Music

My partner is a musician. I sing in the church choir (he thinks I have no sense of rhythm or tune! Grrr!). I always loved music and now I love a musician - some of my best friends are musicians - in fact, I have consistently been attracted to people who are musical. And with each of them I have shared musical memories - songs (the "our songs"), common interests in the opera, the desire to argue and discuss music theory ... long list. But sometimes music summons the past back to the future, and creates a rush of memories that are difficult to write about - but I never the less will try in this post.

Our minds associate and organize ideas, events, impressions, feelings in a giant network - much like the lanes and by-lanes of a tumultuous city. Life passes us by as we add experiences to this urban landscape. Frequent experiences evolve into busy highways and thoroughfares, as stories and memories of days gone by get lost in poorly lit lanes and dark alleyways. Every once in a while we digress, take a wrong turn and lose our way in forgotten landscapes. We meet faces and have feelings that we thought we'd forgotten - sometimes, the memories are pleasant, and sometimes they haunt us like a bad dream and we need to rush back to the light.

Within the limits of this metaphor, if there were such a thing that could trigger a "teleport" and unexpectedly transport us from the city we are building and dwell in, to a forgotten corner of the city that was - then music would indeed be it.

Last week T' played with the K' Symphony Orchestra in live concert with the Alan Parsons Project. I went to the show by myself - and was lucky to get a seat that gave me a good view of T and his Tuba bobbing up and down. As the music started, I found myself going back and forth in my cityscape. When Alan Parsons played I went back to the rock concerts from when we were in college - the alcohol, the dancing, head banging - only to be jolted back to the present whenever the KSO played - looking out for the bobbing tuba. Right through the concert I kept running in between these two worlds, that are so far removed in time and context. It was as if, the teleport function had a bug in it that had sent me into an infinite loop.

10 years have gone in between, and I have gone from the 19-20 year old closeted, unsure, uninterested student to the 30 year old professor. Then I was trying to convince myself that I loved a woman - now I love my Tuba player and share an unique friendship with the very same woman. Then I could not have imagined that now could be possible, and now I wonder how I made it from there to here. In fact, then I could barely imagine what the future held - other than some vague ideas of what was expected of me. I did smile at the thought of the alcohol at the rock concerts and the stars strewn across the inky black sky, the late lunch at the mess the morning after and of course all the people... and then I smiled at the cheery Tuba player and thought of the late dinner after the concert... and then they came back - all the people.

All the wonderful people - friends in arms. We promised to keep in touch after the last handshakes. Excepting for a precious few - the promises have been forgotten. Let me correct that: I have forgotten the promises. Its easy to reconnect - hop onto friendster, orkut. The scraps and messages that they sent me on the many internet services have stopped, after having gone unanswered for a long time. I have received news of their weddings, first born ... good news, that they have shared and spoken about, while I dismayed and moved away, and returned their joyous invitations with silence. And now that I am happy and want to share my joy - I find myself moving further away. Time will tell, but I think these promises are best left forgotten.

.. and the music played on as I traversed back and forth, trying in vain to make sense of the then and the now. Lost in my city of dreams.

Life Beyond its Trappings, or Trappings make not Life

... yet, we seem to remember life by its trappings. We create rituals that make the trappings even more elaborate - and then we write the rituals in stone. We forget why the rituals were made or what made the trappings so beautiful - but we are caught in the grip of these symbols. We find joy in them, and when we grieve, it is the trappings that make the pain more unbearable - just as it is the trappings that make memories worth remembering. In fact if it were not for the trappings, there would be no memories to recollect, no occasions to celebrate, and no losses to bemoan.

The white dress of the bride left at the alter - a pristine and beautiful reminder of all that could have been, of regret and pain, of squandered lives. The to-be bride grieves the wedding, secretly enjoys the freedom from a bad marriage, and moves on - maybe, to successful relationships - yet, the dress remains, a memory of pain. The truth remains hidden within the trappings - the memories defined by the limitations of the trappings.

But lets take the trappings out from life. We are left with a humdrum - a blur in which time flows so smoothly that it might as well be still. The sun sets and rises and seasons blend into each other. Each sunset is more beautiful and every fall distinctly vibrant. Love is celebrated in silence, in the warmth of a candle flame, excitement expressed in its flicker, and expectation in the welcoming light that shines forth from it. Every moment a unique memory, a participant in and witness to rich histories that just are - and they are beautiful simply because they just are. A beauty that is so rich that we can only assert its existence - maybe feel it in our own individual ways - but cannot entrap it in our trappings.

But then can we remember so much beauty - are our minds capable of recording each detail. When we are dying, would we be able to choose a moment to relive - or would we have no memory at all - because its just too much to remember.

Hence, we come full circle and yearn for the trappings, for the beautiful wedding gowns, the lavish feasts, the rituals ... the works that memory make, even if they are limited in what they remind us of and the expectations they bring.

Or maybe, we shouldn't make any of these trappings at all - live each moment of beauty as they come - who needs memory when each moment is worth it. And then die in peace with the knowledge of beauty, instead of yearning for the memories that lent us mere glimpses of it.

I pray that we may live and love freely, that we may be free of the rituals and trappings of life and enjoy the vibrant beauty that lies in the silence of their absence.

That we may just, be.

The importance of political correctness

The very mention of the phrase "political correctness" makes a lot of people express displeasure in a variety of ways (smirk, laugh, get angry). They tend to favor open and genuine conversation rather than nuanced "correctness." There is definitely something to be said about such open exchange. It can often build bridges and foster understanding between different groups of people. While it may sound painful, often it can, in the long run, be more constructive than just being "pc" - which really makes sure that nobody hurts anybody for the length of the immediate interaction - specifically through the inappropriate use of language.

However, there is a lot more to it than that. I recently had a couple of unpleasant experiences, which have made me think. In one, I had a student, A, say something to me - that she perceived to be funny - but I found offensive. I knew she did not intend any offense, and was just being clumsy with words. It lead to her apologizing and we had a really good talk afterwards, about the importance of language and how words take on different meanings in different situations, thus requiring us to be careful with usage - even when we are sure about what we are saying and intend no harm.

Ironically, that very night I landed up being the perpetrator and made a statement to a friend - which within the very nuanced context of our conversation was not at all offensive. We were discussing "class" and the inequalities and differential treatments that follow from the perception of this elusive quality - especially if a group of people pride themselves in having class and are in no perceptible ways any better than their peers. It is true that the word "class" is closely associated with history and heritage, but exploiting history and heritage (what many will call cultural capital) does not seem reasonable in a meritocracy. On the contrary, we associated the "lack of class" with a down to earth, no nonsense, approach to hard work. Achievement that stands for itself without the crutches of history to lean on.

Hence, when I made the statement to my friend "Group X does not have class" it was meant mostly as a compliment rather than an insult. It so happened that a member of group X, W', was close by - overheard my comment and . . . to make a long story short, was not at all pleased and was exceedingly rude and hurtful to me. My efforts at explaining to her the nuance of the conversation and the intention were ignored by her. A little more research into "group X" showed that they were a very class conscious society - viciously proud of and protective of their lifestyle. I had unknowingly stepped on a land mine, buried beneath generations of local and social tensions in a town that can be sliced and diced along many lines. Interestingly I had a similar conversation with another friend of mine, K', from the "group X" earlier that day and we had both heartily agreed that there was no concept of "class" among them and we had even laughed about it.

Needless to say, I caused pain, and was quite hurt by the woman's behavior. None of this would have happened if I had just been more pc and avoided constructing a statement that associates what is commonly perceived as a bad thing (lack of class) with a group of people, without quite knowing their history. Irrespective of my intention. Now of course, I did have the same conv. with K. Clearly, K and I, and A and I, have similar assumptions and even though we have different racial and ethnic heritages we share similar assumptions which allow conversation. W and I, unfortunately have different heritages and no similar assumptions - add to that our mutual ignorances about each other, and we have a politically incorrect pudding pie!! Hence, we need to be politically correct with each other, while K and A and I can afford to be communicative ad frank.

This was a painful lesson for me.

For the time being, I have planned to apologize to W, though I don't intend to interact further with her till she apologizes to me for her extremely rude reactions.

The bigger question is, should we avoid people who don't share similar assumptions to spare ourselves the pc stuff. Instead is it a better idea to mix and work more with the Ks and As of the world where there may be points of conflict, but almost always solutions of interest.

Moving

One slow step at a time.

Your 19" TV and my bookshelves fit in together to form our entertainment center. My plants are happy in their new perches and with their new friends who have arrived. Now we can take turns watering them. Your red vase seems to have been made to enhance my red couch - and for us to marvel about. The kitchen is looking charming and in spite of all your stuff that has come in, our kitchen seems to have so much more space than it ever did.

Moving - the slow steps from mine and yours to ours.

Back after a long hiatus

Hello everybody ...

Its been a long while since I posted. Somewhere in the middle of keeping up with my life, work, and play, my writing slipped from my list of things to do. Anyway, I do miss my blog and at least one (and may be only) of my readers has informed me that she has missed me too. So I will try to do a quick recap without boring details.

Its late summer now. The shadows are getting longer sooner and the sun is dipping earlier every day. But last month, when we were still at the peak of summer things were different. We spent long evenings on the local brewery deck. Dusk tiptoed in - around 9pm - and we watched the color of our pints of beer change as the last lingering rays of the sun shone through. And as the beer changed color, flocks of birds flew over us to seek rest, and the friendly bat appeared from a nook in the old building down the street - flying over us and swooping ever so low every time. It was still light at last call (11pm), and the western horizon had a hint of an orange glow as we lingered outside the friendly neighborhood pub - our pub - goofing around and bidding cheerful goodbyes before finally going home at midnight. And then there were days when we sat out on the deck and dark clouds gathered as an angry mid-west storm brewed with a brilliant play of thunder and lightning. We sat there and welcomed the first drops of rain - cooling our brows after a hot day, enjoying our beer, sometimes getting drenched, sometimes laughing at the passing clouds . . . and always the sun shone forth, through the darkest cloud.

But now . . . its pitch dark by midnight and a couple of nights back there was even a slight chill in the air. We are still sitting around and watching our beer change color, but we linger around less and every once in a while the conversation turns to syllabuses, new class prep, work, the new semester . . . An imperceptible sense of panic passes through us at the thought of a new semester, and the rush of all its demands. Its a short, but sure shudder. And as the shadows start growing longer sooner, the shudder lasts longer and we call it a night earlier. Alas! it definitely is late summer.

Its been a summer of promises and beginnings . . . What can be more exciting than finding love in a person you always desired and felt like you knew from long ago. You never considered there to be any promise of a relationship. Now you wonder why? You ask yourself why you wasted two years, and thank the lucky hand of fate - i.e. a gin and tonic, a crazy friend, and a sequined purple shirt - that made it all happen. And of course, how can you not thank Bach and his wonderful fugues. Because, had it not been for those loopy tunes what would you have spoken about - maybe nothing. Maybe if it wasn't for Bach, you would have simply stood around and blushed and felt silly about hovering around a "well established crush" who barely recognized you. Then again, would you have ever done that if it wasn't for a crazy friend with a self-declared expertise at "picking up men."

What a beautiful night it was ... and I did all of the above. Soon after there were dinner dates and pub dates and soon I was helping him vacuum and wash his car wondering what kind of a date that was - it wasn't - we had started to grow old together! A snowy spring and a brilliant summer later there is a relationship and a promise for the future.



. . . and I'll leave you on that note.