Insomniac

The world seems more palatable at night. In the darkness, the world is quiet; asleep. The voices of 7 billion people crying for food and shelter and attention are silent, if only briefly.

She can only get anything done at night. For once, the voices in her head are allowed to venture out, without fear of being confused with outside noise. When everyone else is asleep, her loneliness becomes deliberate, empowering; socially acceptable. She is a child again, talented, unafraid, unique.

She blinks, and it is day once again. Sunlight streams through her window, bringing with it the voices of the 7 billion people, awakened by their needs, their constant wanting. She is overwhelmed and unimpressed at the same time. Her mind allows her one final song as she rubs the sleep from her eyes and prepares to dull herself with another day.

Rock the Casbah!

"Bienvenue au Maroc!"

All Photo Credits: Shambhavi Misra

Here's what you need to know about me. I have wanted to go to North Africa since I was a fetus. Seriously. We had these world history encyclopedias in my library at home growing up, and I memorized the entire "Ancient Egypt" volume in a month. As an 8 year old. I can officially read ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics. Getting me to learn the names of angles in Geometry was a task straight from hell for my Math teacher, but I taught myself an entire language that is not even used anymore in one hot summer month.

When I thought of North Africa and the Middle East, I imagined it as it probably was in the 1920s, when countries of that region were still under colonial rule, and were developed enough to accept and support travelers from strange lands, but still retained the traditional customs that made them so wonderful. I longed to visit them with my giant wooden trunk with old-school country stickers on them, wearing my loose-fitting khaki adventurer pants, carrying my leather-bound travel journal, ooh-ing and aah-ing at the colors and the bustle.

Unfortunately, every country I have visited since the formation of this perception of how travel should be has embraced the 21st century. There are trains and malls and freaking McDonalds' everywhere. Not that I'm complaining: whimsy aside, I could never survive without flushing toilets. My experiences, therefore, have been fun, but in a much tamer manner than I anticipated.

Morocco has been the exception.

I am from a country that shares many of Morocco's attributes: It's crowded, it has sites of historical significance liberally dotted throughout the landscape, it has many examples of medieval Islamic architecture, its colonial influences are very apparent, it's colorful, it's noisy, it's everything. So clearly, it was nothing new. Till I began to notice the differences, and make associations. Rick's Cafe, of "Casablanca" (the movie) fame, was never actually used for filming, but it's gorgeous! The medinas (old cities) and casbahs of Fes and Marrakech are preserved in time: It's like my loafers stepped from the paved streets of post-colonial Morocco into the bustle of the ancient markets. The history is palpable in the everyday and the mundane.

The architecture is a whole other facet of Morocco. At the risk of sounding like an old woman on a retirement trip with her badly-dressed elderly friends, there is color everywhere! There are mosaics and tiles and clothes and accessories that, in any other circumstance, should clash horrendously, but for some reason, on the narrow streets of a blue-walled section of the medina, they work perfectly. My eyes should have exploded from over-stimulation, but they didn't. They embraced the colors as if they had always known them, craved them.

The mannerisms were my favorite: there exists in the older cities of Morocco this intoxicating mix of the old world and contemporary French culture. The languid cafe culture that I noticed in Paris blends seamlessly with the delicious Thé Moroccain sweetened with fresh mint leaves and hookahs in the evening. Even the most crowded streets have a peace about them that I have never seen anywhere else. And once you get over having to eat some variation of Tagine and cous cous three times a day, the customs begin to grow on you!

And then we discover the simple geography of the country. At one point on the northern coast, it is possible to actually see Europe. On a clear day, without binoculars or periscopes or any of those fancy nautical instruments, you can just look out towards the ocean, and make out the Spanish coastline. Heck, if the world's borders weren't so ridiculously rigid, you could swim over and back within the hour.

Morocco is, in a word, gorgeous. In a few more, convenient, stable and steeped in history and culture. It's definitely worth a visit! Not bad for my first trip to the enigma that is Africa.

One general word of warning though: If you don't speak French or Arabic, you're pretty much screwed. Keep in mind that gestures mean different things in different countries, so while you can try and gesture "food" to your guide, he might take it as you telling him to f*ck off and walk away in a huff. A general rule of thumb before travelling is to at least memorize key phrases in the local language.

Hans Zimmer Makes For An Inspirational Speech

Charlie Chaplin's speech from The Great Dictator (1940).

Whoever the brilliant soul was that decided to put this speech to Hans Zimmer's Time from the Inception original soundtrack definitely represents some kind of genius. The musical crescendo lines up perfectly with the rising tone of Chaplin's voice. It inspires me to take on the world.

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.