing on the big screen TV. A semi-sticky marble table that evokes a silent moving picture of an employee approaching a table after the patrons get up and wiping off the table without putting much store by the result of, nor the intention behind his effort. On couple bent over a laptop to my left, another in front of me as close as they can be while seated across the table from each other. Reaching towards each other, eyes grasping hungrily for some tangible piece, connection with the other. Her arms outstretched, his head resting in her palm, conversation brings them briefly back to the reality of their surroundings, the physical awkwardness of their near-embrace, and they resume residence on their respective sides of the table. Soon again they are lost in each other and hands reach out to make physical contact, dampening the electricity of looks and words to a sustainable heat.

All of it recalling a memory from the back of my belly of being completely entranced by someone, seeing nothing but this other person, feeling constant ecstasy that this person reciprocates my enchantment. Ecstasy is not meant to be felt constantly, only is short, quickly passing bursts. I had a stomach ache for two weeks straight. It was worth it though.

Sitting in this oh-so-something Cafe Coffee Day, what more could I honestly need?

++++++

Do you ever feel like you're on the edge of something huge? Or maybe that you're already there. And isn't it scary to think that you might already be there? Already be free-falling?

right...

NOW?

Friday, November 27, 2009

Things I'm (Pretty) Sure About


India's economy (see recent astronomical growth) is based around the manufacturing of faulty waterbottles and thermoses. Try and get tone that doesn't leak. I dare you.

Chai is the cure to lonesomeness.

Friends are the cure to loneliness.
It's better to reach out than to pretend you don't notice; it might catch someone mid-freefall.

Sleep makes the world look brighter. I promise.
You're not the only one. I promise here too.

Having a special stuffed animal is never a bad thing. Not even if you're 22. Or 34. Etcetera.

Drawing with friends is never a bad thing. (For further elaboration, see point above.)

Beards are fun. REAL fun.

Gelabie is like love- addictive, delicious, so sweet, messy, makes you very sick if you don't partake in moderation.

In India, halting attempts at speaking Hindi are met with smiles and chuckling. In France, halting French is received very differently. Mon dieu. Sub thik hai.

Drink more water!

It is without a doubt God who ordained that samosas and gelabies should go together. A burden and a blessing. Kind of like power.

Daytime soap operas are the same in every country. (Based on limited knowledge. Who's surprised? Reader thinks, "About what? Alex shooting her mouth off, or Alex not knowing much about daytime soaps?" Author responds,"Both." "Oh," says reader, "then neither.")

It's very handy to carry around a roll of toilet paper, not least because it's a good conversation starter.

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Oh goodness...


“No one laughs at God in a hospital. No one laughs at god in a war.”

There's this song I've been listening too this morning. I woke up at 8:30, read something about I don't know what, and went back to sleep. I woke up at 11:30 in a haze, the kind that you feel when your body doesn't want you to wake up from, and you end up sleeping until the sun begins to go down and when you finally do get up the world drags your heels and your eyes ache from some magic spell which hasn't quite succeeded in making you sleep for 100 years like Cinderella but won't give up quite so easily. I woke up and this song was singing itself in my head; it's so weird when that happens, don't you think?

Anyway, it's a song that I generally skip over because it's so heartbreaking. I think that Regina Spektor might very well be a genius. This song reminds me of Tikva in the hospital, the sad and hurting part of my memory of Tikva. It reminds me of saying goodbye to the Thormars for who knows how long, of breaking up with Stan, of those people who capitalize on the uncertainty and fear of others, and live richly but still unhappily. It reminds me about how much we struggle and about how sometimes it seems like it really isn't worth it because we just end up getting smashed on the rocks after hours of working to stay afloat.

“God can be funny when told he'll give you money if you just pray the right way or when presented like a genie with his magic like Houdini or grants wishes like Jimminey Cricket and Santa Clause. God can be so hilarious.”

++++++

Do you believe in God?
I don't know. It depends on the day.
Only on Wednesdays? Do you check in with him once a week?
No, not like that, not on a schedule.
If you do talk to him, will you pray for me? I could really use it.
I'll do my best.

What do you think, Mr. Bond?


1) Make sure you can spell. If you can put a sentence together, that's even better.

I can't spell. Ask anybody. Well, it should be someone who knows me, although the news has very likely spread. Anyways, I prefer to see myself a sort of Shakespeare-like maverick. Me and John McCane. And how many ways are there to put words together to say what you mean? What if you want to say what you feel instead of what you mean? Or what you see? Or what is, will be, was, might have been? Writing is so incredible because it doesn't say just what it says, but how it tastes, sounds, feels in your hair and dampens your face, leaving droplets on your eyelashes, your gloves dampened when you push back the hair whipping across your eyes, escaped from your scarf with the aid of the cold and engulfing wind. So when you say know how to spell, it's too late for that I think. But word processors help those of us less spelling-inclined. And know how to put a sentence together? Really?

2) Writing is not simply about words. Are you observant? Can you tell the difference between a sparrow and a sparrow-hawk?

To be quite frank, I couldn't identify either. Especially since those bird books don't look anything like the real things. Even when I see a bird whose name I know, look it up in a book and I don't recognize it. I do know when someone is upset though. I can hear it in her voice and see it in her face. And I ask what's wrong, and I want to know. And when she says 'nothing', sometimes I let it be.

I know how self conscious I am, and most of the time I know how people see me, how I see myself, and the distance between the two. Sometimes I'm surprised though.

3) Are you interested in anyone other than yourself? Writing about oneself has its limitations.

I know what this means, and I agree in a way. It's funny though, because I just read this:

“A serious author deals only with 'real' experiences and 'real' emotions, though they are usually assigned to people with fictional names. I cannot believe, frankly, that one could – or would want to – write about experiences the emotional equivalents of which he has not experienced personally. Writing is a far more conscious form of dreaming, and no one dreams dreams that are of no interest to him, however trivial and absurd they may appear to someone else.” Joyce Carol Oates

I think what Mr. Bond is suggesting is that you can't write about yourself in isolation, without consciousness of yourself in relation to others and other things. We don't exist in a vacuum. Duh. It's like any art form- I don't think you need to be tortured or suffering pain to create art. I think that the idea you do is ridiculous, pretentious. I do think, though, that beautiful art comes out of a knowledge of great pain and great happiness. Everybody experiences great loss, sadness, hunger, emptiness and loneliness.

There is another way I can think about this though. What does it mean to write for someone else? When you write something that someone else will likely read, don't you write with a level of self-consciousness? When you write about yourself for someone else to read, are you writing out of self involvement? Consideration of others? Artistic inspiration? All of these? Probably. When given a list like this, it's seldom appropriate to pick just one option, not really.

4) Are you prepared to wait years, maybe a lifetime, for recognition? If you want instant recognition, become a model.

Well, I'm already famous so that's that. Right?

5) If you're convinced that you are an unrecognized genius, remember this: everyone feels the same way.

And I suppose that, in a way, everybody is. Everybody has a story to tell, a special way to tell it, a way that nobody else ever thought of. Everybody makes choices, the only choices they could make, precisely because those are the decisions that they made. By the same token, nobody else could ever make those decisions because nobody haswillcould ever make those decisions through the eyes of the person that makes them. That makes every decision that every person makes very special, doesn't it?

6) Writer's block. Everybody asks me about this. What do you do when stuck? That's easy. Just make sure the waste-paper basket is within throwing distance.

When I had the great fortune to meet with author Stephen Alter, he said something illuminating. Writing is very simple, he explained. You sit down at a desk, table, on a blanket, even the ceiling is acceptable if you can work it out. He didn't mention the ceiling bit, but I thought it was relevant. Anyway, you sit down, with a pen and paper. You put the pen on the paper and draw it along the surface of the paper, not so hard that the paper rips, but just hard enough that the ink rubs off and makes a line where the pen has been. That's writing. Alternatively, you might prefer to sit in front of a computer and press the keys, which cause letters to appear on the screen. With this option, it's important to remember to save your writing, because if you don't, it might be lost. This is not such a worry with writing with pen and paper. Mr. Alter continued by explaining that the only surefire way to not be able to write, is to not write. Because when you sit down to a computer and press the keys, or put pen to paper and scrawl, you are writing, you can't help it. But when you don't do either of these things, you're not writing. There's no way that you will be until you move your fingers, or if you're very talented, your toes. Start with your fingers though. We don't want to get discouraged before we start.

There's another thing about writing which I think applies to life in general. Most things do though, don't they? As Mr. Bond so succinctly put it, it's very likely that a good portion of your writing will be bumph. Will end up in the garbage. Will make you cringe if you have the misfortune to come across it again sometime in the future. But here's the thing- if you didn't write all that bumph, you wouldn't have come to the good stuff, the good phrase or sentence, or maybe even a paragraph. I once heard author Anne Lamott speak. She said, you write a lot and end up with a really horrible first draft, and you're half-way there. Kate writes about 'necessary spaces.' What more prefect way could it be described? The time you spend between getting started and being finished; the time you spend reevaluating all the decisions you've made up until this point, wondering if you aren't in fact pretty severely unstable to have thought this was a good idea. The time you spend banging your head against a wall, throwing papers in the bin, hating what you're writing, yourself for thinking you could write. You can think of all this as wasted time. But you can also think of it another way; it was a necessary space for you to get to the place where you wipe your tears and actually sit down to write, the place where you look at the screen and think, oh, that's not bad, is it?

Dear Baby,
I wanted to let you know something before you even begin. You likely won't understand it until much later, but there that is. Every step and every misstep you take, every action you take and mistake you make, will bring you to the most beautiful thing: yourself.

7) And finally, remember Red Smith's immortal words:'Writing is very easy. All you have to do is sit in front of the typewriter till little drops of blood appear on your forehead.'

Enough said.

*Italicized, numbered sentences from Ruskin Bond's "Landour Days."

Let's get up early and see sunrise- a photo essay*

I know I said that I wanted to see the sun rise today, but I really hope that it's overcast because it's much too cold for...anything.
(walks outside)
Oh, never mind...


Waiting for sunrise...


Sara: Maya, please don't take photos of us! It is bahut early...
Jason: Sub theekh hai! I've already been doing soccer drills, so click away!


Oh Maya, you rapscalion you! You always make us laugh, even when we are freezing cold and very tired.
Oh look, here it comes. About time too! The cold is beginning to penetrate down through the first three layers of clothing, the epi-clothing layer, if you will. Luckily, Maya is the jugaru, so when she says "Jaldi!" the sun listens.


Ahhhhh!


Maybe we should do this more often...


Even Dev Dar doesn't look so freezing at sunrise.


Alex, this was a really good idea. Your ideas are always good.


Like the "Beards and Hats" party. That was good.


Alright, then let's take the next week and go trekking up to that peak.


Uhh...



* Plus some words.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

the sound of Rain


I can't give it to you here. It's a sound, and anyway, if I recorded it, it wouldn't be the same. Maybe a part of it is that you can't control it, can't call it on demand. It comes when the clouds are full and softens everything, calms the earth for as long as it will. I can't think of many sounds that are more gentle, can't really even describe what it is exactly, because the words don't add up to the sound or the feeling. Who's surprised? Get deep enough into words and realize that they really only go so far. But still, remembering the sound is good...


++++++


A: OK, so I've made a list of reasons why you should go to Barista with me.

S: Oh no, I can't.

A: So, you'll study, and then have your Hindi lesson...

S: No, I said no.

A: ...then, we'll walk down the hill, and that'll be really good because it will get you all focused because all your [makes swirling gesture around head] things will be moving...

S: No, I'm not going.

M: Who'se going to Barista?
S: Not me.

A: ...and then, we'll get there, and you'll be all focused and we can do homework...

S: No, I can' t go, I never get anything done.

A: ...and it'll be really good and we really will do homework...

S: Do you need any help getting things together?
M: No, only with the second thing.

A:...and I'll make sure that you do homework and I'll do homework too.

S: What? No, I am not going to Barista. I need to stay here and get some solid work done.

A: OK, fine, that's fine. I'll just go to my room and cry.

S: OK. Let me know when you're done.


++++++


We find home in the most unexpected places, don't we? In a book, in a sound, in a house, in a freezing-cold-unfortunate-excuse-for-a-guest-house-with-a-manager-who-sings-a-little-while-he-works-so-his-voice-echoes-in-the-high-cold-rooms. Maybe they're not so unexpected, maybe we knew we would find them, and that's why we're here, why we keep searching, why we go out even though we're scared to death. Maybe that's why this up-and-down life works out, because even when we're sulky and anxious, sometimes it starts to rain on the walk home and we find our scorched and stinging hearts cooled and softened.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Deep Mist


Through the doorway velvet fog presents itself. Tiny droplets landing on my face, hair, jacket, cool enveloping me with such gentle embrace that I hardly recognize it. Trees stand sentinel in the fog, transported from Narnia and The Never Ending Story, fading into the distance, leading to those worlds whose only invitation is imagination. At this moment though, I could walk in, cross over; the distance between fantasy and life is made of translucent paper instead of real. Deep purple dusk intertwines itself with fog in an embrace of passion and inspiration. The rocky drive leads upwards, mirrors my elation. Long legs in thick jeans and scrubby boots carry me on the road and every bit of the reality in which I'm traveling knows that magic is here, transformed to meet the world which presents itself in this blazing moment. My breath grows ragged as the road pushes me forward. You are there almost there, it says. I see the road flatten, the old white Ambassador waiting for me past the gate. I reach the car and the door swings open.

D: Bahut tunda, uh?
A: Hunh ji.

I pile in, pull the door shut, breathing heavily, beaming, eyes glowing. The car pulls away into the mist.