"Unless a woman's lips leave a bloody stain on the length of that cigarette, it ought to be impersonal. The concept of Western Imperialism is poison here. Till Death do you part." Perhaps even literally.
And so began a new chapter on my cantankerous clamor for rent, for mediocrity, for a brush against forgotten history, and cigarettes. I found some solace in music-- and yet again I was forced to re-affirm my position as a consumer and not a creator-- all for escape. Advertising was the enemy I had chosen, a genial notice to create new allies. Ironically, I found myself forging a career in it. I had to draw up storyboards for Santoor, a mildly poisonous soap - that I had the misfortune of using to clean up a sleeve of unsolicited puke from the night before, in a hobo friend's home who didn't believe in soap.
Friends. They were seeking out Naxalite movements in Pune, traveling to encounter Aboriginals in rural Tasmania and making documentaries on alien-loving homo sapiens. Very inspiring people who felt I was particularly talented, yet indisposed to exploring that part of my conscience. I like to think of my contributions to the adventures we had. Riding on the top of a SUV to get some decent shots - when it was moving downhill at a precarious speed, writing a poem when I was stranded atop a particularly jagged rock that had cut me severely over a dirty sea, kissing while being smuggled... It was becoming a time-consuming hobby- collecting these interesting people and incidents.
It has been two years now. And I suspect I have lost my sense of humour.
This is my current frame of mind- What about the gay men raping women in Delhi? They are violated; in fact they probably have it worse. That tiny closet shrinks further. Contemplating on the violence of other circumstances is all good but when my own choices are informed yet badly made, it all adds to that feeling of being a callous hypocrite. I haven't really written anything apart from dishonest pitches for soap, shampoo, even sanitary napkins on one account. It isn't all bad. I find myself engaging in these YouTube video sharing sprees that really assuage my guilt. People remark at my good taste and for a while, my life takes on new meaning.
Am I a pathetic whiner with an interesting writing style? Probably. I am that perfect by-product of the current psychosis, straddling the wasteful ebb of capitalism. It has been three days and my hand won't stop shaking. It is a mild tremor but it quickly progresses to creepy tensing whenever I think of anything remotely important. It has me working up a storm on Google. Ten open tabs and still no answers.
I am switching to another browser and looking up - "May I have a cigarette" - in every language out there. I have started with French. Wasn't that obvious now?
