Saturday, March 13, 2010


I'm verging on melodramatic fag here. Best be getting back to 'serious' journalism soon. Thing is, I am not proud of the work I have been doing the past few months (at the college where I am currently studying.) I thought it would be a step forward and in many ways it has. But in terms of 'inspiring' me to write it's kind of killed my imagination. You don't get inspired sitting in a white washed classroom. Inspiration comes from speaking, seeing, feeling, tasting (and yes, smoking) new things. Discovery doesn't happen on demand, in college and just for the sake of an assignment. Anything less than that doesn't get me on my toes and ,sorry, I can't being myself to do third rate work for the sake of doing it.

So till I feel like I have something to show off I'm going to use this space for what most blogs are for. Self-fulfilling ranting. Buh-bye.

Friday, March 12, 2010

Ramchandra Guha, The Economist, Humphrey Hawksley and V.S Naipaul. What do any of these literary bombs have in common. Nothing except they are all sharing a shelf on my 6-foot-dismantable-pastel colored Damro. Its not so much about what they have written about but more their style - narrative non-fiction. The term first cropped up at the release of a magazine called 'The Caravan'. Apparently there is a big market for this kind of stuff. Maybe. Maybe not. By cropped up means that its the first time it occurred to any of my egos that such a thing existed. Apparently that dude who wrote 'The old man and the sea' used it too. A quick google tells me that its Ernest Hemingway. Sorry, I am currently practicing a writing style that involves a stream of concious thought. Unfortunatly that means that anyone reading this must deal with endless wandering off to different tangents while the returning to the original plot only to get distracted again. I am telling myself this isnt absolutly ridiculous because a famous ( I only heard of him when his estate {he is long deceased} came about some controversy thanks to relatives {or maybe just decendants of a wicked ex-wife} ) His name is Jack Kerouc or some such crock. I did manage to pick up his bestselling (highest earning to the ex-wife) book called on the road which supposedly inploys this form of streaming conciousness. It's rather tricky because I'm not quite sure whether I am to stop and correct the increasing number of red lines I am leaving strooled (is that a word? I;m not sure. There is a red line) across my page. I'm not even sure I'm supposed to stop to breathe let along light my next ciggarrte. Oh this is truly embrassing. What if one of my posh university educatedfriends were to stumble across this and see their slightly retarded friend can't even spell ciggatrrete. I wonder at what point will I consider this article done? If i began with no end in mind will I never end? I confess I just committed my first 'backspace' crime. Well five to be exact. And I just took my second break. Finger aches. But by never allowing my story to end have I just found immortality. Highly unlikely but still its an interesting point to reflect on. If an author trying to stream his thoughts on to paper (laptops are adequate too) is distracted from a primary objective or, as in this case, has none then he creates mindless dribble. Well, I dont know yet because I havent really had the chance to read it back to myself. I turst it is fairly all-over-the-place considering I can barely remember what I started writing this about. Maybe all the objective I had (sub-conciously ofcourse) was to start writing again. I'm getting the inkling that when I read this back to myself I shall find many interesting points upon which to further illaborate. Till then ta ta!