Wednesday, September 28, 2005
amchi bombay (yes i refuse to call it mumbai) has quiet a few of em ghatis... though not as many as a non-bombayite would expect in maharashtra's capital. and thank god for that. not tht i have anything agaisnt them. they are a basic-simple lot. interestingly, a few months ago, while driving back from town, with a friend- i wondered if there were any hep maharashtrians. we thought for a good one and a half hours. cam e up wit h two names (with great difficulty). milind soman and shobha de. couldnt come up with a third name. we remembered this many weeks later. still, we couldnt come up with any more names....
Have you seen a relationship melt into oblivion? Its like this numb anesthetic state where you don’t feel the pain, but you can see yourself (for inexplicable reasons) rip off your nails (with flesh and all). Its like poking pins into your eye balls. Its like inhaling under water. Its like chewing red hot coal?
wasnt it andy warhol who said something about 15 minutes of fame?
the page three. a large picture. name. well i was embarrased and pleased. common on. be honest, you would too. the amount of msgs and calls i got. wow. everyone reads the tabloids. they say they dont. but they all do!!! how else did they see me there? and what the hell!!! like oscar wilde says-the only people who dont like society are the ones outside it!
Monday, September 26, 2005
yes yes one more 55 words story
Nice party. I was seated next to Truman capote. Andy Warhol was drunk. On my right, Marilyn Monroe was scandalously dressed,. Across was sridevi in a golden toga. Jawaharlal was sulking (Indian menu- Samosas instead of caviar). Jayalaita farted (samosas…). Madame Tussad hadn’t waxed her armpits. I took a second class train back to the suburbs.
one more 55 words story...
i ask for half the supplies compared to last month. i think the grocer knows. Yes, we split. I go for films by myself too. So? I die? Don’t wana go home. Cant eat by myself, again. The paper bag with ‘half’ the supplies tears open. Spills onto the road, to the sea. I weep.
one more 55 words story
how many hands do i need to declare my love for you?
You don’t know how much I love you. I bought a plastic hand and attached it to my arm. Now I have three hands. I will get more tomorrow. They just cost fifteen rupees. I might resemble goddess kali soon. Many hands. Ten. Twenty. Hundred. How many hands do I need to declare my love for you?
Sunday, September 25, 2005
the 55 words story i was tagged for
You died yesterday.
I wake up and wonder what to do with your pillow and your sheets.
I don’t need two towels, or two toothbrushes, or extra slippers, your books, your music, clothes, fragrances, words, sounds, smiles. I put them all in a paper bag and sling it out of the window.
Now what do I do with me?
shaiva theology- a la contemporary visual
new on the list of must visit sites in mumbai- the grand hyatt (kalina). absolute must. have resolved to take some of my friends there and show them around. the so called cultural czar of india, rajeev sethi, conceptualized and curated the art for this fantastic hotel (mercifully not kistch or punjabi baroque or any such nonsens). the main concept was derived after seeing a large water falls (artificial, ofcourse, but nonetheless beautiful) in the center of the hotel. he visualised it as the ganga falling from shiva's head. so all artists comisioned used this as a concept in thier works. in contemporary context, ofcourse. and it makes sense...the elephanta is dedicated to shiva and so are 2 other major cave sites in and around bombay.
it was fascinating to have an artist (one of the commisioned participants) and a theorist (an expert on shaiva theology) talk about the concepts of sada shiv, prakriti purush, ardhanarishwara, etc. in these contemporary works (by artists like jitish kallat, riyas komu, bose krishnamachari, yogesh rawal, atul dodiya, nalini malani, etc).
Saturday, September 24, 2005
fever, foul mood, work
got wet in the rain. ac rooms. beer. fell sick. viral. took anti boitics. love them. swear i do. yes, they fuck up your insides. but what doesnt, these days. am bugged with everynoe these days. too much ridiculous work pressure. people give it too much importance!! for god sake, if i am not well, i am not well. i cant work. and i aint no doc!!! so u wont die if i dont work!!!!
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
bose krishnamachari and mallu art
jehangir and museum gallery. interesting evening. zoo like. so many people. lots of people i know. g (art critic) and m(social worker) and gop (collector) and dr. p (aesthete), r (artist), t (photoartist), a.r (collector) and many other familiar faces. nice. the wine wasnt dry tho. spent a good hour at the gallery. saw so new artists works. nice. all keralite. besides the usual justin poonmany, jutish kallat, baiju parthan, bose krishnamachari, kg subramanium.... loads of others...more on them later, i guess. then headed off to alfredo's for pizza and beer. loads of both. nice.
Monday, September 19, 2005
life (read: bitch)
ran into my ex last evening. an ex who i am so not over. an ex who was on a date. in a city the size of bombay...i still run into someone...someone on a date.... its so funny. so funny. so funny.
Sunday, September 18, 2005
Bonhomie and some
Was caught in a bit of traffic last evening. Ganesh visarjan. Camr back from town. Took me about 20 minutes longer than usual. Not bad at all. Infact it was a visual treat. The noise, the camaraderie, the sheer enthusiam, the women in their best nav-varis, the colours, the kids having he time of their lives. Vibrant. There is something about it all. Something nice. Rich. Makes me a happy bombayite. Next year I promise myself I will go to chowpati. Pucca. To all the cynics of the city (who pathetically compare the festivities to pujo…blah!)… parat zaava gavala!
I think I have grown old. All of a sudden. The crazy urge to party, drink away to glory is just not there. I wana just be at home. Read. Am reading a crazy lot right now. Yantra iconography, krishna as srinathji (nathadwara school of painting), umberto eco on beauty, a srilankan author karen roberts (the flower boy), oscar wilde (delightful). Whew! But I keep cancelling plans to meet friends. Recluse! I finish work and crave to get back home. Made an exception on Friday night. Met up with a dear friend (quaint term, yes) at lemon grass. Love the place. Awesome food, awesome ambience, nice crowd. And cheap. Love it. Then after dinner (early dinner….we finished by bout 10pm) we head to zenzi. Its funny to run into someone at zenzi everytime you go there. Sat at the bar. Soaked in the sights (letched)…I had a nice martini….dry. cant decide whati like better…the drink or the olives….hahah. came home and went to bed. 11.45pm. any other night and I would have made a few calls to friends in bandra and would have to the shack or toto’s or seijo or some such.
Found a funny quote by oscar wilde on art:
“… the great superiority of france over england is that in france every bourgeois want to be and artist, where as in england every artist wants to be a bourgeois”
Thursday, September 15, 2005
i wana hold your hand
“ I wana hold your hand, I wana hold your hand”. Simple and so beautiful. Notihng profound, no artifice. Plain and clear. Just how it should be… the beatles with their simple lyrics and pleasant sound. “we all live in a yellow submarine, yellow submarine”. And some a wee bit less simple… “while my guitar gently weeps”… nice. We try often to simplify things. I wonder why. Why do we decode? Why try and understand things? Why do we need to know why it happened, what went wrong?
“we want to find meaning in everyone and everything. That’s the disease of our age”- Pablo Picasso.
I work a little more organized. Not madly taking up or looking for more work. I read. I study. I blog.i think. Less on the run. I teach. I pause. I do my research. I party less. I drink even lesser. I think. I go out less often. I want to just be. I am not on the fone 6 hours a day (work related and otherwise). I have started drawing after a long time. I used to do it so often. I am enjoying it. The drawings show a lot of angst. I hope it is catharsis. I really do. The drawings are unlike what I would generally do. Lot of influence of the works I have been following in the galleries in the past few months. But these are for me. Indulgence. Its been rather nice. Cant wait to move out. My space. Lots of it. The luxury of it all. I feel old. Scared. It will be lonely. Must keep busy. I better. Have been listening to one song a lot the past few days. Linkin park’s ‘in the end’. It goes…
I tried so hard
and got this far
but in the end
it doesn’t really matter!
Fits my current state of mind perfectly. There’s very little sense of achievement. I should be proud of/ happy about/ thankful for a few things. But I am not. It doesn’t really matter. I don’t understand me. At all. Really. I want to re read ‘An Equal Music’. Its sad and beautiful. I really could do with something nice happening to me. Must listen to the sound track of ‘Abhimaan’. Its nice. Love the lyrics. 2 beautiful songs. Must start my research paper. Its due soon. 2500 words. Have no clue what I’ll be writing on. I worry. A lot. I love the titles of some books. They say a lot to me. ‘ the god of small things’. ‘one hundred years of solitude’. ‘waiting for godot’. ‘ of love and other demons’.
quarter life crisis
my friend pointed out to me the other day (not too kindly) that i am going thru a qurter life crisis. i chopped off my hair. i pierced my ear. i shop like mad. i party a lot. i drink a lot. perhaps i am. funny, come to think of it. this self indulgence. but nice. benetton is my tiffany's.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
i saw ‘no entry’, the film, yesterday. It was a beautiful experience. Beautiful. Beautiful. Beautiful. But please don’t go and see it.
towards an anti-aesthetic
I cut of all my hair. Short crop. Close to the scalp. The barber (yes, not a hair dresser or even worse hair designer) said it will look ‘bekaar’ or bad/useless. I smiled. Perfect. I wanted get rid of this superfluous embellishment. I do this everytime I am angry. It doesn’t matter. My grandmom says its ugly. Perfect. Towards an anti-aesthetic. Hahahaha.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
it rained last night- 2
it rained last night,
I didn’t hear it at all.
You said you saw
It rained last night,
You said you heard it smell
The sweet wet earth
I don’t know, well,
I see no trace
Of it on the face
Of the road.
Get me a coffee,
Make it strong.
You ask me then,
‘what is wrong?’
I laugh so hard
It makes me cry.
I love you so,
I don’t know why.
‘where’s my coffee?’
You love me,
Love, hate, lust.
The coffee must be cold.
I sit by the wall.
I wait for you to bring me a coffee.
It’s been a month.
Why don’t you call?
it rained last night
the shoes were wet.
The socks were soaked.
The water in the shoes
Made a squishy sound.
There were no puddles
It was a sea.
I fell flat on my face.
Bruised my self.
Fell into a heap of garbage.
Worms crawling over my face.
Crawling over my lips.
Pus drenched cotton wool
Blood soaked napkins.
Dog shit below my nostrils.
The cat scratched my eye.
I feel weightless.
Tired, I want to sleep.
I wish I had you here
I want to tell you
How it feels.
How it feels
To be here
While it rains.
The beauty of it all.
Sunday, September 11, 2005
of love and other demons
I don’t know if it is better to have loved and lost than to not have loved at all. it What happens when the object of your affection does not feel the same way as you do or with the same zeal that you feel… the more I think about these things (and I think about this a long, have thought about this for the longest time)… the more I am convinced that some things are meant to be and others aren’t. there’s no other plausible explanation for this. How else can one explain why some relationships fail so miserably when one puts in a hundred percent? Huh?? I put on my sun shades, walk out proud and happy. But deep inside its all corroding. Its pathetic to break down in public. Embarrassing. Trust me. Last night. What is scary is to not know what happen when the corrosion slowly comes to the fore. It all falls apart. And you are alone. A lone, pathetic, macabre being. One needs to belong. Today was sad. Karuna rasa.
Thursday, September 08, 2005
the bith of champa bavdi
interestingly, i stumbled upon this email i wrote long time back to my friend geetanjali (geebaby.blogspot.com) about toying with the idea of writing a story...the now "champa bavdi". i think it was a a self indulgent but funny mail....
geeta (i see u frownin already....fun)hey i m suprised tht u like literary criticism, tht too so amateurish.i thot u wud be like...glad this guy is really goin overboard, now even his friends ka stuff i hv to read...hehe.oh but i m glad u like it. and did u really like mirage's story? he wrote it for some compitition at his univ....its so diff frm wut i write (not the thinkin, but the style) but i really liked it...wanted to c how u found it.and na i m coinin wid this idea of a story....short one,but somethings really dont make sense to me. the sub is not something clear, more abstract, moves frm one thing to anorther, touches a lot of issues n non issues....but the prob is, it will b a bit indian. now wut i feel is , why am i writing in this distinct indian style, when my way of thinkin isnt indian...as in, is there a new genre of ppl in india writing in part indian part diasporic fashion...malgudi days kinda inclinations, i m showing...funny na? i mean y am i takin up a rural setup? its not me, surely. but cud it b tht i m so impressed by most indians writing in eng, choosing rural set ups? is it kind of in vogue?very very few indians writing in eng take up urban setups....jhumpa, and some new bongs. but its only lately....even rushdie sitting in hyde park writes bout damsels by the well, i wonder y....vernacular is in? i guess so.anywayz...here's wut i hv till now,.....the story is bout a tree....champa.but the backdrop is of humans....the tree is not the sutradhar, but a young girl is....things happen around the champa, people come n go, talk bout various things, thts how the story moves ahead.the girl keeps talkin to the tree...the tree hates the gurl tho....strange...the tree knows bout the nazis n the freedom struggle and aishwarya rai,...the tree loves movies...hehe.fun i m having.maybe a bit of magic realism too.....marquez seems to influence me here, na? i hope so, atleast.
here's something i read a long time back on a web page (i dont wana disclose it), and it struck a chord, it felt like it was me, it was deja vu....
there exists a place.... between reality and fantasy… where i rest my soul...for traversing
the streets of reality is exhausting...and walking the paths of fantasy requires imagination....
i lack neither ...strength nor creativity...but there are times...when i must escape...residing in the world i call solitude.... where i m alone and a "lover of myself"
Of winters and coffee beans.
Its time to begin, I think.
I could start by telling you where it all happens. I could start by telling you who starts it. I could also start by telling you why it starts. But what good would that do? So I will simply start. We sat there on the terrace…looking for solitude and solace. We got it. But the incessant din of the festivities, ceaseless for nine nights. The kitschy nights of the goddess. But we were fine. Just fine. The festivities were for the hackneyed. We were not hackneyed. Detour…is it that? Or is it alternative? I would not know. You just might. Do you not always have an opinion about everything? You do. I envy you that. I also envy you your banality. I am also left- handed. Is that not icing? Ironical, I would say. Would you not? I think you would. But that’s ok. Now that is one sentence I have learnt to say… “But that’s ok” (read: I am sorry).
God, I was cold. The din did nothing to keep me warm. It enveloped me, yes sir, that it did, alright. But comfort me, it did not. Silence makes me uncomfortable. That it does. And cold too. Icing, again, is it not. Cold and silence. Lets call it one thing, lets make it an equation. Despondent. Grey, navy, with a tinge of that irksome steel blue. I call that color-the color of despondence. I think you too would call it that. We broke the silence once in a while. It was like pink polka-dots in a field of despondence (read: out of place).
We spoke of reds and greens, touched them blues. What we sadly missed was the purple. It was what made it meaningless banter. The absurdity of the situation made me laugh. I mean, here I was, a seemingly prosaic boy…should I have not been there with all the world? But. Yes, so here I was- seeking purple. It came eventually, and that is what it is all about. Purple and the smell of coffee beans.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
something i wrote a long time back.
CHAMPA BAVDI (the step- wells of champa)
(this is a story narrated by a champa tree, my biggest muse and inspiration. If the word romance were to take a physical form, I am convinced that it would be that of a champa tree, my champa tree.)
Mandu, at this time of the year tends to get chilly. Early November. The evenings are so beautiful; I feel that Roopmati will walk down the Jahaj-Mahal steps any minute. Not that I have been around long enough to have ever seen her. Now that would have really been something. But everyone, and i mean everyone, keeps talking about her. Raajan even wrote about her, sitting right here, by the pool. But how I wish he would get a hair cut, that Raajan. He might come here, one of these days, by the way. Raajan always comes down to Mandu, to Jahaj-Mahal, to me, every winter. He makes love to Roopmati every winter, on parchment; at least that is what one of his women had said, repeatedly. And he comes here with different women, firangs mostly; or those artsy damsels from Bombay or Kolkata. But I like Naahid the best. The kohl below her eyes… The evenings are so beautiful; I feel that Roopmati will walk down the Jahaj-Mahal steps any minute.
I generally like to see through one of the numerous baaris, it is almost like taking pictures. Raajan also takes a lot of pictures, but never of his women. I wonder if my baaris are like his lens…the vista are rather ambiguous. The frames provide a kind of definition, context. It is very important to provide a context, unless you are talking to Freud. And anyways, if that is the case, then Freud would be doing the talking, not you. His libido astounds me, though. Not that Raajan’s does not, if Naahid is to be believed.
But I don’t think Naahid is the sort to lie, unlike Sarup. And Sarup does not even answer if you call her that. You have to call her Sarup Rani. The cheek of the thing. But Sarup Rani is not from Bombay or Kolkata. She probably does not even know that she is lying. She sold Raajan nimbu- paani for one rupee in front of people whom she had sold the same for four rupees. But then she claims to love Raajan. And selling the paani at that price is a sure sign of love, you know. The urbane streak appeals to her. And the juvenile girl keeps singing to him. I wonder why Raajan sometimes puts up with her. Not that I don’t. But when she signs those songs from umrao- jaan, trying to play the sultry courtesan, you really cannot help but wonder. And Sarup Rani is always applying kohl to her eyes if she knows that Raajan is coming. But, … the evenings are not so beautiful; I never feel that Roopmati will walk down the Jahaj-Mahal steps any minute. Her naiveté is touching, but only for about three minutes, and then Rani starts singing her song. Always the same song, dil cheez kya hai aap mere jaan leejiye…but we never interrupt her, not Naahid, not Raajan, not me.
Mandu, at this time of the year tends to get chilly. Raajan always puts his arms around Naahid, or whomever the object of his affection may be, and reads his poem. But the poem is about him making love to Roopmati, then I wonder why the women get so touched. . Their naiveté is touching, but only for about three minutes. The poem never fails to touch me, though. Raajan, I must tell you, that every time you have recited that poem; all I have felt like telling you -… dil cheez kya hai aap mere jaan leejiye…. But I never interrupt him, not Naahid, not the other women. . But how I wish he would get a hair cut, that Raajan. Sarup Rani has the best hair in Mandu, by the way. And she knows it. So well, too.
Her naiveté is touching. The gait and the swishing of those tresses. The frayed frocks, the inane looks she gives Raajan.
Sarup had dropped a glass-full of her nimbu-paani, the other day. On my roots, while she was busy gaping at Raajan, while he was doing what he does best. Raajan noticed her and gave her an indulging smile. Her heart must have skipped a beat. And then he mentioned me. But to Sarup. “Oh silly girl, are you selling the paani to trees now? Haha, not that you shouldn’t, the champa looks like it could do with a drink of tangy lemon juice”. My heart skipped a beat. A shiver ran down my branches. Mandu, at this time of the year tends to get chilly. Then Sarup scooped up her skirt and gave him a doleful look. But raajan was busy with his lens. He would not like to be bothered now. He had indulged in inane conversation with Sarup, now he would work. Suddenly he turned around, away from the bavdi, the mahal, and looked at me. At strange look crossed his face. He called to Sarup, much to my chagrin. I mean, here he was, my Raajan, looking at me, in his intense way. But calling that rag. Nevertheless, he was looking at me. I think I must ignore the fact that he called out to her. All I remember is that he looked at me. And then, without once pulling his eyes away from me, he asked Sarup Rani to go and sit by me. I can live with that. He talked about the light being just right. I don’t know, right for what. But i can live with that too. I don’t know why, but I knew that I must do something for him, and at that very moment, what with the light being just right too. He was looking at me through his lenses; I could feel Sarup at my feet. I let a flower fall. At that very instance he clicked. I could see, what effect the flower had on him. His eyes were moist. Sarup was untouched by the whole affair. But, her naiveté is touching.
He picked up my offering to him, looked at me. Came close to me, and murmured one magical word,’geetanjali’.
I know now, what it is to be Roopmati. She was queen. But for that day, she was a backdrop; the bavdis and the Mahals of Mandu was a backdrop. I was being celebrated; he was celebrating me. Raajan walked away after that, and I have not seen him since. It has been fourteen years now. But I am content. He murmured to me, and that for me, is enough. My naiveté is touching, even to me. But then I think Roopmati would understand, maybe Naahid would too. I don’t know, and I don’t care. I am content that he whispered. The sun is setting now, it is getting real dark. Maybe Raajan wont come this year too. I don’t know. Mandu, at this time of the year tends to get chilly.
My favorite poem
A lonely hermitage
On a mountain peak
Towering above a thousand others.
One half is occupied by a monk,
The other by a cloud!
It was stormy
And the cloud
was blown away.
After all a cloud is no match
To the old man’s quite way.
-a Tibetan poet (unknown).
Sunday, September 04, 2005
breakfast at Tiffany's
Am currently re-reading one of my favorite novella, Truman capote’s “breakfast at tiffany’s”. some characters you take an immese liking to. Some characters you identify with. Two such characters I have come across. One is holden Caulfield from ‘catcher in the rye’ and the other is holly golightly of ‘breakfat at tifanny’s’.
One of my favorite passages from the book goes….
“….i don’t want to own anything until I’ve found the place where me and things belong together. I’m not quite sure where that is just yet. But I know what its like….It’s like Tiffany’s,” she said. ….”what I’ve found does the most good is just to get into a taxi and go to tiffany’s. It calms me down right away, the quietness and the proud look of it; nothing very bad could happen to you there, not with those kind of men in their nice suits, and that lovely smell of silver and alligator wallets. If I could find a real-life place that made me feel like Tiffany’s…..”
arister, the etymology
Greek origin (but ofcourse…hehe) from which we get the word aristocrat. It means left or left handed (lefty, if you must). A deviation which is considered superior over the hackneyed. Yes, I am left handed. Superior …..hehe. naa! But it is interesting to note that the greeks would have such notions (one among many). Ask me! I am struggling with plato’s republic, socrates’ ideas on beauty. But one phrase which caught my facy is inscribed on a pillar of the temple at Delphi goes…”the most beautiful is the most just”.
Saturday, September 03, 2005
everyone blogs of books they like. authors they like. how bout the ones you cant stand. havent read. will not read. have read and hated? here's my list... would like to hear others hatelist....cant stand naipaul, rushdie, agatha Christie, amitav ghosh, rohinton mistry, mahasweta devi, Sylvia plath, yann martel/mitzel (booker winner for ‘life of pi’….ughs!), most Russians (Tolstoy, dostovsky, kafka). For ridiculous reasons (stuck up and affected that I can be) I refuse to read dan brown’s ‘masterpiece' (hah!). cant help but fall asleep if i read shelly, wordsworth, keats….
encore for bhupen among friends
Went again to see the show. The works of jo (jogen chowdhuri for the unsuspecting) were seminal (a very personal point of view). If I had the money this set was what I would have grabbed. Homage to bhupen by jogen. Both my favorite artists. Doesn’t get better than this. But then ofcourse the prices were beyond forbidding. Someday. Must know soon who picked them up. It was a tiring day. Lots of discourses on tantric art. A bit much for a dimwit like me. But I try. Then with a set of friends for coffee at gaylords. Nice.
high art and beer
Opening night of the himmat shah show. Interesting sketches. Very dynamic and rich in form. I think the cleaner works were much nicer. The bull and some faces. Very primitive ways. Picasso comes to my mind. The sculptures were not what caught my fancy. I probably haven’t evolved a taste for 3d work….yet. perhaps it requires a higher level of maturity. I don’t know. But that was last night. Felt a bit bottled up and claustrophobic at the show (don’t generally go for opening nights). It was a bit ‘not me’. But the works were fantastic. Most faces at the ‘do’ were new. I was hoping to see a few people I know who generally go for most shows. But the few people I knew from before were nice. Bumped into a fellow aesthete. I think if I were not doing what I do, I would have liked to be an artist. Don’t know if I have what it takes to be one. But one can always speculate. So, after the show I needed to unwind desperately. Sports bar was a bit much. Headed to mondegar’s with a bunch of friends. Tired. For the first time mondy’s failed to cheer me up. It didn’t help that it was muggy and packed as hell. We got the worst table and hated it. Gulped down a few glasses of beer (I have decided not to count em glasses- I feel guilty the next day). Headed to leopold’s then. Nice. Airconditioned. Great eye candy. Good beer. Lots of it. Good music. The good life.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
The show at gallery chemould- bhupen among friends- a tribute to bhupen khakhar by friends- a show that makes me think. The multilayered works with a plethora of meanings and nuances in each layer. Few contemporary artists paint with such unpretentious and unguarded zeal. There is simplicity in his work that is so difficult to create, it is most ironical. His works deal with the prosaic and the real. Everything is stripped to its crudest and most basic. Perhaps it is time to question our ‘complex’ world. An attempt to simplify. Why do we emphasize so much on the complex? Priorities need re-evaluation. The child like zest is what I feel I am losing. It is so easy to grow up so fast. I think too much is happening too fast. To be the youngest teacher at a college. To teach the highest credits subject for the final year. To be the youngest (read: dumbest) student of my post-grad class . To set up my own practice so early in life. To much too soon. I feel like I am thrown out into space and don’t know what to do with myself. The gravity that I took for granted is missing. I am thankful for all the good. I complain about all the things I don’t have. All that I would trade for to get that one elusive wish fulfilled. But then its just me to not be happy with what I have. But then again, that is fine. All fine. There are bouts of self pity. May be they are too frequent to be bouts. But then I don’t know how qualifies as bouts in 24 hours. Does anyone?