Words.

It is with mixed emotions that I come back to writing here. I have discovered I have not been writing under the (extremely valid) pretense of being overworked, in the process stealing from myself more than stealing from you.

You see, I genuinely love words.

Words as buttery as ooze and delicious. 

Words as solemn as liquidate and leverage. 

Words as tricky as asinine and indestructible. 

Words as elegant as serendipity and luminous.

Words as powerful as passion and rage.

Words move mountains for me.  And so, I always come back to them. As tired, bored and out of ideas I am, I come back here. This blog feels like home. 

The blog looks different, but if this past month has taught me one thing, it's this - to be open to change, and to have the guts* on following through on the change.

I am not known to be the least prickly porcupine crawling across the forest floor, but a lot of things have changed. And I'm working on myself everyday to ensure they don't change me. 

The dreams are stacking up one on top of the other. And I'm not floundering anymore. 

*Guts is a very graphic short story by Chuck Palahnuik. It's also brilliant, so do give it a read if you find the time. 

Aspiring Writer Problems.

Most Days.

That one time I know exactly what I want to write.

True Story.

The Suburbs.

You know the glow of movies on the big screen? Mumbai suburbia basks in that glow. The glow pervades the rickety roadways and ritzy neighborhoods.

People here are stages of fame; from the anonymous, to the struggler, to the seen-somewhere, to the almost-famous to the has-been. Everyone is beautiful here, every single person. Not to everyone's eyes, not even to their own sometimes. But they see themselves as beautiful, glorified, air-brushed movie stars one day. Turquoise hair color, skin-whitening creams, tattoo and piercing parlors all find their core consumers here. Here, everyone is standing out while blending in. 

Cartographers say Mumbai is one straight line of a city. Maps have absolutely nothing to do with direction and everything with where one wants to go. In the suburbs, the answer to where people want to go is a resounding 'up'. You would be hard-pressed to find a more ambitious bunch of people. 

That's what makes it different from every other part of the city. In Colaba, people are comfortable with their street style and world view. In Chembur, people are comfortable with their daily discomfort.

Here, people give in to the vanity of living in a city as unforgiving as Mumbai. And no one scoffs at them here.

The City Is Wilder Than You Think And Kinder Than You Think.

'The city is wilder than you think and kinder than you think.'
I have never read words more befitting Mumbai.
I wish this piece of artwork found its way to this city someday. It perfectly encapsulates everything everyone has ever said about it.

And yet, like every piece of art, it's imperfect. It's too blatant.

Perfection would have been strolling through Bandra and chancing the poem upon the broken walls adorned with graffiti in those narrow, narrow lanes. The words would be founding calmly leaning against the walls, the type traced through the innumerable cracks. Many would pass by the route daily, and yet, the words would be found by a few. Those who would spot them would slow down, intrigue and a slow smile wrapping their faces. They would stop, read, read it again and eventually move on, with something on their mind that probably hadn't been there earlier.
It would resonate differently with different people. It would resonate. It was spark thought. The element of surprise, of chance; that would have made these lines of poetry perfect.

A lot of these pieces are constructed using 'recycled sunlight'. I'm not sure what that means, but it sounds lovely anyway.
Here is a link to the artist's website. It opens to Recycled Sunlight Piece#5. http://www.robertmontgomery.org/robertmontgomery.org/5.html

:)

Shit Indians Say.

Listen up, Indians all around the world!

Original Indian memes are finally here. There's this new page on Facebook called 'Shit Indians Say'(click to visit) and it is absolutely hilarious. :D

Here's a sample :

How can one resist clicking the like button with funny shit like this? :D

The Difference.

The difference between pride and dignity. Ego.
The difference between justice and revenge. Motivation.
The difference between knowledge and wisdom. Application.
The difference between beauty and superficiality. External validation.
The difference between bliss and ignorance. Waking up.
The difference between bitterness and pragmatism. Clarity.
The difference between intelligence and stupidity. Close-mindedness. Not profanity.

There's a liberty that comes with accepting the fleeting nature and breathtaking (in?)significance of the human condition. Forever is word best suited to fairy tales, don't you think?

That Awesome Moment.

Harry Benson: "Brian Epstein — Beatles' manager — had just told them they were number one in America, and I was coming with them to New York, 1964."

Henry Miller's 11 Commandments of Writing.

1. Work on one thing at a time until finished.
2. Start no more new books, add no more new material to “Black Spring.”
3. Don’t be nervous. Work calmly, joyously, recklessly on whatever is in hand.
4. Work according to Program and not according to mood. Stop at the appointed time!
5. When you can’t create you can work.
6. Cement a little every day, rather than add new fertilizers.
7. Keep human! See people, go places, drink if you feel like it.
8. Don’t be a draught-horse! Work with pleasure only.
9. Discard the Program when you feel like it—but go back to it next day. Concentrate. Narrow down. Exclude.
10. Forget the books you want to write. Think only of the book you are writing.
11. Write first and always. Painting, music, friends, cinema, all these come afterwards.

Judge a book by its cover.

Head on over to http://bookcoverarchive.com/, fellow bibliophiles. Feast your eyes on this. 

Desinence.

Off late, my thoughts are among the many things I no longer know. If you enter my room, or head, sometime, you'll find me looking at the ceiling, as if the words I need are up there. No, I don't want to say Wow or Goodnight, or any of those expressions with words that should have weight, but hover weightless in everyday conversation. The words I used to write now have different meanings, and the words I use, I don't know their meaning anymore.
I need to keep writing, or I won't know how to speak; to myself.

Someday, I would love to fit words together into a lasting sentence of incredible meaning.
I lace my fingers behind my head, looking not for answers, but for unanswered questions.

The ice cubes are melting. The calender pages are fervently being flipped.
Life needs more life than this.