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Thursday 20 September 2012

I am the Lizard King. I can do anything.


I like the fact that all my work, in random writing or design or elsewhere, is reminiscent of some treasured strands of feeling. Strands which I like to keep close, like a little boy clutching onto his toy airplane. I remember that time. That year. It was the month of April in 2003. 

Numbers ending in three have never been good for me. I like even numbers. And if its an even number multiple (like 24, 48), its bound to be good for me. Just. It was at the time I had just given my board exams, the test which determines your social standing, your families' standing and the university you get into, in that exact order of priority for my parents and peripheral concerned beings. The only reason why that time is one of those treasured strands is because, that at that time, the possibilities were endless.

I would think up new things and career's everyday, day dreaming and many times making real those random dreams... Of the person I could become, of things I was capable of, of the path I could choose. Of course, a lot of that feeling was also as a result of my being sure of very low grades. But, that innocence of saying 'Yes' to anything and everything was beautiful. Do you want to be part of this marketing exercise? Yes. Work in a call center? Yes. Do you want to try designing this? Yes. Would you like to help me shoot this? Yes. Want to be a slave apprentice on a movie set? Yes. 

I simply loved it. I used to love being called a 'nomad'. Oh, that feeling when I would walk with beaty background music in my head after a first time job well executed. It was a roll of 'Eureka!' moments in those days. I owned the world in my own little way. I owned myself. And I could do anything. I was the Lizard King. (Okay, no, that's Morrison's line. Getting carried away now). 

But now, I don't know if it was the right year number for me. I want to try trusting the 3's. I don't know if I own myself. I want to try remembering that background music, every strain of which was so clear to me once. I'm at the point where the world will either swallow me up or ... not. I want my airplane back. 

Today's a simple even numbered day. This should work.

Saturday 28 July 2012

I want to be a boatman.

"Have you ever had that feeling - that you'd like to go to a whole different place and become a whole different self?"

A book I was reading yesterday confronted me with this rather other-worldly parallel universe question. And me, like the sucker to always fall for arguments which talk about fitting-in somewhere wanted to agree. But for once, I did not find myself forcing slight tweaks in personality or phrase in order to fall in line. It was just flowing naturally. And it is a well established fact by now in my universe that if the flow is right, it's all bright. That does sound like a nursery rhyme and it's just perfect for the feeling of innocence from a lost era it helps me keep close.

So, coming back to the question and to answer it with all honesty.

I would love to be a boatman, say somewhere in the interiors of Bolivia, maybe with a farm or two, speaking spanish or maybe not speaking at all and spending my days dreaming up fantastical realities like underwater elf life or planting magic beans by mistake. 

Maybe not the row-row-rowyourboat kind of boat I would won. That's just too many 'rows' and it makes me feel tired and reaching out for my inhaler even as I saw it in my head. But one with the big round precision polished wooden steering wheel and a steam engine. It would be probably called 'Veronica' for lack of appropriate naming mind space in this moment.

I love the paragraph above. It's a whole life. And I love it. And I can even live it. And that for me, is a beautiful feeling.

In reality, though, I'm going back to the start. Way back to the start line. Even before that and beyond. To the time I decided to run. To where they told me that the race is my destiny, that this is what I am supposed to do.

It's like stopping at one of the water counters at the marathon and just dropping out of line casually, to start walking back. There is no drama about it. It's not a walk of defeat. But not of victory either. Not even of disillusionment or one born out of revelation. Cut it with the right background music and it can become anything, my cinematic mind says. 

I'd maybe stop at an ice cream stall, numb up my mouth and deliberate over new flavor ideas or buy some balloons and leave them one by one at sporadic intervals hoping I may accidently be talking an alien language. Just plain wondrous casual walking back with the cool breeze drying up my sweaty self, thinking of the days when the sky being blue and earth round was magical and shoes feeling happy about the unexpected breather.

I'm going back to the start. 
I don't want to play anymore. 
I want to be a boatman.