A Small Celebration

A while ago I realized that my blog had scored more than 3000 hits. So I celebrated. I gave myself pleasure-  a delicious chocolate cupcake and a mug of tea while listening to this:

I had a craving for chocolate, for cake, for tea and for this particular song. At that moment in time, it made little sense, but now my delusional mind is creating a link between my choice of music and a divine message delivered to me by the Great Cosmos.

(Nice name for a band- Great Cosmos.)

Anyway, I started this blog more than a year ago. Rereading my first post, dated November 4, 2010, gave me the feeling that this blog was intended to be a literary review place. I don't even remember what I envisioned this would become. I think I wanted to make money, but I don't know what motivated me to continue posting even after Google flat out refused my AdSense.

I started blogging around the time I quit my first job. I quit because the only other employee of this particular SEO company, who also happened to be its owner and my boss, got on my nerves.

Ironically, he was the only person outside of my close group of friends who had ever appreciated my writing, let alone offered me money for it. For the first time, I thought of myself as a writer. A literary whore, so to speak. A few months and a check from a local elite e-magazine (which I stopped working for because it was too mainstream) later, I had the chance to write for a paper. Like, a real paper, printed with ink on paper and distributed on lorries to many corners of the island. It was a tough job and I whined a lot. But I also liked it, a lot.

Around that time, something happened to me. Actually, many things happened, but one thing stands out in importance in this particular context- I turned into a robot. You know them CAPTCHA shit, right? I started failing those. I began spilling out well-structured, grammatically-correct sentences. They dropped one by one, like stones into a pond, sinking lifelessly to its bottom.

Rewind.

A bit about me- I was never trained to write. I'm mostly self-taught. I was actually that girl in specs who sat in the front row of math classes overrun by testosterone. But from the time I could form words, I had been writing. My first original piece was a poem about a Christmas tree. No, I didn't write it in school. I wrote it on Christmas eve, in a breeze of joy after my brother and I had finished decorating the tree in our living room.

Then came my angst-filled years of early teenage. I wrote passionately and prolifically, every single night. Even seeing those pages and pages of discolored exercise books filled with sprawling handwriting about how much I hate my parents gives me shudders. *shudder*

That's how passionate I used to be. But now, in comparison, I'm dead.

I don't write anymore.

Remember I told you I began to think of myself as a writer? That was one of the most embarrassing lies I have ever lived. I read somewhere that no one is ever a writer. We humans, we write. We write to communicate- to prescribe medicine, to instruct how to operate a food processor, to prosecute and kill another for killing. We also write to record history, to vent our frustrations, to change the world.
But no one is ever a writer. The minute you stop writing, you are a writer no more. And if being a writer was your sole identity, you drop dead the minute you lift your pen from paper, or raise your fingers from the keyboard.

Real writers are storytellers, and that is everything I'm not. I fantasize, like all the time. But somehow I have never had the discipline to harness these kinky fantasies of mine and make them cum alive on paper. (Pun intended.)

But I know I want to. Someday.

This post is already too damn long and sleep calls, so I'll finish off by saying that my dream is to someday have the power to make people, my minions the world over, jizz at my command. 

Pi... a Descend into Chaos

As recommended by a Stranger, I got my hands on Pi (1998), a brilliant work of cinematic art written and directed by Darren Aronofsky, who- as the stranger pointed out- also happens to be the director of Requiem for a Dream and Black Swan, two of my favorite movies of all time.

Interestingly, Stranger failed to mention (and perhaps even notice) that the friendly neighbor, Devi, in Pi and the not-so-friendly nurse in Requiem for a Dream are actually played by the same actress, Samia Shoaib.

Well, if you found that bit of trivia interesting, wait for this-

What is that makes these three movies truly brilliant? What is it that gives them the power to sink under your skin? Is it the cinematography, the brilliant acting, or the mind-fuckery? In my opinion, it is all that, and the music, the canvas on which all these elements are played out on.

Clint Mansell in Pi

It came as a very pleasant surprise to me that the music for all three movies was done by the same genius of a musician, Clint Mansell. This Golden Globe Award nominated composer has an unparalleled talent for recreating classical music,- by Mozart in Requiem for a Dream and by Tchaikovsky in Black Swan- and adding an edgy and dark taste of modernity to compliment the visual madness conceived by Aronofsky.

And here is more trivia for you- Mansell makes a surprise appearance in Pi, as the photographer in the subway.

What subway, you ask? Here, let me tell you more about Pi.

A nightmare in grainy black and white, Pi follows a young genius' gradual descend into insanity. Maximillian Cohen is a young number theorist, whose strong conviction that all things form a pattern discernible by mathematics leads him on a quest to find this same nature in the stock market.

"Restate my assumptions: One, Mathematics is the language of nature. Two, Everything around us can be represented and understood through numbers. Three: If you graph the numbers of any system, patterns emerge... So, what about the stock market? The universe of numbers that represents the global economy. Millions of hands at work, billions of minds. A vast network, screaming with life. An organism. A natural organism. My hypothesis: Within the stock market, there is a pattern as well... Right in front of me... hiding behind the numbers. Always has been."

But Cohen is not the only one interested in this discovery. His findings are of obvious monetary value to a Wallstreet firm. A cult of Jews are also on the hunt for this number that they believe will serve as the key to understanding the universe, and ultimately, finding God. The insanity unravels as Max comes closer and closer to what he calls "genius".

Stranger spoke of stylistic elements, and I definietly see what he meant there. The recurring theme in Aronofsky's work seems to concern itself with the maddening chase of desire and passion, and that is precisely what Pi is all about. This psychological thriller will leave you deeply disturbed, I promise. It will also prove that it is brilliant minds that create art, not big budgets.

The Road

There should be a word to describe the feeling you get when you finally read the book that has been tumbling around in your mind for more than a year, that story that has been torturing you, imploring to be put on to paper, but vanishing the minute you raise a pen in your fingers. A feeling concocted by the people you have met in your mind who suddenly come to life in the pages of a book written by someone else.

That is what I experienced when I read The Road by Cormac McCarthy. Except it wasn't the exact same feeling because his story wasn't exactly mine.

His Pulitzer Prize winning novel is grey and bleak, yet full of the color of emotion. Set in a post-apocalyptic hell, his story makes us witnesses to the ruin of civilization. The enigmatic quest of a father and his young son is filled with a desperate sadness and undying hope.

It was an easy but slow read. One that gave me the perception of tottering along a never-ending road myself. Through its simplicity, McCarthy has achieved in his story an acuteness akin to reality, and created characters live and heartfelt.

This fits into the cabinet of 'Modern Fiction'. To anyone unfamiliar with this style of writing, expect no story, no ghastly climaxes in plot development, no end. This is one of those books that is a mere experience. One that you will feel yourself- the cold, the hunger, the hopelessness.

But to be completely honest, I won't say The Road is one of my favorites. I enjoyed it, a lot, but not immensely. May be, just may be, it was because I lacked the discipline to read it in one go. Or perhaps the realization that my writing will never compare made me a bitter old lady.

The Art of French Love

I just finished watching Amelie (2001), and I am still somewhat dazzled. Whimsical and full of color, it was a French fairy tale played out on the neatly-paved streets of Paris.

Critics before me have pointed out that everything about it- the characters, the plot, the scenery- is unrealistic. The Paris of Amelie is portrayed as this haven of coffee-drinking White people, wandering about like teenagers preoccupied with thoughts of amor.

However, one cannot help but be charmed by the surreal world of love and all things good and beautiful the movie creates. A world of small details and happy endings. So I guess it is no wonder that Amelie became a big hit, especially in the French-speaking parts of the world. It also won a bunch of awards including a bagful of Academy Award nominations including those for the Best Art Director, Best Sound and Best Foreign Film.

But I decided I won't do review of this one. Instead, let me take you on a train of thought. Amelie was too full of "dafuq?" moments. In spite of the face-palms, I was a ball of giggles, clutching my pillow and rolling around on my mattress by the end of it. That is when I realized that this was a different kind of love story. It was a French love story. And that made all the difference.

I was born in the heart of European mainland (and perhaps the seeds of European-freedom are blooming somewhere inside me still- think nude beaches), but I was raised South Asian and educated British (note- Britain is not Europe. Know the difference.) And like everyone of my generation, I came of age infused with all things America.

I wonder sometimes if my fallings and failings in love would have been different if I hadn't been raised on Dawson's Creek and Sweet Valley Highs. (Full of stories of teenage love and other acts of hormone-induced sodomy, these books with pouty-lipped girls on glossy covers were absolutely forbidden on the premises of the ultra-Buddhist girls' school I attended. But of course we always found ways to sneak 'em in).

That is how we learnt of Love. How to find it, how to keep it and how to lose it- we learnt all that and more. I remember my amusement when I learned some nonsense in the Princess Diaries movie about your foot popping up when you kiss for the first time. All that happened to me the first time was the bits of pizza that were between his teeth were somehow not there after. And that is disgusting.

The scripts we follow in life we pick up from around us. I learn these things in the classes I take but let me try not to bore you with academic details.

Basically, we learn from around us, try these things out, and gather the reactions of the world. That is how we learn to behave, to conform, to function as humans. But this mechanism of learning changes when we start picking up from artificial worlds- movies, paperbacks and other things fake. We play out roles conceived in some balding scriptwriters fantasies and try to mold our lives into the shells we are made to believe we belong in. The I-love-yous we say, the gifts we give on mothers' day and sounds we make at orgasm we pick up from this Platonic idealistic world of Hollywood. (To speak nothing of the American porn industry that has become the world's Hitchhikers Guide to the Bedroom. Didn't we all, at some point, learn to do it like they do on the Discovery Channel?)

I imagine I would be a whole different person if those impressionable years of my life had been filled with more Bollywood. May be instead of writing I would have been singing, dancing and planning a big wedding now.

Allow me to take my imagination further. To me, the Art of French Love, at least judging from Amelie, revolves more around passion. Love at first sight instead of the detailed, derailed relationships everyone seems to have problems with. French love to me seems young- a free fall of emotions. May be that is why tongue-action is more appropriately referred to as French kissing? May be, just may be, I would be less cynical if I watched more of this cheesy stuff?

Requiem for a Dream

Requiem for a Dream (2000) is perfection, in every sense of the word.

I had already watched halfway through the movie when my brother suggested we watch it together, from the beginning. I did not throw a tantrum as a sister should, but gladly obliged. Why, you ask? Well only because this movie was so awesome. In fact, it was so awesome, I could watch it all over a dozen times without ever getting bored.

As most good movies, this one is also based on a book. It was published as a novel by Hubert Selby, Jr. in 1978 under the same title.

Set in New York. this gripping story is based around four interconnected characters, whose simple dreams are shattered by the substances they seek refuge in.

Harry (Jared Leto, vocalist of 30 Seconds to Mars) and Marion (Jennifer Connelly) are lovers. They play the naive and rebellious youths whose love and dreams seem to them invincible. Harry's mother (Ellen Burstyn) is a lonely widow. Living in a shabby apartment and troubled by her only son's behavior, she finds solace in television and food. But her world is filled with a hope and happiness akin to that of youthfulness when she receives an invitation to be on TV. She prepares eagerly, dyes her hair and goes on a diet. Following a neighbor's suggestion she sees a doctor who can help her shed pounds faster. She begins a regiment of diet pills that not only help suppress her appetite but also make her feel good.

Harry's friend Tyrone (Marlon Wayans) dreams of "making it" and escaping the oppression of the ghetto, and it is with his help that Harry gets into a business of working as a "sort of a distributor like for a big importer." With the quick money they make, Harry and Marion dream of starting a small business- a clothes boutique for which Marion excitedly starts designing.

But by the end of Summer, their lives begin to spiral out of control, as one by one, they begin to succumb to their own addictions.

I cannot tell you what I loved more about this movie- the perfect cast, the beautiful plot, the creative editing,  or the mind blowing theme music. In fact, I got so excited about the music- a minimal and edgy mix of electronic and classical- that I downloaded the entire album.

This movie is enticing. It calls you over to the dark side and gives you a taste of the forbidden fruit. But when the fall begins, and as the characters you watched grow with new-found hope, begin to crumble, trust me, you will be scared.

I was. I was suddenly very afraid.

I hope this movie takes you on an equally good trip. Here is some music to give you a foretaste.

Saying Good Bye to Summer

Summer is flying by faster than I ever imagined, and here dawns July. Chances are we might all die in a Big Blast (or worse, a Zombie Apocalypse- though I prefer the term White Walker Invasion) later this year, so may be it is time we start saying our goodbyes.

July also marks the birth of a very special person- me! I am currently plotting grand ways of saying goodbye to my childhood. The difficult thing with that of course is that I am still a child. Not in a bad way though.

Half of the vacation that I was so eagerly looking forward to has ended, and it seems, almost uneventfully. My plans of excursions have so far only stayed as plans. I did do a bunch of fun things and met up with a bunch of very fun people (contrary to what you may have heard, I do have friends). I have also been consuming copious amounts of tea, and other things.
Another thing I promised myself, and the gods, is that I would write. July is also a National Novel Writing month and I was supposed to join in on the fun. The difficult thing with that is that I am in another phase of brain freeze again. But with or without the blessings of Muse, I will write this month, even if that amounts to nothing but piles of bullshit.