Someone write me a cheque already

If I were to ever get down to actually writing a book, I suspect that it will turn out a little like Marisha Pessl's Special Topics in Calamity Physics. Nice cherry flavoured gum that you really dig into, until all that remains is the tasteless cud that you feel obliged to chew till the twisted end. But that's what I've always been - heavy on the style, and weak on the substance. Some nights, I like to think of myself as the David Lynch of the blogging world (okay, so I flatter myself occasionally), with works that are aesthetic masterpieces (see Mulholland Drive, 2001)but really don't mean anything. Unless you want to talk of psychogenic fugues or something (see The City of Absurdity: David Lynch).

Also, I've been wondering. How does one land a book contract with a six figure advance anyway?(see Viswanathan, Kaavya) I don't have an agent, or any connections in the right places. I haven't studied English Literature in a fancy Ivy League school. I have an undergraduate degree in Engineering Physics, for God's sake. I console myself saying that there has been a Great Writer who also had the same major (see Pynchon, Thomas. Though, admittedly, he dropped out of Cornell before he could graduate). It is also fair to say that I don't have a pretty face that can adorn the back flap (see Lahiri, Jhumpa) or a literary mother who can tell me what not to do so I can win the Booker prize that she couldn't (see Desai, Kiran). Perhaps I also have a serious shortage of Exotic and Adventurous Life Events (see Pierre, DBC or Roberts, Gregory David).

All I have is this blog. Now what do i do? And no, I will not convert this into a sex blog. Though that appears to be the quickest way to get noticed by some publisher type (see Belle de Jour). What's the male equivalent to chick-lit anyway? Metro-lit? Or do I have to invent a whole new genre now?

Oh, man ( As opposed to oh, boy)

I just realized today that I am in the midst of my first serious real-life (read non-online) platonic relationship.

I think I can safely say I've grown up now.

high fidelity

The other day, She asked me why my walls were bare. I'm afraid I didn't know. Every room I've ever inhabited has been distinguished by its distinct lack of personality, and its whole-hearted embrace of the anonymity that I have so craved over the years. The present one is no different. Which makes it quite ideal, in all its unabashed nakedness, for my first megalomaniac pursuit in years.

This hostel room will have a poster. Or a collage of pictures, if you would prefer to call it that. Someone once took the trouble to make me (why me, God only knows) an electronic birthday card which was a montage of all the images that person believed represented my life, and this poster of mine will be similiar in concept, but vastly grander in execution. With pictures of everyone, and everything, that has ever had an infuence on me.

Of course, before I get down to making the poster, I have to, in true Nick Hornby tradition, make a List. Now that I think of it, I really have missed making long meandering Lists, and responding to long inane Tags. Honestly.

Anyway, this is it. I'll append it perpetually, of course.

List of Top Twenty Five Influences on MC's life
(in no particular order)

1. Mom. I've said it before, and I'll say it again. I'm momma's boy, and proud it.
2. James Dean. Rebel without a Cause. Plus, he's my lucky wallpaper.
3. Midori. My favourite mistake. And my most well-intentioned apologies, as always.
4. Stone Cold Steve Austin. Don't laugh.
5. Almost Famous. If only for Penny Lane wearing a fur coat and that dazzling smile.
6. Nick Drake. Has there ever been a better to ode to sadness than Pink Moon?
7. The Fountainhead. I was young, and very impressionable.
8. The Lorentz Attractor. Where science meets art. My favourite juxtaposition.
9. The Catcher in the Rye. Just made me so sad.
10. Franny & Zooey. Just made me so happy.
11. Lost in Translation. Could yet turn out to be the story of my life.
12. Nevermind. Soundtrack of my teenage years.
13. Blow-up. Michelangelo Antonioni at his greatest. And the last scene. Oh man.
14. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. More than the film, the concept.
15. The Laughing Buddha. For being a source of solace.
16. Roy Keane. Only one Keano.
17. Piggy. Could have made this list for me. And got most of it right.
18. Speech Processing. Undergraduate thesis. Work of art, if I may say so myself.
19. R.E.M. I would play Automatic for the People as I killed myself too.
20. Snay. Kindness, personified. Never was 'nice' more appropriate. Or 'adorable'.
21. Economics. My biggest eye-opener in a decade.
22. The Shins. What they said in Garden State about New Slang was bang on.
23. Gregory House. I'd give anything for a little of the genius and the acerbic wit
24. Good Will Hunting. Or Elephant. You'd never have thought the same man could make both.
25. The Stone Roses. Enough said.

What remains now is finding the pictures. And putting them together. This is going to be so much fun.

I am the resurrection

I miss watching myself waste away here. I had quite forgotten that there's nothing quite like an occasional out-of-body experience. Raises vicarious existence to a whole new level, besides other things.

Epiphany

That was worth waiting 22 years for.
Thanks, everyone.

Wish, as ever, again.

I just wish tomorrow goes by as quickly , and as painlessly, as possible .

The sun is the same
in a relative way,
But you're older.
Shorter of breath, and
One year closer to death.

beam me up, scottie

i wouldn't have had it any other way. and perhaps, you wouldn't, too. therein lies our salvation, our cumulative ashes shooting up into the stars in a Gene Roddenberry moment of inspiration, going where no one had gone before, if only in a cliched lame punchline sort of way that really does neither of us any good. but then again, in my defence, what does? we rejoiced in our collective misery, and celebrated our affinity towards the wretchedness we made our live-in home. a wretchedness borne not out of despair, but of the impending doom that became the child of the inevitability of our divergent futures.

a perfect day for bananafish

Everyday, I get just that little bit closer to finding the perfect excuse for killing myself.

twenty one

Go on.
Blow the candles out, and make your wish.

death in the afternoon

Today, I imagined myself telling the drama teacher that I had just attempted to kill myself. And pulled out at the last second because the sweetness of the poison interfered with my metaphysical notion of death.

As mood elevators go, it wasn't bad.

question

did i ruin your life too? And yours, and yours?

Mrs. Robinson, you're trying to seduce me

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens

- William Carlos Williams

The 'Literature and Life' teacher looks like Anne Bancroft, pronunces romance 'ro-maaaan-ce', and spouts Zen poetry. I am suitably impressed.

What's more, I feel like writing again.

Thank you

Elvis has left the building.

Wish, as ever.

I just wish tomorrow goes by as quickly , and as painlessly, as possible .

The sun is the same
in a relative way,
But you're older.
Shorter of breath, and
One year closer to death.

shhh

and no one dared disturb
the sounds
of silence.

go away

i am tired. okay ?

office haikus

Sunny, banana peels.
Power trips, AC
ice cubicles melt.

two Waterfalls. golden
showers, on the rocks.
automatic flushes.

not basic, pearl?
visual see, plus,
plus smile, child.

(W)Retch

What's in a name, you might ask? A melon collie by any other name would sound as depressing. And what's with the whole 'yacketayakking screaming vomitting screaming' deal, eh? Is vomitting even spelt that way? When have you ever lived upto the name? All you are is a whiner. A smooth-talking whiner, I'll give you that, but a whiner nonetheless.

So you threw up all through last week. Vomited, with the single T. Retched. Regurgitated. Digression, if you please. Note that I didn't use 'barf', or 'puke'. I know how you hate four lettered nouns with the emphatic first syllable. They're all so uncultured, I agree. Like 'fuck'. Or 'crap'. If there's one thing we share, it's our liking for the apposite, refined word. In true Flaubert fashion .The facade of nobility, when we truly belong to Le petite bourgeoisie.

Yes, vomited. On the very day you are to meet the star? Ha. I always suspected that you lacked the stomach for it. Or just going a little down south, the testicular fortitude. What's your story, buddy? Performance anxiety? Oh, it was the noodles you had last night? I'm sure. Quite the online stud, and little else, it would seem. What's that? You're ok with being unimpressive, you sleep better? Ripping off Zach Braff a lot nowadays, aren't we?

Of course, as with every passing week, you've learnt your fair share.Life is metaphor. Eternity is a perfume by Calvin Klein, and not, as you are previously informed, Gucci. Kafka is the Czech word for Crow. On embedded systems, static memory allocation works more efficiently as compared to dynamic allocation. In dreams lie responsibilities. A lot of Beatle covers are better than the originals. Sarah McLachlan's 'Blackbird'. Joe Cocker's 'With a little help from my friends'. Dare you say Beck's 'A Day in the Life'?

And you're going to 'so totally', to borrow from the teen parlance that you so abhor, suffer from premature ejaculation. Yeah, it's a hard life, I know. Deal with it.

dirty linen

Four months pass, sometimes slowly, sometimes in a hurry. Home. Again. The concept of eternal return. Nietzche smiles. "I told you so".

Home, where the heart is? Zach Braff, Garden State, "You know that point in your life when you realize that the house you grew up in isn’t really your home anymore.. It's like you get homesick for a place that doesn't exist. I mean it's like this rite of passage, you know."

For whatever its worth, and for the lack of a better word, home. The curtains are drawn. The actors take the stage. The make up artist has done a great job with the mother. She looks so old now. So old, it scares you. Do people really change this much in a few months?

"How could you possibly become so thin ?" The delivery, as ever, strikes exactly the right note. Just the perfect mix of worried concern and playful ribbing. And unquestionably sincere. A Dame Judi Dench in the making, you wonder.

The father sizes you up, the top-to-down all encompassing glare that is now a trademark. A grunt ensues, and the moment passes. Method acting at its finest. Think Marlon Brando, A Streetcar Named Desire, exuding raw power from every pore. And clad in a vest, to boot.

The sister, as is her wont, sleeps through the opening act. Bless Shirley Temple's soul.

***

The first weekend. The honeymoon period. The mother showcases her not inconsiderable cooking abilities. Everything's perfect with the world. Picture postcard material, even. Think The Wonder Years, with the running voiceover. That's you.

Monday, manic monday. The internship commences. Air conditioned cubicles, and super-cool bosses. Work from eight to eight, well beyond office hours, and enjoy it. Think of the potful of gold at the end. Call yourself a masochistic whore. And wonder if that's an oxymoron.

Same story, different day. The week moves like a playlist stuck on repeat.Again and Again and Again and Again. Four times, for Tuesday to Friday.

****

The second weekend. The roles are getting blurry, and the masks are slipping. Pleasantries are still exchanged. What's the good word honey, perfunctory?

The battle lines, erased in honour of the return of the prodigal son, are redrawn. The conch, in true mythological fashion, is blown. The father, Stanley Kowalski reborn, launches into the mother, a vicious, vitriolic verbal assault designed to break down and disintegrate. The mother, armchair feminist and delicate soul, duly crumbles. There are tears. Plenty of them. You, the eldest son, and the sister watch quietly. As you have all these years. Nothing ever changes. One day, perhaps all of the pent-up emotion will be released, in blind, unadulterated fury. Like in the movies.

And what's a play without the concluding monologue? You just want to say you are sorry. For emanating an air of such disinterest. Perhaps, growing up as an idealistic kid in a dysfunctional family has affected you more than you can imagine. This is why you are so wary of people, and so untrusting, and so reserved. You cannot speak to anyone anymore without being acutely self-conscious, and not everyone is going to be very patient with you. You know you've got to get your game on, son, before it is too late.

Exit stage left. Curtains fall.

How Melon Collie Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got a Life (appended)

For Teah
Here's to a lifetime of juju and goo and ish and sitch, and all the other strange words that you will doubtless inherit from mommy, and proceed to befuddle me with.

***
You will appreciate that unlike the unfortunate Kaavya, I derive my inspiration, or must I say, "unconsciously internalize", from rather more esteemed sources than an ex-Cosmopolitan editor. Not that being a Cosmo-editor is something I look down upon, of course. I fully realize that it takes more than just a little talent, and ahem, experience, to come up with a cover story on "The Full-Body Orgasm". Yeah, baby. Total head-to-toe fireworks guaranteed.

Ladies and Gentlemen, the spring semester of 2006.

If there's this one thing that I've learnt to appreciate this semester, sunscreen would be it. Trust me on this, especially in the 40 degrees (celsius) temperature and 80 percent humidity. The long term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of this discourse has no basis other than my own meandering experience.

Read.Intellectual snobbery, if you are suitably well-qualified, is, if little else, atleast enlightening. Indulge. Read The Virgin Suicides, and convince yourself of the depravity of this age. Imagine Louisa May Alcott doing this to her Little Women.(Or her Little Men, for that matter. I'm curious about the latter though. Do the Little Men procreate with the Little Women and have Little Children ?)

Love.Don't be reckless with other people's hearts. Don't put up with people who are reckless with yours. You'll soon see that she's not The One. Walk away before you are disposed of. And, cliched as it may be, there are plenty of fish in the sea (and honey-bees in the hive). Swim. If you don't know how to, nevermind. There's a kiss of life waiting round the corner.

Let go.Once every week. May your erstwhile unfashionable room transform into the epicenter of all bohemian activities on campus. Mine certainly did. Ask B and A.

Explore.Art-house cinema. When you can have Japanese, French, Mexican and Polish, why stay put in Hollywood? Reserve your opinion on the greatest film of all time till you see Kurasawa's 'Shinchinin no Samurai', Truffat's 'Jules et Jim', Kieselowski's 'Trois Coluers:Rouge' and Bresson's 'Au Hasard Balthazar'.If you still contend that 'Titanic rules, man', don't act too surprised when you are branded a philistine. And don't be sorry, the world needs some of those too.

Cry. No matter what they think. It's the most cathartic thing there is.

Smile.A wide, thirty-two-teeth brandishing one. Or like Aaki. All lip, and no white. Any way you do it, rest assured that it will brighten someone's life, if only for a moment. And that is perhaps more important than anything else you'll do today.

Learn. You've only got a few years before Mr.Alzheimer pays a visit. Think on your feet. Do not copy that nice Mr Ottino's work for that fluid-mixing term paper. It builds character, and a certain mental fortitude you could use.

And Live. Only for the cheap thrills, if you must look for a reason. Thank you, Anna Z, for not dying on me.