On Morel and desire in writing

I recently read 'The Invention of Morel' by Alfredo Bioy Casares. I don't usually do responses. But, I also don't usually finish books. I think I should write this anyway because I am troubled by the book. As I write, four other friends are reading it.
To begin with (and a prologue one must go back to after finishing), Borges writes of the form of the adventure story and how many considered it "practically impossible" to derive any sort of pleasure from a formless, psychological novel, one that doesn't rely on plot and shows no overt objective. But, as Casares (and others) demonstrate (and as Borges states), the beauty and paradox in the adventure story is the very fact that things may happen the way we don't expect them to (at least in novels) - "a person may kill himself because he is so happy...lovers may separate forever as a consequence of love..."  The idea of unacceptable literary inventions is very comforting.
In most reviews I read, the book is described as a work of science fiction with a romantic plot at its core. Again, this is only my interpretation but I disagree. In fact, the novel is hardly about anyone else but the narrator/self. It's quite a treat for someone like me, who spends copious amounts of time with themselves. Why I don't take too seriously the label of romance is because the narrator very early in the story locates and describes, almost deifies an exotic buxom bodied gypsy woman with a red scarf. That's probably the first of the many "images" we begin to live with in this story. From then on and as we discover at the end, the narrator, for me, is already trapped in a loop of a moment-before-meeting. He hesitates, plots chance encounters, glances, reads gestures, gets disappointed and starts over (I almost beamed at his pattern, he is like me in love). What should one make of this tendency to locate an object of admiration and then circle it incessantly with the image in one's head? The distance between that, then making the leap beyond imaginary encounters and then disappointment of real people is for another day.
There is a lot to write about. For instance, it always struck me as odd that some ancient cultures thought photographs steal your soul. This story has to be, by far the most convincing explanation. But, I'll end with my favorite changing painting : Princes of the House of Timur, originally started by the gifted Safavid master-painter, Mir Sayyid Ali in 1549. (The link above gives a comprehensive history of the painting) The short story is that once commissioned by grandfather Humayun, this painting became symbolic of a legacy of Mughals as Timurids and subsequently, Jahangir got it altered to reflect his version of the family story. The painting is very interesting not only because it is a deliberate attempt to retell personal and royal history but it confirms (my) suspicion that stories are seldom about beginnings, ends or plots in themselves. On closer inspection, stories often betray an interwoven strand of desire. As Casares's hero meticulously placed himself just steps ahead of Faustine and Jahangir's sons looked upon him with reverence (or did they?), the buried hearts of those who made these stories peep out from within.

Letters of a reluctant mug (to young daughter)

Dear young daughter,

I started a journal in 2013 eagerly awaiting the Mayan apocalypse (as you may now affably remember). But, such was the anticlimax of ordinary life that continued ever so peacefully, the journal seems rather gleefully suicidal. I have decided to write you a fresh set of learnings from my (yet quite) young life. These letters are convenient for me for a reason that they are not burdened by historicity and may come to your rescue if you should unwittingly inherit my cynicism. You should consider this letter as the middle act of a film that will never end. In any case, I won't know the ending. Just as I unburden myself and pass it on to you, I apologize for so viscous blue a shade of confusion that you didn't sign up for and I must explain why - because my life as is unfolding against the backdrop of larger, intensely frustrating battles of trust, humanity, politics, bodies, religion and more is posing some of the toughest choices I've made so far. A few decades later, hopefully you can tell me if this is relevant to you, I may feel less lonely (and will write to Sylvia Plath that her premature death was unnecessary).

I am already exhausted and my troubles already seem petty but I must continue. As you know, I've chosen academia as my occupation. I lay in bed at night and close my eyes hoping I manage to reach all deadlines. Gradually, as I get drowsier, I feel a strange pressure at the roots of my hair, a feeling that they are greying. I wake up in the morning to check. I am surrounded by a lot of people who "matter", people fighting the right fights, some making art and others lobbying with governments to change laws. I am afraid I've gotten too close to the process of making change (blame it on the unprecedented media proliferation) and hence grown wary of the means they use. Just the other day I took up a rant with A, "are you all playing the gallery? Whose change is it anyway?" Let me explain, there is a deep eagerness to publish, congregate and say. I am not surrounded by academics at this point who would think thrice, dissect an opinion and lay bare their own complicity. I am not surrounded by fellow reluctant mugs, it's the time to say things confidently because there is little consequence and no sanctity. I am no purist, but anything goes - nothing scandalizes, nor are there any limits to how many times you can repeat an idea. I hope you inherit my hesitation and value silence as a virtue. Nothing says I love you more than listening to someone in rapt attention.


There is more, but right now I have work, studies, backache and a conference call.

[To be continued...]

Please call me a cloud

The business of disclaimers: Is a figment of imagination

Every time in my head, when I have imagined coming face to face with you, suddenly, dressed in patched, colorful, layered clothes against what I can see when I close my eyes every morning as blinking neon lights in the night, the mood is that of past betrayal and a fresh scab of longing. There is music, chaos, people are dancing, most are generally happy because they haven't worked so hard for a chance reunion. Things come easier to those who let go quicker. But, it's only you, or something about how the idea of you settled in a corner of my heart so comfortably that it refuses to leave me. Or maybe I like being haunted. I like repeating what you have said and what you would have said to myself often in the silent gaps between two happy days.  

Further in our chance encounter I also, almost always, imagine or actually feel in my imagination a sudden rush of guilt, want, need and sobriety - like something about me is so rickety it can break any moment, but it hasn't for the longest time, I've held it together such. My holding it together is what lends your eyes the cocky confidence in me and you, and lets you have your way. Maybe we decided in an impassioned moment to let you have your way for life. I secretly suspect it was done when we started exchanging books.

I have thus decided to change my name. Please call me a cloud. I feel like a ravenous cloud and my sound is rumbling. The only time that rumble changes is when I break into torrential rains. I am very hungry, my sounds deepening in dissent like the last note of Bhairav and you will only hear me weep in floods, drench you in some strange mix of anger and love. You, be the stone and enhance the pathos of our tragic tale. 

Pop9 photography

I realized I hadn't uploaded the photos I took with my (new/old) Pop9, a lomo camera that gives you 9 images per frame. It's a toy camera and is now available in a bunch of shops in India. It uses standard 35mm film so processing should not be an issue. I lost quite a few images, not sure why. Am yet to process the second roll. Posting a few images from the first. More on Pop9 here: http://shop.lomography.com/us/pop-9-1122

PS. It's really fun if you are into textures.

Leaky Eyes

Of late, I've been working hard at changing the state of everything in life. Since it isn't enough to keep saying I am (re)employable, I did actually test the hypothesis. I still am, employable that is (but I only like the idea of employment, not the actual act). Similarly, a revamp is never finished until one really, truly feels like a new person and completely forgets about the recent past heartbreaks or rejections in general. It's amazing how films can help with that transition so well. It's like films and books are the gymnasium of the hypothalamus. You really have to put yourself through someone else's journey to see the light of the day. I know friends can help with that but again, of late, most friends around have been in crises worse than mine. You don't have to curate these books and films. They happen to you and they may not even be saying things but you may be seeing them. If you are waiting for me to list the books and movies, I'll do it at the end of the post.
I watched the 'Ship of Theseus' yesterday. The first story is of a girl who regains her eyesight though donation and experiences a change in her photography practice. The film is about larger things and I've heard this plot before where someone even starts hating their newly gained vision because they aren't able to handle it but I was set to churning by something else.The film portrays it beautifully. After I went home, I kept thinking if the loss and gain of any other sense would be so paradigm changing as that of vision. With limited vision, she relies on texture, ambient sounds, software instruction, light readings, description of colors and shapes and takes an educated guess/click. If you think about it, that's not how we (with full vision) click. We get overwhelmed by the visual cues so much that most of what "seeing" people can produce seems the same. That is probably why the fatigue and a lot of us stop clicking. She does too, and then goes to Chhitkul (where I was two months ago!), and fails miserably to get inspired (deja vu). The point isn't the newness of vision, it is the amount of distraction that it brings to life, my life.

The girl wasn't looking into the mirror, or at pretty young things, delicious food, watching her own body change shape. She radiated a strange kind of stubborn confidence which only came with opaque eyes. It's like things of her, in her, started to leak the moment she could see. The whole order and method of her photography wasn't working anymore. She even tried wearing a blindfold to experiment. You know how there is nothing left to educated guesses? I was so overtaken by how deliberate everything became for her, as if she/I was orchestrating it because she could see. To be able to see is also the ability to look - at someone. I hate it.

When you look at someone, cruelly, kindly, expectant, hurt, welcome or civilly, it's part of what you mean to give away and part of what they should get from you. I've really been training at looking to look indifferently. There's something about 'alive' eyes, the ones with a sparkle/twinkle. I have those. And, there are deadbeat eyes for poker players. I've been practising the look. I doubt I'll get it any soon. To add some wizard wisdom, remember when Snape taught Harry how to close his mind to the Dark Lord? Yes, Occlumency.

The books and movies. I read: The Fault in Our Stars, Hitchhiker's Guide..., High Fidelity and I saw: Lola versus, The Nanny Diaries, Liberal Arts, Submarine, Ship of Theseus.