An album, a book, and a guitar

I've been meaning to write every day now. But something or the other kept distracting me. It is a safe bet between new things that I wanted to talk about and the deep lethargy which possesses me at equal intervals.
Well, enough is enough. This is the day I Write Things Down. When I pompously said that there were things which were exciting me, I meant there's just two.
Number one is this album:

I love how I can find things on social networking sites. Stalking has its strong points. I think it should be remarked upon the fact that I am marveling at one of the theoretical things that the social networking sites are actually supposed to do: share information, pictures, music, film, conversation, culture. It is so easy to read every one of the words I used there in the most negative and perverted one of their connotations. For example, I know for a fact that I found out about this particular album while noticing an ad posted in my feed and then going on to read the conversation that was probably private, going on underneath it. I barged in. Its unbelievably rude. But this is how things work for us all, isn't it? I guess I will go to hell for the simple fact that I still can't find myself to feel guilty about being curious and wanting to know things. For the better or for worse. 

I am listening to this for the third time today, from the moment I downloaded it. Actually no, I had started to listen to it on youtube even before it had finished downloading. And I think the thrill of it comes from the fact that I had heard bits of music arranged by this guy before and had been very impressed, and just excited to have a whole album full of songs just like them. 

His name is Mike Mcleary. Lucky Ali's brother-in-law. Guy who arranged the seminal "Sunoh", if the internet is to be believed. But I did not know that. I came to know of such a man as this and his work because I liked what he had done to "Khoya khoya chand" in Shaitan. Even though the music purist critics in The Hindu  and their ilk have ranted and raved at this being the sign of the sure decimation of all that is musical in the Great Indian Culture, perhaps I am too much of an anglicized child of the eighties and nineties to not appreciate the classy arrangements, sure fusion-ish, on the songs. Its like crack. You like old bollywood? you like the bass and the arrangements to come at you on the waves of great guitars and stuff and hit you on the head and make it bop? This is for you.

I then heard "Tum jo mil gaye ho" on the coke ad without knowing it was the same guy. And then I find that its on this track. I hit the download button almost involuntarily. And haven't stopped listening to it ever since.

Lets see if I can embed a music clip.... hmm apparently not. Well here's a video:

The second thing I was quite excited about was finding a new writer that I liked. Deepak Unnikrishnan. I read a short story in this:

Short story about an almost obscure rakshas in an anthology full of a variety of weeping and murdering Sitas. I loved the fact that I started reading the story and could not believe what I was reading. The feeling was quite like reading Gaiman, the same sense of magic, insidiously happening, I can go as far as that in describing it. I guess this is the reason any one of us love reading. Because some risks, like just randomly buying a book, can smack you in the forehead with unexpected magic. Not all the time ( I still remember buying both books by Anonymous and not being able to go past three pages. Worse than Twilight, which I managed two books). But these moment make it worth it.

 I also finally gave in and bought myself a guitar. It's nylon sting, flamenco, and I am discovering that its hurting my fingers more than a normal brass string would have. Here's to turning over misconceptions. I think if I had a normal guitar, by this time (i.e. after three days) my fingertip calluses would return and it would all be ok. But they are not. And it still hurts. But I love having the misguided dream of being able to play at least ten proper chords once again. This kind of idiocy I could do more of. 

                      

When I think of Orhan Pamuk, I don't think of a person. The type of his name appears in my mind. Is it strange that an author is just Typography in my head?

Little Tragedies

Little tragedies make up my life. They are like little explosions in my heart. I bleed a little, and then feel refreshed because of this. Perhaps my heart is a bit medieval in its conception of what makes up for good health because everyone knows that bleeding is not really a cure. Transfusion is. But a bleeding heart feels a little like purging. Wracking sobs and silent sniffles, and eyes tearing up in the perfect loneliness of looking around at the world and realizing that it is so big and I am so alone. It's quite magnificent. I feel surrounded by a gigantic and invisible drama, which I cannot see, but I can feel it enveloping and bearing down on me and feel its grandeur. All I can do is cry then.
Dusk comes. I am in the backseat of a car, my face pasted to the glass of the window looking at the enormous blue, and then purple, and the a inky lapiz sky, many cars, the grey tarmac flashing by like a video where the shutter has been left open for an interminable exposure. The wind buffets my face and my ears the moment I roll down the windows. Why do I feel like, if I were to just stand there, at the side of the highway, surrounded by rolling fields and the blue dome of the sky, I can actually touch reality and will finally be happy? Maybe if the car keeps on going, from the morning till night, and there after, never stopping. I will find the same thing. A feeling of completion which is just out of reach.
Dusk comes once more. I am in a room which has a large bed and off white walls, three white lights and a yellow one as bright as the sun. I can see the sea that is the bathroom from where I sit. I sit on the far end of the bed, backed by stacks and stacks of books, and look out into this kingdom, and wish I remembered what it was like to talk to people. What was it like to have friends? The ones whom you met everyday or every other day? Who filled your ears with life and conversations which did not require you to be a part of, yet enveloped you in a feeling where you didn't wonder at the size of the space inside your head so much.
The perfect loneliness of realizing that everyone already has someone to talk to, be with. Perfectly partnered. Perfectly understood. Bearing the gift of silent companionship, of just being.
I haven't experienced a physical touch of affection or fondness in forever now. And a casual touch now disconcerts me.
Calls to people you think can help you feel better reveals that their lives are not in the permanent black hole where time and everything stands still and stretches and stretches until nothing is left. There has not been a breakdown in infrastructure and the operation to fill the gap that you have left behind has been smooth and successful. It almost took no time at all.
The little tragedies that make up a life has now come out of the experiment, crystallized into a just a powerful sentence. I miss people. There is no music in my life. Art is silted.
What then is the great tragedy that these little tragedies are trying so hard to be?

New

Shows how easily I get bored of stuff I make. So the blog is once again in a brand new wrapper. But using the existing css programming they have. One day I will once again attempt to build my own template. Until then, this.