Saturday, August 23, 2008

MY RIGHT FOOT

So I broke my leg, but it's okey since it's just a ligament tear and my plaster is electric blue in colour. But now I am stuck in my bed all day with lots of books I don't feel like reading anymore and I keep thinking of the the last time I broke my leg and it was great fun, as I was in my bedroom surrounded by nauseating flowers. But the hospital trip was fun as the goddamn heartless Maharashtra cops decided to pull us over for being on a bike with a Delhi number (or maybe because my rescuer was French and all). Anyhow two hours on a wheelchair was fun especially when I was asked to sign a form telling them I was not pregnant.

Now the cast throws my shooting schedule in a tizzy which is very sad because I was damn kicked about shooting my year end film, (there goes the trip to Cannes huh!). What really sucks is my depressing match box of a room which I was going to paint Wizard Blue and Lilac but the paint boxes are lying among all the mess and Shelly has not arrived to sooth my jagged nerves. How I hate loving my friends. I really need to go home now, but I don't fancy some retard steward dragging me all over Customs. I have ideas about sneaking hash in my cast and dogs chasing me while I wheelchair faster away on the runway and then lightning strikes and I part my arms with a devilish smile.

So much for that, I will remain stuck in the matchbox which will look like a smaller matchbox after painting, like the wax one's which were probably designed for the Liliputians but they decided it was too big and dangerous for them and we use it instead. My nickname when I was kid was Liliput but no one calls me that anymore, since I grew up. Oh and this sends my birthday plans next week into a shit pot, with me sitting and watching while everyone gets drunk stupid and I worry about squatting in the loo trying to get all the shit out.

The doctor asked me to be a good girl again and again but didn't give me a lollipop, just a two grand bill. Now I can't be a good girl because I keep dragging my two kilogram heavier leg all over the campus, and I get kicks out of imagining myself to be a ghost that haunts the long dark corridoor when everyone is asleep with the sound of my dragging foot rattling them in their beds. But that doesn't happen really.

But I can see the bright side of the shit. Say like I don't have to worry about food and cigarettes, someone or the other keeps fetching them for me. Also, I can keep staring into oblivion and cook up new stories to shoot.

What I really miss is working. I would love to get back on freelance projects, writing an article here and there. I miss getting published and boy do I need the money now. Also, I miss being surrounded with my old Delhi friends, them fussing over me and imagine all that extra fuss with me having a broken foot. I would have been chauffered around to all my favourite eateries and I might have even convinced them to take me clubbing. I wouldn't have danced obviously. Not that my friends here aren't fussing enough, I just don't like being dependent on them, because I haven't known them for more than six months. The bike rides are fun though. Also all the online games I disovered last night, quite trippy they are.

Just found out I could have gone to Maldives to shoot, for a project my sister-in-law is working for, and their film guy left. But for my electric blue leg, Looks like the laughing Buddha I got is not working hard enough for my luck.

Friday, August 22, 2008

SHAKESPEARE IN THE SKY


Cassiopeia went looking for water in the mighty black desert only to get stung by the red pincers of the powerful scorpion. Her anxious hunter wore a dagger embellished with three diamonds on his Orion’s belt and chased the cruel scorpion. Running through galaxies, pink, purple and white, suddenly everything was dark. The black hole took with it not only our lovers, kings, saints and enemies, but also the films we made and never made.

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

VANITY CASE

What happens when she leaves?

You sit and wait.

When I first met her she was wearing a brown jacket with fake fur lining the collar and the hood. She had matching suede boots pulled tightly over her spindly legs and she was drunk as hell on not more than one tequilla shot. That is what girls with spindly girls get sloshed on and thus manage to save money in their fancy bags just to buy more of them empty bags.

Her bag had a box of tissues with German inscriptions and she swore she never went to Germany. She had illusions about learning German but they died when she watched Frida and decided she liked Spanish better. Pity she never mastered the one language she was meant to exploit beyond what Shakepere did. At least that is what I believed, but I am not good with spotting talent. If I were, I would have found mine in the last thirty years I spent believing I had a calling, but nothing better than crowing like a lonely crow found me.

This is not a story about the girl or my capacity to be nothing but a hopeless failure in not just my own eyes but yours too. This is a story about the tissue box finding her way into her blue mock leather bag and how it killed her.

Yes, a box of tissues can do that, if you indulge me further than three paragraphs.

So when I met her, I tripped and fell over the above mentioned spindly legs as they lay sprawled outside an Institute's depressing yellow corridoor. The name escapes me, but it was not in Germany. It was a chilly Delhi winter and she was staring at the massive brown doors of an auditorium, watching them pushed open by revellers escaping the blast of the same old rock music, clutching on to cellphones for their dear lives. I can bet my thick hairy calves, they had shot videos of the incompetent performance with the bad lighting preserved in millions of pixels. But, returning to my tripping and falling flat on my nose, the loud flat thump made her recoil out of her fake trance and scream.

"Oh!"

My nose was bleeding and she was teary eyed, not because of empathy for another fellow's pain, but because like I said she was drunk. She took out her box of tissues and gave me a whole bunch of them along with a bunch of sorrys.

I believe she was rendered incapable of threading together words into concrete sentences of remorse by her vagabond bloodstream.


(Will certainly be continued)

Monday, August 18, 2008

TO HOLDEN CAULFIELD LOVERS

This is going to be damn corny but in a matter of days two of my favorite blogs have been deleted and its quite a loss to this obsessive reader. Scout and Big Eyed Fish or originally Slowhand, the way I liked him better, have for reasons known best to them stopped writing at some cleverly named urls, which is perfectly fine since I don't understand the repurcurssions or joys of blogging anonymously (as much as I would have loved to).

But yes will miss their honest and witty outpourings which helped us reflect on our own existence once in a while. Ok I suck at writing this. So, well, you guys will be missed, but don't make this the end of writing. All the best. Oh and Scout and Dhiraj's blogs were the original inspiration for me to blog. Thanks.

Wednesday, August 06, 2008

PRO PROCRASTINATOR

When I was in high school, I refused to study as I was an art student at heart stuck in science. When I defied my family heritage and went to journalism school, I realised I want to be in Film school, and when I landed in Film school, I want to be in writing school. So well there is no end to my miseducation, and my laptop's sense of irony. Yes the song playing is Arriving somewhere but not here.

Now that I am doing what I always wanted to do (like always), I really have no excuse to sit and blog and prove to myself how inept I am at handling the fate of a crew. I just refuse to write down my script, which thankfully is playing over and over in my head, but the shots need to be penned down. And yet I type out a personal post.

See, the campus is empty (which is simply amazing; tea alone with Catcher in the Rye is heavenly bliss), as all my batchmates have dissapeared to Mumbai for a week long vacation while I stayed back to muse over my non-existent script. Poor me shoots first (16 mm baby... real film stock!) but I can forsee my bleak future when I eventually graduate to 35 mm and I would still be blogging. Stay with me guys. I need the virtual camaradrie.