pravmenon's Xanga

Thursday, December 14, 2006

Thu, 14 Dec 2006 07:12:28 GMT

*Disenfranchised*

(6:08pm - Queensland Time) Hi all. I've decided to make my Xanga private from now on. I've been doing so for about a month of the last two or three that I haven't written; and have found it a lot easier and admittedly more enjoyable than writing public entries. I may however choose to open up these entries to public later. Either way - thanks to all those people who cared to read until this point - considering that this Xanga was meant to be a catalogue of my experience during honours - and it sort of ran on into the new year - its kind of a good time to turn it private anyway, as Honours is long gone (but its ghost still haunts me!). Anyway I'm up in Cairns totally enjoying myself, and am going to continue doing so! Signing off, (possibly permanently)

Pravin

Sunday, August 13, 2006

Sun, 13 Aug 2006 12:20:31 GMT

*Contrite*

(10:02pm) Well according to my new schedule I've allocated myself half an hour to recollect my thoughts every evening before going to bed. This will certainly help me organize my duties, collect my thoughts, assuage my emotions, etc. - and on the other hand, it could be a royal waste of time. Nevertheless, I'm going to give it a try, and see how it works out. It may actually be quite useful, and will at least give me a chance to write regularly, or even just lavish myself with some alone time (which I have little of nowadays).

To be true to the task, I have been shirking a bit lately. This weekend was, although not a critical weekend to start studying, very important for me to get on top of readings, and I didn't really spend much time studying. I did about three hours of work today, maybe half an hour yesterday, and none on friday. It gave me enough time to go over a week's worth of Contracts Readings and the last Dworkin article for Legal Theory; but I'm still behind in Litigation and Federal Constitutional. FedCon I won't be touching until the take home - I really can't do anything more about that, apart from my readings; and Litigation I better get started on, as it is bound to be quite difficult, and will require more than a weekend to prepare. These Law and Social Essays are still at large....but I've put that behind me - like a lot of other things....

I'm quite excited that I am starting swimming tommorow. It will be the first time in a length of time I choose not to mention that I will be exercising, and if its not too tiring and/or cumbersome to lug around my swimming gear, violin, and backpack to uni two or three times a week, it should be quite a fun and restorative way for me to burn off some calories, reduce stress, and stay focused on getting my uni work done. I've bought some new (rather revealing) speedos, and will be packing my bags for both uni and swimming momentarily.

So other than the fact that I haven't done the study I wish to do this weekend, I have made a lot of changes for the better. I'm sticking to a schedule now, which, though very busy, is actually quite enjoyable and not too unreasonable on myself. I've been making it too all my classes unassisted every morning, and I also woke up early on Friday morning, and relatively early today and yesterday - which is almost unprecedented for me. I managed to get out of the house and find somewhere I could get some study done - which is something that I would normally never bother doing, despite having the car in the carport and several hours of sunlight still left. I've decided that from now on, every Friday, Saturday and Sunday morning I'll walk a few kilometres to a park or reserve (I'll find one with a bench, plenty of sunlight and not too many distractions) and do all my readings and note-taking there. It should also give me a good hour of walking to do every day - which will be good for my heart and mind.

I effectively have 12 hour days now - but that will be filled with everything from travelling, university, and exercising to music, recreational reading, diary writing, etc. I'm reluctant about travelling home late tommorow afternoon/evening - but if its too hard to do, I've actually come across a guy in law who lives very close by and finishes Uni at 6 - giving myself ample time to swim before I get a lift home, and giving me an extra hour to study/read/relax/practice music when I get home. I'm going to try doing it without any help the first time, and then if its too much trouble or I really require that extra hour and/or am too tired to travel, I'll ask him kindly the following week.

Well, the half hour mark has now passed - and just in time really! I've had a chance to reflect over a few things - managed to remind myself to get money off my dad for the Law Ball tickets and Gym membership tommorow, and reward myself with some modest praise, which still feels odd doing after almost a year of self-chastisement.

Though a part of me still clings to this feeling, this niggling feeling, that I've somehow mentally sold-out, smothered all my dreams for a less-complicated existence, favouring a rudimentary balance in favour to the dizzy heights and ponderous lows that I'm prone too. Yes, I admit, when I'm completely conscious of what I should be doing, I don't exactly feel like myself - there is this other voice, from whence I do not know, that cajoles me towards the righteous path - that stirs me into action when I'm feeling tired, or losing concentration. It constantly reminds me of the task at hand, and my responsibilities, and makes me feel courageous and strong - as though I could accomplish anything.

The other voice (the one that I had grown accustomed to) that encouraged my lethargy, and fed my incontinences which the most absurd rationalizations (preventing me from changing anything about myself) has now been practically killed off. It came back a few times this weekend - when I spent time composing instead of studying - but it didn't haunt me as it usually does - and didn't leave me feeling triumphant and guilty at the same time.

Although I feel stronger now, I know that the current frame of mind is kept very precariously, and I could once again plummet into a procrastinating ennui of which there is almost no escape; yet, for the time being, this does not seem like a probable outcome. What makes this process much easier - is my willingness now to swallow a measure of contentment. Before I despised contentment, as a living death, that state of mind which enslaves the masses, preventing man from self-realization, allowing one to live out a puny, meaningless existence in absolute oblivion, and letting the artistic genius within perish under the weight of 'social norms', man's weakness for vanity, and dependency on the most modest and conservative of concepts.

However, in retrospect, I now realize this to be a very delusional thought - and more the proof of life without much experience, rather than any kind of Nietzschean vision of man's reckoning. Contentment, modesty, balance, stability - they are all necessary things. Without these, we would all crumble, all die spiritually impoverished, psychologically emaciated, and physically paralysed. I once thought happiness was something that should be ridded from one's life, as the flag-bearer of 'contentment', but not of 'experience', and/or of 'wisdom'. Somehow, I convinced myself that wisdom and happiness were utterly opposed. This is no novel idea, and I'm sure I'd find a school of philosophers that embraced my ideas outright if I spent the time looking about. I thouht that the word 'happiness' was really a reified concept, one that been repeated and referenced over and over for so long that people believed it to actually exist, but was nothing more than a mere abstraction. My mantra searched for a higher Keatsian value/truth in a happiness which could only be realized after embracing death. That moments of pure bliss and pure beauty could only be realized in the conciousness of death....

How I had convinced myself of these things I cannot tell you, but they plagued me constantly. I never thought I would actually admit to them, or bother trying to recall them. I am still uncertain whether these 'states of mind' exist, or are attainable, purely through abandoning all rigorous, rational thought in favour of desperate, impassioned whims/flights of fancy. I'm still not willing to accept the idea that these two 'states' aren't mutually exclusive. To me, it seems (ironically) too rational to see these two paths ever converging in the future.

Yet, I will ignore all this for now. Firstly, I've exceeded my allocated time. Secondly, I am sure it has not made much sense and left far too many questions unanswered; and thirdly, I know that my position is different now, and I have no plans to dwell on the past again. Suffice it to say - I am of a new mind frame now - one which embraces possibility not with a crippled hand, but a sturdy one - fueled by patience, and a positive frame of mind. Although I'm well aware it does all sound a little contrived and cliched, I assure you, these are genuine feelings - they just require nurturing. I am going to pack my bags and gather my things tommorow. Now, I sleep. Guten Abend,

Pravin.

Monday, July 31, 2006

Mon, 31 Jul 2006 09:29:39 GMT

*Imprudent*

(6:52pm) After an extensive period of absence, amounting to the greater part of a month, I have returned to the proverbial pen to continue 'keeping account' of the goings on of, at this stage, my petty and uninspiring life. My mind has been teeming with delectable little anecdotes to retell, saucy confessions (mostly in fancy and dream) and a whole panoply of experiences to reflect upon, which eerily ring (or chime, I couldn't decide) to the same note (or tune, also undecided) despite the variety of circumstances in which they happened to occur. It is disappointing, however, that I shan't be able to retell these self-promised utterances with anything of the same fervour, immediacy, or vividness, for their hour has past since I could afford them any clarity or truthfulness, and they are themselves now nothing more than ghostly recollections, as though from a former life. Furthermore, the laboriousness of my method, in which I painstakingly ponder over the particularity of the 'facts' of my existence leaves me utterly weary, and, post-weariness, I become somewhat obsessive - such that I am forced, out of a growing sense of duty and responsibility to myself, in the efforts of seeking some form of 'balance', to abandoned such a method in favour of a less rigorous, and possibly more philosophical approach, ultimately being less time consuming, and more succinct on the matter.

I have been waiting for some time now for the moment to descend upon me that I would feel the urge to write again. Visiting this website on several occasions with something of an estranged familiarity, I tried on occasion to take up the task and at least fill in some menial details, small excursions, chance meetings with old acquaintances, little epiphanies, etc. My sense of autobiographical duty received no approbation from either my imagination or my impulses, leaving me in a somewhat torpid state, at least spiritually, for although I felt a great deal through my experiences, recollections, reflections, and traveling philosophies, I had almost no inclination to record them in a meaningful manner, such that they have since vanished, evaporated with time, like the smoke which rises from the mingling of various substances upon a pyre.

I can say however, that not all has been at a loss, for while I have avoiding reliving my experiences through words, my countenance has improved remarkably because of it, and the absence from my obsessive and self-involving compulsions has only improved my reckoning, and allowed me a clarity that I would not normally have. It has only been a week now since I felt a welcome change precipitate over my nature, coming to me out of almost sheer coincidence that it seemed to be more the workings of a divine providence than having any tangible or causal relationship to the experiences which preceded it. It arrived shortly after I arrived back from my short stay in Brisbane, where I went to visit my friend Matthew. Whether it was the respite from the trappings of daily life, the company of cherished friends, or something inexplicable and altogether different, I returned refreshed and anew, restored to a former temperament, one which I have not recognized a part of me for several years. The delight at this feeling was akin to the joy one experiences after a friend, from whom one has experienced no former cause for disapproval, enters into one's life after a great period of absence.

Before this pleasant occurrence, my mind has been, for an inestimable time, clouded with the most dark and soulful of subjects, giving way to occult philosophies, merciless ultimatums, and all but the most destructive of cyclical thought processes. I contemplated only my sense of solitude, and my increasing sense of misanthropy, contrasting that from a life which I felt was already unattainable, and would forever escape outside of my grasp, like the recollection of a prophetic dream, until my mind became overwhelmed by the stupor of senility. These thoughts, ceaselessly recurring, weighed upon my brow, and how I still managed to carry or conduct myself in social situations and daily life I still am unable to answer. Let it be said that the frequency of these recurrences was as seldom as the severity of their seizure over my personage - and I was like one who, comatose and stirring feverishly, recalls those around him only in the vaguest of descriptions, and without any measure of time or goings on.

It was in this state of mind that I wished most fervently to write, still clutching onto the notion that there was some indiscernible, restorative power in writing that would allow me to balance all, and bring all to mind. I made notes for the matter and kept them, dormant, waiting for my mental contortion to grow tighter, and tighter, until it burst in an explosive and/or gloomy rage. The partial irony of this position is transparent to me now, but at the moment it seemed the only way to escape the continual and relentless barrage of thoughts which drummed at my ears and on my forehead. In a way, I wanted to honour this compulsion, as some kind of passionate drive, only later realizing that I was further motioning myself towards an inexorable doom. Thankfully I was saved from this intellectual suicide by my companions, who cajoled me towards a more practical and invariably more reasonable thought process. I'm sure it is unbeknownst to them their influence and profound effect upon me, but such is the nature of cherished advice, for the opportunity to express gratitude for such favours is lost in the benevolence of an unspoken gesture or smile.

Renewed, with both physical and mental vigour, my path lay before me. I suddenly experienced new joy in sensation, and new sensation in joy. I reacquainted myself with people whom I had, in a fit of self-loathing and spiteful misanthropy, cast from my life like fingernail clippings. I cherished the friendships I had not secured mutual affection for with actions, instead of words. I endeavored to find all courage within myself to keep my cynical and self-deprecating thoughts at bay, recognizing them immediately, and unfettering myself of their shackles. I inverted my self preservation through becoming increasingly asocial, into self preservation through returning the affections of those whose being was (or had become) necessary to my existence. My heart had opened into a stream, in which several tributaries in confluence, now gave succour and sustenance to my well-being.

There are of course, occasional relapses. But my new Weltanschauung has adopted such an antithetical normative vision that I am certain that despite all these momentary relapses, the overall effect has, and will continue to be, positive. It is not with a compulsion out of sadness that I write, but a compulsion out of joy: the joy that intermingles with certainty - the certainty of the continuation of that joy. Such happiness needn't burst forth with artifice or find expression in excessive displays of affection or wild and drunken reverie. It is like a pulse that, gently throbbing, reminds oneself occasionally of the substance of their veins, which silently and secretly nourishes and replenishes them, not of the body, but of the soul.

I had other questions to ponder over, and many more things to address, but I prefer them to remain unto me on this occasion. I will continue with my plans for the evening, and will take my dinner now. Excuse my prose, I am rather deep in a gothic novel at the moment, and the formality of the prose has, at this present time, wholly consumed my speech. Till anon,

Pravin.

Sunday, July 02, 2006

Sun, 02 Jul 2006 13:47:48 GMT

*Whimsical*

(12:47am) Just finished composing a 'Humoresque'. They are quite fun to make! I think I shall make some more, or at least finish this one. All the same, this is what I've come up with so far.

Humoresque in B Major

Pravin.

Thursday, June 29, 2006

Thu, 29 Jun 2006 16:56:23 GMT

*Apertural*

(10:55pm) Upon Virtue and Judgment

Today has been an endless ennui: I have felt restless, insatiable and inconsolable all day, and although I thought (rather eerily, exactly 2 hours before this and then 4 hours before that) that writing would be needfully restorative in dispelling this lingering feeling, it is not until now that I'm actually following through with the task/exercise. Many things have happened lately: so much is still at large that is yet to be accounted for, and still so much more that I wish I could say or articulate on a matter that I fail to do so (ironically out of an equally insufferable restlessness that comes from trying to write!); but its not until now that I've had the time or opportunity (since exams have finished) to write, so I thought I would celebrate my tentative freedom with a lengthy entry. It is also particularly pertinent/apt given that a milestone has recently passed, for it is the anniversary (exactly a year and a day) since I began writing this online journal mid-last year. Although this event is not an occasion which I wish to regularly celebrate, it does afford a chance at least see how much things have changed, and to a larger extent, how much things have stayed the same. There is also the equally notable (and less significant) milestone of there being now two thousand hits of people who have visited my website (including my own recorded visitations) since I began writing, which is odd since it feels like only a short while ago I was writing a similarly 'celebratory' post acknowledging my thousandth visitor/hit, even though in actual fact it has been a longer time dividing the last thousand, than the thousand proceeding that. Besides all this, I am beginning to bore myself with my own rhetoric, so shall move to a less sober matter and begin by discussing/recounting the events of the last two weeks in brief and the last few days in a little more detail.

My exams officially ended on Tuesday 27th, but there has been plenty more going on that that. Normally, I should be finished now - free to indulge in three, almost four weeks of holidays - but because it has been quite a hazy semester, and there has been plenty of things starting and stopping and starting again, I've actually held over a few assessments which I will now have to finish these holidays. The first of these is actually four and a half thousand words (worth 40%) worth of reflective pieces (more like casual essays) that I was meant to write during semester over a 5 week period, but am now instead forced to write over the course of an evening and a half. Although I had told myself time and time again that I should have bartered for more time - it will be glad to see these things finally ridded from my schedule, even though I'm not that confident that I'll be able to finish them within the given time frame (due on the 1st of July, without specifically saying *when*, which I will intepret liberally to mean 'around 12am'). The larger task I still am yet to complete is the entire workload (three essays worth 100%) for my course in Law and Social Theory. I have taken my fair share of time, opportunities, generosity and patience in this course, which is why I'm stuck in the position I am in now; but I am (in some way) looking forward to the next three weeks, because I will have an unimpeded time frame within which to work on these essays and get them in a submittable state that I should feel comfortable with. So other than the sorry fact that I won't be seeing much of a holiday because of my complacence in these courses, this semester has been a bit of a disaster. I am likely to fail two courses, hopefully get a credit in one, and (if I'm able to work successfully on these essays) the possibility of a distinction in another. Though sad though it is to admit, this is the ideal picture - If my average mark is over 55%, they will allow me conceded passes for marks around 46 or 47, but no lower - and I'm not sure if I even got that much in each course... . I'm not entirely sure how I have let my marks slip so low - this semester, whether I pass or fail, will severely affect my overall university performance, and (whether or not I choose to dwell on it) my marketability as a young graduate, or my potential future career as a lawyer. Although my outlook, ambition, or sense of intellectual self-respect have not changed that fundamentally, the actual proof of the pudding has gone to shit. I am looking to pick myself up next semester, but even now, as I speak, I am still demonstrating the fact that I'm still far from able to priotize my time enough to save myself the extra effort.

On a seperate note, after these assessments finish, there will be at least a week period where I will possibly be able to enjoy myself, and I do have quite a bit planned before the Second Semester begins. Andrew has suggested to me that he, Tom, and myself all go on a roadtrip to Brisbane (to visit Breeze) or the Gold Coast (to visit Andrew's girlfriend and friend) for about 3 or 4 days in the middle of the July break. As I will have no other commitments (despite these Essays) it sounds like a fantastic idea. On the way of course, I may be able to visit Bill and Rehka Moushi, and it will be delightfully nostalgic to get a chance to stay over at the Port Macquarie house, although I will have to ask their permission. Either way, I think staying in Port or Coffs Harbour, or at least visiting them is in order. Another incentive is of course the sheer enjoyment of being amongst the company of old friends. I haven't spent such a prolonged (if one can call it prolonged) amount of time with other people since my trip to Melbourne with Sandeep, or more recently, my trip to Fingel Bay with Breeze, Andrew and Cheyne. I'm sure it will be more fun than anything, and it will be a lovely little precusor to my around Australia trip with Mike at the end of the year, to see at least whats in store (or what's involved at least) in driving around the east coast of Australia. Nevertheless, this is all weeks and months in advance - I'll try to focus on getting these things finished, and then organising the celebrations later.

Music has been the most wonderful and intoxicating thing of late, but even that has seemed to become less of an enjoyment and more of a distraction. After finishing my Business Associations Exam the previous Monday, I took some time to compose and managed to write a short piece and start two or three others. I was hoping that would be the end of the matter, but it consumed me for most of Tuesday and Wednesday I spent tinkering with them here and there and listening to them over and over, rather incessantly. By the time I had done some actual study for my second exam, it was already too late - I needed to rely on someone else's notes for there was no way I would be able to consolidate the information myself, and even then, I was braced for time. In the end, my earlier indiscretions cost me later, and now, even still, three days on, I am letting the music come in the way of me finishing the tasks at hand (I composed something over the course of today that I had begun working on yesterday). However, to my defence, I am quite powerless to the urge to write some music, especially once I have already started tinkering around with the notation software, or have caught in my head a particular melody: the desire to record something particularly inventive, or imaginative, or novel, or dramatic, seems to take a hold of you, and every new note (or serious of notes) once placed cannot be left alone - they need to be fiddled with (forgive the pun) and hammered into position until it seems to be precisely the sound(s) that occured in your head only moments before. Sometimes the sounds do not become thoughts until they are notated and then played over. I find that to be the most uncanny thing about composition, although probably its most telling feature - that some of the best ideas generated do not actually come from the inventiveness of your mind, but the sheer accident of sound and sense entering into dialogue. Its quite similar with poetic composition too - sometimes its not so much that the image, simile, metaphor, or musicality of the verse that has entered the mind first, but that a particular word, or a particular phrase creates the premise *for* the feeling, or image, or idea, or metaphor, etc. All the same, it doesn't necessarily mean that I can sit here whole-heartedly and compose for hours (one day, maybe) on end (although I have in the past) - it's a process equally fraught with restlessness, procrastination, and short-comings, and rather than serve as an escape from the trials of the more important impending task (my university assessments!) it actually just magnifies my restlessness until I feel utterly put off both tasks. Nevertheless, of the two labours, composing always seems the least offensive and therefore the one I have the greater weakness towards. Even after being formally trained in music I don't think this division will resolve itself, but it will definitely add the requisite drudgery (if it can be so added) or at least routineness to musical composition which will keep my hands away from it for a while. I don't think great men ever achieved much while embarking on two varied and intensive enterprises...

Composing aside, I have had the chance to expand my knowledge of classical music, having only just started downloading again after the exam period has ended. I was listening to the radio on the way to my Litigation Exam and, almost like a portentous sign, I suddenly heard the announcer say that they were about to play 'Amarilli mia bella' by Caccini. I was positively awoken from my 2-hour-sleep-induced slumber! You must understand that for the longest time, ever since I was in year 4, I have been trying to find this piece called 'Amarilli', but I knew nothing of the music, the composer, its period, its style, nothing. When I was quite young my mother enrolled my brother and I in some speech training and dramatic acting classes, to improve our pronounciation and who knows what else. The classess didn't last for very long - maybe two months in total - but I do have rather fond and vivid memories of going down that little lane, sitting outside on that old ladies porch as I waited for my brother to finish, and of course my own experiences with 'How now brown cow', etc. At the end of the 'semester' of training, we were given a tape (which I would be very interested in finding again, given that they are obsolete now) which recorded our examination performance, and how well we had progressed in our declamation. Thinking about it now, it would be a rather hillarious tape to listen to, as I don't remember doing very well even though I tried particularly hard to impress her. For some reason or the other the backside of the tape had a very wonderful and delicate recording of this unnamed piece, which my brother and I referred to as 'Amarilli', for we had know idea what the piece would be called otherwise, and it was the only distinguishable word/phrase that we could understand/hear. I was enchanted by this piece - and I won't try to spoil my childhood delight in hearing it over and over by trying to recall/attest to it now - but it was one of those moving moments where a melody, or tune, or piece is suddenly given so much more significance to you than it would if it was heard normally, or when one was older and more discerning. That piece remained silently with me for many years, not as something I oftened recalled or remembered, but when I did let it drift through my head several times. The next time I remember making something of that piece was when I got a little drunk at Phil Teissyre's 18th, and began singing it out loud amongst a crowd of girls. It was a rather embarrasing moment, but I do recall it quite vividly. I don't know if I was trying to impress the girls, or was simply singing out in my semi-drunken self-involvedness, but later on I told people that it was an 'old italian aria', not knowing anything more of the piece. I think what enchanted me most about it was the fact that it was so mysterious, and so precious - that outside of that tape, there was noone else whom I thought would know the piece by ear (let alone my rendition of it) or further still, its name. I would sing the song over and over in the shower, while driving, and thankfully never again while drunk - but it was now a part of me - a memory from my childhood, a mysterious clipping from my limited breadth of experience, and some kind of otherworldly beacon, occasionally calling out to me, beckoning me to not let it become forgotten. You can now imagine my delight, when, almost 12 years after that fateful day when I heard the piece, I was given its name, its composer, and a recording of the piece before my very ears! I was not transported, as I hoped I would be, for I had an exam to worry about and was drifting in and out of consciousness as I was still very tired; yet still, it was a wonderous occasion, and I could see it as nothing other than a sign, something I don't believe in but rarely feel the need to call upon to explain the wondrous merriment that is life. Although I had unsuccessfully tried to search for this piece several years ago on a file-sharing programme, now that I knew the composer it took a matter of minutes, and there it was, mine to keep electronically, for as long as I desired.

There have been other pieces which I have recently discovered, that have been similarly delightful. While driving home from an outing on Wednesday night, I heard an absolutely awe-provoking string quartet on the radio that seemed to stretch the very possibility of the genre/ensemble itself. I tried to listen out to maybe pick some noteable feature which could help me distinguish its composer - but I assured myself I had never heard anything like it before. The piece didn't end while I was in the car, so I noted the time and then looked it up on the internet as soon as I was reminded of it. There was only two possibilties of who it could be - 'String Quartet in A Minor' by Boccherini, or a Concerto by Vivaldi. I proceeded to download some work by both composers, as despite all my praise of his music, I had absolutely no Vivaldi. After downloading as many pieces by Boccherini as I could find, I came across the 'String Quintet in E Major, Minuet' . I assumed it would have been a rough piece, full of violence and harmony like the piece I had heard on the radio - but much to my surprise, it was a superbly well known piece, one of the most delightful decorum and pomp, wonderfully structured and full of adroit little musical phrases and thoughful key changes.

I had also recently downloaded some Prokofiev. Now this is a complete mystery, as to how I came across this composer in the first place. The first time I heard of him (I think) was while I was browsing over a some music brochure which a friend had given me and in listing all the available music they had to offer, there was the name 'Prokofiev', which I though was an exceedingly odd name, and one which I had heard absolutely nothing about. The name didn't make me curious enough to search it out, so I forgot about the matter. The next time, I was listening to the radio and there was this disastrously long, windy, whiny piece which didn't seem to hold onto a single idea very long and didn't return to recapitulate one of them, which I thought must have meant that the music was particularly modern or at least 20th century. I forgot the name instantly after it was referred to by the announcer, and it wasn't until I accidentally downloaded a piece of his music while searching for something else (I think it was some Tchaikovsky, I'm not sure) that I actually got the chance to listen to it. The name alone would have got you curious, but I was absolutely delighted by the fact that for the first time since hearing it on the radio many, many months ago (not the same account as above) and before that an unknown period, I had heard the piece which seemed to be the single most powerful and inventive 'modern' piece I had heard since developing my interest in classical music almost a year ago, whose title I now know as a musical scene taken from his ballet, 'Romeo and Juliet', when the 'Montagues and Capulets' are feuding. This piece is wonderful, you can't help but storm around the room, or thrust your hands out in front of you and cheerfully clench your fist on the lead note of every bar. I've listened to it over several times today and the joy of putting a name to the piece and hearing it after such an absence still hasn't worn off.

I mused over all my excursions, drawing conclusions about all the music and literature I've been listening to and reading over the last two months. I have unknowingly thrown myself in four directions - Russian, Italian, German, and French. First, I had downloaded a heap of Russian music - Mussorgsky, Rimsky Korsakov, Prokofiev, Shostakovich, Rachmaninov, etc. (and, as I've stated in an earlier post, dabbled in some literary works by Pushkin). Its interesting to see how similar it all is now that I have the benefit of hindsight - the rough chords, the brusque bow strokes, the use of timpani, high-pitched violin gestures, minor keys, and generally speaking, it seems to be united by an errant masculinity. On the other hand, I've also been downloading a lot of Italian music - including Corelli, Pucinni, Cacinni, Bocherinni, Respighi, Vivaldi, etc. (unfortunately, I have not picked up my Dante in quite a while, so I can't say that I've been reading any Italian literature). Its interesting to note the apparent similarities there, although I think the italian composers are seperated by plenty more years than the Russians, who all seem to be late 19th early 20th century composers. The music is soulful, at times melancholic but for the most part, celebratory of life. The Italians seem to proudly bear their emotions on the outside, pamphleteering them about in various flourishes, but never too excessively - apart from a triumphant end to a piece in some of Puccinni's operas, or some patches of the portraits of Rome that Respighi paints (with music of course) - while the Russians seem to bury their emotions in deep, aggressive chords, manifesting in an equally powerful, pent up way. I won't dare to draw any further parallels because I am already beginning to flaunt my ignorance about, but it is enjoyable to know that I have listened to enough music, with enough discernment to say that I can differentiate between the various types/eras/countries with relative ease. I have also recently read two French Novels, 'Manon Lescaut' by Abbè Prèvost (the basis to several operas, one by Puccini), and 'Carmen' by Prosper Mèrimèe (the basis to Bizet's Opera 'Carmen'). Although I'm not much of a reader, I was particularly fond of these books - they were relatively short, Manon Lescaut only 150 pages, and Carmen just over 50 pages (which I read in one sitting at a Cafè after my violin lesson), which made reading all the more delightful. They were also bound in an endearingly old book, which made me feel all the more excited about reading them, because I'm particular fond of old and precious things. I have just begun reading 'Madame Bovary' by Gustave Flaubert, but won't be doing so in depth until I'm done with these assessments and can spend another half day or so at a Cafè reading.

I'd like to pause here and just say how truly wonderful it is to begin reading again. I haven't read for a long time, and despite the fact that it makes one feel like one's thoughts are particularly substanceless when one has nothing upon which to base their introspective/extrospective thoughts in conversation with others, I still continued to not read and feel marignally more intelligent than everyone else on a day to day basis. However, latetly the urge to read has come back, seemingly out of nowhere, and it has been such an experience. Sitting there yesterday, reading over the entire story of Carmen, (which was full of mystery, intrigue, romance, and suspense while at the same time being remarkably well written) I got such an appetite for the stuff. Once you grow accustomed to hearing your own voice echo in your head (albeit not too loudly) it becomes such an enthralling task. You seem to passively skim over the words, while at the same time your actively testing out your vocabularly, and subsequently, your imagination. Unlike prose reading for law (or anything of length mind you), which despite the occasional metaphor or analogy, is largely unimaginative (requiring only the cognitive tools of analysis, memory, and reason), recreational reading is full of so much imagery that if it has been a while since you have done so (as was the case with me) your mind is positively aflight with the variety of images presented before (or underneath) it. In the more descriptive passages, it did not feel as though I were reading at all - I was staring into some unknown, intangible nebula, (which for some reason I could place slightly above my left eyebrow) seeing pictures form before me, change colour, or shape, or intensity as the description changed, seeing people chatter away, before being suddenly whisked away into another room, or scene, or another country altogether. Reading was so much like film in this regard - for every angle that I chose to view things was partly my own, and partly due to the way the author had written. It made me feel particularly important, as I almost felt at times (as I'm sure is the case in these classic novels) a member of the story, an unknown character that peers from behind some ferns, or remains perches above a fan or on a balcony from afar, watching. Yet, what made me feel that reading was superior to film in this regard was that in film, the imagination is suffocated, in a way. The images which come before the eyes are formed, and fully-figured. All the great constructive/reconstructive power of the mind is laid to waste, as all your mind has time (or energy) to contemplate is the images itself, and only afterwards, in their remembering, does the reconstructive joy of recalling the movie from the imagination come into play. Yet with reading, the imagination is bold, fierce, and free - things can take whatever shape or form which suits you. If you are unhappy with the way a character is being potrayed, you can merely focus upon that intangible nebula and suddenly, they are dressed differently; or brought anachronistically out of their time frame, and into your own; or of a difference appearance altogether. The mind is given free reign to chop, change, and rewrite the entire story in its very own fashion - and that truly is the most enjoyable feeling, for it is as close as one can get (without actually writing) to daydreaming, and sheer delight in the imagination itself. In fact it is arguable to say that there would be no joy in the world, if the imagination was not being fed in some measure (in accord with the Hobbesian notion of the imagination, for I am familiar with none other) or regard. Anyway, I digress - back to my account.

The German side of me is the least developed. Although I was learning for a while, it slowed and eventually stopped before my exams. Although I have picked up some Goethe occasionally as a break from studying, the translations don't suit my poetic appetite and just the knowledge that they have been doctored into English verse to try and mimic the German makes me feel a little uneasy about their authenticity. Nevertheless, I'll continue reading it for it does help with my general German vocabulary, and I suppose I can always procure a better translation in the future, if the poetry is of interest to me in the first place. Thus reviewing, it has been in these four directions which I have been recreationally launching myself towards, and although one would think they are all off in various directions, its interesting to see how the histories, biographies, and artforms all seem to borrow, mimic and overlap with one another. I cannot of course ignore the fifth direction, English literature, but apart from what I occasionally write on the Xanga, I have not been writing any new poetry, and haven't picked up or reviewed any of my favourite poems in weeks (albeit one Donne poem which is skimmed over the first few lines). Ironically, I will be shortly writing a poem again not out of my own impulse but for another person again. I think its the most absurd and unimaginative task possible, but the corporation that my brother works for gets its employees to occasionally perform these 'tasks', which is meant to encourage employee-intimacy and team spirit. One of these tasks (would you believe) is to write a poem of less than a hundred words which is to capture the essence of the corporation. I haven't heard of anything more artistically defunct in my life, but if it serves a purpose to its inventor than so be it. Thankfully there are prizes for it, which range from movie tickets to PDA's. Since the chances of winning a particularly sought after prize is so easily achievable, I will be writing the poem for my brother and hoping that my vague literary skills will be able to impress the board/employers/employees of the Computer Science Corporation, who I have already assumed (in my prejudice) to have no understanding of what is the purpose of, or what actually constitutes good poetry. Still, it will be an amusing task.

I shall now move onto the more sober vein of my entry, which is what made me feel it would be an appropriate topic of discussion, given that it has cropped up in my life more than once in the past 4 or 5 months, and is of general importance to living at large, or I should sincerely hope so. Several things have been bugging me about the way people are. I try not to dwell on them, but its in my nature. One thing that I was certain of, is that I wouldn't find myself writing about these people or things. Needless to say that they will remain anonymous (not like it would really matter given the small amount of people who are aware of this website, and the even fewer amount who will have bothered to have read this far) but I feel it has bothered me sufficiently enough for me to discuss here, or at least use this as a platform to organise my thoughts. A few days before my litigation exam, I had time to prepare, but at the same time felt assured that Providence, or at least a trusted friend, would present me with a consolidated and contemporary set of notes that would allow me to do reasonably well in the exam. I began calling people around noon on Thursday, which was four days before the Exam. Everyone I seemed to ask, was either just beginning to write their own notes, or was planning on using an old set of notes, and perform the arduous task of updating all that had changed in the course from the previous year. I realised at this stage, that I was particularly screwed - there were only two people who I could still depend upon - one who said she was half way through her notes, and the other professing that she would be finished just before the exam (which was actually the case, she emailed me at 2am on the same day as the exam, just less than 7 hours later). I thus had only one lifeline if I was to do well - or at least, be up to par with my performance the previous few years (which has been wavering around 70 in law, but has since dropped down to just over a credit) - that person was my friend S. S and I had been acquainted since first year. It wasn't much of a friendship at that stage, but she was another person whom I became acquainted with on the internet, and, although not necessarily trusted at this stage, a loyal companion/outlet for me to vent all my youthful indiscretions upon. There is little I remember of our actual friendship between the years after that - we would speak very intensely on the internet, and meeting in real life would be acknowledged with nothing more than a nod, or a raising of the eyebrows. We were both shy in our own regards, and although I was particularly extroverted on the outside in first year law, I was desperately trying to seek out some real, substantial connections - looking for people of substance, not necessarily to latch onto, but to wind down around (I was progressively finding the social scene in law both cumbersome and tiring) and 'be myself'. The friendship with S wasn't complicated by all sorts of other factors - we would speak on the internet, meet in real life briefly, continue speaking on the internet, and that was it. Soon enough though, the conversations on the internet became less frequent, and we began talking more in real life. We had grown accustomed to each other, and each other's ways. We began speaking more openly about all sorts of intimate personal details - sex lifes, sexual preferences, friendships, lost and found loves, the law, university, our upbringing and cultural backgrounds, etc. I was beginning to feel, without necessarily having to acknowledge it, that we were becoming, slowly but surely, less virtual acquaintences and more tangible friends. Soon enough, the friendship progressed outside of University, for I was invited to her 21st. Initially I wasn't sure about going, but as fate would have it, I went along, presentless (as usual) and thought it would be a fun night to let of some steam and drink merrily at someone else's hospitality. The night was great as I recall - a boat cruise around the harbour, sumptous food and plenty of booze, ciggerates and conversation. In the end of the night she had even affectionately placed her arm around my neck as we drunkenly walked, in a troupe, back to Darling Harbour to get a cab home. For a girl who shared little affection with other people - I felt somewhat privileged, or at least that I must have now meant something to her, more than a virtual acquaintence. The years after that were much the same, but there was a greater feeling of certainty that what this was, was real - two people who had a genuine affection for one another (purely as friends mind you), a similar temperament and intellectual outlook, and had a general cynicism enough about ourselves to see the general follies of other people's lives/friendships to make good conversation out of it. Soon I invited her to my 21st, and then less than a year later, I was invited to a birthday bash at her house, where I was not only allowed to stay over, but allowed to join her, her partner, and some other friends for breakfast the next morning at Darlinghurst, their shout. We met at mutual parties twice; we knew mutual people; we gossiped a little but mainly, I thought, indulged a little of our lives in each other, for the sake of gauging where we stood in the world. It was, though not a very intense friendship, one that had a foundation - or at least, that's how I percieved it.

I am not sure now if I am overanalyzing, or I am making a much more dramatic point about something rather trivial because I've brought into my recollection this entire constellation of factors which has defined my friendship with S over the past 4 or 5 years; but I think there is no harm in saying that a true testimony to friendships, is not the moment of joy or bliss, but the hard times- times when you need people's support practically (and theoretically, for the most part) unconditionally; when you assume people will give you the benefit of the doubt, before you are made to explain yourself; to forgive you for your transgressions, and to be sympathetic and empathetic with your weaknesses and temptations. I have had my fair share of good friends in my life: people whom I still cherish and associate with to this day; I have also had my fair share of betrayers, liars, rogues, cheats, and all those other labels for those people who (to quote a Sanskrit proverb) are "like a jar of poison with milk on the surface". Some people, it becomes quote obvious from the get-go whether they will be of importance to you in your life, or will stick around in the years to come; others, one can't be so certain about, they are sometimes here, sometimes there, sometimes everywhere, and sometimes everywhere else other than where they should be; others it becomes plainly obvious that they are bad right from the start, and should be gotten rid of.; and still others, though we realise they are bad, it still takes us a great deal of time to find the courage to rid them from our lives, or at least do what's best in the circumstances. These are all the things I factored into account while assessing what S had done, or rather, failed to do.

The act itself was miniscule - some people will say of no consequence at all, and that I am far too sensitive, or too bothered by the insignificant. What had occured was that I messaged S three days before my exam, distraught that I had done no study but to clear my conscience also hoping that I could get away with a set of notes that would ride me safetly through the pass/credit mark. I realised that this is not light imposition - people get particularly sensitive about this kind of thing, and its no easy thing to give away one's notes. I can remember during the HSC the reluctance I had in distributing my notes, which I protected at every cost. I can also remember other law students asking me to forward on notes that I had recieved, and although it was more out of sheer laziness, I would make some excuse that I had accidentally delete them and save myself from the effort of caring. However, I've had to use other people's notes all the time. One can even say that had it not been for such characters as Ramesh, Dawnie, Ivan, Shreeya, etc. (some still friends, others not) I would have never got my way through the last three and a half years of law. I never expected to become so dependant on other people's generosity however, but its an easy trap to fall into at university, when you get into a cycle of habits which are almost diametrically opposed to academic study, and you reassure yourself with the safe feeling that you'll get the notes a few days before the exam, no sweat. Since starting law, I have not had the opportunity to share my own notes, but I have passed notes on, shared class notes, class assignments, etc. etc. several times. Once or twice, I wouldn't deny, I felt a little odd, and angry, about sending my notes to people whom I didn't think very highly of - especially when they were things as precious as essays (which actually do have an intellectual property value, and can result in academic misconduct for plagiarism) - but for the most part I would say that I bear the attitude of many a law student - "giveth and ye shall recieveth", or "a friend in law is a few marks more", or something similar. I wouldn't say that I procured friends for the sake of getting notes, but I would say that having friends definitely helps. Further, there is something about the cunning art of getting notes, that makes it almost glamorous (in fact quite glamorous) to be getting similar (and sometimes even better) marks to your hard-working colleagues, simply through your knieving, opportunistic sense; yet it does strain friendships, and friendships can break because of them (it has not happened to me, until now), so it is a very precarious thing to do, and is generally shunned upon because it is such a 'high-risk-high-return' approach to friendships/acquaintences/university/law/knowledge/etc. Nevertheless, I think I've adequately articulated my position on the matter.

When I asked S if she could send me the notes, I did not do so straight away, and upfront. I offered some help of my own, and then made a request in that form. The immediate response was an SMS which said "I don't mean to be rude, but make your own notes for once". Being typically lawyerly, I reviewed over what was said. I deducted that there would be nothing to blame about her conduct apart from the statement "for once", particularly in conjunction with the caveat saying "I don't mean to be rude". This girl, as I knew very well by now, was very frank and very honest when it came to how she felt about a particular matter, or her opinion; this was granted I thought. But what it caused me to do was review over the entire position, retrspectively and macroscopically. Suddenly it all dawned upon me, piece by piece, little level of evidence by evidence. Here I was in a time of need, asking for some harmless help, knowing that I would do terribly if I didn't have some authoritative notes, and making this person relatively clear on knowing that she was my only hope of passing well, or at least guaranteeing me passing (without doing my own work of course).Yet this was also a person whom I had spent many many occasions discussing the details of my academic record over the past year or more with. I had told her my trouble with honours, I had told her my difficult in handing in things, and that I had been given extensions. I thought it was harmless to at least appear somewhat whimsical about it all, because after all, noone wants to be put in the position of consoling someone for no reason in particular. She also knew the way I was - my intensities, my overanalyzing, my tendency to go off the deep end with philosophising and abstract thought, my tenderness and susceptibility to the opinions of others, and most of all my sensitivity to pain - at least, the pain of betrayal. She knew all this, not nescessarily in catalogue form, but in plenty of dimensions. Yet, despite all this, it was not an issue for her. Why? Because those times when I was retelling my intimate, private experiences, expecting a safe haven from judgment, some leeway and discretion, all I was really getting was judged. I realised suddenly, in an almost cataclysmic recollection of every single experience I had with this girl, that there was a reason why she was always particularly detatched, or particularly remote from what I had to say; that it wasn't me being particularly 'intense' so much as it was her being particularly indifferent; that I had led myself on to believe that this person really cared about me, cared whether I lived or died, cared about me in the way that made me important to them. All of it suddenly did not matter - I was classed, and had been, for a very long time; I was 'the university friend' to her - even after having been to several parties with her - I was nothing more than a person with whom she was acquainted and engaged in conversation with, and would probably not exist in her in a few years time. She was a pure existentialist, at least as far as I was concerned - stoic and heartless, emotion was unbeknownst to her - she was a contemptible harpy with a stone face... . Despite all these dramatisms, I really was quite disenchanted with myself and my judgment. How it became all so clear to me only retrospectively, how unimportant I was to her, and how little it would mean to her to help me, and how much of an imposition that was to her. I do not need to explain why this is not your normal cocktail of competitiveness and small-minded conservatism. It was a disregard beyond measure. It was an unwarranted moralizing with an ulterior purpose. And yet, there is nothing upon which I can hold her accountable, other than my decision now to no longer befriend her. I am still deciding how I am go about doing this. On the one hand, I can continue to speak to her, and be conscious of being judged and treated partially the entire time. On the other, I could try to explain to her in this similar level of depth (or even simply by directing her to this website) why I feel so troubled by her sentiments (or lack thereof); but the later course of action is impossible to me - you cannot force another to supplant feeling where it is non-existent. These people do not bear the same understanding, or attitude towards friendship that I do. To me it is primary, each experience shared is a measure of the totality of its potential. To her, it is secondary - each experience shared may be a measure of something, but it is equally to be judged and make the other person accountable to some invisible sense of 'righteousness'. I am beginning to get convoluted, so I will pause on the matter - although it is far from over. A part of me, a rather pernicious, destructive side of me - wishes to as dramatically as possible confront her, rail on her, and tell her to fuck off as wittily and nonchalantly as I can - yet I know this won't resolve the matter, and may work against me. I will brood on the matter and figure out what exactly I shall do when semester recommences. For the time being, I am happy knowing that I have written this entry, gathered my thoughts, and am partially settled on the matter. The irony of all this is at the same time I was struggling to come to grips with the extent of this transgression (in the macroscopic sense) I was exposed to the generosity of another person, who had a rather simple but elegant philosophy that "we are not put here on this earth to not help other people". While for me, forming such a conclusion is equally problematic, her willingness to help, general disposition and kindness, and willingness to accept me in all my vulnerability was terribly endearing, but it made it difficult for me to reach any conclusion as to how I should class, or understand, or act upon my friendship in the future. This was my first instance of what it means to be judged.

The second instance, which I have since disussed with other people, but at the time it was of such a shock to me that I felt the need immediately to write about it, was an incident today where it was made public news that a close friend of the family had been involved in a compromising circumstance which could potentially (if not already) have had distastrous consequences for his reputation as a professional. When the news became known to me, like most people, my initial reaction was shock; but upon contemplating the details of the incident, scanning over my own judgment of the person's character, my own sense of shame occasioned by similar actions, and my empathetic regard for a person in their position, I was proud to say that within a moment I had reconstituted my response, and was now an ardent surporter of this person. I was discuss this person's conduct with another person, also a close friend of the family, who seemed increasingly adamant to make a show of this person, and make it appear as though this person had transgressed some social boundary from which there was no moral or forgiveable return. I was a little shocked myself from their responses, or rather, their lack of responses. When pressed with the question of what their opinion was, they would not speak about the particular, but stayed in the universal. Secondly, when the issue came of accepting the grey, it was not done so in the spirit of conversation, but done so rather stand-offishly, as though to that person, all there really was, was black and white. I of course must remain vague on the matter because after all, I am protecting the interest of friends from both parties, but it got me thinking. What is our duty as social beings? What is it that puts us into a frame of reference which is outside of our own experience, allows our imaginations to enter into the circumstances of another person, and after a little reconnoitre, return laden with a deep seated empathy for what it means to 'live'. In other words, why do we offer our discretion, collectively or singularly, as well as the benefit of the doubt, forgiveness, empathy and compassion for those around us, especially those who have 'transgressed', commited 'sin' or 'crime' or some other matter? Does this make us virtuous (in the secular sense)? When do we have the right, and more importantly, when don't we, to judge the actions, statements, thoughts and experiences of others? None of these questions were resolved in this matter - in fact, they were left in a messy state, but not one too messy for there to be any need to clean up. The brief social glimpse would be evaporated on the kitchen table of revery and forgetfullness; and I was not interested in calling on the rain clouds to preciptate that which had left so quietly. Yet I will, for the purposes of bringing some closure to the breadth of this discussion, engage a paragraph on it, and leave the matter to everyone else.

For a very long time, I believed that the virtuous life was all that mattered. Having the respect of peers, the counsel of the wise and venerable, the friendship of the influential and powerful, and the companionship of the loving and compassionate. My views have since changed, although not entirely. Civic duty is as much a part of me, as is the very common language which I suckle upon for my individual nourishment with words; but even civic duty has its price, and that currency will come in many forms. No bounds exist so powerful as the shackle the human mind - and what is contemplated in dreams needn't always be the reflection of what they are in life. We allow ourselves little morsels of the divine, and instead of permitting those thoughts within the gambit of our social being, we call it by other names, mainly under the guise of religion. Religion holds tenure over all the most prized and necessary human concepts. Knowledge is a precious and powerful form of oppression, as it is a liberty beyond all definitions, and this is something of the reason why it consorts so frequently with sacrament. Yet human love preceeds all institutions, even those institutions which seek to confine it. The soul knows no bounds, and the crimes that we call by name most heinous are nothing more than the naive indolences of a child. Whether such a view can exist, however, is the more practical of the questions which I have asked. Can the well which does not bring water raise a town? It is our nature also, although it is our baser form, to accept that which is handed to us, bundled in a lot that can fit in the palm of our hand. What appears greater is what is greater, and one's own body knows no union with another's beyond the reassuring strokes of a mother or the embraces of a some-time lover. The economic soon takes over, and we pride ourselves on invention; but we have commited a travesty of invention - for we have removed a cog to let the whole wheel spin effortlessly, but we have lost the beauty of the timepiece. Virtue is a fiction of the selfish man. All which is great and noble is ignoble and grating as long as we dare not try to peer beyond these walls. Outside, there is equally nothing - an expanse of loneliness that is a solitude only death can stomach; yet inside, and invisible, there is an equally horrifying solitude. It is the solitude of the human condition, where man peers into a void that is his own. Yet tell me, how deep do you think this void is? How far does it expand? I shall tell you. The void is only half as deep when you can see yourself standing at the other end. And collectively, this void is suddenly a well which springs a water that is like an elixir to the most parched of tongues. No more is there need to search for the well to civilize us, for the well is within.

There is nothing original in way I say, nor in my method of relating it. Yet I hope in there you find some measure of understanding in terms of what (at least my opinion is on the matter of) judgment and virtue constitute. This is by far the longest entry to date. Five hours later, I have surprised even myself at my length and fortitude. Goodnight.

Pravin.

Saturday, June 17, 2006

Sat, 17 Jun 2006 15:31:54 GMT

*Pederastic*

(12:31am) Upon Genius

My mind is particularly aloft tonight, as it usually is around this hour. I find myself indulging in my curiosity, mainly musical - I don't recall exactly when it began tonight, for I was in the middle of preparing for my law exam on Monday, but perhaps around 10:40 or so. Then, pacing around the room during one of my breaks, I found myself in front of the piano and although late, and some of my relatives already sleeping, I thought I could steal out of the silence a little music, and play the only piece I know how to really, the beginning twenty or so bars to Mozart's Piano Sonata in C K.545. I delicately placed my fingers on the keyboard and played it over at least twice, as softly as I could without missing out all the notes. The exercise left me in a quite unsatisfied - both with my performance, my inability to play it as delightfully as it echoes in my mind, and with the fact that I was quite conscious I was procrastinating. Neverthless, I felt the need to indulge it a little, and played around with the keys. Before long I realised I was tinkering around in B Flat Major, and so strummed out a few melodies - some familiar, some my own - and decided it wouldn't be too much of an imposition upon others if I were to record a few of these melodies, perhaps for a future recording, or transcription, or to work into a larger or more technical piece later on. I procured my dictaphone, and after hearing over a few old audio recordings, also melodies on the piano, I deleted them and made space for what I thought would be an interesting and/or poignant beginning to a nocturne, in the imitation of Chopin. I was of course aware at the time this thought entered my head that it was partially conceited, and partly delusional that I could achieve something with the procracted skills which I currently have - but I lay my skepticism aside in favour of my imaginary ambition, and started with a simple melody. Although I wished it to be more spontaneous, more melodic, more individual (or at least, akin to what I was feeling at the time) it was quite derivative, and rather puerile. Neverthless, I sat recording for a few good minutes before it was decidely clear I was wasting my time.

I returned to my desk, read for a quarter of an hour, and then it struck again - my curiosity. I can't recall exactly what it was that sparked the interest, but after reading a little I thought I would reward myself with some music, even though I know it is the main culprit in the conspiracy to perpetually keep me from my task. I browsed through my collection and decided some Bartok would be in order - I have only listened to a few pieces, and while watching an episode of Frasier today (this is not a regular occurence mind you) where it made a reference to a Concerto by Bartok, I felt perhaps it would be in order to test the reference, and see if the music was as good, or (in this case) as bad as the episode suggested. I had two concertos, both for violin and orchestra, but not the same. I listened to the first - about 10 minutes long, and I thought an adequate respite before I buried my head for a solid bout of reading about Corporations Law. The music did not avail me any delight - there was no dischord but there was no delight, it was if one could describe it as much, stressful music. I found my ear paid attention but my heart wished otherwise, and I soon realized Bartok was a bad choice for the mental state I was in. Nevertheless, I listened, and was dazzled by the virtuosity of the violinist's performance. I immediately thought "wouldn't it be wonderful if I were able to play some of that" (for it didn't seem that difficult a performance at times) and as its been a month or more since I've started playing the violin again, I thought it a grand idea to find a score that I could print out and present my teacher to help me learn, such that I could host a performance for my family one evening, and receive praise for showing off my talents, delighting me, and encouraging them to finance my delight in the future. This was of course, not a grand conspiracy at any rate, simply a capricious idea - but I indulged in it enough to search for these elusive scores which are hard enough to procure at the library, let alone find authoritative versions of on the internet.

I was out earlier this afternoon, where I spent the day at Macquaire University where I was studying for my exam, and then in the late afternoon went to the shopping centre so that I could spent a 4 year old voucher at a store of my choosing. I chose Borders, as I had already bought some clothes the day before, and felt that if I was to make a purchase, which I do so so very rarely, it should be something of an indispensable value, or at least one that would reward me with greater value, rather than depreciate - such as a book, or dictionary, or musical score, or CD. While browsing through the musical section of Borders, I came across an entire book of violin pieces by Bach, which I was very tempted the buy; however, it was paperback, and was bound very annoyingly, such that It was impossible to fold back over and would be very frustrating for any violinist actually desiring to play the music in there. I thought it quite an oddity, to see so many musical scores bound like aeroplane-novels, some even hand-held; what kind of person would buy these, or find any value in them, I wouldn't know, but they certainly weren't worth the precious $50 I was so adamant on spending. I made my way over to the fiction section, and decided to take my time. I saw many titles that I was familiar with, some I have read (the minority, mind you) and the majority that I hadn't but desired to at some stage, or at least, had fancied the idea. Others looked tempting but I was quite assured that after buying them, they would loose their glossy appeal, and would simply become feathery ornaments dotted around my room, giving the impression of depth, or at least breadth of knowledge, but being far from the actual case (as is the situation currently). Instead I was looking for something which was estranged enough for it to feel precious, and in a sense, pristine, while at the same time being famous, or worthy enough for me to indulge in it without finding it boring or a badly-judged purchase. I decided to indulge two of my recent curiosities - my interest in the German language, and my interest in the French romantic novel - so I bought some poetry by Goethe and the novel by Flaubert entitled 'Madame Bovary'. The two together were only $35 dollars, and I thought I could spend the remaining time searching for another purchase; but, after looking around for a few minutes, I was satisfied with my purchase and returned to the counter to pay for them. After coming home, I read through a little of the beginning of Goethe, and found the translations to be rather second-rate, but nevertheless was happy that they will be an adequate resource I can call upon to test my German vocabulary and grammar as it improves.

Despite that little digression, all I was alluding to really was the fact that I recalled the violin scores from Bach, so when I went searching for online scores to download, I began with Bach. There were such volumes that I looked initially for things quite specific: violin concertos. As they were not as easy to find, I sought after anything that involved the word 'Bach' and 'violin'. Soon I found plenty of PDF's, many small and one page worth, but several the equivalent of a small, 30-page book. I was delighted, for I hadn't realised how many scores were actually available, and now have a resource to draw on anytime I feel the need to enter into the mind of a composer (at least, thats the idea). When I looked at the Bach scores, I was completely and utterly overwhelmed. These things looked less like musical scores for violins as much as they looked like an entire orchestral score written in one stave. I thought perhaps I was mistaken, perhaps I had downloaded the wrong thing - but no, Bach intended these as pieces for solo violin. I couldn't obviously hear the piece from just looking at it, so I transcribed the first three bars of a piece that looked almost as impossible to play as it was to electronically notate, to hear what it sounded like. Initially it sounded a little off, and instead of blaming Bach, I made sure that I had transcribed it correctly. Obviously, between the two of us, I had made the mistake, so after correcting several little errors I listened to the piece at reduced tempo, which was suggested by it being an Allemande, which is generally played moderately. It was definitely music, and it was disenchanting to see that I had more no error - this was simply the dexterity required of playing (let alone the composer creating it) a violin piece by Bach. Although realizing not all the pieces were like this, I was in no mood to scour through these complex scores looking for a simply passage that I *might* be able to play. Instead, I looked elsewhere for anything that was a musical score and involved the violin. I was overwhelmed by hits, almost as many pieces as they were composers, from Brahms, Bruch, Bach, it was endless. I downloaded as many as I could find, without overindulging. After a while I didn't want to download too many scores, without finding the corresponding music, so I began searching after and downloading some of the pieces for which I had now downloaded the score for. I listened to a Double Violin Concerto by Bach, unfamiliar but very nice, and 'Partita for Solo Violin no. 3 in E', and was delighted to find it familiar, although I'm not sure when or where I was when I heard it. I paused momentarily to allow for an image which made me smile - it was wonderful to think that no matter which way I turned, no matter what avenue I found my curiosity steering towards, there was Bach, standing at the end of the culdesac, smirking and wryly flicking his baton at me.

I still found these pieces far too difficult for me to take on board, so I began looking elsewhere. This is when I came across the name 'Saint-Saens'. Initally I didn't think I would know of the music of this composer, but he had a very unusual name, and it seemed to crop up more than once in the search engine, so my curiosity, having again been lit up, brought me to his music. The first piece I downloaded was 'Danse Macabre'; I had come across such a title when reading W.H Auden and an acquaintence of mine had written a poem by the same name which I had read. I didn't expect it to be a piece of which I was familiar, but within the first few bars immediately I was aware that this was a very famous piece, one which I had heard on more than one occasion before, and was delighted to have discovered for myself a new composer, a new source of inspiration. I began a new search, this time no longer under violins, but just under Saint-Saens; the hits came up immediately, and there were plenty of things worth downloading, and plenty of different versions from different users (always a good indication that I am about to discover for myself a very well known tune or melody). There seemed to be a collection under the name 'Carnivale of Animals', of which i listened to the beginning minute or so of three before coming across the piece 'The Swan'. This piece is truly wonderful, delicate and melodic, a romance of the instrument. Although I thought it was for violin and piano, I realised it was for Cello and Piano, which was a little disappointing, considering it had moved me enough to find a score which I could present my teacher with. Nevertheless, I'm sure it would be playable for the violin, as all I would have to do was find a ready score, transcribe it, and shift the notes up by two tones into the treble clef. I made a note to do so as soon as the exam period had ended.

Before I decided to end my journey through this Composer, I, as usual after being moved or brought into the recollection of a particular piece or melody, did a quick google search on the biography of the Composer, to find some details about their life, such as what period, what age they began composing, and what influences they had upon their live, upon the lives of others, and also to what extent they had entered into and been appropriated in the 'cultural ether' (so to speak). I was dumbfounded. Camille was able to read and write by age 2, and began piano lessons at the same time, before immediately dabbling in composing. His first piano recital was at age five. At ten, he was already giving public recitals of Bach, Beethoven, and Mozart. At sixteen, he had written his first symphony....

Impressive as it is to read such facts about someone's life, it is not until you have been truly touched by a piece of their genius that it dawns upon you what exactly constitutes this substance of dreams we call the prodigious - far too often in life we glance over these rare miracles of human potential as too removed or alienated from our current lives, remnants of a distant, god-fearing past, to have any bearing on us as people or influence on our lives as we currently lead them. I listened to the piece 'Aquarium', which was one of the Carnivale of Animals series. Not only did I immediately recognize the music, but I was almost driven into a convulsive state of tears. My expression, although not outward, was the equivalent with my eyes of jaw-dropping awe. I suddenly felt the full weight of my mediocrity, my inadequacy next to such noble, sensitive, fully-fledged human-being as this fellow (whom you could imagine to be the most timid little child, with a name like Camille, had suddenly reduced me, without warning almost to tears. I clutched at the air and almost beat my fists down - this was not music for my unworthy ears, but truly something transcendent, something divine, beyond any empirical proof or argument that would argue otherwise. I listened to the piece practically prostrate, my head limp and thrown backwards, my arms suspended in the air like a limp puppet, my eyes moist at the sides with reluctantly falling tears....

What is this thing we call genius? Is it truly something we can allow ourselves to ignore? Are these silent, inoffensive creatures that walk the earth to be completely unknown to us, outside of an intellectual and aspiring circle we will never participate in, born from a distant past we can never reclaim, and who, having blessed the earth with their presence, leave almost as quickly as they arrive? How can the rest of us live, let alone enjoy one singular moment of happiness, when all our achievements, all our most poignant and heartfelt experiences are dwarfed by their magnifence? And if perhaps, we aspire to this same life, to these same achievements, however precariously and perniciously we wish such a fate upon ourselves (as I do), is there any respite? Any point? In trying for something, desiring something, and aspiring for something that may have already been snatched away from us as early as the age TWO? I'm not sure what the general consensus is, if there is even a forum on the matter - but my opinion is that whatever the cost, to pride, to vanity, to understanding, to body, it could only be that such individuals, no matter how much more blessed naturally, or made altogether of an airier substance, have only discovered these rare gems of human achievement after a copious deal of their own searching....in whatever field or quarry that may be. And perhaps, it is only in searching, in humbly knocking away at these darkened walls, isolated from everyone in our cave of solitude, do we, unknowlingly, stumble upon the gems that generations later will put to our names for their discovery. I should sincerely hope so - and whether this be a momentary reflection or a genuine impulse that drives me, wish it to remain so for the rest of my life.

"Dark is life, dark is death!"
- Li Tai Po, circa 700 A.D

Pravin.

Thursday, June 15, 2006

Thu, 15 Jun 2006 04:56:38 GMT

*Perfidious*

(3:42pm) I am still yet to account for the past month or more, but shortly after my exams are over I'll recommence the task. Until then, I'm distracted enough to feel the need the mention some things. I've been downloading music voraciously, and whetting my literary appetite a little again - I've started on some poems by Pushkin, read through a translation of Mahler's 'Das Lied von der Erde', and most recently, began reading an online translation of 'Manon Lescaut' by the Abbe Prevost. I came across the title of the book while reading an online biography of Puccini, and the name immediately struck me as being eerily familiar. I immediately followed up the title to find out that the book was written late-17th-early-18th century, and has been the subject/libretto for several plays and operas. I also recently discovered that the book (similar in subject to Manon Lescaut) I read while travelling through Europe almost two years ago, 'La Dame aux Camellias', by Alexandre Dumas fils, is actually the basis for Verdi's 'La Traviata' and has been made into several screen adaptations, most famously in the movie 'Camille'; as I am going to see the opera (Delibes' 'Lakme')in the first week of July (as a present from my parents for my 22nd birthday) I'll be requisitioning them to take me as soon as possible to a production of Verdi's opera, which, as I recall from memory, plays exceedingly often at the Opera House. I shall see how it goes in the next few weeks - right now I have a chapter to finish reading of this very enthralling book, and then many more chapters of Corporate law to familiarize myself with before my exam on Monday! *Dies a little* Before I go however, here is a short exerct from the novel which praises the virtues of friendship. What a trul wonderful and accurate description!

"There is nothing more glorious--nothing that does more honour to true virtue, than the confidence with which one approaches a friend of tried integrity; no apprehension, no risk of unkind repulse: if it be not always in his power to afford the required succour, one is sure at least of meeting kindness and compassion. The heart of the poor supplicant, which remains impenetrably closed to the rest of the world, opens in his presence, as a flower expands before the orb of day, from which it instinctively knows it can derive a cheering and benign influence only."

p32, Manon Lescaut, Abbé Prévost

Pravin.

Sunday, June 04, 2006

Sun, 04 Jun 2006 16:40:26 GMT

*Indescribable*

(3:42am) I'm not going to give you an explanation as to why I felt the need to talk to you. Maybe its because at some level we could be kindred spirits, or perhaps we were two sailors who docked at a port for an instant in time and shook hands, or raised eyebrows; but I have to tell you - all this beauty is raging inside of me, that even my smile hoisted from ear to ear can't describe what i'm feeling from moment to moment as I exist! To be inside of my body and my mind. And i'm sure a thousand people, many many more, would have glimpsed this feeling that exists in me perpetually. But to live it - always contemplating it, always knowing that it is moving towards a finality, a point that it shall end, many many years from now, I cannot describe the feeling of knowing this. It is not a paranoia, or a fear, its sheer delight, sheer excitement - the inevitability of what may come, and the need to quote Shakespeare suddenly surpasses - and a few glimmering, shimmering laughs are let out, reflected in a pool, snatched away by a tear drop. That is all I have to say, i don't need to explain myself and further.

Pravin.

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

Wed, 17 May 2006 15:03:23 GMT

*Stellar*

(11:57pm) Tonality, by definition, is: 1) a system or an arrangement of seven tones built on a tonic key; or 2) The arrangement of all the tones and chords of a composition in relation to a tonic. I've been considering it lately, particularly since I downloaded almost half a gig of Chopin's music over the weekend (of which I've heard very little up until now.) I didn't bother with any of the Scherzos, Preludes, Concertos, or Sonatas (to my detriment) but I downloaded a handful of Mazurkas, a few more Etudes, and a whole lot of Nocturnes. I have only heard a few Nocturnes up until now, and what springs to mind immediately is Mozart's Nacht Musick, but I think they are quite fundamentally different, even if they both are suggestive of sleep ("oh soft embalmer of the still midnight"). I was particularly moved by two of them, which I've heard more almost a dozen times each now, but for the purposes of capturing the experience/reflection, I'll listen to them once more and then write a short paragraph on each.

Nocturne in C Sharp Minor - My advice is to listen to this piece in a darkened room, at relatively light volume, and with your eyes closed. If you did not begin listening to the piece with your eyes closed, you will find yourself closing them involuntarily - there is something so dreamy, almost precognitive (if such a word could be used to describe music) about this melody, in the sense that it immediately stirs memory and longing, even from the very first chord. The mood throughout the first section carries a stillness with it - there is a yearning and searching intermingled with loss, and a hint of resentment or regret. The initial trill and flourish a few bars later seems to lift some invisible latch, from which there is an outpouring, if not of tears, then an inexplicable, deep personal sadness; If this isn't the case, then perhaps it is only for the sensitively tuned heart.
.              .The melody and the accompianment vary - the accompianment seems almost unaware, or disconnected from the lament of the left-handed melody. There are times where they seem to communicate to one another, but this dissociation I feel adds to the alienation of the piece, and the pervading sense of loneliness.
.              .There is a change in tone, and I believe there is a key change (I'm yet to see the score for this piece) which brings some hope into the picture - but yet there is a nervousness, and trepidity - each legatoed note seems quickly stopped by an accent, or a sudden crescendo, seemingly siphoning away from a brighter and more hopeful mood by returning to the tonality of the first section. The piece slows, suggestive of emotional exhaustation - and I have an image of a man very tired (physically, and emotionally) of loving unrequitedly.
.             .The central theme returns, and it is almost too much to bear. The theme seems to build around a particular tone, or particular note, which for some reason touches a particularly sensitive nerve for me. I feel that I may have heard a similar tone in a piece beforehand, or it may be completely foreign to me - but it carries a painful reminiscence with it (as though from a past life) which is only unlocked by the constellation of notes around it. The piece finally ends with a series of steps (fifths, I believe) to a harmonious finish, which is seperated by several octaves (I believe). The very breadth of the notes apart suggests a graceful collapse on the keyboard, the pianist, or composer now drained of all feeling. There is a startling sense of wholeness in this piece, for its brevity, and poignancy.

Chopin's Etude in A Minor Opus 11 - It beguns without accompianment from the left hand - if you were unfamiliar with the piece, you would think it childish, or puerile. It is softened shortly by some chords, and appears to be entering a major chord, like the beginning of a gentle Mazruka.
.             .Suddenly, violently, catastrophically, disonantly, the music cascades through semitone after semitone with such vigour (almost hatred) that upon my 6th hearing of the piece, I imagined the pianist strangling the piano with very large, brusque hands, or perhaps strangling another person who was spasmodically twitching around the keys on the piano. The pulsing accompianment gives a distinct sense of this (almost structural) violence to the piece, the imagery of strangling. There is also something reminiscent (although vaguely) of the early piano music which accompanied dramatic scenes in early films of the 20th century.
.              .The piece then cycles through various tonalities, scales and chord progressions at such a pace that it is almost impossible to try to pick out individual notes. Instead you meet with an instable, chaotic, perpetual melody that hardly ceases for cadence of breath.
.               .The second time I heard this piece, I listened to the music while I read over the score. It became difficult to simply follow the melody, so which I occasionally looked at what the left hand was doing, I made sure I was following by examining the right handed accompianment only. The pages turned so quickly, and my eyes could barely keep up with my ears. When the piece finally ended, in a very quaint and inconspicuous way, I looked up from the page and I was practically shaking. Not only was I consumed entirely by the work, but when I felt as though I had been in a time-capsule. Nothing around me reflected the violence which I had just been through - people continued to walk around aimlessly, non-chalantly, completely unaware to the musical trauma I had been through. I felt physically violated, as though each dissonant/minor chord was a swift stab into my sides.
.             .What I realised was that there was something raging in this piece, beating against the cage of tones and semitones - a wildness, an animalism in the way the pianist throttled the keys. One is left with a very raw and visceral feeling. It feels as though Chopin intended to strip his listener of all expectation, but for a thin veil of minor harmony. The ending of the piece is so inconspicuous - as though the pianist had simply folded up his music book and walked off the stage without a nod or acknowledgment.

That is all from me for today. Pardon me for my absence.

Pravin.

Sunday, May 07, 2006

Sun, 07 May 2006 22:27:34 GMT

*Transcendent*

(Dictaphone Entry approx. 1:00am)

"I could dream a thousand dreams and none of them could compare to what I experienced the other day and other night - it was just incredible. There's no point glamorizing it, nor is there any point in being in complete awe and amazement, because it will just take away from exactly the feeling that we had during the experience, one which was purely mundane (almost pedestrian) – the kind of feeling where two people who completely understand each other in every realm, every respect, every orifice that oozed some thought or secretion of what their ‘individuality’ meant, in their pure existence and form. And if this existentialism is what I think it is (and it can be) and that this even this purely isolated individual sitting next to me can breach their private experience, breach through the conversational matrix (as I described) could that be? (I mean in a purely abstract sense what we say means nothing to each other, but the understanding flows and is comparable). And until that point in time I had just objectified her, thought ill of her, and dull of her but now, but now it just opens up an entirely new form of respect, a form of admiration, a form of understanding, a form of mutuality, a form of knowing that there are people out there that you can connect with in a way that really defies all your understanding of 'connecting' in the first place of which no methodology can answer too, which nothing, nothing in your complete ontology of friendship could subscribe to such a belief until you've experienced something like that. This is the pure ontology of friendship, what the notion of being, what the notion of connecting to another human being, outside of the physical spaces, the physical boundaries which exist like mental constructions which stop ourselves from understanding the inhibitions and through, which ideology frames us and accept this thin tunnel which flows through the ripple that time has created, the space and the vacuum, that is what through two an umbilical cord or womb is created and that, through nourishment we can understand each other in the purely amniotic sense of intra-maternal abandonment, completely open and utter honesty, where nothing else can penetrate it, nothing could possibly for a moment rise as a shield to block us from hearing the other's thoughts in their completely raw and unadulterated form, and I do not feel any fear of reprise of retribution when I speak to her. When I speak to her I am myself, as myself, in my own head, and she is herself, as herself, in her own head, and it does not mean anything more, or must there be questions which need to be answered outside of the fact that it was acknowledged, and it will be acknowledged, and such questions such as whether a relationship need be, for me it is merely me holding onto the thought because I have nothing to compare it to outside of the fact that the only connection I've experienced (which even remotely resembles this one) with other people have been of the same gender and suddenly, because she is of a different gender it raises the question of whether the connecting could be made into a sexual phenomenon. But no, no, gender suddenly becomes completely removed from the body, and then, it becomes merely a fiction of the mind. And as the fiction exists, we can understand each other purely through intellectual means, and that is exactly why it is still here and we are still talking and I can be so jubilant about this experience without needing to result in me rocking back and forth in the corner knowing that my entire existence of understanding of being has been revolutionized. Now I have a view of art, of the self, of the body, of the mind, which is completely amiable. I have moved from my misanthropic stupor into something which is far more congenial to the idea that there is optimism in humanity and it cannot be thrown away like a dull coin in a fountain.

I shall end this spiel, for I am happy. I am happy with where we stand with each other. And I am happy also that no one else understands it, why? Because sometimes, in our selfish, capitalistic ways, in our desires to maintain that which we call ‘private property’, even when connoting our thoughts, there is perhaps something precious in a connection with another, that when you have it, and you don't need to explain it to anyone but yourselves, it is like an oasis in a desert, or a grove in a forest – it bears an element of solitude, of shared solitude, of shared inquiry into one's own self-narrative."