theoutsider

Gilthoniel A Elbereth!
A Elbereth Gilthoniel
O menel palan-diriel,
Le nallon si dinguruthos!
A tiro nin, Fanuilos!

kissu likhbo na, hooh!

right, since I've dicided to be verbose, let's get along with it. How would I like a blog to be? It's someplace where you can air your views without too many people watching. Well, for me. I wanted the fun of writing online, wanted the fun of writing, actually, and some freedom. No prying eyes, least of all judgements. Last thing I'd care for is something like, Bloggers of Calcutta Unite! Not as if people are falling over themselves reading it here.
But may be it's the job, may be it's how I am, but now, with a job and all, you have to put a lot of yourself away here, talk in weird coded language out of the fear of observers whose existence it's a vanity to presume. So yesterday I had a diary entry like, 3 pages long (usually it's just half a page once in a blue moon when I am feeling too upset to keep it to myself) though I was opening this page to write almost everyday. I even thought of going for another blog.
So here's not the place for my many crushes, fears, frustrations, loneliness (yeah, about that. Too many people who are somewhat like I am situated now are really lonely. It's the same old story- love, friends, places, insomniated nights, parents there but not there- young urban Indian, blah) Why must growing up be so painful. Why must you be royally fucked to cross any bridge? Where's the enjoyment? Oh yeah I am a fanatic cribber, have made a religion out of it.
And there we go again! 'Think will have to quit pretty soon now, this is getting to be the old hackneyed rant again. Oh if it even had the dignity of a rant. Edmund White, Edmund White, where art thou?

Chatwin, Gilmore and a rainy day. ALONE...ah heaven!

I was reading On The Black Hill- Chatwin. It's been a lovely day, I managed to leave myself to myself today.

Chatwin's men are what he called himself in one of his travel books: sterile wanderers. I was thinking about Benjamin, about Utz- transvestism, effeminate homosexuals. And then there are people like Lewis, the usual straight kind, who are prevented from pursuing their proclivities, often straining the fabric of the narrative scheme. And the way the stories end: building up to a tumutuous climax, and then there's this delicate maze- where it's so easy to forget the climax a while after u've read it. It's so all of what Chatwin was- like a supernova, burning itself out. And the world becomes special when viewed through his mild blue eyes- am thinking of the Jerry Bauer phtograph. And I was thinking about the trip that he and Elizabeth had taken , shortly after which they decided to get married- the mercurial nature of it. That that world is there for me to partake of now. But that I'll have to make the magic, it won't come to me of my own accord.
And I was thinking of the way things were going- may be you have to leave familiar surroindings to shake off thr torpor of usuality.
I was reading this gay person's blog whom I knew. And this brilliant insight came to be, that it doesn't matter whether one was what's called gay or straight- I wouldn't be able to take love casually either way. Being queer doesen't make one liberated and one's life full of delightful experiences. Relationships matter, they are not casual. Every person I happen to like, I cannot treat casually, neither treat my feelings for them that way. Can't play around. Hurts too much.
To make of yourself a tabula rasa is an idea I don't care to play with anymore. Life seems to become mundane otherwise. That also brings untold misery. Don't wanna die like Chatwin either. I think of, what's his name- Edmund White, thank god- it's such a balm. There's one love that's absolutely mine. A 'passion' undiluted by opinion. Someday someday I'll do something about it.

And the idea of a date is such bunk!

i smile, and smile

bugger. my blog is not a public forum for people to carry on their adoloscent back-slapping conversation.
what the fuck.
well.

am listening to floyd. fearless, de Meddle.
is it that cool to be a journalist? the facts sure do make it sound rosy. but it's only rarely, for me now, at any rate, that I am also getting a high while doing it, not merely reading about it and feeling cool.
i reach office at about 2, feeling slightly guilty about not doing stuff that needs to be taken care of at home. My supplement is off for this month, so the deal is that we have plenty of storie ready in advance. Which is not something that works really well with me. I work best under threat of time thread being stretched really taut. well, the business with the supplement apart, there's me. And my all-important spiritual well-being. Which, well has gone for the toss for the time being.
I've gotten this theory of late: what is it that turns a girl into a woman? The woman-girl thingy is so corny most of the time. But in most 'females', there is this transition, when they cease to be girls. And the journalist that I am, I report the observation without trying to analyse. Will also report opinions/reactions if get any. See, at some point or other, girls stop hoping that the dreams will come true. The sane ones, most that is, who think that they've gotta survive, that madness is a luxury they can't afford, they become really calm and maternal. Their smiles are sad, resigned. Their happiness is grown up, like they've compromised with life, chosen not to fight in order to live. They've become women. I dunno about guys. They have it as tough as the rest, I guess. Perhaps tougher. There's always an advantage in being the tortured/underprivileged group which is recognised as the suffering/has suffered group.
My friend will come rearing at this sadness theory about women. She'll talk about S.di. And yes, I oh so agree. And the friend thinks differently. It's like what Satyakida said about golamda, 'Golamdake kharap rakha strictly shakto'.

But this stasis, it's getting to me. How much can you learn out of doing something that you are not enjoying? That will be a dead kind of learning.How long will it be this?

And there's the growing up bit. I am becoming different. The JU aura is leaving me. I am getting the skin of the place of the place where I work in. Which is fine, cuz I like the people I work with etc. But there is an inner life, and that is left more and more dissatisfied. Like squeezing out a dry sponge, I keep trying to materialise my dreams for what they are worth, and they refuse to turn into reality. I want constant fun out of my work. Want to be always doing well. Nothing else will give me any peace. And when and if I have that, I shall want more. I am bursting with all the dreams I have dreamt for which I find no outlet at this moment. My demand for supreme love, brilliant success, absolute wildness. Not this stymied, tepid, lukewarm, average thing that I walk through daily.

And yet another time, I did not write what I wanted to. For all that and more, thanksssss.

(uh, interrupting for an antel observation: 'Dogs' bole gaanta pink floyd er . Reba Hore er akta series of crayon sketches dekhechhilam Seagull e: street dogs howling in the night. the song recalls the sketches. Well)

theoutsider

i feel human again. atleast feel my head thawing. bonnie is absolutely out of this world. well, out of this world is probably an overstatement, but he's just so good man. band er gaan and all that stuff begin to make sense only here. the song, in my untutored shotta (well, apart from the 'kring kring kring madhur dhoni, shui tomar agomani' bit)sort of, mon ke shikto kore day. quite apart from the lyrics. the voice, the music, the man. ami khushi, anek khon pore. feel closer to being an human being. less of the futile roshagainst the world for creating creatures like le scum qui j'ai rencontre hier. was feeling terrified even to look at mon homme qui rit comme bete.
now am listening to 'ghare pherar gaan'. i love chandrani's voice. that's all this band has, those lovely, wonderful voices, utterly rich, mellifluous, dripping with vigourousness.
music do me good. god has funny ways, like he's sniggering quietly at my folly. well thanks, thanksssssss.

'akhono shamne path hata bake, chaileo parbe na ditey phaki, nishchoy'- i love you, you bring me back to life. you make me feel young again.

theoutsider

sala baje din. j'ai rencontre un homme aujourd'hui matin. c'etait pas bien, pas bien. ca va mal, ces journees. didi, elle m'a dit que j'apparait 'available'. que'est-ce que je fait. personne comprend, personne comprend. tant de peine. 'ca vaut pas la peine'. je sais pas. comment elle pouvait dire comme ca? elle ne savait pas ca

what the fuck. i am becoming this alien creature that i don't even have the enthu to recognise as myself. i suppose i know on a factual level that it's me, but that's about it.
i am very very upset.

it's a completely different deal: net at home and net at office. now i have forgotten what i meant to write.
but well, oli's not here and i feel really weird, not having spent time away really after the BRC except during vellore, but then i was not the one staying behind.
i met shubhayu offline the other day, also today, actually.
my cd drive has gotten disabled. i feel absolutely shattered about that. well, i guess it's a way of making me shake ass. arr, kichhu hochhe anek i hochhe na. i feel all pent up, like things are really building up, but there's no outlet. somewhere there must be a falling action.

At home. Was reading this uponyash by Shekhar mukhopadhyay (i think) called biboshyoto. don't even know what the word means. reading it, i realised, got a really sharp feel of what not having baba means. for days, even today morning, I was dreaming of some encounter that is so pleasant, so what i seemed to have wanted for a long time. today, it struck home, sort of. It's what makes four year old kid bibashyan break into sobs when he meets his father after three years. it's the memory of love given that exists on a subconscious level. i did not realise it when i had it, and don't remember now it's gone. i do now. even now the feel is alive, like it's happening at this moment. Him, his unconditional love, I called it security. in my dream, it was tenderness. only that, the love, a state of being. and i woke up wanting this so strongly, not quite knowing what it was. the desire to replicate it motivates so many relationships, fledged and unfledged. sometimes i forget. forget what i had been yearning. only the absence, dredged out from memory, niggling, remains.
hahakar kake bole aj janlam.
khub boro shobdo mone hoy.
tumi chole gachho bole ki ar phire ashtey paro na?
it's not fair. to whoever who runs this world, two people should not be turned away thus from each other. my father and i do not deserve it. ami ke bolar. if that is the question, i can tell you i am exactly the person to give an opinion on the matter. and him thati lost.
i am waiting. i am waiting.

theoutsider

in office, and people have had a bout of sudden pujo-end navami(house style) epiphany. there's the bluffmaster title track playing, and everyone seems to be feeling friendly and smiley.
i haven't any work really and am hanging around hoping to go out and eat with my colleagues, with some pandal hopping thrown in for good measure. lets see how all else turns out.