On the brightest side of things
My Twitter bio describes me as a ‘content deity’. It’s a deliberate attempt at blasphemy because I know I sit on a trove of years and…
My Twitter bio describes me as a ‘content deity’. It’s a deliberate attempt at blasphemy because I know I sit on a trove of years and years of content. I’ve been writing for online platforms since 2007. One-liners. Jokes (with and without punchlines). Paragraphs. Really long paragraphs. Short stories. Stories. Blog posts (without paragraphs). Blog posts (with paragraphs). Acute observations. Lame observations. Trend opinions. Template humour. Been there. Darn that. Yet, it bothers me no end when it comes to monetizing my content. I am free as a bird while posting stuff online. The moment the money factor seeps in, I grow uneasy. No, I’ve got nothing against earning. Just that I’ve always felt that the process of content creation should remain independent of the process of content monetization. In other words, my non-existent manager must be taking care of Vitamin M while I focus on Vitamin C.
The oldest trick in the book has hardly anything to do with fire. It has its origin in commerce. Yes, I am talking about bargaining. Full disclosure: I suck at it but I know how it works. If you’re wondering how is it possible to know about something without applying knowledge, then you are welcome to the difference between ‘know’ and ‘learn’. Anyway, to bargain better, you need to be aware of what you’re buying or selling. In other words, you must be in sync with the value of the product/commodity. Let’s say you are buying a second-hand bed and if you realize the true worth of the wooden structure, you are already winning. Ideally, the seller must have the upper hand but more often than not, they don’t fully acknowledge the value of what they are selling. And when you don’t know the value, you don’t know what (not how) to bargain for.
The other day, I was in the middle of a zoom call when Ranga started barking. When my dog does that, it means two things: he wants to share his high opinion with me about stuff that he must have heard me say or it’s time for him to run up to the terrace for a pee break. However, that day, it was neither. He just wanted me to stop conversing with a non-living object and spend time with him. Such clinginess is often associated with dogs who are on the wrong side of seven and men who are on the right side of 35. Even right now, as I am typing this paragraph, he is sitting there with his back against the wall, marble eyes fixed on me, wondering why I am so attracted to this laptop.
When was the last time you came up with an idea that made you doubt yourself? Like it made you take notice of yourself? I mean, you almost felt like you might be the delayed reincarnation of Einstein? If you aren’t sure what I am talking about, you are consuming the perfect content (for yourself). Once in a long while, we crash into the thick wall of creativity and leave a dent. It happens rarely, of course, but it does happen. And when it happens, you feel great. To be honest, we live for moments like that. Could be anything from suggesting the correct solution for a problem to delivering a timely comeback to predicting the scale of somebody else’s fuckup accurately. When any of such events unfolds, you are at your creative best. During these instances, to add colour to your imagination, you are basically having a creative hardon. And that explains the dent I mentioned above.
A village that had its first fluent speaker of English only in the 1990s has every right to meddle in the affairs of the English language. I am clearly describing my village — both my parents belong to the same village, barely four kilometers from Manipal — and its rather quirky relationship with Inglis. In fact, not one word is pronounced properly by the villagers, especially of the older stock. From firit (spirit) to pres (fresh) to pudd (food), there is hardly any item of vocabulary unblemished by the local accent. In all fairness, I am for this lingual distortion. A small price set against centuries of colonial subjugation. That said, my all-time favourite English word — which is not really an English word but sounds way too English to be ignored — is whatis. Yup. That’s it. Whatis is used to denote alcohol by the village drunkards. What is whatis? Exactly.
The light in me cares about the light in you. If this wasn’t so, I wouldn’t be spending my time on you. What connects us is a momentary flick of coincidence: being at the right time at the right place within the right space. But isn’t that magical? You reading this is in itself nothing less than a miracle. You could have been doing almost anything else on this wretched planet but you somehow ended up here, wasting your time on something that doesn’t provide you much apart from the belief that the light in me cares about the light in you. May it never go out.
All big decisions have one thing in common: they demand utmost respect and attention. Settling with a life partner. Choosing the right job. Deciding to have a baby. Killing somebody in cold blood. Finishing Britannica Encyclopedia. Etc. Regardless of who advises you what, the action is left to you. You are responsible. Although we are all adults here, our relationship with responsibility is a bit twisted. Unlike ISIS, we want to take responsibility only when it works in our favour.
Louis CK once remarked that he doesn’t understand why porn industry still exists. His doubt was based on the deep mismatch between supply and demand. According to him, there was way too much NSFW content available; even if a person spends his entire life watching porn, he won’t be able to finish. Fair point. But then, in his causal analysis, CK missed out on a crucial aspect of curiosity. People don’t treat porn the way they treat a movie: the intent is to imagine yourself performing those humanly impossible acts of stamina. Cinema doesn’t allow you this cosy seat. So, by sheer nature, humans are never going to grow bored of endless supply of imagination.
Autumn is upon us and you’ll soon notice spiders running here and there, some even emerging out of your shoes. If you are very scared of them, good for them. If you are brave enough to kill them instantly, may you know that those spiders are mostly males looking for females to get laid. Yes, the task is to impregnate the lady spider and die as soon as possible. Sex suicide mission at its best. Anyhow, I just wanted you to know that if you kill any spider the coming winter, beware that you killed a horny soul who might curse you decades of sexless marriage.
When David Attenborough tells you something, you believe it because he has transcended being the voice of reason. He has become the vector of truth. He is one of those I admire a lot for their authenticity. Unlike most modern saviours, who have done way too little to earn the title, Attenborough had spent too long in the sun and mud. He knows what he is talking about. Human activities, rooted in greed, have done irreversible damage to the ecosystem. The havoc is in the making. In his lifetime, he has witnessed a lot of changes and it’d serve us well if we could fulfil the most basic of human activity: listen to him.