I was watching this movie called "Laggies" - a super fun coming of age kinda film and one thing stood out for me. The lawyer, played by Sam Rockwell (who knew Sam Rockwell could be sexy??) says this really desolate thing. He says that - I'm paraphrasing - that you think that you'll get to belong somewhere once you have the job and the kids and the family and the house and whatever... and then you realize that you're still just doing it alone.
It was heart-breaking. And sad. That there are so many out there just seeking the sense of belonging somewhere - no, wait - with SOMEONE that any part of the world would feel like home.
Then just now, my twin soul, whom I ran from ages ago in the midst of sexual and contextual confusion, sent me a FB message with a link of "Why you should fuck a writer. The twin soul happens to be married now, and we happen to be good friends, who seem to have left behind all the murky stuff of "what if" in favor of the more doable "this is it" (No, I haven't. I think about it a lot sometimes. Usually when I'm bored and lonely), but when he sends me stuff like this, right after I've watched a rom-com of someone getting their potentially happy ever after, while drinking two glasses of wine (and a beer and some flat non-fizzy breezers), I want to cry. And kiss him. And be held by him.
And then I start to imagine what it would be like if I ever dated a writer. Oh, wait... I did. In fact, a lot - hmm, almost everyone I've ever dated has been a writer-director-photographer. And I have their pictures and their handwritten love letters to me, and books with inscriptions still stashed away somewhere... and I miss it. I miss the abandon with which I just went for it. I remember the things I wrote for them, this whole blog in fact being about them in one form or the other...
A couple of days ago, this guy I've been seeing a lot of lately, asked me to ride with him to Bangalore. On his new Harley. The fact that he hasn't made it to even a post on this blog tells me more about our relationship than any therapist could (cheaper too!) but my first thought wasn't about him but about how much my butt would ache on that trip. He said that I wouldn't know until I tried it - and I realized that I've done it. Years ago, Delhi to Dehradun, on a bike, followed by an ice cold wade through a brook that flowed across a road while HE took pictures of me and wrote a piece of poetry for me that he later read while he held my shivering body in his arms and told me that he would love me forever.
A couple of months ago, a drummer in a band decided to ask me out. It was probably a date. It felt like a date. I didn't get dressed up or anything but I had looked forward to hanging out with him. And we did. And then we went to his place, where we ended up talking about our exes. Yikes! Total lady-wood maker because who doesn't want to to rehash your non-finest hours with an almost-stranger, am I right? Nope. And then, once the evening went to the proverbial hell in a hand basket, he made this last ditch-effort move on me. That kiss was inappropriate, hasty and the last nail in the coffin of what could have been. The reason I tell this little story is because he offered to write me a song. I think that is his move - the song for the girl. And you know what? I've been there too! On the top of a terrace, strumming an acoustic guitar, while we both shivered in too-thin T-shirts but neither of us wanted to leave that terrace even in the frozen chill of a hill-station, HE sang me a song that was filled with love and yearning and I kissed him after that. We both stood there and shivered not knowing if it was the frozen temperature or that strange feeling of being in something big...
Maybe it's the shivering that really gets me. Which would explain why I'm feeling like this right now. It's cold... well, colder than normal, and I find myself shivering alone. If you don't count my cat.
And then I wish that I'd just dated stockbrokers instead. Boring, alpha personalities who have no time for life, happy to carry anyone along for their ride. Nobody would then have ever "got" me and my heart would still be intact and maybe I'd still be able to trick myself into believing that the most fun is still to come. Instead, I'm here, staring at an empty glass of wine, having a drinking-and-writing moment on my blog that a bunch of strangers will read while I wonder which writer I'd like to fuck up with next.
These are very dangerous times.
It was heart-breaking. And sad. That there are so many out there just seeking the sense of belonging somewhere - no, wait - with SOMEONE that any part of the world would feel like home.
Then just now, my twin soul, whom I ran from ages ago in the midst of sexual and contextual confusion, sent me a FB message with a link of "Why you should fuck a writer. The twin soul happens to be married now, and we happen to be good friends, who seem to have left behind all the murky stuff of "what if" in favor of the more doable "this is it" (No, I haven't. I think about it a lot sometimes. Usually when I'm bored and lonely), but when he sends me stuff like this, right after I've watched a rom-com of someone getting their potentially happy ever after, while drinking two glasses of wine (and a beer and some flat non-fizzy breezers), I want to cry. And kiss him. And be held by him.
And then I start to imagine what it would be like if I ever dated a writer. Oh, wait... I did. In fact, a lot - hmm, almost everyone I've ever dated has been a writer-director-photographer. And I have their pictures and their handwritten love letters to me, and books with inscriptions still stashed away somewhere... and I miss it. I miss the abandon with which I just went for it. I remember the things I wrote for them, this whole blog in fact being about them in one form or the other...
A couple of days ago, this guy I've been seeing a lot of lately, asked me to ride with him to Bangalore. On his new Harley. The fact that he hasn't made it to even a post on this blog tells me more about our relationship than any therapist could (cheaper too!) but my first thought wasn't about him but about how much my butt would ache on that trip. He said that I wouldn't know until I tried it - and I realized that I've done it. Years ago, Delhi to Dehradun, on a bike, followed by an ice cold wade through a brook that flowed across a road while HE took pictures of me and wrote a piece of poetry for me that he later read while he held my shivering body in his arms and told me that he would love me forever.
A couple of months ago, a drummer in a band decided to ask me out. It was probably a date. It felt like a date. I didn't get dressed up or anything but I had looked forward to hanging out with him. And we did. And then we went to his place, where we ended up talking about our exes. Yikes! Total lady-wood maker because who doesn't want to to rehash your non-finest hours with an almost-stranger, am I right? Nope. And then, once the evening went to the proverbial hell in a hand basket, he made this last ditch-effort move on me. That kiss was inappropriate, hasty and the last nail in the coffin of what could have been. The reason I tell this little story is because he offered to write me a song. I think that is his move - the song for the girl. And you know what? I've been there too! On the top of a terrace, strumming an acoustic guitar, while we both shivered in too-thin T-shirts but neither of us wanted to leave that terrace even in the frozen chill of a hill-station, HE sang me a song that was filled with love and yearning and I kissed him after that. We both stood there and shivered not knowing if it was the frozen temperature or that strange feeling of being in something big...
Maybe it's the shivering that really gets me. Which would explain why I'm feeling like this right now. It's cold... well, colder than normal, and I find myself shivering alone. If you don't count my cat.
And then I wish that I'd just dated stockbrokers instead. Boring, alpha personalities who have no time for life, happy to carry anyone along for their ride. Nobody would then have ever "got" me and my heart would still be intact and maybe I'd still be able to trick myself into believing that the most fun is still to come. Instead, I'm here, staring at an empty glass of wine, having a drinking-and-writing moment on my blog that a bunch of strangers will read while I wonder which writer I'd like to fuck up with next.
These are very dangerous times.
