Consuming and Creating

A day bookended by the gripping first quarter of Blindsight and the entertaining suspense/thriller narrative of Knock At The Cabin.

A day when I continued to reel from the after effects of watching Dave Matthews sing with extreme facial gesticulations.

A day mostly spent in creation of web designs wireframes, which left me wanting to learn more about web development.

A day that is now turning into another when I find myself curled up to watch the E04 S01 of The Last Of Us.

A day where I continued to think about the brilliance of E03 S01 of The Last Of Us, which was reinforced by some of the scenes in Knock At The Cabin.

PS: Does anyone else like Cabin In The Woods more than one would expect to?

Moonday

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.

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.

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.

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.

It has move up from there, hasn’t it? A proper telescope and a DSLR. I can dream at least.

In other forms of creativity, no drawing/sketching today. Maybe I’ll work on a song after I finish this.

Meanwhile, I am caught in the middle of three literary narratives. Peter Watt’s Blindsight is the most gripping one, followed by Hanya Yanigahara’s To Paradise and James S. A. Corey’s Tiamat’s Wrath. And I already have my eyes on a bunch of others, including Midnight’s Children and Victory City by Salman Rushdie.

Two flashbacks and the present

Today was good despite it being terrible. Good because I was able to accomplish things despite some situations being totally stacked against me.

I had my regular therapy this morning. It was interesting because of the parallels that I’m drawing to the twins Rahel and Estha in the book ”The God of Small Things” by Arundhati Roy. 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.

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.

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.

Must have been the beers last night. Oh yeah, I did walk (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.

Why the italics and coughing, you ask? Because I limp/hobble instead of walk.

Okay. But why? Rather, how? And what physical therapy? What’s going on?

Well, well, well. I guess it is time to lay it all out here.

Nine weeks ago

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.

One bike is not enough for two riders with distinctly different everything, 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Cut to present

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.

So I had to figure shit out myself. And I reckoned it was a good enough reason to take it easy.

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.

So instead of doing physical therapy, I watched art lessons on YouTube. Got inspired.

Wait, what? Art? Since when?

Six weeks ago

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.

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.

So far, my primary subject is Blu. In fact, just before I started writing this, I was sketching yet another bust shot of her.

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.

Cut to present

So on my way switching between three lines of trains (two Metro lines and a suburban/local), I sketched. On the way back too.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

And that’s why I’m writing—and presumably you are reading—this.

Finding a purpose

They say that life’s all about finding a purpose. Something to live for. Something to aspire to. Somewhere to aim at.

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.

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.

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.

Sure, everyone has been there or they will be there. No big deal. At least not until they find themselves there.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Art of Self-Promotion

“So what is it that brings you to me?” asked the performance coach after the first of four awkward silences. I mention them because I still have trouble with them, which at the age of forty-two and a half is somewhat embarrassing. We were about three minutes into the first free, thirty-min session.

We had exchanged pleasantries before. I had awkwardly brought up the weather as an ice-breaker after noticing the aurora borealis-laden Zoom virtual background and the sleeveless heavy winter jacket he was wearing.

He said, “I live in the foothills of Himachal Pradesh—it’s freezing here. I wouldn’t mind trading places with you right now.”

I guess he meant “Himalayas.” I realize that my frosty metaphor could have been literal if I had been there, which is something I might need to work toward. I’m not sure if I’m cut out for perennial cold weather, but the invitation of quiet is overbearing.

I eventually respond to the question. A long and winding answer, but I eventually manage to sum it up and wait for a response. That’s when I realize that I hadn’t finished my story.

So I add,

“As an artist, I think I am well-rounded in most aspects of creation and performance. What I find myself falling short of, thanks to my depression and social anxiety, is a sustainable way to get my art out there, exposed to the rest of the world, waiting for acts of judgment and critique from people, who may not even know what they are talking about.”

A couple of moments of silence pass, and I find myself marching on:

“I guess I’m talking about self-promotion and marketing that goes hand in hand with music these days. One can even argue that content and talent is not as important as promotional skills and perseverance. I used to do this for my band back in the day, so I know I can do it. But I somehow don’t seem to have the strength anymore. The act of creation has taken a step back too because of the inevitable motion toward self-promotional stagnation. So my idea of a coach is someone who offers support and who is an enabler and a motivator for me to do what needs to be done. Somewhere between the role of a manager and a coach.”

He returns with the elegance of a backhand chip return:

“I hear you and I can help you. I work with my clients in whatever way that I think would help them achieve their goals. Twenty-four-seven, I think about them. So my clients may even get text messages from me at three in the morning. If there’s something that I think I need to communicate, I will, regardless of time and place.”

It lands gently, but it sounded intrusive and dangerous. I’m worried that the juggernaut of drive and intent might even run me over. Feelings of alienation and anxiety start to gently wash over me. It was the second uncomfortable silence, much longer than the first.

I am grateful that there is no effort to break it from his end. He seems to simply sit there in the cold and watch my grainy 720p video. Is he sizing me up? Maybe my smile isn’t thick enough to veil my vexation.

I respond with some deflective conversation until I eventually find my way back with a question about his writing. After all, he has written and published books. At least one bestseller as far as I can see from his websites. I’d even checked the book out on Amazon. I now know that it is available for free on Kindle Unlimited, which I had recently started subscribing to. I guess I’ll download it and check it out.

“You must have also gone through phases of self-doubt and reticence while you were in the process of writing/publishing your book.”

The answer is a smash.

“No. I did not. In fact, I wrote my book without even reading any. Of course, I’d read books through school and college, but nothing worth mentioning since then. I decided that I wanted to write a book, so I found a book-writing coach—India’s premier one, in fact. I took lessons and simply wrote the book. I had to choose an attractive topic, and the rest was pretty straightforward.”

The audacity! Or was it just self-belief? What would I think of myself if I had done something of this sort? What would others think?

But that’s the whole point, isn’t it?

I remember my friend Dennis telling me on our way back to Medical College in his Maruti 1000. We had just had lunch at the Indian Coffee House after a morning of lectures in microbiology and forensic medicine. We had been discussing Asimov’s writing in the backdrop of The Foundation series. I had borrowed two of the books from the initial trilogy from him, but I had to pick up the rest from the lending library that my parents had bought me and my sister a subscription for.

Somewhere along, I must have expressed my desire to write like Asimov.

“You want to write?! For every book you write, you’d have to read at least ten. Maybe a hundred. Don’t even dream about it until you have read enough!”

He was/is right, of course. Reading a lot makes you a better writer. Listening to a lot of good music, written by talented songwriters and crystallized heart-felt renderings, has given me the information and inspiration to hone my musical craft too.

It has, or they have, brought me here. My as-of-yet insubstantial attempts at writing prose/poetry and producing/recording/performing original compositions stem from it or them. The mountain that is starting at me, or I’m staring at, is the process of getting it all together in a nice little package, getting it out there, planting it in the center of the cauldron of humanity.

This is the third silence, by the way. It gets broken by him this time. He tells me a story, the details of which I fail to recollect. But it did end with this thought.

“I believe in the philosophy of not worrying about what others think. It’s their job to think, criticize, and judge. It’s mine to not care about them or their thoughts. Simply put, I don’t care.”

This was the longest period of silence. I find myself immersed in a pool of awe and disbelief, shimmering with a thin layer of intimidation at the top.

Was it even polite to be this way? What about humility and introspection? I thought it was necessary to be painfully—but I guess not debilitatingly—self-aware, armed with the knowledge of one’s perfectly ignorable position in a world full of artistic pinnacles. Then again, I realize that they are propped up by artistic debacles that are more by orders of magnitude.

The conversation meanders to a close with discussions about fees and frequency of the coaching sessions. We hang up soon afterward, but my guard is up at the prospect of further monetary onslaughts, but I do have someone who can guide me about this. Another coach, in fact. A finance/investment consultant.

Hours later, what stays with me is this:

“He is either someone who I absolutely need or someone who I should stay far away from.”

The latter is already a reality, at least physically, but I think I need to move closer to him—while not being him, of course—and his state, not just physically but also cognitively.

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.

The rift

A couple of years or so, this title would have suggested the obvious- a young gay male trying to separate himself from his family. But now, I’m talking about something else, which very well might be the starting point of something serious. It’s about me and my band ‘Noise Market’. Yeah, over the past weeks, things have certainly started to look as if my ideas are not fitting into the band's ideology. Slowly but surely, my ideas are becoming the pain in the calves of the band which is galloping towards fame.

In my various sessions with Vinokur, the only advice that he has to offer is that if your ideas and suggestions don’t seem to have any productive cause, don’t vocalize them. That seems utopian. I mean, I would have loved to have such self-control and an hurt-proof mind to indulge in that. But hey, I’m passionate about music. I’m very particular about what happens to songs and stuff.

I don’t want to sit quiet and let the rest of the band take the music away to such a place where I’ll resent being a part of the band. At the same time, I also don’t want to be feeling that I haven’t contributed something well within my capacities to make them sound even better. How do I strike the balance?

I guess such creativity issues are part of all healthy bands and would help to make something better than otherwise.