“I consider that a man’s brain originally is like an empty attic, and you have to stock it with such furniture as you choose. A fool takes in all the lumber of every sort that he comes across, so that the knowledge which might be useful to him gets crowded out, or at best is jumbled up with a lot of other things so that he has a difficulty in laying his hands upon it.”
I am currently reading A Study in Scarlet. I have watched the British show Sherlock as well as the American spin-off Elementary set in contemporary Manhattan. I have also watched the two movies with Robert Downey Jr and I adore the person that Doyle has created: a classic. The characters transcend time and the ages and still speak as if making sense, years later.
I am reading the novels once again and will be quoting what I find share worthy for some time now. Like this part of a paragraph.
The shortcomings of an inefficient memory plague me from time to time and I could relate to this. Easier said than done now, isn’t it? You’ve wished so many times that you don’t want to remember that day when you embarrassed yourself in front of others. Or that you don’t want that flashback keep coming back to you when you thought your heart could never love anyone again.
And now in retrospect you realise how you’ve grown! We create memories as we go on living our unremarkable lives so that we have something to remember it by: like photographs, only that the faded blue shirt might some years feel more like grey. Only that the people change around us in these photographs- in substance and character.
We need anecdotes to tell others our stories of overcoming grief and failure, even the embarrassing moments that had us want to die only that we didn’t.
Perhaps that is why Sherlock gets away with implying that the common person fills up his mind with meaningless mumbo-jumbo. He exists in fiction- a man in the throes of deductive reasoning and we don’t find ourselves stumbling across roommates of such a peculiar bend.
As someone who loves to write, I know the struggle is real. I have stopped telling people that I want to be a writer. I have perhaps, stopped believing in my ability to do that.
To someone who is in the same state of mind, I will say what I wish to be told.
Begin. Maybe you’ll write a really bad paragraph today. But the fear of failure should not keep you from beginning. Anything that was ever done had a start. And so should your poem or your novel.
We begin with errors and it is important to make mistakes. Nobody wrote the perfect short story in one sitting.
Sometimes it took background check, a bit of research, the dictionary, criticism, feedback and many drafts to make it self sufficient. If you wish to learn, the journey begins with doubting yourself and trying in spite of that.
And then you read. You read anything that comes your way- the editorial, the content description on a product, a love story, not so popular works by other aspiring writers, the classics: anything.
To write that novel, maybe today you simply have to list the characters and nothing more: as little as names on a list. At least begin somewhere.
A little appreciation goes a long way and costs nothing. We have that friend who is trying hard to excel at something yet when you look at their work you tell them they’re great.
That is not enough.
All of us need to feel appreciated for what we do. Even inside the cubicle of a MNC, someone is trying to complete a task so that they are told they did well. No applaud, not even a pat on the back- just, ‘Yes this is what I was talking about.’
And he beams, strives to do it well again the next time too.
Imagine Everytime he does something and is told the same thing.
He will always be good enough, but not better.
We want our friends to do better than they are doing. At least friendship is supposed to be about that. And even if I don’t know someone who posts his work, there’s no harm in putting in a word.
I decided, owing to a lack of feedback on what of my work I shared with people that I will not only hit the like button and rest.
I am going to tell them they’re good.
And then I am going to tell them they can do better.
That is how you motivate someone for daring to follow where their heart leads them.
How could I live like this! I chided myself and set to task. Maybe when my table was organized, I’d want to study on a Saturday that I woke up so late on. Let me just get this little thing done although I don’t for how long everything will stay in place.
Our love for order in a chaotic unpredictable world is strange. Books need to be piled on top of one another. Pens should know the stand they take. Headphones are a pertetual entangled mistery. Knick knacks are to be stuffed in compact spaces, shut down in containers.
Someone said cleaning is like putting things in less obvious places. So it is! From pens that don’t work but I can’t somehow want to get rid of them to clothes tags that I’ve collected to turn into bookmarks, there’s so much that takes up space but does nothing. Yet I can’t seem to part with them.
Someday I’ll buy the refills to these pens. Someday I’ll have pretty insta ready bookmarks. I really have begun believing half the work is done when I contemplate it. That sounds like a death knell to that novel I have already written in my mind.
I have woken up to this. And a slight headache that’s been troubling me for days. It will go. I know I was up at 8, and later at 9 and finally right now. I had this dream that I am trying to recall. But it doesn’t come to me in order. Maybe the later bits are coming in first. Or maybe the dream wasn’t in a logical sequence at all. Can it not be that this wonderful brain tries putting a random sequence of images in order after we wake up so that the dream doesn’t drive us insane.
I saw many photographs and found my brother as a kid in one of them. So I immediately shared it to our group on instagram. My brother, little as he was, running around and being brought to a stop by my aunt. But that’d make it a video.
And as far as I remember, at our Granny’s the video recorder was brought out for the most special of occasions. Strange that my brother’s antics be captured in it.
Next I find myself walking: walking in the backyard of my own house but my vision being limited. My field of vision relegated to a slit inside a helmet of sorts as I kept waking. What a purposeless thing to do in a dream!
So I wake up a little late, my head heavy, my conscience telling me I have studied nothing for my Accounting exam tomorrow and I just keep staring at the door. Tomorrow.
A neurologist told me that I had abnormally chaotic brain activity even during five minutes of lying down, connected to a machine that was supposed to map brain waves. I have no idea how that machine would tell him my the constant slurry of thoughts that took me from one state of mind to another in perhaps milliseconds?
And that is the reason why my blog is called seamless. Thoughts and stories converge and interminge from one imaginary scene to the next in alarming speed. I can be roaming the streets of a post apocalyptic town one moment and the very next moment I could be crying over my own death. Thoughts like a fluid coagulate into a matter and keep bombarding my mind with what ifs and what not until I fall asleep.
I am here, blogging, because I want to talk about anything under the sun.
I want my thoughts to get out there and just exist. I find beauty in the mundaneness of everyday life; the lull of routine.
Often, I am awestruck with little phrases that cause me to work on them while they grow on me. Poetry comes to me as naturally as breathing and though I am not so well versed with it’s technicality, I like to conjure rhythm out of words. Often, I am the almost poet but sometimes I surprise myself.
Everyday I am bogged down with a million thoughts that run haywire into my mind and I want to share them with the world out here.
I hope to find inspiration in others’ works here!
Happy Blogging to me 🙂
Who knew that the dusky sky with a pallette spreading from crimson to peach could fill you with a longing for heart only knows what.
And the rusty yet fresh fragrance of imaginary oranges allegedly straight from the orchards at Nagpur tickles my tongue with another yearning in the middle of June. It’s not the season yet. And it doesn’t quite taste the same if I am not reminded by my mother to check my appetite for the tang of an almost sweet piece on a chilly winter morning lest I catch a cold.
Doesn’t quite taste the same unless the markets are full of tangerines emptied in heaps out of carrier vehicles. Spread in front of a man who waits patiently for his customers, lamenting the cropping up of stores selling fruits all the year round in attractive packaging too.
So, as I watch the sky change it’s colour slowly, my longing sheepishly turns into a forgone hypothesis.
It’s rather a habit of this heart to want a juicy mango in December too.