Blogs, Blog Camps, and a Thousand Words

[This is in continuation of a discussion that started on PuneTech, on Navin's Blog about BlogCamp Pune 2. Although I wasn't planning to attend the blog camp, I got sucked into the discussion, and then Dhananjay left a request for comment, of sorts]

I started typing a response and it became so long that I decided to make a blog-post out of it. This is what you’ll find here (don’t tell me I didn’t warn you):

1. Why I blog, and ruminations on blogging, reach, and value.
2. Thoughts on blogging cultures, and types of blog
3. Thoughts on blog camps

However, since it started in the context of Dhananjay’s comment/ruminations, I’ll treat this as a response, rather than a self-sufficient post.

Homosexuality: a meta (or non) normative take

This post started as a comment to Sakshi’s post for the ongoing blogathon (which I heard about, thanks to Sakshi) on the subject of homosexuality. It’s a well written post, in the sense that it expressed the right sentiments — people’s sexual inclination should be none of anyone’s business. And in that sense, society needs to accept, if not respect, the choices and move on. Yes choices.

However, after making a claim about homosexuality being a challenge to the normative, rather than being abnormal, Sakshi makes a stronger appeal:

Normative needs to include all forms of sexualities.

This got me thinking. [It's been a while since I'm writing a real non-fiction post, so bear with me if I'm not coherent]

Quote of the day – July 3, 09

Came across this, while reading this piece about writers giving back to reviewers.

The danger of the internet [...] is not so much that anyone can express their opinion – if that is true, everyone is also free to ignore that opinion – but the way it sets a casual statement in stone, and propagates it freely. An author’s response to a bad review may be immediate, but the heartfelt expression of your emotional pain is there for as long as anyone chooses to preserve it.

Succinct put! Including the aside about “free to ignore”.

PS: Learned another thing from the comments. Depreciate, in its transitive form, means belittle. Something, even the columnist didn’t know/overlooked.

A Blind Date (Concluded)

The first time he really talked to her, he could feel heat building up in his body. It wasn’t even the sexual tension, although, with her around, that was always in the air (in his mind). All his googling about the impending encounter had proved useless in the first couple of seconds, as his body took over, and his mind went into reflexive mode. In the excitement of the encounter, and the sense of achievement he felt, he hardly noticed what was said. All he knew was that she had suggested (to his utter surprise and relief) that they meet for a Saturday brunch.

Now, trying to recall the conversation, he remembered it wasn’t she who had suggested brunch. It was he who had mentioned an early lunch or brunch. It suited his weekend rhythm. She had agreed, although he thought she was a bit baffled.

It was going to be lunch, at this rate, he thought, as he checked his watch again.

***

Just as he was sure that she had played an elaborate practical joke on him, he saw her sporty yellow car screech to a halt in the parking lot. She reversed the car into an empty parking lot making a guy jump off out of her path.

She smiled as she saw him.

“Hi”, she said, as he led her towards the cafe.

He tried to smile back, but all that came out was an awkward movement of the lips that was aborted, even before it could take shape of any meaningful human expression. Instantly, he felt hotness around his ears, and a blush spread on his face. He looked away, in panic.

“I said Hi”, she said, pouting her lips, and in mock anger.

He was glad that he wasn’t fair skinned, for the blush would have been impossible to hide then.

“Sorry”, he blurted out. “I mean, hi, how are you?”

She smiled again, as she answered, “That was cute. Blush and all!”

He desperately wanted to change the subject. She was late, he remembered. Should he ask her what took her so long? No apology had come, either, he made a mental note.

“Stuck in traffic?” he asked abruptly.

“Oh no. It was lovely actually, driving on empty roads. I should get up early more often”

He chuckled. So she was just late like that? he wondered.

There was an option of sitting outside, the waiter told them. The cafe had a small garden. He hated it, because it was on the roadside, and the noise there was significant.

“Yeah we’ll prefer that”, she said.

He looked at her aghast. She was already moving though, following the waiter.

They sat down, in a corner table. At least there is some privacy, he thought, looking at the well manicured bush that separated them from the next table.

She looked a little miffed, and he had no way of knowing if it was because of something he did or didn’t do. Should I have pulled out the chair for her, he wondered.

“It’s kind of late, should we order lunch right away?” he asked her.

She seemed not to take any hint, though. Still no apology, he said to himself.

***

“What are you humming?”, she asked, as they waited for the food to arrive. The small talk hadn’t survived the first few minutes. She had tried to go on her own, for a few more minutes, and then seeing not much response, she had also stopped talking. If she was irritated, there was no way for him to figure out. Her face seemed quite careless. The silence was awkward, but mainly for him. It was then that he had started humming. It was Jupitar again.

“Jupitar”, he said enthusiastically. Finally something to talk about, without leaving his comfort zone.

“Which group is that?”, she asked.

“Ummm. It’s Mozart’s 41st Symphony. The last moment”, he had said, his enthusiasm weaning as fast as it had built up.

“Oh! That orchestra kind of stuff?”

He felt a stabbing pain. Then he realized he was just wishing it. He wondered if he was overreacting. After all, it was, orchestra kind of stuff, literally. Thankfully, the waiter arrived with their orders, just then, and he didn’t have to answer her question.

What did she read, he wondered. Not Sidney Sheldon’s, he prayed. He was suddenly afraid to ask. She wasn’t.

“How come you eat this early on a Saturday?”, she asked.

“I like to stretch the day by cutting down a meal. I take an early meal, and then just pick up some book and read through the afternoons. Only on weekends does one get time these days”

That was the longest sequence of words he had spoken to any girl, in quite some while. Except for his sister, of course.

It was difficult talking to his sister, too. But for entirely different reasons. First chance, and she’d start listing the litany of her troubles. Household troubles, he sighed. Indisciplined kid, unconcerned husband, meddling mother-in-law … Doesn’t she understand I don’t give a damn, he wondered. And then it hit him again, the dread. Is this what my life would turn into? Is this what all this courtship was supposed to be for?

“Hello?”, her voice got him back.

He looked at her, puzzled.

“I was asking you what do you like to read?”

He wondered what should he say. For some reason, he didn’t want to sound too highbrow. That left out the Kafkas, the Manns, and the Joyces. But then, he wouldn’t allow himself to be seen as having anything to do with the populars. That left out the occasional Ludlum that he enjoyed, or even Richard Bach or Paul Cohello, that he did enjoy a while back.

He settled on Wodehouse. That was a safe bet.

She rolled her eyes. “I tried reading that once. Nothing happens in it!”

He looked away, trying to hide his disappointment in vain. Not because he did a bad job of it, but there just wasn’t much need to try. She wasn’t even looking at his reaction, when she said that.

“I like …”, he held his hand out for the waiter.

***

Why had she agreed on this date, he asked himself. The answers were hard to find. He didn’t have an inferiority complex about his personality, at all, but he knew he wasn’t the kind of guy that most girls will notice. And she might be extra-ordinary in her looks, but even as he was secretly charmed by her, he didn’t believe for a minute that she was any different. So how had this happened?

“I was surprised you knew me”, he said, as he took a sip of the Merlot. It wasn’t too good, and for a moment he thought of ordering something else. She seemed quite happy with it, though.

“This is lovely”, she said, “I rarely drink wine. “But I like this”.

He decided to endure the wine, too.

“Sorry, you were asking something?”, she said, finally.

“I was saying, I was surprised you knew me at all”

“Everyone knows you!” she said. “You’re our resident genius, after all”

For a moment he looked at her face, to catch a hint of derision or sarcasm. But she betrayed nothing but sincerity.

He frowned.

“I payed you a compliment, you know”, she said, her pout returning.

“I don’t know what to say! Thank you”

He took another sip of the wine. It wasn’t that bad, he thought. It must have been the aftertaste of the starters, that had spoiled the first sip.

***

“Are you free on Saturday?”, his friend asked, “Lunch at our place?”

“Ummmm”, he hesitated.

“What? You are not going on a date are you?”

He grinned.

His voice almost inaudible, he added, “a blind date”.

Steppenwolfed!

Yesterday morning I picked up Steppenwolf by Hermann Hesse. I had exactly ten minutes, and I could have picked nothing, as well. But then I have been patiently reading it, in whatever slots I’m getting. Such a injustice to one of my all time favorite authors, I know. Well, as it turns out, I did the right thing, after all. And this was the reward:

Ah, but it is hard to find this track of the divine in the midst of this
life we lead, in this besotted humdrum age of spiritual blindness, with
its architecture, its business, its politics, its men!  How could I fail
to be a lone wolf, and an uncouth hermit, as I did not share one of its
aims nor understand one of its pleasures? I cannot remain for long in
either theater or picture-house. I can scarcely read a paper, seldom a
modern book. I cannot understand what pleasures and joys they are that
drive people to the overcrowded railways and hotels, into the packed
cafés with the suffocating and oppressive music, to the Bars and variety
entertainments, to World Exhibitions, to the Corsos. I cannot understand
nor share these joys, though they are within my reach, for which
thousands of others strive. On the other hand, what happens to me in my
rare hours of joy, what for me is bliss and life and ecstasy and
exaltation, the world in general seeks at most in imagination; in life
it finds it absurd. And in fact, if the world is right, if this music of
the cafés, these mass enjoyments and these Americanised men who are
pleased with so little are right, then I am wrong, I am crazy. I am in
truth the Steppenwolf that I often call myself; that beast astray who
finds neither home nor joy nor nourishment in a world that is strange
and incomprehensible to him.

Hesse, is pure bliss.

More on the subject: Touch of Divinity.

A Blind Date (Part I)

He waited impatiently for her. It was more than thirty minutes past the time she said she will come.

“I should have waited in the car”, he said to himself, as he wiped perspiration off his forehead. It wasn’t a particularly hot day, of course. It was just his anxiety. It had been a heroic effort for him to even talk to her. Words always seemed to fail him when she greeted him in the office canteen, or walked past him. He would attempt a feeble smile, and return the greeting, before walking away a tad too quickly.

She was beautiful, way beyond his league, he’d say to himself. She was tall, but not too tall (neither was he), strikingly fair (not that is really mattered to him that much), and had very prominent features. Her complexion allowed her to carry both dull and bright colors with equal ease. And she was always dressed almost perfectly (according to him): neither too casual, nor too dressy; just about right to make people take notice.

It all started with sideway glances. He was always aware of her presence nearby. Even when he was busy with his work (and he took it very seriously), he could pick up her soft voice, as she spoke with someone in the hallways. He would get up and walk to the water tap, even when he wasn’t particularly thirsty. But as he passed by her, his blood-pressure would rise suddenly, and his movements would become awkward — the way they typically become when one least wants them to.

At first he thought she never noticed him. He was so sure of the ordinariness of his looks that he thought he was invisible to her (and to most people, but that hardly mattered to him). A few times she caught him staring at her and looking away as soon as she looked at him. He tried to avoid her gaze, after such instance. But, the next time, he would spot her looking at him with mischievous expressions. He would look away in haste.

***

He looked at his watch, for maybe the hundredth time. To his surprise, it had hardly moved.

“I should have just waited in the car and listened to Jupiter“, he murmured. He started humming the movement of Mozart’s last symphonic work, from where he had left it. He thought about its intricate interplay between diverse themes, and their fabulous confluence near the end. He had got out just before the real interesting parts. He had, of course, heard it a hundred times. But it still made him irritated — leaving it unfinished like that …

Why was he there, he wondered. All these years, he had been happy alone. There was so much to do with life that he had never felt that his life lacked anything. Did he feel that now, he wondered for a moment? Or was it just his mom, and sister, and their pestering questions?

“When are you going to get married?”, his mom had tried to reopen the conversation — that he absolutely detested — the last time he’d called on her. It wasn’t as if he did not want to get married. He just hated the whole concept of arranged marriages. Did his heart long for a companionship now? Now that most of his friends were settled in their married lives? He was ready to acknowledge to himself (although he would never hint that to his mom, or his sister) that he did feel a longing — if that’s what it was, whatever that he was feeling. It was another matter, that he felt completely inadequate to do anything about it.

“Why don’t you try blind dating?”, a married friend had kidded him.

“What’s wrong with arranged marriages then?”, he had retorted.

“Who said there is anything wrong with them?”, the friend had asked, a little offended, he noted.

“I didn’t mean it that way”, he had said, “I’m sorry”.

“Chod yaar“, the friend had said. Forget it, man.

“You’re too bloody serious in life”, the friend had added, as he excused himself to take his wife’s phone call.

[To Be Continued ...]

FAQ on Facebook Vanity URLs

FAQ on Facebook Vanity URL

Q. WTF is it?
A. If you believe in the excitement surrounding it, it’s your passport to virtual fame, virtual identity, and virtual life. If you don’t believe in it, it’s a WTF.

Q. What is WTF?
A. Are you even literate?

Q. Should I get a FB vanity URL?
A. What can I say but, get a (virtual) life!

Q. What happens if I don’t get one?
A. I’m afraid, you should seriously consider suicide as an option. People have killed themselves for more unimportant things. Besides, the shame won’t let you live anyways. As well be proactive.

Q. I didn’t get one, and I don’t want to kill myself, what should I do?
A. Try grabbing a celebrity vanity (is that redundant?) url. Like facebook.com/britneyspears

Q. If I get a celebrity vanity url, how would people search me?
A. And why would they want to do that?

Q. I can’t seem to view profiles of people using their vanity urls? Why is that?
A. Because, the vanity is only in the url.

Q. Will I be more popular if I have a vanity url?
A. Not unless you grab one of those celebrity url (see above).

Q. Err. But how would that make me more popular?
A. If you have the intelligence to ask this question, why are you reading this FAQ?

Q. What if I want to remain anonymous, and still like a vanity url of my own?
A. Sorry. facebook.com/anonymous is already gone.

Q. Who got the url?
A. The real anonymous.

Q. Are you being mean because you didn’t get a vanity url that you wanted?
A. No. I’m originally mean.

Happiness Is The State of Mind

Happiness is the state of mind, and body?

[A road-roller driver waiting patiently, in the mid-afternoon sun, for the people laying the tar. It would look as if he's sitting in a reclining chair in the back garden, on a nice breezy evening]

the road roller guy

Mozart Symphony 41 K 551 – Molto Allegro

Almost every time, it’s either goosebumps, or tears. Is more needed to make life worthwhile?

KandaBatata Update (Jun 10)

The most ardent fan of my writing, parikrama, commented that my KandaBatata blogs need more visibility than it currently has. Well, here it is, my friend: a sticky post on my main blog.

It’s another matter that it’s hardly read itself. But what the hell, I gave my best shot!

Here then are the latest KandaBatata (TM) posts:

Prominent Atheist Kills Himself after God’s Existence is Disproved

Older:

Taliban to bid for Pamela swimsuit

Hopefully, parikrama, your judgment is better than mine.

Phew! (or quote of the year?)

Was listening to Cryptonomicon audiobook while commuting today, when I heard a quote that knocked me out:

“You should be a billionaire, Randy. Thank god you’re not.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Oh, because then you’d be a highly intelligent man who never has to make difficult choices—who never has to exert his mind. It is a state much worse than being a moron.”

And to think we all aspire to be in that state, precisely!