Reasonably happy still. Quite an accomplishment, since the weekend ended four days ago, and I expected my rollercoaster mood to (inevitably) rocket downwards.
Possible reasons? Finished the warmly written, superbly characterised No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency. Started the impossibly ambitious Cloud Atlas, and have the sneaky feeling that it is all that it is said to be. Laughed my head off as we won the first ODI against England. Watched Arsenal kick Juventus' sorry Italian ass 2-0. Going to be in Bangalore this weekend.
This better last -- I'm SO much better when I'm up.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Saturday, March 25, 2006
Andy, are you goofing on Elvis?/ Hey, baby/ Are we losing touch?
Read Mike Gayle's latest; it's called Brand New Friend. Passably interesting, but not a patch on My Legendary Girlfriend or Turning Thirty. But it does direct one's attention towards a huge problem -- how to make good friends once you're in your thirties.
I, for instance, find it quite impossible to strike deep/ meaningful/ close friendships, and it's not for lack of being social or extroverted. Truth be told, I'm downright friendly. But there are invisible boundaries to conversation over a drink, or chatting over a meal, or even that old favourite, going out to coffee.
And, whenever something important comes along, the people I do speak to remain the ones I turned to ten or fifteen years ago.
My closest friends are, now, in different cities. Some are married. Some are happy. Some keep in touch. But all are utter rocks. They've seen me through the worst -- and, obviously, the best -- of times. And, somehow, I'm loath to add to their number.
Certainly it's because I'm less trusting than I used to be way back when I first met them. Equally, it's because there are such few people who 'get' your kind of conversation/ humour/ personality easily. It's beyond liking the same kind of music or books; in fact, my tastes differ quite dramatically from most of my friends. And I'm not saying like-minded (what a horrible word) people don't exist; I'm quite certain they do. It's just that the chances of running into them are damn dim.
So it is that I go out, meet people, share conversation, meals, and the occasional movie with people I like, but who will never know me well enough to figure whether they truly like me in return.
I, for instance, find it quite impossible to strike deep/ meaningful/ close friendships, and it's not for lack of being social or extroverted. Truth be told, I'm downright friendly. But there are invisible boundaries to conversation over a drink, or chatting over a meal, or even that old favourite, going out to coffee.
And, whenever something important comes along, the people I do speak to remain the ones I turned to ten or fifteen years ago.
My closest friends are, now, in different cities. Some are married. Some are happy. Some keep in touch. But all are utter rocks. They've seen me through the worst -- and, obviously, the best -- of times. And, somehow, I'm loath to add to their number.
Certainly it's because I'm less trusting than I used to be way back when I first met them. Equally, it's because there are such few people who 'get' your kind of conversation/ humour/ personality easily. It's beyond liking the same kind of music or books; in fact, my tastes differ quite dramatically from most of my friends. And I'm not saying like-minded (what a horrible word) people don't exist; I'm quite certain they do. It's just that the chances of running into them are damn dim.
So it is that I go out, meet people, share conversation, meals, and the occasional movie with people I like, but who will never know me well enough to figure whether they truly like me in return.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Bright are the stars that shine/ Dark is the sky.
Working late, and not quite sure if this belongs to my writing blog or this one. But I figured if the Zen-type poem about walking down the street belonged here, this one does, too.
It's a piece of dialogue from When Harry Met Sally, and no, I am not one of those people who quote romantic comedies from the eighties in normal conversation. Really.
So, here it is. He says: 'I came here tonight because when you realise you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.'
Deep.
It's a piece of dialogue from When Harry Met Sally, and no, I am not one of those people who quote romantic comedies from the eighties in normal conversation. Really.
So, here it is. He says: 'I came here tonight because when you realise you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.'
Deep.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
That I would be good/ Even if I did nothing.
Crazy thing, perspective. Makes you realise just how much time you spend on worthless stuff. And how scarily mixed up your priorities actually are.
Not that I'm conventionally mixed-up or confused, but I'm certainly in denial about many things in my life. (Which explains the excessive angst.) Maybe it's time to face the music after all. So, here goes.
Work is currently uninspiring. Makes me feel trapped, unappreciated, and irrelevant. Lack of great options have added, over the past year, to my legendary amounts of self-doubt. Currently, my best option offers me a smaller setup, a flatter structure, and, my personal favourite, newness.
Should I take it? Probably. Will I? Tough to say right now.
My writing life seems to have hit another roadblock. And, I'm quite clearly at a point where I need to do something, or lay this particular ghost to rest.
Solutions? There's no solution to laziness, so I obviously need to get to a point where writing is more important than not. Which means I have to find (discover/ invent/ whatever) something that simply must be written.
Whether it happens or not, that answer will always be important as hell. For it will be revisited, like all major, life-altering decisions, pretty damn often.
While on the subject of life-altering decisions, I look at my personal life. It's extremely conflicted, and for more than just one reason. One, I'm not in a relationship; I'm in the idea of one. Two, I'm fairly convinced the relationship-or-whatever-it-is won't work. Three, it's happening in a way that I know is wrong, not just in absolute terms, but also for everyone involved. Four, I'm at a stage where I value clarity as much as (if not more than) happiness.
Will anything change? Sure. (Working on the assumption that, eventually, everything does.) Will I survive? Doubly sure. Will I be happy? Unfair question, since the one truth is that I've been f*king unhappy for the past few months, and seem to be heading towards a very familar, very switched-off, very flying-solo kind of neutrality.
It's a lot of perspective to come by, true. But, hey, it's a hell of a life.
One last question: Where's my drink?
Not that I'm conventionally mixed-up or confused, but I'm certainly in denial about many things in my life. (Which explains the excessive angst.) Maybe it's time to face the music after all. So, here goes.
Work is currently uninspiring. Makes me feel trapped, unappreciated, and irrelevant. Lack of great options have added, over the past year, to my legendary amounts of self-doubt. Currently, my best option offers me a smaller setup, a flatter structure, and, my personal favourite, newness.
Should I take it? Probably. Will I? Tough to say right now.
My writing life seems to have hit another roadblock. And, I'm quite clearly at a point where I need to do something, or lay this particular ghost to rest.
Solutions? There's no solution to laziness, so I obviously need to get to a point where writing is more important than not. Which means I have to find (discover/ invent/ whatever) something that simply must be written.
Whether it happens or not, that answer will always be important as hell. For it will be revisited, like all major, life-altering decisions, pretty damn often.
While on the subject of life-altering decisions, I look at my personal life. It's extremely conflicted, and for more than just one reason. One, I'm not in a relationship; I'm in the idea of one. Two, I'm fairly convinced the relationship-or-whatever-it-is won't work. Three, it's happening in a way that I know is wrong, not just in absolute terms, but also for everyone involved. Four, I'm at a stage where I value clarity as much as (if not more than) happiness.
Will anything change? Sure. (Working on the assumption that, eventually, everything does.) Will I survive? Doubly sure. Will I be happy? Unfair question, since the one truth is that I've been f*king unhappy for the past few months, and seem to be heading towards a very familar, very switched-off, very flying-solo kind of neutrality.
It's a lot of perspective to come by, true. But, hey, it's a hell of a life.
One last question: Where's my drink?
Monday, March 20, 2006
And freedom/ Oh, freedom/ Well, that’s just some people talkin’.
Want to move, but have a bad feeling about it. Hate where I'm at, but am unconvinced moving's going to improve it. Don't want to be like this, but going quietly insane trying to change the way I feel.
When the hell did I get this neurotic, anyway?
When the hell did I get this neurotic, anyway?
Even/ Through the darkest phase.
From a book called Geography. Quoted from The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying.
I walk down the street
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I fall in
I am lost... I am helpless
It isn't my fault
It takes forever to find a way out
I walk down the same street
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I pretend I don't see it
I fall in again
I can't believe I'm in the same place, but it isn't my fault
It still takes a long time to get out
I walk down the same street
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I see it is there
I still fall in... it's a habit
My eyes are open
I know where I am
It is my fault
I get out immediately
I walk down the same street
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I walk around it
I walk down another street
I walk down the street
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I fall in
I am lost... I am helpless
It isn't my fault
It takes forever to find a way out
I walk down the same street
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I pretend I don't see it
I fall in again
I can't believe I'm in the same place, but it isn't my fault
It still takes a long time to get out
I walk down the same street
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I see it is there
I still fall in... it's a habit
My eyes are open
I know where I am
It is my fault
I get out immediately
I walk down the same street
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I walk around it
I walk down another street
Friday, March 17, 2006
La question, c'est/ Voulez-vous?
Why is it easier to bare your soul to a stranger than someone closer? And, if it's neutral ground that fuels such honesty, why is it so hard to come by in relationships?
Do all women bosses dread women bosses? Or is it just me?
When did growing older become something to worry about?
Sun-Tzu suggests waiting by the river until the bodies of your enemies float by. What happens if you're impatient? Or uncomfortable with passiveness?
Why are the good times fleeting, and the bad ones endless looped inside your head?
When did the sunny, good-natured, live-for-the-moment, randomly entertaining (if somewhat bookish) person I used to be become intolerable, neurotic, stressed-out me?
Not good. Not good at all.
Do all women bosses dread women bosses? Or is it just me?
When did growing older become something to worry about?
Sun-Tzu suggests waiting by the river until the bodies of your enemies float by. What happens if you're impatient? Or uncomfortable with passiveness?
Why are the good times fleeting, and the bad ones endless looped inside your head?
When did the sunny, good-natured, live-for-the-moment, randomly entertaining (if somewhat bookish) person I used to be become intolerable, neurotic, stressed-out me?
Not good. Not good at all.
Monday, March 06, 2006
Even flow/ Thoughts arrive like butterflies.
Would you rather be happy than right? And, if it makes you happy, can it also be (with apologies to Sheryl Crow) 'that bad'?
Does watching a movie on DVD corrupt the 70 mm experience?
Is intellectual cheating cheating? And is it better, or worse, than the other kind?
Why is it easier to deal with people who are bad to the bone than those who are only mean/ hurtful/ evil occasionally?
Do predictable people think predictability is a good thing? Or is it that a sentiment only appreciated from the outside?
If everything changes, why do we spend time/ effort/ energy/ imagination chasing different kinds of permanence?
And, finally, an answer: The reason I keep seeking clarity in life/ work/ relationships is that I got handed more than my fair share of questions at the door.
Does watching a movie on DVD corrupt the 70 mm experience?
Is intellectual cheating cheating? And is it better, or worse, than the other kind?
Why is it easier to deal with people who are bad to the bone than those who are only mean/ hurtful/ evil occasionally?
Do predictable people think predictability is a good thing? Or is it that a sentiment only appreciated from the outside?
If everything changes, why do we spend time/ effort/ energy/ imagination chasing different kinds of permanence?
And, finally, an answer: The reason I keep seeking clarity in life/ work/ relationships is that I got handed more than my fair share of questions at the door.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
It's a black fly/ In your Chardonnay.
Been down and depressed long enough to appreciate a few things that make the downward spiral fractionally, infinitesmally better:
1. Alanis Morissette, especially the first two albums. If angst had a voice, it would be hers -- nasal, relentless, anguished. Not only is she pissed about things, but she's going to sing loudly and vividly about them till the cows come home. I like.
2. Kafka. So you think your life's pointless and meaningless? Meet K. Sublime.
3. Chocolate. Trite, but oh so true. Preferably KitKat Chunky or Flake, but regular milk chocolate in somewhat melted condition works well, too.
4. Alcohol. A Breezer or three, or a vodka-and-Red-Bull. My Alkiegirl side approves.
5. The Bell Jar. It might be your life, but Plath got there first.
1. Alanis Morissette, especially the first two albums. If angst had a voice, it would be hers -- nasal, relentless, anguished. Not only is she pissed about things, but she's going to sing loudly and vividly about them till the cows come home. I like.
2. Kafka. So you think your life's pointless and meaningless? Meet K. Sublime.
3. Chocolate. Trite, but oh so true. Preferably KitKat Chunky or Flake, but regular milk chocolate in somewhat melted condition works well, too.
4. Alcohol. A Breezer or three, or a vodka-and-Red-Bull. My Alkiegirl side approves.
5. The Bell Jar. It might be your life, but Plath got there first.
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