How I Doodle

This is the start of my story. It may not turn out to be a tale of universal importance, it may not have a bearing on the working of local authorities. It may not even make a point besides those scattered points it covers while I ramble and drag it with me to record my ramblings. And yet I write.

This current exercise isn't quite writing though. You play around with your keyboard, switching lines and text styles, perhaps playing a game of Sudoku. You scribble on your sheet of paper and end up creating caricatures, complex geometric forms and sometimes, pretty flowers that make you cringe. You turn into a paper troll – and your reference point here should be open web forums and annoying comment droppers, not Origami. But the point is, you doodle. And occasionally, something good comes out of it. A distinct thought, a point of view, a funny line. Or a line that you think is funny.

This whole concept of activity that begins with no clear aim but ends up being “worthy” of one's time interests me. All said and done, here it's (the) beginning that matters. If you can convince yourself to get started even without the end in sight you're good to go. Keep at it and chances are you'll have something concrete in place. I know plenty hold a contrary point of view, one that mandates a solid goal at the outset, one that won't go up in fumes. May they.

Perhaps you choose to brainstorm only in your mind, grappling with intangible thoughts and possibilities. I'm only suggesting that perhaps it's also worth a shot to try the same with words you can see.

I'm still not too sure what I'm getting at or what incident is prompting this but I already know I have 250 odd words up there that would work as a blog post. Particularly on a blog named Where I Doodle. Subconscious streams of thought, I tell you...

Back to business and bitches.

A Conscious Decision

Possibly THE most powerful tool at one's disposal.

Choosing to pursue something, choosing to try something, choosing to stick to something. Or someone.

By this I don't mean your best decisions are the ones made with your head alone. Sometimes they're the ones your heart prompted you to make and hello, things turn out brilliantly! So was that gut instinct? Perhaps. Fluke? Just as likely. And that holds good for split second decisions as well as those long thought out. But that's not the point of post at all. No, don't suggest Blink by Malcolm Gladwell. It's been done. Respect.

Your heart tells you to go after something - it's this want, strong and irrational; very Nike, very Just Do It. And then your head enters the picture and says - "You know what, I want you to go after this; it makes sense in a way I can't claim to understand completely, it's not because there's a selfish, calculated 'something in it for me' in the equation, but this is what I choose for you to go after".

Do you see the difference? By identifying and acknowledging that that thing or person is what clicks with your mind and your heart you're actually upping its worth in your life. Bhav badh raha hai.

I know I often say something "makes sense" to me or doesn't. This is what I'm talking about. It needs to click with my mind. Corny, but sometimes voices from the heart need to agree with voices from the mind.

I don't have a foolproof explanation for this. At least, not yet. But I think it's better to say I don't know than to make something up to keep the cynics happy. What I do know is that this makes sense to me.

I'm gonna go back to The Sound Of Music. Julie Andrews, Christopher Plummer and the whole jingbang, yep. There's this line from a song Andrews sings a young girl of 16, previously her charge and now her step-daughter -

You are sixteen going on seventeen 

Waiting for life to start 

Somebody kind who touches your mind 

Will suddenly touch your heart 

That's what I'm talking about.

Ain't No Sunshine

I want to write. Pen and paper, oldschool through and through. Okay, not quite. I'd be using a ball pen on a book that's tucked away deep inside my closet, that's hardly oldschool. Perhaps the smooth paper encased in hardback makes up for that oversight. I'd like that.

I haven't written for the pleasure of writing in far too long. Just thinking about it makes me feel like a traitor to the practice. The pen and paper routine usually happened when I wanted to vent furiously about things I chose not to discuss with another. Unhealthy? Possibly. And yet that curiously elegant way of bottling things up made me happy. More than I realized at the time. Damn right hindsight is a beautiful thing.

Today, even as I have someone to talk to about absolutely everything under the sun, the issue is not that I have nothing to vent about. Or even something to get all excited about. Hardly that. Having a sounding board does not mean you run out of noise to transmit. But the motions of putting a pen to fresh, lined paper that smelt the way only refined stationery can, of sliding the nib across the faded, dated page to form words that held the promise of release, of not knowing what the next line would be but knowing I needed to see it on paper, of having muddled thoughts sort themselves into distinct, expressible words as I read what I'd just written.. it was all just so cathartic. 

I miss that simple joy. I yearn for it. I think I've lost it.

Disjoint X.

Found a new blog that keeps me reading.

Talked about labels and assurances.

Damn. Lost in the first set itself. The idea is to put down ten comments/observations/opinions that have absolutely nothing to do with each other. The two sentences up there, the link was Blogs and Labels, see? Right. Let's do this again.

My cell phone's a Lib. It aborts calls.

My aunt leads a lonely life.

Faaaaaaaaack. I suck at this. Let's try it one more time.

I love a guy; said guy loves me back.

I ought to write more often, getting rusty.

Photography is beginning to scare the shit out of me.

I'd like to throw out all my jeans and stock up on shorts.

I need you to airdrop a serious hobby on my head.

Five lines and two glaringly obvious links. There's a reason the post title ends with an X. Mission bombed.

86400

Your days are limited; no shocker there. But what if you knew the precise number?

And what if you had to spend those days with just as many people, only one person a day? All of them real people who exist today, all of them people you personally know. So no Star Wars, no Shivaji and definitely no Salma Hayek unless Salma Hayek insists she knows you.

Would a thousand days fall short? Would a hundred be far too many?

What if you may contact them only on that one day allotted to them - never before, never again?

What if you were given the chance to draw up your list, your own order of preference? Who would you eliminate? Who would you include?

Would new bonds be forged? Would those you took for granted snap?

Would your time with those you love be spent buried under nostalgia and farewell or would you still go out for a movie, a meal, a drive?

Would you permit acquaintances, the fillers by force, to come closer and get to know you or would you hold on to old biases, fake a headache and sleep through the coffee?

Would you be able to take in your stride the days that bring you bitter fights and misunderstandings with some? Would you be able to accept absolutely no more shared smiles and tears of mirth ever with some others on your list?

Would you be able to survive the agony of 86400 - no more, no less?

Pathetico

Pass On By

One day I shall learn how to ask,

To believe I deserve what may come after

But until that day comes along, I suppose

I’ll continue to laugh for an answer.

I don’t expect clairvoyance, no sir

Or a zero error upsets-radar,

It’s not even concern I seek, to be true

But I couldn’t put a name on it, couldn’t think that hard.

Still, next time we meet or talk from afar

Don’t bother with the How-do-you-dos

Just get on with your story, tell me what ails you

I’ll fix it and we shall yet again grow apart.

That's how pathetic I've become. That I actually relate to this stuff is patheticer :|

Two options lie ahead. Scrap this blogging business and get all maudlin in private - Dickinson in the making, yessir! OR do a continuing series or RIPs. Covered Lethargy earlier, Suckingdom next. Must I pick?

Year 10 and 40! And Day 1.

So The Flintstones are almost as old as my father. Ow. Killer start.

Bright side - they completed 50 years of being aired yesterday which means those of you whose parents and grandparents were cool enough to have a gay ol' time with The Flintstones in addition to being TV-ownings seths before obnoxious little(?) you came in have no business complaining about communication gaps. Same stuff, ha! Bright side for people who think you're still obnoxious, of course.

Wait, not many would fit in there. In the cool+seth category, not obnoxious-considerers. Okay, chuck. The Google Photus ref still makes me happy. 


And don't be surprised to see odes and obituaries someplace on the Internet, The Flintstones were the 46th most popular search topic on Google at 5 in the bloody morning yesterday. Time zones are evil, yessir. Obituaries for the writer's childhood and "days of believing in  make believe" *eye roll*, not for Fred and Wilma.


I miss The Addams Family. Won't deny they creeped me out at the beginning. If only they were the Addamses with a single D. Addams makes them sound like a very South Indian concotion. Why South Indian? I can totally picture Rita --a house help (Maid servant? Naah.. didi? Yep!) at our place when I was around 10, she was from Belgaum-- say it like that. Add-dums. But then she also insisted "Okay" was a Kannada word because everyone in her village said it all the time. The arguments we used to have... I digress. Addamses? Addams? Dimsums. 

Oh and those Sunday all Hannah-Barbara cartoons inclusive races they used to hold every uh, Sunday. Anyone?



In other news, Pranav's blog led me to this, which in turn led me to vv . Er, that's a down-two-paragraphs arrow. Never mind. 

Something tells me I'll be linking there and borrowing plenty. =)

Which is why we're patrons of The Flintstones and not Sleeping Beauty. Wisdom again.

Mera Hai.

“I am the King of Rome and hence, above grammar”.

Okay. So we’ve heard that one before. However, while the King of Rome has made his way into history textbooks world over, news of his direct descendants hasn’t exactly hit the newspapers. I therefore take the liberty of deducing and declaring that no one –barring he who can prove his lineage and his nominal claim to the Roman throne– is above grammar. No one may be ignorant of its intricacies and none whatsoever may disregard it. Or at least, that’s how it’ll be once the world is mine.

Picture a uniform world order of language. Let there be plurality but let it not corrupt what is. Big Brother from Orwell’s 1984 went overboard with Newspeak; what I propose is neither totalitarian nor restrictive. Freedom will still be yours. Use slang, but just not at the cost of expression, explanation and context. Abbreviate, but for rapid note making, not all talk and text. Speak the language of your choice but not by butchering another.

Boyzone crooned “It’s only words/ And words are all I have…”. They’re hardly idol material but I say if words are all you have, make them count. Make them worth the other man’s time. And make them right.

I am conscious of entering a zone rife with potential for political debate (and consequently, political mileage) and lawsuits on the grounds of invasion of privacy and violation of cultural freedom. But what I propose is as democratic and secular as you want it to be. And see, what with the world being my conquest and all, I’ll be the boss anyway.

Slowly and steadily the world will come to love and respect language. <rapid read> Laws will be drafted, acts enacted, officers appointed. A secret detection unit will work stealthily. There will come a day when the want and need for coherence will overpower the cooltah of SMS language. All will self correct and the dictionary and the thesaurus will be the new TOI and Guardian. Wren & Martin’s lost glory shall be restored! </rapid read>

Letters will be all the shapes the world knows. Vs, As, Hs and Ls will realign themselves to form paper clips. Q will be the new face of Yin & Yang. Isolation cells for juvenile delinquents will be B shaped, benches will form Es and swings for round bottomed duos will emulate Ws.

Social networking is a boon, yeah? Scores of opportunities to nitpick and fix lamentable language AND to identify, recruit and group potential grammar Nazis of tomorrow. Here’s how it’s gonna work for me.

Men of words shall meet with men of science. The outcome? The Stingray! Na na, erase all thoughts of irregular copulation; this will be an invention that’s a cross between Word’s Spelling & Grammar Check, a stun gun and ellipses (…) . Neon green exclamation marks will cover foreheads of repeat defaulters. Stingrays will do the rounds of the city. MO – Point Stingray at target, a red aura surrounds the target. Double click to shoot and see short, sharp bursts of (harmless, nowhere near fatal but decidedly impactful slime globs or) ellipses make contact with said target’s body. Spasms, seizures, motivation to fix all! Language edits itself! Perfection.

No really, when it’s my world, it’s gotta be my word.

It Isn't Just Me

I've spent the last day or so reading blogs created by friends and classmates. And I've loved every moment of it.

Even though the blog was a college assignment and therefore not optional, even the most reluctant of the lot have written about matters close to their hearts. I speak of things we connect to for that is what we know. It's amazing how their posts are throwing up anecdotes and opinions I probably wouldn't have known otherwise. 

He's probably my closest friend at college but it never occurred to me to ask Ketan how he first got into photography. 

Next up, accessories! I can admire them but honestly, I never know what to do with them. Neha put up close to a dozen posts about accessories and she actually had me reading! 

We all have this moment of awakening (or spark of rebellion =| ) as a result of which we decide to think for ourselves. We decide what we want, what we believe, what we aspire to be and what we respect. Sanchayan took the last and whipped up a beautiful series of posts. I'll admit I expected him to write about Man U and football, his choice of topic came as a surprise. 

Then there was Malavika's blog. I kid you not when I say I respect the girl. Anecdotes and opinions definitely put in a show when she talks of music, I'm glad they do.

Ninad killed it. His posts are a pleasure to read.
  
Anandita's theme was reminiscent  of the "South India has 4 states! All South Indians aren't Mallus!" tirade she and Malavika would launch into during our IV to Kerala this August =)

Anku's blog again was sincere. He takes a sight/event and talks about his perception and/or the inspiration he draws from it. Most of us would get too caught up in the profundity of what we're trying to say. Chances are we'd become incoherent even as we seek eloquence. He doesn't. 


I've read only a small fraction of the 66 other blogs our class has put up. I've mentioned some blogs that I hope will show up on my Reading List even after.


On a personal note, this collective blog chaos --the entire semester of Creative Writing, really-- has been a lesson in humility. I'm no more the only person who blogs. Somewhere there's a hint of insecurity creeping in; I need a new identity, stat! =P I'm aware that some of those who were previously considered "non-writers" by the class for reasons as obtuse as "He doesn't write, that probably means he can't" are actually doing a kickass job of it, often better than me. But it's great to read good stuff, particularly when it's put up by people you know and like. Odd as it sounds, it's inspiring.

These three months have also taught me to share what I write without feeling like I'm enforcing some sort of obligation (?) on the other person to read. I'm learning how to accept compliments gracefully (Note: I'm still learning so do pardon my awkwardness) and I'm learning how to let constructive criticism be just that, constructive. 
I think I owe someone some sincere gratitude.

And going by my past record, for a single post, that's one confession too many. I'm outta here. *scurries away*

You Are NOT Random!

That spark in your eye that charms them all. That natural laugh, however imperfect it may be. That genuine grin, infectious regardless of whether or not your face stretches like Jim Carey’s and whether or not you have funny teeth or even no teeth at all. That knack of saying something mildly offensive but getting away with it either because the irony of it all floored even the target or because people just didn’t get what you said. That wild impulse to do something forbidden or unusual, to go out there and shock your audience. 

You have all these things and more, but describe yourself as “random” and you instantly become less interesting to me than the toothpick stuck between your teeth. No, I do not have a thing for toothpicks or for teeth.

Wisdom.

 Am I just trying to revive English as I love it? Am I a wicked witch for going all Victorian and Book Antiqua on unsuspecting minds? Or, disturbing as it is, am I randomly ranting about things that bother me?