The cold persists in its stuffy, congested form. Making it difficult for me to practice Raag Deshkar without getting out of breath. But there's still a couple of months to go before the concert. Perhaps my rendition will be acceptable and presentable by then.
The holidays have passed. Monday is knocking. I'll probably be the only one at work with everyone else on an extended vacation. There will be peace and quiet everywhere. So much peace, so much quiet spilling over from the peace and quiet at home. Why don't peace and quiet go to those who crave it? I have never wanted it and have always had too much of it. My vocal chords rust and my ear drums don't vibrate much. Or at least not with the kinds of sounds I want to absorb, the sounds of pleasant, meaningful, enlightening conversations and uplifting music.
I've spent the last four days in one room or another of the house and have gone out to see movies when I couldn't take the incessant TV watching and being indoors, hearing the wind rustle and rattle my home and the rain streak my windows as the sun failed to rise.
I wish I could have used the time to write something meaningful but I am still languishing in nothingness.
Some ideas, concerns or notions do take firm hold when one doesn't have too much else to think about, or when the things one needs to think about are rather depressing like l'argent and how all drudgery stems from the need to not just think about it but do something about it.
So the thought that grabbed a firm hold this time originated with a comment proffered so casually by a TV personality on a VH1 program which was counting down the top 100 songs of the 1990s. Somewhere, sitting comfortably, in the middle of the list was Cher's song: Do You Believe In Life After Love.
Clinton Kelly, from the show What Not To Wear was being interviewed about the song. He liked the song and he prefaced his opinion on it with the following comment referring to Cher's age at the time she recorded this song:
"How does a 52 year old woman make herself relevant?"
This comment was uttered so casually, in such a matter of fact manner, as if it were a given, in the perception of most people, that a fifty-two year old woman slides into irrelevance. She is not on anyone's radar screen, isn't expected to be in the limelight. She is unremembered, unnecessary, unseen and unheard.
There was a similar theme to this day almost from the moment I woke up. When I wake up in the morning I usually log in to my computer. The gossip that greeted me this morning was about actress Susan Sarandon who had just broken up with her partner of 23 years, Tim Robbins. The gossip columnists were speculating if Sarandon, probably in her fifties, was dating a 31 year old. I read this piece of gossip aloud to my husband and his comment was, "Wow! Isn't that unnatural? What does a woman her age stand to gain from a relationship like this?"
My husband loves to get a rise out of me in matters such as this. So I decided not to let myself be aggravated by him. But I wondered again about the light in which women of a certain age are perceived by the world, not just by other men but other women as well.
Later in the day I was chatting with a friend who teaches. She was telling me about her disappointment at not being invited to a function where a young and dynamic Indian leader was going to address students and teachers but had requested that the only teachers who were to be present were to be less than the age of thirty five; perceived irrelevance strikes again!
The thought is depressing. I want to rail against this perception but what good would the railing do? It is unfortunate that it exists and that those of us who feel the need to rail and rage against it need to fight it with all we've got, until the time that such an utterance becomes unheard of.
Meanwhile, two of the brilliantly enacted and directed movies I saw were Up in the Air, starring George Clooney and the musical Nine, starring Daniel Day Lewis and nine gorgeous women.
The two movies seemed to address, in some ways, the male irrelevance. Men examining the point in life in which they find themselves. In Nine Nicole Kidman's character - Claudia - who plays Maestro Guido Contini's (Daniel Day Lewis portraying a film director) muse. When Guido is talking to her about the women who shape the man through every stage in his life, fueling his ambition, helping him reach the highest of heights, she reacts by saying she would rather be the man.
I thought that was brilliant! Of course, let a man be our muse for a change!
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Nothing: Part 8
My cold has gone on for a very long time. Nyquil gives me a good night's rest and fools me into thinking that the rhino virus has been vanquished. But the symptoms return with a vengeance the next day and I can't possibly take Nyquil during the day.
I was exploring the over-the-counter cold medicine aisle at the pharmacy and noticed something interesting. Every cold medicine brand comes in night and day time strengths. The thing that bothers me the most about a cold is the runny nose and the sneezing. And yet none of the day time pills are designed to relieve runny nose or sneezing!
Day time - Multi-symptom relief:
Aches
Fever
Cough
Nasal Congestion
Night time - Multi-symptom relief:
Aches
Fever
Cough
**Sneezing**
**Runny Nose**
Sneezing and runny nose are the worst part of the cold and apparently there is nothing you can take in the day time (unless you plan to snooze at your desk) that keeps you from sneezing or sniffling.
So the sneezes and the sniffles keep coming. At least people give me a wide berth in buses and trains and I get the whole seat to myself. The new thing about sneezing in the crook of your elbow (instead of your palms, when you suddenly find yourself without tissues), to prevent a spewing of germs for all to inhale, has left me with several jackets and sweaters with sneezed in sleeves that need drycleaning or, better yet, burning...not sure drycleaning will help.
I suppose if self medication fails to deliver me from this cold, that has already lasted over seven days, I might have to drag myself to the doctor. But let's see. I'll give it another couple of days.
Misery, miserable misery!
I was exploring the over-the-counter cold medicine aisle at the pharmacy and noticed something interesting. Every cold medicine brand comes in night and day time strengths. The thing that bothers me the most about a cold is the runny nose and the sneezing. And yet none of the day time pills are designed to relieve runny nose or sneezing!
Day time - Multi-symptom relief:
Aches
Fever
Cough
Nasal Congestion
Night time - Multi-symptom relief:
Aches
Fever
Cough
**Sneezing**
**Runny Nose**
Sneezing and runny nose are the worst part of the cold and apparently there is nothing you can take in the day time (unless you plan to snooze at your desk) that keeps you from sneezing or sniffling.
So the sneezes and the sniffles keep coming. At least people give me a wide berth in buses and trains and I get the whole seat to myself. The new thing about sneezing in the crook of your elbow (instead of your palms, when you suddenly find yourself without tissues), to prevent a spewing of germs for all to inhale, has left me with several jackets and sweaters with sneezed in sleeves that need drycleaning or, better yet, burning...not sure drycleaning will help.
I suppose if self medication fails to deliver me from this cold, that has already lasted over seven days, I might have to drag myself to the doctor. But let's see. I'll give it another couple of days.
Misery, miserable misery!
Monday, December 21, 2009
Nothing: Part 7
Hmm...er...nope, nothing.
Well, not really. There was the big snowstorm, the big event over the weekend. At about 8" we were not as badly off as the poor folks to the south of us who got approximately 25" of the white stuff.
It's a good idea to not purchase movie tickets online, in advance, in December though. We had tickets to the blockbuster Avatar but couldn't make it to the IMAX theater. We have until March to use the tickets. In the meantime I have to watch Invictus, Up in the Air, It's Complicated , Did You Hear About the Morgans, Sherlock Holmes and Nine.
It might be hard to convince the hubby to accompany me to any of these. The story lines might not be too appealing to him and I hate when he does the sleeping, slumping, snoring when he's not fidgeting thing, when we are in a theater. It's a good thing I don't mind watching movies alone. Each one of these movies has people I like seeing on screen: Morgan Freeman, Hugh Grant, George Clooney, Alec Baldwin, Meryl Streep, Penelope Cruz, Robert Downey Jr, Steve Martin and more. It would have been nice to have a "bff" to drag to the movies. But I think I missed the train on that one.
Anoushka will be away visiting her grandparents so I intend to see every movie that isn't animated while she is gone; even if there's a lot to be said for animation these days. Watching some of the animated gems one can imagine actors being out of work (except for the sale of their voices)sometime in the not so distant future. We saw the animated Christmas Carol recently and were entranced and spellbound. It was so very well made
Movies appear to be on top of my mind, so it's worth remarking that every now and then while channel surfing through TNT, Starz or Encore on cable TV, one stumbles upon some gems that passed by unnoticed when they were released. One such movie was Mother Ghost, starring Mark Thompson, Kevin Pollak and Dana Delany. I channel surfed across it and couldn't pull away. It was the story of a middle-aged man, Keith (played by Mark Thompson - what a handsome man! How come I've never seen him anywhere else?) who lost his Mom and then felt as though he was being haunted by her. He ultimately needed a down on his luck psychiatrist, Dr Norris (played by Kevn Pollak), working as a radio shrink, to bring some resolution to his problems. Problems that he wasn't even willing to acknowledge he had. He called the shrink to tell him how lame his radio show was but then he was kept talking as the building suspense showed more and more people all over the state tuning in to listen to his problems; problems that resonated with everyone. His wife listened, his Dad listened, he was ultimately brought to tears as was this watcher.
Funny how some good movies disappear without making any noise.
So that's the story of nothingness for today. Now for the slippery, slushy trudge back home. I'll try to sharpen my violin playing with Paganini's Witches' Dance. I have really been slacking off since the recital. I also have to get ready for my Raag Deshkar performance coming up in March. I wish I was singing something more exciting, but one baby step at a time.
Well, not really. There was the big snowstorm, the big event over the weekend. At about 8" we were not as badly off as the poor folks to the south of us who got approximately 25" of the white stuff.
It's a good idea to not purchase movie tickets online, in advance, in December though. We had tickets to the blockbuster Avatar but couldn't make it to the IMAX theater. We have until March to use the tickets. In the meantime I have to watch Invictus, Up in the Air, It's Complicated , Did You Hear About the Morgans, Sherlock Holmes and Nine.
It might be hard to convince the hubby to accompany me to any of these. The story lines might not be too appealing to him and I hate when he does the sleeping, slumping, snoring when he's not fidgeting thing, when we are in a theater. It's a good thing I don't mind watching movies alone. Each one of these movies has people I like seeing on screen: Morgan Freeman, Hugh Grant, George Clooney, Alec Baldwin, Meryl Streep, Penelope Cruz, Robert Downey Jr, Steve Martin and more. It would have been nice to have a "bff" to drag to the movies. But I think I missed the train on that one.
Anoushka will be away visiting her grandparents so I intend to see every movie that isn't animated while she is gone; even if there's a lot to be said for animation these days. Watching some of the animated gems one can imagine actors being out of work (except for the sale of their voices)sometime in the not so distant future. We saw the animated Christmas Carol recently and were entranced and spellbound. It was so very well made
Movies appear to be on top of my mind, so it's worth remarking that every now and then while channel surfing through TNT, Starz or Encore on cable TV, one stumbles upon some gems that passed by unnoticed when they were released. One such movie was Mother Ghost, starring Mark Thompson, Kevin Pollak and Dana Delany. I channel surfed across it and couldn't pull away. It was the story of a middle-aged man, Keith (played by Mark Thompson - what a handsome man! How come I've never seen him anywhere else?) who lost his Mom and then felt as though he was being haunted by her. He ultimately needed a down on his luck psychiatrist, Dr Norris (played by Kevn Pollak), working as a radio shrink, to bring some resolution to his problems. Problems that he wasn't even willing to acknowledge he had. He called the shrink to tell him how lame his radio show was but then he was kept talking as the building suspense showed more and more people all over the state tuning in to listen to his problems; problems that resonated with everyone. His wife listened, his Dad listened, he was ultimately brought to tears as was this watcher.
Funny how some good movies disappear without making any noise.
So that's the story of nothingness for today. Now for the slippery, slushy trudge back home. I'll try to sharpen my violin playing with Paganini's Witches' Dance. I have really been slacking off since the recital. I also have to get ready for my Raag Deshkar performance coming up in March. I wish I was singing something more exciting, but one baby step at a time.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Nothing: Part 6
Sorry folks (I'm imagining "folks"), but I am still not ready to give you a post that is about something. I am just marking time, like they used to make us do in the school marching band. Never knew what purpose was served by the Barrow House, Rangers House, Gidney House and Khanna House squads marching in place, without moving...not that marching around the school field served any purpose either...
Anyway, so now I am marking time, dreaming about some day being able to write something that makes sense to me and to the world. Dreaming of a time when the "folks" will not be imagined, a mental fabrication, but a real crowd of avid readers. But time is short and that road is steep. I have a long way to go before I can come up with anything to offer to a future group of avid readers.
Someone, who used to be a friend, once said that one can't write if one lacks real life experiences. A puzzler, because one can't lead an inexperienced life! Is it possible to live one's life untouched by experience? Like an empty slate, like pure, driven snow?
I remember these words that seem trite, in retrospect, but were meaningful at the time that a favorite teacher (Ms Krishnamoorthy) wrote them in my yearbook:
"Dear Pragya,
Your future lies before you
Like a field of driven snow,
Be careful how you tread it,
For every mark will show."
I didn't think of the words as trite then. For all I know, she probably wrote that for all her students. I suppose it is a favorite quote for people addressing graduation ceremonies. What did I know, I was only 16. I liked the words, maybe more so because I liked the teacher.
So how is it possible to lead an inexperienced life when every mark does show?
But perhaps there's a certain skill I lack when it comes to separating the wheat from the chaff. One needs to pick and choose which moments to highlight when one is making an impassioned effort at the creation of a story, which moments to carefully disguise as pure fiction and which ones to dress up in the multi-hued garbs of the "message"; the lesson learnt or the existential philosophy acquired.
Ultimately one also needs to let go of concerns about how what one writes will change the perceptions of people who see one in a certain light. What will the world say? What will they think? I will probably be able to write something when I stop caring.
It isn't that hard to stop caring after all. Growing up and watching the years fold over themselves in your rearview mirror, you learn not to care about some things. For instance, I remember being ambitious once, about my career, my goals. I was a combination of severe self-doubt and some degree of confidence. It was strange but true.
Whenever I slid into despair about my inability to make something happen I would just have to talk to my ever-the-optimist Mom, who said "You can do it! Of course it's possible!" And I was always surprised about how right she always was about that. One needs someone to shine the torch on the part of you that has some degree of self assurance and confidence, letting the dark negativity shrivel up and die.
But back then, there were things I wanted, things I was willing to go after - an upwardly mobile career, a home, some measure of prosperity, an MBA degree from a highly ranked institution. Rather concrete elements on a checklist, checked off as acquired. I even fought for things like promotions and raises. So much so that I heard about a recruiter being told not to hire me because someone who wasn't a well-wisher told her that I had a tendency to be "belligerent". I can't imagine anyone I know well ever tagging me with that adjective, but I suppose something I did, conveyed such an image to this person who didn't wish me well.
But it has been so many years since I cared to that extent, where I could even project imagined belligerence or aggression.
The breaking point might even have been September 11, 2001. I had a hand on my belly, feeling the baby, that was to be Anoushka, kicking. She was still several weeks away. I was at my desk, engrossed in trying to come up with an intelligent MS Excel IF_THEN formula that would magically resolve my work problem of the moment and then someone said that the first plane had struck one of the towers. Someone in the office asked if it was an accident and I said, "Either that or it was bin Laden".
Within seconds all the little numbers in the little MS Excel boxes lost any meaning they had ever had. The concern about getting my eight months pregnant self back home safely and the immense sense of disaster and loss, at such a grand scale, concern for my co-worker whose husband was an NYC fire fighter, the images of people jumping off the windows, of soot covered people. It was something that touched me tangentially (from a distance of 50 Manhattan blocks) and deeper than anything ever had, all at the same time.
Some of the things I used to go after have acquired extreme meaninglessness since then. The point is reinforced everytime I am approaching the New York city line from New Jersey and there's a giant nothingness where the towers used to be. I was at a holiday party at the Windows to the World restaurant on top of the WTC, that restaurant, that tower no longer exist. Going after things acquired some pointlessness then.
But at the same time, a feeling of pointlessness results in stagnation and stagnation is not a good place to be. The stagnant plateau must always face a point where the crossroads are not obscured by conditions of limited visibility. Alice sees the fork in the road but the Cheshire Cat tells her it doesn't matter which road she takes if she doesn't know where she's going. I need to figure out where I am going and I need to do it before it's too late.
So a conversation with my Mom today showed that she still thinks I'll get there. She told me, "Don't worry, you'll get there". I wish I knew where "there" was.
Some of you do end up reading these rambling words on Facebook. if you have reacted favorably, with some kind words or even a thumbs up that says "Like", then I thank you.
You see, long ago, in the early days of Facebook, I ended up selecting a setting that enabled my blog posts to simultaneously appear as a note in Facebook. I guess my narcissism knew fewer bounds then than it does now. So now it probably ends up in your newsfeeds. I could hunt and peck my way through "Settings" and stop this from happening. But I am not going to. I just don't feel like it. So if these posts are in your feeds and you would rather not see them, then please click on the box that says "Hide". I swear I won't mind it if you "Hide" me. Your move will be transparent enough that it doesn't hurt my feelings.
Anyway, so now I am marking time, dreaming about some day being able to write something that makes sense to me and to the world. Dreaming of a time when the "folks" will not be imagined, a mental fabrication, but a real crowd of avid readers. But time is short and that road is steep. I have a long way to go before I can come up with anything to offer to a future group of avid readers.
Someone, who used to be a friend, once said that one can't write if one lacks real life experiences. A puzzler, because one can't lead an inexperienced life! Is it possible to live one's life untouched by experience? Like an empty slate, like pure, driven snow?
I remember these words that seem trite, in retrospect, but were meaningful at the time that a favorite teacher (Ms Krishnamoorthy) wrote them in my yearbook:
"Dear Pragya,
Your future lies before you
Like a field of driven snow,
Be careful how you tread it,
For every mark will show."
I didn't think of the words as trite then. For all I know, she probably wrote that for all her students. I suppose it is a favorite quote for people addressing graduation ceremonies. What did I know, I was only 16. I liked the words, maybe more so because I liked the teacher.
So how is it possible to lead an inexperienced life when every mark does show?
But perhaps there's a certain skill I lack when it comes to separating the wheat from the chaff. One needs to pick and choose which moments to highlight when one is making an impassioned effort at the creation of a story, which moments to carefully disguise as pure fiction and which ones to dress up in the multi-hued garbs of the "message"; the lesson learnt or the existential philosophy acquired.
Ultimately one also needs to let go of concerns about how what one writes will change the perceptions of people who see one in a certain light. What will the world say? What will they think? I will probably be able to write something when I stop caring.
It isn't that hard to stop caring after all. Growing up and watching the years fold over themselves in your rearview mirror, you learn not to care about some things. For instance, I remember being ambitious once, about my career, my goals. I was a combination of severe self-doubt and some degree of confidence. It was strange but true.
Whenever I slid into despair about my inability to make something happen I would just have to talk to my ever-the-optimist Mom, who said "You can do it! Of course it's possible!" And I was always surprised about how right she always was about that. One needs someone to shine the torch on the part of you that has some degree of self assurance and confidence, letting the dark negativity shrivel up and die.
But back then, there were things I wanted, things I was willing to go after - an upwardly mobile career, a home, some measure of prosperity, an MBA degree from a highly ranked institution. Rather concrete elements on a checklist, checked off as acquired. I even fought for things like promotions and raises. So much so that I heard about a recruiter being told not to hire me because someone who wasn't a well-wisher told her that I had a tendency to be "belligerent". I can't imagine anyone I know well ever tagging me with that adjective, but I suppose something I did, conveyed such an image to this person who didn't wish me well.
But it has been so many years since I cared to that extent, where I could even project imagined belligerence or aggression.
The breaking point might even have been September 11, 2001. I had a hand on my belly, feeling the baby, that was to be Anoushka, kicking. She was still several weeks away. I was at my desk, engrossed in trying to come up with an intelligent MS Excel IF_THEN formula that would magically resolve my work problem of the moment and then someone said that the first plane had struck one of the towers. Someone in the office asked if it was an accident and I said, "Either that or it was bin Laden".
Within seconds all the little numbers in the little MS Excel boxes lost any meaning they had ever had. The concern about getting my eight months pregnant self back home safely and the immense sense of disaster and loss, at such a grand scale, concern for my co-worker whose husband was an NYC fire fighter, the images of people jumping off the windows, of soot covered people. It was something that touched me tangentially (from a distance of 50 Manhattan blocks) and deeper than anything ever had, all at the same time.
Some of the things I used to go after have acquired extreme meaninglessness since then. The point is reinforced everytime I am approaching the New York city line from New Jersey and there's a giant nothingness where the towers used to be. I was at a holiday party at the Windows to the World restaurant on top of the WTC, that restaurant, that tower no longer exist. Going after things acquired some pointlessness then.
But at the same time, a feeling of pointlessness results in stagnation and stagnation is not a good place to be. The stagnant plateau must always face a point where the crossroads are not obscured by conditions of limited visibility. Alice sees the fork in the road but the Cheshire Cat tells her it doesn't matter which road she takes if she doesn't know where she's going. I need to figure out where I am going and I need to do it before it's too late.
So a conversation with my Mom today showed that she still thinks I'll get there. She told me, "Don't worry, you'll get there". I wish I knew where "there" was.
Some of you do end up reading these rambling words on Facebook. if you have reacted favorably, with some kind words or even a thumbs up that says "Like", then I thank you.
You see, long ago, in the early days of Facebook, I ended up selecting a setting that enabled my blog posts to simultaneously appear as a note in Facebook. I guess my narcissism knew fewer bounds then than it does now. So now it probably ends up in your newsfeeds. I could hunt and peck my way through "Settings" and stop this from happening. But I am not going to. I just don't feel like it. So if these posts are in your feeds and you would rather not see them, then please click on the box that says "Hide". I swear I won't mind it if you "Hide" me. Your move will be transparent enough that it doesn't hurt my feelings.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Nothing: Part 5
This is really a post about nothing because nothing happened to me today. At least nothing that I can talk about openly. I can only hint at a feeling of disorientation, at feeling disconcerted. There was a change that seems innocuous enough on the face of it but makes me wonder what deeper intentions, agendas and strategies are at play. Granted, sometimes we read things between the lines that were never really there.
In the end I am sure I feel exactly the same way I felt when I entered my second grade classroom one morning and found that all the classroom furniture was different. The chairs were different, the tables were different and the orientation of the entire room had changed. I remember that it made me uneasy for several days even though it wasn't something 'bad'. But hey, how many days of our lives do we actually single out and remember? I remember that one, it was significant enough to be on instant recall for thirty seven years even if it had no impact on how my life turned out.
I was feeling so out of it that even though my co-worker and friend had reminded me about the holiday pizza lunch at work today, I still forgot about it (within minutes of her telling me!) when I felt the first hunger pang.
I walked out in the cold to buy my lunch. Then I settled down and decided to have a calming conversation with my parents, dialled a number that I usually dial on autopilot, only to hear an unfamiliar voice tell me that he wasn't my Dad and that I had dialled incorrectly. I was baffled! I am certainly not functioning at 100% today.
The fact that it's a Wednesday makes it worse for me. Understand, I am being really, unreasonably neurotic when I say this. Wednesday night is the night when our garbage needs to be dragged to the curb. The garbage trucks arrive bright and early on Thursday morning.
Every Wednesday, especially in this cold, dark winter, as I am driving back home I cross my fingers and my toes and pray that the hubby would have done the needful. But this is rarely the case and even the suggestion that it get done by him when it needs to be done elicits teeth gritting refusal in favor of postponement of the task to the following week. Such postponement is quite unacceptable to me. So since I have arms, legs, I must travel...to the curb...with garbage bags. An eruption in shrillness being an alternative that doesn't become a lady like moi.
So I am in the same situation today. Of all the things that I could be thinking about, the one that's weighing on my mind the most is the presence of ten bags of garbage in the garage that need to be taken to the curb tonight. The weather forecast is chilly and windy and I think I've lost my gloves. So I am thinking about an efficient way to do this, with minimal back and forth from garage to curb, probably a 150 ft distance. I'd say it's the most unsavory task that I get stuck doing. On the bright side...Anoushka has offered some bag dragging and moral support through it all :)
We have to make some adjustments afterall, when the spouse is conserving all his energies for something, work-related, work prospecting or what...who knows, the details of it haven't really been shared. Ostensibly lots of slumber and tons of coffee are required. The only sense I have of his presence in the house lately is a pot of pasta, left on the stove for me to consume when I get home at 8 PM, and the resultant dishes in the sink.
At least I have no reason to hum the Santana tune:
When I come home, baby...
My house is dark and my pots are cold...
You're hangin' 'round, baby...
My house is sometimes dark but the pots are rarely cold ...
So after the garbage removal, the dishes would have to be next on the cards for me tonight. Moving away from non-stick cookware has its own special joys.
And there's the metallic taste of stress through it all...
The mountain ranges made out of the molehills in my brain might have to be given their own name soon!
In the end I am sure I feel exactly the same way I felt when I entered my second grade classroom one morning and found that all the classroom furniture was different. The chairs were different, the tables were different and the orientation of the entire room had changed. I remember that it made me uneasy for several days even though it wasn't something 'bad'. But hey, how many days of our lives do we actually single out and remember? I remember that one, it was significant enough to be on instant recall for thirty seven years even if it had no impact on how my life turned out.
I was feeling so out of it that even though my co-worker and friend had reminded me about the holiday pizza lunch at work today, I still forgot about it (within minutes of her telling me!) when I felt the first hunger pang.
I walked out in the cold to buy my lunch. Then I settled down and decided to have a calming conversation with my parents, dialled a number that I usually dial on autopilot, only to hear an unfamiliar voice tell me that he wasn't my Dad and that I had dialled incorrectly. I was baffled! I am certainly not functioning at 100% today.
The fact that it's a Wednesday makes it worse for me. Understand, I am being really, unreasonably neurotic when I say this. Wednesday night is the night when our garbage needs to be dragged to the curb. The garbage trucks arrive bright and early on Thursday morning.
Every Wednesday, especially in this cold, dark winter, as I am driving back home I cross my fingers and my toes and pray that the hubby would have done the needful. But this is rarely the case and even the suggestion that it get done by him when it needs to be done elicits teeth gritting refusal in favor of postponement of the task to the following week. Such postponement is quite unacceptable to me. So since I have arms, legs, I must travel...to the curb...with garbage bags. An eruption in shrillness being an alternative that doesn't become a lady like moi.
So I am in the same situation today. Of all the things that I could be thinking about, the one that's weighing on my mind the most is the presence of ten bags of garbage in the garage that need to be taken to the curb tonight. The weather forecast is chilly and windy and I think I've lost my gloves. So I am thinking about an efficient way to do this, with minimal back and forth from garage to curb, probably a 150 ft distance. I'd say it's the most unsavory task that I get stuck doing. On the bright side...Anoushka has offered some bag dragging and moral support through it all :)
We have to make some adjustments afterall, when the spouse is conserving all his energies for something, work-related, work prospecting or what...who knows, the details of it haven't really been shared. Ostensibly lots of slumber and tons of coffee are required. The only sense I have of his presence in the house lately is a pot of pasta, left on the stove for me to consume when I get home at 8 PM, and the resultant dishes in the sink.
At least I have no reason to hum the Santana tune:
When I come home, baby...
My house is dark and my pots are cold...
You're hangin' 'round, baby...
My house is sometimes dark but the pots are rarely cold ...
So after the garbage removal, the dishes would have to be next on the cards for me tonight. Moving away from non-stick cookware has its own special joys.
And there's the metallic taste of stress through it all...
The mountain ranges made out of the molehills in my brain might have to be given their own name soon!
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Nothing: Part 4
I met a classmate from school today, after twenty five years. It was wonderful to reminisce about long forgotten people and things.
"There are places I remember..."
That Beatles classic is always a refrain, or background music for me because I do tend to meet a lot of people who have been a part of my life, in minor or major ways, and are back in my life again; albeit to a different degree, but there all the same. It seems I prefer to live my life, or rather, complete this journey with the same fellow passengers in central or peripheral vision.
The friend I met said something about being in the here and now, remaining focused on the present. There is much wisdom in that, I acknowledge that wholeheartedly, not grudgingly. It makes good sense to only worry about the present. But I adore the past just as I would a mantelpiece of memories on display or a collection of objets d'art. Each person I met left me with something, however fleeting or intangible and for that they earn a permanent place in my mental china cabinet, for me to admire at leisure.
It is my way of feeling grounded or tethered to something that was once real in a present existence that feels casual and marked with impermanence.
I marvel at the fact that I have now resided at my current home for eight years. That's the longest time I've ever spent in any one place. When I was a kid we changed homes often until my parents bought a home where they spent many years without me, I was old enough to move out by then.
My daughter has spent eight of her years in this home. The walls and windows, the nooks and crannies of this home will have a permanent place in her recollection. I am amazed when we visit the local stores and playgrounds and she always finds someone to greet, someone who knows her. The cashier at our supermarket recognizes her, and her Dad, and thinks of me as the person who is seldom seen. I am still a stranger, still just a visitor in my own reality. I have never been in a place long enough to know the histories of the local shops and businesses, of restaurants and pubs and greengrocers or butchers and I am never the one who knows how a certain place used to be before it changed into what it appears to be now. I am only always meeting people who say things like:
"I remember when this was a dirt road, now it's a major highway!"
"Oh remember the movie theater that used to be on Main Street?"
"Oh the block parties we used to have when we lived there!"
"That stream is all dried up now, we used to go inner-tubing there."
No such recollections for me, it always does end up being about the here and now. So the more hits or markers that get revisited as an adult the cheerier I feel.
Perhaps the present home will be the one I view on Google Earth, or something similar, thirty or forty years from now the way my Mom and Dad, sitting in their living room in Canada, view the ancestral village, their childhood home, the khets, the pokhar, the well, the neighbors, the neighboring village, their village schools...all viewed from satellite and pretty much preserved in time.
And the Beatles will continue to play in the background, of places I remember and people and things and friends...as the here and now ends up a cherished part of the past...
"There are places I remember..."
"There are places I remember..."
That Beatles classic is always a refrain, or background music for me because I do tend to meet a lot of people who have been a part of my life, in minor or major ways, and are back in my life again; albeit to a different degree, but there all the same. It seems I prefer to live my life, or rather, complete this journey with the same fellow passengers in central or peripheral vision.
The friend I met said something about being in the here and now, remaining focused on the present. There is much wisdom in that, I acknowledge that wholeheartedly, not grudgingly. It makes good sense to only worry about the present. But I adore the past just as I would a mantelpiece of memories on display or a collection of objets d'art. Each person I met left me with something, however fleeting or intangible and for that they earn a permanent place in my mental china cabinet, for me to admire at leisure.
It is my way of feeling grounded or tethered to something that was once real in a present existence that feels casual and marked with impermanence.
I marvel at the fact that I have now resided at my current home for eight years. That's the longest time I've ever spent in any one place. When I was a kid we changed homes often until my parents bought a home where they spent many years without me, I was old enough to move out by then.
My daughter has spent eight of her years in this home. The walls and windows, the nooks and crannies of this home will have a permanent place in her recollection. I am amazed when we visit the local stores and playgrounds and she always finds someone to greet, someone who knows her. The cashier at our supermarket recognizes her, and her Dad, and thinks of me as the person who is seldom seen. I am still a stranger, still just a visitor in my own reality. I have never been in a place long enough to know the histories of the local shops and businesses, of restaurants and pubs and greengrocers or butchers and I am never the one who knows how a certain place used to be before it changed into what it appears to be now. I am only always meeting people who say things like:
"I remember when this was a dirt road, now it's a major highway!"
"Oh remember the movie theater that used to be on Main Street?"
"Oh the block parties we used to have when we lived there!"
"That stream is all dried up now, we used to go inner-tubing there."
No such recollections for me, it always does end up being about the here and now. So the more hits or markers that get revisited as an adult the cheerier I feel.
Perhaps the present home will be the one I view on Google Earth, or something similar, thirty or forty years from now the way my Mom and Dad, sitting in their living room in Canada, view the ancestral village, their childhood home, the khets, the pokhar, the well, the neighbors, the neighboring village, their village schools...all viewed from satellite and pretty much preserved in time.
And the Beatles will continue to play in the background, of places I remember and people and things and friends...as the here and now ends up a cherished part of the past...
"There are places I remember..."
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Nothing: Part 3
A big nothing! I really have nothing to say today. The highlight of the day was a humongous socks sale on the 22nd floor of the Empire State Building. The crush of people making a mad dash for trouser socks, footless tights, tube socks, tights, sheers, over-the-knee socks, ankle socks and gift boxed socks was mind-boggling.
The family should be well stocked with socks for awhile.
Anything else...? Well, it was interesting that 200 languages met their sad demise dring the Noughties. The last known speaker of a native Australian language - Jawoyn - drew his last breath this year. As Ally asked, who did he speak to when he was alive?
Good question, perhaps we lost the greatest soliloquist that language ever had, along with the language.
Let's see what tomorrow brings.
PS: Need the teacher's opinion on how well I am doing with the Themes from Paganini's Witches Dance. Have been coming across quite a few roadblocks, need pointers. Or maybe all I need is the right breathing techniques and a calm and focused demeanor.
The family should be well stocked with socks for awhile.
Anything else...? Well, it was interesting that 200 languages met their sad demise dring the Noughties. The last known speaker of a native Australian language - Jawoyn - drew his last breath this year. As Ally asked, who did he speak to when he was alive?
Good question, perhaps we lost the greatest soliloquist that language ever had, along with the language.
Let's see what tomorrow brings.
PS: Need the teacher's opinion on how well I am doing with the Themes from Paganini's Witches Dance. Have been coming across quite a few roadblocks, need pointers. Or maybe all I need is the right breathing techniques and a calm and focused demeanor.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Nothing: Part 2
When I first came to the US, Thirtysomething was a popular television drama about baby boomers, the largest group of Americans, coming of age, coming into their own, getting married, having babies, buying homes, settling in to live their American dream.
They never once thought about moving back in with their frugal, post-Great Depression parents who had probably built themselves a solid financial future through financial restraint and cautiousness. These thirtysomethings had cushy corporate jobs and greed was still considered good.
Fast forward twenty years and we find this segment of aging boomers, who thought their nests were (or would soon be) empty and that they could manage well even on Wall Street and Madoff raped finances and busted 401ks, find themselves welcoming back their little birdies back to the nests, moving back to their old rooms, beaks open like little chickadees.
The generation Xers aren't the most secure people in the world these days. With unemployment at an all time high, worthless MBA degrees and hiring freezes they really have nowhere else to go. They are surrounded by monsters under the bed and need to sneak back in with mommy and daddy.
So when my little Generation Y person crept back into our bedroom last night she had me wondering if this was an eerie prelude to the future. Will the trend have reversed by the time she comes of age? Will she be fortunate enough to be on an extended uptick of the economic cycle?
They never once thought about moving back in with their frugal, post-Great Depression parents who had probably built themselves a solid financial future through financial restraint and cautiousness. These thirtysomethings had cushy corporate jobs and greed was still considered good.
Fast forward twenty years and we find this segment of aging boomers, who thought their nests were (or would soon be) empty and that they could manage well even on Wall Street and Madoff raped finances and busted 401ks, find themselves welcoming back their little birdies back to the nests, moving back to their old rooms, beaks open like little chickadees.
The generation Xers aren't the most secure people in the world these days. With unemployment at an all time high, worthless MBA degrees and hiring freezes they really have nowhere else to go. They are surrounded by monsters under the bed and need to sneak back in with mommy and daddy.
So when my little Generation Y person crept back into our bedroom last night she had me wondering if this was an eerie prelude to the future. Will the trend have reversed by the time she comes of age? Will she be fortunate enough to be on an extended uptick of the economic cycle?
Monday, December 7, 2009
I'll blog about nothing until I have something to blog about
I am tired of neglecting this space. It isn't as though my mind's a blank. I do have thoughts scurrying around in the darkness, much like the tiny mouse that inhabits my garage. It's rarely seen and yet there's a tiny hole in the garage wall with some insulation hanging out. My thoughts are making similar impressions somewhere on my person, I suppose. So we'll try using this blog as a mousetrap. Something might wander in.
So far the nothingness has taken the shape of waking up to the smell of the awesome Ethiopian Sidamo coffee. Just a hint of caramel and it was the best beverage to start the day. At least you can't say I am not waking up and smelling the coffee these days.
I had once read someone's blog that suggested that a combination of Sumatran and Ethiopian Sidamo coffee would yield a taste similar to the south Indian coffee I love so much. I don't think I ever got the proportions right, never found the right blend of the two. But, individually, both Sumatran and Sidamo coffees taste wonderful. I even searched for and found coffee with chickory. Tasting that was another exercise in awesomeness.
Coffee in hand, I crunched my way through the ice on my driveway. Thinking about how overdressed I would look in my heavy boots because as usual New York wouldn't even have a trace of snow. I swear, sometimes it seems like it only snows right above my home.
Reminds me of one of the stories in Jack Finney's I Love Galesburg in the Springtime. The story of which I am reminded was the one about a young couple having trouble agreeing on a design for the home they wanted to build until they stumbled upon an ancient blueprint of a home that was never really built. They fell in love with the design and had it built. They stayed very close to the details, used the material that would have been used for building homes at the time the blueprint was created and eventually saw the creation of a magnificent home.
The only problem was that once they moved in, they too went back in time. Their attitudes, their attire, their activities all changed to reflect the time of the conception of that house.
Even the weather patterns they experienced were from a time in the past such that sometimes it only appeared to be snowing or raining on their home while it was sunny everywhere else. Perhaps the homes in our little cul-de-sac are all trapped in an alternate weather zone. [Before some literal friend, plodding away in a logic swamp, jumps in to educate me on tri-state area weather patterns, let me say - no - I don't really think that]. I just feel this way sometimes.
It's getting really dark, really early these days. We are all rather nocturnal on weekends. It's a form of rebellion against the early rising we have to do on weekends. But waking up at noon is a bad idea these days because by the time one struggles with a late lunch, showers, accomplishes other minor chores, the day is done. There's no daylight at 4 PM and it's worse when it's raining or snowing.
Nothing new here. It could even be something I complain about annually. However, each year seems a little bit darker. If life was a piece of music, while writing it I would write in fine printed italics, underneath last few measures rit. for - ritardando - meaning gradually slower. Like music, why can't life get gradually slower? One rarely sees the instruction rapide as a piece of music is ending! And yet each year is further accelerated into nothingness.
The darkness must be affecting a lot of people these days. There are so many commercials on television, about the latest depression drugs, each commercial more creative than the previous one. One shows women sitting around with expressions as blank as can be. Their loved ones, drawing, sketching, playing, living around them while they mope around, unresponsive, unreactive and transparently invisible or invisibly transparent while a wind up doll slowly loses steam and droops. That's until she tries the new pill and is "wound up" again, letting out the occasional laugh and going to see a movie with friends.
There was another commercial spotted last night showing various people taking on the colors of their surroundings, like creatures adept at camouflage, merging with the supermarket aisles, their couches, subway station walls. Made me wonder what it was saying about the disease of depression, that depression makes you invisible, or makes you feel inanimate or invisible and inanimate? Perhaps poets are now incharge of writing the copy for depression ads.
They are certainly interesting to watch, until the kiddo spots one and asks, "Mommy what's depression?" You've got to admit that people appearing like they are camouflaged with their surroundings, with just a mopey, Eeyore-like head sticking out, would appear interesting to an inquisitive child.
So we make our dark winters bearable by laughing at these commercials. It's a good way to keep the dreaded D away. Especially since neither the wind-up doll people, nor the camouflage people have got it right yet. How it feels is never easy to describe, as some friends have indicated.
So far the nothingness has taken the shape of waking up to the smell of the awesome Ethiopian Sidamo coffee. Just a hint of caramel and it was the best beverage to start the day. At least you can't say I am not waking up and smelling the coffee these days.
I had once read someone's blog that suggested that a combination of Sumatran and Ethiopian Sidamo coffee would yield a taste similar to the south Indian coffee I love so much. I don't think I ever got the proportions right, never found the right blend of the two. But, individually, both Sumatran and Sidamo coffees taste wonderful. I even searched for and found coffee with chickory. Tasting that was another exercise in awesomeness.
Coffee in hand, I crunched my way through the ice on my driveway. Thinking about how overdressed I would look in my heavy boots because as usual New York wouldn't even have a trace of snow. I swear, sometimes it seems like it only snows right above my home.
Reminds me of one of the stories in Jack Finney's I Love Galesburg in the Springtime. The story of which I am reminded was the one about a young couple having trouble agreeing on a design for the home they wanted to build until they stumbled upon an ancient blueprint of a home that was never really built. They fell in love with the design and had it built. They stayed very close to the details, used the material that would have been used for building homes at the time the blueprint was created and eventually saw the creation of a magnificent home.
The only problem was that once they moved in, they too went back in time. Their attitudes, their attire, their activities all changed to reflect the time of the conception of that house.
Even the weather patterns they experienced were from a time in the past such that sometimes it only appeared to be snowing or raining on their home while it was sunny everywhere else. Perhaps the homes in our little cul-de-sac are all trapped in an alternate weather zone. [Before some literal friend, plodding away in a logic swamp, jumps in to educate me on tri-state area weather patterns, let me say - no - I don't really think that]. I just feel this way sometimes.
It's getting really dark, really early these days. We are all rather nocturnal on weekends. It's a form of rebellion against the early rising we have to do on weekends. But waking up at noon is a bad idea these days because by the time one struggles with a late lunch, showers, accomplishes other minor chores, the day is done. There's no daylight at 4 PM and it's worse when it's raining or snowing.
Nothing new here. It could even be something I complain about annually. However, each year seems a little bit darker. If life was a piece of music, while writing it I would write in fine printed italics, underneath last few measures rit. for - ritardando - meaning gradually slower. Like music, why can't life get gradually slower? One rarely sees the instruction rapide as a piece of music is ending! And yet each year is further accelerated into nothingness.
The darkness must be affecting a lot of people these days. There are so many commercials on television, about the latest depression drugs, each commercial more creative than the previous one. One shows women sitting around with expressions as blank as can be. Their loved ones, drawing, sketching, playing, living around them while they mope around, unresponsive, unreactive and transparently invisible or invisibly transparent while a wind up doll slowly loses steam and droops. That's until she tries the new pill and is "wound up" again, letting out the occasional laugh and going to see a movie with friends.
There was another commercial spotted last night showing various people taking on the colors of their surroundings, like creatures adept at camouflage, merging with the supermarket aisles, their couches, subway station walls. Made me wonder what it was saying about the disease of depression, that depression makes you invisible, or makes you feel inanimate or invisible and inanimate? Perhaps poets are now incharge of writing the copy for depression ads.
They are certainly interesting to watch, until the kiddo spots one and asks, "Mommy what's depression?" You've got to admit that people appearing like they are camouflaged with their surroundings, with just a mopey, Eeyore-like head sticking out, would appear interesting to an inquisitive child.
So we make our dark winters bearable by laughing at these commercials. It's a good way to keep the dreaded D away. Especially since neither the wind-up doll people, nor the camouflage people have got it right yet. How it feels is never easy to describe, as some friends have indicated.
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