Feel Good Video for the Day

Je ne suis pas jalous, but that shade doesn't suit you...

Ah angst, we meet again.

It's been a while since my last post, and I apologize. But let's not spend too much time on formalities. I'm back with a passion, to talk about something I'm sure all 3 readers of this humble blog can identify with (if you deny it, you're lying): Jealousy.

It's hard to put such an ugly phrase to describe such a common condition in my recent life, but honesty is something I'm trying to pursue more often with myself. I'm right at the cusp of starting my life: I'm coming out of my adolescent fantasies and entering reality, which is, sadly, not as exciting and limitless as I once naively hoped. Which, naturally, translates to feeling unhappy when other people successfully pursue their dreams. These are not privileged people with a special head start on life that you never got: these are people that you went to high school and college with, that you hung out with on weekends, that you grew up with. Considering their socio-economic, ethnic, national, educational backgrounds, you are virtually identical to them. Then why does success come so easily to them? Why does opportunity seem to knock them over at every corner, while you begin every day by reminding yourself to "keep going" till it makes sense?

I'm afraid to say that I don't have the answer to this question. If I did, I wouldn't be so bitterly writing this blog post. I think the reason I feel worse than most others would, is because I'm not mediocre. I have talent and eloquence and opinions: I matter. But somehow, these people, these unnamed scores of once-average plebeians, have shown about themselves what I know about myself to the world. They have found their voice, they have found themselves.

They are closer to discovering the rest of their lives, and they are secure in the knowledge that they know what they want, and they are going for it. In the meantime, I waste time thinking too much. While I criticize their grammar or means or style, I envy their assurance. I'm terribly jealous.

If I knew what I wanted, I know I would go for it. I wouldn't mind rejections because I would have earned them, and they would be steps towards greater accomplishments. Who knew there would be so many options with such opacity? There's so much I want to do, with no clear way of doing it, and this weakens me. The why is not the problem: It's the how. And maybe the what: What doesn't frighten me when I think about doing it for the rest of my life? What inspires such passion that I don't mind working nights, weekends, holidays? Do I just give in to the anti-feminist ideal that I have rebelled against since I learned how to read, and get married? I'm told motherhood is quite a hard job, after all. If only I didn't despise children and love my current factory set up downstairs so much.

Maybe the trouble is that I'm thinking in terms of "jobs", and not passions. A really good friend of mine recently mentioned to me how 'life has destroyed our creativity'. I remember remarking how true this was: when we were younger, newer, we dreamt big. No idea was too ridiculous. As we grow up, rationality starts creeping in, and nothing kills creativity and dreams quicker than rational, adult thought.

The future was always such an abstract concept. And now, at 22, it's here. It's now. And it has the gall to ask me to contribute tangibly. And I have no idea how.

The Improbability of Place

One of the most profound videos I have seen in a while:

"And that's what makes each one of us so wonderful too. The relationships we have with our world, with each other, with ourselves, not because of the infinite improbability of it all, though it is all infinitely improbable, but because we can't imagine loving each other more"

The Watchmen reference totally had me too :)

(if you don't know what that is, FOR SHAME. But, worry not, buy it here: Watchmen Graphic Novel, or peruse its context here: Watchmen Wikipedia )

A Simple Message

Dear women of the world: Your beauty lies in your uniqueness and your flaws. Perfection doesn't exist, and those who demand it are not worth your time. Don't conform to unrealistic expectations; be yourself always. You are beautiful.

Passionate Advertising? or Watch What You Watch

As a (ex) student of communications, I tend to notice ads much more than the average bear. Throughout my college career, we were taught to be critical when viewing any kind of advertising, never just accepting it, but always questioning. While this attitude did initially ruin my ability to just enjoy the colors and effects in pretty ads, I realize just how important a role advertising plays in a capitalistic consumer culture.

I am reminded of Émile Zola's short story, "Death By Advertising"
(for those of us raised in the age of television, reading is kind of annoying, so I've included an informative video about the gist of the story below):

So it's true, advertising is important in what it tells us to buy, and eventually, DO with our lives. But lately, I've noticed a much more dangerous tactic employed by ad companies. Ads like the viral sensation that is the "Old Spice Guy" aren't as bad because they are primarily for entertainment, and the fact that these commercials are random, makes them less "calculatingly obvious":

dove

But now we come to the dangerous ads. The ones that inspire, that instill hope. These ads are never explicitly about the product they hope to publicize. They involve inspirational messages and images. I first noticed this during Dove's Real Beauty Campaign.

During this period, Dove's products were advertised not simply as beauty products, but as products that help your "real beauty". The campaign was aimed at undoing the damage done my unrealistic advertising that polluted women's perception of themselves. Their most popular ad ("Evolution") showcased how much work went into a photo shoot, to highlight the fact that real women cannot possibly attain such standards. But the one I found a little scary was this one:

At first glance, this ad is heartwarming, and has a remarkably positive message. But what this ad fails to enlighten the viewers about, is that Dove is owned by Unilever, the same company that owns Axe Body Spray. Axe has some of the most sexist and misogynistic commercials in the industry. For the purposes of politeness, I chose to describe Dove as hypocritical...

Ditto for the following ads by Absolut Vodka and Levi's.

ABSOLUT VODKA AD

Tagline: “Doing things differently leads to something exceptional”

Song: New Order – “Ceremony”

Premise: Artists creating extravagant works of art to highlight above tagline

They’ve given vodka pertinence, and social importance! It’s Vodka! The alcohol of choice for people who basically want to get schwasted out of their minds! And they’ve given it this new-agey “make a difference” feel; by inserting the right music and art, they’ve transformed it from a common vulgarity to “high art”. It’s gone from an uncultured street and pub activity of the masses to a piece to be analyzed, considered, deliberated.

Instead of alienating a growing young adult market with social consciousness (or hipsters who consider themselves to be better than most) like most liquor companies, they’ve embraced that alternative fold of kids, thereby tapping into 100% of the youth market, something I don’t think has ever been done before! They’ve also kept the “idiots”, or the so-called “low-brow” market, because the video is, in the basest terms, visually pleasing! Drunk ppl <3 pretty pictures, smart drunk people love the (implied, albeit bullshit) message behind it, and especially the use of the alternative-but-still-good-enough-to-be-mainstream music and employing artists. They’ve unlocked the potential of middle America, and BOTH coasts. (Not to mention people elsewhere in the world dying desperately to be American, or act American in some wayà while still keeping the geography deliberately ambiguous, so it doesn’t alienate anyone in the capitalist, consuming world).

Calling it the “Absolut Anthem” helps too. And making it viral and putting it on YouTube is always a brilliant decision to capture the youth market, something surprisingly few companies end up doing!

It is a brilliant marketing campaign.

The part that scares me, however, is that is is not about social consciousness or inspiration. It is about Vodka. The brilliance of this commercial leaves a strong and lasting image ... about Vodka.

LEVI'S

This series of commercials involves hopeful images of young people doing what they do best, having sex and "rebelling". Many ads in this campaign involve inspirational snippets from Walt Whitman's poems "America" and "O' Pioneers". I'm not even American, and somehow, this rubs me the wrong way. This situation is almost as bad as when Che Guevarra's image and likeness is used to sell t-shirts to misinformed, privileged teens. The irony is not just palpable, it's sickening. A beloved national poet is being used to sell blue jeans: his words of inspiration, originally written to stir the youth to action, are involved in commercials for clothing...

So I think the moral here is, consume with caution, youth of the world. Always remember to have your own opinion.

Ode To The Racist Toothpaste Tube

Green like the moss
under a rotting rock crawling with
insects feeding off
animal feces

Strong like the
lion, who is too stupid to realize
that without our guns we are powerless
and weak

Its white innards remind me
of that orchid,
the one I couldn’t name if my life depended on it,
that is a beautiful weed
heedlessly destroying all in its
path

You want to make my
teeth whiter,
My mouth
shine brighter.

But maybe brown was what I was meant to be.

Genetics have been cruel to me
if you’re not white, you’re
nothing.

But I like my tan
And, toothpaste,

You can not
and will not
take that away from me.

I finish my embrace of the chocolate bar.

Reminiscing Through Writing

This is a piece I wrote for my Intro to Creative Writing class, during my Freshman year of college, entitled "Not So Much A Story, As A Rant" (can you see how lazy I was as a 17 year old? Rubbish title). While the writing itself is meant to be a lament about how the assignment was due the next day and I had nothing to write, it's hilarious to see that I was still as confused as I am now, albeit slightly more eloquent.

INTRODUCTION TO CREATIVE WRITING (L Godfrey)

Assignment 1:

Saranya Misra

Assignment: Flash Fiction With Focus On Setting.

DUE: TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 5, 2008

NOT SO MUCH A STORY AS A RANT

She sat at her computer and began to write. She came up with about four pages of beginnings, and two pages of middles, but when she went back and read everything, she realized how ridiculously shallow it all sounded. Is this what her writing would evolve into? Wasn’t it supposed to get better as she got older? She sighed as she recalled her greatest piece of writing. It had been written in the tenth grade. Three years ago. She sighed again.

She looked away from the screen, searching for inspiration, but commercial objects screamed out at her. Her bottles of creams and lotions and perfumes and make up and iced tea all screamed “mainstream”. Nothing inspired the will to write something truly great.

“I guess I could write about the aggravating insecurity and crippling self-doubt that plagues my adolescence.” But that seemed too shallow as well. What was the matter with her? It wasn’t Writer’s Block, because she was writing. It seemed to be a sort of Writer’s Filter, which sieved out the significant and left only the meaningless and petty.

Her foot had found its way to the radiator again. She loved the way it gently heated her tired stockinged feet. It reminded her of the warm floors of home, where winter meant fifty degrees.

“Home.”

The word excited less sadness now. It was more of nostalgia for a time that was a part of who she had become. She thought of it as a flawless paradise. She knew she was glazing over the bad parts, and there were many, but she didn’t mind. The more perfect she thought her home was, the happier she would be to get back to it. Its warmth, its people, its sentiment, its character, its essence. Home.

She looked out the window to her right. Her first-floor dorm was the perfect place for people-watching. While, in an effort to avoid being a creeper, she would limit this to about five minutes, she loved to look at the people passing by and guess their stories. Sometimes, if she was really bored, she made up the stories. The girl with the pink jacket walking behind the guy with the white cap was actually in love with him, but he was in love with the boy with the combat boots, carrying the cello case. The twisted love triangle added to the illusion that college meant drama. It managed to heat up the otherwise frigid environment. The people seemed to make up for the climate of this tundra.

The trees were bare, save for the more resilient of the remainder of last night’s snowfall clinging to their white branches. Everything here was white. The people, the ground, the sky (when it wasn’t grey). She longed for the sunshine of her home; sun so hot that it burned her people a permanent brown.

The Strokes belted out a song on her iTunes. “Oo-oh, my feelings are more important than yours..!”
Well said, she thought. At least these men were honest.

The smell of the Chinese food she had ordered that weekend crept into her nose, enticing visions of exotic Shanghai streets and undiscovered lands.

She suddenly realized why her writing was superficial. It was because the world was superficial! The epiphany hit her like a bolt of lightning. People just didn’t have real issues to worry about anymore! What mattered was mainstream. There wasn’t suffering to the extent that there had been fifty years ago. Life was pretty laid back these days. The ease of every day had led to the superfluity of people’s thought processes. There were no “undiscovered lands” or “uncharted territories”. Technology had made sure of that. There was no mystery or romance left in the world. Kafka and Orwell had written about imagined realities, with situations that they felt were better than the current ones, or in an effort to better the situations they saw in reality. Dostoevsky had taken the current situations and added to them. Marx had proposed a better world. Maybe that was it. There was nothing new to be done. As the so called “small-minded” thought, everything that had to be invented has been invented. Maybe that was it. In the words of Sandi Thom, “I was born too late…”.

She sighed again, and looked out her window. Jorge from the dorm next door was on his skateboard again. It was freezing cold outside, with snow everywhere, and he was practicing his skateboard moves. He jumped up into the air, did a few elaborate turns with the skateboard, and fell on his face. He got up, nose bloody and broken, smiled and looked at me. “I invented a new move!” he mouthed.

Face gleeful to an almost alarming degree, he ran towards his other skateboarding buddies to spread the word. Well perhaps innovation wasn’t dead after all. Maybe it was just her. But what of the fact that almost every movie written after 1985 seemed to be based on the storyline of another movie, or a book, or a Shakespearean play, or a German movie?

She decided that this argument with herself was one argument that she could not win, and in an effort to prevent herself from going crazy, she shut off her computer and headed outside for a walk. Perhaps a touch of hypothermia would wake her brain up. This exiled place shut out any motive to gain inspiration, but maybe desperation would lead her to her masterpiece.
An hour later, she came running into her dorm room, the sliver of an idea just beginning to rise in her mind. She was cold and wet and hungry. Like most writers of her time, her desperation had led her to her to misery, which had led her to her masterpiece. With a, ironically, satisfied smile, she began to write.

Paris Je T’aime

I was Watching Paper Heart and eating my giant tub of “Light & Fit” Blueberry yoghurt that I got on a whim, when I decided to take a walk down St. Mark’s Place at 3:30 am on a rainy Sunday morning, I came to realize what Paris had meant to me.

For the first time since my return to school in New York 4 months ago, I thought about my similarly lonely walk around the streets of the 7eme arrondisement one Tuesday evening. I stood on a wooden bridge over the Seine, Ile De la Cité ahead of me, American tourists chattering to my right, and an imposing, impossibly beautiful Eifel Tower to my left, just silently watching: watching the massive tour boats pass from under me every half hour, the infrequent light show of the Tower glittering impressively yet falling short of mesmerizing in the increasingly spectacular lights of the City itself, which in turn paled in comparison to the brilliant crimson sunset.

In that one moment, that moment that I later realized lasted for over 4 hours, I was at peace. I was completely content with everything, everyone, everywhere. The weight of the world, le bruit du monde, just melted away. For the first time in my short but frantic life, I forgot to think. I just gazed and marveled and took the beauty of the wonderful city in.

I forgot my appearance, my notions of what my trip should be like, my itineraries, my plans for my life, my inability to locate those famous bohemian French intellectuals that converse about life, the universe and everything in delightfully dingy coffee shops, my tired feet, my unhappiness with the shallow image I portray when first addressing anyone, my suspicions about racism and my understanding that I would never find true love.

This was nothing like my visit to Notre Dame, another significant trip. Looking at it head on, standing in the exact spot that medieval France believed to be the centre of the Universe, I noted the embellishing, the precise artwork and carvings and etchings and stories behind the large doors completed by the Devil, relating the façade, as any girl growing up in the age of Disney, to the Hunchback of Notre Dame (I fear, Mr. Hugo, that I speak of the animated film), imagining its gargoyles coming to life, its menacing demon heads spewing forth burning oil, and a faint light coming from the highest window by the bell tower. Inside, I, quite literally, had to remember to breathe. The stained glass, the high ceilings, the history, hit me on a level so deep that I now think twice before calling myself shallow. Could my years of ranting about belief in the divine being ridiculous, have been ridiculous? Because surely this building was a testament to the existence of the otherworldly.

I couldn’t believe that when it was first revealed, Parisians hated the Eifel Tower and wanted to tear it down. People can be so silly.

Paris is less of a geographical entity than it is a way of life. Its tangible beauty is obvious, and its historical neighborhoods, the Marais, Montmartre, are steeped in cultural significance and artistic buzz. But it’s the lifestyle, the conversations with strangers, the slow, aimless evenings and afternoons spent in endless cafés, the incredibly delicious food, food, everywhere, that can truly capture the essence of Paris.

My mother insisted that I keep a journal, a travel diary, to chronicle my trip and improve my writing; my father encouraged it to have me somehow participate in the repertoire of generations of novelists that had roamed the same streets and found inspiration. I brushed them off, then felt guilty, because I realized that I might never come back to this city that I would gladly have made my home.

But now, months later, I realize that they were right. Paris is so enormous in intellectuality, in sheer experience, that it cannot really be accurately discussed while it is being lived; it so overwhelms the senses that taking your own sweet time to realize it is beneficial not only to your experience but also to your sanity. Now, much later, Paris and its inspirations have hit me like decades of poetry, at once, and so strongly that it has, once again, knocked me out of breath. A hard feat at 3:30 am on a rainy Sunday.

Don't Have Sex

As a 21 year recent college graduate, I have been mostly exposed to love as a vulgar concept. That is, “to fuck”, “to bang”, “to bone” etc. No one ever spoke of “finding the one”, but only of having fun, one-night stands, fuck-buddies and so forth. During my time at one of the largest universities in the world in the middle of New York City, I was conditioned to think in temporaries. So much so that I failed to see the beauty in love.

The romance of finding the one was dismissed to childish fantasy at the back of my alcohol and party-addled mind. Friends taught me that boys were, collectively, assholes. Academia and intellectual discussion taught me that I was a confident, independent, feminist from the 21st century who should recognize that men were only good for their sperm and propagating the species. And I was. I am.

But was I made so blind by intellectualism that the shy glance across a crowded room that my teenage self would have thought romantic was banished as the creepy advances of a pervert? Was marriage really just an outdated concept that was invented to make sex more socially and morally acceptable? Is every single thing we do eventually just about physical pleasure?

Love is not about politics or thought or cynicism. It’s about opening yourself up to the possibility of sharing your life with another person and making it count twice as much, not diminishing it by shutting yourself off every time you fathom the slightest bit of emotional discomfort.

It’s about being open, vulnerable, ready.

So don’t have sex. Make love.

(from Post Secret)

Legalizing Fabulous

New York State recently legalized gay marriage. For most heterosexuals, this isn't a big deal. I, along with everyone else who wasn't barred from marriage before, merely joined in the pride festivities for the fun they promised.

But sitting in Central Park, watching an obviously gay man wearing a wedding ring as he read his paper with a contended sigh, I realized how wonderful the world is slowly becoming. We are gradually moving towards equality. Gay people being denied basic civil rights was never the issue: it was differentiating among happy, contributing members of society based on something as insignificant as the gender to which they were attracted.

Senator Mark Grisanti, a catholic republican, made the following speech when he voted to allow same-sex marriage, and it gives me hope in people and their ability for understanding and compassion despite their beliefs:

Even though I am not an American Citizen, I feel truly happy for the LGBTQ community in this country, as a human being. There's not much I can say that hasn't been said already, but when an entire section of New York's population is no longer denied happiness (arguably, since I think marriage is an outdated concept, at least, I'm not suited for it...), I truly feel the positive vibes in New York City. There is much less tension in the people around me. We are moving, together, towards contentedness. And, after all, isn't that the point of life?

Congratulations, homosexuals! You can now be as miserable as the rest of us. I am truly happy for you!