watching some of hahn-bin’s playing, i am beginning to think about style and what it means to deviate from conventions. my teacher doesn’t seem to like me doing things that are out of the style of the piece. then again, if i cannot put personality into the playing, it becomes just another boring piece. why is it not possible to play pieces in your own way? why do we have to stick to the styles of dead men and their music? why can’t mozart be interpreted differently by different players?
i don’t seem to have much appreciation for standards and their suppositions. i don’t find myself intrigued by things that have been done the same way over and over again. i like what is new, what’s fresh, original. i find that i want to have enough creativity to make my own work, rather than copy, paste or cover.
i… want to rant about the oscar nominations. today i decide that i officially don’t believe in the oscars. i believe that this is political, that everything is political and i do not want to get involved in any of it. i haven’t watched shame or the ides of march, but i know these actors and i know their work comes from a good place. it’s not to say that the other nominees are undeserving. it’s just that when you’ve met such magnitude, it’s hard to wonder why other people don’t see it at all.
at this point of my life, i look for peace. i like quiet, white spaces and seek solace above everything else. almost everything around me is noise, psychedelic hallucinations, like acid. i don’t write lengthily or extensively, but i want to make it a point that i start writing frequently again. now this space is much more quiet and i find comfort in this. i don’t use punctuations much and skip as many commas and fullstops as i can. if that is style, it’s one i’ve adopted.
above all, i want to have fluidity (again); terse if you must, a silent voice, raw, but fluid. like kerouac and franco and the others whom i admire.
on perception, a running theme in my head besides multiple intelligences, the number of jealous gods out there and social responsibility. a period before this, i’d stopped writing because i knew i was being perceived on a different level, and it frightened me. there are some things i want to know, like what you think of me and what i write. what you perceive me to be, whether it is the person i really am or the person you aspire me to be or simply yourself you see in me. i want to know who you are and what you are doing here, and what my writing means to you.
i once met someone who was reading joseph heller’s catch-22 and there and then i fell in love with him (as i do with all people who read). he probably saw me, albeit in another situation, where i embarrassed myself for the world to see. it was in an entirely different context and the source of my embarrassment was not because i was nervous in his presence. i never saw him after that, nor did i ever get to tell him that i was not as stupid as i sounded.
it is now a few weeks later and i discover that he is a randian. now i don’t know what to feel, honestly.
i am essentially quite pissed and annoyed because i feel like where i come from is disadvantageous.
essentially, i hate how other people have reigns over what i do and what i say. i want to maximize opportunities for myself and the people around me but nobody sees things from a similar perspective—they don’t seem to understand the depth of situations and they put me down, without rhyme or reason. in this i am accused of being a veteran, the title stripped off its nobility, instead, marked with arrogance. i am told that things are to go they see it, but i am not given much justification. if effort of justification has been made, it didn’t come across successfully. the dissonance lies in the way we see things, and what we want for our people.
i am beginning to speculate that the fit i witnessed was due to the fear of the loss of power—the loss of power over our people. it is only when one trembles with insecurity that one feels the need to raise one’s voice and use age and authority as flimsy argumentative weapons. on this side i feel clarity, what i want is clear. any opposition to that so far has never been logical in the least. i have always been met with a snarl, or a shudder, pure disgust all the time. the air of negativity is almost something i am used to these days: things don’t work out, words remain as words and never transfer to actions; withstanding verbal diarrhoea is second nature.
i ask myself why i put up with this shit and never spit in their faces and say FUCK YOU. because somewhere inside i can remember how good this is, what it’s done to me and how i have changed; how i want this experience for others.
note: i have never managed to sustain so much abhorrence at any one person.
i’ve decided right… fuck you guys!
lara stone can look like brigitte bardot. i don’t know if that is a good or bad thing. i don’t know if i even like brigitte bardot anymore.
earlier my excitement was due to finding out that i might be able to contribute to this one magazine that i absolutely love reading. my very talking of this might jinx this, though i hope it doesn’t, because all i really am is just excited (for both reasons). and just because one is more noble than the other, it doesn’t make my excitement/enthusiasm any less genuine. sometimes things work in two folds, and it’s not to say that they’re always noble. then again it’s not like i’m happy that this is illegal business, because it’s not.
p.s. blogging has become appealing again, after a much needed privacy break.
i’ve just realised that the version of and god created women that i watched was censored. how irritating that the youtube user didn’t even mention that. for a moment i thought that my french teacher had lied about what he said. now i know that he didn’t, and im more irritated at the uploader and at myself that i was at my french teacher… not that i was ever irritated at him. it’s kind of like watching a movie notable for being what it is, with what it’s notable for being completely deleted. then after the film you just wonder what all that was.
tonight could have been one of the best nights of the week but it turned out to be one of the worst. if i knew i would end up feeling like this, i would have submerged myself in work, where i am untouchable and no body will talk to me because that really is how powerful knowledge is. i have a theory that because my mother forgets everything around her as it is, one day she will forget me and i will have to stay back to wipe her shit because my sisters don’t put up with her as it is so how do you expect them to bear something as profane as ass-wiping?
there was a conversation i had last year that i’m pretty sure has changed my life. the life-changing bit only came towards the end and whatever we talked about before was a mere build up.
for so many days i’d been asked this one particular question. it was one i didn’t have the answer two—maybe it was because i myself had some questions to answer first before i could give a definite answer to his question. i didn’t think much of what he was saying, and i thought he was just joking and trying to poke fun. which i understood and went along with, unsuspectingly.
(part of) the conversation, the life-changing bits
1. first question: in the life-changing bit of the conversation he asked me that question again, this time with a deeper intensity. although his words, the same words, had every bit of jest as before, this time they seemed to be more sincere, more serious. at the time i hadn’t the answer and i answered as i had before, for that was the only kind of response i knew.
2. second question: he asked me the same question, but this time the one of the nouns had changed. i think about this question very much these days, because i was surprised at my immediate response: i’d actually rather have a (noun2) over a (noun1). i’d kept this within myself for it was something i was (borderline) ashamed of at the time. (now i am not so ashamed any more.) my spoken response brushed off the depth the question had posed for it was layered with what could save me: wit.
3. first statement: an extension of the questions in the form of a statement. i think about this a lot (and i mean a lot). i myself am in the process of discovering its subject. could my interest have been provoked by this statement? i suspect so, and that is why i think it meant a lot.
4. third question: something related but not quite related. there was something uncanny about it, something mechanically wrong about it. later i tried to break down its context and did manage to come to gray conclusions. i still never really answered this question because i felt there were so many assumptions. i never told him what i thought.
end
when i think of he who posed the questions and the statement, i regard him fondly. i find that my thoughts are in a comfortable place, and that is something i appreciate.
