In 1995, when I was three years old, a film called Kicking and Screaming almost made it to the Cannes Film festival. Now, I am three years out of college, on my way to becoming an adept advice-giver in the ways of life and my sister, a 2020 batch graduate whose job hinges on a pandemic asks, "What do I do now ?", bringing us right back to the start and the end.
Noah Baumbach’s directorial debut, (now streaming on Netflix) remains as relevant as ever today. It opens at a graduation party of twenty-something liberal arts students and we…
Complaining that I didn’t have space in my room, or that I could hear everything from every corner of the house. I storm out into the garden and carry with me, my new copy of Anne Frank’s ‘The Diary of a Young Girl.’ My mother scoffs at me and says that I’ve wasted money, when her copy is in a box somewhere, but I was quite sure that she owned a censored version.
It was one of the books you hope you’d to get to sooner but you don’t. As I began reading, I started jotting down my observations in…
“I don’t get it. I just don’t get it. I like the art spaces but that’s about it.”
After her visit to the National Gallery of Modern Art, my friend complains, she would rather have the artist explain the art to her.
“I do hate open endings.” she says.
That’s probably one of the reasons why art remains so removed and distant from most us, and why artists are increasingly finding the need to explain their art to people to make it more relatable. It isn’t explained enough. …
CIGARETTES AND SWEAT.
Cigarettes and Sweat.
The Headiest smell I know.
Damn it. I can’t get my eyes off of you.
You smile, I hold mine back.
Not giving in again.
You find solace in silence.
But the Noise. The noise inside me from the thoughts of you.
I’ve tried and failed to clear the clutter of your thoughts from my head. But your Hazy eyes. They strew them back again.
Bitter memories keep me alive,
Sinking heartaches keep me afloat .
The Mystery about you can never be solved.
Cigarettes and Sweat, only draw me Closer to you.
One quarter of a month spent.
Inebriated by stars of a tired sky.
Moments you prefer to tie together,
And let trail behind you,
Only to look back and see some of them gone amiss.
You realise suddenly, it is your fault.
You treated some of them callously,
and now you have ghost-like memories of them,
asking yourself whether they are true or not.
Intimacy of people you capture,
by brushing against their souls,
taking a lot of them with you.
You take a deep breath and make the plunge.
Then, when they stifle you, you gasp.
That’s when you know,
Such it is, breathing in the depths of another
Tea boiled over.