Hearing a writer

The ideas and thoughts I am about to present are not mine. How I wish these ideas belonged to an older, more experienced, more matured, more grounded version of me, at a point when things wouldn't look as scattered as they appear now. But in the hubris of youth, this diceyness about everything is probably what makes every breath worth pulling hard at. My only regret will be that of not being able to enumerate each one of the profound thoughts that the writer spoke of, whose talk I was fortunate to listen to. I shall refrain from delving into the nitty-gritties about the writer. But I shall say one thing. Despite having weathered time for over four decades, this man was a tad bit reticent about issues pertaining to sex. This is slightly surprising, considering how open minded the man seemed about everything.

Nevertheless, here goes nothing...

On Our AGE...

How old are you? Straight forward answer. No? Subtract the current year you're living in from the year you were born in. That formula is obviously not applicable to you if  you're born in BC, and happen to have lived into the AD era. Bad jokes apart, really! How old are you?  Least of all, it is surely not the number you put in while filling up forms. Specially if you're a lady over 30! Alright. Apparently, bad jokes are going to be the theme for the day. So I'll jump to the answer. We, each one of us, are our chronological age added with the age of the human civilization. Our instincts, reflexes, intrinsic natures, feelings, and all things we so take for granted, are a cumulation of countless beings who walked this earth before us. Each of them passed something onto us, a bit of themselves, insignificant as stand-alone contributions, but world altering if considered upon consolidation. Imagine for instance if one of Hitler's ancestors had died prematurely. For all we know, World War 2 would have been a  lot different, if not a deleted page in history's books.

Why was the World War a mostly inevitable event? Circumstances... Had there not been a Hitler, there would have been another German who would have risen, given Germany's predicament. Would that parallel universe be anywhere close to ours? That's anyone's guess. Surely, Volkswagen wouldn't have existed.

Older humans, predating our time by many centuries, if not millennia would have resorted to harsh measures to overcome hard times, sacrificing a few for the greater good of the majority, fighting battles against their odds. Those who won, survived, left a part of themselves to survive in us. Those who perished, well, history swept them away with a gust of wind, and left them buried in the ground.  We know little about those who succumbed. Genes... I tell you!

Even our dreams, specially the one where we fall on the back of our head, could probably be a recollection of our ancestor who was working perched up on high ground, and fell on the back of his head. Could be. I know this not for sure. Neither did the writer, I suppose.

On Art...

There is an impetuous behind all works of art. Be it the art of playing a sport, the art of creating music, of creating worlds with words, of basically doing anything. Look at Sachin Tendulkar. Classic example. And to be honest, the same example that the writer made use of. Sachin, up on reaching any milestone, always, without fail, looked up. Probably in respect for his late father. But that's what kept him going. It sure as hell wasn't some rehearsed trick he pulled out of his sleeve to show an audience what an obedient son he was. Maybe the relief he got, each time he looked up to his father, is what kept him from stopping what he did best. An artist, in most of all cases, has a muse, who becomes a source of inspiration for his work. He longs to write about this lady who triggers all his right buttons, as far as his artistic stimuli go. There might be a sensory overload in him that pours out in the form of poetry, painting, or completely fictitious stories. Great many poems have been written in thoughts and angst of a beloved. Then again, there is a source that pulls him towards an end of the tunnel. 

On writing...

There are two types of writings. One is where you climb greatest of heights, in your youthful adventures, maybe in company of your love, your passion. What you leave there, on top, for the world do see as a remnant of your achievement, your unquestionable diligence, shall be the highest representation of your existence, that with which you would like yourself to be seen and remembered by. Man reached the moon. What he left there was his Nation's flag. The nation that supported his endeavors, and allowed him to manifest his dream into reality. Same with climbing Mount Everest. Go to any sight seeing place. There will be many hard-to-reach points in the area that offer an amazing view, but not many have pushed themselves to getting there. Those who have, usually leave an indelible mark of their own. For all said and done, they leave a mark of their love for someone, writing something like "Parameshwaran Nair Loves Ammu Kutty", with all of the heart piercing arrow in the middle of it. Sounds stupendously stupid, filmy if you may. But that is the highest representation of themselves that the people can think of at the time, "In the moment".

The second type of writing is when you're in a dark, filthy place, such as a railway compartment's toilet. One writes, draws and articulates everything that represents a model of his thoughts at that point of time. Genitals, raunchy writings, and everything explicit that a mind could conjure up, with a possible intent of wanting to entertain another mind, who steps into the chamber at a later time in the same frame of mind. 

If you look subjectively, the latter type of writing appears as a lower form of representing a man's/being's thoughts. But one cannot take away from oneself that both forms of creativity, however vile the latter might appear, stem from a human mind. Both exist because we are capable of putting both extremes into words. 

On being honest...

All lofty lines, ideologies, romanticism kept aside, every piece of art that stems from youth's love, or love that stems from a bodily desire, is with an expectation of having that love reciprocated from the other end. It may not be explicitly stated. Or if the person is ballsy enough, he could state it explicitly. You never know. The human psyche is a funny looking thing. 

On the navel...

The belly button. It is a place in the body left as a reminder of our long lost connection to our mother. Today, the world has sexualized that part of the body. Besides, the screens that surround us, to the point that they have made our heads bend down, has removed us from any eye contact with another fellow being, and hence, disconnecting us from our senses. As per studies on body language, we look down when we are ashamed of ourselves. So with the current trends, we are perpetually stuck in a walk of shame. 

Besides, there is something in our new age mentality, a pull of sorts that makes us want to stay in an eternal sexual limbo. The writer mentioned a term in Malayalam that I could not fully comprehend at first... Kannyi Maasam(കന്ന്യി മാസം ). Not too sure if that's how the word is written. Nevertheless, it is a particular month(Maasam= Month in Malayalam) in the Kerala calendar which is supposedly a period for dogs to mate. At this time, all dogs can thing is of mating. A pure animal instinct pervades their thought process. The above mentioned term almost sounds derogatory, considering humans are animals too, at the end of the day. But the way our screens are filled with sex, how sex is used to sell every product imaginable in our living rooms, it is slightly hard to digest.