"You know I've had this poem for so long, much before I even met you."
"Its freakish, isn't it."
"It is this kind of tying of loose ends that makes my world go round. Make me feel like I am in a well-written book."
"Don't you think at times that we are just characters in a story?"
For as long as I can remember, I have felt like my life is a story. Sometimes well written and crisp like a taut screenplay, sometimes meandering and obtuse like a Proust novel, at times verbose and idealistic like a Sorkin script, on occasions replete with a background track and wide angle lens shots. Often times, it is sprawling and messy, there are side-plots abandoned midway, staircases that lead to nowhere. Characters exit abruptly at times without it being woven properly into the story like a bad past-it-best-by-date-American-TV show. It has no real beginning and end, like the Great Banyan Tree in Calcutta. Somebody accused me of being terribly pompous and egocentric when I tried to explain this recently. I was at pains to explain that it was not so much that it was my story, I was just a part of a story constructed by forces beyond me. What could be more humbling? Nor do I feel that my life is particularly interesting. There is more Dravid in it - ponderous and full of struggle - more ebb than flow, than the theater of Brian Lara or the artistry of Laxman.
Off late, I have come to realise that this lack of agency transcends to what we write as well. When I write, my stories never end up where I intended them to. They have a mind of their own. Fiction and poetry are supposed to be medicines that heal the rupture that reality makes on imagination. We try to get right in stories what we can't in real life. But, more often than not, we can't. Stories have a life of their own, they lead you down rabbit holes that mess with your head, they can surprise you and on rare occasions, even take your breath away. They are pretentious bastards up on their high pedestals looking down on you. And there is nothing one can do about it. I am completely helpless in front of them. Stories, quite literally make my world go round.
11 comments:
Would it be "Of late" or "Off late" and my life feels like a movie too. I ponder often on how to make my entrances and exits, and how best to put my words to leave enough mystery to have a 'next chapter' and never a complete end. I like what you write.
I am so sick of what I write by the time I finish that I never proof read. :) I have a thing for dramatic entrances and stylish exits. Do I know you? There seem to be a tend of anonymous comments on my blog recently.
I know what that's like. Half of my life's inspired writing has been kept in temporary untitled notepads and scribbles on scrap paper--it goes from inspired to insipid within the period of time I take to articulate my inspiration. You know of me as much as I release in my comments :)
I can relate to that. Most of what I have written exits as mediocre, abandoned pieces in my hard disc, interesting ideas played with a little but not developed. You sound a bit like someone I know a bit, but then again I can't be sure.
Well, assuming anonymity allows me to create a character--a place to escape robotic regularity in my thoughts. Doubt you know the creator of this temporary--in ways fictional, in ways more real--character. Though thanks to captcha, you can be sure I'm not physically a robot.
It's interesting that you referred to your presence here as that of a created character. It's even more interesting that you chose to think of it as 'in ways more real.' Fiction reveals the truth that reality obscures.
When you say 'temporary', I hope you take the most liberal construction of the word possible.
P.S. I like the phrase robotic regularity. (I have a thing for alliteration.)
The naked truth is easiest served in a bed of lies. The truth loses credibility and the lies gain some, and overall the equilibrium allows the author to deny and yet accept everything. Easiest to live in the shrouded limbo, in my opinion anyway. Allows me to conditionally accept the truth, and then ruthlessly reject it depending on company. I speak more freely when I know I don't have to justify it when/if I don't want to. Yet, it's funny that here I admit to you that I like to lie when it's a completely shameful act not to have a zero tolerance rule for lies 100% of the time.
A temporary character in the fabric of my day; I intend to read and comment as often as I feel like being pretentious--quite often.
I have a thing for succinct, truly vivid descriptions. I wish I had more talent for that.
And when we create characters, the story automatically moves from a question of truth or lie to a question possibilities. Nothing is black and white anymore. Which makes me think all storytelling is an exercise in deception, at some level.
'Temporary character in the fabric of (your) day.' I would definitely like to read more of what you write; succinct, truly vivid descriptions or otherwise.
Oh but perhaps what I write is somehting that will never reach the likes of you.
For I prefer to destroyu what I write, the less of me there is now, the less remains when I'm gone.
This temporary character wishes to be temporary forever. It is my only constant.
Lol, what's funny is someone is stealing my anonymity. I feel like my identity has been stolen, very ironically :p I suppose that's the danger of being anonymous.
Kudos to the person who tried to pretend to be me. It's a tad more dramatic than I see myself. I think there's a "Hai Ram" with hand to forehead turning away from the main actor missing from your pale imitation. Try harder next time. Admire your courage though.
I actually had a feeling that it was someone else. The comment from Nov 13 didn't sound like you.
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