Chris Issak I'm not (sometimes I think that if I was, this would be so much easier), but I guess I'll have to make do.
People I meet usually think I'm very content with my lot in life, which, spatially speaking, is quite large, but actually very inadequate. They're not completely wrong, but they're not completely right either.
I would never, not in a million years, do things differently if I could, and even if I was handed a time machine, I don't think I'd (a) use it at all, or (b) even if I did, would actually CHANGE anything.
Human beings are not supposed to be perfect. Our imperfections are what make us human. Andrea Del Sarto (wrote Robert Browning) was called 'The Faultless Painter'. Leonardo, Michealangelo and all the other Renaissance greats were envious of his ability to draw to perfection. He could 'paint' photographs. But he admitted, quite openly, that the only reason his work would not live on and that of the others would was because his was too cold, too accurate, too mechanical, too perfect. The artisit's responsiblity, Ruskin says, is to convey not only the truth to the viewer, but also his/her (the artist's) own feelings, emotions and passion. The work of art must necessarily embody something of the artist him/herself, otherwise it is mere imitation.
Perfection is not a human atribute. It was never meant to be, nor is it supposed to be. The only perfect human is a dead one, because perfection implies absolution. The only absolute in this life is death, and that is the only certainty.
If we were drawn to the perfect, we wouldn't be human. And if we were satisfied by the perfect (in this world), then God have mercy on our souls.
That is why.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Written to the sounds of Live's I, Alone
Well, that's that. I lay all my cards out on the table, and lost the pot. But it's not that I wasn't warned. And I have no one else to blame but myself.
This is all a little too cliched.
Interrogation
Does the word 'unconditional' not mean in real life what it does in the dictionary?
It'd just be easier to pretend that it never happened, but then, that defeats the whole point of the entire exercise. Those 24 hours were among the best I'd ever spent, and the ironic part is that I was miserable throughout, but it didn't matter.
Revalation
The word 'perfect' is illusory. There is no such thing as perfect in this world. It there were, it would create a paradox and the world woudl come to an end.
The lie
Somehow, lying comes more naturally to human beings than honesty, but does that mean that we can never tell the truth, ever?
The resolve
It's easier to hang my head and cry. The challenge would be to hold my head up and live, even when I know what I know. It's not that I don't care what happened, I do. I know that it will haunt me forever (forever is a long time). And of course, I can't let it go, because then I will be doing what I hate most. To remember is my responsibility. It is the curse that I must live with.I still love you, and every time I say that, I drive a stake through my heart. But its easier to regret something that you did rather than something you didn't do.But I do not regret it. Not now, not ever.
The end
This is all a little too cliched.
Interrogation
Does the word 'unconditional' not mean in real life what it does in the dictionary?
It'd just be easier to pretend that it never happened, but then, that defeats the whole point of the entire exercise. Those 24 hours were among the best I'd ever spent, and the ironic part is that I was miserable throughout, but it didn't matter.
Revalation
The word 'perfect' is illusory. There is no such thing as perfect in this world. It there were, it would create a paradox and the world woudl come to an end.
The lie
Somehow, lying comes more naturally to human beings than honesty, but does that mean that we can never tell the truth, ever?
The resolve
It's easier to hang my head and cry. The challenge would be to hold my head up and live, even when I know what I know. It's not that I don't care what happened, I do. I know that it will haunt me forever (forever is a long time). And of course, I can't let it go, because then I will be doing what I hate most. To remember is my responsibility. It is the curse that I must live with.I still love you, and every time I say that, I drive a stake through my heart. But its easier to regret something that you did rather than something you didn't do.But I do not regret it. Not now, not ever.
The end
Saturday, June 10, 2006
Three is just one person too many...
Somewhere between the androgyny of Virginia Woolf, the intertextuality of TS Eliot, the pesimistic forebodings of Orwell and the incorrigible wit of Shaw, it happened.
"I'm in love, I'm in LOVE!" She shouted as she leapt onto my bed, the place which had been their meeting place for the past week or so, the bed that she had begun to prefer to her own, the only bed in the world where she could actually sleep without having nightmares, and indeed, as I watched her lying there, in a state of passionate reverie with a blissful smile on her face, occasionally muttering romantic nothings in her sleep, I knew her dreams were all good ones.
A little too good, I fear.
Rewind 10 days. Literature is a hateful thing, especially if you have to prepare for a series of exams that you know have no relation to testing your understanding of it, only your empirical knowledge of a certain number of books. Who in the name of all that is holy, unholy and everhing in between, pray tell, would care if Virginia Woolf was a man or a woman? Tell me, did her writing have a point? Was she commenting on a socio-political truth, or was she a feminist, or a Marxist, or any other -ist for that matter? Was she, above all, worth teaching us for 3 months about? NO! So why the f*** should I sit here and worry my ass off about something which she wanted to say but didn't, and something she did say but didn't mean!? Now it might strike you as strange (if you are intellectually anything like my novel teacher), but writing a novel, I think, necssarily entails that you say what you want and don't say what you don't want to... there is no third way of doing it.
But that was just our (read 'her') excuse.
*R-R-Ring*
Hello?
Hey, what're you doing?
Trying to study.
Yeah me too, but I can't seem to get anything done. I just can't study alone. Is it alright if I come over to your place?
Ah...er...ahem...well, actually, the thing is that the thing... is... Yeah sure why not?
Alrighty then, can you come and pick me up?
Alright.
Can you drop me off?
Alright.
Can you help me?
Alright.
Can I fuck with your head?
Alright.
Can I mess up your chances of getting a career anytime soon?
Alright.
Can I use you to get to your friend?
Alright.
Can we call him over?
Alright.
Can we 'all' go out for dinner?
Alright.
Can he stay the night?
Alright.
Can I stay the night?
Alright.
Can you take the couch?
Alright.
Can we have the bed?
Alright.
Can we...
ALL THE FUCK RIGHT ALREADY!
WHAT?
WHAT?
WHAT?
WHAT?
WHAT?
WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?
Why have I spent all my life helping people solve their shitty little problems when no one in this godforsaken hellhole has the courtesy to ask me "How was your day?"
Why should I let all of you parasites drain my sanity to refill yours and suck on my soul to fill your hopelessly empty existences. Why should I let you emotional lepers eat away at my body to satiate your appetite? And why should I let you intellectual vampires feast on my brain, drain me of all my original thoughts, dreams and aspirations, and let you leave me filled with the same emptyness that you carry around in those hollow shells you call your bodies. WHY WHY WHY?
Her: I'm not feeling like myself today. I don't know what's come over me. I can't think straight. It seems everything I do is wrong. I just can't seem to catch a break. My life is hell. I am the lonliest person in the world.
Me: Look, you have to be your own person, you have to stand up for yourself. If you let the world walk all over you and let them have you and use you and abuse you in any way they want, you will never be able to look at yourself in the mirror without breaking down at crying. It's time to stop running away from your problems, face them, be strong, be brave, you are better than everyone else. And above all, remember, as long as you have freinds like me, you'll never be alone, some one who cares about you, who loves you and to whom the most important thing in the world is your happiness.
Sometimes, when I think about what I tell them, I think to myself "How can YOU look at yourself in the mirror and not break down and cry? YOU are the lonliest person in the world. People call you when they NEED you. You have never needed anyone, or anything, because you have fought, worked and laboured to get whatever you need, and all for what, to turn around and give away your happiness to a bunch of self-obsessed wannabe-interesting pseudo rebellious types who think that by putting on black nailpolish they can be gothic and dark and mysterious and interesting? WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU KIDDING!? Do you even know how many people in this world would care if she was depressed because her boyfriend broke up with her and was cheating on her? It'd be you, and the rest of 47 men who find her attractive and want to fuck her. And do you know exactly how many people would care if you went insane worrying about the problems faced by her and the rest of the 19,267 people you have so conveniently assented to adopt as your own personal problem? ZERO!
YOU DO THE MATH, IF YOU CAN STILL COUNT THAT IS!
I don't even remember what I was talking about...
"I'm in love, I'm in LOVE!" She shouted as she leapt onto my bed, the place which had been their meeting place for the past week or so, the bed that she had begun to prefer to her own, the only bed in the world where she could actually sleep without having nightmares, and indeed, as I watched her lying there, in a state of passionate reverie with a blissful smile on her face, occasionally muttering romantic nothings in her sleep, I knew her dreams were all good ones.
A little too good, I fear.
Rewind 10 days. Literature is a hateful thing, especially if you have to prepare for a series of exams that you know have no relation to testing your understanding of it, only your empirical knowledge of a certain number of books. Who in the name of all that is holy, unholy and everhing in between, pray tell, would care if Virginia Woolf was a man or a woman? Tell me, did her writing have a point? Was she commenting on a socio-political truth, or was she a feminist, or a Marxist, or any other -ist for that matter? Was she, above all, worth teaching us for 3 months about? NO! So why the f*** should I sit here and worry my ass off about something which she wanted to say but didn't, and something she did say but didn't mean!? Now it might strike you as strange (if you are intellectually anything like my novel teacher), but writing a novel, I think, necssarily entails that you say what you want and don't say what you don't want to... there is no third way of doing it.
But that was just our (read 'her') excuse.
*R-R-Ring*
Hello?
Hey, what're you doing?
Trying to study.
Yeah me too, but I can't seem to get anything done. I just can't study alone. Is it alright if I come over to your place?
Ah...er...ahem...well, actually, the thing is that the thing... is... Yeah sure why not?
Alrighty then, can you come and pick me up?
Alright.
Can you drop me off?
Alright.
Can you help me?
Alright.
Can I fuck with your head?
Alright.
Can I mess up your chances of getting a career anytime soon?
Alright.
Can I use you to get to your friend?
Alright.
Can we call him over?
Alright.
Can we 'all' go out for dinner?
Alright.
Can he stay the night?
Alright.
Can I stay the night?
Alright.
Can you take the couch?
Alright.
Can we have the bed?
Alright.
Can we...
ALL THE FUCK RIGHT ALREADY!
WHAT?
WHAT?
WHAT?
WHAT?
WHAT?
WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?
Why have I spent all my life helping people solve their shitty little problems when no one in this godforsaken hellhole has the courtesy to ask me "How was your day?"
Why should I let all of you parasites drain my sanity to refill yours and suck on my soul to fill your hopelessly empty existences. Why should I let you emotional lepers eat away at my body to satiate your appetite? And why should I let you intellectual vampires feast on my brain, drain me of all my original thoughts, dreams and aspirations, and let you leave me filled with the same emptyness that you carry around in those hollow shells you call your bodies. WHY WHY WHY?
Her: I'm not feeling like myself today. I don't know what's come over me. I can't think straight. It seems everything I do is wrong. I just can't seem to catch a break. My life is hell. I am the lonliest person in the world.
Me: Look, you have to be your own person, you have to stand up for yourself. If you let the world walk all over you and let them have you and use you and abuse you in any way they want, you will never be able to look at yourself in the mirror without breaking down at crying. It's time to stop running away from your problems, face them, be strong, be brave, you are better than everyone else. And above all, remember, as long as you have freinds like me, you'll never be alone, some one who cares about you, who loves you and to whom the most important thing in the world is your happiness.
Sometimes, when I think about what I tell them, I think to myself "How can YOU look at yourself in the mirror and not break down and cry? YOU are the lonliest person in the world. People call you when they NEED you. You have never needed anyone, or anything, because you have fought, worked and laboured to get whatever you need, and all for what, to turn around and give away your happiness to a bunch of self-obsessed wannabe-interesting pseudo rebellious types who think that by putting on black nailpolish they can be gothic and dark and mysterious and interesting? WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU KIDDING!? Do you even know how many people in this world would care if she was depressed because her boyfriend broke up with her and was cheating on her? It'd be you, and the rest of 47 men who find her attractive and want to fuck her. And do you know exactly how many people would care if you went insane worrying about the problems faced by her and the rest of the 19,267 people you have so conveniently assented to adopt as your own personal problem? ZERO!
YOU DO THE MATH, IF YOU CAN STILL COUNT THAT IS!
I don't even remember what I was talking about...
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