Him: Hey, that looks nice
Me: What?
Him: Don't act dumb, you know what
Me: You mean this?
Him: Of course. What else is there as beautiful as that in your life?
Me: Yeah, that's true
Him: I know you love it
Me: Of course I do
Him: Why the long face then?
Me: Oh, it's nothing
Him: I have noticed, you know...
Me: What?
Him: What you mumble in your sleep...
Me: Which is...
Him: red streaks on white china
Me: My eye is drawn to them, resistance seems futile
him: Why would you want to resist?
Me: Well, it is not pleasant
Him: Why?
Me: Because it reminds me of when it was broken
Him: Just that? surely that was a long time ago
Me: It reminds me of how I struggled to put it back together... so beautiful, yet so delicate
Him: Is that all?
Me: Ok, I admit, it reminds me of the pain
Him: What pain?
Me: The pain when I cut my fingers, again and again on the broken slivers, groping desperately to save every piece, frantically trying to pick every last shattered fragment, dipping my fingers into the pile of rubble hoping to put it all together again
Him: And...
Me: Well, can you see the cracks?
Him: Hmm, I must say, you did a good job
Me: Does it look broken?
Him: Not to me...
Me: What does that mean?
Him: Well, I have my answer
Me: Answer to what?
Him: What you mumble in your sleep
Me: I hate him, you know
Him: I know
Me: I hate him for the streaks more than the cracks
Him: I know that too, you have always been selfish
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Thursday, October 19, 2006
coming of age?
My brother emailed me yesterday. He was at a proverbial crossroad in his education/career/life. He was worried about the choices in front of him. He was looking for answers, he was looking for guidance, he was looking for more sleep at night. Reading his email, I could not help but wonder whether there is a gene which codes for 'thought process'. it seemed as if I was visiting my brain from the past - the questions that floated up from his email would have been typed by me not so long ago. You see, he is thinking about applying for a PhD and he is not sure. His words jumped off my screen like unruly kids off a schoolbus:
What can I look forward to if I do complete my PhD?
How long will it take?
What if I can't come up with anything for years and realise I have to quit? What do I do afterwards? A research job?
But do I so badly want to TEACH?
Am I any good at it?
Am I good enough for any of this?
and also ...
... What do I want?
I could also identify with his state of mind when he said: 'It's been 5 months and I haven't even done a proper literature survey. I feel I'm not as self motivated or as interested as I need to be for research'. It is uncanny how our thoughts have lined up with no intentional mutual influence, living thousands of miles away.
What do I tell him? The obvious, annoying and easy answer is to say 'there is no right answer'. But you don't need a brother to tell you that. You can get it from the innumerable agony aunts all around you in the media.
But, then, is there a right answer? Maybe there is, I don't know, but what I do know is .. I don't know if there is a right answer.
I began thinking about the one thing I could tell him which might be of use to him - how I coped with these questions that life flings at you with apparent carelessness, but really with an intent to maim or kill.
That got me thinking about my life over the past three years - nothing to write home about, but still, I came to acknowledge a few basic 'facts' as I see them.
After I finished my MRCP, I felt stranded, as if I had lost direction. I ‘knew’ I was not good enough for anything acute, anything exciting. I ‘knew’ I did not have enough knowledge about medicine to ever become a specialist, I ‘knew’ I did not have the commitment and dedication to pursue a career in a competitive academic field. My head was all muddled and I had no obvious path to follow. Till then when I had exams to pass, it was so easy (not being arrogant - I don't mean that the exams were easy, God, did they make me sweat and loosen my sphincters at times). Look at the next exam date, apply and study. Hardly requires any decision making skills. But when I had finished all my exams, it was as if it was the end of my career. What next?
I then thought about my future working life.
It became slightly less muddled over the next few months - it was as if I had finally got down to 'spring cleaning' my mind, airing the cupboards, sweeping up the cobwebs and dusting the carpets. My thoughts started to bear semblance to some kind of order. Somehow, it was as if, I was alive for the first time, just starting out, testing if my brain works or not - very strange after 'living' for 26 years.
I started with what I would call 'first principles' in my work.
A job is defined as work you do for financial compensation
A profession is a job that you do offering a degree of expertise that someone just doing a 'job' cannot offer. This means you have undergone a period of specialist training or education that gives you a better insight into what you do. Yet, it is something you do for remuneration albeit at a better skill level.
Now, there is one more level of work – a vocation. Etymologically, this is related to the concept of a ‘calling’. As if the work calls you, attracts you and you fall in love with it. You have a desire to do it, you want to do it because it is what you would enjoy. Moreover, it is what you would enjoy not just at the age of 28 when you are young and fit and the world is your oyster, but it is what you would enjoy at the age of 65 or 70, when you have arthritis in both hips and problems with your prostate that makes you lose half your sleep running back and forth to the toilet. In other words, it is something you would not tire of doing because you love it.
With this line of thinking came the realisation that choosing my career path was as important as choosing who I live with/marry. Well, even more important, in some ways.
The person you marry might not be there with you throughout your life for whatever reasons, but your work will be with you as long as you are capable of working.
IF you do not choose carefully, you might end up hating what you do very soon – and when it happens, it is as ugly as a bad marriage.
I then imagined this: what would it take for me to jump out of bed into my work clothes at 3 AM … at the age of 65?
The answer was very obvious – cardiology, cardiology and cardiology in that order.
According to a survey which I came across a few years ago, only 11% of cardiology trainees in the UK are non-White, of which 7% are Asian of which 4% are British Asian born and educated in the UK. The situation might have changed, but I do not think it has changed dramatically.
In other words, I knew when I decided on cardiology that I have a 3% chance of making it to a training post. 3 years down the line, I am only half way there (if that) – I still don’t know if I will manage to get a training post. Yet, I would NEVER ever consider doing anything else with my life. Because it would not be physiologically plausible for me to do anything else. You might as well train your goldfish to fetch your morning paper.
People ask me what is my plan B – I don’t have a plan B. The only plan is cardiology ... or sit at home and look after the kids, which is quite attractive, I must say, atleast that would save me having to worry about IVF and elderly primis.
Then comes the question of choosing an academic route – research and all the rest.
It is much more difficult to marry research into work – in any field. Again, it depends on how much you love your field. Applying the same useful office equipment, the 'first principles sorter' (available now, in all good shops):
In any line of work, traditionally, you do three things:
Do a good job (profession)
Teach your apprentices how to do a good job (academics)
Try to see if you can make the job better (research)
Whether you want to do 2 & 3 depends on two things:
How much you want to do it
AND
What are the negative impacts on your lifestyle/quality of life (note: quality of life is defined by you) by choosing 2 and 3.
But then there is a darker side to it, the craving for knowledge (which may turn out to be an ill disguised craving for power, for in academics, knowledge is really power), the desire to be known, to be recognised, to be appreciated, to be immortalised by your work.
Is this just vanity, is this just arrogance?
How should I know, possibly it is just me.
I am still trying to work out how to sift out the dark side. Three things seem to help:
1. Insight - by this I mean an unbiased assessment of oneself - a clincial audit with an 'n of one'. Accept the fact that in a lab with a PCR machine, a pipette, a 200 microlitre pcr tube and you, the imperfect entity is... yes, no prizes for guessing... you. I strongly believe that the more insight you have, the more you question your capabilities. So I am very happy and proud of my brother for raising these doubts about his own capacity and calibre.
2. The project is more important than the researcher - this puts things in perspective. You then come to 'know' your slot in the bigger machine. It gives you the drive to know more, to be excited about what you want to do, it gives you the academic equivalent of a nostril flare response. At the same time, you realise that even if the human race evolved to live to 250 and did away with the need for sleep and developed superneurons with novel aminoacids which give you supermemory, you will only succeed in scratching the surface of your field, the field you really and truly love.
3. Remember your climb up the ladder - as you progress, watch where you step. Try not to tread on feet, especially those of your juniors. It does not take much to squash baby feet with army boots. Try and remember that any comparisons between you and your juniors should be like for like. i.e., be honest and compare your junior's achievements and knowledge to what you were capable of at his/her level in your career. When you appraise someone: be honest, not brutally honest.
Anyway, all this apart, over the next few days/weeks my brother will come to a decision. It might change his entire life. It scares me. Why did he have to ask me for advice? Why not someone older and wiser? Why not someone in his field?
Suddenly I realise, there are questions floating up like good year blimps into my conscious brain...
...and the first one reads:
Am I good enough?
What can I look forward to if I do complete my PhD?
How long will it take?
What if I can't come up with anything for years and realise I have to quit? What do I do afterwards? A research job?
But do I so badly want to TEACH?
Am I any good at it?
Am I good enough for any of this?
and also ...
... What do I want?
I could also identify with his state of mind when he said: 'It's been 5 months and I haven't even done a proper literature survey. I feel I'm not as self motivated or as interested as I need to be for research'. It is uncanny how our thoughts have lined up with no intentional mutual influence, living thousands of miles away.
What do I tell him? The obvious, annoying and easy answer is to say 'there is no right answer'. But you don't need a brother to tell you that. You can get it from the innumerable agony aunts all around you in the media.
But, then, is there a right answer? Maybe there is, I don't know, but what I do know is .. I don't know if there is a right answer.
I began thinking about the one thing I could tell him which might be of use to him - how I coped with these questions that life flings at you with apparent carelessness, but really with an intent to maim or kill.
That got me thinking about my life over the past three years - nothing to write home about, but still, I came to acknowledge a few basic 'facts' as I see them.
After I finished my MRCP, I felt stranded, as if I had lost direction. I ‘knew’ I was not good enough for anything acute, anything exciting. I ‘knew’ I did not have enough knowledge about medicine to ever become a specialist, I ‘knew’ I did not have the commitment and dedication to pursue a career in a competitive academic field. My head was all muddled and I had no obvious path to follow. Till then when I had exams to pass, it was so easy (not being arrogant - I don't mean that the exams were easy, God, did they make me sweat and loosen my sphincters at times). Look at the next exam date, apply and study. Hardly requires any decision making skills. But when I had finished all my exams, it was as if it was the end of my career. What next?
I then thought about my future working life.
It became slightly less muddled over the next few months - it was as if I had finally got down to 'spring cleaning' my mind, airing the cupboards, sweeping up the cobwebs and dusting the carpets. My thoughts started to bear semblance to some kind of order. Somehow, it was as if, I was alive for the first time, just starting out, testing if my brain works or not - very strange after 'living' for 26 years.
I started with what I would call 'first principles' in my work.
A job is defined as work you do for financial compensation
A profession is a job that you do offering a degree of expertise that someone just doing a 'job' cannot offer. This means you have undergone a period of specialist training or education that gives you a better insight into what you do. Yet, it is something you do for remuneration albeit at a better skill level.
Now, there is one more level of work – a vocation. Etymologically, this is related to the concept of a ‘calling’. As if the work calls you, attracts you and you fall in love with it. You have a desire to do it, you want to do it because it is what you would enjoy. Moreover, it is what you would enjoy not just at the age of 28 when you are young and fit and the world is your oyster, but it is what you would enjoy at the age of 65 or 70, when you have arthritis in both hips and problems with your prostate that makes you lose half your sleep running back and forth to the toilet. In other words, it is something you would not tire of doing because you love it.
With this line of thinking came the realisation that choosing my career path was as important as choosing who I live with/marry. Well, even more important, in some ways.
The person you marry might not be there with you throughout your life for whatever reasons, but your work will be with you as long as you are capable of working.
IF you do not choose carefully, you might end up hating what you do very soon – and when it happens, it is as ugly as a bad marriage.
I then imagined this: what would it take for me to jump out of bed into my work clothes at 3 AM … at the age of 65?
The answer was very obvious – cardiology, cardiology and cardiology in that order.
According to a survey which I came across a few years ago, only 11% of cardiology trainees in the UK are non-White, of which 7% are Asian of which 4% are British Asian born and educated in the UK. The situation might have changed, but I do not think it has changed dramatically.
In other words, I knew when I decided on cardiology that I have a 3% chance of making it to a training post. 3 years down the line, I am only half way there (if that) – I still don’t know if I will manage to get a training post. Yet, I would NEVER ever consider doing anything else with my life. Because it would not be physiologically plausible for me to do anything else. You might as well train your goldfish to fetch your morning paper.
People ask me what is my plan B – I don’t have a plan B. The only plan is cardiology ... or sit at home and look after the kids, which is quite attractive, I must say, atleast that would save me having to worry about IVF and elderly primis.
Then comes the question of choosing an academic route – research and all the rest.
It is much more difficult to marry research into work – in any field. Again, it depends on how much you love your field. Applying the same useful office equipment, the 'first principles sorter' (available now, in all good shops):
In any line of work, traditionally, you do three things:
Do a good job (profession)
Teach your apprentices how to do a good job (academics)
Try to see if you can make the job better (research)
Whether you want to do 2 & 3 depends on two things:
How much you want to do it
AND
What are the negative impacts on your lifestyle/quality of life (note: quality of life is defined by you) by choosing 2 and 3.
But then there is a darker side to it, the craving for knowledge (which may turn out to be an ill disguised craving for power, for in academics, knowledge is really power), the desire to be known, to be recognised, to be appreciated, to be immortalised by your work.
Is this just vanity, is this just arrogance?
How should I know, possibly it is just me.
I am still trying to work out how to sift out the dark side. Three things seem to help:
1. Insight - by this I mean an unbiased assessment of oneself - a clincial audit with an 'n of one'. Accept the fact that in a lab with a PCR machine, a pipette, a 200 microlitre pcr tube and you, the imperfect entity is... yes, no prizes for guessing... you. I strongly believe that the more insight you have, the more you question your capabilities. So I am very happy and proud of my brother for raising these doubts about his own capacity and calibre.
2. The project is more important than the researcher - this puts things in perspective. You then come to 'know' your slot in the bigger machine. It gives you the drive to know more, to be excited about what you want to do, it gives you the academic equivalent of a nostril flare response. At the same time, you realise that even if the human race evolved to live to 250 and did away with the need for sleep and developed superneurons with novel aminoacids which give you supermemory, you will only succeed in scratching the surface of your field, the field you really and truly love.
3. Remember your climb up the ladder - as you progress, watch where you step. Try not to tread on feet, especially those of your juniors. It does not take much to squash baby feet with army boots. Try and remember that any comparisons between you and your juniors should be like for like. i.e., be honest and compare your junior's achievements and knowledge to what you were capable of at his/her level in your career. When you appraise someone: be honest, not brutally honest.
Anyway, all this apart, over the next few days/weeks my brother will come to a decision. It might change his entire life. It scares me. Why did he have to ask me for advice? Why not someone older and wiser? Why not someone in his field?
Suddenly I realise, there are questions floating up like good year blimps into my conscious brain...
...and the first one reads:
Am I good enough?
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Richard Pryor and his 'niggers'
I am sure I will offend someone with this title. This is the power of words - curiously, more than to insult, it sometimes has power to elicit a 'cringe response' in the readers. I guess the response depends on what concerns the reader more: political correctness or racism.
Anyway, that is not the point.
Richard Pryor died recently. I had seen some of his films, but I was no great fan - he swore too much for my liking. I watched a documentary on him a few days ago. He lead a colourful life, to say the least. The documentary was followed by one of his stand up performances from the 70s. As I watched him, I realised that he was a very talented man and the swearing was just part of his character. There are comedians who bank on a vocabulary of filth to get a laugh. He seemed different - I am sure even if all his swear words were bleeped out, you would still find his jokes funny.
He had this reputation for calling african americans 'niggers'. Now, this is something black men might get away with, but not something a different race could use without repercussions. He in fact called his first stand up album 'that nigger is crazy'.
Anyway, the way he used this word, it seemed as if it was not derogatory, well, if it was, he didn't seem to mind and neither did his fans.
In one of his acts, he describes a trip he made to Africa. The significance of what he said struck me, I could empathise with his feelings when he said this:
'Man, I went to Africa recently. It was amazing, it blows your mind. All around me I saw black men, from the sweeper to the president. As I sat in the hotel lobby and looked around, a voice in my head said to me - Richard, do you see black people all around you? - to which I replied - yeah, man, black all around, I have never seen so many black people in my life. Then the voice said - Richard, do you see any niggers around you? I looked around again and said - no man, I don't see any niggers, only black people'.
I think I know exactly what he means. It is the dignity that a person is entitled to among his countrymen, something that eludes most people who live abroad. Of course most of those who live abroad do so of their own volition, no one has forced them to do it. Yet, there is a constant feeling of 'not being at home'. There are daily reminders of your differences, starting from when you look in the mirror in the morning.
Each person deals with this as best as he/she can. Most get by without thinking about this unless a personal experience forces them to acknowledge it. Work, worries, commitments, goals, targets, family, hopes, fears - well, life in general, carries them forward so that there is hardly any time to waste on whether people think you are a 'nigger' (or a 'paki' in my case - yes, in the UK, there is no distinction between Indians, Pakistanis, Bangladeshis and Srilankans when it comes to racism - we are all 'pakis').
Nonetheless, there are occasions, for instance after you have just returned from a holiday back home, when Richard's words have a special meaning:
'In Africa, there are no niggers, only Black people'
Anyway, that is not the point.
Richard Pryor died recently. I had seen some of his films, but I was no great fan - he swore too much for my liking. I watched a documentary on him a few days ago. He lead a colourful life, to say the least. The documentary was followed by one of his stand up performances from the 70s. As I watched him, I realised that he was a very talented man and the swearing was just part of his character. There are comedians who bank on a vocabulary of filth to get a laugh. He seemed different - I am sure even if all his swear words were bleeped out, you would still find his jokes funny.
He had this reputation for calling african americans 'niggers'. Now, this is something black men might get away with, but not something a different race could use without repercussions. He in fact called his first stand up album 'that nigger is crazy'.
Anyway, the way he used this word, it seemed as if it was not derogatory, well, if it was, he didn't seem to mind and neither did his fans.
In one of his acts, he describes a trip he made to Africa. The significance of what he said struck me, I could empathise with his feelings when he said this:
'Man, I went to Africa recently. It was amazing, it blows your mind. All around me I saw black men, from the sweeper to the president. As I sat in the hotel lobby and looked around, a voice in my head said to me - Richard, do you see black people all around you? - to which I replied - yeah, man, black all around, I have never seen so many black people in my life. Then the voice said - Richard, do you see any niggers around you? I looked around again and said - no man, I don't see any niggers, only black people'.
I think I know exactly what he means. It is the dignity that a person is entitled to among his countrymen, something that eludes most people who live abroad. Of course most of those who live abroad do so of their own volition, no one has forced them to do it. Yet, there is a constant feeling of 'not being at home'. There are daily reminders of your differences, starting from when you look in the mirror in the morning.
Each person deals with this as best as he/she can. Most get by without thinking about this unless a personal experience forces them to acknowledge it. Work, worries, commitments, goals, targets, family, hopes, fears - well, life in general, carries them forward so that there is hardly any time to waste on whether people think you are a 'nigger' (or a 'paki' in my case - yes, in the UK, there is no distinction between Indians, Pakistanis, Bangladeshis and Srilankans when it comes to racism - we are all 'pakis').
Nonetheless, there are occasions, for instance after you have just returned from a holiday back home, when Richard's words have a special meaning:
'In Africa, there are no niggers, only Black people'
Monday, October 16, 2006
when poverty scared me
A rainy day more than 25 years ago. I was 6, my brother was about a year old then (intellectually, I would argue that he is about the same even now, but that's another story). The monsoon clouds were at it with gusto. Not the type of half-hearted effort made by clouds in England either. The monsoon drowns out everything, including your thoughts. For me, monsoon is a word that always triggers memories of sound and smell and touch more than sight. But there is one sight that comes up in my memory from the past that still haunts me when I think about the monsoons...
... A six year old me sitting in the back seat of my father's car, my parents in front, my brother sleeping, swaddled in a warm blanket on my mother's shoulder. I am engrossed in the strange music of raindrops on the metal roof and the repetitive frantic squeaking of the windshield wipers as they vainly try to keep up with the water splashing all around. I close my eyes and imagine I am underwater, in a submarine (my dad had taken me to see 20,000 leagues under the sea) and I am hiding from the monstrous squid in the safety of my submarine/car. I have an open biscuit packet in my lap (which will not be a surprise to those who know me) and I am deep in my role, when my father asks me to keep a look out behind the car as he reverses into a side street.
Everything changes - it only takes an instant, that's what is so strange about life.
I look around, the side street is empty, except for a boy a few feet behind our car. He looks about 3 or 4, he is drenched so bad that I worry his skin and flesh might wash away any minute in the force of the rain. A dark, thin little boy, in tattered clothes and an expression I cannot describe on his face. Suddenly I am scared to look at him, I desperately try to avoid his gaze, but it is too late. He looks at me and raises his hand to his mouth, a helpless and hopeless mime of hunger.
My heart races, I have never been so scared in my life. I don't know what to do. So I just keep quiet. My father, who has not seen any of this, shifts gears and drives off. I feel compelled to look one last time - and there he is, in the middle of the road, frozen in time, frozen in the rain, his tiny hand still raised to his mouth.
As we drive off, I rummage around in my brain for a 'safe' thought. I desperately want to think about Captain Nemo and my submarine. But all that fills my mind is the little boy.
What scared me was not the thought that it could be me (I don't think I was capable of such profound thought at that age) - what really scared me was that through the rain his face seemed to blur for a moment and it seemed as if my little brother was looking at me, cold and tiny and hungry and frail.
That was the first time I was introduced to poverty, the arrogant, cruel, greedy slavemaster. Since then I have passed him on the street many times, but always managed to escape without acknowledging his presence - and he seemed to let me get away with it. He seemed happy just trampling on the vast army of slaves already under his whip. I have never done anything that would count as charitable (you cannot count the direct debit from your account as anything more than a guilt response - it is not 'charity'). Of course as a doctor, you help in making minor improvements to people's lives. But then, you are compensated well for your effort. I used to dream of doing something really useful, for people who have nothing. Unfortunately, your own selfish thoughts get in the way:
What about my career? my financial stability? my independence after 24 years of living in my parents' house (not that they would mind)? I want to chase my dreams, build my empire and tick all the right boxes. That doesn't leave time for charity, surely.
Like a broken record, repetitive explanatory thoughts play in my mind: 'I will certainly give something of me to people who have nothing, but... but, let me build my life first, because...
...I need security before I can afford charity
...I need qualifications before I can offer my services
...I need experience to build expertise
...I need to complete my training
...I need to beef up my CV
...I need to think of a family
...I need to tick all the boxes
and before I know it, charity and sacrifice have been drowned in my 'needs'. One day, one day soon, I am sure I will help someone less fortunate ... but it seems, I am helping myself before I do that and I don't know when I will be satisfied.
... A six year old me sitting in the back seat of my father's car, my parents in front, my brother sleeping, swaddled in a warm blanket on my mother's shoulder. I am engrossed in the strange music of raindrops on the metal roof and the repetitive frantic squeaking of the windshield wipers as they vainly try to keep up with the water splashing all around. I close my eyes and imagine I am underwater, in a submarine (my dad had taken me to see 20,000 leagues under the sea) and I am hiding from the monstrous squid in the safety of my submarine/car. I have an open biscuit packet in my lap (which will not be a surprise to those who know me) and I am deep in my role, when my father asks me to keep a look out behind the car as he reverses into a side street.
Everything changes - it only takes an instant, that's what is so strange about life.
I look around, the side street is empty, except for a boy a few feet behind our car. He looks about 3 or 4, he is drenched so bad that I worry his skin and flesh might wash away any minute in the force of the rain. A dark, thin little boy, in tattered clothes and an expression I cannot describe on his face. Suddenly I am scared to look at him, I desperately try to avoid his gaze, but it is too late. He looks at me and raises his hand to his mouth, a helpless and hopeless mime of hunger.
My heart races, I have never been so scared in my life. I don't know what to do. So I just keep quiet. My father, who has not seen any of this, shifts gears and drives off. I feel compelled to look one last time - and there he is, in the middle of the road, frozen in time, frozen in the rain, his tiny hand still raised to his mouth.
As we drive off, I rummage around in my brain for a 'safe' thought. I desperately want to think about Captain Nemo and my submarine. But all that fills my mind is the little boy.
What scared me was not the thought that it could be me (I don't think I was capable of such profound thought at that age) - what really scared me was that through the rain his face seemed to blur for a moment and it seemed as if my little brother was looking at me, cold and tiny and hungry and frail.
That was the first time I was introduced to poverty, the arrogant, cruel, greedy slavemaster. Since then I have passed him on the street many times, but always managed to escape without acknowledging his presence - and he seemed to let me get away with it. He seemed happy just trampling on the vast army of slaves already under his whip. I have never done anything that would count as charitable (you cannot count the direct debit from your account as anything more than a guilt response - it is not 'charity'). Of course as a doctor, you help in making minor improvements to people's lives. But then, you are compensated well for your effort. I used to dream of doing something really useful, for people who have nothing. Unfortunately, your own selfish thoughts get in the way:
What about my career? my financial stability? my independence after 24 years of living in my parents' house (not that they would mind)? I want to chase my dreams, build my empire and tick all the right boxes. That doesn't leave time for charity, surely.
Like a broken record, repetitive explanatory thoughts play in my mind: 'I will certainly give something of me to people who have nothing, but... but, let me build my life first, because...
...I need security before I can afford charity
...I need qualifications before I can offer my services
...I need experience to build expertise
...I need to complete my training
...I need to beef up my CV
...I need to think of a family
...I need to tick all the boxes
and before I know it, charity and sacrifice have been drowned in my 'needs'. One day, one day soon, I am sure I will help someone less fortunate ... but it seems, I am helping myself before I do that and I don't know when I will be satisfied.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
thoughton
april shower,
raindrops cling to leaves for
dear life
cold drink,
chewing gum stiffens on
my tongue
middle of
a signature, my pen
runs dry
potholes in
the road, my CD player
skips a track
sleepy morning,
the hot iron chases away
my shirt creases
darkness gathers round
my night lamp, like old men
around a winter fire
first day of
school, the smell of resin
in my notebook
raindrops cling to leaves for
dear life
cold drink,
chewing gum stiffens on
my tongue
middle of
a signature, my pen
runs dry
potholes in
the road, my CD player
skips a track
sleepy morning,
the hot iron chases away
my shirt creases
darkness gathers round
my night lamp, like old men
around a winter fire
first day of
school, the smell of resin
in my notebook
Thursday, October 12, 2006
who's this then?
me: I love her
him: are you sure?
me: of course I am sure
him: but then what about HER?
me: who's that then?
him: you know HER, I am sure
me: oh, HER, yeah well, you know how things are
him: well, maybe you should tell me
me: there is nothing to say
him: but you do think about HER
me: so what, it is silly
him: well...
me: and you know I love her
him: well, she certainly loves you
me: who, HER?
him: ha, you are so predictable, jumping to conclusions again
me: oh, you meant her?
him: what do you think?
me: well I know I love her
him: do you think she loves you?
me: don't play games with me
him: what do you mean?
me: well, why can't you say what you mean?
him: which is...
me: do you mean she or SHE?
him: does it matter?
me: how would I know?
him: well, it's your feelings
me: don't muck around with me...
him: don't worry, you are all mucked up as it is
me: well, I know she loves me and I love her
him: ...
me: well...
him: what?
me: are you not going to judge me? do you not have to slip your forked tongue in between my lines and taste the undercurrent of desire and guilt, you slimy ...
him: wow, someone's upset
me: and you know why
him: maybe, but do you?
me: what do you mean?
him: go figure
him: are you sure?
me: of course I am sure
him: but then what about HER?
me: who's that then?
him: you know HER, I am sure
me: oh, HER, yeah well, you know how things are
him: well, maybe you should tell me
me: there is nothing to say
him: but you do think about HER
me: so what, it is silly
him: well...
me: and you know I love her
him: well, she certainly loves you
me: who, HER?
him: ha, you are so predictable, jumping to conclusions again
me: oh, you meant her?
him: what do you think?
me: well I know I love her
him: do you think she loves you?
me: don't play games with me
him: what do you mean?
me: well, why can't you say what you mean?
him: which is...
me: do you mean she or SHE?
him: does it matter?
me: how would I know?
him: well, it's your feelings
me: don't muck around with me...
him: don't worry, you are all mucked up as it is
me: well, I know she loves me and I love her
him: ...
me: well...
him: what?
me: are you not going to judge me? do you not have to slip your forked tongue in between my lines and taste the undercurrent of desire and guilt, you slimy ...
him: wow, someone's upset
me: and you know why
him: maybe, but do you?
me: what do you mean?
him: go figure
ticking boxes one by one...
A wilful move away from work, just to look at the bigger picture. I am sure this is just a passing state of disillusion. I was talking to a friend yesterday. He is an older, wiser colleague and I had approached him for some advice on improving my candidate appeal. it is so difficult to get the job you desire, actually, of late, it is difficult to get anything at all, but near impossible to get what you want. Anyway, as I was planning to apply for a post that seemed quite attractive, I went to him for advice. He took me through all the various issues that an employer looks for in a candidate, but in the end, he said 'it all boils down to how many boxes you tick and how many sections you can fill on an application form'.
Now, 16 hours later, I feel as if I have been sandbagged. Is this my life then? filling boxes... I suppose it starts from the hospital bassinet and for many people ends with a made to measure box.
There is one box that I have not filled as yet in my life. The box that says prizes and honours. It makes me feel rather like a dull 3 year old when I leave this blank, as if I am on a stage with spotligts burning into my brain and I have to own up to the whole world: 'no, I have never won any prizes, I have not once been honoured in all my life'
In a lightning reflex to protect my ego, explanations jump up and slam against the front of my brain: I never tried, I was too bored, I didn't get the right guidance, I was not in the right place, others had less competition (boy, that's especially pathetic) ... the list goes on.
I guess the fact is, I have never been THAT good.
Even as I wrestle with that obvious explanation, a small voice in my head says 'absence of evidence is not evidence of absence'
Now, 16 hours later, I feel as if I have been sandbagged. Is this my life then? filling boxes... I suppose it starts from the hospital bassinet and for many people ends with a made to measure box.
There is one box that I have not filled as yet in my life. The box that says prizes and honours. It makes me feel rather like a dull 3 year old when I leave this blank, as if I am on a stage with spotligts burning into my brain and I have to own up to the whole world: 'no, I have never won any prizes, I have not once been honoured in all my life'
In a lightning reflex to protect my ego, explanations jump up and slam against the front of my brain: I never tried, I was too bored, I didn't get the right guidance, I was not in the right place, others had less competition (boy, that's especially pathetic) ... the list goes on.
I guess the fact is, I have never been THAT good.
Even as I wrestle with that obvious explanation, a small voice in my head says 'absence of evidence is not evidence of absence'
Friday, September 22, 2006
fitting God into science
That's a BIG ask, surely
Why is the world so obsessed with this now? in 2006, of all times? surely, we have come past this wasteland before. It still reeks of old battles. Really, do we need a new one?
What is all this debate? Evolution vs Creation, it seems. I can't even be bothered to examine this in detail (thank God for that, it has been dissected from all planes and angles already)
Tolerance helps
Changing one's point of view helps
Knowledge helps
Intellect helps
Science helps
Religion helps (yes, it does)
Integrity helps
but, then, people already know all this helps, and yet, they can't be bothered.
well, maybe this needs a one size fits all explanation.
any suggestions?
how about:
'God wanted us to evolve'
Why is the world so obsessed with this now? in 2006, of all times? surely, we have come past this wasteland before. It still reeks of old battles. Really, do we need a new one?
What is all this debate? Evolution vs Creation, it seems. I can't even be bothered to examine this in detail (thank God for that, it has been dissected from all planes and angles already)
Tolerance helps
Changing one's point of view helps
Knowledge helps
Intellect helps
Science helps
Religion helps (yes, it does)
Integrity helps
but, then, people already know all this helps, and yet, they can't be bothered.
well, maybe this needs a one size fits all explanation.
any suggestions?
how about:
'God wanted us to evolve'
Monday, August 14, 2006
Inching my way to happiness
I have been in a foul mood of late. Trying to lose weight (again). OK I lied in my profile - I am not always comfortable with my body image.
As I was struggling to get into my old pair of jeans, with one leg in and teetering, it struck me - I know how to measure happiness. It is not an abstract concept like all these poets would have you believe. It is a tangible, well defined and slightly mundane entity!
And the scale of measurement?
Inches. Yes, inches. Happiness is measured in inches. Well, atleast as far as men are concerned. As for women, I would not have the arrogance to suggest that I understand anything at all about the fairer sex. But as far as simple, uncomplicated men are concerned, we are all inching our way to happiness.
Not convinced?
well, I could start with the human body itself, one's own and others'.
As you look at yourself in the mirror, you wish you were 3 inches taller. Or even half an inch for that matter. That would make you so happy. And then as you struggle into your wrinkled trousers, you wish your waist was a few inches slimmer. You steel your resolve to hold your breath for the rest of the day in those tight trousers, for you are meeting your special girl who manages to turn you into a slobbering fool. You wish yet again that you could lose a few inches, even half an inch - from your waist.
Then you meet the said girl, you are immediately conscious of her figure - even without knowing it, you are adding up the inches, just to reassure you that they add up in the right places in the right proportions. Why? That makes you happy, of course. As you sit through a mushy romantic movie (her choice), you are conscious of her head leaning towards your shoulder - a few inches closer and you'd be really happy.
I will not bore you with the crass details of what other biological detail measured in inches brings happiness in geometrical proportion to men.
You then turn to your next important thing in life, yes, boys' toys.
As you drive to work, you think about the new 19 inch alloys you had specially made for your car and you once again feel extremely happy.
You get out of your car swinging your briefcase and there is more reason to be happy, because your new laptop is only 9 inches in size (2 inches less that your annoying colleague's, ha! that will teach him). Also you have personally verified the claim that the company makes the thinnest laptops - less than half an inch thick! Excellent. you are very happy now - till your mobile rings and you think: 'I have to change this old one, it is 5 inches long and half an inch thick'. Your next door neighbour was flashing his new one the other day - he didn't forget to mention that it was less that a quarter of an inch in thickness and only two and a half inches long. Grrrr, you have to do better, but then you look at the 3 inches of plastic sticking out of your wallet - your platinum card has to be recharged before you can buy that new phone. But that's understandable, after all you have just bought the latest 54 inch LCD that is now contentedly hanging from your living room wall - adding more inches to your happiness. Your pals at work are coming round tonight, ostensibly to watch the finals, but really, it is a celebration of you notching up more inches to your happiness. Sadly it is not long lived - for your annoying technogeek colleague whips out his latest digital camera - 10 megapixels and a whopping 3 inch LCD screen with a touch sensitive menu. You quickly hide your own camera between the cushions - no point in letting people know that you only have an inch and a half of screen on your Olympus - oh, only if you could add a couple of inches to that!
You are tired now - it is time for bed. You toss around restlessly and then drift off to sleep, only to wake up sweating from a nightmare.
You dreamt you were in a giant cocktail shaker - but this one was most peculiar, for it was shaking you and all your beloved stuff till the inches all rearranged themselves. Oh, no, the laptop is now 4 inches thick and 15 inches wide - the embarrassment! You will have to live it down somehow, but then you recoil in horror as you see the LCD TV now shrunken beyond recognition to just 21 inches. You feel quite fat - and realize that you are! It is all the inches off your TV and the alloy wheels on to your waist. Someone you hardly recognize is talking to you - who is she, this ugly, dumpy woman - and then you recognize your once well proportioned girl. The inches are all rearranged and she is a different person now - you try to run away from her, but she keeps following you, down a dark corridor and then you are falling down.. down...
... and you wake up.
Thank God, it was all a dream, she is there lying beside you, her shape under the sheets reassures you that things are all as they should be, you stretch a weary hand to your bedside table and your new slimline clock-radio (only 3 inches wide, surround sound speakers and all) tells you that you have another 4 hours to sleep. As you shuffle back under the duvet, you stub your toe on the bed and wonder - have you grown taller in your sleep?
You have, it seems - atleast 5 inches taller - surely you are dreaming - you pinch yourself, no, it is true - you walk to the bathroom mirror to verify ...
and then...
... the night is rent apart by a blood curdling scream - for you have seen yourself in the mirror and now you realize where those extra inches to your height came from .......
As I was struggling to get into my old pair of jeans, with one leg in and teetering, it struck me - I know how to measure happiness. It is not an abstract concept like all these poets would have you believe. It is a tangible, well defined and slightly mundane entity!
And the scale of measurement?
Inches. Yes, inches. Happiness is measured in inches. Well, atleast as far as men are concerned. As for women, I would not have the arrogance to suggest that I understand anything at all about the fairer sex. But as far as simple, uncomplicated men are concerned, we are all inching our way to happiness.
Not convinced?
well, I could start with the human body itself, one's own and others'.
As you look at yourself in the mirror, you wish you were 3 inches taller. Or even half an inch for that matter. That would make you so happy. And then as you struggle into your wrinkled trousers, you wish your waist was a few inches slimmer. You steel your resolve to hold your breath for the rest of the day in those tight trousers, for you are meeting your special girl who manages to turn you into a slobbering fool. You wish yet again that you could lose a few inches, even half an inch - from your waist.
Then you meet the said girl, you are immediately conscious of her figure - even without knowing it, you are adding up the inches, just to reassure you that they add up in the right places in the right proportions. Why? That makes you happy, of course. As you sit through a mushy romantic movie (her choice), you are conscious of her head leaning towards your shoulder - a few inches closer and you'd be really happy.
I will not bore you with the crass details of what other biological detail measured in inches brings happiness in geometrical proportion to men.
You then turn to your next important thing in life, yes, boys' toys.
As you drive to work, you think about the new 19 inch alloys you had specially made for your car and you once again feel extremely happy.
You get out of your car swinging your briefcase and there is more reason to be happy, because your new laptop is only 9 inches in size (2 inches less that your annoying colleague's, ha! that will teach him). Also you have personally verified the claim that the company makes the thinnest laptops - less than half an inch thick! Excellent. you are very happy now - till your mobile rings and you think: 'I have to change this old one, it is 5 inches long and half an inch thick'. Your next door neighbour was flashing his new one the other day - he didn't forget to mention that it was less that a quarter of an inch in thickness and only two and a half inches long. Grrrr, you have to do better, but then you look at the 3 inches of plastic sticking out of your wallet - your platinum card has to be recharged before you can buy that new phone. But that's understandable, after all you have just bought the latest 54 inch LCD that is now contentedly hanging from your living room wall - adding more inches to your happiness. Your pals at work are coming round tonight, ostensibly to watch the finals, but really, it is a celebration of you notching up more inches to your happiness. Sadly it is not long lived - for your annoying technogeek colleague whips out his latest digital camera - 10 megapixels and a whopping 3 inch LCD screen with a touch sensitive menu. You quickly hide your own camera between the cushions - no point in letting people know that you only have an inch and a half of screen on your Olympus - oh, only if you could add a couple of inches to that!
You are tired now - it is time for bed. You toss around restlessly and then drift off to sleep, only to wake up sweating from a nightmare.
You dreamt you were in a giant cocktail shaker - but this one was most peculiar, for it was shaking you and all your beloved stuff till the inches all rearranged themselves. Oh, no, the laptop is now 4 inches thick and 15 inches wide - the embarrassment! You will have to live it down somehow, but then you recoil in horror as you see the LCD TV now shrunken beyond recognition to just 21 inches. You feel quite fat - and realize that you are! It is all the inches off your TV and the alloy wheels on to your waist. Someone you hardly recognize is talking to you - who is she, this ugly, dumpy woman - and then you recognize your once well proportioned girl. The inches are all rearranged and she is a different person now - you try to run away from her, but she keeps following you, down a dark corridor and then you are falling down.. down...
... and you wake up.
Thank God, it was all a dream, she is there lying beside you, her shape under the sheets reassures you that things are all as they should be, you stretch a weary hand to your bedside table and your new slimline clock-radio (only 3 inches wide, surround sound speakers and all) tells you that you have another 4 hours to sleep. As you shuffle back under the duvet, you stub your toe on the bed and wonder - have you grown taller in your sleep?
You have, it seems - atleast 5 inches taller - surely you are dreaming - you pinch yourself, no, it is true - you walk to the bathroom mirror to verify ...
and then...
... the night is rent apart by a blood curdling scream - for you have seen yourself in the mirror and now you realize where those extra inches to your height came from .......
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Prime time Alien TV - the human freaks
I wish at times that there was a super human race. A race not as predatory and arrogant as humans are, but with a similar curiosity to explore the 'lesser' species. While I am at it, I would also wish for a David Attenborough or a Jane Goodall to make programmes on nature where they observe human behaviour at work and play.
Only this would give us the insight that we need to understand how we behave as a species, wth all the failings that we so easily attribute to 'lesser animals'.
Is reality TV an answer then? How about Big Brother?
Definitely not, it would hardly be a sincere attempt at depicting human behaviour either on the part of the participants or the programme designers.
Humans are blessed with social awareness which helps us to modify behaviour according to our surroundings - not just the physical, but also the emotional and psychological. This means that the presence (or awareness) of others results in involuntary modification of innate behaviour which thwarts any attempt at studying human behaviour in its purest form.
Another benefit of having a different species study humans would be that it is more likely to be non-judgemental. This is where reality TV would fall woefully short of the ideal. The whole point of reality TV is that we judge the people on the screen, thereby improving our own feeling of self worth. This is why reality TV sells better if it has a group of people who are at best dysthymic and at worst outright bizzare or sociopathic. Why do we not have reality TV programmes on checkout counters in supermarkets, molecular biology labs or libraries?
Well, the simple answer being that it is too real, 'really real' people living normal real working lives. Nothing to feel superior about, in fact, viewers may feel inadequate or depressed if they see happy successful human beings!
A super human species would also be able to delve deeper into the extremes without worrying about 'consequences' of such programme making.
When David Attenborough films a lion making a killing in the wild, for all the blood and gore, for all the detailed depiction of death accompanied by a lucid narration, we hardly bat an eyelid. We encourage children to watch and learn about wild life, not turn the other way.
Why not have a reality TV on soldiers - actually killing 'the other side'? How about a programme that follows someone intent on murder...to its completion? It does not have to be gory, maybe someone plotting to poison a lover. It does not have to involve a dead human, even someone inflicting psychological pressure, financial pressure - all behaviour we know humans are capable of, but never asked to face upto.
Does this make me a psychopath? To think about these things?
I think we need a wake up call. The extremes of behaviour humans are capable of has been glossed over by the media, any attempt to show real suffering is met with resistance.
Bob Geldof (I think) once described how the relief workers in africa are faced with the soul destroying task of selecting people. From a whole field of hungry humans, to pick and choose those who will be fed that day, knowing fully well that the unlucky ones will NOT be waiting their turn the next day. How about a live telecast of this?
When we are sitting down to a meal in front of the TV (the dining room? what's that?) we do not wish to be reminded of our moral standing as a species.
All around the world there is unrest and unhappiness, yet even more prominently there are daily justifications for human behaviour. Those who have bigger, more convincing explanatory notes get away with more.
The whole world is polarised now, more acutely than in the dark ages. The only reason human beings may really unite would be if there really was a super human race... not one interested in making real life programmes... but a predatory one with an appetite for humans, irrespective of race or social status.
Only this would give us the insight that we need to understand how we behave as a species, wth all the failings that we so easily attribute to 'lesser animals'.
Is reality TV an answer then? How about Big Brother?
Definitely not, it would hardly be a sincere attempt at depicting human behaviour either on the part of the participants or the programme designers.
Humans are blessed with social awareness which helps us to modify behaviour according to our surroundings - not just the physical, but also the emotional and psychological. This means that the presence (or awareness) of others results in involuntary modification of innate behaviour which thwarts any attempt at studying human behaviour in its purest form.
Another benefit of having a different species study humans would be that it is more likely to be non-judgemental. This is where reality TV would fall woefully short of the ideal. The whole point of reality TV is that we judge the people on the screen, thereby improving our own feeling of self worth. This is why reality TV sells better if it has a group of people who are at best dysthymic and at worst outright bizzare or sociopathic. Why do we not have reality TV programmes on checkout counters in supermarkets, molecular biology labs or libraries?
Well, the simple answer being that it is too real, 'really real' people living normal real working lives. Nothing to feel superior about, in fact, viewers may feel inadequate or depressed if they see happy successful human beings!
A super human species would also be able to delve deeper into the extremes without worrying about 'consequences' of such programme making.
When David Attenborough films a lion making a killing in the wild, for all the blood and gore, for all the detailed depiction of death accompanied by a lucid narration, we hardly bat an eyelid. We encourage children to watch and learn about wild life, not turn the other way.
Why not have a reality TV on soldiers - actually killing 'the other side'? How about a programme that follows someone intent on murder...to its completion? It does not have to be gory, maybe someone plotting to poison a lover. It does not have to involve a dead human, even someone inflicting psychological pressure, financial pressure - all behaviour we know humans are capable of, but never asked to face upto.
Does this make me a psychopath? To think about these things?
I think we need a wake up call. The extremes of behaviour humans are capable of has been glossed over by the media, any attempt to show real suffering is met with resistance.
Bob Geldof (I think) once described how the relief workers in africa are faced with the soul destroying task of selecting people. From a whole field of hungry humans, to pick and choose those who will be fed that day, knowing fully well that the unlucky ones will NOT be waiting their turn the next day. How about a live telecast of this?
When we are sitting down to a meal in front of the TV (the dining room? what's that?) we do not wish to be reminded of our moral standing as a species.
All around the world there is unrest and unhappiness, yet even more prominently there are daily justifications for human behaviour. Those who have bigger, more convincing explanatory notes get away with more.
The whole world is polarised now, more acutely than in the dark ages. The only reason human beings may really unite would be if there really was a super human race... not one interested in making real life programmes... but a predatory one with an appetite for humans, irrespective of race or social status.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Character building
What a week. What a messy irritating frustrating week!
Lab work can be so ruthless. It is so much easier to be a doctor. The human body is so forgiving to your mistakes. Not like the controlled pristine precise atmosphere of the scientific laboratory, where the way you breathe can mess things up.
Doing PCRs is not fun. In fact it is soul destroying work, especially if you are doing it for the second time in your entire life. You resist the temptation to scale things up. how do you know that the 0.61 microlitres has gone into the tube and mixed with the rest of the 9.39 microlitres of 'stuff'?!
On the wards, if someone is unwell and you need to give them some antibiotics, you can give an extra dose at times, 'for good measure'. no harm done, as long as you know where to draw the line. Not so in lab work. Lab work does not seem to accept the fact that it is also an imprecise science. A microenvironment does not necessarily scale down the variability. it is still performed by imperfect human beings with imperfect knowledge and imperfect skills. So why pretend?
In medicine, the more you work, the more you realize how little you know. I strongly believe that this feeling of inadequacy is proportional to one's insight. I cannot understand arrogant doctors. What are they arrogant about?
it is like the filament of a bulb being arrogant about the light in the room. You are just a plain conduit which is empty if not for what flows through it.
But I digress.
Character building - yes, I have come to hate that phrase. This is what people tell me when things go wrong, after 3 days of work, you find out that there is nothing to show for it, as it has all gone horribly wrong and yet, you don't know what you did wrong.
Character building, my foot!
Well, if it is character building, surely, it is the quality, not the quantity of character that you need.
I don't know
Going back to my samples now
Lab work can be so ruthless. It is so much easier to be a doctor. The human body is so forgiving to your mistakes. Not like the controlled pristine precise atmosphere of the scientific laboratory, where the way you breathe can mess things up.
Doing PCRs is not fun. In fact it is soul destroying work, especially if you are doing it for the second time in your entire life. You resist the temptation to scale things up. how do you know that the 0.61 microlitres has gone into the tube and mixed with the rest of the 9.39 microlitres of 'stuff'?!
On the wards, if someone is unwell and you need to give them some antibiotics, you can give an extra dose at times, 'for good measure'. no harm done, as long as you know where to draw the line. Not so in lab work. Lab work does not seem to accept the fact that it is also an imprecise science. A microenvironment does not necessarily scale down the variability. it is still performed by imperfect human beings with imperfect knowledge and imperfect skills. So why pretend?
In medicine, the more you work, the more you realize how little you know. I strongly believe that this feeling of inadequacy is proportional to one's insight. I cannot understand arrogant doctors. What are they arrogant about?
it is like the filament of a bulb being arrogant about the light in the room. You are just a plain conduit which is empty if not for what flows through it.
But I digress.
Character building - yes, I have come to hate that phrase. This is what people tell me when things go wrong, after 3 days of work, you find out that there is nothing to show for it, as it has all gone horribly wrong and yet, you don't know what you did wrong.
Character building, my foot!
Well, if it is character building, surely, it is the quality, not the quantity of character that you need.
I don't know
Going back to my samples now
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
The King of egotrips
Read Stephen King's Song of Susannah this week. I thought this was it, that the gunslinger meets his maker now, but no, he has managed to stretch it further. There is one more - book 7, The Dark Tower. Have to hunt it down cheap on amazon now, how annoying!
What can I say. Stephen King writes in an irritating way, but I am still drawn to him 16 years after I read his first book.
I used to think, especially when I was in India that buying a King gives you good value for money. Not many authors give you 500-600 pages at that price. So if you are looking for an afternoon to waste or a 9 hour flight to tide over, there is no one better - as long as you are prepared to throw the book away when you get off the plane. A literary equivalent of casual sex.
I like King because he has this weird lopsided angle when looking at life. His spyglass is quite stained and smeared (with things you don't want to know about) and he manages to see the dark side in everything. This, I have always felt is what fascinated me. To see the underbelly of life, the less appealing side - like Irvine Welsh says in High Fidelity - knowing a woman long enough to know that she leaves disgusting cotton underwear lying around and not just the sexy nylon stuff that you get to see on a short hot fling.
A bit like that, but worse.
He is at his best when he describes characters. If he were an artist, he would be one of those wrinkly gruff slightly bitter ones who would only do pencil sketches, never add colour, yet manage to make the paper come alive. I hardly ever read his books for the horror, for it is not a shock or a suspense that he demands from his CRs (CR=Constant Reader). He prefers to make you shuffle in your seat and squirm when you read the dark bits of his characters, for he forces you to acknowledge your own weaknesses and darkest of thoughts, thoughts you would not accept as your own, thoughts like mutant psychopathic children that you don't want to know about, definitely not the ones you would have photos of in your wallet - yet for all your vehement denial, they are your own.
He makes you face up to them, stay in the same room with them and try and talk to them. Here in lies the real horror of his books - a study of the capacity of the human MIND for socially unacceptable behaviour.
What better example that his short story 'Riding the Bullet'. That stands out for the simple reason: it really makes the reader accept his own selfish love of life . Ever since I read that, I have seen selfish behaviour in a new light and I understand it better. I also think twice about adopting a 'holier than thou' attitude. I will not spoil it for people who have not read the story yet - go ahead, read it and decide for yourself.
Why call this post egotripping?
Because that is what his Dark tower series has turned out to be. One of my american colleagues said King is two sandwiches short of a picnic and although that is a bit harsh, I think I can see why she said that.
His style has definitely changed as he got older. If you read the Bachman Books, you see a different King. Young, hot headed, raging against the system and very very crisp and economical in his writing style, even when he digresses off the plot to describe a character in detail, it all feels essential in some strange and beautiful way. Despair and horror in plenty, but of a much better quality.
Nowadays, as he says himself, he gets away with publishing his laundry list and still come up with a best seller, and I think his writing has turned out of form and corpulent in it's old age.
As if he cannot be bothered to make the effort anymore. Even in the Dark Tower series, you can see how the story has become less gripping as you read further - and it feels as if the series is his excuse to get everything he has ever written published - all the ugly mutant children of his brain out in the open and his CRs are forced to adopt them all without question.
Sad, really, for he is very good when he puts his mind to it.
He says Tabby (his wife) is his greatest critic. Why has she let him get away with this? She should know better, surely.
Maybe after his near fatal accident, she has softened a bit, maybe that's why.
But still, as a CR, you tend to expect more from him, which he does not deliver nowadays.
What explanation could there possibly be for him dragging himself into the story?!! Does he think that that would immortalize him any better than if he just wrote a cracking good tale? I think he is sorely mistaken if that was his plan.
It does not add anything to the tale and makes one disappointed is a peculiar skin crawling way. As a CR, you see King as someone you know and the feeling is akin to how you feel when you have just introduced your elderly uncle to a group of friends and he then lets rip a loud smelly fart that leaves you not only embarrased, but also sorry for him.
Oh well, my ranting is over for now.
I am going to hunt down Book 7. Like I said, I still read his books, even if I am being screwed over by the publishers.
I still read his books hoping for his old style, in someways, I am hardly bothered about how it all ends - I dont think he can do very well, the way things have panned out. But still if the journey is interesting, I don't mind if the end leaves me disappointed.
What can I say. Stephen King writes in an irritating way, but I am still drawn to him 16 years after I read his first book.
I used to think, especially when I was in India that buying a King gives you good value for money. Not many authors give you 500-600 pages at that price. So if you are looking for an afternoon to waste or a 9 hour flight to tide over, there is no one better - as long as you are prepared to throw the book away when you get off the plane. A literary equivalent of casual sex.
I like King because he has this weird lopsided angle when looking at life. His spyglass is quite stained and smeared (with things you don't want to know about) and he manages to see the dark side in everything. This, I have always felt is what fascinated me. To see the underbelly of life, the less appealing side - like Irvine Welsh says in High Fidelity - knowing a woman long enough to know that she leaves disgusting cotton underwear lying around and not just the sexy nylon stuff that you get to see on a short hot fling.
A bit like that, but worse.
He is at his best when he describes characters. If he were an artist, he would be one of those wrinkly gruff slightly bitter ones who would only do pencil sketches, never add colour, yet manage to make the paper come alive. I hardly ever read his books for the horror, for it is not a shock or a suspense that he demands from his CRs (CR=Constant Reader). He prefers to make you shuffle in your seat and squirm when you read the dark bits of his characters, for he forces you to acknowledge your own weaknesses and darkest of thoughts, thoughts you would not accept as your own, thoughts like mutant psychopathic children that you don't want to know about, definitely not the ones you would have photos of in your wallet - yet for all your vehement denial, they are your own.
He makes you face up to them, stay in the same room with them and try and talk to them. Here in lies the real horror of his books - a study of the capacity of the human MIND for socially unacceptable behaviour.
What better example that his short story 'Riding the Bullet'. That stands out for the simple reason: it really makes the reader accept his own selfish love of life . Ever since I read that, I have seen selfish behaviour in a new light and I understand it better. I also think twice about adopting a 'holier than thou' attitude. I will not spoil it for people who have not read the story yet - go ahead, read it and decide for yourself.
Why call this post egotripping?
Because that is what his Dark tower series has turned out to be. One of my american colleagues said King is two sandwiches short of a picnic and although that is a bit harsh, I think I can see why she said that.
His style has definitely changed as he got older. If you read the Bachman Books, you see a different King. Young, hot headed, raging against the system and very very crisp and economical in his writing style, even when he digresses off the plot to describe a character in detail, it all feels essential in some strange and beautiful way. Despair and horror in plenty, but of a much better quality.
Nowadays, as he says himself, he gets away with publishing his laundry list and still come up with a best seller, and I think his writing has turned out of form and corpulent in it's old age.
As if he cannot be bothered to make the effort anymore. Even in the Dark Tower series, you can see how the story has become less gripping as you read further - and it feels as if the series is his excuse to get everything he has ever written published - all the ugly mutant children of his brain out in the open and his CRs are forced to adopt them all without question.
Sad, really, for he is very good when he puts his mind to it.
He says Tabby (his wife) is his greatest critic. Why has she let him get away with this? She should know better, surely.
Maybe after his near fatal accident, she has softened a bit, maybe that's why.
But still, as a CR, you tend to expect more from him, which he does not deliver nowadays.
What explanation could there possibly be for him dragging himself into the story?!! Does he think that that would immortalize him any better than if he just wrote a cracking good tale? I think he is sorely mistaken if that was his plan.
It does not add anything to the tale and makes one disappointed is a peculiar skin crawling way. As a CR, you see King as someone you know and the feeling is akin to how you feel when you have just introduced your elderly uncle to a group of friends and he then lets rip a loud smelly fart that leaves you not only embarrased, but also sorry for him.
Oh well, my ranting is over for now.
I am going to hunt down Book 7. Like I said, I still read his books, even if I am being screwed over by the publishers.
I still read his books hoping for his old style, in someways, I am hardly bothered about how it all ends - I dont think he can do very well, the way things have panned out. But still if the journey is interesting, I don't mind if the end leaves me disappointed.
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