The secret lives of little girls

When I first told my aunt(former English Literature lecturer, lover of words and the one who helped in opening that secret window into books and their worlds) that I wanted to read Cat's eye by Margaret Atwood, she shuddered(a bit dramatic but I love her reactions) and said "Ooh that's a dark one" I didn't take her very seriously or rather I was actually inspired to read the book even more. I really underestimated how much this book would affect me. It's not just because it's dark or because it's about women. It's not even issue related I think. I started reading it and immediately related to it.

Have you ever had a friend while growing up who was the queen of the gang? Who everybody secretly hated but outwardly worshiped because the alternative-of standing up to her would leave you out in the cold? I did. Her name was D. She was the prettiest girl in our class and she made our lives hell. She was completely dictatorial. And we just followed her while wishing someone would just topple her over. So you wouldn't complain if you were told that you'd have to play the elder sister while playing princess and the witch, or god-knows-what we indulged in at that time. You'd rather be the nondescript elder sister in the play, than the rebel who stands up for herself in the playground and gets thrown out. Ya I was always the boring elder sister. D as you can guess, was the pretty princess. She would lets us know why we were worthy of her condescension and of course when we were not, she would inform us why. This would of course change at a whim. Now when I look back on all that I have no idea why we took it all. She was a kid. A stupid kid in pink. But then so were we. Maybe it was the pink, maybe it was the fact that she behaved as if she deserved worshiping- but the truth remains, that we let it happen.

Some friends of mine like A and G would shudder when they talked about her years later, much after she had left the school. I even remember when she came back once-I think we were in the 8th standard then. These two friends of mine didn't even look at her. I also heard she was pretty skittish about being back. I can understand that- it's harder for the perpetrator to look at her victims.

I think Atwood brings home a hugely disturbing fact about little girls which I see reflected in my childhood as well . We were awful to each other while growing up. Just awful. There's a major power struggle that exists that I think is either absent in boys or just less complicated. The worst thing of course, is that nobody knows about it. It's almost like this covert operation happening right underneath parents' noses who by the way, are too busy sniffing out their mischievous but far less harmful boys.I remember how we used to gang up on one person at a time and tell that person exactly what was wrong with her. Each of us went through it. And you never knew when it would be your turn. I remember the time it happened to me, quite clearly. We were in the 8th standard. N had left school and gone to Sishya-I was miserable without her and miserable with having to make friends with the others- those that I had neglected when she and I became friends. And it started slowly -the slight cold shoulders, the wondering, the looking over your shoulder, and then when finally they surround you to start the complaints you're almost relieved because it's finally out there and you can face it. It's hell. But you let it go- get accepted again, and the next time you participate in it? Someone else is the victim.

When I finished reading Atwood's similar account of peer torture I bawled my eyes out. I was in Conoor at that time and all I wanted to do was call my friends and reassure myself that we're not the monsters we used to be. Because we're still friends. And I almost feel like the way we treat each other now -all soft and warm and cuddly is to make up for what we did to each other before.We stand up for each other now. Whenever each of us is heartbroken or someone has treated us badly there are a flurry of emails that invoke a sort of inner sisterhood that bypasses distance, time, and yes even abuse. Because that's what it was. I think the fact that we're still around each other says something we never really acknowledge about love and friendship-that though we're often kinder to a stranger than we are to a loved one, there is a greater sense of validation in being around those with whom you share your failures.

(I just apologised to G while writing this. It's never too late for anything)

Unresolved. Don't know how to end this.

Poetry III

Today I woke up with a poem in my head. I figure that’s an excellent way to wake up. That’s what I have been doing a lot these days-waking up with lines I could use, words I could replace and poems of mine that need editing. The online poetry workshop is working excellently and I strongly recommend it for anyone who wants to improve. I posted my first poem around a month back-very gingerly. I was very apprehensive-I’d seen some of the crits other people had gotten and I was just a wee bit terrified. The site clearly states that if what you’re looking for is a pat on the head for good work done then this is not the place for you. So I mulled over that for a while. I told myself if all I wanted were pats on the head then maybe I should head somewhere else. I do not handle criticism very well (really who does?) in the sense that I end up taking it to heart see it as a reflection of who I am. I do not get defensive-I get very insecure and just give up. And I knew that I didn’t want to give up. I love writing. There I said it. I can’t escape from that now and I can’t be lazy about it either. Anyway I remembered Rilke’s “Letters to a young poet” and this part that has always stayed with me:

”Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple "I must," then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your while life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse"

I have had that epiphany. So I realized then that yes I would love for people to like my work and I would love to be told that I am a brilliant writer but that really doesn’t change anything. I haven’t been writing for as long as some of the people I know but I have a fair idea that this is what I like doing now. And because of that I must work on it. It deserves that effort from me. So the opinions of others do matter. I would also like that opinion to be credible. I would like to feel like I deserve it. Friends, family, people who love us, will tell us a great many things because they are the guardians of our soul -for that we must cherish them. Not so much for their opinion. And this does not mean they do not hold worthy opinions- it’s just that love screws things up a little. Love is the ink blot, the water colour stain hiding truth behind it. We can get truth only from the unsympathetic stranger who owes us nothing.

Anyway so after I first posted my poem I waited eagerly for responses. The first response that came wasn’t so good. I was pretty disheartened so for a long time I didn’t go to the site. I wrote a little on the side-told myself that maybe they just didn’t get the way I wrote, and many more such rationalisations I offered myself. Then recently I went back and I found that 3 more people had responded-one of them having gone through the trouble to dissect the poem line by line-even I hadn’t done that. Forget that this is a criteria for staying in the workshop (one post=3 critiques of other people’s work) so one might reason he was just doing his part to stay in the workshop. Maybe. But this person even sent me a private message to tell me what he thought needed work. And he was encouraging. He liked my concept-he just thought it needed working on. I also realised that everyone who had responded liked my basic concept which is more than I can ask for as a beginner. It is humbling to be a part of this workshop. So after a month I put up another poem. Responses were varied-one person said they didn’t get what I was trying to convey. Another, loved it so much she compared me to Emily Dickinson. Seriously. How great is that?

I strongly recommend putting yourself(or rather, your work) out there. Don’t tell yourself it doesn’t matter because it does. Otherwise you have no business doing the thing you claim to love-this goes for all those who create and seek to add something to this world by way of that creation.It deserves your sweat, your blood, your tears- your effort.

Love, Peace, Music

So Ang Lee's "Taking Woodstock" is releasing this week. I am (obviously) led to think about the first time I watched Wadleigh's masterpiece. The 6 hour documentary which is heady, wild, incoherent in bits, can transport you to that decade, to that field, that mud pit where love, music and feces all mixed happily together. So you may wrinkle your nose at all the dirty naked people but god! they look so happy- you want a slice of that. You even want to make a peace sign and spout cliched lines about love. There is a spirit of harmony that is palatable. Maybe it's naive to think that there were more than just drugs, music, unprotected sex and pollution happening(I was told that the field upon which they camped was so completely destroyed it took years to rejuvenate it) but it really laid the platform for some of the most important musical influences,-Crosby Stills Nash, Santana, The Who, Joe Cocker and many more.

Some of the most memorable performances for me were(Since then I've watched them many times over but these are my first and yes, lasting impressions- I can only imagine what it must have felt like to have been there to witness it in person):

Joe Cocker's spin on The Beatles hit "With a little help for my friends" is miles ahead of the original. His freakish yells coupled with the almost operatic soars provided by the backup singers(whom I thought were two black women until I watched the film and realised they were two bone thin men with long dirty hair) makes this song iconic, moves it beyond being a cutesy if tad bit melancholic song to a painful anthem on salvation. Cocker alternates between screaming this song - wrenching and twisting your gut with thorny chaotic memories, and then goes onto soothe you by crooning, tenderly, "What do I do when my love is away?", urging you to treat love as the wounded bird it is. Cocker looks out of this world(they say he was on an acid trip) with straggly bits of his hair swirling in the wind, face screwed up as he belts out note after note(oh my god those notes). And you know that when he finishes the song and looks out at the crowd to wave, to acknowledge the shared resurrection, he never expects to feel like that again. And neither should you.

Santana's "Soul Sacrifice"-Through an erotic, beautiful clash of sound a 20 something Santana (along with his other 20 something band members including the prodigious Micheal Shrive with one of the most exciting drum solos ever) sets out to tease and titillate you till you are left shattered by the unspeakable things he is doing to you through his guitar. Goosebumps rise everywhere and your head is now mindless, filled with glorious liquid sound that quivers and explodes in your head without any warning. Unlike Cocker, Santana does not let you think. All you can do is watch and listen with mouth half open, submerged, in something you will not understand.



















When Pete Townsend begins with "See Me Feel Me" it seems like he is begging for your acknowledgment. Which you're more than willing to give.Your attention (it seems ) is vital. When the songs picks up he transforms into a malevolent presence as if now having hooked you in, he no longer cares- he knows you're not going to leave. This is probably one of the most heady songs of The Who. The visual makes it all the more compelling. Pete Townsend, with his fringed white jacket shines in the darkness like some angle of deliverance. From what I have heard about the song, I know it is supposed to be about a deaf and blind child who becomes a prodigy of sorts at pinball and as a result becomes an idol for his followers.

If you haven't watched-by watched, I mean a dozen things,most importantly- submerged yourself in this film, I suggest you do. Especially if you are disillusioned, and music today has left you cold and dry. Bow your head down and listen to the masters at their moment of inception.

Must watch

*before next year*




A Clockwork Orange- N and I tried watching this years ago and after 15 minutes of cringing we switched it off. But it's supposed to be one of the greats so I want to watch it.

* Irma Vep-I LOVE Maggie Cheung and the synopsis on IMDB sounds wacky!

* The Uninvited- I really want to see if this does any justice to the original Janghwa, Hongryeon (a.k.a Tale of two Sisters)-I don't have very high hopes but I'm open to being contradicted.

* JFK-I managed to get a dvd of this film when I was in Delhi and the stupid thing didn't work.

* The 3 other documentaries on Kabir-Chalo Hamara Des, Kabira Khada Hain Bazaar Mein, Koi Sunta Hai, (as part of The Kabir Project) by Shabnam Virmani.(I loved Had-Anhad) Okay the likelihood of me getting my hands on these before the year end is unlikely. Still I'm going to put it up on my must watch just to remind me.




* 500 days of Summer- It just looks refreshing.


* Whip it- Ellen Page!

* Kaminey- Okay Shahid Kapur looks really hot. And I love Vishal Bharadwaj.

Addition: Taking Woodstock- How far will they mess this up? How much will they refer to Wadleigh's Woodstock? I am very curious.But I have faith in Ang Lee.

Firefly Under the Tongue

by Coral Bracho

I love you from the sharp tang of the fermentation;
in the blissful pulp. Newborn insects, blue.
In the unsullied juice, glazed and ductile.
Cry that distills the light:
through the fissures in fruit trees;
under mossy water clinging to the shadows. The
papillae, the grottos.
In herbaceous dyes, instilled. From the flustered touch.
Luster
oozing, bittersweet: of feracious pleasures,
of play splayed in pulses.
Hinge
(Wrapped in the night's aura, in violaceous clamor,
refined, the boy, with the softened root of his tongue
expectant, touches,
with that smooth, unsustainable, lubricity—sensitive lily
folding into the rocks
if it senses the stigma, the ardor of light—the substance, the arris
fine and vibrant—in its ecstatic petal, distended—[jewel
pulsing half-open; teats], the acid
juice bland [ice], the salt marsh,
the delicate sap [Kabbalah], the nectar
of the firefly.)


Any attempt at explaining how I feel about this poem will fail miserably. Still,I will bumble my way through that soon. For now, I'm just happy to have it around me, here.

Reading list

I MUST, I must finish these before the next year. That's only 3 months away okay???



Of Love And Other Demons
Have to finish this. It is so hard to put down but work has been crazy and the only time I am getting is when I am on the bus.Besides, I will never forgive myself if the only Marquez I can say I have finished is Chronicle Of A Death Foretold.
*wince*



Cats Eye
I love Atwood. I could barely get through her short stories though so I'm hoping this one is good. Besides, it sounds all dark and gloomy so that makes me very happy.







Just Give Me a Cool Drink of Water 'Fore I Die
Okay I picked this up at random in Blossom the other day, flipped through it for like 5 minutes before deciding to buy it.5 minutes, that's all it took. So good. I've already read a couple but I'm yet to savour.

Poetry II

So it seems like poetry as an issue, will feature a number of times in my blog. I am really trying to figure out my own understanding of it. Or rather, find some way to articulate it. I recently joined an online poetry workshop in an attempt to understand more of what I can only assume is "professional poetry". I put this in quotes because this falls in some obscure far away universe where I don't feel I belong. I'm still unsure of where I want to belong, I want people to like what I write(of course) and I want my poems to stand on their own without me jumping in to rescue them but right now I'm struggling with my previous understanding of poetry as being something spontaneous and unedited. What seemed so clear before, seems rather naive and overly simplistic.

For instance, in that workshop, one member(a new one, most likely) posted a rather maudlin poem for critique. Anyway, this person's poem was slaughtered by one of the moderators(did I mention that brutality is a criteria for good critique?) Anyway, what followed was a back and forth dialogue between the moderator and the beaten up poet on the subject of poetry.I won't get into the details of it, but what struck me(and it is something I ought to consider as someone who's trying to become better at writing) was that in response to the poet's rather petulant declaration that poetry comes from the heart the moderator was quick to shoot back and say that poetry does not come from the heart but in fact comes from the mind and therefore takes skill and practise. Umm..that sounds as appealing as mental maths. Well that was my knee jerk reaction.But knees and 'jerky' reactions(haha I am such a wit) aside, though I sympathise with the poor poet's feelings, I realised that I agreed with said moderator-poetry is a mental exercise, a frustrating one at that and incredibly hard to do. Because ultimately, poetry is only for the courageous.

As a poet, a large part of the process of writing involves telling yourself that you are limited and the tool you have is limited(how many times has a sentence refused to bend to your will?), but that you're still going to try and harness the reins of what sometimes seems like a monster waiting to be let loose.(bad analogy I know). No wait it's not. I mean, it does feel like that especially when you write a poem under the influence of some strong emotion, the words go crazy and prance across the page and in general make a mess of what you feel and what you wish to convey. I feel the deeply the chargin of what that poet went through when his/her poem was massacred but it's a lesson (I think) that must be learnt by those who want to write good poetry(of course we can argue over what is good and what is bad but that's a whole other issue) and by the ones who judge poetry too harshly. I am quite tired of hearing how "simple" poetry is. How it ignores the rules of grammar and takes gross liberties with language. I'd like each of these people to try and write one poem for heaven's sake. And that requires them to above all, read poetry. That's how everyone starts. Either way, it is a gross underestimation of what is essentially a unique process and yes, a process that requires effort.

Some might say that I'm removing all that is spontaneous about poetry. I am not. I am merely trying to say that the connection between a good poem and it's source(yes, the heart*sigh*) is the mind. It is that and only that which makes the reader experience a poem rather than simply reading a bunch of lines. It is that difference, that wide and deep chasm, between having someone's bleeding heart(which is just so messy) on your hands and having someone reach out, grab yours and squeeze. And there are only a few who can do it graciously so do not grudge them their gift or their effort. This goes for both the easily dismissive reader and the immature poet. I(for obvious reasons) have greater hope for the latter.


Disclaimer: I do not in any way mean to suggest that I am a part of the group. *sigh* Not yet anyway.