Writing Woes

Susila, writing is not only agonising but also ...(what's that word ..it means something which is predicated on ...'predicated' that is again a lofty word ..'predicated' like some philosophical musing... 'philosophy' that had humble beginnings ..why 'humble' ...what a funny word ..sounds like that Russian prince Ambal who features in the stories of Saint Tryphon, 'Saint' ...funny that Saint is not Saint when used on Edna St. Millay, why did Edna break up with her lovers in letters. 'Letter' ...they are so transformative ...that koochie koo between Brownings happened in letters, Gogh was scratching away rapturous letters to his bruh, Lovecraft inspired his proteges in letters, and that first letter between Verdi and Count of Cavour. 'Verdi', his grief was unleashed in his Va Pensiero. 'Va pensiero' and 'La marseillaise' are revolutionary ideas and words. Those ancient wanderers in Babylon ...Verdi talks of ...sitting and singing and writing, when they were sitting and singing and writing what was happening on the other side of the world, what were they singing and 'writing' ...the Japanese must be writing their 'sangaku' and devising temple geometry. 'Sangaku', Sudoku, Haiku, what's with this 'ku' fascination in Japanese words. But Japan has inspired so many artistic forms ..infact they have a word for such inspiration ..Japonisme, but then the Chinese also had Chinoiserie (Chinese-inspired) and the Turks had their Turquerie (Turkish-inspired). Gyh! At this rate I would never be able to write back to Susila ...cease that drift). So, Susila, writing is not just agonising but (what is that elusive word ..which means ...)

 

Aah! You spotted that hilarity! I thought that 'hilarity' leaked out of my wonky writing and in its place was overlaid a pall of melancholy. I moan a lot but with such enthusiasm and jollity. (pat to me). Or so I thought I was being funny. But then I realised that my 'fun' fell flat like my patsy roti which refuses to fluff up. I realize why writing is constipated for me because my construal of fun itself is impoverished. This is a serious existential crisis in my interactive flair. Sartre and Botton, here I come. Lend me your anguish and motivation.

Leave my shorthand and typewriting report card at the door. I will pick it up later (sob! sob!).

 

Creeps! I am thinking how would I write about myself. I indulge now and then in writing dating/matrimonial profiles for my single friends. It is a different matter that they rip it and write their own later on reading my absurd writing. Thinking, if I were to write about myself ...résumé for a company (nah! boring), rather, a matrimonial biodata (wah! interesting) this is how it would be.

System: Please fill 'Who am I'.

Hey there, who am I... I am still discovering. I am learning with each passing day to predict my moves and motives and alliterating manias and irrational behaviour and inscrutable prejudices. I am midway in probing this 5-foot-something when I had to reboot from the existential crisis engendered by this inquiry that has encircled me. Don't worry. This does not happen too often only when the brain is on an overdrive with alliterating, that is, all kinds of iterating, diction.

I am back after the reboot. Who am I? Picture a vain, addled, sneery, and slimy creature and ha! your imagination would still fall short of my glorious persona. I am not your next door girl or even your next neighbourhood girl. Don't even think of the city. I am unusual. I am a relic. I am not your ‘seen-somewhere’ girl, neither am I your ‘seen-struck’ girl. You won't turn twice at me immediately. You will look at me and then walk miles and then turn for my smile and scent would have haunted you (I told you I am vain!).

You would tease me a million times: “I have never come across a woman like you”. To which, I would excitedly answer every time: “I swallowed my twin.” You would be exasperated with me and scream a million times: “I HAVE NEVER COME ACROSS A WOMAN LIKE YOU.” To which, I would thoughtfully answer each time, “Imagine two of me! Your life is doomed.”

I am a nobody. I prefer it that way. I have toiled craftily to be perceived as that ‘nobody’ who can rejoice minding her own business. Who am I? I am somebody who never answers or writes straight. I am that everybody who thinks one day they will discover the answer to that query ‘who am I’. By now, you have either lost sense or not keen on one. If former, then withdraw. If latter, then who are you? I am interested.

System: What is this? I asked you to fill 'Who am I'. Not nonsense. Invalidated.

 

There are two kinds of munificent correspondents. The first kind make you feel good. The second kind convince you that you are good. You hold the distinction of the latter kind. Picture how it would have been had my mom swallowed a pen during her pregnancy and I arrived holding one as the doctors pulled me out thinking it was my limb and I tumbled with a chewed pen. I would have been cult-worshipped as reincarnated saraswathi in my neighbourhood and my mom would curse herself on such rabid popularity for not having swallowed a tv remote instead.

A sight digression. In my school, we used to have those competitive 'Captainship' and 'House' and 'Championship'. I was never a Captain for any House. We didn't have any sorting hats. The allocation was preferential wherein a Captain elected by the faculty would in turn choose their immediate First Mates. And the rest were randomly dispersed. This conclave was held annual at the beginning of the school year. Each House held distinction in a field, say, a House for literary chops, another for athletics, another for fine arts. I used to pray to be picked up by that Nautanki House renowned for dance. That House was popular for dance orchestrations which merited high points (I think 25 points) in the final Championship during annual day. I desperately wanted to shine through in that Nautanki House. When the Captains used to pick First mates, I would pray (I was willing to believe in God for a miracle back then) to be transported to my favourite house.

I was brutally grabbed by that rogue Literary House. I hated it! I was not good at writing. I am not lying. I can talk. They assumed that such talky character might also scribble and earn points for the House. My essays back then were horrible! Error prone on boring subjects. I would flail the opponents in a debate but essays were not my forte. Never. You were made to sit in a forlorn room and given a dry topic "Write about unity in diversity". I wrote so many essays fraught with pain and tears. I never won any award for my essays.

However, as the Literary House was wobbly in dancing skills, I got the opportunity to train dancers for this House. We never won any award for dance also. (My school was big on extra-curricular and extra-mural events). That paradigm 'shark in a small pond' is true. By virtue of being in a House with inadequate dancing skills, though I was earmarked for literary events, I plodded in invigorating the listless dance troupe. My association with that House made it seem like I was part of the literary cohort but my secret passion was free-styled (not classical) dance. I am not very connected with my school mates. Even today when someone buzzes me, hey, I got your contact from so and so, remember that dance we did, I lit up. O! ywah! that ragtime dance.

 

If someone reads my proxied profile, they won't get carried away but they will get driven away. My friends chuck the version I write on their behalf and prefer the customary and bland "I am smart, obedient , beautiful, intelligent, modern, loving, caring, doting" (yawn!)" So far, none of the commissioned and enlivening profiles I have scribbled have been published. Duh!

As a teenager, I struggled in getting things right, that is, avoiding mistakes. I would be paralysed with decision-making tree. I realised such pursuit is futile. Instead, I developed the ability to leap over mistakes, resilience is paramount. Commit a mistake, it's also ok to redo it. But ensure that you surmount any guilt or fall out from that mistake readily. Rather than fester over a mistake for prolonged time [days, months, years], firmly commit a mistake, analyse and reflect on it, and get over it quickly with the inference that you may again commit the same mistake but this time your resilience is also built into that folly.

One cannot avoid mistakes. They change form and shape and challenge you like a steadfast virus. Our best shot is recovery rather than avoidance. My two-bit advice. I spent considerable time in my teenage pondering on this topic. This introspection is close to my heart. Commit it, commiserate it, close it! My 3-C rule on happy state. I have come a long way with mindful practice but I pride myself in adhering to this 3-C rule.

Annoyances that take days to get over can easily be overlooked in minutes. It may not be built into our primal system but can be acquired as peripheral guidance system with mindful practice. I don't know why...when I talk to you I philosophise so much.

Men are always confounded when it comes to a woman. This is again a topic that is heavily and threadbare discussed in my circle. Women moan on the inability of men to grasp outright gestures of a woman, and men moan on the deviant ministrations of their counterparts. Before the wedding, a man would infer "we need to talk" meant simply to talk holding hands but only after the wedding he would calibrate that confrontation "we need to talk" as "I need to talk about you. I need to talk about your parents. I need to talk about your upcoming football event. I need to talk about our finances. I need to talk about your unvarnished FB posts. I need to talk about my volatile feelings. I need to talk about my runaway emotions. I need to talk about our baby we have planned three years from now." For a man to escape from such pressing talk is futile. I was told by a male friend that the phrase 'we need to talk' strikes him with an aneurysm.

I have never thought of myself as a spiritual person. I do philosophise a lot amidst congenial friends. Friends as wonky as I am and who also write winding treatises like I do. I have thought of dipping my feet in spirituality for some time now, a peek at its trappings, but never got around to doing it. I could be wrong but I find spirituality hazy with abstract creed for inner calling. I am unsure I can follow that signpost for inner awakening but I have been proved wrong by people. Who knows ..when I dip those feet I might get pulled and shackled in spirituality. I like an agile and feisty brain, hence these misgivings of being sanitised of my errant demons with palliative spirituality.