Flavours of Funny

Funny has two flavours.

One that makes and one that tastes.

We can be both, but we are not necessarily both.

One cooks, one eats.

One can eat what one can cook. Not always, though. It’s always better when someone else eats what we cook.

A friend refused to come to my place ever, because he discovered that I cook. I am now referring to ‘real’ cooking. Like food. He is afraid of dying of food poisoning.

That is funny.

I tried to be funny once. I wrote a post.

Tried.

You are funny or you are not.

Perhaps you cannot always be funny.

Or, once you were funny, now you are not. Maybe you will be funny later.

What you cook remains the same but their tastes change.

Maybe you will cook differently in some time.

Maybe it will appeal to the new tastes.

Maybe not.

What’s important, is the food.

Not whether you cook it or eat it. 

One who eats is as important as the one who cooks.

The kitchen needs the dining room. And vice versa. 

 

Up in the Air

There’s too much of more. There’s a new fanatic in town, and her exposed argot has more words that end with -er.

Faster, smaller, thinner, longer. Sharper. And the sorts.

In Victor Hugo’s apt words, however, argot is the language of the dark; a language of misery.

Here’s a blurred photo.

It’s blurred. You cannot see much detail. There is hardly any specificity in the image. What does this mean for the image? Not for the photographer (that’s me, and I do not care much about what you think of me). Does it become a bad image because, alas, we cannot see the twist and the weave of the fibre that makes the thread that have revolted out of the binding Rexine?

A friend would take up this argument and talk of test cricket and the T20 format.

I’ll digress. If you don’t want to, skip the marked section.

<Start Digress>

I quit Flickr Pro and moved to 500px because it was a suggestion by a well known photographer. I hated it as soon as I saw the “top” photos. They just do not seem real to me. 500px is a muscle show of post-processing. Not that post-processing is bad. I use it all the time. I was looking for a word when I was discussing 500px with a friend. I didn’t find it then, I have it now.

Synthetic.

Over the years, the 500px platform went through a number of revisions and changes, growing together with technology and photographers, and keeping focus on the highest quality photos. Via 500px  (emphasis, mine)

500px offered a way to sell photographs, but I was not (and am not) interested in it, anyway. I’ve (mostly) quit 500px.

</End Digress> 

There is no doubt that our tastes are changing, our attention spans diminishing. We have lesser time for our friends and no time for ourselves. Enough research floating around to prove that. 2831215 is the phone number of the travel agent of my first company. This was when mobile phones didn’t exist. Now, I don’t even remember my fourth travel agent’s name. Hell, I don’t even remember if I use a travel agent anymore. I have to remind myself to add keywords to her address card. My choice of keywords defines what I will forget about her and what I might use to search for her. It’s exhausting, in a way. Her’e a worthwhile exercise – how many mobile numbers (of close friends or family) do you know by-heart?

I need to travel a bit. But I digress. (I should have warned you)

Adobe recently announced that the Creative Suite will now be cloud-based. To make the news worthwhile they included some super sharpening tools to the CS. (Now you know what triggered this post)

Apart from the irritating plugin that I *have* to use with browsers, I do not use any Adobe products because of their bloated sizes and prices. But this post is not about Adobe, at all. Software is a tool; it makes sense in a way that you use it. I find arguments about tools pointless. As long as you do your work well, the tool doesn’t matter. Hammer vs. Pestle. Mac vs. Win or Can vs. Nik. Same difference. 

This post is about simple questions.

How much sharper do we need our images to be? How slimmer should our phones be? How faster should our computers be? How much thinner should our laptops become?

And while the inanimates around us become more ‘-er’ and ‘-er’, what about us?

What ‘-er’ should we be striving for?

Successful Partial Detox

As against a Partial(ly) Successful Detox.

It’s been a month that I have ‘stayed away’ from Facebook, and have been successful at that. It’s a good feeling. As a mark of being away, I changed my cover photo and profile picture to reflect that, I guess it didn’t make much sense. Only one friend asked me about my absence and I pointed her to my Facebook cover and profile photo. That was my cryptic way of saying, “I am away.”

And, apparently, too cryptic.

My being away from Facebook was not a full detox (that should explain the “partial.”) Because I administer a photography MOOC on Facebook and my company’s page, I couldn’t be completely away. So it was only a detox of status updates and commenting etc, on my profile page, unless addressed directly. The need to share shifted a bit on Twitter for the month, but it wasn’t significant.

All of this meant that I wrote more on my blog (than before, not in absolute terms), had a chance to read quite a lot, support my Premier League team, de-clutter the space around and spend some time with myself, become better at cooking, learning the fundamentals, and start something new (at work). It also helped think about, to an extent, how to make optimal, non-intrusive use of social media. Of all the things, however, it lets you know the value of your presence in social media networks.

Walking away, in a funny way, is knowing where you really stand.

Wax Has to Melt

We all have dreams.

Well, most of us do. I am not talking of those abstract blobs of irrationality that we usually cannot control when we are asleep. I am talking of those that we live when we are wide awake. The kind, when they are the most lucid when we are in a classroom where the lecturer wishes to be elsewhere as much as we do; or in a meeting where everyone except the person who has convened the meeting, knows that it’s a waste of time. What goes in our head during such events is a mash-up of dreams, thoughts, ideas, plans – and they seem to effortlessly slide on a plane which defines what we really want. And as tangible that plane is when we dream – soon after – it becomes an abstraction of nothingness as we are sucked into our deigned zombie-like activities.

Today is a special day – and my love-hate relationship with milestones notwithstanding, I am happy.

A year has passed after a certain event – and I am able to discriminate where I stand vis-à-vis where I thought I stood, once upon a time. This GPS-kind of activity has not been easy. Enough shock, hurt, pain has been encountered and endured before finding the absolute location of where I am. There has been much difficulty in letting go and even more difficulty in denying the questioning brightness of the truth that has harshly scalded my eyes. The asking heat, without malicious intent, asked me if I would confess that I was living in the wax-world a-la Indraprastha; I said I was not. I fought it for a year.

It’s slow, but I see the wax melting.

And those grandiose images of false comfort burned down to their bare element. The bright light smiled, I think, as if saying – I was always on your side, but I had to sit on the other side of the table – because you were gone for far too long, and lost to me. I would have preferred to sit with you and look together – but we were looking in different directions. Therefore, I had to confront you, said the wise light.

“I am glad, we can now look in the same direction.”

As I stand where I am bereft of the wax palace, I wonder. It must have been the light that, with its heat – melted the opaque walls so that I could see beyond.

It’s late now, and what I see is an even darkness. I stand where an impressive palace once stood. I see nothing of the grandeur that once made me believe I was king. I find myself on the top of a hill here, though. Alone. But I feel the breeze that the faraway sea brings and finds its way through the valleys to where I stand. It has a gentle sting. It does not matter that the wax structure is no more, because, soon, it will be morning. I know one thing: I will see more than I ever did.

And, I will see clearly.

Remains of the Day: 013

With every such post – I keep thinking I must change it to “Remains of the Month”, because that is what these posts are about. But I remind myself that Remains of the Day is a metaphor, of sorts and let it be.

*

“Planning a holiday” is the most ironic thing ever. Where’s the time to enjoy? The plan sets expectations and when things don’t go according to the plan – you end up ruining the holiday. All through the holiday, you are a slave to the plan – because you have planned it – you want things to happen just the way you imagined it. And you are sure to imagine it all wrong – because you can never plan to relax.

*

Overtaking has a life lesson inherent in it. Reaching a place in time is important and advantageous. If you are reckless in your ambitions however, there is a good chance you will wreck yourself. You will see many examples of impatience along the way. How and possibly why they will never reach their goal. Some of the vehicles that you will need to overtake are long. You will have to wait for a good opportunity before you can overtake them. You will find good drivers in your life, who will ask you to wait and provide cover till the road is clear – when it is they will give you the signal to go ahead. Not every one will be good and helpful though. Some will not be bothered that you want to get ahead. Starting early is always the good option. The ride is easier – you have lesser reasons to make mistakes. You will also have to learn to be flexible and decide whether getting there at a particular instant is important – or – getting there is important.

You will see it reflected in your driving.

*

I watched an anchor dropping. There is something so trustworthy about an anchor; its shape, its form. It just exudes confidence and a sense of security.

*

Rituals are funny, that way. Often, they are pompous and cloud the intention. We pay so much attention to the ritual and the mechanics of it all, we forget the intention behind the ritual. The ritual then, becomes the intention. The drama becomes the reality.

*

My relationship with water took a new turn. I went in. Well, almost. Snorkelling was a good experience. I think I was watching myself from the boat, wondering what had got into me that made me be so adventurous. It was a nice first step and a wonderful experience.

*

It is indeed sad and unfortunate that MTDC has some of the best tourism properties that are under a state of rapid decay.

*

Beer. I thought about beer this month and the problem of beer in India. The problem is called Kingfisher. I tweeted this problem in eight tweets:

It's possible. There is a small chance. There may be few folks in the world who believe that there's more to beer than Kingfisher. 1/n

—
Atul Sabnis (@atulsabnis) April 21, 2012

So far, I have seen that Kingfisher is almost synonymous with beer, in India. It's almost default; which makes me sad. 2/n

—
Atul Sabnis (@atulsabnis) April 21, 2012

Personally, I find Kingfisher too "sweet" - it subdues the flavours that you should experience in a beer. Good beer does a few things. 3/n

—
Atul Sabnis (@atulsabnis) April 21, 2012

Good beer is like a friend, not a hyperactive acquaintance - it stays with you - without demolishing the mood. Good beer is also a slave 4/n

—
Atul Sabnis (@atulsabnis) April 21, 2012

It is slave to the distribution network owned by Kingfisher, I think. Dominating distribution channels curbed availability of good beer. 5/n

—
Atul Sabnis (@atulsabnis) April 21, 2012

Arlem, Golden Eagle, London Pilsner, Rosy Pelican were good lagers, without the sweetness, now made regional. 6/n

—
Atul Sabnis (@atulsabnis) April 21, 2012

Tuborg is another beer I fear for. It is an excellent beer, potent but light on the palette - I hope it survives. 7/n

—
Atul Sabnis (@atulsabnis) April 21, 2012

Indians deserve to know more beer. Good beer should not be slave to a distribution dominance. Let's pray with every bottle. Cheers!!! 8/8

—
Atul Sabnis (@atulsabnis) April 21, 2012

*

Middle of Nowhere

I am in the middle of nowhere.

Such a place, we all know, doesn’t exist as far as geography is concerned. You are always in the middle of somewhere or at the edge of some place. But it always sounds better to say that you are in the middle of nowhere. That phrase has certain expanse; some more width than your exact location. It creates that mystery and sprinkles a sense of romanticism to whatever description may follow the phrase.

So, I am in the middle of nowhere.

The boat I am on, is anchored here, in the middle of the water, the late afternoon sun sparkles diamonds all over the water and coconut trees lean over, as if to peek and see what I write in this post.

Rest of the family has had a wonderful lunch and are now lulled into sleep by the slow rocking of the boat. I am out on the deck, looking at the sneaky trees and listening to the silence that surrounds our boat.

Far away, in the fishing village that I can barely see, a few colourful boats are anchored, devoid of any activity. Perhaps someone else is describing this feeling in his or her own way.

Nothingness is a difficult state to be in. Even such thick and opaque calmness outside does little to calm the ruckus in your head. Earlier today, as I walked through the market street in this town, I imagined the townsfolk looking at me and being able to recognise that ruckus in my ahead – ah, city folk – they must have said. I have been here for a few hours now, and the calmness is taking over.

Nothing matters now, though it won’t be like this for long.

But, for now, I am in the middle of nowhere.

*

E&OE; Moblogged
Malvan Backwaters, April 22, 1625hrs

Of Two Storytellers

Harish Krishnan, recently posted The Story of ‘He’ and ‘She’. It’s a story composed of tweets on a Saturday evening. It is new-art, this form of story-telling; I enjoyed it! However, while he says that the story was written, “when the world around me was sleeping,” it’s not entirely true. I was reading this story while it was being told: live.

When you read his post, you will know what the story-teller was saying. Do you wonder, what was going on in the head of the listener? Here it is, the restless mind of one of the listener who thought of himself as a storyteller too:

It is eerily quiet now. He sees no one around. The promises have meant less than they intended. He takes stock and ticks empty boxes. #fable

—
Atul Sabnis (@atulsabnis) April 07, 2012

His lone companion was a storyteller. Who'd listen, but, when two storytellers came together. His ears and his mouth, at loggerheads. #fable

—
Atul Sabnis (@atulsabnis) April 07, 2012

Tired of the deaf ears, he settled down; perhaps this time, I am to listen. Maybe, I will learn, how I can lace my stories with gold. #fable

—
Atul Sabnis (@atulsabnis) April 07, 2012

It is fortuitous, that just after I read this most wondrous book about storytelling, this saga of storytelling happens to me.

Goodbye!

Who were those people? What were they made of; what made then real? How did they get love in return? Love for love. They must have found out the secret to simplify this transaction.

Lost! The roads have parted and all of them chose a separate path. For a while they walked with me; and in those moments we lived in heaven. Who would ever have the time to bear the idiosyncrasies of me for while longer than is possible. And who am I to complain if my shadow, even, often, has seemed distant.

But, there is no one long road that we can walk together. If we are to be our selves, it is a truism. But we are to cherish that companionship that we experienced for a few miles, or less. For that has made our journey worthwhile. That is what added colour. And we shall meet the others, the new ones, who will in a peculiar way remind us of our friends. In turn, they will become friends.

But that is all friends will do, they will walk with us for a while, only. If they walk with us forever they are slaves.

Do not despise them because of the length of the journey. Love them for the content of the journey.

PS: Thanks is due to Sahir Ludhianvi, for all that happened in italics in this post.

Come, Come Home

Come home.

Here’s the address; it’s simple and straightforward:

It’s open from all four sides. You do not need to knock, nor do you need to call out. There is no door I have to ever, open. The walls have lost themselves to time and the ceiling is does not exist. There’s sunlight however. Lot’s of it. It’s harsh and it is in abundance. I wish you were here. We could share the shade that you carry. I’d almost steal it from you.

Come home.

Look for the house that has Love written all over it. You do not need to knock, nor do you need to call out. I’ll know it is you.

Whether you are inviting life or you are inviting friends, it is the same thing. We just need to give the address and the location. My battered home, crumpled by sheer existence and time should not be a factor.

And this abode of friends has been empty. For a while now. Dust settles in layers – each layer, a question of where has he gone; why is she not here? Each layer of dust; an unanswered question of an empty space.

Lost, the King cries! Yet, there may be hope that this garden will exhibit a life that it had, once experienced.

PS: Thanks is due to Sudarshan Fakir, for all that happened in italics in this post.

Of, What is Respect

It’s unconditional – in its first and obvious avataar. Because it streams from a certain perception of what you see. Respect, unlike the other mangled words in the English language, remains unadulterated. We can chose to make many meanings of the word, yet, the core of it remains untouched and pure.

While most folks who read this post will disagree, there is no one way of demonstrating respect. Is the person who chides you at every questionable instance respectful of you and your actions? Which further begets the question – what do they respect? Your actions? Or you – as a person? Further, do the respect only the intentions and the gains of your actions? Or, if they do understand it at all, do they respect the philosophy of it all? Do they subscribe to that philosophy? Or is it sweet glossy lip-service?

Respect, to my mind is one of the few unconditional emotions of all. The moment you question it – by any non-objective parameter – it is lost – forever.

And then, it so happens, if you are ever (god forbid) able to experience it first hand that you discover that the what you have experienced as respect is never ever a factor of who you are; but a factor of where and what you are. Watching a funny – almost senseless – film like Johnny English – treats you to this phenomenon. Within what you consider your closest coterie, you live a chance of living the life of a persona non grata.

But it is a good life to go through – because it becomes your own personal “Buddha” moment. Where, you become free of the bondage of being a respected for something that you held, rather than something that you are.

To that sense, I salute. For it has reminded me of who I am.

Nuggets

You know those broad, white dashed lines that are (usually) painted on our roads? Yes, those that define the lanes on a road, if it is broad enough? Yes those. Those are the boundaries of a lane. They are not guidelines for you to drive in a straight line. The idea is that you are supposed to drive on either side of those lines; not on them – yes, even when the road curves and turns. Please try and remember that when you drive next time.

*

There is a crime. There is an investigation. And then, it is all about the quirky guy. The quirky guy is divorced or separated. He has a conflicting romantic interest. He also has a teenage daughter. He is paranoid about what the teenage daughter does. He has a mysterious past. Repeat this story three times. Go Figure.

*

Some people cannot be helped. They don’t want to be helped.

*

No matter what tool or technology you have at your disposal, it won’t matter if you will not make use of it. If you really want to do something, you will not need any tool or technology.

*

It is a good idea to have opinions. It is also a good idea not to have rigid opinions. Every new piece of information can contribute to a richer opinion – there has to be an opening somewhere, though, for this information to seep in.

*

Every community or region is proud about itself. When two members of different communities face each other – they play oneupmanship in isolation of knowledge of the other community. There is one way you can help improve awareness of the wonderful things your community has done. Translate. Your cultural treasures are locked down to your community, release them through a global language.

*

A Year Ago, Today

A year ago, this day was a very good day. It followed one of the best evenings with friends. The day was filled with much of hope happiness and joy.

 I remember it fondly, it was a very good day.

Temet Nosce

There are a training self-development programmes out there that help us discover ourselves. We attend such programmes and come rejuvenated with a new-found zest for life, having discovered our true selves.

Interestingly most of these programmes have a set pattern: we pay money for them, usually go out of the environment and the surrounding that we live in, for a short period that is usually inadequate to internalise what we discover. Mostly, the proof of having successfully attended these programmes is the language of the participant. These people are usually: in touch with their inner selves, they are suddenly one with the universe, they sense cosmic intervention and such things. Other choice phrase combinations will use: sharing, bonding, one-ness, peace, simple, growth, and of course love. A spattering of these words mixed with other choice phrases, is a mark of a person just out of a training self-development programme.

Very few of these people ever really get around to knowing themselves. The ones that do, rarely ever choose to use vaguely exotic vocabulary to explain everything that they feel. There is a sense of strength about them that is usually evident.

Mostly, you do not need to pay anyone to know yourself. And being out of the environment and the surrounding that influences who you are – getting out of that the environment – seems almost self-defeating.

Often it is the otherwise innocent remarks, signs and gestures, which we tend to ignore, that provide the insight that you need to know thyself. All our tribulations for self-discovery amount to nothing, if we ignore the signals that people around us keep sending. We’ll of course have to allow ourselves to be open to receive those signals. If we continue to insist on maintaining the belief about who we are, chances are, these signals will only bounce off us. And these signals will always be from the people around you – neglect the signs at your own peril.

Det-Res, recently wrote in her New Year post: “I also hope for our sake that we realize old habits will not get new results.“

For those of you who still haven’t remembered, Temet Nosce, is the plaque at the Oracle’s place, in The Matrix. Apparently, it’s non-traditional Latin, and translates to: “thine own self thou must know.”

I’ll leave you with this thought that my friend sent in reply to an email I once wrote to her:

I think people are actually like modelling clay – we assume and blatantly accept our three-dimensionalism, when the truth is that we are multi-dimensional  – and every passing year is just proof of our ever-changing-ness.

Seven Years

Seven is the itch number. The itch and the drive to change; to do something different. I was hoping to have seven hundred posts for this day, but it seems impossible, almost.

But to know that you have done something, fairly consistently, for seven years is heartening.

I wish you all a happy new year!

A Non-Post

This one post is difficult to write: The only way I can write it is — to deny content, in the post.

This peasant of a post has only context to offer.

The emotions that wrap around you at a time when you are most vulnerable are the very emotions that cannot be expressed. If you bring your rational head above the water, you could find a few words, scourge the thesaurus, and express in words what that emotion really makes you feel.

This one, isn’t one of that.

Perhaps because it is the confluence of a million smiles and tears. And every intersection of a smile and a tear has a unique meaning, a unique context. It is almost a complete life.

Therefore I confine this one to the only higher abstraction that it is capable of.

With numerical markers like dates, numbers, counts, measurements, and time that unfortunately marks such moments. Unfortunate, because these moments within them hold a cauldron of boiling emotions that cannot be numerically expressed. Our education, comprehension and understanding however has been reduced to a numbskull slave of demanding science and unforgiving mathematics, rather than an a forgiving and an encompassing art.

I agree with you; this is yet another incomplete post!

The Body of Creation

598 posts since December 2003. 599, if you include this one. That’s just one blog (Nah, it’s not an anniversary, but while you are thinking about it, I am 101 behind, for my upcoming 7th Anniversary).

A new-found friend has been devouring posts from Gaizabonts for a while now. She referred to a concept (in her own words) in one of my posts.

These are places where keyword search doesn’t work.

I have no idea which post she is referring to. But if she says I have said it, chances are that I have. I wonder, does an artist (am using a license beyond a poetic one, to proclaim I am one) have a responsibility to remember all that he has created? So if a musical not wafted from the fourth floor at 2AM, does a musician always know it is his composition? Can a painter remember every artwork she ever created? Can a photographer recognise all his photos, even if they have been photoshopped to death?

As a writer person who writes, I cannot recollect everything I wrote; there may be certain phrases, sentences, even passages I will remember — for specific reasons — but the whole body of creation?

Point to Ponder.

PS: I converse with her, and find out that the post she was referring to was Gender Mathematics

PPS: The image is a reference to the context of her post. But, I guess, it has context to this post too.

PPPS: How can you help me write 101 posts before December 28th, this year?

An Incomplete Nostalgia

Nero’s Coffee
South Bank Walk
Overcoats
Piccadilly Line
5AM Sunrises
9PM Sunsets
Thames
Tate Modern
Potion
Roebuck
The Gherkin
Victoria
Neckties
Waterstones
Waitrose
Adnams
Sole fish outside Earls Court
Tabard
The Old Pack Horse
Trafalgar Square
Corner Shops
Snow
Shawarma
Fish & Chips

Sigh!

Elementary Schizophrenia

For a while now, I have stayed away from my schizophrenia posts. People have liked them, asked for more, yet it has been a while since I wrote those type of entries. A while is defined as eleven months. I wonder now, what makes people want to read this level of abstraction, for a post that is so personal, what is it in the post that they identify with. Words. Madness. Form, or the lack of it.

There’s water shortage in Mumbai. Yet abundant flowing water finds a way to push through the walls of my house and eyes that try hard to stay dry and strong. This month, the city lakes are full, my empty heart finds some happiness in that.

Disaster movies, I think, are a round-about way of making us respect natural powers. I think they only cause further fear. Of all the disaster movies that I see, the ones inspired by water are the most boring. I hate to sit through two-three hours of watching water wet the screen. The ones inspired by fire, are another thing altogether. Fire has an ability to reduce things to nothing.

I have seen fire at close quarters. I have fought with it, and I live under no illusion that I won against it. That day however, it was fire’s nasty cousin – smoke – that I was really up against. If the fire hadn’t chosen to retreat that early morning, I would have lost some things.

I have a love for mountains that I am unable to explain. I have often heard from folks about how the enormity of a mountain or the sea makes the human look so small and insignificant. Earlier, when I did not have an opinion about it, I approved; considered it to be a an interesting thought. Not anymore. I always feel I carry the enormity of nature within me, for only I can recognise it. To look at the mountain or the sea as a separate reality is to distance itself from you. If it’s within you, you are as significant as it is.

I loved the mountains the most on 8th December 2009 at 6:44AM. I embraced it with my heart. It held me in a tight bear hug. We had conversations as we watched the wonderful view. There was no awe, just love – infinite love.

I have promised myself a drive. A long one. It has yet to materialise. I’d like to go alone this time. I hate the rules that confine driving when I am with someone. Their rules. The need to get to a place, to eat at certain places, avoid night-driving, worst – to close the windows. I love the wind in my face. I’d like to keep driving, if only to feel the wind in my face.

The smell changing every ten kilometres or so. The branches swaying in slowmo. The musical wailing as it passes through ridges, valleys and over the plains into the mountains.

But I am where I am.

We never crave for proof of life. That’s an axiomatic assumption, if there is something like that, well-supported by philosophical premises and academic arguments. Standing on the top of a mountain, watching the sea below, the wind blowing against us, to kindle the fire within, and being where you should be – that, perhaps, is the proof of life.

Slow Down

We are more likely to exclaim how half the year is already past us, than to take time to articulate a few wonderful events that may have come to us in those six months. We are governed by speed. Impatience as one recent advertisement says, is the new virtue. It is extolled. The days continue to have the same twenty-four hours, but we are unable to squeeze in as much as we used to, once.

At a wee hour in the morning, we see the clock and realise, it isn’t late night.

Our actions are dictated by instant gratification, now that we have the most powerful tool at our disposal. Friends are instant, of all things, that you can acquire quickly. Some of these are of course are lost as quickly. Knowledge is acquired at the speed of a click. The hyperlink is the new currency.

That’s how we have remoulded our lives. Because we put it in the fast lane. We seem to live our lives as if we know how much time we have, and there is very little of it left. It is the proverbial fast running to be in the same place. The larger world around us hasn’t changed as much we make it out to be; it’s just that we stand more exposed than before, to those changes. Those changes are influencing us, rapidly.

And in that early morning hour, when we see the clock, we wonder who we have become and where we are; if, i.e., we are able to recall what we set out for, in the first place.

It’s time to slow down.

The Evening Before Knopfler’s Night

Knopfler is on about the Christmas dance, Mr. McIntyre, and the fat girl that got left at the side. I am trying to relate to that song. I cannot. I don’t dance. Never have. At least not a dance that has a name and followers, anyway.

Tonight’s Knopfler Night, as I have called it. His voice doesn’t need your ears, it reaches straight into the heart. I have invited a few friends to share this voice. No one has accepted the invitation as yet. It will be an hour before I clear this damned traffic, hopefully some will have accepted by then. Unless they are in this same damned traffic.

Traffic has become a solace nowadays. It’s the place to be, yet be nowhere. Feels like Ruby Tuesday again, on a Friday. The abstract expression escapes me, however. Finding a romantic expression in dreadful situation is losing its romance.

Knopfler is saying something about the selves of books and the picture hooks and everything that is gone, but the heart, that still hangs on.

This is what they mean, perhaps, about being alone in a crowd. I never knew if it was supposed to be a good thing or a bad one. But I could get used to it. It’s almost an hour to yourself. Not having a driver is even better. You cannot fiddle and play with the phone or read a book. It is a complete escape. Zombie-like, sticking to one lane, thinking of Seth Godin’s Dip, it is almost like being in a train, with a car to yourself.

Knopfler is now claiming that he will get to where he will be eventually, while wondering if there is no forever, all the while insisting that true love will never fade.