Writer's Diarrhoea, This

Thursday, August 18, 2011

Sheer laziness and lack of interesting activity on the cyberspace is what I cite as the reason of not updating this page inspite of the very interesting week I had. Note the italics in place.


Starting from farthest I can trace, rehearsals, aesthetics and getting thrown out of class. Yeah. The week followed with more rehearsals, jamming and essentially, ignoring the world. The pattern continued till the day of the show when every one was beyond kicked. The piece we did was mixed by a first year, well composed and it sounded tight when played with a sitar player, two violinists, three keyboard players, Tanpura and Mridangam backed by electric bass and guitar. So, overall, it was a big scale thing that the society as a whole took up. Also, it was my first instrumental piece so it suppose to be an actualization of dream thing. Not.

On stage, I plugged my amp into the socket along with the two keyboard players on our side of stage. Since everything was fixed by the staff advisor, none of us had the authority to shift/move on stage. Also, with the number of musicians there, it was next to impossible to move whatsoever. I digress but there's a reason. Coming back to socket, plugged it to realise there was no power. I panicked a bit. Principal and other staff advisors were on front row along. This was the first and possibly the only chance for instrumentalist to prove that we have to get our act together and approved for consequent events in college and otherwise. I looked around to see the same straight face from both the keyboard players- melody and bass. That made us three. Called the man-friday-tech-"bhaiya" who manages sound and he blamed it on my amp. Well, I get it if my bass doesn't work because the amplifier isn't working but how the hell are other two keyboards unplugged in spite of plugging in separate output. Either ways, all this with straight face. By then, we'd exceeded our 2 minutes of sound-check. Audience was getting impatient, specially the front row biggie.

Another socket was plugged with the same result. I had the most fucked up face that read out,"FUCK THIS SHIT. FUCK MY LIFE." The keyboardist friend was smiling, still. I looked at her, with my teeth on display for audience to believe things were fine, which weren't. That nod was just to say, "fuck, let's play." I looked around again, this time towards the President of the society. She was smiling hard, very hard. Confession she'd made to us, she doesn't understand jack of instrumental or anything but is very, very supportive of what we do. She probably understood the situation and nodded, continued smiling.

Cue time was fucked beyond measure. The melody keyboardist had to start off at the second beat. The person playing Tanpura gave two beats, looked at our side, fixated. I smiled very hard, so did friend keyboardist. Other keyboardist nodded in denial. The stage had been fucked. Tanpura player started again, this time, six beats and she waited for us to join. Specially my bass, I had to play at crucial stage with the violinist. I guess, by then, the others on stage understood there was something gravely wrong and they were asked to start, which they did. As it progressed, it sounded brilliant, except, the three of us faked it for the longest time. The vocalist, who entered at bridge also looked at me once, eyes filled with expectation, as I had to give her bass. Fuck-fuck-fuck.

Anyhow, the piece ended, Principal came on stage. She apparently loved it, so did the rest of the auditorium and surprisingly the other two instrumentalist along with the others, in short, everyone but me. I don't know how I held a straight, smiling face throughout on stage. It was the first time around that a show had been fucked, and fucked so bad. This is where I think, I should've made the decision of running towards the other side of the stage and connected my bass to the guitarist's amp, which I did not since the positions assigned to us were something that we could not mess with. Fucking rigidity and act of playing cool on stage by staff advisors ensured this. Our rehearsals were sounding kickass, probably my best sound ever. Infact, the whole piece itself was beautiful. People who heard it that day claimed they loved it etc but for me, it was nothing short of a Disaster, with a capital D.

Now that I look back in retrospect, I think of how big douchebags people are. Other instrumentalist didn't give two hoots about what happened to us there. They were busy hugging and crying saying, "Omg that was SOOOOOOOOO gooooooood." Yeah, well, fuck you.
This violinist had the cheek of walking up to me and asking, "Arey yaar tune play hi nahi kiya, mai tera wait karti reh gayi. Tuje kya ho gaya tha?"
(I kept waiting for you to play but you didn't. What happened to you?)
Later, college President and the secretary apologised, probably, the only people who realised it had hurt me. They claimed it was some short circuit and hence both the sockets gave up.

So much so for my first big instrumental piece. Yeah. Fuck.

From there, right through the weekend, I was gloomy, unapproachable and very off key. If I push my brain to the weekend, all I did was to read in my room. That's it. Phifft. Didn't write, didn't play, nothing. Just read.

Which lead me back to doing what I love to do the most, reading. It's been long since I sat down and decided to exhaust myself with a book-list, something that I did over the weekend and enjoyed every minute of it. The flop show went out of my head and I had it occupied with something worthwhile.

Other significant thing during the week was the lecture on existentialism. Christ, by far one of the most intriguing lecture that left it's mark on me. Very-visibly.

It's this, simply. I realised what course I've been on, why my writing style changed and essentially, answers to a lot of why, textually and objectively, in my life. Which is the beauty of aesthetics. You can, in all probability, lend the concepts to your own life and see if it works or not. In Ethics, it doesn't. Not for Kant's principal of Morality, atleast. Yeah, the dude is back to haunt my life but hopefully, he won't be the same blood sucking rigid figure as I perceive some one. Existentialism literature and trips aside, I'm almost sleeping through other papers. Most definitely failing Indian Philosophy this year, which is a pity since it was my favourite back in the day when I was naive and happy. Gloom has transcended- failed attempt on stage, lousy attempt at writing exams, Urtifuckingcaria, and in general, a little confusion and hesitation to answer the question, "what next?"

Bass? Writing? Reading?

Very lost, just like this piece.

I'm losing track of events and rash is adding fuel to fire. Finally, after five months, I took an appointment with a super-speciality doctor at a super-speciality hospital to get myself checked- as suggested by well-wishers. Delaying the appointment by an hour and charging one fifth the amount of my pocket money, the doctor said the same thing as my paediatrician (fuck, yes, the only Doctor I trust is my paediatrician, and to say I'm turning 2o in less than a month). So yes, she began by saying how she has chronic Urticaria for last 25 years (just like my paediatrician), and there's no possible cause, maybe some food item or a medicine (which is unprovable unless I go for a patch test). To which she herself said (deja vu) that it'll be useless to go through any thing. Fuck. That. I. Have. To. Live. With. Chronic. Rash. Till. The. Rest. Of. My. Life.
She basically charged me to tell, what I already knew and that I need to stop facebooking at night (long story, will delve into that some other day).

Tomorrow's day is lined with merely two classes at an interval of three hours. The lecturer couldn't place herself more conveniently than to waste three hours. Her reply, "sit in the library." Yes, ofcourse.

I've got projects lined up to keep me busy. Academic projects, ie. After two years of formal education in Philosophy, art and politics to be precise. Looking at the circus which is going around in the country, I've no inclination to work on it but am forced to. Oh, oh, oh. Something I've been meaning to write about- asexual love?

Is it possible?

Think of someone you've a thing for. Opposite sex. Backspace. You love that person. Not a "thing" or something related to lust. You simply love that person. You probably want to be with that person yet you want to keep it asexual. I mean, you don't want to indulge in anything sexual. Strictly not more than a hug? Does this concept really exist? I've been in the company of people who are sexually stimulated so much so that it's really helping me turn asexual. More than normal level.

Like, Roman Ingarden would say, a work of art (say a film, prose etc) would only be a work of art if it is suggestive and now direct. Go figure.

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