On anonymity and being a blogger. Again.

This blog has always been slightly obsessed with meta discussions on blogging, being a blogger, and being unknown to the people in your blogging community.  It's not done yet.

All those musings were partly out of curiousity at the process and world I was involved in, and partly due to my growing belief that words should be judged on their own merit, not because of who wrote them (read the written, not the writer).

Keeping my identity private was an effective screening process - it provided me with the luxury of getting to know people (in as much as a blog can let you) and then deciding whether they were the ones I wanted to know better. Plus, it meant I didn't have to be rude by not agreeing to know somebody just because they had read my blog and thought they knew me. Yes, ironical, I know.

I also wanted to avoid cliques. Avoid carrying blog conversations offline, or bringing the latter ones to pages here. I didn't like it when people would have private conversations on public forum, so I decided not to inflict it on others. Whatever was there, was on the blog.

Plus, it's hard enough to keep track of the friends I have - and I mean the chaddi-buddy, yeh-fine-lets-go-take-on-a-mafia-gang type of friends, not Facebook contacts.  And it's harder to deal with the sense of loss of not being able to spend more time with them, scattered as we are across the world.  So why would I want to get to know more interesting people only to drift away from them as well?

More than anything, though, I kept private because there was the ever-present possibility that I would not keep this up longer, and would one day cut loose and vamoose.  I wanted to avoid all the questions, the prodding to maybe come back - all of which I could ignore if I simply didn't know anybody.

And that's how it turned out.  It was so easy to just snap ties. Sure, I may have been able to put a few names to some avatars, and I may have exchanged a few emails, but that was it.  Time to move, no explanations necessary. It was liberating, and made me feel just a little like young Kimball O'Hara.

Except that it was callous.  Small as my readership may be, and transient as a blog-life may be, it was disrespectful to just stop like that without any explanations.  I'd log in once in a few months, and check my feeds, and wonder what was happening with the people who had gone silent too. Were they busy writing books? Did they get married? Did they have new jobs? Were they even alive?  Even if one person had wondered that about me, then I had been terribly rude.

Which doesn't mean that I'm going public.  What I am doing is telling you that if I need to stop writing again, I will tell you and tell you why. And if I cannot do so myself, there's a backup which will do so for me.  This much I owe you.

And I do apologise.

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Of course, I'm not planning to go away anytime soon again. Especially since I have a better idea of what this blog should be about.

This long absence has given me lots of time to go over these pages, and to clean up the output.  Lots of entries are gone, several more have been edited.  And a clearer sense of my ... voice ... is now known to me.  One which I plan to exercise a lot more, honing and refining till I don't have to go back and edit it anymore.

Some of the categories are unlikely to be revisited. There's going to be less outrage (because it doesn't really help), less commentary, and hopefully, more random weirdness.

I may not necessarily be as prolific as a result, but I hope to be better.

A world grown strange

Long ago (or what feels like it), I had written about how blogs are like neighbourhoods.  Well, Dorothy, this old hangout sure feels different.

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It feels strange to be back.

A looksee around this pad of mine, tracing the outlines of what was once a second home. The accumulations of a wandering mind, all so immediately familiar, yet subtly alien, as if a twin had evolved it. Sudden hesitations mark what I seem to remember performing unthinkingly, demanding a closer look, demanding me to wonder what made me choose them.  There's a slight frigidity about the place, a pseudo-life that was created and abandoned, vaguely aware of wanting to be angry at its maker yet failing to truly be able to do anything because it never really was.

I contemplate apologising, but I wonder who it is that wants to apologise, and to whom.  Some vortexes keep on sucking.

A rush outside, away away from this uncertainty.  To solidity, to the areas based on strong foundations and with long-term tenants.  To the places of known shelter and amusement and serenity and wonder. To my block.

But it isn't anymore.  Not all of it.

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I notice the forlorn silences of some parts, and laugh at my naivety that nobody else would go wandering. I delve a little into these empty expanses, learning histories through recent markers, trying to fill in the gaps when there are none. So many unknowns, so many aching questions.

I wonder, did all of us expect the others to be our constants? Did the rest too expect the party to keep going, hoping to slide back into their favourite seat to the tune of a friendly wave, hoping that nobody else would want to explore? Did the others also sometimes return quietly like this, watching the slow desolation, shuffling off in quiet regret, asking the same questions?

I almost feel that I can feel their after-presence, and I try to reach past these sealed doors to discover the imprints they left behind, hoping to understand more.  There is no way in, or back. I wonder where they are, who they are. I wonder why I almost never wondered about this before. I wonder if they don't either.

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I stare at some addresses, certain I used to visit them often, but no longer able to recognise them properly.  The nameplates mock me and the ego of my memory-boasts, but even their scorn can barely highlight a path through this fog.

The funny teenager merges into the roving foodie who overshadows the larking musician who ask me how I could so truly forget this all and whether I was really fully there when I was here and what does that say about who I was and am and why I should expect renewed invitations.  Do you really not remember that time, that joke, that conversation... I stand silent, confounded, searching frantically within for the person who could so easily unremember, running so fast you would think I hoped never to find that one.  I contemplate super-imposed brain scans under a green light, but I know the answer is easier to find.  As is the path back.

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I pause sometimes before houses I never really knew, dwellings of friends of friends and complete strangers who were always described as interesting, whose overheard conversations and inner jokes sometimes touched me by, who I said I would one day find out about, but never truly did.

I try to imagine the stories I never heard, the connections I missed, the inner worlds I never discovered. I try to convince myself of the old excuses of time and identity, and realise I have no one to fool but myself. And I know that's something I won't let myself do again. I move on for now, promising to at least think of cadging an introduction and exploring these avenues. All the while knowing there will always be too much, and too little time.

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And all the while, I remain aware of the rooms still tenanted and pass quietly under the cautious gazes.

I notice some of the changes in the furnishings in them, notice how some show signs of new interests and lost interests.  I wondering if I'm only imagining the hurt aloofness and in the lively laughter, a promise that these conversations have decided to pass me by.  I try to reach out, to answer, to speak.  I try to think of reasons that would evoke acceptance and forgiveness and welcome, that would cut off discussions on friendships and trust and prodigality. I try, but know I won't be able to, knowing that I haven't been able to in all my absence. What can you say to those who were your own? There is nothing to say. There is so much to say.

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I finish my tour and here I finally stand, in the middle of this neighbourhood.  I mark the empty meeting spots. The quietly-carrying-on bookshop. The diner that no longer worries about creations, but offers filling nutrition. The children's play area that's come up.  The houses that are now just yearly retreats for those who have gone on to more successful things.  The new couples walking along. The broken hearts mending, some new, some a-new. The lenses capturing these images. The pens putting all of this to poetry.

I hover, uncertain of the next move.  I think of making my rounds, knocking on the doors, seeing who'll have me back. But I know that would be too false, too eager, too not-me. I think of calling up the few ever-dependables and asking them to spread the word, but I was never the life of the party that everyone flocked to come, just the one to the off-centre, shouting out the occasional funny line.

I decide instead to stay out here for a while, on my old seat.  There's so much reading to catch up on.  There's so many names and introductions and chats and bad puns to remember.  I'll put out some tea and baked goodies, hoping it won't seem like too much of a bribe, knowing that they will know it is.

I wonder who will notice, who will come.  I wonder if it will be enough for them to simply hear that that this time I don't plan to go away.  I wonder where this will go.  There's so much to learn again, so much to see, so many procedures and names and links to learn.  So many discussions to be had, so many stories to tell. So much of so much of so many worlds.  All in time.

For now, it's time to reclaim my spot.

Friday Fact/Fiction

(Some of this is true. Or not.)

For the last three years, I haven't posted on this blog because:

a) I decided to travel this world I find myself in, and decided to spend most of my earnings traipsing across the Andes, sub-Saharan Africa, the Central Asian 'Stans, and the Asean countries. I was usually so exhilarated and bewildered by the various trips, that I needed time to assimilate them at leisure on my return. Blogging about those experiences in the brief interludes of rest felt so ... bleh.

b) I began staring at words and could not recognise them anymore. The whole concept of language broke down. I had to seek therapy. This is my guilty fix.

c) I discovered a little ashram in the countryside and decided to spend some time there to fully understand who I really was. I farmed a bit, meditated a bit, stared at the scenery a lot. I once spent 47 days without talking.  I think they used to slip me drugs in the food. I managed to get away after I found myself cuddling a fern.

d) Too many people began to come close to finding out who I was, which got uncomfortable, and I also found myself following and commenting on blogs written by people I knew and then having to pretend when I met them in person, which just got weird.

e) I got into protest movements. One of them got ugly. The lackeys of the capitalist overlords decided to target me, forcing me to go on the run. I was eventually caught. The next few months were ... not nice.

f) Too many changes in life happened. Blogging was the last thing on my mind.

g) I no longer knew what I wanted to blog about. When I made up my mind about that, writer's block happened. I had to seek therapy.  This is my rejuvenation.

Either way, my poppets ... I'm back.

This slogan can mean whatever I want you to.

Oh...still here? Didn't notice you lurking there.

Good little blog.

/pat

Stay.

I'll come visit soon maybe.

No! Bad blog!

Stay.

/scoot

Things change.

And you look back, and look around now, and you wonder.

And you doubt.

And you laugh. off.

And you cringe.

And you rationalise.

And you cannot believe it was you who was that, then.

And you cannot accept that it will still be you, soon, doing the same things in years to come.

And you deny.

And you fight.

And you reinvent.

And you never accept that this is you.

And that this will always be you.

And you're stuck.

And that if you just realised that, you would be free.

Friday Fun: Fact/Fiction

(While this could be true, it could also not be)
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When I was seven (or maybe eight), I was going through all the colour-coded Blyton short stories books. One of those carried this story about a mean woman who kept thumping and banging all her furniture and belongings, and how they (the table, the teapot, the pots, etc) got fed up and began playing tricks on her till she realised what was happening and started treating them better.

The story simultaneously made me thankful that there was at least one other person in the world who believed that the objects around us were alive and secretly communicating with each other, and made me even more paranoid for the same reason.

So if you catch me apologising after slamming a door, you know why.

Questions

"Oh. Well, let's see....Little babies float about on purple bricks, and then giant frisbees come in and announce that they are breaking the rules and will be put away in a room with some no-handled mugs, only they're interrupted by a bottle of ginger beer that jumps up and down and up down and up and down and sprays froth all over them so that the babies escape, and then the frisbees send some wild sunflowers after them that keep reflecting sunlight into the path of the babies so that it's too shiny to see where they're going, and then they come to a river of liquid emerald and the bricks refuse to go on because everybody knows that purple and green don't match, so the babies hop off and take out their lollipops and lick them till they're really sticky and then throw them at the sunflowers to tangle them up, and then -"

"No. I meant, tell us about your career dreams."

"........."

Split

It's not you,
it's me.

The me you turned the me
who wanted to be with you
into.

The me that is more what you
imagined me to be,
than the me that could have been.

The me I stare at,
as you would at an old friend
in disbelief
at the embarassment they have become.

It's not you,
it's me,
me,
me.
And I want me back.

The crumbs left behind in the butter after toast has been made.

The swirls of changing colour as cream is mixed into a tomato-based sauce.

The just-brown of perfectly grilled cheese.

The way dal bubbles out of the little hole in the middle of the rice mound.

The way an orange balances when you pierce it with your thumb.

The little film that forms on the top of a properly brewed cup of chai.

The inexhaustible soakability of a tiny crust of bread in mopping up gravy.

The way the flesh pops out when you squeeze a grape just right.

The way drowned biscuits end up as abstract art.

The way a dollop of butter transforms soup.

....the little magics of food.

"Lame excuse. Real bloggers can blog on stone, wood, fire and even water".
- The ever-reliable KM.

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In some form or the other, most of us have remarked about how personal blogs are a form of navel-gazing.

Trying to figure out why you have one is just the extreme version of the sport (?).

Over these three years (fraaaaack!) I've come to understand why I'm doing so, and maybe understand why I'm doing it in the way I do. And some of them I'm even beginning to accept, even though I'm not sure of them.

Like why I don't blog spontaneously that often. Like why I don't spill frustrations and problems out here. Like how I'd rather people think I was lazy than correct them about why I'm not blogging.

Because that's my way of doing it.

Which only gives me more avenues to explore at leisure - why is that my way of doing it?

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However, there's this little niggling guilt that's always there. As if I owe something to the blog. To all of you. To myself, to justify all the time spent on the blog so far. To all the drafts I make up and am just too lazy to type out (note to self: look up speech-to-text software).

And what I think I owe is to do it properly, rather than haphazardly, or because I think I should. So maybe I might just take an extended break till I sort this out. Till I figure out how I want to blog. And whether I'm a blogger, or just have a blog (yes, this old chestnut again).

Although, maybe that's just how I do like to do it, in which case I shouldn't fight it. And I might continue to remain erratic.

Who knows?

Have a waffle.
With melted chocolate and cream, of course.

There are lines everywhere.

Some lines were laid down after a group of people decided that what they all agreed on made sense, and which have been slowly reinforced by each succeeding generation, making the lines a little bit deeper and a little bit wider, till they're no longer lines but a deep chasm that forces you most of the time to stay on the side you are on, the side where everybody else is and where everything's known and comfortable, till such a time as you finally draw together the crazed courage to give in to the need to prove that it is possible to cross unscathed; and you ready and you ready and you ready and then rush down the slope as fast as you can, hoping that your belief-fuelled momentum will put a giant hand on your ass and push you as you struggle up the other side, only to slowly realise that it's not going to happen, because what you thought was a chasm is really a pit, a giant trap to snare fools like you who try and fight for themselves, who believe that they can escape when so many others never could, who believe they should be allowed to do what they want and not what they're told, only to run (willingly, mind you) into this place and stand here like you do, right down in the deepest part of the shadows, realising you may never get to the place you wanted to...and never get back either; and all you are left with are the others who wander the underworld, unwanted deserters who wanted to explore new territories, your new family.

Some lines run away from where you stand, splitting up and rushing away from your singularity, so that you see no point in trying to find a way around, but instead walk across, and keep walking and walking till you realise the lines have managed to sneak around, and you remember that a circle is just a series of infinitely small lines, and that you've been lured into the centre of one, into something that you have no idea about and want less to do with, and that you can only always be either in or out, and that there is no other side.

Some lines are drawn by your mind, signposts in a special colour that only you can see and which only you understand the significance of, laid down so that you prevent yourself from becoming the person you nightmare that you can be, so that they become a permanent challenge, testing you all the time, daring, wheedling, tempting, a challenge that you sometimes fail, which you try and negate by crossing right back and telling yourself that it didn't matter because nobody saw you crossing the line anway and besides you're right where you started, but which the line never lets you forget, as it smiles and tempts to double-cross yourself again.

There are lines everywhere.
And they lie.