Of Lullaby Springs and Damien Hirst ( Additional notes from the under deck - no convenience charge )

Natasha Choukkar – on why she is good at what she does and why she hasn’t been doing enough of it.

So these are "literary" notes from the under deck that have been scribbled on planes, buses, parks, outside grand museum stairs and motel note pads, sometimes fancier notepads and Pierre Cardin’s (with a cold metallic sheen) that don’t really subscribe to our generation.

And as I am writing this from a sublime and terribly gorgeous place in Whitefield's where the rain trickles down the window pane every ten minutes and skylights brighten up the room at dawn, I am thinking of all the things I swallowed up on my way here: 

These were the things I did take a very long time to learn about myself:

• I have vacation issues
• I deliberately like to torture myself by carrying the wrong books on my journey to help me get to write. Suicidal, ain't it?
• My life is not a Roy Lichenstein version of Sleeping Girl, it really isn’t. My life revolves more around every conceivable Jasper John’s you could ever find. Some people confuse it to be something like Degas and his drying women. Like seriously? Get a life.
• I can’t sleep on most nights – too much coffee and the fear of being rendered redundant gnawing at me.
• This is not a place to soul search
•  Having fun is hard work and you of all people should know that (Yes you, D)
•   I don’t have shiny hair either ( I’m talking to you D, don’t look away)

    Here’s what I have been doing when I haven’t been eating weird meat– reading up on Damien Hirst. Hirst is a man who sold his thoughts. Period. Love him or hate him for that. So you could blame Hirst for me throwing up stuff about me which shouldn't be surprisingly shocking if you've known me already and come this far.

    We live in a society with questionable moral ethics; need we blame our artists for their questionable artistic ethics?  I am trying after all to be almost as transparently fair as I can be. (D?)