Management and Marketing 101 - The Conversation

I recently discovered this 'piece' of writing in the sent messages of my old high school email address. I wrote this when I was 16, and I think I must have been going through an intense 'tv comedy writer' phase. Management and Marketing was probably my favourite class I took in high school. Mostly because it was taught by the best teacher, and the students of the class were a very small group of kids who were all anomalies and straight up weirdos but in the best way. It was a perfect ethnic combo of freaks and geeks except in the 21st century in which changing someones screensaver to a picture of fecal matter replaces locker vandalism. I forget who resembles who in this fictional dialogue now, but If i were to ever write anything resembling a strange dysfunctional tv comedy I'm positive that I would look back to this classroom first for inspiration.

* * *

The Conversation

“Why would you even watch that show?”

We were all sitting in our management and marketing classroom, waiting for Mr.Olbricht to come in but 20 minutes had passed and somehow the conversation had led to T.V shows.

“Yeah, why would you watch Ugly Betty? It’s just that dumb show about the Hispanic girl who designs clothes right?”

“No, no, no. She works for a fashion magazine, and she doesn’t know anything about fashion, but then slowly as the show progresses she learns the tricks”

“That’s so stupid”

“That’s exactly like the Devil Wears Prada. At least Anne Hathaway looks good”

“I think it’s an endearing show.”

“I think I’d rather watch My Family on BBC”

“I guess it’s a guilty pleasure show. Sort of like Hannah Montana”

Everyone looked up in unison with a look of shock but hilarious agreement on their faces.

David spoke up “What’s Hannah Montana?”

Whispers immediately broke out and no-one knew what to say.

“How can you not know what Hannah Montana is? Do you not know what the Disney Channel is as well?”

“No. I don’t”

“What the fuck is wrong with you David.”

“Someone tell me what it is”

“Okay so basically, there’s this hillbilly chick who suffers from multiple personality disorder and-“

“No she doesn’t you idiot, she just has an alternative lifestyle as a teen pop star”

“Sounds like MPD to me”

“Go fuck yourself”

“Why are you getting so worked up? It’s just a dumb kid’s show”

“My aunt co-wrote 3 episodes from season 1. You know that short Spanish kid who runs the fruit stand at the beach on the show?”

“No”

“Well his name’s Rico. And he’s named after my little brother”

Even though a minute ago we were putting down Hannah Montana we all oo’ed and ahh’ed at this news. A TV-show character being named after your sibling was a huge deal regardless of what show, or which character. Matt, seeing a perfect opportunity to crack a demented joke, spoke out.

“I was going to write a show called “Alexis Texas””

“That’s not even funny Matt”

“Yeah that’s just stupid”

We all looked at Matt’s screen to see that he had just google’d “Female names that rhyme with American States”.

Deciding to let this one go we continued our discussion

“Okay, okay, if you had to be a character on a television show, who would you be?”

“Are cartoons included?”

“Yes”

“Is anime included?”

“Anime is cartoon idiot”

“Oh my god, no its not. It’s entirely different”

“I’m sorry, but to me, cartoon is animation. And so is anime, hence the name”

“It’s entirely different”

“How is it –“

“Just shut up okay.”

“Anime included guys”

“Uhmm”

“Okay let me think”

“I’ve got one”

“I’ve got a better one. I’d probably want to be Rupert”

“Rupert? Rupert the bear? With the red sweater and yellow scarf?”

“Yeah. He was the smartest out of all his friends, had the best parents, I think he was an only child, and often got to go on magical journey’s that weren’t stupid but a delight to watch and made one long to be a part of his world”

We nodded our heads in agreement.

“Understandable. Alright. I’d want to be Izzie on Grey’s Anatomy”

“Why the hell would you want to be Izzie?”

“It’s not to really be Izzie. It’s just to be on Grey’s Anatomy”

“And do what?”

“Tell Sandra Oh to stop kidding herself and quit the television industry. She’s really something”

“I really like her. She’s funny”

“Okay. Just because you said that I’m going to unplug a bunch of shit from the back of your computer”

“Okay I got one”

“No one cares Matt”

“Just listen. It’s cool. I’d want to be Johnny Depp from Jump Street”

“That’s cool Matt, but everyone stopped giving a shit the moment you opened your mouth.”

“Don’t you guys want to know why I’d be him?”

“I want to be Naruto”

“Tell us why David”

“Okay, even though Sakura and Sasuke hate him, it’s obvious that they would be nothing without their united powers. Not to mention Sakura liking him as well. Sasuke also thinks of him as his real true friend, you start seeing this as you near the episodes in the early hundreds. Naruto also has the doppelganger effect. Something I wouldn’t mind having myself”

“Who’s Naruto?”

“Okay it’s a show where-“

“All your choices are stupid. I’d be Jackie from That 70’s Show”

“An obvious slut decision.”

Mr.Olbricht walked in, holding a copy of Reservoir Dogs in one hand and The Corporation in the other.

“Sweet! Reservoir Dogs!”

“What? Oh no no no” he chuckled. “We’ll be watching The Corporation today. Has anyone seen this movie”

“Has anyone seen your face?”

“Hahaha”

“No really, let’s just watch Reservoir Dogs Mr.Olbricht. I never knew you liked Quentin. I myself am a big Pulp Fiction fan”

“What kind of asshole says that out loud? We're all Pulp Fiction fans moron”

“Okay. Enough joking time”

“We weren’t joking. This is how we are”

He ignored us and put in The Corporation, while trying to hide reservoir dogs behind a stack of books on legal studies. We settled into movie mode, where magically someone pulled out a bag of Doritos’s and two pop cans from under their desk. Instead of The Corporation coming on screen, a picture of Dustin Hoffman acting disabled popped up and set into motion.

“Yo, what the fuck is this shit”

“This isn’t The Corporation”

“Hold on a second”

“Isn’t this the Rain Man. With Tom Cruise?”

“I saw this movie in psych 3 months ago. It was pretty lame”

“Hey. Which one of you guys caught Tom Cruise jumping on Oprah’s couch like a mad man”

“Matt. Are you kidding me?”

“That happened 3 fucking years ago man”

Something Has Changed Matthew

January 15th, 1963

Mr. Mattew Bowen

42 Westwood, Broughton

North Linconshire

Dear Matthew,

Do you remember the conversation we had the last time we saw each other a few months back? About the possibility that you might seriously invest in being an inventor.  Well this idea has fascinated me since we spoke about it, mostly because it has made me somewhat unsure about you. I’ve been toying with why it has made me uncomfortable about seeing you again and a few nights ago I realized what it was.  After the usual bit of reading, and once the candle had melted entirely onto the wood I managed to slip off into a very deep sleep. And Matthew, I had the most peculiar dream. In it you were standing on a staircase above me with a hammer in one hand and a book of instructions penned by yourself in the other. And as hard as I tried to climb and reach the top of the staircase I couldn’t seem to reach your height. Eventually I got exhausted and collapsed at which point you simply laughed at me! You are most probably laughing now, but I must assert the seriousness of how I felt at the moment. The indignation and insecurity that pressed me to the bed each time you laughed down at me. I awoke sweating and terribly afraid of my own abilities and I began thinking a great deal about our conversation from before. See Matthew, the thing that astonishes me about inventors is the complication that comes with the idea that one can play god. How designs and blueprints and structures can all form under your fingers to amalgamate into a thing of beauty and a thing of function. And a thing that has both those qualities, function and beauty, is then a thing of greatness. In a microscopic sense, you have created something that serves a purpose. A structure that validates your genius and power. And in those structures, aside from the calculations that went into the thickness and length of the wood or the curvature of the knob the question is does it reveal something to you? Does it reveal a secret about your leadership and your visions for the future?  I am no inventor because I am not good at building from scratch. Clay and craft and brick never form under my hand. I am no inventor because my forte is the process of taking ideas that already are and then reforming it to make it mine. It can easily be confused for invention if done with finesse, but it is actually adaptation and re-iteration.  And thus I have realized that I am terrified of seeing you again, for if you really are an inventor now, you are much more powerful than me. At least in whatever way I measure power. If you have truly invested in this craft and become successful, then I’m afraid our friendship will forever remain in a loop in which I fear you may somehow know more than me. That you may know more about the rules that are bound to this world and have found some way to be a part of the process of creation. I fear that our friendship will deteriorate to a level in which I constantly wonder what secrets you know about being utterly novel and what you have discovered in those long nights in which you pour over your constructions.

I hope I have not offended you Mattew. In some ways, fearing you is the greatest compliment I can give you. I await your reply.

Sincerely,

Your friend the writer

1947.

When the independence came we were out looking for the line that seperated our lives before and after. A line that was not merely a political one, but one of substance that revealed a freedom that had always belonged to us.The truths of freedom though do not lie in the assigning of a new dawn when such a time has not yet come. The truths of freedom are bound to our relationships with our countrymen, the simple availability of grain and the small but magnificent idea that one can move through social strata's without fear. Nonetheless, tonight, freedom manifested itself everywhere through the promise that was offered with independence. An idea, an action, a dream all flooding through the land's gutters and alley ways. 

So tonight, when the city was ablaze with both fire and hope, and the sky was bursting with a thousand colours the people had released, in the smallest room of the floor above a tobacco shop he shared his first kiss. The adults had all run into the streets to celebrate, forgetting momentarily the children who were pretending to be asleep in whatever they used for a bed. It was not surprising that his father had always called Mohan an opportunist, for it was at this moment, when mothers and fathers were abandoning their posts and the city was drenched with the spirit of liberation that he climbed out of his bed, through the window and on to the roof. From there, it was only a few careful leaps across the closely collected rooftops of  Vibhav Nagar. He stopped, knowing exactly where she lived and stumbled onto her balcony. Behind him, the streets were full, the teenagers too drunk to care about a young boy running through the rooftops of Agra. Someone called out "Thief!", but even such an accusation was submerged in laughter. For how trivial was the crime of a thief? How much it didn't matter on this night. 

He was not yet old enough to realize exactly why the city had gone mad, but he knew something important was happening. He knew then that to invest in this particular night would bring about the best outcome. He picked the lock of the balcony door with ease and moved through her house without concern for anything. He was brash, stumbling over pots and chairs but laughing to himself. He didn't care. Something beautiful was happening outside and he was going to transfer that feeling into this house. He knew no-one else was home but her, and he called out. Bravely, stupidly, with all the zeal a 14 year old boy can muster he let her name tumble out of his mouth. Instead of appearing from the smallest room in the house, she came through the front door at that exact moment. Upon seeing him, her face broke into a smile. And then, an expression that held the same excitement and curiosity Mohan's voice had betrayed. Both of them were drenched in the heat that came with all Augusts, which for some reason had grown thicker tonight. Perhaps it was the fires in the city. Perhaps it was the realization that change was creeping through not only the land but this room, coiling itself around their hands and clothes and eyelashes. 

"I was out looking for you," She said.

"I came here. Everyones gone."

"I know."

Anthony Bourdain is My Spirit Animal

Hello again to all my friends, HERE ON PBS KIDZ.

Being terrible at the act of blogging feels more unatural than being the frequent, angry and hormonal teenager that blogged daily. When did I stop writing about every day like it was nessecary. When did I stop being so mad about everything when it didn't fall exactly in agreement with my young adult opinions. Or have I not become less mad but just more quiet? More censored. If I remember correctly, 2006 was a time in which we all loosely threw around the n-word because it seemed cool, and very heavily relied on dubbing everyone dumb and misguided. And of course when I look back, and read that loud and manic writing I cringe, even gag perhaps. But I also feel terribly less creative. I don't want to eventually come to the moronic realization that the most productive and imaginative time of my life was before I turned 20. Not that it was that productive at all, but every week was littered with a new dream that marched each day into some childlike frenzy in which the next moment had the potential to be the moment that changed our lives.

It seems that everything I am angry about has become something everyone is angry about? And maybe thats the initial ritual of adulthood, to be joint in our hatred of this 'terrible' society rather than get upset over how it hasn't offered us our own version of greatness. Don't get me wrong, I am not at all less interested in achieving a title, getting a whiff of being dubbed 'great', having my ego gloriously stroked. But I'm less inclined to believe that i'm entitled to have this delivered to me. Unfortunatley, this realization does not exactly translate immediatley into the logical conclusion of 'working harder'.

Right now, right this minute, I want to be Anthony Bourdain. Look I know, I am neither an accomplished chef , well known writer or a seasoned traveller, but for the past two weeks I have been having a repeated fantasy of being exactly that (throw into that mix a musical genius and political leader). There is something profound about Anthony Bourdain's No Reservations. Hear me out fuckers. Just slow down before you LOL at my face.

No Reservations follows Bourdain around the world as he eats a variety of culturally relevant food, drinks a generous emount of nation-specific alcohol and does a bunch of shit in between eating and drinking that is also unique to each country visited. Obviously this sounds like several combo travel-food shows. No. Noooope. You're entirley wrong. I'm not sure what makes No Reservations particularly unique, but it probably has something to do with Bourdain's personality – an unabashed, curious, funny and inherently bitter amalgamation of a man. This goes togther with the idea of a “crew” of people who are evidently now Bourdain's friends, his “team” who move with him from place to place experiencing what each culture has to offer through food and its relevance through history. There is a genuine effort to dive headfirst into each culture but also a severe honesty that comes through Bourdain's background narration. There is a sincerity to no reservations that isn't desperate to “show a new culture” but rather it is eager to experience it and weigh out its beauty and ugliness and then taste it. Bourdain finds himself in post-colonial Asia, Africa and South America and drinks away his days in old grand hotels, he comments on the movement of time, the progression of ideology and the attatchment to identity over the culinary arts. At times, his remarks are biting – blunt and judgmental of some strange cultural oddity. At other times he is fasinated, sypmathetic and observant. In Europe Bourdain is more familiar, he slips into Italian and French cuisine with ease but still maintains the same balance of abrasive commentary and genuine love of all things new and strange. There is a certain integrity to the No Reservations team and it comes through in their footage, in their accidents and in how Bourdain acts as a center piece to how this entire group of people swim through a large assortment of food, people and places.

So, with that said. Earlier today, immediatley after waking up I watched Bourdain's NR episode in “Rome”. Shot entirly in black and white to project Bourdain's own dream of an old filmy Italy where men walk in suits and the streets are as still as paintings at night time. Theres a moment in the episode where the freshest of fresh cheese is being cut for the first time and Bourdain gets to taste it. And its only in the first 10-15 minutes after cutting the cheese will it ever truly taste as perfect it does in that moment. I'm not sure why this had such an insane effect on me, but my longtime thirst for travel and adventure which quite frankly had been uneasily dormant in my life for the last little bit, once again reignited. I want to travel the world in the very same way and taste food and hear music and re-live history through people in the same Bourdain like stlye. It is awfully familiar and extremley provoking. A little bit of exhaustion, intruigue, excitment and awareness. And it truly has nothing to do with “fun”. I think it is much more rooted in learning, understanding what people really value and going back in time by moving through the world like it is a quite wonderful textbook.

I only wish I hadn't discovered this show so late. 

Herodotus Liked his Meat Dry

In my study of antiquity, humans are categorized. There are slaves and there are masters, haves and have-nots, the military elite and the child rearing woman. The bards, the artisans and the whores. And I wonder, at what point does a small isolated party of like minded people become stamped in time as a record of something. A record of something bigger than them and yet still a brief image of a life they were a part of. Is it more important to note the patterns shared by a group of potters and the development of their craft, is that really the summation of their life? Or is history actually told in the conversations that were had between the time in which each pot dried, and the quiet and exhausted sighs that were released when the time came to close the shop at night. I wonder then where a small but pleasant weekend in our contemporary world would fit. I wonder how the small joys extracted from playing a board game around a wooden table after consuming a warm meal and being simmered down by wine will ever make its way into a history. An enquiry about what it means to be human today in all its fleeting glory. If the feeling of heavy bedsheets and how hot the teapot feels at the start against my palm will wind up being of any importance, because is it not that which makes us who we are? The smallest sensations surrounding the movement of our hands, reaching for another's fingers. The careful and precise way in which you cut onions and look away ever so slightly to attempt to not cry. The smell of coriander against the tip of a knife and how you stop, inhale generously and keep cutting. How graciously we all enjoy each others companies and let the deep and rumbling sound of laughter escape our throats without stopping to wonder if this is what it means to be human today. And for a second in time I am transfixed, because I don't rememer reading about a Mycenaean bard with a penchant for comedy and a particular dislike of grapeseed oil, but for some reason that is all I see. I don't remember when the brown haired soldier in the phalanx turned to his shorter but more refined comrade and quietly whispered a jest, but all at once, in a consuming and terrifying emotion that is not my own I try so hard to remember this. For their sake and for mine. I try at that moment to remember a thousand human histories, and fill in the gaps of my books with these conversations. I wonder if, when all things are quiet and we are an ancient and recorded history ourselves, someone else will remember a small weekend in this place. A very simple record of a simple time.  

Cotton Mill Road

In Kerala the land bursts with green, ponds are blue and purple and the air is moist, thick with humidity and pressed with tradition. On your left from the mosk a deep and eerie echo of quranic verse is heard winding its way through the cement fences of the houses. Dark and binding the words press up against each door, rejected by the hindus and christians and welcomed in by men wearing all white. And in the front sits a temple, smoke tumbling from the cracks of the roof and through the windows a whisper of gold. A dream of an ancient culture with humans holding umbrellas and wearing countless amounts of jewels. Red, yellow and grey powder smeared on the doors, the pond still as stone. The namboothiri inside chants looking sternly at the stone of both Vishnu and Shiva. Here, 500 years ago, the men in gold sat in tapas. Here, behind the lamps, even the shadows of objects have life. On your right tall and restless, white churches loom over the houses with a strange and fatherly jesus figure staring down at his subjects. The people of Kerala are musical. Their voices stretch each word till it sounds as if each sentence has a hook, a dip and a question. The cats, like old ghosts trace all the houses like its their own. Sometimes only two, other times ten, they silently slither through fences and gateways watching everything. And in this house, everyone seems busy. Washing the floor once, twice, thrice and then sweeping it again. Water sprinkled on the veranda, the stairs and on the porch. Until there isn't a spot the water hasn't touched. Except the rooftops, but then the rain will always take care of that. In this house, in each room people sit, tense and aware of the pressure of fate. Is it fated? Is it destined? Everyone asks these questions as they fold their ella ada's and slip pawn into their lips. Quietly, everyone prays, looking north towards the temple. For a good future, for the potential that something may happen in the afternoon. When cups are filled with steaming chai and plates are dressed in sweets. Then, at the moment right before the showers begin again, everyone hopes the boy and the girl will find a fine balance. For a few seconds, time will stop, eyes will meet, and there is either an agreement or a disagreement. In that few seconds, an entire future is born. 

In Kerala the water is pink, boiled with spices till the nothingness of water turns a rosy haze. This water is then transferred into jugs, bottles, cups and the people sip it deeply. It both tastes and smells like a room of seeds. Of course, each house has their own mixture. Sometimes the water is dark as a pomegranate seed, and at others, light like the sky at sunset. The boys of Kerala sit on terraces, temple walls and prowl the streets like foxes. Their ears perked listening for the sound of feminine laughter. Their eyes bright, their features fine. The melting pot of Jew, Turk, Dravid, Aryan all combines to give the Keralite a look that one cannot immediately put their finger on. Sometimes, the boys are fair with curly hair and long noses. Sometimes dark and somber. The girls are both elusive and fickle, hiding under umbrellas, eyeing handsome men behind their mothers, smiling to themselves and looking away fast. No-one can know.  The boys holler at girls passing by, singing, whistling and clapping as the girls, in clumps act irritated but smile inwardly and walk fast. 

Where do you sit in a global house?

Today I will be watching The Hunger Games. Today I went for a bike ride. Today I had a debate on human rights. Today I realized I didn’t particularly like Ratna Kapur’s opinions on international human rights but preferred Makau Matua’s. Today I ate two clementines and had a cup of coffee. Today this is whats in my head:

I understand International human rights often looks like the West is taking a giant dump on every non-European country by practising imperialism veiled in humanitarian intervention. I also understand that liberal democracy is being advertised as the only possible step forward for every country that isn’t already a liberal democracy, which is fundamentally stupid. With that said though, I would like to take a second to delve into the question of cultural defensiveness, and how far can that really go. Most human rights scholars fall somewhere in between the two extremes, in that we should attempt to revise human rights and cultivate a culture-neutral set of standards. Most people (Except for fucking fools) agree that there needs to be significant discourse that moves from the bottom up for non-Western nations to even begin chitchatting about the possibility of an international standard of rights. On this topic, there are three things I wholeheartedly believe, and I hope this doesn’t change:

1.        International human rights, though a brainchild of the West, must be open to enough criticism that it can eventually become a product of all nations. Without open dialogue and re-interpretation by a new set of actors (The International Declaration of Human Rights continues to be the same set of principles written up by Europeans half a century ago) we risk the loss of ideological, political and social growth and only an expansion of Western arrogance.

2.       There already exists a minimal informal set of human rights that I believe all cultures adhere to. The right to basic human dignity, the view that murder and rape are ‘bad’, crimes must be punished, freedom to pursue the good life. Obviously several of these rights are only too often violated, but it is done so through general acts of crime, or in some cases massive illegitimate law (masking itself as valid and necessary) that ultimately will be overthrown with time or rejected internally (albeit at too slow a pace). I believe all humans everywhere on a personal level do not wish to be harmed if they have not committed a crime or harmed another. It is perhaps this basic shared right that we should build up from.

3.       I think the overarching goal of human rights, after protection of minorities and generally setting a standard for human dignity is to weed out unreasonableness. And this is the where the controversy arises most clearly. As I stated earlier, the West pointing a finger and attempting to ‘save’ repressed minorities in foreign cultures often reeks of a paternalist stench. But what about universal unreasonableness? Being against genocide, unequal gender and sexuality laws, child marriage, torture and honour killings are not sentiments I have borrowed from the West. They are practises so unreasonable that I believe any rational human being would feel repulsed by. They are acts so abhorrent that I think they quell progress before it can even begin and backtrack the potential of any culture. In saying that, I firmly believe as an Indian female growing up in the West, cultural defensiveness has a time and a place. And unreasonable cultural norms that cannot be adequately justified in a modern society must be quashed.

To go off my third point, I found Ratna Kapur’s “Human Rights in the Twenty-First Century: Take a Walk on the Dark Side” to hold up the very thing I dislike.  Some of her points I agree with, that human rights has a darker side that must be acknowledged before we can even get the ball rolling. Mutua agrees, and goes as far to say that the West views human rights as a sort of ‘end of history’ and ‘final goal’ of global society which is a detrimental overall.  My gripe is with the question of where can we draw the middle line? The East requires the West to at least consider that they too can be authors of global law rather than just the addressees.  Naturally I agree, how else can the term ‘multicultural’ or ‘global’ even be used otherwise? But for such discourse to even exist there are some underlying human rights standards that cannot be ‘set aside’ for the sake of ‘dialogue’, rather they must be followed before the new rules are written up.  And how many of these rules can be re-written? Which standards are up for re-interpretation? How many of them are “genetically” Western in a sense?   Perhaps the most difficult of all questions is to ask under what conditions can these potential ‘talks’ even take place?  Mutua suggests a domestic, grass-roots approach to the problem to ensure each nation, culture or set of people come to terms with the concept through their own means. Habermas on the other hand says that all answers can be found in democratic deliberation and fair communication. Forst Rainer, interestingly puts out the idea that all humans have the ‘right to justification’ regardless of culture, ethnicity or nation, and this will be the basic building blocks that will be used to develop global rights.

There are several brilliant writers out there who do an excellent job of going deeper into some of the very basic points I have touched upon, mine are musings inspired by the papers I have read, the discussions I have had and the thoughts that do wrack my brain while I attempt to be both a reasonable student and an open minded thinker.  Anyway, these were just a few passing thoughts that creeped into my head today (and will almost certainly be a topic I revisit several times in this blog). For now, I’m out and about.

Port of Morrow

Hello it’s me again, the worlds worst blogger.

The thing is every day I wake up with something I feel I should write, and by the middle of the day those topics have most likely tripled. In the afternoon my ideas form a quiet hum, they wind into each other and bloom into bigger ones. In the afternoon I wish I could spy into my head, it is most fluid then. Calm if i’ve drank the right amount of coffee and not forgotten to eat. By dinner I have roughly 10 fully formed topics I want to immerse in, and by bed time my brain is an apollonian gasket. The circles are big, and then small, and then within all the gaps a trillion other spheres. Winding and churning like a clunky gearbox – if i’m happy I imagine all the spheres turn in unison, producing a fully functioning machine. If sad, then unfortunately nothing works.

I think everyone on earth (with enough time, money, patience and a laptop) should stop what their doing and listen to the new Shins album. Seriously. It is brilliant. James Mercer took a 5 year break and arrived once again, now a family man with a new set of band mates and a different sound. Nonetheless, his talent has not diminished at all.  I don't even know which song to post on here because everything (except Pariah King. That one fucking sucked. Sorry mercer) sounds so good and wholesome and i just want to crawl into a little shins blanket and think about summertime and lakes and trees.  Mercer has this magical quality to his voice where he alters melody within melody. I don't know how to explain it properly, but it is most apparent on the 13th second of "Mines Not A High Horse" (from the Chute Too Narrow album). Most Shins songs in general have an underlying melody that doesn't sound at all like the overarching one, and is place for more than just harmony.  I'm not sure, but the hidden tunes in each song seem to tell tales unheard in the lyrics and the primary melody (Saint Simon, at 3:50 seconds into the song). Anyway heres a new one:

 

I finally had all my ducks in a row

Peace and quiet by means of subtraction

How she got in i'm not sure that I know

By two weeks on and my spine was in traction

My eyes in a basket

The Great Game

The Russian bear, the Persian cat and the English lion; together they played The Great Game. All fur and claws and bloodied teeth, they were proud beasts who would neither sit still and take insult or strike too quick to guarantee a fall. Oh no, this was a game of wits, backed with brute strength and the sheer will to emerge on top. It was a show of talent unmatched, the bear would dance while the lion roared and the cat would walk on wire. All three would circle land and paper like the vultures they adamantly denied they had no relation to. The lion feared the bear had strayed too close to its kingdoms and the cat feared being crushed in her tracks altogether. This tournament of shadows, so long and weary for all those below the three, for 8 decades they played. Though it was undoubtedly a magnificent display, in the end the eagle rose higher than the rest. Was it the ability to fly? Or did its sucess lie in its cunning eyes.  Years later in this metallic age we wonder, which beast will now strike. Who can move swiftly, quietly and with the power of several beasts combined? We wait now, like weak pawns, to finally see the face of our new king and queen. We wait now, we wait.

1958

If Madhubala was alive today, she would be 79. None could act so effortlessly or look so beautiful.
Old will always be gold.

I Am Sherlocked

             I have bronchitis (again). It’s an annual thing really so nothing out of the ordinary, just the usual coughing up my lungs alongside mucus, spit and digested food. It’s been a wonderful blur of a weekend, most of which i spent in my bed shivering like a dying rat, looking like nightmare and hobbling to and from the bathroom to vomit.  After putting off the visit to doctor for the past 4 days, I finally went this morning and got myself some Apo-Clarithromycin [side effects of this drug include THE EXACT SAME FUCKING SYMPTOMS OF BRONCHITIS] .  To keep my mind active while my body slowly withers away I have been re-watching most of BBC’s Sherlock, which is going to be the focus of this post.

                I’m not exactly sure why this show is perfect and brilliant, but I believe it’s a combination of these three things:

1. How Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat (the creators) are hardcore fangirls of Conan Doyle’s original

masterpiece allowing them to immerse entirely in their work for their own pleasure

2. Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman’s chemistry

3. They understood the Doyle character formula

               

                I’m watching the unlocking of Sherlock on my S1&2 box-set, and it leaves me feeling both elated and inspired. You can tell by the detail, the script, the eastereggs, the seamless transfer of Victorian Sherlock to 21^st Century Sherlock that the entire cast and crew were fully invested in the project. Like I’m sure all casts and crews need to be invested in their work, but something about Gattiss’s Sherlock gives one the impression that this is not a show, but rather a love letter to an old friend. It has the same energy and precision that Jackson’s Lord of the Rings trilogy carried, which also was done by a group of die-hard fans. The initial excitement which Gatiss and Moffat felt upon realizing they could create a Sherlock Holmes story (seen in Unlocking Sherlock) of their own pours through in their work, which is rich with the affection and accuracy only true fans of Doyle’s stories could have. It is dreamy really, the setting, the way in which modern London is dealt with and how beautifully it all meshes together to ultimately allow 221 Baker Street to be the exact same as it always was.

Cumberbatch and Freeman’s portrayal of Sherlock and Watson is golden. Both bring a sort of darkly humorous approach to their characters while still managing to elicit genuine feelings of pain and terror when the script requires is. It is in the small glances between the two, the seconds captured in which their body language speaks volumes and the wrinkles on their faces form into a grin between comrades that you truly see that there was no better Sherlock and Watson. Watching them play off each other’s characters on screen is literally the most fun i’ve had watching a show in a loooong time. And I know maybe half of this lies in the genius of the writers, but the other 50% is their natural togetherness.  And whether that may be their ability to portray “bromance”, “friendship” or a strange line in-between genuine love and attraction we may never know, but it is the questions the welcomed tension between the two force the audience to ask that truly makes the show the best.

The original Sherlock Holmes has always been a childhood favourite, and was the first solid influence that pushed me into an obsession with detectives, crime, and mystery. I’m not sure how but Conan Doyle not only created one of the most iconic characters in history, but he also wrote the perfect formula for ‘intellectual male camaraderie’. A bit homoerotic but also a connection built on mutual admiration and mental stimulation. He then turned the formula inside out and using several of the same elements made one of the best examples of an equal anti-hero, Moriarty. And from there, to Irene Adler, Sherlock’s female other half.  I could say then that what Doyle does best is write characters in pairs that maintain a fine balance. The pivotal relationships within the Sherlockian universe is never skewed, all significant characters (Holmes, Watson, Adler, Moriarty, Mycroft) mirror each other, complement each other and are humans of intellectual bravado and dangerous spirit. It is THIS that BBC’s Sherlock has captured so well.

 It’s been a while since i’ve truly signed up to be a part of a fandom, but I feel as though i have no choice but to be one of the many batshit Sherlock fans who plaster their city with “I Believe In Sherlock” posters. I’ve already become a loyal Cumberbitch (yes), and have too frequently attempted imitating Irene Adler while walking to class (failed miserably). I can’t help it though. I’ve never felt so at home in a show as I do with this one, it is both clever and new, but familiar and wonderful.   

I will wait forever for Series 3, but please, do come soon. 

An Introduction

I have not done this in a long time.

So to be brief, I wish to write wisely, boldly and perhaps attempt to move you. For it is in the ability to elicit a reaction of value from ones audience that the strength of a piece is seen.  No reaction rendered would mean apathy in words and spirit. Nothing could be worse.   See there's this quote by Ernst Hemingway:

"No subject is terrible if the story is true, if the prose is clean and honest, and if it affirms courage and grace under pressure."

I'm quite sure this is the best advice I have read in my life on the topic of prose. And from it i can assure you, that if i have nothing to say, i simply will not say it. Because there is nothing worse than writing bullshit. There is nothing worse than filling pages with insincerity. What i must try my best to do, somehow if i can, is to apply the same logic to my life. To make my existence more than a smudge of rubbish. This is, if i am judging correctly, the purpose of my whole life. It need not be yours, but it is definitley mine. This I am sure of.

In this blog I will record a lot of “something” of which much may well be seen as bullshit (i apologize in advance), but because i cannot have that i will present it to you in the best of my abilities as pure tangible matter.  And through this, I will try to find that on some days I am able to retain credible evidence that my life is more than waking up and going to university. I also hope that whatever I say has some weight, which will eventually lead me to realize something substantial about myself that I may have missed in the last 20 years. Some clue, or hint that will make sense of everything to come.

Please take the time to get to know me; I can be contradictory, rude and at times very tiresome. But i will try my best to become better alongside the progression of this blog. I will try my best to be fluid, sincere and concrete in what will eventually become nothing more or less than a rather long soliloquy. And somewhere between these words and comma’s and fancy backgrounds I hope there exists a certain measure of integrity which reflects all things. All humans, all history, all art, all science and all philosophy.

I wish myself the best of luck

Sincerely,

Priya