Doing things in India often exhausts me, and I generally try to nap or at least lie in bed for some time in the late afternoon. Vacation in India is no different.
After a week on the road I've built some confidence, lost some desire and many things in between. I've only now come to realize that I've been in India for a long time and maybe I really do miss some things back home. So this vacation might actually end up being more of a "I want to be somewhere else" rather than "yeah! I'm here". This is in part(s) due to the fact that I'm traveling almost exclusively to beachside areas, which although nice can be understimulating and over-touristy, in party because I am alone, in part because I am so cheap and when alone with no one to point out the sillyness can't help but take cheapness as a challenge, and in part because none of these places I am staying at have TV. Although they have all been nice accomodations until I reached this hostel in Goa where nothing is as it was advertised.
I've learned that flying in India is nice and relatively cheap. The trains are relatively slow and uncomfortable but extraordinarily cheap. Busses are unbearably slow, especially with all the stop and go, and unbelievably cheap. And people everywhere will simply tell you what you want to hear and in the process try and rip you off. So phrasing a question where the desired answer is obvious is really quite pointless. I guess it's all part of the fun. I also rented and drove a scooter all around town and the countryside, which was definitely a defining highlight so far. Otherwise I've experienced a mild culture shock just being around white people after four months of rarely a spotting.
Merry Christmas and Happy New Years for now.
28.12.07
20.12.07
18.12.07
Music Aficionado from U.S.A. Speaks to Press
After a long day, a day that drags on like its got a flat tire and no spare, followed by a rainy walk home from martial arts class in which you notice bird crap (possibly bat...) on your pants as you take a seat in the restaurant, well, after one of those days not much will cheer you right up.
However, it seems in India small events have a way of delivering a significant impact, and the arrival of the following magazine in the mail, which included the following interview with yours truly, was such a pleasant surprise that I ended up wearing my crapped on pants for nearly a half hour after I got home.
Please note the misspelling of my name, the way that the questions I am responding to are not included along with my answers, how the photo is credited to a professional photographer when my co-worker took it, and the fact that I’ve only been to one musical event in Chennai and may not end up attending another for the duration of my stay.
However, it seems in India small events have a way of delivering a significant impact, and the arrival of the following magazine in the mail, which included the following interview with yours truly, was such a pleasant surprise that I ended up wearing my crapped on pants for nearly a half hour after I got home.
Please note the misspelling of my name, the way that the questions I am responding to are not included along with my answers, how the photo is credited to a professional photographer when my co-worker took it, and the fact that I’ve only been to one musical event in Chennai and may not end up attending another for the duration of my stay.
You can.
You can read the news if you want, but you probably don’t. You can make fun of the glossy magazines. You can write extraordinary poetry. You can live in India. You can be happy. You can act like you’re six. You can play dead.
You can be quiet, too quiet. You can know you’re the best. You can be a snob. You can move up, be a mover and a shaker. You can sit in your room listening to music making playlists to your life: beginnings, endings, in-betweens. Songs will probably repeat themselves.
You can travel of course, but it’s probably just a stage. You can spend your whole life trying to find yourself. You can focus on marrying an attractive woman or living gracefully. You can go broke. And forget. And complain.
You can rhyme because there is a rhyme and a reason. You can change your mind it’s up to you. People can tell you things, people will. You can talk to them on the phone, the internet, they’re always around. You can realize what things means. You can regret.
You’re hindsight should improve but your vision probably won’t. You can test your patience. Really test it. You can have a one-track mind. Just for the hell of it, you can say that. You can think it doesn’t matter. You can realize something’s really great. Or you cannot.
You can.
You can be quiet, too quiet. You can know you’re the best. You can be a snob. You can move up, be a mover and a shaker. You can sit in your room listening to music making playlists to your life: beginnings, endings, in-betweens. Songs will probably repeat themselves.
You can travel of course, but it’s probably just a stage. You can spend your whole life trying to find yourself. You can focus on marrying an attractive woman or living gracefully. You can go broke. And forget. And complain.
You can rhyme because there is a rhyme and a reason. You can change your mind it’s up to you. People can tell you things, people will. You can talk to them on the phone, the internet, they’re always around. You can realize what things means. You can regret.
You’re hindsight should improve but your vision probably won’t. You can test your patience. Really test it. You can have a one-track mind. Just for the hell of it, you can say that. You can think it doesn’t matter. You can realize something’s really great. Or you cannot.
You can.
14.12.07
Cover Concept Artist
On top of my 9 to 5 here in India, where I am part of the pulse, a minor artery or vein somewhere in the lower arm, pumping mostly posters and event invitations to the heart and subsequently soul of this self-aggrandizing independent publishing house, I've been attempting to freelance some work, although lately these ventures have waned.
The first effort resulted in being paid $60 to travel south and play an eighteenth century missionary. As already discussed, actual value: priceless. Since then I've been making in-roads with another local publisher, acting more as a condiment on something they're eating, ketchup seems to be the most popular choice around here, than an element of the circulatory system.
I've designed two books covers, participated in an interview (with photo) regarding a subject I know nothing about for a magazine I've never heard of, and had offers to re-edit translated books (re: rewrite esoteric translations...massive headache) and write children's stories. All for Indian-standard wage of course.
Did I say designed two book covers? One was actually only a cover concept...
The first effort resulted in being paid $60 to travel south and play an eighteenth century missionary. As already discussed, actual value: priceless. Since then I've been making in-roads with another local publisher, acting more as a condiment on something they're eating, ketchup seems to be the most popular choice around here, than an element of the circulatory system.
I've designed two books covers, participated in an interview (with photo) regarding a subject I know nothing about for a magazine I've never heard of, and had offers to re-edit translated books (re: rewrite esoteric translations...massive headache) and write children's stories. All for Indian-standard wage of course.
Did I say designed two book covers? One was actually only a cover concept...
mental note: note mental notes
Feeling agitated about the correlation these days between making money and staring at a computer screen for half your life.
Learned that white lies, once uncovered, can transfer their whiteness to the truth. Although I imagine upon piling up they grow more opaque.
Remembered that I should write things down so I don’t forget them, one-sentence blog epiphanies for example.
Learned that white lies, once uncovered, can transfer their whiteness to the truth. Although I imagine upon piling up they grow more opaque.
Remembered that I should write things down so I don’t forget them, one-sentence blog epiphanies for example.
12.12.07
fish and juice
I am buying fish and juice in India. I am buying them regularly, leisurely, casually. Nothing too fishy about it, nothing too juicy to tell. I am a regular. I go to Fresh Zone and I point at the fresh limes, which are the size of oranges and mostly taste like oranges, and I say “fresh lime” and sometimes I say “juice.” It doesn’t even matter though because I am a regular. I walk the 40 yards to Fresh Zone from my house, I drink my juice sitting on the steps, and when I’m done they pour me the extra juice. I get the leftover juice. A nice phenomenon, that extra juice, like a free refill on a smoothie. Whoever heard of that?
I sit on the steps beside Fresh Zone, in front of the three pay phones, all different models and makes, sipping my juice from a straw, and I ponder the group of skinny guys smoking. I wonder about their jobs and what sort of husbands they’ll make. I watch the married couple approach the adjacent medical stand, our local medical shop, and I wonder where their dog sleeps. I wonder what drugs the auto drivers are buying, what drugs the software engineers are buying. What makes their meters run? What keeps their microchips conducting?
I leisurely, casually drink my fresh lime juice and when I’m done, done with the extra as well, I hand the friendly man 15 rupees and we both cordially shake our heads from side to side. Then I walk away like that’s life. And it is.
I go to the fish stand. I stand over the fish like I know what I’m doing and people try and tell me things like I know what they’re saying. There’s big ones and little ones, shrimp and other things. Of course I don’t really know. I say fillet because someone told me to and it seems to work. They grab one of the big fish, or what’s left of it really, and it’s big so I know I’m on the right track, and someone starts cutting. I ask how much and the man by the scale says a number and we argue a little like I know what I’m doing. They move their hands a lot and I shuffle around eying the fish, as if they’ll clue me into their true value.
The cutting man looks at me and makes more chopping motions and I nod yes of course. Cut it up good and right. It’s all happening so fast and suddenly I have a kilo of some large fish, now small and well proportioned, in my hand, double bagged. I place my other hand under the bag. It feels squishy, yet firm, stable, and a little cool. I confirm the price and pay the man by the scale. A lot of people are paying attention, a few people are doing something with fish. The man by the scale gives me 10 rupees back. He always does. He just gives them back like a receipt. Like it’s part of our relationship, really what defines our relationship. We both smile extra because we know this is unusual, you don’t usually give change on an agreed price. I see a man oddly close to picking his toenail with a cutting knife so then I turn and leave. I have fish to cook. I have juice to drink.
I sit on the steps beside Fresh Zone, in front of the three pay phones, all different models and makes, sipping my juice from a straw, and I ponder the group of skinny guys smoking. I wonder about their jobs and what sort of husbands they’ll make. I watch the married couple approach the adjacent medical stand, our local medical shop, and I wonder where their dog sleeps. I wonder what drugs the auto drivers are buying, what drugs the software engineers are buying. What makes their meters run? What keeps their microchips conducting?
I leisurely, casually drink my fresh lime juice and when I’m done, done with the extra as well, I hand the friendly man 15 rupees and we both cordially shake our heads from side to side. Then I walk away like that’s life. And it is.
I go to the fish stand. I stand over the fish like I know what I’m doing and people try and tell me things like I know what they’re saying. There’s big ones and little ones, shrimp and other things. Of course I don’t really know. I say fillet because someone told me to and it seems to work. They grab one of the big fish, or what’s left of it really, and it’s big so I know I’m on the right track, and someone starts cutting. I ask how much and the man by the scale says a number and we argue a little like I know what I’m doing. They move their hands a lot and I shuffle around eying the fish, as if they’ll clue me into their true value.
The cutting man looks at me and makes more chopping motions and I nod yes of course. Cut it up good and right. It’s all happening so fast and suddenly I have a kilo of some large fish, now small and well proportioned, in my hand, double bagged. I place my other hand under the bag. It feels squishy, yet firm, stable, and a little cool. I confirm the price and pay the man by the scale. A lot of people are paying attention, a few people are doing something with fish. The man by the scale gives me 10 rupees back. He always does. He just gives them back like a receipt. Like it’s part of our relationship, really what defines our relationship. We both smile extra because we know this is unusual, you don’t usually give change on an agreed price. I see a man oddly close to picking his toenail with a cutting knife so then I turn and leave. I have fish to cook. I have juice to drink.
7.12.07
The poet inside, under a tree
My aunt, a freelance artist in L.A., recently started a weekly e-poetry club, where people are free to submit mostly extemporaneous works. For example-
So yesterday morning at work I decided to try and reinvigorate my once determined, and determinedly adolescent, poetic hand. There's a poet inside all of us right? Somewhere near the fat person I'd imagine, probably under a tree.
These Anxieties
I’ve got this anxiety in that within place I can never find.
At work it concerns itself with work, at home with home.
And when I go out, well then it’s way out.
But I’ve got this other anxiety in that same within place.
It’s never present at work, always off somewhere in the past or the future.
When I’m at home it likes to go out and see the world.
And when I go out it gets lazy and dreams about sitting at home.
I’ve got these two anxieties like they should cancel each other out.
Like they should like, just really get over themselves already.
Agree to disagree or something, too much weight on my shoulders.
These anxieties.
Without them work, home, out, the past, the future, now just wouldn’t be the same.
So hard to keep imagining all these things, all these fucking scenarios.
It’s really hard to imagine. All the time.
It’s really hard to imagine where I’d be without these anxieties.
Oooh, ooh here is my submission! I call it "My Grammar Poem"
I do stuff and
Stuff happens to me
So yesterday morning at work I decided to try and reinvigorate my once determined, and determinedly adolescent, poetic hand. There's a poet inside all of us right? Somewhere near the fat person I'd imagine, probably under a tree.
These Anxieties
I’ve got this anxiety in that within place I can never find.
At work it concerns itself with work, at home with home.
And when I go out, well then it’s way out.
But I’ve got this other anxiety in that same within place.
It’s never present at work, always off somewhere in the past or the future.
When I’m at home it likes to go out and see the world.
And when I go out it gets lazy and dreams about sitting at home.
I’ve got these two anxieties like they should cancel each other out.
Like they should like, just really get over themselves already.
Agree to disagree or something, too much weight on my shoulders.
These anxieties.
Without them work, home, out, the past, the future, now just wouldn’t be the same.
So hard to keep imagining all these things, all these fucking scenarios.
It’s really hard to imagine. All the time.
It’s really hard to imagine where I’d be without these anxieties.
5.12.07
In training
Chennai has a city train. It consists of two lines running vertically across the city, parallel to the ocean. I often hear it’s lulling rush at work: a brief reminder of the world outside passing by. Often I’ll use this opportunity to stretch, as if the train took me away, far and fast, for those few seconds. As if the case with most trains with two lines in cities of 8 million, the Chennai train is often not a practical option. But I needed to go to Chennai Central Station, a very practical option for the train, even in India where practicality is not always practical.
Running for about 1 km, from behind where I live all the way to behind the office where I work, with some slack on both ends, is a mammoth concrete structure. This imposing edifice lies unfinished, dormant besides a few seemingly stray workers still shuffling dirt to and fro. There’s concrete staircases, concrete corridors, concrete shop fronts and bathroom entrances; there’s sprawling puddles and drip, drip, dripping water echoing throughout; and every so often there’s the rumble of a passing train. Passing just above and even through the structure really, because this structure is the train station.
I don’t know how much the train costs, but I’m sure it’s worth it. I’m just not sure how to pay this worthy amount. If you try and go to ticket booth (the signage was completed before abandonment) you’ll find it boarded over. Personally I decided not to focus on paying, which shouldn’t have to be ones focus in pursuits such as this but should come naturally as part of the process, and simply concentrated on riding the train, which the abandoned ticket counter might discourage one from. Then, with all moral apprehensions at rest for the time being, simply by climbing several staircases (ignoring the escalator signs, although you may later spot an escalator incised somehow into the concrete mass, not running of course) you’ll emerge onto a platform and, astonishingly, other people will be waiting there as well, on the platform, presumably for this very train you’ve heard so much from.
Anyways I found myself on the train, standing by the open door staring out at the city from above, seeing the slums and poverty and windy roads from a new perspective, sweaty and late for work after an unsuccessful attempt at getting train tickets, thinking about something totally banal. Something I’d thought of thousands of times over and over again. Something like lunch or work. And I looked around and I’m pretty sure that’s what most other people were thinking about as well, aside from a spattering of loved ones and lost ones and past ones intruding into several psyches. And we were all on the Chennai city train, some of us for the first time, most of us not for the last, passing by the outside world full of offices with people stretching, weighing our luck for the day or maybe just relaxing, our spiritual-somethings’ woven together for that brief instant, contained safely within the train.
What does this mean? Maybe I’ve been in India for too long to further avoid spiritual reference. Maybe I should listen to music on the train to avoid such tangents. Maybe nothing.
I think something to do with frame of reference, like when you’re sitting on the idle train and you feel like you’re beginning to move but it’s only the train next to you. Or when two trains pass each other and it seems like you’re going twice as fast from inside either train. Or when you hear the train from office or see the office from the train. This is just what I think though, and it could simply be a result of me writing about trains for so long that they’ve traveled all the way to my critical thinking capacities, choo-chooing all-the-while.
(By the way, I hate this blog entry, but since I wrote it I thought I might as well post it. I don't think it means anything.)
Running for about 1 km, from behind where I live all the way to behind the office where I work, with some slack on both ends, is a mammoth concrete structure. This imposing edifice lies unfinished, dormant besides a few seemingly stray workers still shuffling dirt to and fro. There’s concrete staircases, concrete corridors, concrete shop fronts and bathroom entrances; there’s sprawling puddles and drip, drip, dripping water echoing throughout; and every so often there’s the rumble of a passing train. Passing just above and even through the structure really, because this structure is the train station.
I don’t know how much the train costs, but I’m sure it’s worth it. I’m just not sure how to pay this worthy amount. If you try and go to ticket booth (the signage was completed before abandonment) you’ll find it boarded over. Personally I decided not to focus on paying, which shouldn’t have to be ones focus in pursuits such as this but should come naturally as part of the process, and simply concentrated on riding the train, which the abandoned ticket counter might discourage one from. Then, with all moral apprehensions at rest for the time being, simply by climbing several staircases (ignoring the escalator signs, although you may later spot an escalator incised somehow into the concrete mass, not running of course) you’ll emerge onto a platform and, astonishingly, other people will be waiting there as well, on the platform, presumably for this very train you’ve heard so much from.
Anyways I found myself on the train, standing by the open door staring out at the city from above, seeing the slums and poverty and windy roads from a new perspective, sweaty and late for work after an unsuccessful attempt at getting train tickets, thinking about something totally banal. Something I’d thought of thousands of times over and over again. Something like lunch or work. And I looked around and I’m pretty sure that’s what most other people were thinking about as well, aside from a spattering of loved ones and lost ones and past ones intruding into several psyches. And we were all on the Chennai city train, some of us for the first time, most of us not for the last, passing by the outside world full of offices with people stretching, weighing our luck for the day or maybe just relaxing, our spiritual-somethings’ woven together for that brief instant, contained safely within the train.
What does this mean? Maybe I’ve been in India for too long to further avoid spiritual reference. Maybe I should listen to music on the train to avoid such tangents. Maybe nothing.
I think something to do with frame of reference, like when you’re sitting on the idle train and you feel like you’re beginning to move but it’s only the train next to you. Or when two trains pass each other and it seems like you’re going twice as fast from inside either train. Or when you hear the train from office or see the office from the train. This is just what I think though, and it could simply be a result of me writing about trains for so long that they’ve traveled all the way to my critical thinking capacities, choo-chooing all-the-while.
(By the way, I hate this blog entry, but since I wrote it I thought I might as well post it. I don't think it means anything.)
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