Sweet Cakes and Milkshakes: Served by a Compulsive Romantic

Before I met sexuality, I knew romance. One demanded my attention, the other called for pursuit. And I think it depends on whether you set your sights on things within reach or if you’d look beyond the comfort of the fireplace to choose one over the other. It’s the thrill of pursuit against relief in gratification, a few strokes away, except the stakes aren’t quite the same. I long in urgency, I write when I’m tired; I know things would be fine if only it were the other way around. 

I was fourteen when I discovered masturbation. I was about the same age when I wrote my first poem. One was on a woman, the other was on a girl. But I still could see the line in between, connecting and separating. They’re step-siblings in emotion; like Cinderella against a Princess from ‘the Arabian Nights’ in a toss-in between two counts of fantasy. If one wants you to strive to desire to put an end to the same, the other incites a desire to strive. Love is open-ended, lust seeks closure. 

And I found them both, first, in a stroll through streets of celluloid. 

I come from a middle-class household. It means we had enough to survive on that we could spend some more on escalation. To Sherman Alexei’s father (as he describes in his essay ‘the Joy of Reading and Writing: Superman and Me’), it was books. To mine, it was cinema. It wasn’t a ritual; it wasn’t his way to stack some shelves with trophies from around the world. My father loved film. He still does. It was his flight to the moon that never quite kicked off and ever since then he’s spent his time trying not to be miserable about it. He vied to be a man of magic, he’s stuck to but one trick now. He’s a banker and a content one, with a failed romance that he had come to terms with. 

I was film-illiterate when I started to watch and I watched the movies for the sex scenes they had, in times of urgency and curiosity both. And if there was one thing I learnt in that summer, it was to discern and distinguish between those films that were likely to have good sex in them and those films that were likely to not – an equation of rating, DVD cover and the synopsis on the back. As time went by, I got better and better that I could actually compare. Hollywood had glossy sex with little or no nudity due to constant fear of censorship and sale. There were the occasional sex thrillers and erotic romances that came along to save the day, but besides that there was little else. 

Europe, on the other hand, didn’t care – the coming of age movies, in particular, where it wasn’t just ‘women’ that I saw naked but even girls my age. That was just a preference, though; it wasn’t all I watched. I liked them older, I liked them young, I liked them fair, I liked them darker still. I liked them for their perfect bodies, I liked them for their imperfect bodies as well. I liked them for how uninhibited they were when I seemed to work with a restraining order inside my head, where watching these movies in itself was a ritual I had to perform with caution every time I took it up. Discretion was necessary; a step missed or messed up and I lose the game. Father shouldn’t know. 

Of course, this doesn’t mean I got away with watching R-rated movies all the time. I’ve faced confrontations, I’ve had locked doors, the keys to which my Father kept and kept with him wherever he went. Those keys opened the door to two of the most important shelves in our house, if I could classify shelves like that. I wasn’t grounded; I’d still be allowed to access the third shelf, that which had less-harmful fare like ‘Indiana Jones’ and Cartoons and such. I did watch them – sometimes to my heart’s content. When I didn’t get lemonade, I drank some water and fancied it tangy. It’s like my frustration knew how to adapt to a world that’s mere Will and Idea. 

Sherman Alexie learnt to read through comic books. Through films, I learnt life when I least tried to. The process was more or less the same. I might not have understood these movies, but I unwound with them – much like how he found words in visuals and wrote his own. Film and I were opposites of one Dialectic whole; an argument between my semi-conservative upbringing and the rule-free self that was projected on me as I walked through the streets and lived these scenes. If it’s the birth of questions that marks enlightenment, then asking them is the most one could do. And I directed my questions, not to the carefree Utopias that films synthesized, but to the world around and life as it happened. Film was Romance. Film was source material that I based life upon. Life, thus, became Romance, with people and encounters that I strived to win. 

I think this viewpoint of mine arose from my observation that my life had ADD in its relationship with me. There were times when I was in focus, there were times when I simply wasn’t. But I’m my own protagonist all the time in a movie that I write around myself with a thousand other co-writers. The scenes change without control and the most I can do, as I find, is write my lines and then sit and watch and trust my life with this maverick called Circumstance. 

I try to live with contentment. I find I cannot. 

It’s like straddling idealism in a fast-food nation where frustration has an eternal right-to-return; like fancying free-fall when your earth shatters with the bungee cord that jerks you up to the world that is from the depths of one that you fashioned it to be. Reality, she said, bites from both ends. And the best you can do is trade hickeys and fake some passion. 

Film wasn’t forever a mere mistress, though, I should clarify. Lust morphed to fondness, eventually, and affection felt for the one who was always around. It was a relationship I was naturalized into being in. And nothing that has in it the potential to be beautiful can ever be crass. Like Allen made Hemingway say in ‘Midnight in Paris’ – “No Subject is terrible if the story is true and the prose is clean and honest and if it affirms courage and grace under pressure.” Film taught me that. And she blushed when I quoted it back to her. 

The title of this piece of writing – call it an essay or ramble or a journal entry – comes from a poem recited in Richard Linklater’s ‘Before Sunrise’, if in case you didn’t recognize it. A bum runs into a wandering couple in Vienna and asks them for money in return for a poem he could write that contains any word that they want it to contain. ‘Milkshake’ is what they decide on and they choose it over ‘Worcestershire Bread.’ A few minutes later, he comes up with a ballad that has the word put almost out of context. “I’m a Delusion Angel; I’m a fantasy parade,” are lines that ring in the silence that follows. The Guy, who is American and a sceptic is quick to assert he’s probably just plugged the words in, in an existing poem. The Girl, who is French and borderline spiritual, responds with a glorious smile and a shake of her head. 

I think the whole of my life till now has been spent on trying to decide between the Girl and the Guy in ‘Before Sunrise’ on whom I wanted to be – the Romantic or the Cynic. You’d only need to relate to the scene above to come to terms with the fact that you’re a bit of both, inevitably. And that in the term of Romance, sex intervenes; life necessitates it. Ideology and approach are only as significant as the word that he ‘plugged in.’ The poem exists, no matter what. There’s beauty in it. And there’s you in the middle, submerged in beauty.

Except you’d call it chaos, instead.

KARAMAZOV EFFECTS - PART THREE

This has by far been the most exciting part of the book, which, according to me, has pretty much reached its end, and it’s like the line has ended and we’re just waiting for the full-stop. I personally think it would be criminal on the part of the author to give Grushenka Svetov another change of a heart that she has found in her only now, in which context I’d like to say that Dostoevsky has indeed swung things to ‘my’ favour. The bloodiest of battles have been fought over women, and it’s undeniable that a man can derive no other point in life except one revolving around the woman of his dreams or of his reality, or power and control over an inanimate piece of land, which I think is less justified than fighting for the covet of as tangible (to intangible proportions) a being as the feminine. Dmitry Karamazov, the silent participant, had won this battle that he didn’t even fight in, but which incidentally proves to incriminate him before the eyes of the apparent judicial system. The process would of course be interesting to intimidating extents, but the outcome matters not for the road ahead has been decided.

This is precisely the point that my admiration for both ‘The Brothers Karamazov’ and its author Fyodor Dostoevsky peaked, the point where the motive behind the entire plot came forth and stared at me in the face. The point where Dmitry admits and elucidates that he would gladly go to prison, the liberated soul that he is recently found to be, given that the man he thought he had killed had surprisingly survived and had even recovered enough to testify against him, and that he would do the same because although he wasn’t guilty of his father’s murder, he was indeed guilty of planning it and of ‘almost executing’ it before he was stopped by ‘divine intervention’ as he puts it (although not exactly in these words). That had been what I had stressed in my previous post, where I said that the criminal in this case (not yet identified) has lesser crime to his credit than Dmitry (although his heart edges towards the righteous side now) who, with the whole of his heart, had intended to bring about the death of his father, an Oedipal exclusion for the sake of his love and hence, he, burdened with a higher amount of guilt, has to face punishment for ‘cleansing his soul’. The part ends with Dmitry leaving for prison, not without twists though, and with Grushenka assuring him with utmost honesty that her journey ahead would forever include being by his side.

This has been the only part (of the three that I’ve done) where I felt absolute glee when coming out. And although it could look to be a complete depiction of romance and spite, it also has substantial parts played by the younger brothers Alexei (the dialogue with Grushenka) and Ivan (by kindly stepping out of the picture for the time being). Yet, nothing could possibly overshadow the happiness felt when I read that “Mitya’s kiss tore her lips” and it was a gigantic haul of joy, climactic with its pleasure, and I kind of figured that from then, even if he were ‘to be executed’, he would die a happy man and I guess that pretty much, so would I (‘die’ in my case refers to ‘closing the book’). Yes, there’s still an ample amount of story coming, an open murder investigation whose prospect could incite authors to write volumes, in which case I’m glad that Dostoevsky kept aside merely a quarter of his novel to it, possibly even lesser considering there are other more important affairs.

Fyodor Karamazov, either way, would never rest in peace. Not when he had been killed by the ‘devil himself’.

KARAMAZOV EFFECTS - PART TWO

Half done and I’ve this feeling that I can considerably comment on the plot in itself, having seen pretty much of its development, and hence I’d go through a short sketch on what’s happened until now, and a few ploys and eccentricities I’ve noticed (as far as I could) here and there in this novel that is so hailed to be a classic. The murder could happen any moment, or maybe it has already happened (for crying out loud!) and having read Dostoevsky before, I can quite guess the convict in this case, because as illustrated in his ‘Crime and Punishment’, Dostoevsky bases ethics on conviction, stressing the thought of the crime to be punished rather than the crime in itself, for the guilt afterward is what destroys a person most, and that is what the punishment actually is. Not a life-sentence in Siberia or hard labour, which is essential in compliance to law, a necessity but not the authority in itself. Dostoevsky deems one’s conscience to be the highest law, for it happens to be the only fathomable place where one can argue about the existence of God, the so-called deciding factor on sin, retribution and pardon.

The brothers are well established as they are supposed to be, and they have individually interacted with each other at war or words, not to mention the father, Fyodor Karamazov. One of the women in the plot, Katerina Ivanovna, along with the child Lise are substantially established too, anecdotally and in form of second-person thoughts. Lise could be all that I had hoped for in this story, and as I had established in my previous article (part one) the bond between her and Alexei Karamazov is refreshing, like romance as romance has to be, with love for the sake of the same. Katerina is shown in good light too, not as the delicate damsel in distress, but as a strong woman who can love and knows honour, as presented in the sequences with and without her active participation. But what appeared queer to me at this level is the shortage of anecdotes for the other maiden, the alleged ‘Femme Fatale’ Grushenka, who I saw too less of, a lone scene amidst the excessive third-person references, which led me to think that the author was deliberating it. It’s like we’re supposed to get misled by what everyone has to say about her because that’s exactly where they are: misled. There could be a subsequent statement (yet to come) that Grushenka is not at all her dubiously-alleged self, but just one who could easily be misunderstood, or there could be one to empower the current line of thought with the turn of events to come. I can only say that I will have to read to know of this little eccentricity.

This was a boring part on many levels, by the way. Maybe one has to embrace theology to discard it, like knowing what’s in store to say you don’t want it, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to like the whole biblical allusions, although it was a masterstroke (through Ivan, the second brother) to side with the son of God to oppose the Church and its cardinals, who Dostoevsky presents to be some sort of realists (which came about to be a surprise to me) in their ‘belief’. Freedom being scarier than dependence is a thought I’ve had from long and it sort of felt empowering to see it coming from a place elsewhere. Also comforting was this idea that freedom is what people deserve although to be led is secure; suggests that I’m not entirely wasted at this point of time although I could brand myself to undoubtedly be. There’s also the teachings of the elder Zosima, everything he had to say said in a last shot, which I couldn’t help but think was a little excessive. Conflicting ideas are pretty elaborate, but I guess that’s how a classic rolls, with authors determined to waste their breath to set the wind up. Pretty agreeable too.

Writing takes the mind away from the book. I don’t know when I’d read again, but I’m sure that this time it’d be quicker.

KARAMAZOV EFFECTS - PART ONE

Well surprisingly, this is not one of my ‘should have been’ anecdotes, I think it’s my way of showing (myself) that I am not actually reading something without getting personal with it, getting to know more of it than what it offers to show. But being the effect-person who gauges with impact and not exactly theoretically, I guess I’ll have to go ahead with sizing it up as it presented itself to me. A foreword, though: This is not a review or a critical analysis. I’m just describing experience and thought-process on an almost purely-personal basis.

I’m done with Part One, as of now (the book constitutes of four equally weighted parts, or somewhat so-so) and what I’m past is the introduction, familiarization of characters, a sort of bloat-up, an explanation of what’s been happening and an exquisitely underplayed disposition of what is to come, which left me guessing and wishing but not entirely sure. And ‘The Brothers Karamazov’ (by Fyodor Dostoevsky) is not a suspense story, I would hardly call it suspense, because while the course of the story is pretty much laid out in front, it is just the events constituting it that provoke further read, which they do (at least in me) without the higher burden of having committing to a the idea that ‘a thing begun needs to be done’. It is not the anticipation, but the hope and empathy shared that I find is taking me ahead, in a story that has this multi-faceted edge of dealing with a lot more things than it is supposed to.

I wouldn’t go forth and call it ‘complete empathy’, actually. I doubt if it could be called ‘empathy’ at any level, it’s somewhat of a bias of an assumed character rather than of one that’s been established and carried on, and I (rightfully perhaps) find myself currently completely biased with the character of Dmitry Karamazov, the oldest son of Fyodor Karamazov, in the father-son battle for the same woman, who is (painfully) established as uncouth although a pacification of suggested innocence is intended, but yet the impression is unfavourable on her part and I slightly hate Dostoevsky for having treaded that line. But I think that’s not true, or at least I wouldn’t want to go ahead and take it to be the absolute, irrevocable truth, because I think while I go ahead and hate the author, I also hate myself for letting myself be caught in the established (am I using that word too much?) tangle of man and two women, I think that’s where I’m flawed, you know, I’m putting myself in that position and not exactly playing by what Dmitry is or is supposed to be, the detached, vengeful, angst-ridden man he is, one who digs deep into the sores on a girl than her pleasantness and punishing her for that, or at least intending to.

Alexei Karamazov was introduced (in the author’s preface) as the ‘hero’, and what do I have to say about that? Well, I’m only a quarter of my way through, and there’s a lot more to come and the youngest definitely shows prospect of being a brilliant human being, perhaps the ‘ideal self’ that I assume myself to be at times, but I think that’s the problem with him – he simply isn’t caught in any trouble of his own, he is loved enough and that gives him scope to love enough and I simply see nothing beyond that. And Dmitry, on the other hand, is found to be dueling his father (‘Oedipal’, as I’m told) over a girl, and that too one who intends not to puncture him (which could be nobler) but to play according to her whims, the exact definition of a ‘beast’ in earthly terms. While I would forever struggle with Dostoevsky for having given birth to such a person (I mean ‘person’ and not a ‘woman’, I’m not implying at sexism), on the other hand I find myself siding with Dmitry, for it’s me that’s living as him.

Part One came to end with a letter of astounding innocence, not unexpected but yet a surprise. And I’m wishing for more of that kind of solutions, if I can be silly enough to state that.

'WHAT IS LITERATURE?'

Not the question I’ve always asked myself, rather the one I’ve evaded the most because I know that I would come up with a thousand explanations, none close enough to the actual truth, in case I asked myself this. It so happens that I like telling myself that ‘I’ began solely because this girl liked me that way. That I decided to stop killing ideas because she said they sounded fair enough, being alive. It could be the truth, for all I know, and it could be a whole different dimension far from truth, for the same. Of course, it is fanciful, writing to a crowd that you know would read you, or writing for that special person who exists to complement the existence of the writer in you, or some portion of the lot that you would appease in a way that would never happen if you didn’t deviate from being the ‘ordinary you’. And it is an end in itself to assert that you write because it gives you pleasure, or that it puts you out of pain, in which case what’s important is not the effect of the words but the effect of the writing of them, the effect of being rid of what you once felt to be full of – A scratch where it itches, of sorts, while sometimes, I feel that I write just to see how good I sound and it feels good to see the final cut, the last draft, the end result of a process that you tend to forget about once it’s done. Of course, no one would ever dig the source of a song once it’s been sung, for all we know it might as well have been a bunch of jarring melodies, non-sync, but put together, it makes a song. A song that sounds good, that too.

So, why write?

Fell out of the sky. I wasn’t looking for it in the first place, and neither have I kept tabs enough to start a scrutiny on Sartre, it was merely an impulsive reaction to put me out of a present state of chaos, but maybe only to a chaos different from this but a chaos all the same. It’s always reassuring to know that you aren’t the person that you were: makes it sound like progress was an inevitable intermediate even if ‘downhill’ is all you’ve gone. All the same, I like to think that I might and that I would get something out of it.

I need a reason to read. Never had one.