I write.
I draw Buildings.
I’m Twenty-Three.
I’m now on a local Panel Show. Stoned. And, oddly enough, attentive. For a live show, though, too silent, and observant.
And, for the third time this month, I’m feeling sick, looking at people always coming up with the attitude, and belief, that being in an agreement with each other always, or fighting each other, should be the either existent choices for settling any-fucking-argument.
Life. Splendid. Seems like abrasive nonsense to me, maybe that’s the reason why I live in a constant state of incredulity, curiosity, and despondency.
In conclusion, I started to write original stuff for a professional reason, which seemed like a hobby to everyone else. My career was really on iron-bolted halt, to put it mildly, even my life. Something changed with one idea, then everything did. So, I built a house, and continued with minimal recognition, ending with a rant on a Panel show, which very nearly ended my even otherwise snail-paced, slouching career, into a new dimension - Mental Inertia. No, not writer’s block. Get my condition, and you can end up for months with no clear thought, or any thought at all really. Fortunately, looking back at a condensed version of the entire three years before, I think it was a life, which was at least interesting to observe, and oddly funny to exist in.
the Writing Phase
Tick Tock.
Tick Tock.
Multiply this by the biggest number you can think of, and you can imagine the time that’s involved in my writing process. No scribbling, no short notes, just staring at a screen for hours on end, trying to think. To the outside world, I look like an immobile living thing.
When we get stuck with an idea, the normal response is to stop working on the idea. Or keep at it, till we arrive at an answer; a workable option. We don’t need to engage in either of these processes. What we ought to do, is expand other aspects of knowledge. Ideas spring up from anywhere, everywhere. Everything we observe, every person we meet, everything we experience and interpret, are all considered by the conscious and subconscious parts of our brains. We get answers, ideas, and eventually, perceptions and opinions from all of the above. Even if, there was something you would prefer to do for the rest of your life, or some person you would want to spend the rest of your life with, these are narrow view-points to an extent, it is mental overkill, in the sense, over-indulgence in any idea, or perspective, reduces life to a rather limited list of options, or choices. Individual lives are finite; however, possibilities within this finite world, with every clicking second, is infinite. Seems at odds with a limited imagination or perspective, I know.
There is a certain point at which, anyone could realize, that life, or what we were collectively able to achieve, individually, creatively, is entirely our own. It might lose value instantly, or over time. But the fact is, if an individual undertakes a direction of endless possibilities, comfort, success, wealth - do not matter. Perhaps not the most practical idea in the world if we cling onto goals and objectives throughout our lives, but it is slightly better, in my view, than stagnating the mind with self-imposed limits.
Flow
I have failed as a writer. Writers believe that this obsession they have for writing is ever-lasting. I suppose it’s our own form of constructed superstition right there.
In the middle of this logically-justifiable despondency-feast, I got a telegram stating this long lost uncle died, and left his fortune to me, with certain instructions. I reached his place, which looked like a dilapidated guest house , where a scraggly old lawyer explained the details to me. Apparently, if I build a house on a hilly plot with my design, I get the rest of the money from the budget, to keep. Oh wow, brilliant. I sort of gave up Civil Engineering, for two reasons already. I lost interest in it, by the final days of school; and perhaps, I wanted to focus on a writing career. Neither worked, so I now exist in a static state of unemployed bliss. At a time like this, this opportunity is both a blessing, and a curse. Simply because, I got one job to turn rich overnight, and I got it when I’m at my least-creative mental state.
I accepted the offer, nevertheless, and expressed my concerns about the deal, to the lawyer who took this opportunity to stare at my jeans. I’m not sure if he’s gay, lonely, or insane.
I got back to my rented room, and thought of the rooms I would want for an ideal house. Let’s see - A writing Room. Perhaps if I had the perfect space to write, I would write. Of course not. Writing is an afterthought, at least the really good and detailed ones are. How can I have afterthoughts, sans primary thoughts, or initial lateral ideas?
Anyway, from the writing room idea, I hoped other ideas would follow. Optimistic thinking, granted, is one of the stupidest things Human Beings ever created. But maybe, just maybe, I guess the false hope I immerse myself in, are permutations of realistic, underplayed notions about reality and true achievement. The thing about undertaking something you’re completely unsure of, but want to experiment with, is that You’re constantly in a state of inquisitiveness, wonder of learning something new, attempting to understand those new ideas, and you never know what would happen next. Someday, I hoped to say to myself, I have managed to make enough money to slouch around for a short lifetime. The rest of my days could be focused in non-directive-based work; writing to entertain myself, and learning some or the other nouvelle vague idea.
Initial Engineering
Dad: Wake up
Me: What?
Dad: Wake up
Me: Yes, I know what you said. What for?
Dad: You do know your mom’s pregnant…
Me: I’ve known that for months. What the point of telling me now?
Dad: Her water just broke.
Me: Her what??
Dad: Water…
Me: … Listen, explain to me how someone splits water, to begin with…
Dad: No, your mom has to deliver. Now.
Me: Fuck. Uh… and what am I supposed to do?
Dad: You need to get a cab.
Me: Where’s the car?
Dad: At the workshop.
Me: Oh, brilliant. Now, I’m supposed to get a cab, from 10 kilometers away, is it??
Dad: Please?
Me: I’ll go, I’ll go already. Let me get my bike. What about Sara?
Dad: You could stay here with her, I’ll take mom to the hospital.
Me: Could I take a shower first?
Dad: No, you can’t, you stupid…
Me: ... yeah, all right…
Dad: Besides, it looks like rain…
Me: Terrific. The other option to a shower, is to get drenched with acid rain instead, at two in the morning… I wonder where you come up with ideas like these…
Dad: Get going, already…
2 AM. I’m supposed to find a cab, unless I want mom to die in child birth, or maybe she would just bleed to death. In a state of urgency such as this, it really helps being sixteen, especially when all you’re legally authorized to drive is a fucking cycle. Although, two kilometers into the journey to the lone taxi stand, I see a secret weapon in my pocket. A few cigarettes, and one joint. It starts to pour now in torrential buckets I suppose. Tropical Rain is hilarious, it creeps up on everyone, and when we turn around, it’s suddenly like we entered a disaster-movie set. The sound, the painful droplets, contribute in an almost awkward sense of liberation. Probably the only kind of liberation we have left in India. There are plenty of superficial alternatives - Festivals; Repetitive Movies; equally blaming and adopting Western Culture, according to what we think is appropriate or not; is quite plainly, a case of us being too hard on everything else and ourselves when life fucks us up. Too bad I’ve figured this out, while Society, in general, rarely pays attention to view-points like these.
A Cig, thank you I’ll have one, I say to myself, I think I’ve earned it for cycling in the rain at two in the morning. I lit it, I smoked a puff, and it gets soaked. I rode the bike for another kilometer, perhaps, and reached a hut. Not a great hut, but it has a roof. I sat on the porch of this place, and if I lean backwards to position my head against the wall, then I’ll be temporarily dry till my knee. My legs, and the cycle resting on them, are getting cleaned well enough for months. I lit the joint.
Water droplets now look like tiny, transparent helium-balloon-like globules, which seem to be losing the helium stored in them, rapidly. The earth smells nicer, even though I have to veer farther away when I encounter flooded dung piles. When I finished that joint, I thought to myself, well, this was a waste. Two minutes of heavy rain later, I’m almost as high as heaven is.
There is this curious notion that a night, or early morning out in India is pretty dangerous. I’m sure it must be. Not everywhere, though. Kerala’s night life is slightly strange. It looks scary. Huddled figures draped in thin blankets, either smoke their last filter less cigarettes, shiver with the damp, or sleep sprawled under park benches, or shop shutters. I don’t know how long it took me to get to the taxi stand, but it looks relatively peaceful here, or rather, everyone and everything seems to be uninterested here. There’s a tiny hotel open, and the cashier’s eating sugar cubes in boredom. Taxi drivers share their own form of gossip, some are playing cards, some are getting pleasantly drunk and sharing family problems, while very few actually stand near their cars, and talk, so they can go ahead, without competition, to every place the customers want to go to.
I stopped by, and watched this scene in a certain sense of calm awe. This is paradise if you’re a loner. Every responsible action is directed towards ourselves, individually; and every thought is based on nothing in particular. Glamorous Solitude, in an odd way. To me, anyway.
As I observe this place, I feel a heavy hand clutching my shoulder. The source of the heavy hand is a cop, and he’s asking me something.
Cop: What are you doing here, at this time of night?
Me: Eh?
Cop: How old are you? And where do you live?
Me: Uh?
Cop: Ganja?
I’m going to deny the charge, firmly, but with as much subtlety as I can possibly muster. Instead, what I’m doing is smiling at him, and nodding my head incessantly at him. Now, the cop is confused, and cops don’t enjoy getting confused.
Cop: Are you joking?
Me: No, not all.
Oh, brilliant. Now, I’ve actually admitted it wasn’t a joke, and expounded the fact that I am, in fact, high. Absolutely fantastic. Now, I’m riding along in a police jeep in the back seat, with one cop driving me to a station for illegal substance-abuse.
Me: Hey, how about going to my house?
Cop: What? What for?
Me: Well, you could speak to my dad.
Cop: Locking you up will bring him to the station, I expect.
Me: Oh, I know, but my house is close by. If you meet him now, he won’t be worried about what happened to me.
Cop: Fucking… all right, you juvenile shit, where is your place?
I gave him directions. I changed the route every few seconds, so by the time we got to my place, he’s positively fuming. I rang my doorbell, and my dad answered the door, expecting to see a taxi, or an ambulance. Instead, he sees a police jeep. And a pissed off cop.
The cop, entered, to see Dad’s disheveled hair and clothes, and wonders if he has to break the news of my arrest at this time.
Cop: What’s going on here?
Dad: My wife’s pregnant… I sent him out, to fetch a taxi. Is there anything wrong?
Cop: No, there aren’t any taxis tonight I suppose, get your things, I’ll drive you people to a hospital.
Mom and Dad are huddled and driven off, while I stay with Sara. The cop will probably mention it to my dad, after mom’s admitted. Oh well, I put Sara to sleep, by reading her a story she likes. It’s fucking boring to me. I don’t think little kids understand emotional stories really. They can understand humor though, but not emotions. I think. When emotional stories are read, they look at the adults, and observe how the adults react to reading the emotional material. They then teach themselves to behave in a similar fashion as they get older - so if children have dim-wit parents, they usually end up dim-wits themselves. Not always, of course, but generally. Quite possibly. After I had put her to sleep, and start to read some book, I heard a knock on my door. I opened it to find the cop looking at me with a blank expression.
Cop: I didn’t mention the drug-thing to your dad.
Me: Oh? Uh… thanks.
Cop: I’m afraid I have some bad news. Your mom is dead. Sorry.
Me: … Um…
Cop: If you could pick up your sister, I could drive you to the hospital.
Me: Uh yeah… Ok.
We drove to the hospital in silence, while I rocked Sara to sleep. After dealing with a deranged father, and a confused sister, and a fast burial, it took a week for dad to kill Sara, and himself, with poisoned food. I missed out on the opportunity, by arriving late after school.
As I thought to myself that life couldn't get any worse, I slipped out of my deranged imagination, and I’m still looking at the taxi stand. I ordered a tea, and a driver accidentally drops some sugar-cane juice on me. As he apologized; me, being my stoned self; explained how it wasn't a problem, since it’s raining anyway. He started to talk about movies, I responded, and soon there’s a crowd of taxi drivers, all discussing the film industry.
Twenty minutes later, I get hit on the head a few times, and I’m rushing in the backseat of a cab, with an angry driver, to my house.
Me: Look, I forgot…
Driver: Oh shit, I forgot, my mom’s gotta deliver. Now. I can’t believe it somehow missed your attentive memory that your mother needs to go to hospital.
Me: Well… temporarily…
We got to the house, mom and dad leave to the hospital, I improvised a story for Sara.
Me: The Pink pony, lived in a land of bronze buildings, and discovered, there were no other ponies in the magical bronze land. So, it took the large bronze elevator, to the top of the tallest bronze building in the land. And jumped off without a parachute. The End.
Sara: Does that mean the pony flew down?
Me: Well, it does mean the pony landed.
Sara: What happened when it landed?
Me: It transformed into a marshmallow. Only flatter, and more scattered.
Sara started to weep.
Me: What’s wrong? Are you sad because the pony died?
Sara: No. the pony could learn to live alone.
Me: What?
Sara: The pony could get a house, and live there.
Me: You’re more intelligent than I thought you were, you know?
Sara: What’s intelligent?
Me: That means you’re a smart kid.
Sara smiles at me, sleepily, and dozes off.
As corny as this sounds, this was what happened. I’m afraid Mom did die in child birth. And dad and Sara ceased to exist a week later. What I was left with was a college fund, no responsibilities, and a tiny room I could afford to live in for a few years, after I sold our house.
College consisted, in large parts, to make myself something other than this engineering thing I had to go through. I wanted to be a writer. Somehow, I passed Engineering, and decided to devote my time writing stuff, instead of handing out CV’s like some sort of bureaucratic slave trade. Neither worked out like I wanted to. Then, the letter arrived.
the Writing Room
The only thing I’m really addicted to, are new ideas.
Writing, is something I can manage to do, irrespective of whatever mood I’m in. And during my bouts of Mania, I’m perfectly fine, with the thought of working with old ideas. Depression, is way too off-limits to this, in the sense, good ideas are the only things that really cheer you up. Nothing else, nothing else matters, and most importantly, I don’t deserve to live, I’m useless, starts to play, in loud, booming loops, right inside your own head. Pleasant, it isn’t.
When I finish writing, though, I look at the piece entirely, and think to myself, What can I add to it. If it feels like exhausted material with the details it already contains, I take a day to do something entirely unconnected, and look at the writing again. If my head still thinks there’s nothing more to be added, I post it.
However, when I think something else could be added, it’s a harder process, because now, I have to think if there’s any funny or skeptical detail I could add to the existing material, reading it again, on adding new afterthoughts. If the new structure of the story seems weird enough, it’s posted in a few minutes.
Hmm… maybe a really airy room? Bare, for the most part, nearly-opaque natural light, just a couple of chairs, and a large, low desk. Cabinets are built closer to the floor. So, large room, very airy, not a lot of light either. I shall color it light grayish blue. I almost sound like a aristocratic moron now.
Wait a second. Draw it.
I drew it.
And I sketched a room.
And I sketched an absurd house. Hey, if this uncle dude wants a house, where his ashes could be scattered into the foundation, so be it. Here’s something completely ridiculous to rest in.
How about a Study Room next? A place to read, and refer books; so it could be attached to what’s called the Records Room, which is a Library of Books, Movies, and a Music Collection. Although, the Movies and Music can’t be played in the Library. There are Television sets and DVD Players in both the Bedroom, and the Lounge; the Lounge has an attached porch, and an attached Guest room. That’s it. The kitchen is on the farthest end, facing the road side. The Bedroom has an attached Bathroom, and there’s another Bathroom attached to the Guest Room. And there’s a staircase near the Master Bedroom, that leads upwards to what I call Suspended Animation.
Doesn’t anyone else get it, that Lyrics Limit Musicians? Lyrics are meant to be add-ons to a piece of music, not vice versa. No? Oh well, just an unconnected thought, sorry...
Anyway, I built this thing, and then find out this dead guy’s hidden clause to the will. Once I build the house, it’s my house, and I get the rest of his stuff too. I moved in. Ironically, I sketched myself, a house.
Engineering Initials
Strangely enough, people saw this weird structure on top of a hill, and liked what they saw. I started getting demands from random design houses, about recruiting me as an architect. Even though I refused all of it, I got this call from a major corporation last week. They insisted I would have the major rights to every design. They even suggested, that I could call the company Abode Designer, with a personalized logo. I must confess, that’s the slickest marketing gibberish I’d heard in some time. I didn’t say anything really objectionable to that at the time, I fixed a meeting instead.
They were ready to pay me for every design I created. I said, if that was the case, the materials which were assembled as the building blocks should arrive embedded with my initials, so that would make me the major share-holder, and all the major profits come to me. They said it wasn’t possible, unless they got more projects. So, I said, use Advertising to get in as many projects as you want. Because the Intellectual Copyright comes to me, as well as a share of the profits, and those are put into my personal funds, collected, and spend on the welfare of backward social pockets, with assisted Health Care, Education, and Housing. So, some of the profits reach the poor, and the disenfranchised. Thereby, reducing the gaps in Standards of living, and Education, between the different social classes.
They asked me how all this would benefit both of us. I answered with something to the effect of, If we reduce the gaps between social classes, in terms of Improved living standards and Education , there aren’t as many causes for War, Poverty, and Ignorance. At fearful, agitated times like these, it isn’t that bad a prospect, is it? We live in a world currently experiencing, or awaiting, the effects of War; Poverty; an Economic Crisis; Dystopian anti-Privacy initiatives, whether it’s about spying on citizens, or micro-chipping our bodies; Bureaucratic Anti-Piracy; Nuclear Fear; Religious Extremism; Sexist Intolerance; Racial Profiling; Personal Rights Violations; a Homicidal, Conformist, Misinformed, a Branded Student Generation; and Global Climatic Armageddon. Shouldn’t some logical solution, to any of the above, be used? Maybe I’m wrong. Sure.
This was my offer. I suppose it was a little too mad, even for them.
They, quite understandably, refused.
Twin Sequenced Autobiography
What happened instead, was this.
I got invited to this local panel show, to be filmed at this local boarding school, to discuss Moral Perspectives, and the Decline of Morality in Modern Society. One of the panelists, I soon found out, was a morally-superior dick head, asking kids to never even glance at the opposite sex, to keep praying, to learn everything from the books prescribed to them, and he went on to say, Success isn’t about finding who you are. It’s about obedience without question, to what should be done, as per what Elders demand. And the only way, to fight Bipolarity, responsibly, is a responsible Relationship.
Trust me, this wasn't a comedy show. It was truly meant to be taken seriously. This shit-head actually called himself an ex-bipolar. I was momentarily mesmerized, by the use of politically-correct adjectives to describe Values with the narrowest ideological pointers I’d heard all evening.
And, for some unfathomable reason, this speaker seemed to be directing his argument at me, for an answer, as if he expected some sort of personal-retaliatory-assault to hammer in his view-point more effectively. I, on the other hand, couldn’t stop grinning at him, until I finally realized I’d probably piss off this unreceptive Ignoramus if I kept smiling and didn’t answer. Which wasn't exactly something I wanted to do. If I stayed unreceptive and condescending enough, he'd get off my case, entirely. Instead, I pulled off an un-reactive facial expression, and tried to calmly present an argument.
In an Infinite Universe, such as the one we live in, we are all both Unique, and Inconsequential.
Why do we need to engage ourselves, in self-important indulgences, or finite, illogical beliefs?
That activity, is relatively useless. It is Intellectually, and Sensibly, Futile.
Relationships aren’t necessary to overcome Bi-polarity. The interaction ends, when there isn’t an interest to learn more from the person in question. What most people do, though, is accept what little is known, and cling onto it, accepting no new angles, which really is an indication that human beings, are insecure beings. What Manic-Depressives do, is simmer in the delight of having learnt what was learned in a limited space of time, moving on to explore newer interests and facts, about other Experiences. Not ; and I can’t stress this enough; not Persons. Personal accomplishments; no matter how hard anyone tries to convince themselves with that irrational belief; does not evolve with Relationships, Accumulated Economic Wealth, or Morals. Personal Wealth evolves with the logical, lucid understanding of the fact that Enriching and Explaining Natural Curiosity probably is the only task our species needs to fulfill. Think of what kind of creatures we are, and what we’re capable of. We have developed Language which enables us to communicate, and argue any possible / impossible idea. We can demonstrate most things with Skepticism and the scientific method. We can build most things, because we have Opposable Thumbs. Finally, we have an organ that creates alternate worlds, which are skewered versions of reality, which makes us capable of Objective Thought. We are capable of informing, inspiring, and explaining things better, with Free thought and Art. Maybe, it should’ve stayed that way. Historically, the Age of Learning deteriorated a lot, ever since the Spartans defeated the Athenians in ancient battles, maybe briefly revisited, during the Renaissance, and the Hippie era, but that’s about it. If we barely comprehend a thought this simple, then our brief period of existential pursuits, and our perceptions, are worthless.
Didn't go well with public opinion, as you might have guessed by now.
This was a Demented self-account of my life. The readers may believe the parts they think are believable enough.
Open Space, and Suspended Animation
There’s isn’t a lot of open space around, but it is a tiny, obscure hill. Therefore, it’s isolated, and serene.
Except during Rainstorms.
In popular cultural references, rain is tagged along to Gloom, or something Lame… To me, it’s soothing. I guess it gives me the same feeling, as any of you people would feel, while having what you would call a wonderful day, at some Lousy Beach, or Discotheque.
Solitary Contemplation isn’t a bad vice. It’s the same with Pot, Uncertainty, and Constant Curiosity.
All Suspended Animation is, is a roof, half-covered with glass, while the rest of it is open. When it rains, one could either not get drenched, get stoned, and watch raindrops landing above themselves while they‘re stoned, as if on a transparent movie-screen placed right above them; or, walk to the unroofed part, where they could get drenched, after getting stoned. Which was an unnecessary bit to add, for a dead man’s house, sure. But it’s totally worth it. I can read, write, or doze off here. This is the only kind of self-indulgence I enjoy.
Life, I suppose, does not contain a limited number of paths to take. Although… it’s up to us, to create loads of unique paths, by ourselves, for ourselves. If the Experimentation of Uniqueness never stops, individually, in everyone, then no one could be tied-down to anything.
Drenched, and Stoned, I feel the wind lashing at the rain, and lashing at everything else in its path too. People at other homes around here, are probably freaking out, and gibbering bullshit they don’t understand themselves out of fear. Here’s the fun bit. The rain’s louder than cries of distress, and panic. Nature’s innovative technique to cloud out the whining sounds we generally make, and to visually impair itself, so it could ignore looking at examples of immense Human stupidity and whining paranoia. We aren’t important to nature. Are we clear on this, Nature does not care.
We need to create the Scientific, Artistic, Entertaining, Informative and Wise, even though we will eventually die, and all our achievements, information, and culture will disappear, be lost in vague spaces of time, or destroyed, forever.
Life, curiously enough, is mildly interesting this way. Do not deny yourselves enlightened bliss, if you can help it.
END
I draw Buildings.
I’m Twenty-Three.
I’m now on a local Panel Show. Stoned. And, oddly enough, attentive. For a live show, though, too silent, and observant.
And, for the third time this month, I’m feeling sick, looking at people always coming up with the attitude, and belief, that being in an agreement with each other always, or fighting each other, should be the either existent choices for settling any-fucking-argument.
Life. Splendid. Seems like abrasive nonsense to me, maybe that’s the reason why I live in a constant state of incredulity, curiosity, and despondency.
In conclusion, I started to write original stuff for a professional reason, which seemed like a hobby to everyone else. My career was really on iron-bolted halt, to put it mildly, even my life. Something changed with one idea, then everything did. So, I built a house, and continued with minimal recognition, ending with a rant on a Panel show, which very nearly ended my even otherwise snail-paced, slouching career, into a new dimension - Mental Inertia. No, not writer’s block. Get my condition, and you can end up for months with no clear thought, or any thought at all really. Fortunately, looking back at a condensed version of the entire three years before, I think it was a life, which was at least interesting to observe, and oddly funny to exist in.
the Writing Phase
Tick Tock.
Tick Tock.
Multiply this by the biggest number you can think of, and you can imagine the time that’s involved in my writing process. No scribbling, no short notes, just staring at a screen for hours on end, trying to think. To the outside world, I look like an immobile living thing.
When we get stuck with an idea, the normal response is to stop working on the idea. Or keep at it, till we arrive at an answer; a workable option. We don’t need to engage in either of these processes. What we ought to do, is expand other aspects of knowledge. Ideas spring up from anywhere, everywhere. Everything we observe, every person we meet, everything we experience and interpret, are all considered by the conscious and subconscious parts of our brains. We get answers, ideas, and eventually, perceptions and opinions from all of the above. Even if, there was something you would prefer to do for the rest of your life, or some person you would want to spend the rest of your life with, these are narrow view-points to an extent, it is mental overkill, in the sense, over-indulgence in any idea, or perspective, reduces life to a rather limited list of options, or choices. Individual lives are finite; however, possibilities within this finite world, with every clicking second, is infinite. Seems at odds with a limited imagination or perspective, I know.
There is a certain point at which, anyone could realize, that life, or what we were collectively able to achieve, individually, creatively, is entirely our own. It might lose value instantly, or over time. But the fact is, if an individual undertakes a direction of endless possibilities, comfort, success, wealth - do not matter. Perhaps not the most practical idea in the world if we cling onto goals and objectives throughout our lives, but it is slightly better, in my view, than stagnating the mind with self-imposed limits.
Flow
I have failed as a writer. Writers believe that this obsession they have for writing is ever-lasting. I suppose it’s our own form of constructed superstition right there.
In the middle of this logically-justifiable despondency-feast, I got a telegram stating this long lost uncle died, and left his fortune to me, with certain instructions. I reached his place, which looked like a dilapidated guest house , where a scraggly old lawyer explained the details to me. Apparently, if I build a house on a hilly plot with my design, I get the rest of the money from the budget, to keep. Oh wow, brilliant. I sort of gave up Civil Engineering, for two reasons already. I lost interest in it, by the final days of school; and perhaps, I wanted to focus on a writing career. Neither worked, so I now exist in a static state of unemployed bliss. At a time like this, this opportunity is both a blessing, and a curse. Simply because, I got one job to turn rich overnight, and I got it when I’m at my least-creative mental state.
I accepted the offer, nevertheless, and expressed my concerns about the deal, to the lawyer who took this opportunity to stare at my jeans. I’m not sure if he’s gay, lonely, or insane.
I got back to my rented room, and thought of the rooms I would want for an ideal house. Let’s see - A writing Room. Perhaps if I had the perfect space to write, I would write. Of course not. Writing is an afterthought, at least the really good and detailed ones are. How can I have afterthoughts, sans primary thoughts, or initial lateral ideas?
Anyway, from the writing room idea, I hoped other ideas would follow. Optimistic thinking, granted, is one of the stupidest things Human Beings ever created. But maybe, just maybe, I guess the false hope I immerse myself in, are permutations of realistic, underplayed notions about reality and true achievement. The thing about undertaking something you’re completely unsure of, but want to experiment with, is that You’re constantly in a state of inquisitiveness, wonder of learning something new, attempting to understand those new ideas, and you never know what would happen next. Someday, I hoped to say to myself, I have managed to make enough money to slouch around for a short lifetime. The rest of my days could be focused in non-directive-based work; writing to entertain myself, and learning some or the other nouvelle vague idea.
Initial Engineering
Dad: Wake up
Me: What?
Dad: Wake up
Me: Yes, I know what you said. What for?
Dad: You do know your mom’s pregnant…
Me: I’ve known that for months. What the point of telling me now?
Dad: Her water just broke.
Me: Her what??
Dad: Water…
Me: … Listen, explain to me how someone splits water, to begin with…
Dad: No, your mom has to deliver. Now.
Me: Fuck. Uh… and what am I supposed to do?
Dad: You need to get a cab.
Me: Where’s the car?
Dad: At the workshop.
Me: Oh, brilliant. Now, I’m supposed to get a cab, from 10 kilometers away, is it??
Dad: Please?
Me: I’ll go, I’ll go already. Let me get my bike. What about Sara?
Dad: You could stay here with her, I’ll take mom to the hospital.
Me: Could I take a shower first?
Dad: No, you can’t, you stupid…
Me: ... yeah, all right…
Dad: Besides, it looks like rain…
Me: Terrific. The other option to a shower, is to get drenched with acid rain instead, at two in the morning… I wonder where you come up with ideas like these…
Dad: Get going, already…
2 AM. I’m supposed to find a cab, unless I want mom to die in child birth, or maybe she would just bleed to death. In a state of urgency such as this, it really helps being sixteen, especially when all you’re legally authorized to drive is a fucking cycle. Although, two kilometers into the journey to the lone taxi stand, I see a secret weapon in my pocket. A few cigarettes, and one joint. It starts to pour now in torrential buckets I suppose. Tropical Rain is hilarious, it creeps up on everyone, and when we turn around, it’s suddenly like we entered a disaster-movie set. The sound, the painful droplets, contribute in an almost awkward sense of liberation. Probably the only kind of liberation we have left in India. There are plenty of superficial alternatives - Festivals; Repetitive Movies; equally blaming and adopting Western Culture, according to what we think is appropriate or not; is quite plainly, a case of us being too hard on everything else and ourselves when life fucks us up. Too bad I’ve figured this out, while Society, in general, rarely pays attention to view-points like these.
A Cig, thank you I’ll have one, I say to myself, I think I’ve earned it for cycling in the rain at two in the morning. I lit it, I smoked a puff, and it gets soaked. I rode the bike for another kilometer, perhaps, and reached a hut. Not a great hut, but it has a roof. I sat on the porch of this place, and if I lean backwards to position my head against the wall, then I’ll be temporarily dry till my knee. My legs, and the cycle resting on them, are getting cleaned well enough for months. I lit the joint.
Water droplets now look like tiny, transparent helium-balloon-like globules, which seem to be losing the helium stored in them, rapidly. The earth smells nicer, even though I have to veer farther away when I encounter flooded dung piles. When I finished that joint, I thought to myself, well, this was a waste. Two minutes of heavy rain later, I’m almost as high as heaven is.
There is this curious notion that a night, or early morning out in India is pretty dangerous. I’m sure it must be. Not everywhere, though. Kerala’s night life is slightly strange. It looks scary. Huddled figures draped in thin blankets, either smoke their last filter less cigarettes, shiver with the damp, or sleep sprawled under park benches, or shop shutters. I don’t know how long it took me to get to the taxi stand, but it looks relatively peaceful here, or rather, everyone and everything seems to be uninterested here. There’s a tiny hotel open, and the cashier’s eating sugar cubes in boredom. Taxi drivers share their own form of gossip, some are playing cards, some are getting pleasantly drunk and sharing family problems, while very few actually stand near their cars, and talk, so they can go ahead, without competition, to every place the customers want to go to.
I stopped by, and watched this scene in a certain sense of calm awe. This is paradise if you’re a loner. Every responsible action is directed towards ourselves, individually; and every thought is based on nothing in particular. Glamorous Solitude, in an odd way. To me, anyway.
As I observe this place, I feel a heavy hand clutching my shoulder. The source of the heavy hand is a cop, and he’s asking me something.
Cop: What are you doing here, at this time of night?
Me: Eh?
Cop: How old are you? And where do you live?
Me: Uh?
Cop: Ganja?
I’m going to deny the charge, firmly, but with as much subtlety as I can possibly muster. Instead, what I’m doing is smiling at him, and nodding my head incessantly at him. Now, the cop is confused, and cops don’t enjoy getting confused.
Cop: Are you joking?
Me: No, not all.
Oh, brilliant. Now, I’ve actually admitted it wasn’t a joke, and expounded the fact that I am, in fact, high. Absolutely fantastic. Now, I’m riding along in a police jeep in the back seat, with one cop driving me to a station for illegal substance-abuse.
Me: Hey, how about going to my house?
Cop: What? What for?
Me: Well, you could speak to my dad.
Cop: Locking you up will bring him to the station, I expect.
Me: Oh, I know, but my house is close by. If you meet him now, he won’t be worried about what happened to me.
Cop: Fucking… all right, you juvenile shit, where is your place?
I gave him directions. I changed the route every few seconds, so by the time we got to my place, he’s positively fuming. I rang my doorbell, and my dad answered the door, expecting to see a taxi, or an ambulance. Instead, he sees a police jeep. And a pissed off cop.
The cop, entered, to see Dad’s disheveled hair and clothes, and wonders if he has to break the news of my arrest at this time.
Cop: What’s going on here?
Dad: My wife’s pregnant… I sent him out, to fetch a taxi. Is there anything wrong?
Cop: No, there aren’t any taxis tonight I suppose, get your things, I’ll drive you people to a hospital.
Mom and Dad are huddled and driven off, while I stay with Sara. The cop will probably mention it to my dad, after mom’s admitted. Oh well, I put Sara to sleep, by reading her a story she likes. It’s fucking boring to me. I don’t think little kids understand emotional stories really. They can understand humor though, but not emotions. I think. When emotional stories are read, they look at the adults, and observe how the adults react to reading the emotional material. They then teach themselves to behave in a similar fashion as they get older - so if children have dim-wit parents, they usually end up dim-wits themselves. Not always, of course, but generally. Quite possibly. After I had put her to sleep, and start to read some book, I heard a knock on my door. I opened it to find the cop looking at me with a blank expression.
Cop: I didn’t mention the drug-thing to your dad.
Me: Oh? Uh… thanks.
Cop: I’m afraid I have some bad news. Your mom is dead. Sorry.
Me: … Um…
Cop: If you could pick up your sister, I could drive you to the hospital.
Me: Uh yeah… Ok.
We drove to the hospital in silence, while I rocked Sara to sleep. After dealing with a deranged father, and a confused sister, and a fast burial, it took a week for dad to kill Sara, and himself, with poisoned food. I missed out on the opportunity, by arriving late after school.
As I thought to myself that life couldn't get any worse, I slipped out of my deranged imagination, and I’m still looking at the taxi stand. I ordered a tea, and a driver accidentally drops some sugar-cane juice on me. As he apologized; me, being my stoned self; explained how it wasn't a problem, since it’s raining anyway. He started to talk about movies, I responded, and soon there’s a crowd of taxi drivers, all discussing the film industry.
Twenty minutes later, I get hit on the head a few times, and I’m rushing in the backseat of a cab, with an angry driver, to my house.
Me: Look, I forgot…
Driver: Oh shit, I forgot, my mom’s gotta deliver. Now. I can’t believe it somehow missed your attentive memory that your mother needs to go to hospital.
Me: Well… temporarily…
We got to the house, mom and dad leave to the hospital, I improvised a story for Sara.
Me: The Pink pony, lived in a land of bronze buildings, and discovered, there were no other ponies in the magical bronze land. So, it took the large bronze elevator, to the top of the tallest bronze building in the land. And jumped off without a parachute. The End.
Sara: Does that mean the pony flew down?
Me: Well, it does mean the pony landed.
Sara: What happened when it landed?
Me: It transformed into a marshmallow. Only flatter, and more scattered.
Sara started to weep.
Me: What’s wrong? Are you sad because the pony died?
Sara: No. the pony could learn to live alone.
Me: What?
Sara: The pony could get a house, and live there.
Me: You’re more intelligent than I thought you were, you know?
Sara: What’s intelligent?
Me: That means you’re a smart kid.
Sara smiles at me, sleepily, and dozes off.
As corny as this sounds, this was what happened. I’m afraid Mom did die in child birth. And dad and Sara ceased to exist a week later. What I was left with was a college fund, no responsibilities, and a tiny room I could afford to live in for a few years, after I sold our house.
College consisted, in large parts, to make myself something other than this engineering thing I had to go through. I wanted to be a writer. Somehow, I passed Engineering, and decided to devote my time writing stuff, instead of handing out CV’s like some sort of bureaucratic slave trade. Neither worked out like I wanted to. Then, the letter arrived.
the Writing Room
The only thing I’m really addicted to, are new ideas.
Writing, is something I can manage to do, irrespective of whatever mood I’m in. And during my bouts of Mania, I’m perfectly fine, with the thought of working with old ideas. Depression, is way too off-limits to this, in the sense, good ideas are the only things that really cheer you up. Nothing else, nothing else matters, and most importantly, I don’t deserve to live, I’m useless, starts to play, in loud, booming loops, right inside your own head. Pleasant, it isn’t.
When I finish writing, though, I look at the piece entirely, and think to myself, What can I add to it. If it feels like exhausted material with the details it already contains, I take a day to do something entirely unconnected, and look at the writing again. If my head still thinks there’s nothing more to be added, I post it.
However, when I think something else could be added, it’s a harder process, because now, I have to think if there’s any funny or skeptical detail I could add to the existing material, reading it again, on adding new afterthoughts. If the new structure of the story seems weird enough, it’s posted in a few minutes.
Hmm… maybe a really airy room? Bare, for the most part, nearly-opaque natural light, just a couple of chairs, and a large, low desk. Cabinets are built closer to the floor. So, large room, very airy, not a lot of light either. I shall color it light grayish blue. I almost sound like a aristocratic moron now.
Wait a second. Draw it.
I drew it.
And I sketched a room.
And I sketched an absurd house. Hey, if this uncle dude wants a house, where his ashes could be scattered into the foundation, so be it. Here’s something completely ridiculous to rest in.
How about a Study Room next? A place to read, and refer books; so it could be attached to what’s called the Records Room, which is a Library of Books, Movies, and a Music Collection. Although, the Movies and Music can’t be played in the Library. There are Television sets and DVD Players in both the Bedroom, and the Lounge; the Lounge has an attached porch, and an attached Guest room. That’s it. The kitchen is on the farthest end, facing the road side. The Bedroom has an attached Bathroom, and there’s another Bathroom attached to the Guest Room. And there’s a staircase near the Master Bedroom, that leads upwards to what I call Suspended Animation.
Doesn’t anyone else get it, that Lyrics Limit Musicians? Lyrics are meant to be add-ons to a piece of music, not vice versa. No? Oh well, just an unconnected thought, sorry...
Anyway, I built this thing, and then find out this dead guy’s hidden clause to the will. Once I build the house, it’s my house, and I get the rest of his stuff too. I moved in. Ironically, I sketched myself, a house.
Engineering Initials
Strangely enough, people saw this weird structure on top of a hill, and liked what they saw. I started getting demands from random design houses, about recruiting me as an architect. Even though I refused all of it, I got this call from a major corporation last week. They insisted I would have the major rights to every design. They even suggested, that I could call the company Abode Designer, with a personalized logo. I must confess, that’s the slickest marketing gibberish I’d heard in some time. I didn’t say anything really objectionable to that at the time, I fixed a meeting instead.
They were ready to pay me for every design I created. I said, if that was the case, the materials which were assembled as the building blocks should arrive embedded with my initials, so that would make me the major share-holder, and all the major profits come to me. They said it wasn’t possible, unless they got more projects. So, I said, use Advertising to get in as many projects as you want. Because the Intellectual Copyright comes to me, as well as a share of the profits, and those are put into my personal funds, collected, and spend on the welfare of backward social pockets, with assisted Health Care, Education, and Housing. So, some of the profits reach the poor, and the disenfranchised. Thereby, reducing the gaps in Standards of living, and Education, between the different social classes.
They asked me how all this would benefit both of us. I answered with something to the effect of, If we reduce the gaps between social classes, in terms of Improved living standards and Education , there aren’t as many causes for War, Poverty, and Ignorance. At fearful, agitated times like these, it isn’t that bad a prospect, is it? We live in a world currently experiencing, or awaiting, the effects of War; Poverty; an Economic Crisis; Dystopian anti-Privacy initiatives, whether it’s about spying on citizens, or micro-chipping our bodies; Bureaucratic Anti-Piracy; Nuclear Fear; Religious Extremism; Sexist Intolerance; Racial Profiling; Personal Rights Violations; a Homicidal, Conformist, Misinformed, a Branded Student Generation; and Global Climatic Armageddon. Shouldn’t some logical solution, to any of the above, be used? Maybe I’m wrong. Sure.
This was my offer. I suppose it was a little too mad, even for them.
They, quite understandably, refused.
Twin Sequenced Autobiography
What happened instead, was this.
I got invited to this local panel show, to be filmed at this local boarding school, to discuss Moral Perspectives, and the Decline of Morality in Modern Society. One of the panelists, I soon found out, was a morally-superior dick head, asking kids to never even glance at the opposite sex, to keep praying, to learn everything from the books prescribed to them, and he went on to say, Success isn’t about finding who you are. It’s about obedience without question, to what should be done, as per what Elders demand. And the only way, to fight Bipolarity, responsibly, is a responsible Relationship.
Trust me, this wasn't a comedy show. It was truly meant to be taken seriously. This shit-head actually called himself an ex-bipolar. I was momentarily mesmerized, by the use of politically-correct adjectives to describe Values with the narrowest ideological pointers I’d heard all evening.
And, for some unfathomable reason, this speaker seemed to be directing his argument at me, for an answer, as if he expected some sort of personal-retaliatory-assault to hammer in his view-point more effectively. I, on the other hand, couldn’t stop grinning at him, until I finally realized I’d probably piss off this unreceptive Ignoramus if I kept smiling and didn’t answer. Which wasn't exactly something I wanted to do. If I stayed unreceptive and condescending enough, he'd get off my case, entirely. Instead, I pulled off an un-reactive facial expression, and tried to calmly present an argument.
In an Infinite Universe, such as the one we live in, we are all both Unique, and Inconsequential.
Why do we need to engage ourselves, in self-important indulgences, or finite, illogical beliefs?
That activity, is relatively useless. It is Intellectually, and Sensibly, Futile.
Relationships aren’t necessary to overcome Bi-polarity. The interaction ends, when there isn’t an interest to learn more from the person in question. What most people do, though, is accept what little is known, and cling onto it, accepting no new angles, which really is an indication that human beings, are insecure beings. What Manic-Depressives do, is simmer in the delight of having learnt what was learned in a limited space of time, moving on to explore newer interests and facts, about other Experiences. Not ; and I can’t stress this enough; not Persons. Personal accomplishments; no matter how hard anyone tries to convince themselves with that irrational belief; does not evolve with Relationships, Accumulated Economic Wealth, or Morals. Personal Wealth evolves with the logical, lucid understanding of the fact that Enriching and Explaining Natural Curiosity probably is the only task our species needs to fulfill. Think of what kind of creatures we are, and what we’re capable of. We have developed Language which enables us to communicate, and argue any possible / impossible idea. We can demonstrate most things with Skepticism and the scientific method. We can build most things, because we have Opposable Thumbs. Finally, we have an organ that creates alternate worlds, which are skewered versions of reality, which makes us capable of Objective Thought. We are capable of informing, inspiring, and explaining things better, with Free thought and Art. Maybe, it should’ve stayed that way. Historically, the Age of Learning deteriorated a lot, ever since the Spartans defeated the Athenians in ancient battles, maybe briefly revisited, during the Renaissance, and the Hippie era, but that’s about it. If we barely comprehend a thought this simple, then our brief period of existential pursuits, and our perceptions, are worthless.
Didn't go well with public opinion, as you might have guessed by now.
This was a Demented self-account of my life. The readers may believe the parts they think are believable enough.
Open Space, and Suspended Animation
There’s isn’t a lot of open space around, but it is a tiny, obscure hill. Therefore, it’s isolated, and serene.
Except during Rainstorms.
In popular cultural references, rain is tagged along to Gloom, or something Lame… To me, it’s soothing. I guess it gives me the same feeling, as any of you people would feel, while having what you would call a wonderful day, at some Lousy Beach, or Discotheque.
Solitary Contemplation isn’t a bad vice. It’s the same with Pot, Uncertainty, and Constant Curiosity.
Life, I suppose, does not contain a limited number of paths to take. Although… it’s up to us, to create loads of unique paths, by ourselves, for ourselves. If the Experimentation of Uniqueness never stops, individually, in everyone, then no one could be tied-down to anything.
Drenched, and Stoned, I feel the wind lashing at the rain, and lashing at everything else in its path too. People at other homes around here, are probably freaking out, and gibbering bullshit they don’t understand themselves out of fear. Here’s the fun bit. The rain’s louder than cries of distress, and panic. Nature’s innovative technique to cloud out the whining sounds we generally make, and to visually impair itself, so it could ignore looking at examples of immense Human stupidity and whining paranoia. We aren’t important to nature. Are we clear on this, Nature does not care.
We need to create the Scientific, Artistic, Entertaining, Informative and Wise, even though we will eventually die, and all our achievements, information, and culture will disappear, be lost in vague spaces of time, or destroyed, forever.
Life, curiously enough, is mildly interesting this way. Do not deny yourselves enlightened bliss, if you can help it.
END
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