Wednesday, December 22, 2010


My second post in an hour. Let me see if I can pull of writing without thinking. Or, rather write-think as I deem myself to be. Shit, this is scary. But what can I do, I can't pause. This is scary as shit. Makes me more alert, more, what's the word, pause pause typing pause typing pause Barsenge amber se I can't get it. Anyway, plugged into my ears is Swarathma. I should have been sleeping by now, reading Mystic River but then there was an incessant need to write. So, here I arrive.

Kneading knuckles. The ultimate paradox. I can't write about writing because I'd always be one word late. Shit, wtf is even wrong with me. Okay, why am I even here. One is that that conversation I had with Vikranth the other day at Basik. Interesting. Got my grey cells active. And two, is about the art of writing. Before I began this, I had a lot thinking but now I can't seem to type anything. For one, I write quite a lot. Atleast in my head. Even when I'm doing something else, the whole process of thinking for me is writing. Both of them are irrevocably related. That when I'm trying to think, which is very unusual, I'm typing it. Or in a very few cases, I draw trees and other visual aids in my head to construct a clear picture. The act of thinking basically doesn't exist. It juxtaposes itself into some other action form and all I'm left with are shards of words that slowly evaporate into thin air, or maybe are forever lost in the depths of my mind. I pause for words. Funny, knowing that I'm either typing or thinking, for me telling people that I do both. I do not believe in the whole concept of multi tasking, it doesn't exist. If I was thinking when I am typing, all that it means is that, there's the minutest of time differences between both acts and for all practical reasons and purposes, both can be considered to be simultaneous acts. Hang on, let me change the track.

Ok, I go back to Barsenge. I love this song. So, what was the conversation about. Now, this itself shows that I've been bullshitting all along. If I really think as I type, or rather, hang on, I didn't say I type what I see. See, visually. I type all that's happening in my head. I see what's running on my mind. And that doesn't have to be what is happening now. If I'm reliving a conversation with Vikranth, for me, I'm still there. I maybe here, in my house, typing away at 12.47 AM but another part of me is still there, thinking about all that we spoke. Bull shit again. We're delving into deeper mines of shittiness. Hofstadter would be proud of me. Okay, let's decipher this step by step. I'm listening to a song now, I'm typing, I'm thinking about that conversation, I'm thinking about what to type now. How can there be so many nows. So, the whole purpose of doing this, wtf! am I even saying. God, and I can't pause. If all that I'm writing now is a testimony of my thoughts, then sure boy I am messed up. But if I was really messed up, would I realise I was messed up. Pause. And ofcourse I know a birds eye clear cut view of me is impossible by me because that would be me again, blah blah. We've heard Godel being quoted over and over again. Give me a break.

That's me talking to myself. I believe thinking is a conversation, of the various people in your head, each of whom is given a chance to express and you more often than not accept a compromise. And talking of compromise brings me back to that conversation. It all began because we began talking about patriotism and how I thought the whole concept of group, We, social being and all that was crap. At the end of the day everyman was for himself. Because group was generally people who were supporting an idea and no two people can have the same idea. So, group is basically people who compromise their ideas to be part of the group. Shit, I just remembered why I began this piece and I forgot it. Ok, saw Dhobi Ghat trailer today, awesome. OK, but then I realised (track changed) even that everyman was a culmination of billions of tiny particles (cells?) and all of them had to reach a compromise for my to be me. But then, thinking now, all of them ain't doing all that for me. They're doing that shit for themselves and I'm a byproduct of their quest for survival. Hang on, let me think. I ain't being able to do both. Think and write. The act of writing is taking up all my energies and leaving me with nothing to think of.

Hang on. It's on the tips of my fingers, just can't come out. It's clinging on tightly to the darker areas of my brain, and one slip by me will have them lost for a long time. I like that comparision. All this is fake. The act of writing and talking about your writing, is for me too surreal a concept to properly understand and implement. I plug the earphones out. Let me think. Give me some space. Some time. Some quiet. Wait. Writing about writing was one of my favourite topics but now I realise how it's impossible. Because like that, you're never ending. That spiral I was talking about. And before I began this piece, I thought I'd mention it in the end that I'm not going to name this piece but give it a number title. Like Pollock's abstract titles. Will I mention this again in the end? This is not what I've been meaning but I just realised what Hofstadter means by intelligence. All that he's been trying to prove in GEB. If I was a computer, I could write about the whole concept of writing. I'd say I'm writing of what's happening now, or if I was a computer, would I be writing what happened a moment ago(then I would be contradicting myself) and if I wasn't typing of what I had been thinking a moment ago, what would I be typing about. Hang on, I just realized, we are not part of a formal system. We are not machines. We can have a birds eye view of ourselves, agreed that that would still be a part of a larger system, I realise I'm onto something big but I just can't get to it. Wait. What if I went to a bigger system, right till infinity. But I can't go to infinity, because wherever I went, I would be left with more. Like Euclid's Prime Number Theorem. I don't understand. I really don't. Am I in quest of truth, and if so, can I handle the circumstances. I scratch my head.

See, I'm bullshitting about writing all that I can think of. Because there's a bigger process running over thinking which tells me to write about it. Yea, because I cannot tell myself to write within my thinking capabilities. Where does this lead to? And I still don't remember why I started this piece. I wonder how big this post is going to be. It's just beyond me. I can't remember.

And yea, I'm naming this a number after Pollock. If this creates a sense of Deja Vu, I have succeeded. If not, no harm done, because I'm talking about it.

I'm never editing this. Not even the spelling mistakes nothing. If this has happened, it's supposed to be intended. Or is correcting the mistake intended? (All crap, I just edited this.) When people say they're not looking for patterns, or trying to find a higher truth, they're lying. Ofcourse, they're looking for meanings, and answers.

I just brushed my teeth and I remembered why I started this post early this morning. It started off because I said man could live an isolated life and then Kaushik said something. He said if a hundred people liked a movie and recommended it to you, you'd either like it because so many people liked it, that feeling seeped in, or the expectations would rise so high and no matter how good the film, you could not appreciate it. What I'm saying is, like I already mentioned before, we are a mixture of both controllable and uncontrollable factors and having been in a society so long, having been born to people who've been lasting for thousands of generations, like it or not, I is my own self+ everything around me which I have not been able to control. Soon enough, both the parameters become one and you get used to be a part of the fabric. This does not necessarily reveal anything but is just an observation into the nature of the human psyche.

1 comment:

  1. this kind of posts would rather be delivered better if talked than written.