Was wondering what the purpose of a good story was. Like why is it actually there in the first place? What should a good story do, what should it mean and what should it feel, what should it make you feel – these were some of the ponderings of the past few days. I blame it on the choice of readings really.
There is this anthills of savannah which is mind blowing in bits, it is as if he is describing the world like a poet would except it is not poetry that I am reading but something on the border of prose and poetry. Somewhere in that hazy middle, the kind of haze you get when your glasses fog over the minute you step out of the air-conditioning.
It is a very warm haze though, this no mans land between structured, punctuated sentences and the light, graceful yet powerful steps of the poetry that I like. I suppose there is a deep beauty in that which is unclear, unsure and uncertain. An element of risk, calling for a deeper look, a deeper understanding, the active element of pulling and clearing the dust away.
Chutiya hai kya.
The other book is this written by this Scottish (I think) journalist called Carr something and it traces the origins and subsequent growth of journalism in the United Kingdom. It is not really meant for someone who is completely alien to the world of the UK publishing industry (there are far too many famous names you have to pretend you have heard about) but if you shoulder on, you are rewarded. The greater takeaway being understanding what “news” is and what “news” means and where facts and news meet and merge and where they walk away, like angry lovers, promising themselves that they will never get back together again.
Tamacha maar yeh gaandu ko.
So apparently every year some one gazllion marathi chaps gather in Pune and walk to some place and be all fervent and stuff. Its called a “palkhi” and there are some reports that suggest you can find more than a million people per kilometre across the entire distance of the walk.
Sounds interesting. Very interesting.
When I die and become a god, I want my bhakts to take long walks, preferably backwards. And they have to be doing something really stupid at the same time, like mixing beer and cognac or something of that nature.
Took Brutus to Shravanbelagola this past Sunday and I realised once again why the highways keep calling me. You can taste the monsoon in the air you know, the air that rushes through the helmet vent and runs across your mouth. And you can feel the road close to your body, as you turn into a fast corner and lean in a little more. And you can see the world going past you, the world standing still while you fly past and the trees and the road becomes blurry and hazy and you focus and focus on not dying.
This is such ordinary writing. What is it doing here? What is it supposed to make me feel?
Nothing. Words don’t make you feel. You feel what you want to feel.
What nonsense. Where is the exhilaration, the humour, where is my money’s worth of writing you fucking retard?