tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-71215942024-03-07T15:17:34.626+05:30Engayging Life"An honest confessional, with a sprinkle of humor and opinion, of an academician/musician seeking happiness"
Find me now on https://enagyginglife.wordpress.comKris Basshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14968227615966356396noreply@blogger.comBlogger1821125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7121594.post-22429526187668142023-09-04T21:29:00.000+05:302023-09-04T21:29:04.416+05:30Engayging Life has fully moved to WordPress<p>Yes, I am alive and I'm still blogging. Regularly. But on <a href="https://engayginglife.wordpress.com/">WordPress</a> because offers an easier workflow for me. Here is a selection of what I have been writing.<br /></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><a href="https://engayginglife.wordpress.com/2023/08/25/readings-of-a-reader/" target="_blank">Reading of a Reader</a>, where I write about what I'm reading</li><li><a href="https://engayginglife.wordpress.com/2023/09/02/nine-months/" target="_blank">Nine Months</a>, a note about I getting clear to restart motorcycle riding</li><li><a href="https://engayginglife.wordpress.com/2023/09/01/revelations-in-review/" target="_blank">Revelations In Review</a>, where I have disappointing revelations about the lack of progress I've made in my goals</li><li><a href="https://engayginglife.wordpress.com/2023/07/04/gunny-standalone-short-story/" target="_blank">Gunny (a standalone short story)</a>, which is self-explanatory (but fiction)<br /></li><li><a href="https://engayginglife.wordpress.com/2023/08/21/rene-1x/" target="_blank">Rene (1/x)</a>, the first installment of a story that I'm <a href="https://writersedit.com/fiction-writing/the-pros-and-cons-of-plotting-and-pantsing/">pantsing</a> on. <br /></li></ul><p>Over the past two weeks, I have tried exporting my blog content from WordPress to Blogger, but I have failed. All the converters seem to have been deprectated, and the straightforward XML export < > import doesn't seem to work.</p><p>You can find me <a href="https://engayginglife.wordpress.com/">https://engayginglife.wordpress.com/</a> <br /></p><p>So this is it. It is likely my last post on Blogger. This is where I had my five seconds of fame, but things have to end. </p><p>But I'll be posting regularly (dare I say daily) on <a href="https://engayginglife.wordpress.com/">WordPress</a>. See you there!</p><p>Thank you for all the years of patronage!<br /></p>Kris Basshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14968227615966356396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7121594.post-7728037417844334632023-02-09T22:10:00.001+05:302023-02-09T22:10:16.210+05:30Building habits, bit by bit<p>Yesterday, after I finished my post for the day, a habit that I’m trying to build after years of not sticking to writing every day, I got down to work on <em>Seesaw</em>.</p>
<p>It’s another habit I’m trying to build. Working daily on my own music, with the intent of making at least small steps in <em>finsihing</em> things. Not necessarily getting done with one song in a day (as some electronic musicians seem to have the habit of), but more like setting an achievable goal (every night) and achieving it.</p>
<p>So I’m quite proud to say that I finished the song as a draft production, and it has come out surprisingly well. This basically means it is yet another song that I could choose to professionally produce and release whenever I get around to doing it.</p>
<p>As usual, I shared the song with the three people that I share my works with, and all three had shared positive (varying levels of) feedback about it. The most positive one came from my ex-colleague, and hers felt more like how I had felt about the song. So I chatted with her a bit about the song and the whole creative process. </p>
<p>That’s when it struck me that I could write a blog post about the song, the process, and the habit that I’m trying to build. Here it goes.</p>
<p><em>Seesaw</em> has been in my life for about 8 weeks. It was born on the day before my knee surgery. An idea had seemingly floated into my brain, inspiring me to grab the guitar to write a hook and record it on my phone. </p>
<p>I remember having checked out the recording after dinner at the hospital, before Jay would leave for the night. It still had it. It had me. It had the potential of being a catchy song that would easily find its place is my top 10 dance/pop discography.</p>
<p>I came back to it on the second week after surgery, when I was finding it difficult to sleep one night. By then the melody for the three parts of the song was set in my head, and it was easy to write lines of the right meter to fit it.</p>
<p>The next day I sang it for the first time, and it was a bit of a let-down because I wasn’t getting the poppy punch that I was hoping it would have, right out of the gate.</p>
<p>Cut forward three more weeks, and I was able to sit at my music work desk for a long enough duration to start working on my productions. Mind you, I had a good excuse to not work on this song. My pop bass was away with my bandmate, who was sub-bing for me during my recovery period.</p>
<p>Yet, somehow, picking up the bass that I generally use for thrash metal gigs out of storage, I started laying down the parts. </p>
<p>The guitars were simple. Clean Telecaster with middle-of-the-neck riffs with a lot of syncopation and muting. Drums were too. Straight up one-two kick and snare with hats. A pickup loop and claps for the chorus. Reverse cymbals for transitions. </p>
<p>Keys were more difficult. I needed some nice sounding pads and a gentle arpeggiator. Pads were a disaster and eventually went on mute. The arpeggiator was found after a few hits and misses. Then came the bass. </p>
<p>For producers/musicians out there, if you are wondering why I’m tacking bass the last before vocals, I really don’t have a good answer. </p>
<p>The best I can come up with is that when I lay down a bass groove after the other elements come in, it's almost like I’m jamming with a band, just like how I would in a real band. That seems to give me enough freedom to loop and come up with some bass line ideas, one of which will eventually make it to the song.</p>
<p>It wasn’t easy at all. Because of some damned pick-up, earthing noise I have at my desk with that bass. It was frustrating at best, and over the course of three days (not consecutive by any means), I had three versions of the bass line, each noisy in one way or the other.</p>
<p>Of these, the last one had manageable noise and was groovy enough for me to want to sing the song in the way that I had always imagined it. That’s how I had left the session three days ago. </p>
<p>So when I wrapped up my post here and opened the song session, I had no idea that it was <em>that</em> groovy. Also, before sitting down to write on the blog, I was jamming some songs on a new acoustic grand piano VST I had downloaded (<a href="https://labs.spitfireaudio.com/autograph-grand"><em>Autograph Grand</em></a>; thank you, <a href="https://www.spitfireaudio.com/"><em>Spitfire Audio</em></a>). </p>
<p>Since I’m about a year into playing chords on keys (it means that not proficient at playing piano), I had to slow my chords down so that I made fewer mistakes, which also forced me to sing the same melody in diferent ways. </p>
<p>Finally, I had hit the right vocal texture for <em>Seesaw</em>. Then I tried the vocal texture on the guitar at the right speed, and it sounded good. So much so that I came up with a backup vocal hook that had the potential to fix my arrangement as well.</p>
<p>Voilà, in about an hour, I had done the vocal tracking and done the basic mixing. Then I did some more editing for getting the dynamics of the arrangement right and did a quick master, before cranking out a mix-down.</p>
<p>My first listen on my MacBook Pro speakers was a disaster. Terrible cut-through noise from the bass (<em>instrument</em>) over the bass (<em>line</em>). It had sounded so good on headphones and on the monitor speakers! </p>
<p>A couple of listens on some bluetooth earbuds eased my anxiety, and the song did sound great in the choruses, especially the second one, which had the new backup vocal hook glueing everything together.</p>
<p>By the time I was in bed, adrenaline was high, and I was expecting another night of difficulty in falling asleep. But I had some podcasts as lullabies and despite sleeping 2 hours later than my schedule, I did get a decent night of sleep.</p>
<p>So, after a terribly busy workday, featuring me doing a lot of re-reviewing things—because the original review’s comments were ignored—I was left with choosing to take a break from the new <em>habit</em>. I am tired. I was tired when I had the option of not sticking to the <em>habit-forming</em> habit.</p>
<p>I resisted. I went back to a song that I wanted to improve on. And I started the process. <em>Before</em> I had my dinner. That’s because I knew that I ought to give myself an early night of sleep.</p>
<p>So, here I am, after dinner, feeling the first waves of sleep, finishing this post, proud of having two habits with unbroken streaks.</p>
<p>Tomorrow will be a challenge because Jay and I are headed out to the country house over the weekend, after a late-evening physical therapy session. I do have to wake up real early and get my reading and exercise done before a whole workday and the evening shenanigans.</p>
<p>I’ll wish myself luck, but I’m fairly confident that I’ll keep the street intact, for I can choose to <em>write</em> for both. Maybe I can write about what I <em>wrote</em> for my second habit. We shall see tomorrow evening.</p>
Kris Basshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14968227615966356396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7121594.post-6293101668216410502023-02-08T23:12:00.001+05:302023-02-08T23:12:13.661+05:30Creativity after a creative workday<p>There is a problem with spending your entire workday being creative, especially if you have to continue being creative beyond the workday.</p>
<p>Months ago—maybe years ago at this point—I was researching on the best routines for creative individuals to not get stuck at creating. The consensus answer seemed straightforward—make use of the best part of the day for <em>your</em> creativity. </p>
<p>For me, this happens to be the morning. Early morning, actually. When things are quiet and when there is more hope than the bottom of the barrel. </p>
<p>I still remember a period about a year an half ago. It had felt like I had come upon the gentle slope that would lead one out of a trough of depression. It was not. At this point, the trough seems more like the freshly minted ocean floor that surfaces as the ice age deepens. </p>
<p>There was this one morning when I had woken up before dawn and I had written a song about suicide called <em>The Night Ends at Dawn</em>. Within a couple of days, I was able to render it in a draft recording that somehow made me sound less like how I used to be. It has turned out to be one of the best songs I have written. </p>
<p>Anyway, at the end of this recording, I came to the conclusion that the more I used the mornings for music, the more I would feel satisfied being a musician.</p>
<p>Then my reading routines changed. I was reading more and it was easier for me to settle myself for the day if I were to have read with my morning coffee, before my morning exercise routine.</p>
<p>It felt okay to change the routine because I still had the evening, hopefully, after a busy but rewarding workday. And it did work, for a few months, until I started doing <em>creative</em> audiovisual work at <em>work</em>.</p>
<p>Coming back the full circle. Today, at work, I spent a lot of time outlining, prepping for, recording, and early post-production for some videos that I’m making as part of a video series at work.</p>
<p>But unlike other days, today I was positively triggered (?motivated/?inspired) by a new piano VST plugin that I could download. So right after logging out, I installed the plugin and started singing (no surprise) <em>Dave Matthews</em> songs. And that led to other songs and that led to me singing <em>Seesaw</em>, the song that I’m struggling to complete.</p>
<p>By the time I reluctantly peeled myself off my desk to grab some questionably safe dinner (leftover yesterday’s prawn biryani from the fridge), I had already sort of worked myself into a mindset of hope/determination to be able to make some strides on the song.</p>
<p>That’s what I’m about to do now. Wish me luck. And maybe hope and determination.</p>
Kris Basshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14968227615966356396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7121594.post-37508664379263246432023-02-07T23:08:00.001+05:302023-02-08T23:11:16.110+05:30Consuming and Creating<p>A day bookended by the gripping first quarter of <em>Blindsight</em> and the entertaining suspense/thriller narrative of <em>Knock At The Cabin</em>.</p>
<p>A day when I continued to reel from the after effects of watching <em>Dave Matthews</em> sing with extreme facial gesticulations.</p>
<p>A day mostly spent in creation of web designs wireframes, which left me wanting to learn more about web development.</p>
<p>A day that is now turning into another when I find myself curled up to watch the E04 S01 of <em>The Last Of Us</em>.</p>
<p>A day where I continued to think about the brilliance of E03 S01 of <em>The Last Of Us</em>, which was reinforced by some of the scenes in <em>Knock At The Cabin</em>.</p>
<p>PS: Does anyone else like <em>Cabin In The Woods</em> more than one would expect to?</p>
Kris Basshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14968227615966356396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7121594.post-16186919423108961572023-02-06T23:07:00.001+05:302023-02-08T23:08:10.938+05:30Come into me<p>No, I’m not being lewd. It’s just want Dave Matthews is singing to me. In <em>Crash Into Me</em>, that song from the ‘90s that typified him and his band.</p>
<p>I was watching a Dave Matthews <em>Tiny Desk Concerts</em> literally a minute ago. I stopped because I was sufficiently inspired to go back and work on that song that I’m working on.</p>
<p>Despite the headache that I’m having. The one that has been there for over a day. Not sure what’s going on. Is this how the rest of the life is going to be for me? Hopefully not.</p>
<p>The song that I’m working on is something that I would imagine a artists with shades of of George Michael and Bruno Mars would write/sing. It’s called <em>Seesaw</em>. The problem with it—well, the problem is me—is that it is just right in the middle of my comfortable chest and head voice ranges.</p>
<p>My vocal instructor did ask me to roll some songs down by three to five half-steps so I could render them at my best. This song might need a six or seven.</p>
<p>So why am I typing this when I got inspired by Dave Matthews? Because I can’t renege on the promise that I made myself. For writing every day. Every night actually. Maybe on weekends, I should try writing on the day as well.</p>
<p>Anyway, I think I have done enough writing. The headache’s still there. My friend at work, who I knew before I joined work, is going through some trouble. I spent over two and a half hours listening to his side of the story and trying to understand.</p>
<p>Oh, also I met someone from Philadelphia who I think I’m going to be working closely with for a cause that I think I’ll be proud of in the long run. Sneak peek? Well, it’s related to LGBTIQ+.</p>
Kris Basshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14968227615966356396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7121594.post-41480907350997673972023-02-05T23:06:00.001+05:302023-02-08T23:07:27.147+05:30Moonday<p>Not quite, but close. It was a day when a couple of my friends noticed the magnificence rising up over the Eastern horizon in the evening. </p>
<p>Yesterday was full moon. I noticed it when I walked out to meet Jay and his friends for dinner. The air was clear and the moon looked spectacular. Yet, it is today that I’m thinking about how it looked and why it matters how it looks.</p>
<p>Looking out into the night sky and being at awe, even in the most polluted cities around the world, must be one of the last consistent worldwide sources of grounding and inspiration at the same time.</p>
<p>To me, it usually sparks to joy of photography, which in my case is pretty amateur. Twice or thrice every year, I set up my astronomy binoculars and try to take an image of the magnified moon using my smart camera.</p>
<p>It has move up from there, hasn’t it? A proper telescope and a DSLR. I can dream at least.</p>
<p>In other forms of creativity, no drawing/sketching today. Maybe I’ll work on a song after I finish this.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, I am caught in the middle of three literary narratives. Peter Watt’s <em>Blindsight</em> is the most gripping one, followed by Hanya Yanigahara’s <em>To Paradise</em> and James S. A. Corey’s <em>Tiamat’s Wrath</em>. And I already have my eyes on a bunch of others, including <em>Midnight’s Children</em> and <em>Victory City</em> by Salman Rushdie.</p>
Kris Basshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14968227615966356396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7121594.post-62292322590555714982023-02-04T22:58:00.001+05:302023-02-08T23:00:20.431+05:30Sleepful night<p>It feels good after a relatively sleepful night, doesn’t it? </p>
<p>The coffee seems to come out better and you seem to get things done better. You seem to reach places on time (or before, in my case) and you receive good words from physical therapists.</p>
<p>All of this happened. Happenstance or coincidence. But it did start with a night of restful sleep.</p>
<p>That too, one after watching the wonderful movie <em>Awakenings</em>. Not sure how I didn’t watch it until 33 years after its release. Robin Williams and Robert De Niro are exceptional.</p>
<p>My physical therapist did say good things — that I can get rid of my walking stick right away and I can be off brace in another two weeks. I really hop that I can soon start jogging or brisk walking in the park that I used to frequent.</p>
<p>Then I went, with J and his close friends, to a new breakfast place I kinda randomly discovered. Expensive but worth visiting, especially because there will be doggos around. I spent about 10 minutes petting someone’s dog in the hour and a quarter we spent there.</p>
<p>I spent the afternoon learning sketching and water coloring. Pretty disastrous results with the latter. Feel like a total amateur, especially trying to attain some definition.</p>
<p>Evening meal at Bademiya. Didn’t enjoy it at all. There is no nostalgia for me especially when things are so fucking loud in the popular joints in Mumbai.</p>
<p>Tomorrow I’m back home, which means more sport-watching and sketching.</p>
Kris Basshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14968227615966356396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7121594.post-14189752532636294862023-02-03T23:00:00.001+05:302023-02-08T23:06:29.954+05:30Wholly day<p>Pun aside, today was different.</p>
<p>No office work meant looseness and lightness.</p>
<p>This despite yet another night of troubled sleep. I overslept because I underslept when it matters.</p>
<p>A mild headache. Lazy coffee. In fact, no making bed before. Playing with the feline before reaching out for the ground coffee jar. Then, despite the summery winter sun pelting down, sitting on the chair on the kitchen balcony and reading.</p>
<p>What? <em>Blindsight</em> by Peter Watts. That's the seventh or the thirteenth book I'm currently on.</p>
<p>But this one is different. It's captivating. Like Alastair Reynolds openings. Not familiar? Try <em>Chasm City</em> or <em>Absolution Gap</em>.</p>
<p>Then came the hard part. Looking for bank documents and realising that your relatively neat organisational strategy is not nearly as good as you think it is. Three hours. Seemingly lost things rediscovered. Old cards and memories.</p>
<p>Hunger is abated by Quaker's oatmeal. I pack and I set off to a couple of banks. Or so I think.</p>
<p>The first one only exists on Google Maps. Then off to another branch that you know has to continue to exist beyond Google servers.</p>
<p>A bit of a wait. More of Peter Watts. Extremely difficult to focus on hard sci-fi over harsh voices of disenchanted patrons.</p>
<p>I get a less-than-adequate resolution eventually. It's so because adequate is either difficult or impossible.</p>
<p>Quickly off to the second bank, which was almost empty. So much nicer and got done real quick. Like in two (literal) minutes. Faster than Maggi by a lot.</p>
<p>Then a new Keralaite restaurant. A mild disappointment because it was too homely.</p>
<p>Then back home. The help has brought new feathers. Another long play session. Some tea and cake before heading south.</p>
<p>Fleshing out my latest sci-fi short story idea on the train. Got at least two original hooks in the process. Have to say that I surprised and pleased myself.</p>
<p>The day is wholly. "Not bad," I say to myself, like everyone else says when they mean "Is good."</p>
Kris Basshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14968227615966356396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7121594.post-60245953484811704762023-02-02T22:57:00.001+05:302023-02-08T22:58:49.589+05:30Sleepless in the night<p>Sleeping is a difficult task. It becomes even more so when you age. For the last eight weeks or so, I have been having trouble. Initially, it was postoperative pain, then it was aching of the operated limb, and then it was nothing that I could put my finger on.</p>
<p>Yesterday, I woke up at around 3 am and couldn’t fall asleep until about 5.30 am. I feel exhausted now and I think I’ll fall asleep as soon as I try to. But I am also fairly certain that I’ll spend 2 or 3 hours in the night trying to fall asleep again.</p>
<p>This is not something that you can easily fall asleep to.</p>
Kris Basshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14968227615966356396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7121594.post-29382409859361623092023-02-01T22:56:00.004+05:302023-02-08T22:56:46.882+05:30Dreaming and Writing<p>If you are reading, you ain’t dreaming. But what about writing?</p>
<p>I guess you are reading <em>while</em> you are writing—at least you should be. But do you dream <em>while</em> you write.</p>
<p>Loosely speaking, I suppose one does dream while they are writing. Especially when you don’t know what you are about to write.</p>
<p>When you write fiction, you are breathing life into dreams, aren’t you? There was nothing until you wrote what you did.</p>
<p>What I think I’m trying to say is that I’m dreaming right now and that’s about to end.</p>
<p>Back to life.</p>
Kris Basshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14968227615966356396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7121594.post-10912963040425678522023-01-31T22:55:00.005+05:302023-02-08T22:57:02.431+05:30You are things, yet you aren't<p>You are tired, yet you have to fulfill your promise. </p>
<p>You feel sleepy, yet you dread being unable to fall asleep. </p>
<p>You had a good day at work, yet you feel like you’re going to feel exhausted even tomorrow evening. </p>
<p>You are a musician, yet you can’t find the energy to work on finishing songs. </p>
<p>You are, all of a sudden, a sketcher/drawer, yet you are aware that it is yet another skillset that will take years of slow skill building to overcome amateur-ness. </p>
<p>You are lying on the couch with your cat by your side, yet you don’t see how comfortable others might think your life is.</p>
<p>You switch off the TV because watching feels like work, yet your writing is <em>work</em> that you are switching to.</p>
<p>You are in winter (in Bombay), yet you feel the almost imperceptible sweltering swelling up.</p>
<p>You learn every day, yet the realization that there’s even more that you haven’t learned that you will not get to learn gets deeper.</p>
<p>You read and marvel at the words of others, yet you can’t seem to picture reciprocation in any realistic way.</p>
<p>You pack your evening with plans, yet you feel your life remains empty because the plans leave behind nothing substantial.</p>
<p>You take pride in being a friend, someone who cares and makes people comfortable, yet you don’t create opportunities to work your skillset.</p>
<p>You want love, yet you shy away from giving, which you know is one sure way of taking.</p>
Kris Basshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14968227615966356396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7121594.post-86307557101319723862023-01-30T22:52:00.001+05:302023-02-08T22:54:53.257+05:30Work on the go<p>We’re in 2023. At least I am. Not sure you are. Not sure if the world is. </p>
<p>In the age of ultra-, mega-, super-connectivity, I’m sitting in a local train trying to latch on to a cloud-hosted work document to finish something that I couldn’t finish at <em>work</em>. Yeah, unlike so many other days, I had a <em>tight</em> workday. </p>
<p>A <em>tight</em> workday basically means <em>working</em> through your <em>shift</em> with high levels of concentration. Also means giving yourself and your personal life not much importance during the workday. I suppose the corporate world would want more people to have more <em>tight</em> workdays, but I’m pretty darned sure that few people would want themselves to work <em>tighter</em> than they already are, which, in my opinion, is too <em>tight</em>.</p>
<p>Tangent: just realized that the word used for defining when you work seems to suggest that there would be variability, but in reality, it implies that there shouldn’t be variability. Ah, the irony of borrowed words for other purposes.</p>
<p>So I couldn’t find time to finish what I thought I should finish. Which is something that I feel perennially. And to make myself feel a little bit better, I try to extend my workdays at either end by making myself do more <em>personal</em> things during the work days. That is, a <em>looser</em> work day. Yeah, that does make me a <em>loser</em> because I’m someone who not only knows that what I’m doing is unhealthy, hell I even teach people at work to not do such stuff.</p>
<p>So, here I am, the <em>loser</em>, at the end of the <em>tight</em> workday, trying to make things <em>looser</em> by working beyond my shift. Because I feel better when I do this. A trait of <em>losers</em>, evidently.</p>
<p>The point that I’m trying to make, however, is that I’m <em>on the go</em>. Since the time I frustratingly stopped refreshing my browser, trying in vain load my cloud <em>work</em> document, and started typing this, I must have traveled about 15 kilometers. North to South on the Mumbai Suburban rail network. <em>Flew</em> (figuratively) from around the airport to the north of the original <em>island</em>. From the ‘burb to the ‘bay.</p>
<p>My reverse-faucet for accessing the internet is my phone, and <em>Airtel</em>, which promises a bunch of stuff including <em>unparalleled</em> connectivity across the nation, failed at a very basic 2023 task. Connectivity to the internet. That’s basic even in 2003 I would argue.</p>
<p>So the question is—are we really in 2023? Or is 2023 different for different people. Is <em>my</em> 2023 not the 2023 that was allocated to the place that I find myself in? And how is that fair? How is anything <em>fair</em>?</p>
<p>Tangent: Why the hell is <em>fair</em>, a racist word at best, used for implying that things are non biased toward anyone?</p>
Kris Basshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14968227615966356396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7121594.post-39901185284645159032023-01-29T23:04:00.006+05:302023-01-29T23:04:41.720+05:30Clean Creativity<p>I honestly don’t have an answer as to why I am still living in Mumbai. The dust/smoke pollution is now even making the rounds in property ads, where websites/apps are advertising themselves to be proficient in telling customers/clients who bad areas in the city are to live. Until you live in a dustbowl of a city like Mumbai—I don’t know if there is a dustier metropolis out there—you won’t know the joys of the evening of a day of dusting, swabbing, tidying, and new set of bed linen.</p>
<p>Yesterday was one such day, when I felt comfortable in being in my own apartment without drifting into thinking how I continue to live in the dusty mess. The surprising thing is that the feeling continued to sustain through today as well, despite the view out the window gently drifting to a sepia/smog shot from a post-apocalyptic show/movie (the post-nuclear fallout <em>Fear The Walking Dead</em>, for example).</p>
<p>Spent a bunch of time reading and sketching. My first day using graphite pencils (Darwent), and it was a different experience. I should have something more to say than <em>different</em>, but I guess it is such a new experience that I don’t really have anything else to say. I might need to get better stationery to use these pencils, because most of my sketching was done on a sketching pad meant for watercolors.</p>
<p>By evening, I wanted an evening out. I hadn’t stepped out for the whole weekend as well. So I decided to take the Metro to explore a new Keralite restaurant (<em>Just Kerala Hotel</em>, Andheri East). The food was exceptionally tasty, but it’s on the more expensive side for Mallu food. I even had a couple of beers.</p>
<p>I returned home to see that my color pencil set has also arrived. The clean (relative) home does make me feel like I should try them out tonight itself. But before I did, I had to write something, and that’s exactly what I am doing now.</p>Kris Basshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14968227615966356396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7121594.post-55308256366201836652023-01-28T23:03:00.001+05:302023-01-30T15:25:29.328+05:30Using Text-to-Voice for Reading Books <p>Since I started motorcycling regularly about two years ago, I have started listening to books more often. Listening to a book while motorcycling is one of the most exhilarating experiences I have had, especially when I’m away from the city and the traffic and conditions are predictable. </p>
<p>Unsurprisingly, Audible was my primary source for listening to books. I usually have a few audiobooks running at the same time, and, usually, they are different from the Kindle books I was reading. Well, because why would you want to buy the book twice, right? </p>
<p>Some months ago, when I was falling behind schedule in my book-club reads, I re-explored the Kindle text-to-voice feature. It was a wholesome mess when provided as an accessibility feature in older Kindles that came with speakers. Then Amazon started providing it as a bluetooth feature, which continues to be messy when you’re looking for an Audible-like experience.</p>
<p>But things are different on a Kindle Fire. Amazon, for whatever reason that they had, provides a wonderful within-app text-to-voice feature with automatic page turns and speed adjustments on the extremely “budget” tablet, which basically is a glorified regular Kindle that makes customers want to buy more things on Amazon.</p>
<p>I started regularly using the text-to-voice feature on the Kindle Fire to supplement my regular reading in some situations Like when I thought I needed more focus and/or when I’m commuting on public transport. This feature is not great when your hands are busy (e.g., motorcycling) because there is no “pause” or “rewind” feature. Basically, you are locked in and the only way you can go back is to go to another page and start over. </p>
<p>Anywho, I quickly realized that even though my actual reading speed was much higher than a comfortably fast text-to-voice (or even Audible) speed setting. This is because text-to-voice doesn’t really allow you to stop, it really does cover a lot of volume of text within the same timeframe of reading.</p>
<p>The only problem was that I had to carry the Kindle Fire along everywhere. That’s actually not as bad as the device itself, which is <em>so</em> slow and unreliable, especially regarding bluetooth pairing and syncing. How I wished that the Kindle app on faster devices (e.g., a modern smartphone or a better tablet) would have the same feature.</p>
<p>When I did my research, I found no convincing answer as to why this was not available in the Kindle app by default. One would imagine that if they could make it for Kindle Fire, they should also be able to make it for other Kindle apps, at least on the Android platform, right?</p>
<p>Then I stumbled on a potential reason. It seems like they have provided a similar feature on the Alexa app/feature, which I find is more intuitive than the Kindle Fire text-to-voice feature. Plus, it is there on all devices that can have the Alexa app. Plus, on Alexa/Echo devices!</p>
<p>This discovery was a few months back. And since then, my podcast listening has dropped as much as my text-to-voice listening/reading has picked up. Regardless of where I am and what device I have access to, I can listen to my Kindle book! Just ask an Echo device to play (it can even play in speaker groups!) or pull up the book on the Alexa app.</p>
<p>Now, there are some issues. The Alexa app feature is buggy and sometimes does not sync properly. Plus, if you really want to rewind, you can only do that at the chapter level. And occasionally, the chapters that precede the one that you were listening to don’t even appear.</p>
<p>Despite all this, I find this feature to be so useful to cover some ground on reading that I think I can easily finish about 6 to 8 books a month by listening/reading whenever I can! </p>
<p>I especially love the Echo option because it gives me a chapter or two while making coffee, doing the dishes, or doing my physical therapy routine. I generally use it for non-fiction and lighter fiction, where the narrative is pretty straightforward and expected. For more convoluted plots, it is easy to get lost when not being able to turn/flip the page and re-read/listen.</p>
<p>Caveats? Yeah, you may get distracted with other things and may have to rewind. When I’m on a book that I simply can’t miss any of, I supplement it with actual reading (or re-reading) of the book on a Kindle.</p>
<p>I recommend all bibliophiles to explore this feature and add this as a “skill” in their repertoire. In fact, I think it would work for non-bibliophiles too, especially those who want to read but can’t quite sit and get it done. </p>
<p>Go listen/read to some books, y’all!</p>
Kris Basshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14968227615966356396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7121594.post-35514959399624649742023-01-27T23:02:00.000+05:302023-01-29T23:02:44.398+05:30Apple (lack of) Support<p>My MacBook Pro. An Intel 2019 one. Bought in 2020 (during the pandemic even) so I could have a machine where creating music would be a cakewalk.</p>
<p>It never is, really, but it didn’t need to be so difficult. Even if one added creating videos into the creative pile. My MacBook Pro with a Logitech cam has turned into a disastrous combo that seems to burn up and slow down every 15 minutes or so.</p>
<p>So I am going to have to get my laptop factory-reset. Such a shame. Macbook Pros—hell, all Apple products—are supposed to make people create wonderful things. All mine has given me, for the last several weeks, are tastefully decorated nightmares of how things could go wrong.</p>
<p>Apple Support has been terrible in their lack of effort to follow-up with me. In the one call that I had with them, I thought they meant what they said. There seemed to be genuine concern in the guy I was speaking to. He even said that he’ll call me back in an hour or so.</p>
<p>Of course he didn’t. Instead, I got an email stating that there were no slots available at the time I was supposed to get the call. But what about the three days after? Still no slots? </p>
<p>C’mon Apple, you are supposed to make people want to love you. :(</p>
Kris Basshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14968227615966356396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7121594.post-67859996598774072842023-01-27T23:00:00.001+05:302023-01-29T23:01:47.751+05:30Busydom<p>It was a day after a holiday, but I felt as unrefreshed as one would feel on any other day. That’s me and holidays. A perfect disaster of a couple.</p>
<p>Over the last several months, I had wanted more days like this. Busy days. Where you really don’t think about what to do next because you are just jumping from one thing to the other.</p>
<p>Today I had one. Interesting stuff all around. Lots of leg room for creativity, but you still end up feeling not sure if what you did was of any worth.</p>
<p>The problem with me is that I feel like this at the end of most days regardless of the busydom. It’s just that I have fewer moments to stop and think about the worth of it all in a non-busy day.</p>
<p>Holidays are such days. They are meant to be non-busy, but they give me so much time to think about what the hell I’m supposed to do on any-day, regardless of the busydom status.</p>
<p>And guess what—tomorrow’s a Saturday and then a Sunday. I may have things to look forward to if I were to step out and maybe go for a walk or something. Or do something nice like watch a good movie.</p>
<p>But instead I’ll be spending most of my time on preparing to get busy in the next week. Because that means less time to feel bad, right?</p>
Kris Basshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14968227615966356396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7121594.post-53840438386596681082023-01-27T00:47:00.002+05:302023-01-27T00:47:27.809+05:30Two flashbacks and the present<p>Today was good despite it being terrible. Good because I was able to accomplish things despite some situations being totally stacked against me.</p>
<p>I had my regular therapy this morning. It was interesting because of the parallels that I’m drawing to the twins <em>Rahel</em> and <em>Estha</em> in the book <em>”The God of Small Things”</em> by <em>Arundhati Roy</em>. In a nutshell, that book has somehow captured a bunch of experiences (including traumatic ones) in my childhood, and by reading it, I have kinda relived them and also gained perspective on how things are like for kids in Kerala. </p>
<p>I also realized that the twins are kinda my friends now. Imaginary or not, they are likely to understand and feel the stuff that I went through. Roy’s writing has also inspired me to get back to trying to write my own stories. You know, that thing I keep on trying to make happen, but it hasn’t yet. More on that later.</p>
<p>Sometime later in the morning, I decided that I’m going to take it easy with my physical therapy exercise schedule. Like taking the leg day off, and in my case it is literally taking both the leg days off. </p>
<p>Must have been the beers last night. Oh yeah, I did <em>walk</em> (cough, cough) over to a watering hole last night. Met up with friends from a team that I’m no longer working in, but sure I’m working with.</p>
<p>Why the <em>italics</em> and coughing, you ask? Because I limp/hobble instead of <em>walk</em>.</p>
<p>Okay. But why? Rather, how? And what physical therapy? What’s going on?</p>
<p>Well, well, well. I guess it is time to lay it all out here.</p>
<h2>Nine weeks ago</h2>
<p>Did I tell you that I’m very much into motorcycling? If I hadn’t, I really should write about it. It’s been going on for a couple of years. Serious stuff. Bought a Honda CB350 two years ago. Bought all the safety gear. Started riding long and regular. More like a mental feat than a physical one. Meditative and awe-inspiring. More on that later.</p>
<p>One bike is not enough for two riders with distinctly different <em>everything</em>, including riding style, temperament, and preferences. The second rider is J, of course. Yeah, he’s also into motorcycling. Pretty much has always been, but has finally turned a corner in terms of doing motorcycling seriously. </p>
<p>This meant borrowing someone else’s bike. Thankfully, my friend and band mate is a sweetheart, and he has been lending his bike for the last two years. But this was tiring, primarily because I had to pick up the bike from his place, which is about 1.5 hours from my place (in Mumbai traffic) and that added about 4 hours of extra ride time on an otherwise 10- to 12-hour riding days.</p>
<p>The solution was simple. Get another bike. So we did. But it was a bit of a rush, and the monetary transactions didn’t go through on the night of the first long ride with J riding with all the newly-bought safety gear.</p>
<p>So the night before, I did my 3-h schlepp to get my friend’s bike. And so we did what we have been doing for a few months. </p>
<p>But this time it was J’s ride. And my friend’s bike isn’t as fast (or safe) as mine. And I ride slower and safer than J. And J rides my bike. I can’t fuck up J’s first big ride. So I ended up making a risky decision with my friend’s bike jamming its brakes on me.</p>
<p>But wait, I was wearing protective gear, right? So no scratches on me. The bike’s got a few, but minor. But then what happened?</p>
<p>So I buckled my knee in an effort to quickly get back on the bike. The incident did happen on a very poor part of the road to Mahabaleshwar (it’s a gorgeous hill station on the Western Graters, approximately 200 km southeast of Mumbai), and there were trucks around, with one kinda heading toward me. So I must have panicked.</p>
<p>Long story short (not really, right) I had multiple-ligament tear of my left knee. This was about two months ago, and I underwent arthroscopic repair two weeks after the incident. Done by my junior from my alma mater, but not at the alma mater, but at a private hospital. Because it would be easier for J to take care of me.</p>
<p>It was painful. Especially the first two days and then in the first two weeks, and so on. J took care of me. Even during the difficult times. I was difficult to be with, and it was difficult for me to be with others, but it worked out.</p>
<p>I was on crutches or hopping in the first 6 postoperative weeks. A week ago, I started using a walking stick. You know, one of those modern ones.</p>
<p>In the 7 days since, I have tried to find excuses to step out of the apartment and walk. The newly unveiled Metro 2A did give me motivation, and so did the walk to the bar to meet my friends and have a couple of beers.</p>
<h2>Cut to present</h2>
<p>So yeah, I took it easy. My excuse was that I had other problems to solve. Like my relatively expensive MacBook Pro throttling every time I do anything related to video capturing or rendering. I have been in touch with both Apple Support and Logitech Support (cuz the camera’s from Logitech), and despite them both being helpful (or trying to be so), my problem remained.</p>
<p>So I had to figure shit out myself. And I reckoned it was a good enough reason to take it easy.</p>
<p>Also, I had a bunch of walking/hobbling to do. I had an off on Republic Day and my surgeon (my friend) was free to meet, and I wanted to see if he thought I could expedite my recovery.</p>
<p>So instead of doing physical therapy, I watched art lessons on YouTube. Got inspired.</p>
<p>Wait, what? Art? Since when?</p>
<h2>Six weeks ago</h2>
<p>I was in pain and I couldn’t do the stuff that I used to. So I decided to revisit sketching and painting (watercolors). Revisiting because I used to sketch my lecturers at Medical College, apart from sketching cats.</p>
<p>I (re)started small, but since then, I have gone on to purchase some basic/serious sketching/painting material. I even have a fanny back with art supplies. You know, to pain rocks and stuff on the go.</p>
<p>So far, my primary subject is Blu. In fact, just before I started writing this, I was sketching yet another bust shot of her.</p>
<p>Just like the 1.7 billion people around the world right now, I’m learning almost exclusively by watching YouTube. It’s pretty cool, I’ll say. The video medium does help especially in this case as I watch time lapses of the experts doing art. </p>
<h2>Cut to present</h2>
<p>So on my way switching between three lines of trains (two Metro lines and a suburban/local), I sketched. On the way back too. </p>
<p>I felt good. Sort of taking pride in listening to art instructors say stuff like, “sketch every day”, “fill up your sketchbook”, “take a sketchbook with you wherever you go” and all that jazz.</p>
<p>But that’s not the only thing. My surgeon/friend concluded that I can indeed start going a bit more aggressive with my transition to full weight-bearing, i.e., without assistance. That’s just great.</p>
<p>In between all of this, I did manage to grab dinner at the Mallu restaurant where I used to grab lunches/dinner when I was at my alma mater, mentoring my surgeon/friend. That felt nice.</p>
<p>And then I come back home and go through a complicate list of steps to try and un-throttle the MacBook Pro. Didn’t/hasn’t worked out. So my only way out seems to be a factory reset. And if that doesn’t work, oh lord, I don’t even want to think that I might need to buy yet another machine!</p>
<p>So in between all of this, I thought I should listen to my instructors’ advice, but on something that I haven’t been spending time on—writing.</p>
<p>And that’s why I’m writing—and presumably you are reading—this.</p>
Kris Basshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14968227615966356396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7121594.post-62025461626070357082022-09-21T17:59:00.000+05:302022-09-21T17:59:01.828+05:30Finding a purpose<p>They say that life’s all about finding a purpose. Something to live for. Something to aspire to. Somewhere to aim at.</p>
<p>I find myself in the mid-dest part of a mid-life lull where I don’t think I know have answers. Not that I claim to always have had answers or that I will have answers moving forward.</p>
<p>But right now, as I type this, I’m in the middle of a week where I just heard yet another reason as to why I won’t be finding some answers.</p>
<p>I find myself at a crossroads without really knowing what I’m doing to earn a living—which is not quite what I was supposed to be doing to earn a living, by the way—is what I’m supposed to be doing.</p>
<p>Sure, everyone has been there or they will be there. No big deal. At least not until they find themselves there.</p>
<p>I know that I want to learn things that I don’t know I want to learn. I know that I want to experience others’ thoughts and feelings and vision in as close a way as possible with the original artistic intent. </p>
<p>With the knowledge that I gain from there, I know I want to write and create art. I know I want to build a legacy with these artistic and creative endeavors. </p>
<p>I suppose I must make it clear that they visions that I have are not restricted to music. As a musician, however, I know that I don’t know if I’m the right performer for the art that I have created thus far.</p>
<p>The idyl of clarity—maybe that’s a bit too far—of a lack of fuzziness. Maybe I’ll have that in a month’s time. Maybe I’ll grow a big enough pair and decide to step away from comforting mediocrity to challenging uncertainty.</p>
Kris Basshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14968227615966356396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7121594.post-53316035991160830882022-09-19T19:32:00.001+05:302022-09-21T17:58:03.520+05:30Dr. Burns, I’m Hooked Now<p>Everyone should know <em>Aqua</em> and their song <a href=""><em>Doctor Jones</em></a>. </p>
<p>Or should they? </p>
<p>Dr. Burns, specifically <a href="https://feelinggood.com/about/">Dr. David Burns</a>, the author of the popular book <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/en/book/show/46674"><em>Feeling Good: The New Mood Therapy</em></a> would disagree citing multiple reasons.</p>
<p>Things like <strong>all-or-none thinking</strong> (<em>Everyone should know…</em>)and <strong>should statements</strong> (<em>should know…</em>) are some of the cognitive distortions that Dr. Burns lists in the book.</p>
<p>I’m making my way slowly through the book and I have to say I’m finding it helpful—helpful to understand what I’m going through with my depression and how severe, and deep-rooted it is. </p>
<p>I scored 74/100 in the Dr. Burns’ checklist. That’s the cusp between Severe (51-75) and Extreme (76-100) (read more <a href="https://medicszone.com/burns-depression-checklist-revised-and-updated/">here</a>).</p>
<p>I was convinced that my partner J is also suffering from moderate to severe symptoms, but he came in at <em>mild</em> depression scoring 12/100. </p>
<p>I was/am shocked. Happy for him, but shocked that I’m so much further down than I thought I was.</p>
<p>So here’s my little ditty:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>Dr. Burns, Dr. Burns<br/>Calling Dr. Burns<br/>Dr. Burns, Dr. Burns<br/>I’m hooked now</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Why don’t I invite you to try the book out yourself?</p>
<p>The full list of cognitive distortions is below; read more about it <a href="http://www.pacwrc.pitt.edu/curriculum/313_MngngImpctTrmtcStrssChldWlfrPrfssnl/hndts/HO15_ThnkngAbtThnkng.pdf">here</a>:</p>
<ol>
<li>All-or-None Thinking</li>
<li>Over-generalization</li>
<li>Mental filter</li>
<li>Discounting the positive</li>
<li>Jumping to conclusions
<ol>
<li>Mind-reading</li>
<li>Fortune-telling</li>
</ol></li>
<li>Magnification</li>
<li>Emotional reasoning</li>
<li>“Should” statements</li>
<li>Labeling</li>
<li>Personalization and blame</li>
</ol>
Kris Basshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14968227615966356396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7121594.post-91956439646233884632022-08-31T10:02:00.003+05:302022-08-31T16:57:59.480+05:30COVID and Severe Depression<p>I have heard a lot many people talk about their experiences with COVID. Now that I have had it for about 10 days, I find myself in the same boat. I don’t feel like how I feel with my usual flu/viral infection. </p>
<p>I feel drained. My nose isn’t blocked but I still feel like it is. Nothing wrong with my throat, which is very unlike the usual. I’m triple-vaccinated. I have been extremely careful. </p>
<p>I must have contracted it at a gig where I think I was the only individual masking and/or attempting social distancing. Imagine that.</p>
<p>I had a tough evening yesterday. I thought I made my worst meal ever. Partially thanks to the partial impairments of my olfactory and gustatory systems.</p>
<p>The noise from the Ganpati processions (if you are not sure about what this means, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ganesh_Chaturthi" title="Ganesh Chaturthi">read this</a>) was loud well past midnight and I failed to catch my first wave of sleep. I tried to watch boring TV shows (<em>Star Trek: The Original Show</em> and <em>the Big Bang Theory</em>) but I couldn’t. Ended up watching an episode of <em>Mr. Robot</em>.</p>
<p>So I woke up shitty. Felt like calling in sick. Instead, I’m trying to motor on. Don’t have too many sick leaves.</p>
<p>I tried to fix an issue with a door handle by myself. Failed at it as well. Eventually, called a carpenter in.</p>
<p>All of this made me want to read something else with my morning coffee. So I started (maybe restarted) <a href="https://www.google.co.in/books/edition/Feeling_Good/M_ZgSQItwX4C?hl=en&gbpv=1" title="Google Books Link"><em>Feeling Good: The New Mood Therapy</em></a> by Dr. David Burns. Been meaning to read it since my therapist brought it up several years ago.</p>
<p>Took the <em>Burn’s Depression Checklist</em>. And I got 74 (out of 100). That means I have <em>Severe Depression</em>. I’m just 1 point shy of <em>Extreme Depression</em>. </p>
<p>Wow.</p>
<p>But I guess that’s how I have been feeling. Burns talks about a score of 5 or less being <em>normal</em>. </p>
Kris Basshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14968227615966356396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7121594.post-40065243062498200442022-08-28T16:54:00.001+05:302022-08-31T16:56:54.663+05:30Uncertainties and Inconsistencies<p>Crossroads everywhere. Career, music, life.</p>
<p>It’s been yet another break. Months have passed and I have been stuck in my shell. Been working on things, as usual, but nothing to showcase.</p>
<p>I am a content creator. I <em>was</em>. Maybe I’m trying to be once again. Content creators are expected to be consistent in content generation and publishing. </p>
<p>At the top of every week, I make a list of things to focus on. I write “Write” and “Blog” like clockwork. </p>
<p>It’s been tough to admit defeat at the end of every week. Like many, I don’t like admitting defeat.</p>
<p>I learned some coding but it has already become just another thing for which I can beat myself up.</p>
<p>Also I finally had COVID. Mild to moderate symptoms. It has been a different experience, and I probably contracted it at a packed gig.</p>
<p>I had one of the most incredible experiences playing at that gig. I have been taking vocal lessons and I have been singing better than ever. Yet I have never felt closer to giving up on music.</p>
<p>Remember my decision to not be active on social media? The thing that musicians and content creators need to be good at to be successful. I continue to not be sensible.</p>
<p>Read a bunch of books. Watched a bunch of shows. I guess that’s what is occupying more of my time.</p>
<p>One TV show reference worth mentioning. <em>Best Quality Vacuum</em>. And I guess I want to pick up and say </p>
<blockquote>
<p>“I need a dust filter for a Hoover Max extract pressure pro model 60. Can you help me with that?”</p>
</blockquote>
Kris Basshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14968227615966356396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7121594.post-72970906956392935532022-03-08T21:55:00.001+05:302022-03-08T21:55:35.654+05:30How NOT to Share Feedback with Artists<p>My search for performance coaches has not yet yielded a viable one. These individuals are highly accomplished and trained individuals whose fees are like sledgehammers, something someone making a living in India will struggle to meet. </p>
<p>Hence, I turned to my extended friend circle and asked around. Basically, I texted a select few friends to query if they had such a skillset, and if they did, I asked if they would be interested to coach me. In all fairness, it was not so difficult to find the likely candidates. Both the people I got in touch did have the skillset, one of them, said they could work with me. Yesterday evening, I had my first meeting with the one. </p>
<p>It’s a <em>he</em>. It’s a <em>he</em> who I have had a physical relationship with. It’s a <em>he</em> who has been there for me, by my side, in some of my darkest phases. It’s a <em>he</em> who has given me unforgettable experiences of various kinds. It’s a <em>he</em> who has been consistently welcoming toward me in the several versions that I have iterated myself through. I’ll refer to him as SP.</p>
<p>SP, in a nutshell, said that the most important thing that I need to do is to believe in myself and my potential. He wants me to be confident to ‘market’ myself and work on my networking skills. He thinks that one needs to have a certain blend of arrogance and indifference toward the world. Our meeting ended with the promise of a few more at the very least. </p>
<p>I was also left with an assignment. Somewhere in the middle of my narration of what I thought ailed me in terms of sharing the output of my creativity with the rest of the world, I mentioned that I have had a few traumatic experiences while attempting it previously, with some of them being with people what one would refer to as “friends”. He asked me to write down two such experiences, which will immediately follow this. I am to share these with him and we are to discuss these in our next meeting.</p>
<h4>Traumatic Experience #1</h4>
<p>Age: 21<br/>Year: 2001</p>
<p>I had just recorded and mixed my first original song called <em>Castle Without A Rock</em>. The song/lyric writing, and all the performances (guitars, bass, drums, and vocals) were by me. The song itself was about the experiences that we (my close friends and I) had had around our first-ever concert as part of the New Year's Eve celebrations for the coming of 2000 (Y2K). </p>
<p>The landmark album <em>Parachutes</em> by <em>Coldplay</em> had been released only a few months before, and the hit song <em>Yellow</em> was on everyone’s minds. The reason I mention is that I thought it was a masterful song arranged relatively simplistically, which is what I was attempting to go for in my song.</p>
<p>It was late afternoon on a mid-summer day. As soon as I finished a decent mix for the song, I exported it in the mp3 format, copied into a portable USB drive, and ran over to my friend’s place—our usual meeting place. </p>
<p>The house was that of a friend who was much older than the rest of us. He was a music connoisseur and had been collecting CDs and records for years. He had a high-end hi-fi at his place. On that particular day, we were three—the older friend, a younger friend (who since then went on to be a drummer in many bands I have played with), and I. </p>
<p>I excitedly announced what I wanted to share with them, and I figured out a way to play the song on the hi-fi. My friends did not demonstrate any excitement. In fact, halfway through the song, the older friend started laughing, which prompted me to stop the playback. In the ensuing conversation, I explained what my intent was (in terms of artistic style). I only remember getting more chuckles and laughter. At the end of my explanation, I remember receiving some critique (on the following lines) from the older friend:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>“Such work will never be received well. You might as well as give up on writing/performing music. You shouldn’t set high hopes for being a professional musician.”</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Years later, I would take courses on Coursera, with some of them being on songwriting and musicianship. One of the important aspects of every such course is the importance of learning to share feedback with peers. The entire focus is on the need for kind, constructive feedback, with strong advice against harsh and hypercritical ones. I guess my friend did not know this, despite him being a popular and successful teacher in accounting. </p>
<p>I don’t remember my younger friend sharing anything on the song. This despite him and me having been jamming regularly for several months and having dreams of being in a band and writing songs. Years later, I remember him coming around and admitting to how highly he thought highly of some of my later work.</p>
<p>This incident was followed by another traumatic incident with the younger friend’s family. These two incidents were triggers for my eventual move away from Thiruvananthapuram. The incident also started the gradual severance of the friendship with the older friend. Although I continued to work with and be friends with the younger one, things have never been really the same.</p>
<h4>Traumatic Experience #2</h4>
<p>Age: 28<br/>Year: 2008</p>
<p>I had just released an EP of five of my songs on <em>MySpace</em>. Although I was sure of the quality of my songwriting, I was aware of my production and performances not being up to the mark for radio airplay. The songs were actually recorded with the aim of a submission for a talent hunt by the premier indie record label then. The idea was for me to showcase my work so that they would consider me signing with them as an artist under their label.</p>
<p>Back then, I was actively involved in networking in the music scene, being part of two popular bands on the rise. I also personally knew many active musicians and was friends with some of them. Internet chats were popular. I had just struck up a chat conversation with one of the scene guys on <em>MySpace</em>. </p>
<p>He was someone who I respected and looked up to at that time. He was funny and charming and was part of at least two successful bands. Later on, I’d realize that he belonged to a clique of musicians who were fortunate enough to know each other from their school days, with their collective might propelling them to the top of the indie music scene. </p>
<p>I remember thinking that I will ask his opinion as to how to go about taking my project on live touring, considering that he and his bands were doing that consistently for a few years. I had shared the links of my songs and asked him for his opinion. The lasting memory that I have of this conversation is him telling me this:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>“Who is this fucking singer, man! He is so baaadd, oh my god. I have never heard worse singing in my life!”</p>
</blockquote>
<p>I left the conversation with him and have never talked to him properly since then. This crushed me in ways that I can’t even describe. It triggered my reluctance to share my work with my friends and “scene guys”. It also created roadblocks for me to share songwriting ideas with my then band, which I partially overcame in the coming years.</p>
<p>Like with the previous incident, I experienced a life-changing traumatic event soon after. This time, I would almost lose my partner to near-fatal health complications during his visit. </p>
<p>He had come to Mumbai from New York City, with the intent of figuring out a way to eventually move to India to be with me. In the course of the next few weeks in India, and in the following months in the US, he would go through multiple devastating health events which would render him in a state of dementia, where he would not even recognize me or our relationship. This wiped out our bank accounts, and would eventually result in me failing my exams for the first time in my life.</p>
<p>The series of unfortunate events triggered the darkest phase of depression I think I have gone through. I would spend several months toying with the idea of suicide. Eventually, with the help of some close friends and the partially-recovered partner, I started taking medications for depression. I somehow found the courage and drive to give my post-graduation exams, and would eventually pass them on second attempt.</p>
<p>On the positive side, this incident also guided me to explore ways to improve my voice, and I eventually even found a vocal coach, who restored a lot of the confidence that I had lost. Eventually, I would find the courage to share my work with a select few friends, and most of them would end up having startlingly different opinions.</p>
<p>The band that I am in right now includes two such people. I remember having played my songs on the car stereo on a ride back from a rehearsal. I was only seeking feedback on my choice of guitar tones. After listening to a few songs, they would tell me how awesome these songs are, why I hadn’t yet shared these with them, and that they would love to work on these songs in a band project.</p>
<p>PS: The one thing that I realize after my first meeting with SP is that performance coaches (and performers, as a matter of fact) are those individuals who have figured out ways to overcome their self-doubts and negativity in a consistently replicable manner. </p>
Kris Basshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14968227615966356396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7121594.post-66239266573368729822022-03-07T22:46:00.001+05:302022-03-07T22:46:36.564+05:30Pariahs at Parties<p>It’s almost two years since the first lockdown. Two years losing the joys that we all took for granted, with many losing multiple battles on the way. Life-changing for everyone, generation-changing for many. I wonder how many remain comfortable in their lives, having gotten through so much, which I happen to be one. </p>
<p>I am relatively less affected—and may be even somewhat positively affected—one would argue that this is a <em>privilege</em>. I have changed my lifestyle and have become far healthier than I have ever been. I have mastered the art of eating only when one has to eat, and have incorporated daily exercise in my routine. Hell, I even enjoy running these days, something that had been as unpleasurable as toast (rather than non-toasted bread) was once. For me, that is. I do admit occasionally to such crudeness, and today I’m feeling magnanimously humble.</p>
<p>The malapropism “social distancing”—which will likely remain the most <em>appropriate</em> among the indelible descriptors for this biennial period—has been a splendrous graduation party for the socially handicapped folk like me. Our world had become <em>accepted</em>. Our world had become the <em>right</em> one. Our world had become the <em>safer</em> one.</p>
<p>My current 30-month “phase” of depression—which can’t quite be labeled as such because of how individually/personally productive I have been during it—is currently manifesting only an as almost complete lack of social-ness. To be more precise, the lack of and the lack of desire for social interactions <em>that can be avoided</em>.</p>
<p>Social interactions for work—and not necessarily <em>at</em> work—within the confines of one’s roles and expectations, are acceptable. Those one must have when one is out on the road are too. Those that one needs to have, with a handpicked set of people who have somehow been demarcated from the vast swathes of humanity that were once <em>friends</em>, are acceptable too. But nothing beyond. <em>Nothing</em> else. </p>
<p>I ask myself why. And I have the most politically incorrect, crude, robotic answers. Podcasts bring in more condensed conversations with better production values—with a play-pause-rewind functionality and 0.5-4x speed controls. Books bring the wonders of thought, knowledge, imagination, and language, with the precision that human beings almost always lack in real life. YouTube videos go through more editing than a human could ever hope to do in conversations in their lifetime. </p>
<p>None of them involve the need to be face-to-face with people, breathing the same infectious air while adhering the conventions of interpersonal interactions. Let’s just admit it: real-life conversations at dinners and parties are mediocre at best—for quality, for focus, for entertainment, for knowledge, for comfort, for comprehension, for retention, for education, for refinement.</p>
<p>The pandemic is not yet over. <em>Really,</em> it isn’t. Especially for us. People like me should aim to systematically break down every attempt at breaking the current norm—by logic, reason, and science. And when we fail, when we decide that you ought to be more serious at fulfilling our social role—as siblings, as partners, as a friends—we <em>will</em> fail again. </p>
<p>Because we then suddenly find ourselves in these agglomerations of people, who revel in themselves and in their stupid anecdotes and experiences, sharing the compulsively often at the slightest of provocations, making themselves look life fools in the process, helped on the way by the excess food and wine than they help themselves to.</p>
<p>And there is nothing we can do but stare away from them, walk past them, ignore them. Hoping that they would think of something better to do than talk to us, and that they wouldn’t think “what a dork—what a loser”. We look at walls, leaves, and the sky, but all of these are finite. We look for the lone hammock in a corner somewhere and settle ourselves with a book, until a few ectopics from the agglomerations arrive at the conclusion that right by the hammock is a great place to smoke up.</p>
<p>And then we slip away and find ourselves a chair and hide behind the bushes by the pool, feeling the strongest wave of sleep that we will have for the next year or so. We read a bit, think a bit more, worry a lot, and doze off for a few seconds. Until it is time to have food—something that we really don’t want to have, but after having which we squirm our way out past more humanity, avoiding more stares and mindless conversations.</p>
<p>The social role that we once had has now become extinct, and with that, we have become even more so. Yet, we continue having the best times of our lives, alone and being brilliant. It remains to be at the cost of everyone who we choose to continue to interact with—or is it choose to continue to be a burden for? And that’s the price we will pay.</p>
<p>Our thoughts, especially the way they were decided to be shared, are most unflattering—easily categorizable as obnoxious, self-centered, egotistic. But we do have, to blame, the provocative situation of the agglomerations. Anyone’s guess as to how this situation is similar to or different from the aforementioned unprovoked sharings, the same that we try to run away from.</p>
Kris Basshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14968227615966356396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7121594.post-37551315350244876532022-03-03T09:06:00.005+05:302022-03-03T09:06:51.398+05:30There Used To Be A time<p> </p><p>There used to be a time I’d chronicle how today goes and the past one went. There used to be a time when I did not know that my attempts at attempting to emulate the greats and failing miserably was embarrassing but rewarding. There used to be a time when Sunday morning meant a ride to a mall and a cappuccino and deep Black Forest cake. There used to be a time when the lack of certainty in what’s about to come received less titration—in fact it used to be acceptable and somewhat expected.</p>
<p>There used to be a time when I would not find myself constantly working on improving the things that I was not good at, which I was tired of admitting that I am not good at. There used to be a time when reading meant getting lost more than studying the art of what is being written about and how it is being delivered. There used to be a time when greeting relative strangers in the morning was something that I would not flinch from; dare I say I would look forward to.</p>
<p>There used to be a time when being able to listen to the songs of your choice while not being tethered to the place you were in was a luxury that only the shrewd ones chose to have. There used to be a time when birthdays were days that were special, something to be celebrated with friends over an opulent, indulgent meal. There used to be a time when meals were explorative, varied, and flavor-oriented and not cumbersome nutrition-delivery activities.</p>
<p>There used to be a time when walking around town was light and explorative. There used to be a time when the chase of glory was something sunk in so far deep that it was difficult to be aware of its presence. There used to be a time when the sound of coconut tree leaves lapping against the wind used to be sufficiently distinct for one to notice it and to associate with other memories. There used to a time when catching up, with the world, on cinema is something that was less of a chore.</p>
<p>There used to be a time when falling in love and staying in it was more joy and longing than a burden of expectation. There used to be a time when home was still something to stay away from, but still something worth looking forward to coming back to. There used to be a time when the shades of blue and green and red were something that you did not know changed if you went sufficiently far away from where you were when you had the misconception.</p>
<p>There used to be a time when the delivery of art, or the attempts of attempting to deliver it, were not such conscious efforts of delivery. There used to be a time when the light was bright and the was mind was light. There used to be a time when I used to long less for how things used to be.</p>
Kris Basshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14968227615966356396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7121594.post-25865392728087604252022-03-01T01:01:00.004+05:302022-03-01T01:01:44.471+05:30Julie<p><a href="">2345 words | 13 min</a> </p>
<p><em>Note: This is a long, dark, graphic post. User discretion is recommended.</em> </p>
<p>Julie was my pet dog through my late adolescence and early adulthood. One of the plausible reasons why I haven’t written about her is that I haven’t gotten over the trauma of the evening that I had to part with her. </p>
<p>I’d, in fact, realized that I had not written much about Julie, after my search for the same returned just two superficial references (<a href="https://engayginglife.blogspot.com/2004/06/monday-blues.html" title="Monday Blues [2004]"><em>Monday Blues</em> [2004]</a> and <a href="https://engayginglife.blogspot.com/2011/03/animal-instinct.html"><em>Animal Instinct</em> [2011]</a>). I did the search for a special reason, which I’ll write about in my next post. In fact, it was at the end of writing that post that I decided that I needed to write about her before writing about anything else.</p>
<p>I had adopted Julie from an animal shelter ran by a lady, who was featured in the <em>Young World</em> supplement that came along with <em>The Hindu</em> on Saturdays. Along with Julie, I had adopted her name, which was originally assigned by the lady. I chose Julie over the other available options for adoption because she was unlike any other puppy/dog I had had a chance to interact with.</p>
<p>While I wrote the previous paragraph, I cringed at my choice of words that imply my omnipotency in the matter, almost ignoring Julie’s role in it. These choices do paint me in a cruel, insensitive, materialistic light, which is fairly close to how I’d expect myself to come across by the time you reached the end of this post. I reckon I must have been like that when I was younger, at least more than I’d like to admit that I’m now.</p>
<p>I remember being told that Julie was about ten weeks old after I had properly looked at her for the first time. I was seventeen at that time, having just finished my first year at Medical College. I was also let known that she did not have a known direct lineage that she was aware of, which plainly meant that Julie had been rescued from the streets. </p>
<p>She was a short-haired, mixed breed dog (a “mongrel” or a “mutt” for the ease of comprehension). She had a predominantly brown coat whose shade I can only describe as somewhere in between syrup and cinnamon brown. Fair warning:the overexposed, poorly framed photograph I share below—the only one of hers that I was able to find—would suggest otherwise.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiW0p331eB1EICsghgiBe30i_i6cBJIfKHXK4EncAw0f0_fB3jDx7gyWA500FM2CWRTTCp2fYUpT_dQRQglEgdLIa_cskn-OOdooXOfzzv7jRcZIOj0686ymYlahrO-k8EpQHvZS0WdvhluY56LKmWr4lgLLauNZNl14fOTtWK3mBBmLTXvHA=s500" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="478" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiW0p331eB1EICsghgiBe30i_i6cBJIfKHXK4EncAw0f0_fB3jDx7gyWA500FM2CWRTTCp2fYUpT_dQRQglEgdLIa_cskn-OOdooXOfzzv7jRcZIOj0686ymYlahrO-k8EpQHvZS0WdvhluY56LKmWr4lgLLauNZNl14fOTtWK3mBBmLTXvHA=s320" width="306" /></a></div><br /><p>Her paws and the tail tips were white, complemented by an almost perfectly symmetrical white jacket with collars seemingly sown into her pelt, with the white hairs trailing off while making their way to her underbelly. Even as a puppy, she had an unusual skeletal structure, which over the years would fill up to make her appear shorter than stouter, and heavier than unhealthy. I guess my lack of awareness of what constituted a healthy diet for dogs could have also played a role in these morphological transformations. </p>
<p>Her eyes were a blend of caramel and chocolate brown, conveying a wonderful blend of naughtiness and maturity. She had a dirty pink nose that was so soft that I often had the urge to bite it off. Thankfully, I did not need to resort to such extremes, and had instead ended up kissing the nose and booping her at every chance I got. </p>
<p>Her breath was fresh enough for making a strong case to burn dictionaries for the fallacious definition of <em>dog breath</em>, and the scent of her paws and toe beans could be mistaken for the fragrances of fermented rice cakes. She is the reason I bury my nose in the paws of all my pets!</p>
<p>But the real reason why I went for—or after—her was because she got along well with cats, which was an important criterion because my household had around half a dozen cats of varying ages at any point in time. In fact, I’d gone to that particular shelter because of it being a safe house for both cats and dogs.</p>
<p>Before adopting Julie, I had little experience in being with dogs, especially at the collegial level that I find myself with them these days. She taught me things that no man or woman could ever teach, and I think she groomed and mentored me as much I did her. </p>
<p>This is not to imply that ours was a perfect relationship, with me having a longer, shallower learning curve after having being with felines as companions for much longer. I must have felt frustrated and alienated with her like how most people that you would come upon would feel about cats.</p>
<p>I remember the sense of liberation when she would take the lead, without quite dragging me along, in our walks around the neighborhood, which would extend beyond our little housing colony as she grew into an adult. I guess a more appropriate term for describing my neighborhood would be a <em>tiny township</em> and not a <em>housing colony</em>. </p>
<p>I would eventually take her to grocery shopping and on walks to my cousins’ place a kilometer and half away, which is a significant distance between two locations in Thiruvananthapuram. As a couple, we would attract strange looks and conversations on the way as well as at our destinations. </p>
<p>At that time in Kerala, dogs were mostly relegated to an ancillary security role, spending most of their daytimes chained or locked in dog cages, hardly getting any human playtime. They would be let free at night, during when they would run around the houses within the confines of the compound walls and gates barking at street dogs, cats, and passersby.</p>
<p>I was surprised at how fast my feline pack warming up to Julie—the lack of significant size differential must have helped. At the time of her arrival, Julie was definitely smaller than the adult mom cat and was only slightly bigger than the youngest kittens/cats at the time of her arrival. </p>
<p>Yet, it seemed too soon for my cats to assume that a strange puppy/dog would be safe enough to let their guards down, considering how the dogs in my neighborhood never stopped chased them around. I guess Julie was more intuitive than I gave her credit for at first, which also manifested in her knowing what (literal) lines to cross and not, at home. </p>
<p>I must remind everyone that I lived in a Tamil Brahmin household in Kerala. In houses like mine, different mammals and genders were assigned different lines that weren’t to be crossed. They were also allowed different privileges, whose mere allowances needed to be viewed upon as offerings of kindness and modernity that had somehow infiltrated the dungeons of regressive thinking. This was one of the many reasons why I would eventually alienate myself from my family—the immediate one and the extended one alike.</p>
<p>Julie would end up donning the <em>de facto</em> maternal role among the band comprising my cats, myself, and her. Julie was a better ratter (I should really say “mice-r”) than my cats would ever be. I remember many a time when I could sense the disappointment in her eyes on the days when we would all be on a loft or on the terrace, playing the role of exterminators. She would watch her feline peers be sloppy in executing the members of a mischief fleeing for their lives, and would have to cover for them, almost too casually.</p>
<p>She would extend this to protecting the kittens from all sort of threats while I was away or when the mom cats (I would end up having two of them eventually) would be away fighting or fornicating. Most days, she would end up being the lone warrior fending off all the tomcats would arrive for the genetic cleansing of their rivals’ progeny. I could only be a facilitator for the true guardianship that Julie offered, by opening doors and gates when the need arose.</p>
<p>Julie, along with the cats, would give me company at early mornings and late nights, while I was studying, reading, or rehearsing, regardless of whether I was happy, sad, anxious, or hurting. She was not much of a sleeper in bed, probably because she felt like she should instead protect her dependents—which included me of course—who chose to (or needed to) sleep in the bed in various physical combinations and arrangements.</p>
<p>She eventually became the lone liaison between an estranged son and apathetic parents. Yet, her strength proved to be too little to prevent the widening of the chasm, resulting in my moving to Mumbai. This, in turn, resulted in the decision of her needing to be returned to the shelter. After a year of me being away, my parents had finally admitted to a combination of being frustrated with the need to, and their inability to, take care of Julie, demanding that I <em>take care of the situation</em>. </p>
<p>On the day of my separation with Julie, I vaguely remember what I had felt before I arranged for a rickshaw for the trip. I must have felt like a murderer with a motivation that could be presented as relatable in the hands of a masterful storyteller. Someone about to commit a heinous act that could be painted over with the kindness and morality they would show in their future toward others, allowing for at least a partial redemption. </p>
<p>In retrospect, I realize that this experience is one of several in my life that have consolidated the fact that losing someone alive is far more damaging than losing someone at their death. </p>
<p>Yet, on the day, I remember the rickshaw ride being unremarkable except of a mild feeling of betrayal toward Julie. The anger, frustration, and resentment toward my parents must have been overpowering the dread and pain of impending loss and separation. </p>
<p>I wonder if the expectation of the impending phrenic amputation had lent itself as an anesthetic. Maybe the evening traffic on the road to the airport helped a little. But I guess most of the credit ought to go to the scars from the past of the wounds in similar scenes of stowaway violence and trauma. </p>
<p>As an even younger child—and by that I mean the pre-Julie phase—I had many experiences of needing to either discard litters of kittens or be complicit/responsible for their death. The former because no one would want to assume the responsibility of taking care of them. The latter because I was solely responsible for taking care of the kittens and cats that I would dare to take care of, which meant that if they fell ill or were hurt, I would have to figure out ways to transport them to the veterinary hospital regardless of the urgency warranted.</p>
<p>As a child, I did not have the means or the knowledge to transport kittens safely. This meant that I’d have to endure multiple instance of kittens dying—in my arms or in ill-ventilated boxes/bags/baskets, in rickshaws or on my bicycle, in transit or after reaching the hospital. </p>
<p>I’d eventually find myself cocooned in a state of surreal shock in a pool of cold-blooded reality overlaid by the sights and sounds of loved ones grappling with death. These experiences left me with no one but myself to blame, for having allowed them to happen and having allowed myself to be in such situations.</p>
<p>Julie must have had at least a vague feeling of being discarded, but she did not act it out until I started walking away from her after handing her, in leash, over to someone at the shelter. I don’t even remember if I’d met the same lady who had handed over Julie over to me seven years ago. She must have thought highly of me then—a young medical student wanting to adopt a stray puppy who will get along with his cats. What a magnanimous, charitable gesture. </p>
<p>I must not have even looked up at whosever’s face that I was talking to, while casually and indifferently delivering my rehearsed reason to justify what I selfishly needed to do. To take care of myself, at the pretense of taking care of my parents, who I needed to get far away from, both physically and emotionally. As I walked I away, I did not have the courage to acknowledge Julie’s yelps and cries, which reeked of betrayal and hurt and sadness. </p>
<p>These audibles haunt me to this very day. I wish I had carried a pair of headphones that evening, so I could shield myself from the world. Or that I would have had the thrum of a waiting rickshaw engine to do the same. Or that I had asked the caretakers to take Julie inside the house and keep her distracted while I snuck out. Or that I would have had the courage to not commit this cowardly act. </p>
<p>But the fact is that I didn’t do any of these things, and did not even think of the possibility of other options I could have chosen. Instead, I stubbornly, selfishly, and meekly chose to discard Julie and walk away—the same Julie who trusted her existence with me and with whom I trusted mine with. </p>
<p>In the following months and years, in my visits to Thiruvananthapuram, I would mull over giving the shelter a visit. I never did do it for fear of the re-aggravation of trauma. Each time, I’d hope that Julie would somehow have forgotten the cats, me, and my parents. I’d hope that she would have gotten over the trauma of separation and would have found joy and happiness in the shelter or with someone else who would give her what she deserved. It was not me; it was never me.</p>
<p>Today, if Julie was alive, she would have been an unlikely twenty-five. It is eighteen years since I did what I thought I needed to, and I still bear with me the hope that, someday, I’ll be able to find forgiveness from her and from myself.</p>
Kris Basshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14968227615966356396noreply@blogger.com0