It's March already. Sigh. Buckle up. Lot to finish.
Friday, March 9, 2012
Thursday, February 23, 2012
My Phone Among Other Things
I have had a troubled history with phones and wallets. Water under the bridge I thought last month when I realised that I had had an 18 month long streak of no problems on those fronts. And that's when I noticed the display picture on my touchscreen. It was a screen grab of Moriarty wearing the crown jewels from BBC's Sherlock. But it looked like it had been taken from some wonky production of Oedipus Rex. Andrew Scott's eyes were gauged out. There was just black nothingness in place of his eyes. (Maybe I'm over-dramatizing, and the busted bit was not bang on top of the eyes but hey my memory, my phone, my rules.) Over the next few weeks I saw the dead pixels wax and wane and change shape. But the phone was fine otherwise. I decided to wait out the problem. You know, wait until it goes away. Yeah, doesn't work on anything other than imaginary monsters.
Yesterday I got talking to a close friend on FB and we decided a conversation was due. We hadn't met in ages. Hadn't talked for more than 2 minutes at a stretch in the last few weeks. It was time for a long chat. The call came I picked up my phone and then it just went blank. Completely unresponsive. I tried all the first aid strategies to resuscitate a dead phone but to no avail. For a while I didn't even know I had actually lost my phone. (It deeply troubles me that I can't fine anything better than human metaphors when talking about an object.) When it finally registered I felt terrible and then felt terrible for feeling terrible. Feeling upset because your phone's not working? What a slave of modern bourgeois lifestyle! If you can't fight it at least don't celebrate it by mourning the absence of a component part. Plunged into darkness for the loss of a phone like that. Ugh.
To be fair I do need it. But not as much as I would want to believe. I don't have a job that requires constant connection with the Network. Thank God. But for a while no amount of rationalizing and self-rebuking worked. I noticed that I was still carrying it around much like how monkeys are known to carry their stillborn babies. It is a awful comparison. But it shows how much I emotional investment I've made in a thing that deserves no more notice than my socks or pencils. It's a symptom of me being in too deep. It is a chastening realization. Railing against the Machine is of no use if one is only too willing to give in to its worst excesses.
So on my shopping list: a new phone. Nothing fancy. Even if it's fancy it's usefulness is never to lead to an affective relationship. People are for that.
Yesterday I got talking to a close friend on FB and we decided a conversation was due. We hadn't met in ages. Hadn't talked for more than 2 minutes at a stretch in the last few weeks. It was time for a long chat. The call came I picked up my phone and then it just went blank. Completely unresponsive. I tried all the first aid strategies to resuscitate a dead phone but to no avail. For a while I didn't even know I had actually lost my phone. (It deeply troubles me that I can't fine anything better than human metaphors when talking about an object.) When it finally registered I felt terrible and then felt terrible for feeling terrible. Feeling upset because your phone's not working? What a slave of modern bourgeois lifestyle! If you can't fight it at least don't celebrate it by mourning the absence of a component part. Plunged into darkness for the loss of a phone like that. Ugh.
To be fair I do need it. But not as much as I would want to believe. I don't have a job that requires constant connection with the Network. Thank God. But for a while no amount of rationalizing and self-rebuking worked. I noticed that I was still carrying it around much like how monkeys are known to carry their stillborn babies. It is a awful comparison. But it shows how much I emotional investment I've made in a thing that deserves no more notice than my socks or pencils. It's a symptom of me being in too deep. It is a chastening realization. Railing against the Machine is of no use if one is only too willing to give in to its worst excesses.
So on my shopping list: a new phone. Nothing fancy. Even if it's fancy it's usefulness is never to lead to an affective relationship. People are for that.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Review: Cock
Cock written by Mike Bartlett is a play basically about a guy and his two relationships. I just finished listening to its Radio adaptation in which the original cast reprises their roles. John (Ben Whishaw) has been in a long relationship with M (Andrew Scott) which seems to be flaundering. He meets and gets romantically involved with W (Katherine Parkinson). Things come to a head at the dinner party which throws all of them together and John must make a decision. M's father (Paul Jesson) also makes an appearance.
Before I go into the play, I've got to let it out about the title. I mean, seriously?! What was the author thinking? Well, I know from his interview that he was thinking about cockfights but I really wish he had thought this through. It's clever of course but doesn't really work in the favour of the play. And I dread to think of what it would do to the search-word related traffic to my blog.
Cock is in my opinion not so much about sexuality than it is about the messiness of personal relationships. It is about being able to feel a connection with someone, the need to be treated the way you want to be, to want to be able to have this AND that not just this OR that. It's about selfishness which is more often than not sugarcoated and overcompensated for but remains nevertheless at the heart of our relationships.
John is played by Ben Whishaw whom I have adored ever since I saw him in Perfume.He is a whiny and passive-aggressive and beautiful man-child who selectively hates to be treated like one. He wants to be free. He wants to have it all but really doesn't know how to handle all the add-ons to the package. The play begins with John and M bickering over, presumably, John's cooking. He just stands there and listens to M's relentless ribbing (which by the way, is masterfully delivered by Andrew Scott, more on him later) because he can't come up with anything to say. Later he breaks up with M just like that on the day M has survived a road accident because M's response to the accident proves to him how fundamentally different the two of them are. He comes back for advise and protection and an impromptu reconciliation. M is, heartbreakingly, his only family. He loves him and cares for him, of course, in his own way. Describes the woman he's been with as tall, and not petite, "more like a man really" to make M feel better. His conversations with W (Katherine Parkinson) reveal an equally tender but somewhat different persona. The wonder of the newness, the thrill of being adored colours his response to her. He loves her and loves being loved by her but is also scared of her. Above all John is a dillydallier in matters that deserve the swiftest handling. His idea of not causing hurt is to prolong the the wait. Which works about as well as the wait of a condemned convict for the gallows.
Katherine Perkinson is really good as W, the woman in John's life. W is a young divorcee consumed by her sense of loneliness, of being left all alone in the world. She is jealous of the ones who she thinks are in love. She feels something with John and then clings on to it with all her might. She is not ready to give up without a fight. In the end it is just all about the fight. It's not enough that M tells John to go with her, she wants to win him.
Andrew Scott's M is another testimony to the brilliance of the actor. He is acerbic and sharp-tongued hiding beneath his tough talk a yearning to protect his heart from getting hurt. He laughs and says irritating things and gets mad and sobs. He mocks John to express his anger. His externalizes his deep seated insecurities onto other people taking details to grotesque extremes. When John describes W as manly his imagination transforms her gradually into a yeti or a machine-monster operated by two men inside. He passionately loves John and wants some commitment from him. He also knows that John would be the one to cause him the most unhappiness. Andrew Scott delivers his lines with an intuitive understanding of loss and the apoplectic fear of loss.
Cock establishes quite successfully that homosexuality in the western world at least has become as saturated by the discourse of normativity as heterosexuality has always been. As M's father played by Paul Jesson delivers his rehearsed speech about genetic determination of sexuality one cringes at its indefensibility even before W tears it apart. The play makes a bold statement about how categories like gay as against straight were invented in the 60s to gain rights and now perhaps have become fetishized in their performance. A critique of the sub-text of "travel to Paris, adopt a kid, pay your taxes, demand representation" that one sees in much of the mainstream narratives of homosexuality is strongly suggested when M and later F invoke the image of the flood-stricken people of Bangladesh to underscore how fortunate they are in their lives.
The play also addresses the issue of monogamy. Wouldn't it be infinitely easier to be monogamous if one could pick and choose the most desirable attributes and programme them in one person? Salman Rushdie in Midnight's Children answers the same question whenhe satirises the traditional Indian wife albeit with a slightly different focus. To me the most important, and also alas the most heart-breaking, message of the play is the tyranny of choice. Not having a choice is restful. Sometimes life may be difficult to endure but it is far easier to make one's peace with it in the absence of any hope of change. Choice can ruin any chance of happiness that a person might have. That is where the tragic undertone of this play lies.
Before I go into the play, I've got to let it out about the title. I mean, seriously?! What was the author thinking? Well, I know from his interview that he was thinking about cockfights but I really wish he had thought this through. It's clever of course but doesn't really work in the favour of the play. And I dread to think of what it would do to the search-word related traffic to my blog.
Cock is in my opinion not so much about sexuality than it is about the messiness of personal relationships. It is about being able to feel a connection with someone, the need to be treated the way you want to be, to want to be able to have this AND that not just this OR that. It's about selfishness which is more often than not sugarcoated and overcompensated for but remains nevertheless at the heart of our relationships.
John is played by Ben Whishaw whom I have adored ever since I saw him in Perfume.He is a whiny and passive-aggressive and beautiful man-child who selectively hates to be treated like one. He wants to be free. He wants to have it all but really doesn't know how to handle all the add-ons to the package. The play begins with John and M bickering over, presumably, John's cooking. He just stands there and listens to M's relentless ribbing (which by the way, is masterfully delivered by Andrew Scott, more on him later) because he can't come up with anything to say. Later he breaks up with M just like that on the day M has survived a road accident because M's response to the accident proves to him how fundamentally different the two of them are. He comes back for advise and protection and an impromptu reconciliation. M is, heartbreakingly, his only family. He loves him and cares for him, of course, in his own way. Describes the woman he's been with as tall, and not petite, "more like a man really" to make M feel better. His conversations with W (Katherine Parkinson) reveal an equally tender but somewhat different persona. The wonder of the newness, the thrill of being adored colours his response to her. He loves her and loves being loved by her but is also scared of her. Above all John is a dillydallier in matters that deserve the swiftest handling. His idea of not causing hurt is to prolong the the wait. Which works about as well as the wait of a condemned convict for the gallows.
Katherine Perkinson is really good as W, the woman in John's life. W is a young divorcee consumed by her sense of loneliness, of being left all alone in the world. She is jealous of the ones who she thinks are in love. She feels something with John and then clings on to it with all her might. She is not ready to give up without a fight. In the end it is just all about the fight. It's not enough that M tells John to go with her, she wants to win him.
Andrew Scott's M is another testimony to the brilliance of the actor. He is acerbic and sharp-tongued hiding beneath his tough talk a yearning to protect his heart from getting hurt. He laughs and says irritating things and gets mad and sobs. He mocks John to express his anger. His externalizes his deep seated insecurities onto other people taking details to grotesque extremes. When John describes W as manly his imagination transforms her gradually into a yeti or a machine-monster operated by two men inside. He passionately loves John and wants some commitment from him. He also knows that John would be the one to cause him the most unhappiness. Andrew Scott delivers his lines with an intuitive understanding of loss and the apoplectic fear of loss.
Cock establishes quite successfully that homosexuality in the western world at least has become as saturated by the discourse of normativity as heterosexuality has always been. As M's father played by Paul Jesson delivers his rehearsed speech about genetic determination of sexuality one cringes at its indefensibility even before W tears it apart. The play makes a bold statement about how categories like gay as against straight were invented in the 60s to gain rights and now perhaps have become fetishized in their performance. A critique of the sub-text of "travel to Paris, adopt a kid, pay your taxes, demand representation" that one sees in much of the mainstream narratives of homosexuality is strongly suggested when M and later F invoke the image of the flood-stricken people of Bangladesh to underscore how fortunate they are in their lives.
The play also addresses the issue of monogamy. Wouldn't it be infinitely easier to be monogamous if one could pick and choose the most desirable attributes and programme them in one person? Salman Rushdie in Midnight's Children answers the same question whenhe satirises the traditional Indian wife albeit with a slightly different focus. To me the most important, and also alas the most heart-breaking, message of the play is the tyranny of choice. Not having a choice is restful. Sometimes life may be difficult to endure but it is far easier to make one's peace with it in the absence of any hope of change. Choice can ruin any chance of happiness that a person might have. That is where the tragic undertone of this play lies.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Deciding Which One to Aim For
I was crossing the road today, right? And there was this person on a scooter with a pillion rider, who wasn't even wearing a helmet by the way, coming from one side. Just as I reached the middle of the road, he reached real close to me and first decided to go from in front of me and when I stopped to facilitate that he changed his mind and swerved to pass from behind me. I almost sustained serious injury -- almost because as it turned out, I just grazed my ankles and elbows a bit -- because he couldn't make up his mind about which path to aim for quickly enough. My initial reaction was, understandably, of screaming curses at him. Naturally. Now I can't say I blame him. It 's hard to decide what to choose when there are identical alternatives. I should know, after all. Word to the wise -- it helps if the brakes are in tiptop condition.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Random List #2
Some days just go wrong. Nothing terribly bad happens, just things are off by inches. I feel let down and responsible for it. (Paradoxical, I know, but that's how it is.) On such days, when they've proven to be difficult, by late afternoon or evening I am prone to commit desperate acts of potential worth to relieve my condition. So off I go to the library to actually look for a book I might need. Or to my desk to clear out pending work. It usually doesn't work. I end up feeling even more beat after finding nothing of use in the library or striking nothing off my to-do-list. If real life had a soundtrack like the movies mine would definitely feature these on such days.
1. Just Breathe: I first checked out Pearl Jam after I overheard a friend reminisce about good old college days with her ubercool college buddy. In this song I love the robust yet vulnerable lilt of Eddie Vedder's voice, the minimalistic guitar and the silence.
2. For What It's Worth: This one has got somewhat cynical lyrics. It makes me sit very still.
3. Hallelujah: There are many versions of this song including Leonard Cohen's incomparable original. But this one spells despair like nothing else does.
4. Nicest Thing: "I wish that you knew when I said two sugars, Actually I meant three." Achingly sad.
5. Just Impolite: It really appeals to my emotionally reckless side. I love this song. I watched The Good Guy just because it featured this song in its OST.
6.Desire: I heard this song in an episode of House. I love the harmonica interlude almost breaking through the incapacitating rhythm of the song but not quite succeeding in dispelling the mood.
7. Hero: If my dark passenger could sing, she would have Regina Spektor's voice. The repetition and the controlled screaming and the need for constant reassurance... it's all right it's all right it's all right...no-ones's got it all...
Don't worry, I'd live.
1. Just Breathe: I first checked out Pearl Jam after I overheard a friend reminisce about good old college days with her ubercool college buddy. In this song I love the robust yet vulnerable lilt of Eddie Vedder's voice, the minimalistic guitar and the silence.
2. For What It's Worth: This one has got somewhat cynical lyrics. It makes me sit very still.
3. Hallelujah: There are many versions of this song including Leonard Cohen's incomparable original. But this one spells despair like nothing else does.
4. Nicest Thing: "I wish that you knew when I said two sugars, Actually I meant three." Achingly sad.
5. Just Impolite: It really appeals to my emotionally reckless side. I love this song. I watched The Good Guy just because it featured this song in its OST.
6.Desire: I heard this song in an episode of House. I love the harmonica interlude almost breaking through the incapacitating rhythm of the song but not quite succeeding in dispelling the mood.
7. Hero: If my dark passenger could sing, she would have Regina Spektor's voice. The repetition and the controlled screaming and the need for constant reassurance... it's all right it's all right it's all right...no-ones's got it all...
Don't worry, I'd live.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Virtually Speaking
I was talking to a friend today and I ended up insulting her. I tend to do that. Insult friends. But that is not what this post is about. So yeah we were talking and she was telling me that an online friend who she had never met in real life was confiding in her details of her morally questionable love life. My friend wondered what made her do that. It set me thinking.
My friend's online friend, let's call her Cleopatra, went into great detail about her dilemma in continuing/ending a relationship. She talked about how terrible she felt to be in that situation and how much she hated herself for deviating from the path dictated by her moral compass. To me Cleo's need to get it all out was more than just cathartic. Sure, it feels good to own up to one's guilt. It's socially programmed into us from early childhood. But is the perception of guilt that simple? Do people in real life feel actual remorse for their reprehensible actions? What happens when the wrongness of the action itself cannot be ascertained. I believe sometimes, certainly in Cleo's case, the resemblance of one's situation with an archetypal mytheme of human relationships triggers the need to want to be that person who would recognize their error of judgement and sacrifice personal well-being to maintain the balance in the universe. Pretty tragic sounding, this. Cleo is not that person. But she wants to be. Hence playing of the part. To an audience. My friend is that audience. And then there is the GIFT.
GIFT or the Great Internet F***wad Theory posits that given anonymity and an audience a regular person can turn into a total f**k. In this case the anonymity is only partial as Cleo's online identity is not secret. But there is very little difference between the homophobic troll that frequently flames my favorite TV show's tpb page and people like Cleo who tell stories to near strangers about their private lives.
Come to think of it, I and many many of my friends and acquaintances display online disinhibition to varying degrees. Though I imagine it's not always a bad thing. Like when it gives voice to someone who cannot find one in the real world. I just wish I see the good side of it more often than the unseemly one.
My friend's online friend, let's call her Cleopatra, went into great detail about her dilemma in continuing/ending a relationship. She talked about how terrible she felt to be in that situation and how much she hated herself for deviating from the path dictated by her moral compass. To me Cleo's need to get it all out was more than just cathartic. Sure, it feels good to own up to one's guilt. It's socially programmed into us from early childhood. But is the perception of guilt that simple? Do people in real life feel actual remorse for their reprehensible actions? What happens when the wrongness of the action itself cannot be ascertained. I believe sometimes, certainly in Cleo's case, the resemblance of one's situation with an archetypal mytheme of human relationships triggers the need to want to be that person who would recognize their error of judgement and sacrifice personal well-being to maintain the balance in the universe. Pretty tragic sounding, this. Cleo is not that person. But she wants to be. Hence playing of the part. To an audience. My friend is that audience. And then there is the GIFT.
GIFT or the Great Internet F***wad Theory posits that given anonymity and an audience a regular person can turn into a total f**k. In this case the anonymity is only partial as Cleo's online identity is not secret. But there is very little difference between the homophobic troll that frequently flames my favorite TV show's tpb page and people like Cleo who tell stories to near strangers about their private lives.
Come to think of it, I and many many of my friends and acquaintances display online disinhibition to varying degrees. Though I imagine it's not always a bad thing. Like when it gives voice to someone who cannot find one in the real world. I just wish I see the good side of it more often than the unseemly one.
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