Friday, June 30, 2006
I went back to theater recently. It is going to be just a short fling, for old times' sake; old love, mad love, a first love. Familiarity is a wonderful old shoe. I am an actress. I am a ham. I am a performer. What is the most derogatory way you can say it?
It was unnerving, how easily it all came back. How it all made sense. How it made you want to tear out your hair at the roots and run around wherever you were, screaming I want to be real! I want to be real!
It does not bother me to say this isn't love
Because if you don't want to talk about it then it isn't love
And I guess I'm going to have to live with that
But, I'm sure there's something in a shade of gray
Or something in between
And I can always change my name if that's what you mean
This post is confusing.
I wanted a song for the day.
There were too many.
So I picked one anyway.
And it wasn't the one I thought it would be.
Almost I change my mind.
this one makes me cry every time.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Monday, June 26, 2006
I've been learning music since I was six, when I used to attend the evening classes conducted at my school between the students' final bell and the teachers' final bell. Granted, it was only an excuse so that my mother had me occupied for the time it took from the ending bell to the time the colony bus came to pick up all its little denizens, but there was something about that ol' sa-pa-sa that just got to me. My musical education, unfortunately, has been haphazard at best. I learnt the basics thrice: once while I was in school, once after we'd shifted to Orissa when my dad got transferred there, and once again after we returned (as a result, i can belt out all the essentail exercises in mayamalavagowla up to fourth speed, but my repertoire of songs is nowhere near as extensive as those of some of my contemporaries)
Besides that, I've had a sum total of seven teachers over the last fifteen years, and for around five of those years, all told, I had no musical education at all, alas. In spite of all that, however, classical musical education developed in me a love and understanding of music that I doubt I would have gotten on my own.
Now, what I love about South Indian Classical music is its rhythm. The arrangements, see? The pattern of notes that fit in numbers, in sets, in steps and ups and downs; the rules, the rules. There is something inherently glorious about classical music, and there is something about patterns that soothes me. When you know that things fit into a larger scheme, when there is a method to the madness, when you know there are rules within which there is infinite possibility, ah, it makes it easier to deal with all the nonsense, I'm thinking. And when you're singing, and you suddenly hear the patterns in the notes that are coming out of your own mouth; when you realize that it is possible for even such a one as you to spin melodies that fit together and flow together and make the world a wonderful, fabulous, glorious place, then, by God, there ain't nothing like it in this world.
Hindustani music has it too, but the patterns are more fluid, less mathematical, less geometric. Someday I will learn Hindustani music too. (someday i will learn german and french and spanish; telugu, kannada, bengali; bharatanatyam, salsa, interpretive dance (ok that's just for my three fetish :D); to play the guitar, the violin, the piano. it could happen, by gum. stranger things have, yes?)
Now, for music that isn't classical, there still is that rhythm, that arrangement. Which I adore. (which is a reason i can listen to stuff like ace of base; so sue me) What I've realised is that I can't stand repetition. I thought that was odd. Patterns without repetition? But that's the point, isn't it? Patterns without mindless repetition. (you can guess i can't listen to trance without wanting to pull out my eyeballs) So, there's jazz. Slinky soft sounds all in set boundaries but with that exhuberance that just wants to break free. And that's a reason why I love vocalists too, the ones who can really hit the high notes and the low notes and then swirl it around in the middle. I wonder if there is as much joy in freedom as there is in just reaching for it. Like the stars.
Meanwhile, I will talk of my obsessive doomed love for the English language and her patterns and arrangements and bending the rules elsewhere. I just needed to mention it here. Because, frankly, I like to talk of the ones I love. (hint hint! :D)
I cleaned my room on Saturday. I live in a room that is all big furniture. Four large pompously three-dimensional wooden horrors that hold all the worldly possessions that actually fit in my room. All my books are in the hall. There's no space for them anywhere else (and i say this with pride, joy and an immense sense of pomposity(yes, thank you, my bee))
Well, so I cleaned my room, and I lived parts of my life over. And then I put everything back and threw away unwanted junk (also wanted junk - half-done crosswords, envelopes from other countries, notes and slips and strips of my life and my pain, oh be still my heart) and then I thought deep thoughts and wallowed a while.
There's something about memories that soothes me, too.
Friday, June 23, 2006
Monday, June 19, 2006
The fear and the rage and the bigotry. The despair and the shame and the indifference. The depravity and the madness and the misery. The courage and the patience and the passion.
That sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn't need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting... On our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave.
Hate is baggage. Life's too short to be pissed off all the time. It's just not worth it.
A book called atonement. A janitor from Mars.
A million things about the planet that twist the insides. A billion things about humans that do the same.
And in spite of it all, two beautiful people on two beautiful days, and the way a pair of blue eyes will look at a woman.
Baby, you are going to miss that plane.
Monday, June 12, 2006
Sunday, June 11, 2006
thank you, my fu. :)
Write a post with six weird facts or habits about yourself.
At the bottom name the six people you will tag next.
Leave them a comment to let them know they've been tagged and to read your blog.
Six weird things about I. This took me six days to do, incidentally.
I have error-radar. Seriously. I cannot look at any piece of work without my eye getting drawn, unerringly, unnervingly, and immediately; to any mistakes in spelling, grammar, syntax and punctuation. I hate it, most of the time. It's fine if you're looking for it, you know? But when the only thing that stands out in an otherwise perfectly drafted sheet or beautiful piece of writing is a mistake, you begin to wish God hadn't made you quite so anal (yes. I like that word. you have a problem?)
I ham whatever you say I ham. Or rather, whatever you need me to be. Which is to say, I have an entire elaborate charade set up that is so well constructed I have myself believing it half the time. The rest of the time, it's true. I can no longer tell the difference.
A subset of this is my instant-edit replay. When I take whatever abysmally stupid thing I just said and imagine it right away. I also hold long imaginary conversations with friends and family where I dazzle all and sundry with my scintillating wit.
I have a problem, I know.
3. ... and eggs (or is it cheese?)
This refers to my penchant for hamming when I'm by myself.
On the road. In my room. Wherever.
I will sing, dance, skip. Talk to myself. Smile. A lot. I like to smile.
I smiled at a dog the other day. This gentleman followed me for ten metres purely on the basis of my smiling at him. Does that mean anything?
4. mood meter maid
I can always tell when someone isn't quite feeling themselves. I haven't yet decided if this is a good thing. Sometimes people don't necessarily want you to know they're in a bad mood.
5. nit pick
I have a tendency to want everything just exactly so. Which is why I will pull apart things others have made and do them myself. And why I will spend hours on a presentation that will only be seen for a few minutes getting everything perfect. Why I spend hours making sure all my work is easy to edit and to understand. Why I always justify all my writing. Why I always write notes so that answers don't run into the next page unless there's more than a few sentences left. Why I rarely let others do work because I know they will do a slipshod uncaring messy job. Why all my work takes so damn long to complete.
I love order, don't you?
I need to classify things. Things that happen. Things I do. Things others do. I can handle anything if I know it's place in the scheme of things, you know?
You hurt me. Why did you do that? Just tell me that much. Give me a little bit of closure so that I can take this thing; neatly label, classify and categorize it; and then put it on a shelf out of sight and out of mind. It's how I deal.
Voila! Aksually done.
And now here are my victims.
If I could find bleady I'd tag him too :)
Friday, June 2, 2006
Also met a senior on the way. Beautiful world.
water water water
And there's another kind of pain, the kind I get when in the presence of real talent, that comes from realizing that this is what some people got straight from God. It's easy to believe in a God when there are people that write like this, letting the words roll seductively over you till every string in you resonates, yes, oh I feel that too.
And the ones who write of things you know not of, obscure references and esoteric extravagances. Who let all that they read (and they read so much!); and all that they see; and all that they listen to; permeate their consciousness until they slip little gems of thoughts and quotes into speech in passing, without thought, that lift every conversation from the mundane to the erudite. Ah, I want in.
Make me cry.
Can I not write like that?
Oh, away, foul envy.