‘’The fact that you are so neurotic about your past lovers
makes it both fortunate & predictable that you have so few of them.’’
-
Ned Beauman
From here on each of my posts would be flagged by a quote
that left me wide eyed and scrambling for a pen.
Also, you don’t need to write a book to use a quote. No
pressure.
14:23 hours. Sunday.
I was am a wreck, I can’t possibly expect a
half-baked blog post to come to my aid. Not even the half bottle of Vodka that
my dimpled boy left over from the night before, not the ‘not eating’ and not
the trying to sleep my life away. None of it sweetheart. None of it you whore.
All the while I was writing this post I must tell you I
switched screens thrice to work on an email and never got around to completing
it.
Thought: Obsessive compulsive cleaning doesn’t work out too
well when you deprave yourself of caffeine.
Ever tried making a list of Murphy’s laws that apply to your
life? I tried mine over the weekend and I realized this could just be ‘the book’
that I never ended up finishing.
My ‘Warhol’ course evidently added to the blur. The blur and
the preoccupation that always was, and only until recently that which turned
out to be the mainstay of my half-baked existence. It was a beautiful blur
though.
Week one of the course was reading, reading and more reading
followed by interviews where Warhol knew better than to make sense. The handouts
included a section on ‘The Pinocchio theory’ (I could take these thoughts to
bed, night after night)
Warhol says that each of us has an exchange value – a
fetishistic aura that far exceeds its materialistic and utilitarian properties
as objects.
The argument of ‘cult value’ v/s ‘exhibition value’ was a
loss/loss.
At the end of it, we conclude that your ‘aura’ is different
from your ‘product’ but both of them are for sale.
I tried to use the phone less, I knew I sounded a mess as
well.
This is my third black coffee at the café. It would be
incredibly embarrassing to down a fourth cup, but to hell with it.
My idea of vacation would be a sabbatical. On weekends, I
study art by myself. There is nothing entirely wrong with me. I haven’t
swallowed up the bitter pill, not as yet. Don’t intend to. They make you slow.
(PS: This just happens to be the era of microblogging and four worded sentences
are absolutely not retarded anymore)
All of this would have been incredibly funny if it didn’t
come with a clause. A clause that claimed that my best attempts to organize
myself were falling off the hook. That’s life and that’s art – colors, lines,
textures and hues. Sometimes there is a pattern to it.
A conclusion: I did fine, I think. I didn’t wreck a marriage
or cheat on the love of my life or kill somebody or vandalize property.
My life isn’t that bad, but hey, at least I am trying to be
creative about it.
