I’ll Be That Guy Who Dies Leaving A House With A Ruined Foundation From The Weight Of His Books

Originally posted on Unicorns are Bullshit:

Every time I start packing up for a move and I realize my books take up more boxes than any of my other belongings I think, yeah…my priorities are exactly where they need to be.

View original

The dilemma about autobiographies

What is this craze about writing autobiographies? Everyone from politicians to writers to activists to religious heads to anyone who’s been published in the newspaper just once want to tell the World their story. Why should I be left behind than, I thought ? I might not be as famous as the others but even I got an interesting story to tell (according to myself only). So, I set about writing and wondered where should I begin. Should I start with the day I was born or the day I became great in my head or the day I met the love of my life? Too many dilemmas. So, I decided to do some reading before the writing because I have never actually read an autobiography (who reads that stuff???). Mein Kampf, Joseph Anton, My experiments with Truth, I thought about devouring. Started with a few, left most of them halfway and eventually put them aside and reached out for my keyboard to start typing the stuff in my head.

A funny thing about telling your story. How much do you exactly reveal, how much do you reveal that will make you look good? It’s a tough job, writing a book on your life (especially when you’re just 27), one that the whole World will read, everyone will know what you did and thought. I don’t know if I could do it. I can’t even let my hubby ready my silly daily journal! How would I be able to live knowing that strangers and family members and friends alike have read everything about me, judged me and are probably thinking about abandoning me!! And unless you are Gandhi, it’s not possible for your book to not hurt some people’s feelings. Maybe I can get away with writing only the goodie good stuff, but then nobody wants to publish a two paged book.

Phew. I am already tired of all this thinking about my autobiography and writing nice stuff about people. Idea abandoned !!!

Talk…

Do not talk to me about the economy; I know it is in shambles.
Do not talk to me about politics; I know it is a hopeless cause.
Do not talk to me about Syria or the exchange rate of the USD.
Do not talk about the scams and the rapes and Asaram Bapus.
Do not talk about the floods or global warming and depleting resources; I know we are in trouble.

Talk to me about Toni Morrison and Beloved.
Talk to me about white clouds
and why we love them, on a clear blue sky.
Talk to me about the love we have never seen,
and about the future we aren’t sure about.
Talk to me about beautiful buildings
and about art that makes us cry.
Talk to me about the friends who aren’t here with us,
And all the silly things they did.
Talk to me about American muscle cars and Morocco,
and going on a road trip to just about anywhere.
Talk to me about coffee and cigarettes,
and about the forbidden alcohol in this state.
Talk to me about the Sea and all the beaches you have seen,
And argue about where the water is the bluest.
Talk to me about your dreams,
and about the songs you love.
Start talking…. and don’t ever stop.

wpid-8a34b3b79118de312c5685e89b57f68d9f8df8.jpg

In my parallel Universe

In my parallel Universe right now, he just finished developing a roll in the darkroom. Shirtless and sexy and all. Just yesterday he had finished shooting this particular roll in question. The shoot was done in a field of poppies. I was wearing this red summer dress and the Sun had just risen over the Horizon. The sunlight was dancing off softly over the bright red flowers. After a while, The Sun was on my eyes and I could barely keep them open. I was laughed out loudly all this time, as usual, and he was smoking, waiting patiently for the shots he wanted. I kept laughing, jumping and dancing around him. One cig, Two cig, Three cig down. He finally got the right light. Click. Wind. Click. Wind. Click. Wind. Click. Wind. On and on he went, 36 exact times. I had to do nothing. He knew how to make it look beautiful together, the reds and skin in between them all. The final results have turned out spectacular. He is satisfied. And he smiles at himself, feeling proud.
In my parallel universe, my love just finished developing the most beautiful photographs of me.

*somebody pinch me*

How I grew up singing country songs and studying stars…

I don’t know if its a common trend in India or its just my family, but my ma and I would spend the summers in “her” home. By this I mean her brother’s home in Jabalpur. I am not going to go on and on about how we had an awesome time there, a dozen cousins, playing in the big open garden, swimming in the Narmada, playing pranks on the elders, roaming around everywhere aimlessly. The one thing I recall all the time is how my mama brought my brother and me up. He was the big guy in our life. The one who taught us to fight the mighty Narmada, swim across its currents, worship it and feed little fishes. The man who taught us everything there is to know about each Indian bird, making sure we remembered the Latin name with the common name. We watched Superman and Star Wars every year!!! We knew all the dialogues by heart and owned light sabers and tried to fly wearing red scarfs. At night, we would watch stars. You can see a lot of those because Jabalpur was a really small town at that time. On a clear night, he would open up his book and teach us all the constillations of the North summer Sky. But the best part was when mama would turn on his music player, bring out those self-recorded cassettes and play his favorite American country songs. Oh those Kenny Rogers to Big Bad John And I’m just a country boy. Every evening, after dinner, the three of us would surround his player and sing out loud those songs. Till today I remember most of those songs and every time one of them plays in a music system somewhere, I smile.

from the Ideal Bookshelf

Jennifer Egan contemplates the substance of life:   “My goal as a writer is to do as much as possible at one time. Life itself is so cacophonous and complex. It’s not that I want to create a cacophony, but I want to do justice to the complexity around us. I don’t want to oversimplify it. I want to take one thing and build from that, and then keep building, until I begin to approximate the complexity of the world and our perceptions of it.”

 

Jonathan Lethem winks at the cumulative usefulness of useless knowledge:  “The thing about this bookshelf is that each of these books is a vast experience unto itself, while also being both self-contained and superbly useless. Reading any one of them doesn’t get you anywhere particularly meaningful; you haven’t arrived or graduated; you’ve just gone and done something that passes the time. It’s like taking a long walk with a friend who’s got a lot to say. There’s no cumulative purpose to it — it’s just an excellent way to waste your life.”

 

Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com.
The Esquire Theme.

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 525 other followers