Rant Till You Pant

I am a freak - a raging lunatic right now. Slept like 4 hours last night. Had to stay awake in the office. Injected myself with some double espresso Starbucks elixir (branded bullshit I know, but what the hell there was nothing else around, so don't judge me) and now I still can't sleep. It's 12:32! You must think I am working hard - slogging away like some nymphomaniac workaholic prostitute, but that's as far from the truth as Communism, man. I was up reading Advaita Kala's Almost Single.

End of para - what the fuck?, you think - ArSENik's going soft with age. I tell you, the chick can write. I mean sure it's a little bit of fantasy, a little bit of feminism, but screw all that man, you gotta be honest here. In any case, the best art form is one that convinces you of its offending POV, non? Whatever, before I get lost in space tangents, lemme just say it - I enjoyed the book. She writes like a Goddess. It's as if Saraswati and Athena were this cutesy liberal lesbian couple that had a catfight to have Odin's (too much of Gaiman off late you ask?) baby, which they brought up - that my friends is Advaita Kala. I will even go so far as to say that she can hold her own in front of the Chatterjee, yes yes, the very same, the Father of August.

I am sure I sound like a desperate stalker right now, but censorship is way overrated, so what the hell. Her writing makes me wanna seek her out and ask her out for a cup of coffee, and this despite the fact that I know she will be judging me the minute I open my mouth, actually even before that. Yes, yes I know children - good authors create characters from their vast zzzz...zzzz... I know how it works Sonny - I am a writer myself (OK fine, maybe not a big one, but I write scripts {which very few people read} and blogposts from time to time - the Magna Crata of our generation) and we writers have zero imagination, but amazing observation skills and, pay attention to this one - we are great at introspection and self-analysis and love to project ourselves onto our work (watch my thesis film).

Anyway, now that I have declared my undying love for Ms. Kala and her kala and would now be a certified loon in most societies, I have a confession to make. I am fed up. Of my last few posts - read them. They are so fucking pseudo man. I mean that's not the real me. It's some guy trying to be Fellini or Lynch or someone in between. Enough of this horse manure, let the real ArSENik stand up. This one's from the heart... Paparapapapa... Oh fuck sorry. Thought I was Tom Waitts there. If you got that and are a woman, hit me up. I would like to buy you a cup of Cappuccino.

I was depressed earlier today - you know one of those "artistic" slumps - partly because I had nothing to read, well nothing substantial anyway. I tried reading this Father Brown almanac which I had inherited through some grave misfortune from some dry, distant relative who happened to be a convalescing alcoholic. The almanac was probably the cause of the ailment. I was considering doing shots of Jack, which I haven't done in a while. And then I remembered I have some Vodka as well. Vodka and Jack = Jodka shots... but I decided against it and started throwing up here. It seems more therapeutic (not for you obviously) but for me, hell yeah bebe. Can't wait for the fucking library to open. I WANNA READ FIGHT CLUB. It's a weird fantasy, but what the hell - bite me, or rather fight me! Hahagaga. How sick is that? Laughing at your own puns and general wittiness and awesome, ness?.

Did I tell you Aaron Sorkin rocks my world these days? What's happening to me? Am I gonna quit filmmaking and become a writer? Nonsense verse, Facebook Wall Posts - you name it, I got it. If only Amazon Kindle would publish my book of Facebook Wall Posts. Can't wait till Monday. Going to Boston in this terrible cold. Why you ask? I just told you - I'm a fuckin lunatic. Maybe I am not. Maybe I have lost that feeling, that feeling of going numb from the cold. It still counts as a feeling right? Because I can't feel for anyone anymore (apart from myself of course - I am a Golden God after all). Doesn't it suck to be smart, good looking (I didn't say hot!) and have a decent body without trying? I mean you loose a frame of reference man. Fucking Communists! Ok fine, I have a receding hairline, but even that doesn't bother me no more - I hate this confidence thing. I have lost that innocence of fear from way back when.

Why am I unleashing this on to you? Because my regular involuntary confidante has been ignoring my calls, and you can't! Hahahah. Someone recently told me they didn't like Fellini because he was too self referential. This is a blog, miss (or mistah - but I doubt guys read blogs). I can do whatevah I want here - this is my sandbox, slave-girl. I mean, sure if you are reading this and getting a kick outta it, more power to ya. Blogging is psycho therapy for the poor, but of course you gotta be educated man. Oh, I got my Masters Degree in the mail yesterday. They tell me I had a 3.71 overall GPA - Hah! That matters as much as rhinoplasty does to theater actors. I miss the theater! Wish I had money to go watch plays again. My friend starred in one and I didn't go even though I wanted to, because that was like 5 decent meals, man.

Oh yeah Boston - so yeah the SS and the KK will be there to welcome me into their loving arms. Nazis with double lettered initials, you ask? No, no relax. Just a coincidence. These are upright citizens of society who actually like me (still don't know why, but they do). If I ever had to get alibis, it would be them. If I ever had to get old on a little room above a garage, it would be theirs. If I ever danced at a wedding, it would be theirs. Oh Boston and Philly. The Rabbit tells me Philly is absolutely good for nothing except for food. Being a history major, he educates me on the Liberty Bell, but what am I gonna do with a bronze ghanta? It seems like the second runner up prize at a female puberty contest. Food all the way it is - competing cheesestake places across the street - sometimes you just have to love Capitalism. And New York. I have been there many times. Done all the touristy stuff, even done the non-touristy stuff by now, but what the hell, we have a New York junkie with us. One week of bliss and cold, but hopefully more bliss than cold.

If you babble away, can you be a good writer? I don't think so. Shouldn't it be coherent and stuff? I mean mad men babble and not all writers are mad. Ergo, being mad doesn't gurantee you to be a good writer. You know what - it just hit me - just like the digital camera has been the ruin of the film industry, the laptop has been the ruin of the writing industry. Chetan Fuckin Bhagat. I love Five Pint Someone, because I used to be an Engineering geek who managed to survive The Shaft from Tech. But he can't write man. I mean he writes like an autowallah (assuming the autowallah is literate). The autowallah tells good stories, but he can't write. Why doesn't Bhagat give sermons instead - he can still tell stories rather than selling 95 Rupee books? One Night @ the Call Center is possibly the worst book I have read. The only salvaging part in the entire evil paper cuboid is when the protagonist decides to do something, and that too, its not novel.

And then there is the anti-Bhagat - Omitabo Ghosh. Writes like a Norse God on LSD, but his stories are dull and at best uninteresting for the most part. I mean seriously what was that ending with the Calcutta Chromosome, huh? Chutiya samjha hai kya? However, Hitchcock (and thus Polanski) would have been proud of one little sequence in an abandoned railway station somewhere in East Bumfuck, Bihar or whatever it was called back when the Stiff Upper Lip was still sucking us dry. Polanski IMO never a great director, good but never great, why you ask, why, ArSENik - don't be hating on the old guy, man, BECAUSE THE MAN HAS BEEN COPYING HITCHCOCK SINCE THE 60's, man. Ghost Writer - great film, but everything down to the music is a Hitchocopy. The man is like in his 70's now and he is still doing this shit. Repulsion, Knife in the Water blah blah blah. Chinatown is too slow. I like Rosemary's baby.

I was so desperate for a read, I dodged firewalls to download PDFs of Amar Chitra Kathas. While the nostalgia lasted, it was great, much like a heroin high I am told, and when it wore off, I wondered what the fuck I was doing craning my neck to read this beautifully illustrated crappily written entity in bed. So I threw it away (digitally speaking - Trash!) and am ranting on here. I hope to the FSM no one reads this. It's so fucking negative and all that - negative energy, vastu shastra, cynical, make war not love message bullshit, but I feel feucking great. I won't lie. Try it out. You feeling low - just come out and type your fingers away, man. Thousands of years of evolution and this is all we have.

Willie & Terry

Willie is tall and gaunt and likes to be alone. He is one of those guys who looks effortlessly good in thin ties and slim black pants. He wears pointed shoes and has a generally antiseptic look. Terry is tall and double chinned and bearded with that perpetual smile of satisfaction escaping from the corners of his mouth. He smokes pot, dines and wines all the time. Women don't fancy him and don't tell him their secrets, but they get high, dine and wine with him all the time. The Women secretly desire Willie, but don't trust him enough to talk to him. They speak to him, but they don't talk to him.

Willie and Terry are roommates - the yin and yang (or is it yang and yin?) of a supposedly creative space - empty at times ~ devoid of human touch, and whistling in the howling desert wind at the best of times. Maybe it is a movie studio. I am not sure. They don't pay rent. Willie stands outside in his cheap but expensive looking jacket - cold in the winter sun, working Main street. The owner sends him out sans breakfast (breakfast is a luxury, believes Terry, but that is the stuff of a different para) to lure in the Women from the cold. Terry sleep. I don't really know what else he does. Sometimes, after three or four joints, he speaks of the Great Post Modern Novel that he has written in his head - so "post modern in its antiquity that it would shame Homer", he claims as he exhales into the face of a petite young member of the Women.

Breakfast is a luxury. Two meals can sustain most humans, especially ones that lie in "bed" all day and write post modern novels in their heads. Beds are a luxury too. Terry once tried to explain to me the necessity for the absence of a bed in a space without vaulted ceilings if one had to write post modern novels in one's head all day. Willie doesn't understand this lazy line of reasoning. He just goes out there and drags Them in. He is a Magician of sorts - his hands never leave the pockets of the cheap expensive looking jacket. His lips are sealed shut. His beady eyes and arched eyebrows do all the talking and the Women stroll voluntarily in and then our Novelist rises from his ash colored covers. The Women get hungry listening to Terry and they order food. Terry would thank God for deliverable food if he wasn't an atheist. And when the Women get tired (listening to the post modern story), they go and sit next to the Owner. And they talk to him. Tell them their life stories - of abusive men and inflation.