Something of Myself
Monday, October 30, 2006
Who are They?
They make their decisions in the first 60 seconds of their first meeting with you.
They always have a reason to go shopping.
They always boost your mobile bill.
They love being pampered all the time.
They do not want to come out of their own worlds (if given a choice).
They like people who take interest in their worlds.
They hate to be cheated but are not terribly averse to the idea of cheating at least once.
They pretend to be hard-to-get.
They always want someone to listen.
They revel in illusions.
They build castles in the air, as if they were born for it.
They take pains to build, but only carelessness to unbuild.
They do not appreciate cheap humour, but indulge in it between themselves.
They check your bank balance (oh come on, it’s a fact).
They always speak with their eyes (at least till you pull them to bed).
They always want their man to be well-dressed.
They hate creatures that crawl (at least ONE of them they are typically phobic about).
They play according to their own rules.
They love mirrors.
They bloom when you feel jealous.
They love it when you are after them, heart and soul (just don’t end up becoming a stalker).
They typically like any one of these or perhaps all – cheese, mayo, chocolates, flowers and perfumes.
They are blessed with huge proportions of ego.
Who are they? Your guess is as good as mine. :)
They make their decisions in the first 60 seconds of their first meeting with you.
They always have a reason to go shopping.
They always boost your mobile bill.
They love being pampered all the time.
They do not want to come out of their own worlds (if given a choice).
They like people who take interest in their worlds.
They hate to be cheated but are not terribly averse to the idea of cheating at least once.
They pretend to be hard-to-get.
They always want someone to listen.
They revel in illusions.
They build castles in the air, as if they were born for it.
They take pains to build, but only carelessness to unbuild.
They do not appreciate cheap humour, but indulge in it between themselves.
They check your bank balance (oh come on, it’s a fact).
They always speak with their eyes (at least till you pull them to bed).
They always want their man to be well-dressed.
They hate creatures that crawl (at least ONE of them they are typically phobic about).
They play according to their own rules.
They love mirrors.
They bloom when you feel jealous.
They love it when you are after them, heart and soul (just don’t end up becoming a stalker).
They typically like any one of these or perhaps all – cheese, mayo, chocolates, flowers and perfumes.
They are blessed with huge proportions of ego.
Who are they? Your guess is as good as mine. :)
Sunday, October 29, 2006
Some things can never be. That's just the way they are. But still, why do we try? Why do we make all the effort, push ourselves, stretch beyond our limits and hope that the drops will coalesce to relinquish our thirst? Why? Who is it that we are trying to make happy? If death is the ultimate permanence that we all are moving towards (unknowingly?) then what is it that you desire?
Some things can never be. There is such a intrinsic sense of hopelessness and helplessness attached to it, that I can't even begin to explain how it feels when you realise, that some things can never be. It's like the lady who knows she can never become a mother. For her it's a cruel fact that she has to come to terms with. Babies won't come. Sperms won't succeed. Some things can never be.
But how do we accept it? How do we internalize it? Where do you begin? Does the truth come first, or the acceptance, or is it the consolation? Who does it for you? Are we even capable of doing it?
Is it just about a tug-of-war between chance and change? Or is it a battle between yourself and the self you want to be?
Damn, some things can never be. How difficult it must be for people who realise this and accept it without flinching and live their lives as if they never wished for anything else. I reckon it takes a lot of guts to explain to yourself that your existence, that your choice is unalterable. That some of the things you never chose are also unalterable. Irreversible. Un-do-able.
Some things can never be.
Some things can never be. There is such a intrinsic sense of hopelessness and helplessness attached to it, that I can't even begin to explain how it feels when you realise, that some things can never be. It's like the lady who knows she can never become a mother. For her it's a cruel fact that she has to come to terms with. Babies won't come. Sperms won't succeed. Some things can never be.
But how do we accept it? How do we internalize it? Where do you begin? Does the truth come first, or the acceptance, or is it the consolation? Who does it for you? Are we even capable of doing it?
Is it just about a tug-of-war between chance and change? Or is it a battle between yourself and the self you want to be?
Damn, some things can never be. How difficult it must be for people who realise this and accept it without flinching and live their lives as if they never wished for anything else. I reckon it takes a lot of guts to explain to yourself that your existence, that your choice is unalterable. That some of the things you never chose are also unalterable. Irreversible. Un-do-able.
Some things can never be.
Friday, October 27, 2006
Notes
It is not about what we want, it is about what choices we have. It is not about what desire means, but what desire does. It is not about what pain is, but how it is felt. It is not about what the truth is, but how it is veiled. It is not about what they say, but how they think. It is not about what you are, but what you are thought to be. It is not about saying sorry, but the thought behind it. It is not about cheating, but the trust that you violate. It is not about love, but what you can do for it.
It is not about what we want, it is about what choices we have. It is not about what desire means, but what desire does. It is not about what pain is, but how it is felt. It is not about what the truth is, but how it is veiled. It is not about what they say, but how they think. It is not about what you are, but what you are thought to be. It is not about saying sorry, but the thought behind it. It is not about cheating, but the trust that you violate. It is not about love, but what you can do for it.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Dear Baba,
You know what, I just wrote this huge letter to you and the freaking computer crashed. I have lost it all. But anyways, here we go again!
How are you doing? It's been so long since we exchanged letters. You and me, both lazy-arsed. I know it's not the writing but the actual reality of walking upto the post office that seems like a Herculean task. But I know you remember me, as much as I do.
It was Diwali yesterday and Delhi was bright and sunny. How was it back in Cal? Did you go for the pujo? Did ma make it? Did you wear the shirt I had sent over - the one with blue and white checks? I hope you wore it with blue trousers. Your dressing sense is horrible and I sometimes wonder how ma fell in love with you! HAHA Just kidding....it's ok, I know you must have been looking great!
I went to a birthday bash and followed it up with adda sessions with a couple of friends. I was thinking if you were missing me. You must have. Are you still drinking much? Please remember your promise, and do not drink more than a couple of shots. Your liver must be in agony after 30 odd years of heavy drinking. So take care.
How did the business plan go with the venture capitalist? Did they give you the money? Dad, please don't work too hard. I can shoulder some of your responsibilities now. I am not a kid anymore and it's time you start accepting it. Are you ok with money? Let me know if you need some. I can transfer it in a day. Not a problem. Ok?
Aar ki bolbo. Trying to live upto your expectations. Job is going good. They pay me alright. After paying the utilities and rent, not much is left, but it's good enough for me. I am thinking of getting married over the next couple of years. Don't worry, I haven't met anyone yet. You can do a quick search for me. You do remember the criterias we discussed on that night, right? After her, I really do not want to get involved, but I'll do it cause I know you would be very happy. I'll get you a suit for the reception and a dhuti for the wedding. How does it feel Baba to even think that your son is now going to get married? Must feel strange na? You must be thinking I was just born the other day. All parents think like that and specially parents like you, who dote on their child. :)
I wish I could have come home but I could not. I am sorry. But I will come in December. Is that ok?
Did you fix the garage? How is the car doing? Is it working alright? Please make sure it's fine cause I will be needing it once I am there.
What news of ma? How's her health? Hope the kidney is doing alright. Does she accompany you for dinner or are you eating alone? I really miss you when I sit to eat. It's like an integral part of me that's not there anymore. Your penchant for forcing me to eat and eat more revebrates in my ears. I am cooking everyday. Seriously, I am not lying.
Are you getting the hang of computers? Did ma teach you how to e-mail? Why don't you e-mail me sometimes? Ma does write to me saying your baba wants to say this and that but you know how it is when it comes from you. It makes it that much special.
Anyways, I got to go now, make sure you write back quickly. Do the snail mail, it's wonderful to see your handwriting and realise that you have taken time out for me, to know that you miss me, that you remember me, that you are waiting for me.
Take care Dad, I love you very much.
Yours,
Pele
You know what, I just wrote this huge letter to you and the freaking computer crashed. I have lost it all. But anyways, here we go again!
How are you doing? It's been so long since we exchanged letters. You and me, both lazy-arsed. I know it's not the writing but the actual reality of walking upto the post office that seems like a Herculean task. But I know you remember me, as much as I do.
It was Diwali yesterday and Delhi was bright and sunny. How was it back in Cal? Did you go for the pujo? Did ma make it? Did you wear the shirt I had sent over - the one with blue and white checks? I hope you wore it with blue trousers. Your dressing sense is horrible and I sometimes wonder how ma fell in love with you! HAHA Just kidding....it's ok, I know you must have been looking great!
I went to a birthday bash and followed it up with adda sessions with a couple of friends. I was thinking if you were missing me. You must have. Are you still drinking much? Please remember your promise, and do not drink more than a couple of shots. Your liver must be in agony after 30 odd years of heavy drinking. So take care.
How did the business plan go with the venture capitalist? Did they give you the money? Dad, please don't work too hard. I can shoulder some of your responsibilities now. I am not a kid anymore and it's time you start accepting it. Are you ok with money? Let me know if you need some. I can transfer it in a day. Not a problem. Ok?
Aar ki bolbo. Trying to live upto your expectations. Job is going good. They pay me alright. After paying the utilities and rent, not much is left, but it's good enough for me. I am thinking of getting married over the next couple of years. Don't worry, I haven't met anyone yet. You can do a quick search for me. You do remember the criterias we discussed on that night, right? After her, I really do not want to get involved, but I'll do it cause I know you would be very happy. I'll get you a suit for the reception and a dhuti for the wedding. How does it feel Baba to even think that your son is now going to get married? Must feel strange na? You must be thinking I was just born the other day. All parents think like that and specially parents like you, who dote on their child. :)
I wish I could have come home but I could not. I am sorry. But I will come in December. Is that ok?
Did you fix the garage? How is the car doing? Is it working alright? Please make sure it's fine cause I will be needing it once I am there.
What news of ma? How's her health? Hope the kidney is doing alright. Does she accompany you for dinner or are you eating alone? I really miss you when I sit to eat. It's like an integral part of me that's not there anymore. Your penchant for forcing me to eat and eat more revebrates in my ears. I am cooking everyday. Seriously, I am not lying.
Are you getting the hang of computers? Did ma teach you how to e-mail? Why don't you e-mail me sometimes? Ma does write to me saying your baba wants to say this and that but you know how it is when it comes from you. It makes it that much special.
Anyways, I got to go now, make sure you write back quickly. Do the snail mail, it's wonderful to see your handwriting and realise that you have taken time out for me, to know that you miss me, that you remember me, that you are waiting for me.
Take care Dad, I love you very much.
Yours,
Pele
Thursday, October 19, 2006
The Missing Link
Someone told me I was always sad and wondered why my interests, my writing, my attraction towards life was based on pain and negative experiences. I smiled and replied to myself - because the greatest things are bought at the cost of great pain and because our deepest feelings are those that tell of saddest thought. Yeah, Keats.
But on hindsight, it's probably just me who sees the beauty of expression and the poignancy of the thoughts in every writer who touches me. I somehow do not view their work as 'work' but a reflection of their life. Consider Tennyson, Toni Morrison, Homer, Dickens, Shakespeare, Eliot, Kureishi, Joyce...whoever you fancy. Look up their work. It makes wonderful reading. Cause it touches us inside. Touches us inside cause we identify. We feel something when we read lines such as 'I wanted her to touch me on my inside and call my name - Beloved.' We feel something when a friend mourns and says that he doesn't complain about the fact that He is dead but that 'We cannot hear each other speak.' When the little street sweeper Jo dies in Bleak House. When Eliot speaks of April being the cruellest month, when Joyce unleashes his stream of consciousness, when Hamlet struggles to decide his path, when Shylock is angered at the sheer racial discrimination that makes a 'mongrel' out of him, when Kureishi's Buddha is caught between two cultures, not knowing which one to choose, when Ellison's invisible narrator sighs because people look through him and not at him because he is black, when Kim realises that he is nothing but a cog in the Empire, when Ulysses rises to every challenge in front of him to overcome and unite with Penelope. These are stuff that great literature is made of. But then, these are stuff that we, you and me, all of us are made of.
I know that there is another side of the coin - the happiness, the laughter, love and all that and we need it to survive as much. But then for me, it is the darker side of things, the dark materials of the beast that makes me believe in the wonderfulness of life - that even though a slight smile can cure a depression, the big idea lies in putting yourself in the other person's shoes and wondering how it feels to be. To be a member of the Fight Club. :)
Someone told me I was always sad and wondered why my interests, my writing, my attraction towards life was based on pain and negative experiences. I smiled and replied to myself - because the greatest things are bought at the cost of great pain and because our deepest feelings are those that tell of saddest thought. Yeah, Keats.
But on hindsight, it's probably just me who sees the beauty of expression and the poignancy of the thoughts in every writer who touches me. I somehow do not view their work as 'work' but a reflection of their life. Consider Tennyson, Toni Morrison, Homer, Dickens, Shakespeare, Eliot, Kureishi, Joyce...whoever you fancy. Look up their work. It makes wonderful reading. Cause it touches us inside. Touches us inside cause we identify. We feel something when we read lines such as 'I wanted her to touch me on my inside and call my name - Beloved.' We feel something when a friend mourns and says that he doesn't complain about the fact that He is dead but that 'We cannot hear each other speak.' When the little street sweeper Jo dies in Bleak House. When Eliot speaks of April being the cruellest month, when Joyce unleashes his stream of consciousness, when Hamlet struggles to decide his path, when Shylock is angered at the sheer racial discrimination that makes a 'mongrel' out of him, when Kureishi's Buddha is caught between two cultures, not knowing which one to choose, when Ellison's invisible narrator sighs because people look through him and not at him because he is black, when Kim realises that he is nothing but a cog in the Empire, when Ulysses rises to every challenge in front of him to overcome and unite with Penelope. These are stuff that great literature is made of. But then, these are stuff that we, you and me, all of us are made of.
I know that there is another side of the coin - the happiness, the laughter, love and all that and we need it to survive as much. But then for me, it is the darker side of things, the dark materials of the beast that makes me believe in the wonderfulness of life - that even though a slight smile can cure a depression, the big idea lies in putting yourself in the other person's shoes and wondering how it feels to be. To be a member of the Fight Club. :)
Monday, October 16, 2006
Memento
I saw this print advert in the newspapers today. It was of a private bank and the copy read: "If hope is your plan for the future, then you need to come to us." Ha! I smiled to myself. I can't seem to remember a day now, ever since December 2004, when 'hope' was not my 'plan', when it was not the only thing that I have been banking on! ;)
Times they are strange and people are becoming stranger. It's almost as if everyone that you thought you knew are becoming something else. Transforming into different beasts. Kafka-like ladybugs crawling on the floor.
Or am I becoming someone else?
I talked about renewed vigour in my last post and I thought it was coming, I thought it was just at the door, waiting for me, but then it never arrived since I last caught sight of it. Strange music in my head. Blank noises engulfing me to the point that even when I am conversing, it seems like a role play, a staged performance. The laughter, like the troubled jester who has to make people laugh in order to earn his money to feed his children. The tears, like the time-torn man on stage, who has to touch people's chord to become a tragic hero, to earn the applause. The groggy feeling inside my head, like the goalie who has to step out of the match 'cause he knows the game is over - loss is inevitable.
Winter is near. The weather is dry. They are celebrating every night, in some park, playing music till dawn, or inside some club, doing salsa as the Bacardi Night rolls out. All the brands are up for sale. Flashy accessories, eye-dazzling make-ups, figure-hugging shirts, mini-skirts, tequila shots, the swish and the swoon, the shake of the hips, the slight touch, the un-initiated thrust, the flirtatious smile, the over-used pick-up line: "Your place or mine"?
Life's a tango. I got that bit right. You got to know the moves and you got to have a partner to do it. Slow but sure. Sweet and steady. Until of course, the waves come in, the names get washed away and your life, like mine, is an enactment of the movie that was Memento.
I saw this print advert in the newspapers today. It was of a private bank and the copy read: "If hope is your plan for the future, then you need to come to us." Ha! I smiled to myself. I can't seem to remember a day now, ever since December 2004, when 'hope' was not my 'plan', when it was not the only thing that I have been banking on! ;)
Times they are strange and people are becoming stranger. It's almost as if everyone that you thought you knew are becoming something else. Transforming into different beasts. Kafka-like ladybugs crawling on the floor.
Or am I becoming someone else?
I talked about renewed vigour in my last post and I thought it was coming, I thought it was just at the door, waiting for me, but then it never arrived since I last caught sight of it. Strange music in my head. Blank noises engulfing me to the point that even when I am conversing, it seems like a role play, a staged performance. The laughter, like the troubled jester who has to make people laugh in order to earn his money to feed his children. The tears, like the time-torn man on stage, who has to touch people's chord to become a tragic hero, to earn the applause. The groggy feeling inside my head, like the goalie who has to step out of the match 'cause he knows the game is over - loss is inevitable.
Winter is near. The weather is dry. They are celebrating every night, in some park, playing music till dawn, or inside some club, doing salsa as the Bacardi Night rolls out. All the brands are up for sale. Flashy accessories, eye-dazzling make-ups, figure-hugging shirts, mini-skirts, tequila shots, the swish and the swoon, the shake of the hips, the slight touch, the un-initiated thrust, the flirtatious smile, the over-used pick-up line: "Your place or mine"?
Life's a tango. I got that bit right. You got to know the moves and you got to have a partner to do it. Slow but sure. Sweet and steady. Until of course, the waves come in, the names get washed away and your life, like mine, is an enactment of the movie that was Memento.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Incomplete Post
"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times [...] it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, [...] - in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only" - Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities.
My reaction to Dickens' introduction to this novel has always (and even now) been a sigh - a tinge of regret. I am not a man who believes in regret but I would like to believe myself to be a reflective person. So, there are many moments in my life, when I do not do anything but sit and reflect. Reflect on decisions, on choices that I have made, on the selves that I have given away, on the hearts that I have broken, on the deaths that I have witnessed, on the commonness of broken relationships, on the uncommoness of every affair, and most importantly, on parts of myself that have so defined me the way I am. And every reflection, every single moment of thoughtfulness has been a sigh. I wonder why.
I am not sure what I want to tell you today. I don't know if I should be sharing anything. I don't care about the importance of being earnest. I don't understand people the way all of you do. I am unarmed. But power is something that everyone craves for, and I like you, find myself in this power game. Foucault was terribly right in his predelictions. The world's about power. Lives, one upon another, one touching the other, one ignoring the other, one clashing with the other, sentiments seeking words, emotions struggling to articulate, lust trying to dominate, and even hate seeking to destroy. [...]
I don't know how long I will last. The end is in sight. Inching forward. Almost all unhappy endings always leave some traces of happy times. Of shared dreams. Of mutual consent. Of silly pleasures.
My thoughts remain incomplete. I have worked way too much today for me to think straight. I can't even begin to think to write. I will have to come back to this, someday...with a renewed vigour, and a sensible juxtaposition of my thoughts.
"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times [...] it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, [...] - in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only" - Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities.
My reaction to Dickens' introduction to this novel has always (and even now) been a sigh - a tinge of regret. I am not a man who believes in regret but I would like to believe myself to be a reflective person. So, there are many moments in my life, when I do not do anything but sit and reflect. Reflect on decisions, on choices that I have made, on the selves that I have given away, on the hearts that I have broken, on the deaths that I have witnessed, on the commonness of broken relationships, on the uncommoness of every affair, and most importantly, on parts of myself that have so defined me the way I am. And every reflection, every single moment of thoughtfulness has been a sigh. I wonder why.
I am not sure what I want to tell you today. I don't know if I should be sharing anything. I don't care about the importance of being earnest. I don't understand people the way all of you do. I am unarmed. But power is something that everyone craves for, and I like you, find myself in this power game. Foucault was terribly right in his predelictions. The world's about power. Lives, one upon another, one touching the other, one ignoring the other, one clashing with the other, sentiments seeking words, emotions struggling to articulate, lust trying to dominate, and even hate seeking to destroy. [...]
I don't know how long I will last. The end is in sight. Inching forward. Almost all unhappy endings always leave some traces of happy times. Of shared dreams. Of mutual consent. Of silly pleasures.
My thoughts remain incomplete. I have worked way too much today for me to think straight. I can't even begin to think to write. I will have to come back to this, someday...with a renewed vigour, and a sensible juxtaposition of my thoughts.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
What if?
I owe this feeling to you. This fleeting moment that you hand me, I live in it; like a refugee. I wonder if you know.
It's strange how a man can be a child in a moment's time. How you can appease and allay, at the same time, with amazing alacrity - like being a mother and a midwife, both at the same time. The strangest thing being the time in which you do it. Swiftly you move from this to that, and I move on with you. Like a sweet tango. Slow but sure. Rising. Engulfing.
I wonder if you know.
That day you remember - by the graveside, how the moon seemed to peeping out of the sky, and how you wanted me to know about yourself? Do you remember the lake by which we sat, by which you read out your last poem to me? Do you remember the look on my face - of awe and wonder? Not an attempt to flatter but an attempt to understand your words...to differentiate between fact and fiction. Do you remember the pink daisies that you wore? It was so beautiful. You made me forget my deepest pain for the slightest second.
I wonder if you know.
Whence from did you come? Whereto are you heading? What is your purpose in my life? Are your co-incidences planned? Which school did you go to? Who was your first love? Why did you throw away the glass vase that your dad gifted you? Did it pain when your mother married another guy who was not your dad? Why are you the way you are? Is this just an illusion in my mind?
I spoke to him last night, when I was all alone. I told him about the stuff you do. Your past. He smiled. All of us are stained, aren't we, in some way or the other? He is happy for you. So am I.
The door-bell's ringing. I got to go. I have been preparing for this evening all my life. The table is spread. I got new wine glasses for you. I know what a perfectionist you are. I made the pasta myself. I ordered the dessert. I got new cushions so that you could be comfortable. I borrowed the mp3 player.
I wonder if you know, as you stand outside my door, drenched in white, holding your beloved's hand, that I know it's you and only you who can interrupt me at this moment.
I owe this feeling to you. This fleeting moment that you hand me, I live in it; like a refugee. I wonder if you know.
It's strange how a man can be a child in a moment's time. How you can appease and allay, at the same time, with amazing alacrity - like being a mother and a midwife, both at the same time. The strangest thing being the time in which you do it. Swiftly you move from this to that, and I move on with you. Like a sweet tango. Slow but sure. Rising. Engulfing.
I wonder if you know.
That day you remember - by the graveside, how the moon seemed to peeping out of the sky, and how you wanted me to know about yourself? Do you remember the lake by which we sat, by which you read out your last poem to me? Do you remember the look on my face - of awe and wonder? Not an attempt to flatter but an attempt to understand your words...to differentiate between fact and fiction. Do you remember the pink daisies that you wore? It was so beautiful. You made me forget my deepest pain for the slightest second.
I wonder if you know.
Whence from did you come? Whereto are you heading? What is your purpose in my life? Are your co-incidences planned? Which school did you go to? Who was your first love? Why did you throw away the glass vase that your dad gifted you? Did it pain when your mother married another guy who was not your dad? Why are you the way you are? Is this just an illusion in my mind?
I spoke to him last night, when I was all alone. I told him about the stuff you do. Your past. He smiled. All of us are stained, aren't we, in some way or the other? He is happy for you. So am I.
The door-bell's ringing. I got to go. I have been preparing for this evening all my life. The table is spread. I got new wine glasses for you. I know what a perfectionist you are. I made the pasta myself. I ordered the dessert. I got new cushions so that you could be comfortable. I borrowed the mp3 player.
I wonder if you know, as you stand outside my door, drenched in white, holding your beloved's hand, that I know it's you and only you who can interrupt me at this moment.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
The Death of The Author
He feels like writing today. An incessant surge grips him – the monsters inside handcuff him to history and make him write. He is challenged today. For he does not know what exactly he wants to uncover, which part of himself does he want to put out on display, like the newly dressed mannequin at Harrods. Old self, new clothing. The past drips steadily onto him, drip, drip, drop, drop, drip, drop….
He wants to uncover all, once and for all and then go away – far, far away from the public gaze. People who know him, people who follow him, people who track him like paparazzis...in short, he wants to move away from the Other. For ages, ever since childhood, he read and was gradually led to believe that the self is defined only by the Other, at the cost of the Other, for the Other and perishes to make his absence felt in the life of the Other (I find that very confusing, I don’t know about you).
Today, nothing is his anymore. Every part of him has been sold - some at a very high price, others given away, as souvenirs to those who loved him deeply, but could not perform to stay. What is it that remains, he asks himself, as he stands at this cross-road. The bile hits the inside of the tongue. The nerves get nervy. Heavy sighs remain unheard.
What is it exactly that he wants to write?
Is it about how he feels violated? Is it about how deeply he mourns the death of his beloved? In this unpredictable existence, that you choose to call life, he is perplexed as he attempts to unravel the shroud that covers his inner self.
He has lost himself – all of himself.
The only thing that remains are his words. Words that he carefully chose over others, words that just came out, like vomit; words that engulfed him, mauled him, solaced him, touched him and most importantly, taught him how to differentiate one from another. These words are the only thing that he has today that he can turn back to, these words that are a product of what he had felt inside. Not the ones he showed outside.
Greenblatt was partially erring when he declared that we are nothing but performers and our identities nothing but a complex mixture of performance and self-fashioning. He struggles hard to convince himself that he is not just a performer. He is also an artist.
His struggle I can see, for I can see him in me and me in him. It’s all the same thing you know, this double-act, this protean urge to be the self and the Other; mixing ‘memories and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain.’ The heap of broken images and the dead tree provides this cricket no relief.
The writing shall have to cease. The words will have to be tucked away with the memories of those who have gone away, and those who are leaving (and this includes him). He’s run out of choices you see, the only choice being to push them deep inside where seasons do not exist, where feelings are trampled upon, where flesh is replaced with metal, where money is sex, where friendship is betrayal, where love is lost, where consciousness begins to wane, where angels fear to tread.
I feel sorry for him.
