Movies I will probably end up watching even though they promise to be terrible.

New Moon

Oh my god! How bad is the book?? The first one I barely skimmed through but this one, I could not get past the first two chapters. Seriously how is it possible to make vampires boring?(I'm sure there is an army of tweens planning my destruction now).And can the heroine be more annoying? Besides her limited vocabulary in describing the apparently unearthly like features of the brooding vampire, she has to be one of the most poorly written female characters ever! I mean come on look at Hermione Granger or Luna Lovegood. JK Rowling, whatever her flaws(some more obvious now), created really strong,well defined, likable characters- even if they did wobble once in a while.And I honestly don't know know why Kristen Stewart agreed to act in this travesty of a series. I actually find her very interesting. And I'm sorry Robert Pattinson cannot act. Yes he looks bloodless and his hair is teased appropriately but please watch the scene in Twilight(vomit) where he is (apparently) resisting Bella's scent(again,vomit); his attempt at looking tortured fails miserably. The guys looks merely constipated-not attractive. I was mildly interested when I found out he played Salvador Dali in "Little Ashes". Then I watched one scene in the film and well...less said the better. Still, I'll probably watch New Moon when it comes out because I am jobless and mean. I guess that doesn't say much about me.

2012

Blah blah! Another movie about how America saves the day. Seriously Hollywood. You're an insult to your cliches. Okay truth is I haven't watched it yet. (Duh! Hence the title) But this just looks like Independence Day (another gem of course) Oh! wait. It's by the same director. Go figure. But John Cusak! I have one question for you- Why???Remember High fidelity? ? Okay that's two questions. :s Are you one of those people who really identify with a smiley and find it to be a better mirror of what you feel than in fact your own face?(pulling faces in the mirror-I invoke my inner Calvin)

But on an aside read this delicious blog by an American, 30 something woman who loves Bollywood. Makes me fall in love with the "Indian film industry"(who are we kidding??) all over again.

Things to say. To people I love.

1- I love how you cut to the point. Even if when you cut it hurts. We should talk more or we should just sit-either way, the world makes a little more sense when we spend more time together. Probably because alone, we don't make much sense you and I. See how I am not making sense now?

2- I love that whenever you call I can hear you smile. I don't think you realise that I listen more to that smile than anything you actually say.

3-I love how we pick up from where we leave off. I love your cackle. You're such a goof and with you I'm goofier. And, I miss her almost as much as you do. Only almost.

4- You're like a breeze or like wet mud-so pleasant. And that might not sound like much. But it is. It's just enough.

5- I think you should get your butt back to this side of the world and just call me. I think you should share some of that happiness. You shared enough of your depression. And my poetry misses you.

6- I love that you're always there on my gtalk. What I don't love- that we don't talk as often because of this.

7- I wish you would brighten up a little. Heck(who says heck??) I wish I would. But I try. I try, so please just try. I think we need to be braver.

8-Life isn't that hard. Or it is. No wait it is. I'm sorry... it is.

9- We're going to have sooo much fun. I hope I don't ruin it.

10-I am your hydra you are my panda. This is not cryptic enough but neither are we. Thank god!

11-

12- I love that you're the only person who'll read this and bother to ask me who is who. I love that you bother.

Delhi

Today is such a wet day. The rain hasn't let up since I have woken up. I am listening to Sufjan and I am remembering Delhi. People who know what Delhi is like often have this strange expression on their face when they ask me about it-as if they're daring me to say something awful about it. And I usually do. I complain about the weather, the people, how much I hated the entire experience. But these days I find myself thinking about Delhi a lot with a surprising amount of wistfulness. Like I wish I could have made better use of it. I think I miss Delhi more now because even though it was painful being there, my relationship with it was more obvious. More laid out. It was a very love-hate relationship. It treated me awfully (at times)and I would malign it as much as I could- when it suited me. Often enough though, I'd feel like I was talking about an unwanted family member. The point of course is that it still remained family.

I live in Bangalore now. I feel like we're still withholding judgement on each other. It's a lot more uncomfortable-this not knowing. This sense of alien-ness. The inability to complain because my mind hasn't been made up yet. Delhi was also family because I had family there. I remember them now and I can't believe how somethings have changed. Maybe all this remembering is because of the rain. Right now, it's coming down like needles- piercing everything with sharp clarity. The fog that has surrounded me seems to be lifting from me briefly. And I remember things. I remember standing in our hostel bathroom and watching the rain at night glowing in the yellow light. I remember I calling me for this rain ritual of ours. I remember friends and I remember family. Maybe it's Sufjan. I first heard him with A. I remember lying flat on my back in her room- always listening to music and not talking. I don't remember what I used to think about then, but I remember being happy. Maybe because I didn't think. I was just.. being. If I could just be- I would go back. But being as we know it can't be contrived. It just happens. Delhi just happened. And that's how I must remember it.

Rainer Maria Rilke

For the sake of a single verse, one must see many cities, men,
and things. One must know the animals, one must feel how
the birds fly and know the gesture with which the little
flowers open in the morning. One must be able to think back
to roads in unknown regions, to unexpected meetings and to
partings one had long seen coming; to days of childhood that
are still unexplained, to parents whom one had to hurt when
they brought one some joy and did not grasp it (it was a joy
for someone else); to childhood illnesses that so strangely
begin with such a number of profound and grave
transformations, to days in rooms withdrawn and quiet and
to mornings by the sea, to the sea itself, to seas, to nights of
travel that rushed along on high and flew with all the
stars—and it is not yet enough if one may think of all this.
One must have memories of many nights of love, none of
which was like the others, of the screams of women in labor,
and of light, white, sleeping women in childbed, closing again.
But one must also have been beside the dying, must have sat
beside the dead in the room with the open window and the
fitful noises. And still it is not enough to have memories. One
must be able to forget them when they are many, and one
must have the great patience to wait until they come again.
For it is not yet the memories themselves. Not till they have
turned to blood within us, to glance, and gesture, nameless,
and no longer to be distinguished from ourselves—not till
then can it happen that in a most rare hour the first word of
a verse arises in their midst and goes forth from them.
—From “The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge

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.