Repetitions
about occurrences and reoccurrences.
Mornings before leaving for work. Keys and wallet always in the same place on the nightstand. Spectacles on top of a Kindle. Both are picked up and put into the same compartment of my bag. A wedding ring, a new addition that slots onto my finger, uneasily at first but now with a casualty practised rhythm.
The same bus to work. Words passing by in a blur. Their meaning now known but earlier Greek. Coiffeur : hairdresser. Marche: market. At least two or three laundromats. People perched near the window. Machines spinning with what I imagine is a low-frequency hum.
The same seat on the bus. People old and young. Bags, worn and new. Scarves, shawls, caps, berets, headscarves. Books, mostly in French. Headphones, some wired. Expressions of boredom. Tiredness. Faces lit with light from phones. Outside, buildings. Initially, grey. Brutalist. Then pale yellow with balconies.
The same underground metro. Never the same faces. People animated in conversation. Mothers playing with children. Children looking through the window. Outside, mostly dark tunnels.
The last stop on the Line 7. Sometimes, an escalator. Strong breeze from the outside at the exit door. Steep walk up home. Public swimming pool on the way. The smell of air damp with chlorinated water in the mornings. Neon lit at night. A football stadium. Spare. Cartoon clouds in the mornings. Empty skies and empty stands at night.
A convenience store round the corner. Photo of Prabhakaran taped outside. A lesson in perspective. A nod of recognition from the Tamil-Sri Lankan owner. Three words of French. Bonjour. Merci. Au revoir. Hello. Thank you. Goodbye.
One butter croissant from the same boulangerie. An order perfected by practice. Un croissant - but said as "uh kvosaw." The same Lebanese restaurant every weekend. Almost the same order. A Mouhalabie - a Lebanese pannacota. A bite that makes me briefly forget I'm in a foreign land.
A call from N in the mornings. Always beginning with "bolo"- tell. The extra 'o' adding a sliver of respect and a layer of formality I find mildly annoying. But, I never tell her because just as my day begins, hers ends—a quirk of time made possible by the rotation of the Earth. Chit-chat about mundanities. A time filled with banalities. She sleeps to take a stab at the day I must endure today. I long for a day when we share lives not splintered by time.
Outside same. Parisian skies dealing with binaries. Grey or bright blue. People walk in a hurry. A laundromat. Inside, a machine spinning with what I imagine is a low-frequency hum. What is the sound of the Earth spinning about its axis?
Reads (long or not)
One of the movies I am looking forward to watching is The Brutalist. I found this interview with the movie’s director - Brady Corbert to be fascinating. It offers a unique insight into how deliberate thought goes into crafting the little and not-so-little things in a movie.
The separation of art from the artist is one of those prickly debates that hardly ever offer any resolution. In the wake of the shocking news of Alice Munro’s part in the abuse of her daughter and sexual assault allegations levelled at Neil Gaiman, I read many think pieces online. The piece written by Deepanjana Pal on her Substack offers no definite resolution but great nuance - Of Jill Ciment's Consent, Neil Gaiman and Alice Munro.
I don’t know what to call this piece titled ‘‘Why Write?’’ by Paul Auster in The New Yorker. Is it an essay? A short story? Is it made-up or autobiographical? But, what it is, for sure, is spellbinding.
I have raved enough about Jayant Kaikini’s collection of Mumbai-based shorts - No Presents Please. So, I was most overjoyed to learn about his second collection called Mithun Number Two and Other Mumbai Stories. I loved the collection and the roller-coaster of emotions each story took me on. Most highly recommended!
To Watch
I was introduced to Wim Wenders’ filmography as I watched his most recent film - Perfect Days. It is exactly the kind of slice-of-life fare that I’m a sucker for. I completely lost myself in it, much like the movie’s protagonist does on a Sunday afternoon, lying down on his mat, sunlight on his face, and music of his choice bouncing off the walls. The film gave me much to think about, as did Richard Brody’s contrary take on it. It is well worth watching Thomas Flight’s lovely video essay on how Hollywood uses ambition too, in which he uses Perfect Days’ example as a counterpoint.
I think Avinash Arun is one of the finest filmmakers (and cinematographer) working in India today. His latest film ‘Three of Us’ is sublime. Much like Celine Song’s incredible film Past Lives, it’s an examination of the multiple selves we hide within us. And how much of life is spent in either confronting these selves or shedding them.
I’ve been doing a lot of photography off-late. Because I am so late to this art form I also have been spending time learning about the work done by the pioneers of street photography as well as the philosophy of current practitioners. I found this video of Daniel Arnold (whose work I enjoy) taking a photo walk with Paulie-B to be wonderful. There is much to learn here about failure, creativity and how to go on living while creating.
To Listen
Have you heard the new Coke Studio song featuring Kaavish yet? Do yourself and check out ‘O Yaara’. One time I was listening to it while walking back home and I cried. No kidding.
Johnny Greenwood and Thom Yorke from Radiohead teamed up with Tom Skinner to form a new band called The Smile. Their sound is very Radiohead-adjacent so naturally I am in love with it. If you miss yourself some uneasy chords and funky time signatures check out their songs - Friend of a Friend, Wall of Eyes and Bending Hectic from their latest album Wall of Eyes. The first two have cool music videos too, directed by Paul Thomas Anderson.
This poem by Noor Hindi is an indictment of an entire culture.
Fuck Your Lecture on Craft, My People Are Dying
Colonizers write about flowers.
I tell you about children throwing rocks at Israeli tanks
seconds before becoming daisies.
I want to be like those poets who care about the moon.
Palestinians don’t see the moon from jail cells and prisons.
It’s so beautiful, the moon.
They’re so beautiful, the flowers.
I pick flowers for my dead father when I’m sad.
He watches Al Jazeera all day.
I wish Jessica would stop texting me Happy Ramadan.
I know I’m American because when I walk into a room something dies.
Metaphors about death are for poets who think ghosts care about sound.
When I die, I promise to haunt you forever.
One day, I’ll write about the flowers like we own them.
Hello after a very long time. While I haven’t written much for a while, I have been making a lot of photos. I put them into collections and post them regularly on Instagram.
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