I have many things to write, but nothing is in full shape. I observed, if I keep waiting for everything to take its complete form, I will loose them for new things. So I start here showing them in pieces.
At first, I believed in Santhi's comment and thought I really could write well. My thoughts even went far to take GRE and get taught by Chitra Divakaruni at Houston. But then very soon, I belittle myself reading some very young people at 18 and 19. I understood my excitement is just like.. when my mother tells everybody that she will let me be a doctor and then I would say jumping 'Yeah! I'll be a doctor' without knowing what it takes to be a doctor.
There is so much fight about the translations of Russian books. Some people like Constance Garnette and some like Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky. There is one guy who disliked a book of a particular translation but that has become his favorite when he read the other translation. Can there be really so much difference?? From this, rose my another fancy, to learn Russian! Believe me, I learnt the Cyrillic script. I liked the vowel 'Yah' which is the mirror image of R. But there is no going further unless you have a proper teacher.
I am hating my job and the people here. Specially Anil. It is mean of me to mention names. But I want him to see this. I want him to hate me and I want him never talk to me. I feel like shouting at everybody that I'm sick with them and I'm leaving for something better, probably to be a librarian. (Again I don't know what qualification is expected of a librarian..) But how would I pay for the house? I think, I won't earn much as librarian. I hate nanna for arresting my career to this earning job. I remember, two years ago, I told somebody that my present job is the best suitable job for me. I remember, I enjoyed it very much till Kiran was here. But then, could your lead effect your work that much? Isn't it a weariness of your own and who's_your_lead is just an excuse? Why am I prejudiced to hate anybody taking Kiran's place?
Hell with Kafka! Not only the first impressions are unreliable as he says. Impression is a possible-lie in itself. One can never be the same all his life. Man is weak of his character. He can neither be good nor bad for a long time. May be I'm thinking so, because I'm myself a weak person as a thief thinks everybody else are thieves at least once in their lives. Let me be like that thief. Having impressions is more infectious than love. It drives you through expectations, irritations, disappointments and ends in misery. Many times, impressions are transient and diluted with prejudices. Better not to have them. From now on, I'll try to meet everybody(even Anil) as I am meeting them for the first time only with facts and not with impressions.
I have got a strange dream. There is a writer, probably a future writer who considers everybody stupid, materialistic, un-lovable and of filthy character and considers himself an alien, not belonging to this world of puppetry. He thinks he cannot write well if he has to deal with and constantly be disturbed by these puppets. He leaves to the forests only to find the quality of his writing is degraded. He thinks, it is because of his inner fear for the wild and he is disturbed by the chirping of birds. He goes to the mountains but no luck. It has become much worse. He stops writing and goes in search of the reason why he is not able to write better. He finds a sign board on which he felt reading 'Inspiration is at home'. He strokes his head a little, and talks to himself.
At first, I believed in Santhi's comment and thought I really could write well. My thoughts even went far to take GRE and get taught by Chitra Divakaruni at Houston. But then very soon, I belittle myself reading some very young people at 18 and 19. I understood my excitement is just like.. when my mother tells everybody that she will let me be a doctor and then I would say jumping 'Yeah! I'll be a doctor' without knowing what it takes to be a doctor.
There is so much fight about the translations of Russian books. Some people like Constance Garnette and some like Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky. There is one guy who disliked a book of a particular translation but that has become his favorite when he read the other translation. Can there be really so much difference?? From this, rose my another fancy, to learn Russian! Believe me, I learnt the Cyrillic script. I liked the vowel 'Yah' which is the mirror image of R. But there is no going further unless you have a proper teacher.
I am hating my job and the people here. Specially Anil. It is mean of me to mention names. But I want him to see this. I want him to hate me and I want him never talk to me. I feel like shouting at everybody that I'm sick with them and I'm leaving for something better, probably to be a librarian. (Again I don't know what qualification is expected of a librarian..) But how would I pay for the house? I think, I won't earn much as librarian. I hate nanna for arresting my career to this earning job. I remember, two years ago, I told somebody that my present job is the best suitable job for me. I remember, I enjoyed it very much till Kiran was here. But then, could your lead effect your work that much? Isn't it a weariness of your own and who's_your_lead is just an excuse? Why am I prejudiced to hate anybody taking Kiran's place?
Hell with Kafka! Not only the first impressions are unreliable as he says. Impression is a possible-lie in itself. One can never be the same all his life. Man is weak of his character. He can neither be good nor bad for a long time. May be I'm thinking so, because I'm myself a weak person as a thief thinks everybody else are thieves at least once in their lives. Let me be like that thief. Having impressions is more infectious than love. It drives you through expectations, irritations, disappointments and ends in misery. Many times, impressions are transient and diluted with prejudices. Better not to have them. From now on, I'll try to meet everybody(even Anil) as I am meeting them for the first time only with facts and not with impressions.
I have got a strange dream. There is a writer, probably a future writer who considers everybody stupid, materialistic, un-lovable and of filthy character and considers himself an alien, not belonging to this world of puppetry. He thinks he cannot write well if he has to deal with and constantly be disturbed by these puppets. He leaves to the forests only to find the quality of his writing is degraded. He thinks, it is because of his inner fear for the wild and he is disturbed by the chirping of birds. He goes to the mountains but no luck. It has become much worse. He stops writing and goes in search of the reason why he is not able to write better. He finds a sign board on which he felt reading 'Inspiration is at home'. He strokes his head a little, and talks to himself.
How did I forget that I cannot write about trees, mountains and of birds for I don't know their language. It is my people I can love or hate and write about. I can write so much when that woman at the end of street takes out a coin but doesn't give it directly to the beggar but gives it to her kid to give it to the beggar. I can portray her either as a teacher of kindness or as a divinely drunken woman. I have the power to play with my characters.. but not here when I am myself in thirst of inspiration. I shall go back..to my home, to where I belong. I shall live among my puppets. I shall become the great puppeteer of these puppets.There ends my dream. I think, you must have guessed who he is. I drivelled too much into my dream, and now I forgot what else I want to write about.
4 comments:
For some strange reason I really like this post. Keep it coming.
Wow! That's your first public comment on my blog. I am very happy. I shall celebrate today. :)
One month of Russia ?
All posts Feb 22 - March 22 !
Puhleez
I can portray her either as a teacher of kindness or as a divinely drunken woman - Perfect power play.
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