had enough bad love, i need something i can be proud of

[Bad Love - Eric Clapton]

I’ve been listening to this song on repeat for the last few hours. I don’t think Eric Clapton ever wrote a song more aptly suited to describing the miserable state of my love life at the moment. Yes, yes, I crib about this all the time, but considering the unspeakable depths to which I have sunk in the last three odd years, I think I’m thoroughly justified. I have been told, time and again, that I have the worst taste possible. My only defence is that if I had any choice in the matter, I would certainly not have chosen to bestow my favours on the sad little losers I’ve allied myself with in the past. Desperation, boredom and basic hormonal impulses are all excuses I have used to wriggle my way out of answering uncomfortable questions about the murky, slushy Past.

If it wasn’t the exaggerated sighing and pining of adolescent infatuations, it was the emotionally abusive man-whore, or the co-dependant, clingy and frighteningly serious wimp. From one extreme to the other, I’ve wandered the winding paths of that dark forest we call Dating, and despite multiple attempts at finding my way out, I’m still as stuck as ever. Oh, like any young woman worth her salt I’ve got my list of Perfect Men. And as any young woman will tell you, every one of the men on that list is either gay/already taken/too old. They sparkle with intelligence, are never short of interesting conversation and always, always know exactly what to do or say. Perfect Men, indeed, in all but one respect. Pity.

I, for one, am very tired of the Universe’s tricks. I’m not amused when I come across Perfect Men who are almost always unattainable and can only be adored from afar. I’m definitely not up for any more ridiculous little shits who could not possibly be useful for anything except temporary gratification.

So, Universe, if you’re listening, DO SOMETHING.

I’ve had enough bad love and I need something I can be proud of.

I hate people who steal my things. Don’t you?

Everybody has those few “things” (read quirks, passions, oddities, whatnot) that make them special. I have a friend who, for some insane reason, reads lots of books that would make me want to sit in my room and cry all day. I have a friend who watches True Blood and makes a habit out of adoring all things dark and deviant. Another friend’s speciality is winning arguments even when she has no idea what side she is arguing for/against. So yes, we’re defined by how we stand out.

What are my “things”? For the most part, I tend to define myself by the authors I adore. Every reader shares a unique relationship with the books they choose to read; that’s one of the most intriguing things about reading as an activity, really. Why do some words speak to us, move us, and change us more than others? The myriad answers to that question are what pulled me, inexorably, towards being an academic in the first place. But I’m going off on a tangent here. What I really wanted to say was this: I choose my authors carefully. Far, far more carefully than I choose what I wear or eat. My favourite authors materialise into real people I know and love, the worlds they create are far more palpable, to me, than far-off places like Tanzania or the Pacific islands could ever be.

So yes, it gets me very, very annoyed when other people steal my “things”. Now, let me first make it clear that I like telling people what books to read, and what authors make me happy. Why have a passion for something if you cannot share it? I’ve recommended, lent and given books away to lots and lots of people in the hope that they will find as much joy in the words of so-and-so as I have. But when whoever it is stakes claim to the book/author in question, and pretends to as much (in some cases, more!) knowledge of it/them, that’s when I am galled. I don’t know how to explain this but it’s a little bit similar to someone, let’s say a very close friend, who claims to know you better than you know yourself. Bad analogy, but that’s all I’ve got.

I can’t possibly claim to be the sole lover of a particular book or author. That would be ridiculous, on my part. But I still, unreasonably maybe, hate people who steal my literary loves. Because I have found them, read them, loved them and put all of my soul into understanding them. And that sort of relationship is built over multiple readings, of multiple novels, over long periods of time because I think you have to grow with a book to really understand it.

So when you, with your one-novel knowledge of an author whose words have become the creed I live my life by come along and tell me how much they have changed your life, you belittle my effort. You make my passion incidental. And that, I cannot forgive.

Rant over.

my heart is broken so easily, so just be gentle with me

[Be Gentle With Me - The Boy Least Likely To]

Pet peeves:

#1: I wish I wasn’t so dismissive of other people’s opinions. Not in general I think, but just when it comes to their professed dislike of something I like. Okay, specifically The Lord of the Rings. I’ve come to realise that I judge people on the flimsy basis of their like or dislike for Tolkien. While this is probably one of the most ridiculous ways in existence to judge a person’s character, I still feel a mild shock when people tell me, point blank, that they don’t believe Tolkien to be the genius I think he is, or that The LOTR isn’t the masterpiece I think it is. I certainly don’t hold back when it comes to criticism of other people’s literary obsessions. In all fairness, I should probably be able to accept that there are people who cannot appreciate a literary work.

Oh what the heck, I don’t.

#2: Women. Whichever sage philosopher said women are their own worst enemies (and the hundred or so linguistic flavours that sentiment can come in) was absolutely right. Put a man into a room with a group of women, and I guarantee that half an hour later you will be able to cut the resentment and tension with a knife. Women are evolution’s bitches: they smell men, and god forbid he be a passable-looking one, and biological instincts kick in. We’re catapulted right back to the time when we needed to fight to bag a man so that our genes would be passed on and there would be another generation to overpopulate the earth in time. Sisterhood? No way! It’s every woman for herself in the shark-infested waters of courtship. If you’re weak, coy, slow on the uptake, and have the dubious distinction of being the most “unusual” looking of your group of friends, then you are most likely headed for reproductive failure. But of course, we don’t need to be like that now, do we?

Haha.

#3: I can’t think of any more right now. I’ll come up with something sooner or later, I’m sure.

the unseemly R-word: views of “race”

I grew up in a household that had no conception of itself as anything in particular. My parents were amusingly clueless about quite important aspects of their identities, such as the communities they came from, the castes they were slotted into and the rank their ancestors might have occupied in ancient Indian society. I never learnt that to be a Brahmin automatically opened doors for you, or that to be classified as belonging to the mysterious “Backward Caste” group might potentially be extremely beneficial. For the longest time, I had to explain to impatient teachers why my parents refused to put anything in the space for “Caste” on school forms.

So it came as quite a rude shock when a friend of mine, rather alarmingly, announced that if Hitler had managed to conquer the world, she would have been spared the fate of the Jews. Her rationale was that as a Brahmin, she had Aryan blood flowing in her veins which would have been her salvation. Despite this sentiment being uttered half in jest, I was appalled. Even worse, I could feel the beginnings of a righteous anger stirring. Why? I had never particularly felt the ill-effects of not being a Brahmin. I was neither underprivileged economically, nor had I been denied the opportunity to pursue anything I chose on account of my undesirable blood. In fact, I’d never given a thought to the status of my race or blood before.

But the very fact that being Brahmin (and therefore, supposedly, being Aryan) was some sort of badge of honour really rankled. That being ethnically ‘Aryan’ gave her a superior understanding of European culture and identity, or that it made her innately more able to understand things I could not was not something I could concede. So I decided to do some research.

So far, what I’ve discovered seems to be that

a) Indians, all Indians, are not, as is commonly misrepresented, genetically divided into two races i.e., the Aryan (derived from European or Caucasian origins) and the Dravidian (derived from African/Australasian origins).

On the contrary, we collectively appear to share similar genetic characteristics with Europeans more than any other racial group. On the other hand, we’re also a healthy mix of all possible “racial” groups found on the planet.

b) This amused me very much. The Aryan presence in India through a supposed invasion many thousands of years ago is a much contested theory. We may, in fact, have no Aryan blood at all, because the dratted fools never bothered to invade us.

I’m still very intrigued by all of this, from a purely disinterested perspective – well, besides the fact that I really would like to say “in your face!” to the friend in question. I’m petty like that.

But it really appals and disgusts me to think that a flimsy, ridiculous category like race, which has long been considered tainted in scientific circles, ought to reinforce the superiority of any idea. Or indeed, constitute the basis for the existence of any group.

dead.

I feel dead.

I’ve slept for hours and hours today, done nothing productive (besides watching a documentary on Lord Byron and the Disney film Up), I’ve wilfully had one pointless conversation with The Ex, in an attempt at god knows what. And I’ve attempted to cure my incipient stye by putting a teabag on it and refraining from staring at my computer screen (clearly, the last stipulation has failed to materialise). Oh also, I’ve just eaten fruit for dinner. This is such a weird, nothing day.

Which brings me to feeling dead. I feel like I’m nothing but a ghost. Nobody knows I’m there, or at least, all they feel is a faint pricking of the hair on the back of their necks; people see through me, but never see me. I’m tired of being invisible, but there doesn’t seem to be anything I can do about it.

I’m tired of this boredom, this laxity, this dazed, unthinking or rather too saturated lethargy. I’m so sick and tired of it!

I need something to do, somewhere to be, someone to love. WHY is it such a difficult life to live?