– Doctor Who Season 4. Boy, is David Tennant (first encountered in a Harry Potter film, eugh; Harry Potter has scarred our lives for eternity and a day) the cutest Doctor ever.
– Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars.
– Faerie Queene (*sigh* No, really).
– Being paid to travel and present a paper. (Now if only we could finish writing the paper! Now if only we could start writing the paper.)
– Jolchhara coffee with cigarette and Hide and Seek biscuits in the morning, along with interesting conversation. (This makes me suddenly miss A, who I know is always on campus but the last time we chatted was more than a week ago. I must look him up more often, hmm.)
Hmm, nothing to write. Waiting ceaselessly for (several) things to materialise. Zombiefied college-going to fill (kill?) time. With each day we live less in terror of the Lennon line and more in faith of the wisdom from Chekhov. Perhaps that is progress. (Such a one-liner whore we are, dear god.)
Meanwhile the good people at this place have decided to do something interesting or the other with an old poem. Those in the know of the history of said poem may notice why we are amused; but irrelevant ironies apart we do happen to be rather intrigued.
On another (slightly petty?) note, should it feel smug or appalling when popular people start to — as the expression goes — “rip off your style”? We have a suspicion this has to do more with insecurity than possessiveness: the distaste for being eventually thought of as a copycat of people you don’t even particularly admire, rather than the loss of what you cherished as a private quirk. If D happens to notice this paragraph, we must dissect, discuss and absolutely demolish the (ahem) philosophy/psychology behind this emotional response on a particularly insipid college afternoon soon enough, alright? That will show ’em sequin-dripping little ghouls, yes. :|
In my opinion, the only goals worth pure respect and ambition are ones that (a) a very brilliant person (b) has to work very hard for. Is it my inherent cynicism or do very few goals in the world seem to fill both the criteria? For example, JUDE (excellent as it may be) fills both (a) and (b) but not necessarily at the same time. (I. e. a very brilliant person can get on at JUDE with moderate-to-zero effort; and a moderately brilliant person can do the same with substantial effort put in. At times it is even possible for individuals to get on with neither (a) nor (b), with a little help from the Google-enabled phone or other comforts of a similar vein. Which disqualifies JUDE from that elusive category.)
I think I was in Class 12 (or 11?) when Günter Grass visited Calcutta and spoke extensively on The Tin Drum. I had even attended the panel discussion at Kala Mandir (where he shared space with Tariq Ali, if my memory does not deceive; I have still not managed to read Tariq Ali though I’ve intended to for ever) but I did it out of sheer curiosity: I had not read any of Grass’s books yet, I knew little about him except the name. Right now, as I read The Tin Drum, I am wishing for nothing more than to be able to rewind to that evening and listen to the discussion with a better receptivity. Right now, I remember how wise and well-spoken and impressive Grass had seemed to my little school-going self but regrettably I remember nothing else.
Thanks to S (yet another; there are more people than alphabets, really), this because I would like to be able to go back and read it again.
Can’t wait for tomorrow’s Middle English test to get over! Something nice should start happening to me just about NOW, except that my life is in limbo till the end of the test. So impatient that I don’t even care if I bomb the test any more. Too much guilt, depression and feeling-like-a-loser has been suffered over it. Now I just want the hours to pass, so that I can start on the nice thing right away. *fingers crossed*
*will go back to reading Wife of Bath right now, I promise, God*
All morning there were alternating clouds and sunbursts and a little whimsical rain, and curled up in my bed with the light not lit I could sometimes see the page of the book in my hands and sometimes not. When it was too dark to decipher the words anymore I would roll over and lie on my back and think about the lines I’d just read and how fast my eyesight was going and ohmygodarghhowmuchthishurts and then the room would fill with sunshine again and I’d go back to reading some more of Flowers for Algernon which was finished late in the afternoon, just before the tubelight had to be decisively turned on and then I went to sleep. Flowers for Algernon is the first book borrowed from the DL with my new library card, which was issued yesterday. It makes me feel a little more grounded to this place though there is still time to fly away (and I’ll stare and stare at the days and watch them pass, tick-ticking away, I’ll stare hard and steady and faithful until it’s too late and then I’ll shake my head, look away and forget). The novel is creepy, well thought-out and absorbing, just the way I like all stories to be. (The beginning, though, reminded me that I never finished reading A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man which I began long ago: a small, rather familiar pang of guilt.)
Physical pain amuses me by the sheer tangibility of it unlike emotional pain. You can contain it, exclude it and forget all about it. These days are like 2004-05 all over again except that in 2004-05 I used to think the future would be different. But the “different” seems to have been just an interlude and now the waters are closing in again and I’m trying to remind myself that in 2004-05 I was not unhappy. Quite a few negatives but I was strong and independent and unafraid to love and infinitely curious about everything. I would love to have that curiosity back. Let’s see, let’s see.