Monday, January 31, 2011

What became of the Aquarians?

I have decided to write everyday. And none of that self-deprecatory nonsense. Proper, hardcore, writer stuff. Inspired by Michael Chabon's story about how he wrote The Mysteries of Pittsburg perched on a desk, bathed in the glow of a solitary bulb, I sit now in my room, bathed in the glow of my table lamp, laptop at the ready, with all the anticipation of a Formula One driver at the moment between the red and green signal.

I just noticed that my blog name can be read in two ways. One is, of course, creative juice shop. The other is, as the more perceptive among you might have noticed, creative juices hop. I must admit I'm toying with the idea of changing the location of my blog- this one's been around too long, and change is good and all that- and one of the names I've come up with is creative juices skip and run (, obviously). Hop, skip and run.

My creative juices have hopped, skipped and run and have collapsed from exhaustion. All for your sake. It has been brought to my notice that my use of metaphors is excessive. Metaphors being to my creative juices what steroids were to Ben Johnson, this proved very difficult. So difficult, in fact, that I inadvertently stoop to using them once in a while. It wouldn’t take a Holmes to appreciate this: the evidence, as you can see, is strewn around on this digital papyrus. Oops. Sue me. 

Which brings me to the topic of this post. After fishing around a decent bit for a topic, I recently came across a copy of the Woodstock Poster. ‘An Aquarian Exposition in While Lake, NY’- it proclaims. Not proudly, but more in a genial, slacker kind of way; the kind of proclamation, nay, "this aggression will not stand"-like statement, rather, you’d expect from a hippie. 

At the outset, I should admit to being perplexed by the term Aquarian Exposition. While a quick search on Google would, no doubt, lead me on to Wikipedia and then to the detailed history of Woodstock, containing, inter alia, the etymology of the term, I’d rather not go down that by-now-well-trodden path of knowledge acquisition. I have been feeling ambivalent, of late, towards our culture of instant gratification as regards knowledge. Google, I feel, has stifled good old debate. No longer can you, while in the throes of alcohol, debate about something as inconsequential as whether a water molecule has two H atoms separately connected to an oxygen atom. What with everyone carrying a net-enabled phone these days, someone will have taken recourse to Google and that will be that. A quick, efficient chop delivered to the debate. Head rolling down the podium to the bottom of the guillotine. Masses cheering for justice done. 

And….. after a very short battle lasting a millionth of a microsecond (you do realize that’s exaggeration, there’s no way I can calculate 10-12 seconds), Google has won. I have turned to it, and being the forgiving addictive service provider it is, it has seen fit to reward me with enlightenment. 

I won’t bore you with the details. You can find it here: God is in the details, so go. Find God. Chat with him awhile. Then come back and read the rest of this, post a comment, preferably one praising my writing skills. I have already decided that the dedication in my first book will read, “To the known and unknown, who posted comments on my blog.” There. Now you have incentive. 

So, apparently the coming of Aquarius is what prompted people to become hippies. I would’ve thought that the license to be lazy and do drugs and listen to music and free love was encouragement enough. This Aquarius bit is possibly just an exercise in legitimization. Anyway, short point being- what became of the hippies?

Did they grow up? Did they don suits and become slaves to capitalism? Did they give up on their dream- THE DREAM? Did they realize that one cannot live on music and love? Are they the ones that bought houses and mortgaged them two or three times, driving up the value of the houses, finally causing the bubble to burst and the economy to go into a slump, warranting government intervention? All right, that last bit was just to show off my knowledge of current (or about one and a half year old) affairs. Did they have kids and start college funds? And do they tell those kids that drugs are bad? 

Or are they still around? Flower children, wearing loose comfortable robes, listening to Hendrix and dropping acid? Living forever in the 60s? Are they living in trailers, camped outside some desert? Sad, old, withered couples thinking about the promises they made to each other to love forever- promises broken often enough that its stopped being an event, and passed into the realm of being a minor irritation, like a rash on the sole of your right foot? How do they make ends meet? Do they do odd-jobs, still manning the counter, at the age of 60, of some McDonald’s or Burger King outlet? Do they regret being what they are, and not changing?

Or are there actually people like Jeff Lebowski around? Slackers with, apparently, no regrets?

If you’re wondering what this post was all about, don’t worry. So am I.

Saturday, January 29, 2011

Beam me up, Inspiration!

This morning, I was on the lookout for things to write about. I must inform you, with a heavy yet completely understanding heart (i.e., a heart that has come to terms with its owner's propensity to not do what he decides to do), that the mission was a colossal failure. In contemporary cinematic terms, my mission was like the Persian in 300 who goes to Sparta to deliver Xerxes’ message to Leonidas. It was pushed into the well of inexistence by the lord of inertia. In simple terms, I was too lazy. My eye moved with the enthusiasm of cat which has slept only one out of its mandated eighteen hours of sleep, my mind registered things with the accuracy of a schizophrenic with severe ADD and my hand and pen never made it to the scheduled tripartite meeting with the notebook I had taken along with me on my mission.

So, when, this night, I sit down to type the words I promised myself I would type, my mind is as blank as a newly opened Microsoft Word document. Or, for that matter, a blank sheet of paper. You get the point.

I wish I could say that a magical gateway into the Imaginarium of Doctor Rajasekhar opened up and thousands of words tumbled out, intertwining and mating with each other to produce, in their moments of exquisite orgasm, sentences of infinite beauty and immeasurable intelligence. Sentences which have attained the pinnacle of sentence perfection, Aryan sentences of which the Hitler of Grammar Nazis would’ve been proud.

However, all I can, in fact, say is that I’m still looking for something to write about.

And you have to understand how lame that is for a non-writer to say. It’s like a teetotaler going to an AA meeting and saying….. No. It’s worse. It’s like an Indian virgin impotent guy barging into a porn convention heavily populated with Ron Jeremy’s ilk who are in the process of loudly complaining about how, in their old age, their boats don’t float and pronouncing, loudly, his, well, impotence.

Inspiration, if you're out there and coyly and playfully looking upon this attempt to kick-start my scooter of creativity, I implore you, visit me. In the dead of night. For that's when, like a thief pottering around a house picking up items that seize his fancy, I scuttle around the vast barren lands of my imagination looking for an oasis of words.

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