Summer in Madras, and half a dozen other reasons to feel suicidal:
1. Rooney's broken his foot.
2. Chelsea's top of the League again.
3. I've got to pack up and move, which is quite a pain. And I have very, very mixed feelings about moving back to Bangalore.
4. Have hit rock bottom on enthusiasm/ cheerfulness/ optimism levels, and am quite convinced that life is f*ked up beyond redemption. And, yes, I'm aware of the meaning of the term 'beyond redemption'.
5. Writing is just not working. Not as an experiment. Not as a diversion. Not as anything.
6. Del died.
I realise that this is a staggeringly negative post. But that's just how I feel. I'm tired of being chipper and up and positive, when I feel like everything that's important to me is all over the goddamned place. And I don't see why I should pretend to be alright with my life, when I'm so clearly not.
Since I'm the world leader in kidding myself, perhaps I need to take a much-needed break and just stop. Stop ignoring stuff that gets to me. Stop being selective about reality. Stop sitting in my corner and waiting for things to get better.
I hate the idea of moving back to Bangalore. And I'm so, so tired of waiting for things to change.
There are just so many books to read, so many football matches to watch, so many things to throw yourself into. Can't do this self-distraction 24/ 7 any longer. It just takes too much out of me.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Thursday, April 27, 2006
The world around us/ Makes me feel so small/ Lyla.
And more good news floods into my corner of the world. The talented Mr. Kolwalkar is Best Actor at the New York Short Film Festival 2006, and I'm incredibly happy for him.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Got the TV on/ 'Cause the radio's playin'/ Songs that remind me of you.
Much has happened since my last post.
Said yes to a fairly dubious job offer in Bangalore. Conveyed the news to my current employers. Slipped into the delicious, nirvanaesque haze that accompanies every notice period.
Spent a week in Bombay. Which means old friends and real conversation and far too much alcohol than can really be healthy.
Shot a couple of commercials, which improved my already terrific mood -- I quite like shoots. Shot some stills with a bunch of Icelandic and Russian models, who gave me some great images while absolutely wrecking my self-esteem. Life isn't fair to 34 year-old Creative Directors who don't look bad for their age, but can't hold a candle to gorgeous (and, coincidentally, young) international models.
Missed a good friend's wedding. Hope he forgives me. And that marriage is all that he wants it to be.
Came back to sweltering Madras. And I have just two words for anyone who thinks I'm exaggerating: thirty-nine, degrees.
Slept through the second semi-final against Villareal last night, but woke up to the stunning fact that Arsenal is in the Champions League final, la, la, laaa.
Read lots of Murakami and McCall Smith in hotel rooms, and on flights. Started reading a stunning first book called Incendiary, by someone called Chris Cleave. Its subhead reads A Novel of Unbearable Devastation and Unbounded Love, but don't let that put you off. It's exquisite, and I know this post will be shorter than it deserves to be simply because I need to get back to it.
All in all, it's been a time of getting back in touch with the people in my life who really matter (and that includes myself). Of copious drinking, and zero working out. Of good days, both, now, and in the past. Of happiness of the kind that truly suits me.
I don't quite know what lies ahead, but, with every passing day, I'm feeling more and more like myself.
Said yes to a fairly dubious job offer in Bangalore. Conveyed the news to my current employers. Slipped into the delicious, nirvanaesque haze that accompanies every notice period.
Spent a week in Bombay. Which means old friends and real conversation and far too much alcohol than can really be healthy.
Shot a couple of commercials, which improved my already terrific mood -- I quite like shoots. Shot some stills with a bunch of Icelandic and Russian models, who gave me some great images while absolutely wrecking my self-esteem. Life isn't fair to 34 year-old Creative Directors who don't look bad for their age, but can't hold a candle to gorgeous (and, coincidentally, young) international models.
Missed a good friend's wedding. Hope he forgives me. And that marriage is all that he wants it to be.
Came back to sweltering Madras. And I have just two words for anyone who thinks I'm exaggerating: thirty-nine, degrees.
Slept through the second semi-final against Villareal last night, but woke up to the stunning fact that Arsenal is in the Champions League final, la, la, laaa.
Read lots of Murakami and McCall Smith in hotel rooms, and on flights. Started reading a stunning first book called Incendiary, by someone called Chris Cleave. Its subhead reads A Novel of Unbearable Devastation and Unbounded Love, but don't let that put you off. It's exquisite, and I know this post will be shorter than it deserves to be simply because I need to get back to it.
All in all, it's been a time of getting back in touch with the people in my life who really matter (and that includes myself). Of copious drinking, and zero working out. Of good days, both, now, and in the past. Of happiness of the kind that truly suits me.
I don't quite know what lies ahead, but, with every passing day, I'm feeling more and more like myself.
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