The artist/creator conundrum

Yet another outstation gig. More time to listen to what you created in the past few years. So many interesting things that were thought of and executed. The realization that somehow you have managed to create things that you are currently proud of and what you could continue to be proud of.

There are very few such things in my life.

I have no idea how I have managed the creation bit so far. In such phases, I don’t even understand how I could have created those things in the first place. I often wonder if the things that I think I should be proud of are things that are actually mediocre.

Yet, I am proud of them.

In the past, when the sense of pride overtakes the self-doubt, creativity was straightforward. You just get stuck to what you have to do. No realistic roadblock that you can’t overcome.

So what’s changed now?

Well, the things that I have to do at work—that never seems to go away. I still do things that I don’t think I should be doing. I know that day by day, the time that I could possibly devote to creating is diminishing. I know that with every moment, the likelihood of what I can create is losing its relevance in the world.

I want things to be simple. Straightforward. You want to do something—you do it. Nothing much gets in the way.

Maybe it is middle age. Maybe I don’t have it in me anymore. Maybe I never had it in me.

Nudges

Everything nudges you. Sometimes ever so slightly. Things that you see, read, do, and think--all of it does. And I guess these nudges change you.

Technically, everyone you meet and interact with you should too. In my case, it's not so. Probably because I go out of my way to limit my interactions with people. People are one of the most consistently disappointing things that I encounter in my daily life--the reason could be high expectations that I set for them, low returns that I get from them, or a combination of both. I find myself checking out of conversations somewhere between 20 minutes and 45 minutes after meeting someone. Even with people I love and that I care about.

And yet, at least one such interaction has resulted in a nudge.

A few days ago, J told me that he was moved after reading my then last post on the blog. He, I guess, could relate more to me as a person through my post because I'm particularly pitiful in conveying emotions in real life. I appear cold and distant. But it is representative of what I feel like these days.

J also said he was exploring some of the older posts after having conversations with AV. They get along well with each other on Facebook, thanks to their shared interest in photography. In fact, they interact way more with each other than I manage to interact with AV.

When I asked J about what they were talking about, J said that it was not about my depression. AV had brought up some issues that he was having with some posts on my blog with him and that's why he had started reading my blog.

Parallelly, AV and I have also been having conversations about how to get people to not find those posts about him on the blog. He said he gets a lot of shit from antagonists on Facebook photography groups, where he posts his idiosyncratically brilliant photographs and engages with people in fiery comment threads (with questionable political correctness). He now wants me to ensure that such posts don't show up on Google searches.

One of my most popular posts was a photobiography of his life. This was my attempt at showcasing his art to the world. His photography, through which his incredible mind shines, had remained more or less inaccessible to the real world thanks to his social anxiety/phobia. Within a few months of meeting him in 2007, I wanted to help him display his photographs in an art gallery in New York. I thought I could do it. I thought I could help him leave a legacy in the real world.

He had scoffed at my cherubic optimism. I couldn't do it like how I wanted to, but I did manage to push him into opening accounts on Flickr and Facebook. His Flickr stint didn't last too long, but he stuck with Facebook. It is probably what keeps him going these days. He uses Facebook to post photos and get comments and reactions from his friends and, more importantly, from strangers. And some of these strangers look him up when they are upset with something he posts or says, and that leads to my blog posts.

I have been naive and careless about the internet all my life. In 1997, I started warming up to HTML. In 2002, I created a website for my medical school batchmates. I had copied all the content available in a book that was published after we graduated and then started posting updates on their whereabouts. The website was hosted on GeoCities and the content still comes up on Google searches. Some of my classmates are pissed by it, and I'm still trying to find my way out of that mess.

Back to nudges. I guess everyone is figuring out how to find a way out of their labyrinthine miseries. Like how I am trying to get past my current low phase. I have heard a lot of people talk their way out of things with superfluous stuff like, "It's all about the journey and not the destination." Thanks to these nudges, the path that I take (and thus the journey) deviates ever so slightly from what seems like a course of certain doom. Mabye the destination doesn't change and it's just a slight detour. But the journey does. Or it has.

Back to J. So when J brought up my blog, I felt a certain sense of pride. I have always felt that I communicated better in writing than I could ever do in any other mode of communication. Hell, I have met more people by making people laugh and entertaining them on gay social networking chat rooms. So I went back to the blog(s). I hadn't posted in a while. And then I posted All I Want is Solitude, Slide-show, and The Last Best Things.

I felt satisfied. I felt closer to how to I used to feel. I felt like I had done something meaningful. I don't feel that too often.

There were other nudges too. Two weeks ago, during the commute to an outstation gig, I spent most of my time listening to an audiobook. It was the audio version of Judas Unchained by Peter Hamilton--a book I had started three years back. Sometime during the ride, I felt like switching to something else.

I looked for music in my dumber of my two smartphones. It's dumber because it's older and it does not have access to mobile internet. It is a Nexus 5 whose motherboard must feel like a teenager thanks to the number of fixes it needed to keep it going. It does not have a functioning mobile radio antenna and hence does not have a SIM card. It might be dumber, but it is the one that I'm more fond of and feel more safe with. I feel that it is safer because it is not the phone on which I have to interact with people. People tend to bring bad news. Communicating with people make me anxious. That overwhelming sense of expectations and responsibility.

So my dumber phone functions like an iPod. It has everything that I might want to listen to. The vast majority of what I want to listen to is podcasts--on combat sports, science, technology, astronomy, skepticism, conspiracy theories, etc. Audiobooks occupy a much lesser, but significant, chunk of its limited memory. I have a few folders in it with some music. Mostly music that I have to listen to for preparing my sets. But there are also some folders with versions of some of my songs. I keep these folders so that I can remind myself that I can be creative.

I switched to listening to my songs. Mainly because I wanted to check out how they sounded on my new Bluetooth headphones, which have the necklace thing along with the earbuds. As I guess is the case when artists revisit their unfinished pieces after a long time, I was pleasantly surprised. I was enjoying listening to the songs that I had written, recorded, and produced. They were so out of my consciousness that I was intrigued by them initially. I remember smiling and chuckling at the lyrics that I had come up with. If you are wondering, I can't remember my lyrics to save my life.

This whole experience was another little nudge because I had revisited something that I was proud of. I felt like I had done something worthwhile and I was capable of doing something that could also help me leave a legacy. I don't think I much care(d) about leaving a legacy, but I have always wanted to showcase what I could do—at what I think I'm good at doing—to the world. I guess I would also like some recognition, but that's not the most important reason. I would like to think that I want people to feel what I have felt, and I truly hope that I have translated my feelings and thoughts sufficiently adeptly into these songs.

Another nudge happened around that time. Since starting Judas Unchained in 2017, I have just finished about 400 pages. It is the only book I'm officially reading. It's fair to say that I was not reading much. At J's best friend's farewell party, which I reluctantly agreed to go for,  I found myself checking out of people and conversations fast. In the middle of the party, in one of several attempts to separate myself from the raucous conversation, I walked into J's friend's bedroom and found a copy of Narcopolis by Jeet Thayil. I read the the first 30-odd pages. The sheer pleasure of opening a paperback, sifting through pages, enjoying the different angles that one could gaze the pages at, and getting lost in that brilliant chapter are all cliched mediocre aspects of reading a physical book. But for me, it was another nudge. I had suddenly rediscovered the joy of reading a new book, which opened up the possibility of reading many more.

The next night, I found my Kindle Paperwhite and charged it. I logged out of my .com Amazon account and logged in with my .in account so that I can access the books that I have been reading on my other Kindle.

Yes, I have two Kindles. The Paperwhite is mine, and the other (a much older one with a physical keyboard) is a gift from Blummer. It was Blummer's father's and Blummer gave it to me after his passing. In the last three years, I have preferred reading on the older Kindle because it felt more like reading a physical book (because it does not have a backlight) and because I loved its physical page-turn buttons. But it is a problem if I wanted to read in bed with the lights turned off. I either have to use my dumber smartphone (because it has kickback stand in its case) or the Paperwhite.

After the Narcopolis experience, I wanted to get back to being on my Paperwhite because I could read in bed and drift to sleep. Instead of watching something and having to turn that thing off. Since then, apart from continuing Judas Unchained, I started a John le Carre book. Some progress.

Reading goes hand in hand with writing. The more I read, the more I want to write. That meant more posts, of which this, hopefully, will be the fourth.

There have been other nudges too in these past two weeks.

Buying those necklace headphones meant that I could listen to my podcasts with my helmet on while riding my bicycle, which I primarily use for commuting to work and grocery shopping. Listening to podcasts while cycling is liberating!

In another conversation three weeks ago, J had asked me to figure out a way to restart therapy and make it more regular. I had managed to get the first session done two days after I posted my first post in a long time. I don't consider the therapy itself as a nudge, but my efforts for fomdomg a fix to remedy my current situation was one.

My maid has been giving me a fresh set of problems since she started coming a few months back. Despite me requesting her several times to do dusting and other types of cleaning more than sweep/swab and doing the dishes, she was just following her usual routines. This past week, I had a conversation with her explaining what I wanted her to do. The next day was a no-show from her. I was frustrated and I wanted to set an example.

I spent about five hours in cleaning up the apartment so that she could see how things looked if things were done properly. The next day, I did the dishes and cleaned the counter and made the bed before I left for work. She must have been surprised that I had done all of that. Today I met her and explained that things are not working out the way they are being done. I proposed an alternate strategy of focusing way more on dusting and deep cleaning on a fortnightly rotating basis around the apartment. I also said that I'll continue doing the things that I can.

The five-hour cleaning run was a nudge. I felt good after doing it. I had tangible results of something that I had a lot of fun doing. I have always felt a sense of satisfaction and pride after cleaning. This feeling is why I volunteer to do dishes when I go to my friends' place for dinner.

So many nudges. Most will sound inconsequential to many. But they did change the way I was doing things. The way I was thinking about things. Those nudges changed me and my future. There I said it. Every time I come across a sci-fi reference about the lack of free will, I chuckle on the inside. I guess I chuckle(d) a lot when I used to watch Passengers or think about Trafalmadorians.

Last night, I found myself telling J that I might be past my current phase's nadir. Maybe I have. That's where I am now. Feeling better. Thanks to these nudges.

Slide-show

When I’m going through these phases, it feels like my mind is clicking through a slide-show featuring several catchy images of why I can’t possibly do well in life.

The oldest ones are from my childhood days (between 5 and 13 years of age), originating mostly from my mother and her extended family.

“How could you I possibly have a son like you?” 

“Why can’t you be more like your cousins?”

“You are a disgrace to our family!”

“Remember that you will suffer through this for the rest of your life if you don’t…”

Then, there was a phase when I was in medical school (between 17 and 20 years of age), featuring an unending stream of implicit commentary from the people I had to surround myself with:

“What a dork!”

“He’s so awkward!” 

“He couldn’t possibly be empathic!” 

“How could such a person take care of other people?”

Then, there was a phase after my post-graduation (between 28 to 30 years of age), where I received a few deeply wounding comments around a fleeting relationship.

“You aren’t good enough at most things you do, which is why you are scared to practice medicine and why you aren’t good at music.” 

“People are saying so many bad things about you. I just overheard them at a party. I am telling you this because I am protective of you.”

Then, in the last seven of years or so (between 33 to 40+ years), despite a relatively successful time in my life, I heard some more.

“The things that you call ‘relationships’ weren’t really ones. Those were just flings. A real ‘relationship’ involves conflict. Conflicts are natural. The fact that you can’t cope with a ‘real’ relationship means that there is something wrong with you.” 

“You have changed. You used to be nice. You used to care. You used to be kind. You aren’t any of that. You are a monster.” 

“I don’t know if you can think of a career change because most careers will need you to be socially active. You are unable to do that. It will be hard for you to build and maintain circles of people, professionally or socially.”

My slide-show moves along just like any other. But just like how advertisements are meant to attract the attention of people, slides like these hoard my consciousness.

Maybe I’m all of this. Or maybe I’m not. Maybe I’m all of this because I have been told I’m all of this. And maybe I’m not all of this because I have changed after people have told me that I’m some or all of this.

All I want is solitude

I honestly don't remember how I felt a few months back. I think I might not have felt great, but I had the drive to do things out of what I would consider my main professional role. I was taking courses, planning trips, writing/recording songs, and what not. On top of it, I was doing a series of satisfying/rewarding tasks at work, most of which involved teaching or helping researchers/scientists draft and fine-tune the textual representations of their life’s work. With all of this, I was able to keep up with the demands of rehearsals and gigs of a busy multi-instrumentalist.

On the personal side, I had finally put together bits and pieces of my domiciliary life and I seemed to be on my way to stitch them together into a dependable quilt that I could snuggle under when I wanted to. My partner, who was a pillar through the quilt-making process, and I were getting along okay, having navigated the tricky 7^th year of our relationship without much turmoil. I was enjoying cooking and learning new recipes. On top of this, I was actively considering the scope of continuing my academics—hell, if I can help people get their research perfected, why on Earth can’t I do it on my own? I made some significant strides on doing research on that as well.

Although I was never too social to begin with, I was still able to maintain a decent relationship status with my friends (almost entirely virtual—and there is no shame admitting that in 2019), family, and acquaintances. Social media was still relevant and useful, at least for sharing memes, practicing on being clever/funny, and keeping up with how people were framing their thoughts on things.

I don't have to dig too much to find enough evidence to suggest that I was a highly functioning individual. I might have been juggling a bit too many things at any point in time, but I don’t think I was messing things up too much. There were warning signs. The usual, “You got too much on your plate, and you will go on a tailspin sooner than you know it” type comments from people who cared enough about me and knew enough about my life was—which works out to a rounded one person.

Then—sure as honking in Mumbai—things changed.

Not sure exactly when. Maybe in October. Because that’s when I was officially transitioned to a managerial role at work, with some limits on the other roles that I was already doing. At work, there is always too many things to do and too few people to do them. This equation is a great template for someone like me to divert most of my energy/attention to doing things—not getting things done, as managers are supposed to do.

There must have been that evening when I thought that there were too many people craving for my attention. There must have been this one day when I found myself too exhausted to come back and work on a song. There must have been that one weekend where all I wanted to do was to sleep. There must have been those two weekday mornings when I could not fit in therapy. There must have been those days when whatever I seemed to cook tasted terrible. There must have been those two weeks where I didn’t want to meet the guy who was helping me with some documentation stuff. There must have been that month when I didn’t care to finish the last two weeks of a Coursera course that I have been paying for.

That brings me to me to now. I have stopped meme-ing. I have stopped interacting with people even on instant messaging and social media. I have not written something or recorded something in a few months. I have stopped wanting to meet my band mates for rehearsals. I have stopped working on my personal growth. I have stopped doing research. I have stopped meeting people, including the handful that I might have wanted to meet. I have stopped thinking about traveling to places that I might have wanted to visit purely because of scenic splendor. I have stopped wanting to be with cat. I have stopped checking for movies to watch.

The only thing I have not stopped is to finish things I have to finish at work and to do my live musician duties whenever they are called for.

My personal malaise for creativity has given me sufficient room for consuming others’ – which means that I have series like Better Call Saul and The Walking Dead under my belt. Probably not the worst things to spend time doing, but maybe not at the cost of not doing the things I used to care for.

I have never looked forward to being a manager, and I was not too sure how things would pan out. Going by the simple parameter of how good one is in delegating tasks and getting work done by others, I guess I’m a terrible manager. And going by how much torque is on my tailspin, I could bore a hole through solid ground and never come out. On the positive side, people are at work are aware of my state and are cooperative to look for ways to fix this. I hope to restart regular therapy sessions thanks to the insistence of my partner and my work manager.

I still don’t know when I will be back—if I will be back. Until this probable possibility becomes a reality, I’ll try to pull through another exhausting, creativity-less day at a time.