Straight Faced

Saturday, July 11, 2015

Tonight's an evening like no other, in a long long time. Amongst the urge to talk about various things pertaining to myself (and exerting control to restrain it all), I found myself scrambling to compose my outward demeanour. It's half past four in the morning and I've not caught a wink of sleep or grabbed enough out of my borderline sleeping problem, I caved in to a solid craving of jazz. For those of you unaware, or have come to know me in the last year or so, you'd probably be unaware that I am a defunct bassist, who had more than what you may like to call a torrid 'affair' with jazz. While most offsprings are carefully destroyed using contraceptives, my fascination for solid non lyrical jazz took me to different spaces in search of music and boy, did I find a some exciting stuff in the city. I'd like you to believe I'm typing it all with a straight face, no puns intended. 

I had a fallout with the genre sometime back. For a whole bunch of causal repertoire, please feel free to fuck off. If I have to go back to giving the 16 year old self that I once was, some advice, I'd only tell her to stop saying things out loud. Stop waiting for text message replies, hold out that comment you're putting under a blog and for the sake of not being embarrassed later, keep a restraint on your fingers and mouth. In more than one way, this generation is doomed. If not out of sheer overload of sharing and blasting information about oneself, and handing out their behaviour pattern, surveillance is a great big concer of our time. I'm no skeptic and I believe in the positives of the digital media, and consequently the sensorium, consuming it without knowing the repurcussions is what leads to akin to inviting over the U.S. military troops if you're an oil tank based out of Middle East Asia. 

For a research student enrolled in the most politically conscious institution of the country, I'm an embarrassment. I blame one of the many colleges I've attended for my stupidity. Keep guessing, if you're the curious sort. 

I digress, but coming back to Jazz is a sort of homecoming. You sniff the wooden furniture that you once played on, it's become old and has acquired more value than your Philosophy degree (given the 90 plus cut-off my alma mater has declared with possibly a straight face). Jazz for me is a whole sort of time, space vertical that can spin me into a long and unending vertigo of memories, ideas whilst keeping my physical self restricted to the same space, all in and out within seconds. 

I don't possibly know of any other thing- tangible or otherwise, living or dead- which can do this to me. That for me is jazz. And given how I'm willing to advice any 16 year old on holding yourself back, I should probably do the same. It's something I've picked up over the last ten years, from people other than family. People I've had the fortune to know, emulate and revere. Most of them don't know who they are, and I'm pretty sure, besides flattering, they'd rather never be considered icons for anyone, let alone impressionable young women. However, in these moments, I can only think of them- of their reverberation on the person that I've become today and what I shall be, hopefully, someday. If this isn't what they mentioned in the literature across most languages, as an ultimate form of transcendental belief and scope of understanding, then I don't know what that experience can be. It's as close to coming to acknowledge the universe and as comfortable as knowing certain things are beyond the permissible boundaries of coincidence, that which you might call serendipity. I'm deliberately avoiding labeling this as 'miracle', for miracles would have prevented you to leave a lifelong impact on me, which is programmed like an infusion pump. Injecting just a drop, every day, every minute to every fiber of my being. 

I'd like to then take a moment and acknowledge jazz, for bringing us to this conclusion and understanding. This post is sponsored by a soul stirring page on SoundCloud. Knowing that I've not followed my own advice of restrained conversation, it's not too hard to locate what I'm talking. Just don't message me to ask it. If those men have truly taught me anything, it is that I can shamelessly ignore you and not feel any form of guilt whatsoever. My training is solid as a rock. My mentors, unaware as ever. 

Besides this, I've a feeling my mother will create a mental ruckus for not mentioning her here so, in case you've accidentally stumbled on this page, please know you laid the foundational bricks. 

The tone of this post is increasingly going towards a self epitaph/obsessive statement that I'd furnish after winning an award, ironically for a film- and not for music, I'd like to add an instruction to this. Whenever I die, due to whatever cause and at whichever point of my life, please for the (anti) life of me, don't fucking paste your feed with my pictures and your aim at inspirational life posts. Just write about me, preferably off Facebook. I know I have no right to dictate the terms post my death, however, this whole act of remembrance on social media is obnoxious and downright naive. You do it and conveniently fade it out, much like they ceased to exist. This, in my views is the most vile thing you can do to repress a memory. I'm not a supporter of holding a dead being in your mind forever, but please, don't turn them into a spectacle, just because they're not around. 

It's a minute over five and this post has taken a turn towards bitter rant. Given how it upsets everyone I know, I'd like to wrap it here and leave you to hunt my auratic poison for the night. 

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