MOOD ----> SO not drunk
POST TYPE :THOUGHT
LISTENING TO - The Vodafone ad "Every day I want to fly..."
I don’t write much, to be very literal. Half the time, I write drafts inside my head, edit and scrap (the old meaning – to crumple and dunk it into a waste paper basket) them – all in 10 minutes, at the most, of brainstorming. That way, I need to write less, but it also means that the meanest critic of them all tears my stuff to shreds even before I get to write it. Today I went ahead and disabled the little personal censor in my head, to try to be a prolific writer- a “writey writer” – the kind that sits at his desk, and turns into a (rather slow) human printing press.
However, on embarking upon this endeavour for “generating more output”, I was stumped – How DO you write more than 2 things a day?
I’ve already bled the “Think On Paper” maxim dry, so I needed something more intelligent than that, though finally, its all we ever do, and its all I’ve done here.
The train of thought derailed, soon my mind was searching in little word clouds, looking for something to write in a sea of randomness, till I found an intoxicated man with a dishevelled beard and an old fountain-pen in his pocket, hanging on to some driftwood, and evidently trying to paddle his way to some destination. Similar predicament.
Drunk, Doped, Stoned – Dishevelled, Inebriated, and Social Nuisance by choice – is how a few successful and way too many wannabe writers ‘conduct themselves with dignity’. Ever disinclined to create such a spectacle of myself, and hence suffer that kind of social visibility and notoriety, I’ve always been an abstainer.
Maybe not in the perfect sense of the word, which would raise embarrassing, though irrelevant, questions regarding my sexual orientation, among other things. However, atleast for the drink part of the bargain I can say I’m free of even the fateful desire to “try it just once”.
I’ve tasted just enough of the vile stuff to gauge its utter lack of taste. However, anyone who has progressed beyond the “taste” part would enthusiastically tell me it never was about the taste – its about losing yourself, about getting roughly 2 screws in your knees, one in your neck, a few hundred in your spine, and a hell lot of nuts in your head loose.
There IS a subspecies that prides itself on appearing ‘reasonably sober’ after an insane amount of booze – “holding your drink” – an elite club of people such as my friend Sujeet Ghanvat and Oskar ‘Schindler’s List’ Schindler. It’s a limitation, but most often a skill, in a world that gets dead drunk and drunk dead when it means business – so I’ll reserve any discussion of it for another day. For now, this article will deal with the singular destiny of drinking – as a means for writers to get drunk.
Writers get drunk, evidently , for the same reasons that other mortals do – to get those ole’ joints a little less stiff – though, being more mental in their acrobatics than other mortals, the idea is to get the mind more flexible. Writers who drink, essentially heighten a particular desirable mental faculty or suppress one that creates noise and disturbs the thought process. Ofcourse, it goes without saying that none of this is, or can be, planned in advance, and our sorry sozzled scribe can only hope its time for Cinderella and not Mr. Hyde.
The writing I admire is so often a critique of society, and good writers so often unique in their revelations about it, that driving to their unusual destinations would require the driver to be “under the influence”. Ironically, however, it is quite possible that when the mind is drunk, it is more immune to any external influence that may temper, sober, censor or otherwise ruin a masterpiece.
So in my quest for today’s third article, I wondered if it would help me to booze a little, or make me another wasted wannabe in some more-than-beer brawl, losing my head instead of a few screws. But then, aren’t there extraordinary men of letters who haven’t touched a drop? People who seem to get the required hardware loosened up enough to beat the commandments embossed in their grey cells, without requiring any chemical interference?
The way I put it, it almost seems superhuman. Drunk without drinking.
Brings images of people like Jackie Chan in “The Legend of the Drunken Master” and Johnny Depp from “Pirates of the Caribbean” to mind.
It was a mild, heavily-veiled jibe I often endured in college – that most of my mates kept their heads about them better after drinking, than I did, without it. That my comprehension of the world, and hence my means of getting through life, were both rather simple, in comparison to theirs, which rivalled chess moves. My honesty was initially appreciated by new acquaintances till they realised it wasn’t deliberate at all, much less voluntary.
For my part, I’ve enjoyed the slight, and sometimes well-pronounced ripples I’ve always seen in my reality.
Like being drunk, I’ve always found it easier to fall in love, and harder to stop loving than the average human-sans-drink, because my intoxication, and the love, didn’t wear off.
I’ve found it easier to understand “Maya” and other alternate realities, descriptions of utopias, anti-utopias and dystopias –worlds different, better or worse, dream-like or nightmarish, or maybe just ever so slightly different. Knowing that the world we know is just one of infinite possibilities, that its hard-lipped deadlines and all the progress we’ve known could be a digital joke or a never-ending drug trip.
I’ve floated and levitated and felt vertigo at sea level.
I’ve touched hearts, literally, and felt heartbeats pulse through me.
I’ve sung without reason or talent, and not bothered about how good it sounded.
I’ve done things just because they could be done, not judging my sanity – I’ve loved losing it.
I’ve danced alone, and danced long after the music was heard no more.
And yes, I’ve gotten into more-than-beer brawls and lazy-tongue slurred speech, all without the benefit of a single drop of more-than-beer, or beer, or dope.
Most of all,
I’ve been as much of a writer as I could be right now, without the benefit of any obvious writing talent – because first and foremost, a writer, I believe, should show the world, through his life, the absolute bliss of complete, drunk freedom, and I believe it my privilege to be a writer without much writing, and drunk without drinking.
Nothing singular about that privilege, though, because I also believe that attaining the state of forgetting yourself, or of acute awareness, both usually associated with intoxication – is possible for anyone without introducing any chemical agent like alcohol or narcotics. All we need is to know that our boundaries are neither limited to, nor do they begin with, the outline of skin.
POST TYPE :THOUGHT
LISTENING TO - The Vodafone ad "Every day I want to fly..."
I don’t write much, to be very literal. Half the time, I write drafts inside my head, edit and scrap (the old meaning – to crumple and dunk it into a waste paper basket) them – all in 10 minutes, at the most, of brainstorming. That way, I need to write less, but it also means that the meanest critic of them all tears my stuff to shreds even before I get to write it. Today I went ahead and disabled the little personal censor in my head, to try to be a prolific writer- a “writey writer” – the kind that sits at his desk, and turns into a (rather slow) human printing press.
However, on embarking upon this endeavour for “generating more output”, I was stumped – How DO you write more than 2 things a day?
I’ve already bled the “Think On Paper” maxim dry, so I needed something more intelligent than that, though finally, its all we ever do, and its all I’ve done here.
The train of thought derailed, soon my mind was searching in little word clouds, looking for something to write in a sea of randomness, till I found an intoxicated man with a dishevelled beard and an old fountain-pen in his pocket, hanging on to some driftwood, and evidently trying to paddle his way to some destination. Similar predicament.
Drunk, Doped, Stoned – Dishevelled, Inebriated, and Social Nuisance by choice – is how a few successful and way too many wannabe writers ‘conduct themselves with dignity’. Ever disinclined to create such a spectacle of myself, and hence suffer that kind of social visibility and notoriety, I’ve always been an abstainer.
Maybe not in the perfect sense of the word, which would raise embarrassing, though irrelevant, questions regarding my sexual orientation, among other things. However, atleast for the drink part of the bargain I can say I’m free of even the fateful desire to “try it just once”.
I’ve tasted just enough of the vile stuff to gauge its utter lack of taste. However, anyone who has progressed beyond the “taste” part would enthusiastically tell me it never was about the taste – its about losing yourself, about getting roughly 2 screws in your knees, one in your neck, a few hundred in your spine, and a hell lot of nuts in your head loose.
There IS a subspecies that prides itself on appearing ‘reasonably sober’ after an insane amount of booze – “holding your drink” – an elite club of people such as my friend Sujeet Ghanvat and Oskar ‘Schindler’s List’ Schindler. It’s a limitation, but most often a skill, in a world that gets dead drunk and drunk dead when it means business – so I’ll reserve any discussion of it for another day. For now, this article will deal with the singular destiny of drinking – as a means for writers to get drunk.
Writers get drunk, evidently , for the same reasons that other mortals do – to get those ole’ joints a little less stiff – though, being more mental in their acrobatics than other mortals, the idea is to get the mind more flexible. Writers who drink, essentially heighten a particular desirable mental faculty or suppress one that creates noise and disturbs the thought process. Ofcourse, it goes without saying that none of this is, or can be, planned in advance, and our sorry sozzled scribe can only hope its time for Cinderella and not Mr. Hyde.
The writing I admire is so often a critique of society, and good writers so often unique in their revelations about it, that driving to their unusual destinations would require the driver to be “under the influence”. Ironically, however, it is quite possible that when the mind is drunk, it is more immune to any external influence that may temper, sober, censor or otherwise ruin a masterpiece.
So in my quest for today’s third article, I wondered if it would help me to booze a little, or make me another wasted wannabe in some more-than-beer brawl, losing my head instead of a few screws. But then, aren’t there extraordinary men of letters who haven’t touched a drop? People who seem to get the required hardware loosened up enough to beat the commandments embossed in their grey cells, without requiring any chemical interference?
The way I put it, it almost seems superhuman. Drunk without drinking.
Brings images of people like Jackie Chan in “The Legend of the Drunken Master” and Johnny Depp from “Pirates of the Caribbean” to mind.
It was a mild, heavily-veiled jibe I often endured in college – that most of my mates kept their heads about them better after drinking, than I did, without it. That my comprehension of the world, and hence my means of getting through life, were both rather simple, in comparison to theirs, which rivalled chess moves. My honesty was initially appreciated by new acquaintances till they realised it wasn’t deliberate at all, much less voluntary.
For my part, I’ve enjoyed the slight, and sometimes well-pronounced ripples I’ve always seen in my reality.
Like being drunk, I’ve always found it easier to fall in love, and harder to stop loving than the average human-sans-drink, because my intoxication, and the love, didn’t wear off.
I’ve found it easier to understand “Maya” and other alternate realities, descriptions of utopias, anti-utopias and dystopias –worlds different, better or worse, dream-like or nightmarish, or maybe just ever so slightly different. Knowing that the world we know is just one of infinite possibilities, that its hard-lipped deadlines and all the progress we’ve known could be a digital joke or a never-ending drug trip.
I’ve floated and levitated and felt vertigo at sea level.
I’ve touched hearts, literally, and felt heartbeats pulse through me.
I’ve sung without reason or talent, and not bothered about how good it sounded.
I’ve done things just because they could be done, not judging my sanity – I’ve loved losing it.
I’ve danced alone, and danced long after the music was heard no more.
And yes, I’ve gotten into more-than-beer brawls and lazy-tongue slurred speech, all without the benefit of a single drop of more-than-beer, or beer, or dope.
Most of all,
I’ve been as much of a writer as I could be right now, without the benefit of any obvious writing talent – because first and foremost, a writer, I believe, should show the world, through his life, the absolute bliss of complete, drunk freedom, and I believe it my privilege to be a writer without much writing, and drunk without drinking.
Nothing singular about that privilege, though, because I also believe that attaining the state of forgetting yourself, or of acute awareness, both usually associated with intoxication – is possible for anyone without introducing any chemical agent like alcohol or narcotics. All we need is to know that our boundaries are neither limited to, nor do they begin with, the outline of skin.
Happy Inebriety to You.
Well, I'm happy.
Well, I'm happy.
