chalo, yala, allons-y, go go go

I made it.

Made the biggest jump of my travels: 9 hours and 4,000 miles on a plane to Paris Charles de Gaulle. Rush hour RER and Metro traffic with ALL my shtuff including the TERRIBLY precarious sitar case. Picture me—Indian silk pants, sweaty t-shirt, Bigass backpack, leather bag strapped to my front, sitar in one hand, big pink beach tote in the other, trying to navigate Paris at 7 in the morning after approximately 2 hours of fitful airplane sleep. Ridiculous. Oh la la. My hands were red with almost-blisters from carrying the case and my stupid carry-on bag for so long from the airport to my friend Breana’s apartment in the 7ème Arrondissement, blocks from la Tour Eiffel. Completely worth the trouble. I take a walk with Bree, go home, shower, watch a movie and nap. Then to the corner cafe for an amazing croque monsieur and cafe au lait, whilst reading my new love of a paperback.

This is a beautiful city. I feel at ease here, until I try to order things in French, or am asked a question. That’s no good. I have an okay accent, so people just assume that I speak. But noo. Even if I had a terrible accent, most frenchies would not offer their English skills willfully. Cold, man, just cold. There are a few friendly faces, and some overly-friendly horny french boys (even the 30 year-olds=les enfants), but Breana and I drift on by on our cloud of easy breezy California fun and reminiscence. It’s really lovely to grow up and re-meet your old friends. She’s an amazing woman, so this should be a good situation. We are comfortable enough to share her small studio apartment (it’s quite nice, though, and bigger than her last place), talk about nothing or everything. And yet, I’m still on my own and happy to be. Tomorrow will be my first day of real exploration on my own, since she works all day. I’ll do some errands and perhaps sit beside the Seine to read or study my lines.

Fact: Non-India smells and tastes MUCH LESS than India.

Bree says, “Eww, bad smell,” as we’re walking home along the river. I sniff the air, smiling, unable to pick up any trace of whatever scent she’s getting. It’s clean here. Occasional small-dog poop, but no constant fecal-urine-dust-spice smell. Sadness comes up, actually. I definitely miss India already, and Bree’s been an amazing listener. I did tell her, however, that when I get annoying with comparing everything to India or starting each sentence with an anecdote from my India experiences, she can just say “Enough ‘India,’ Carina. Write it down please,” and I’ll open up a notebook and shut my mouth.

It’s pretty awesome to have another interested, somewhat worldly lady to chat with though. We care for each other, and are both interested in the world, our generation, cultural differences, how to cross boundaries or keep necessary ones, all these things and more. Plus we’re good shopping buddies. Trying on pretty dresses I know I’m not going to buy at H&M really brings me back to NYC. Without NYC, so that’s cool.

Now we must go get smoothies and baguettes. It’s a perfect warm evening to walk around in pink and purple dresses, feeling beautiful, knowing every little thing’s gonna be alright. Gonna be great, even.

Bonsoir, a bien tot!

 

road to Dharam… om ma ni padme hum

Breathe now, and forever hold your peace!

How is it June 9th already?

Jori and I don’t sleep much at all the last 2 nights of our stay in Kerala, thanks to our fun apartment-mates Nick and Daniel. We leave Fort Cochin dead tired, on some kind of high at first that just turns into hunger and head aches for the both of us. By the time our 2nd flight takes off we’re deliriously looking across the aisle at each other—”I’m SO tired” & “I’m SO hungry”—smiles gone.

We arrive, wait a long time for our bags, but apparently not long enough because the friends of a friend we’re supposed to be staying with aren’t answering the phone! Ah, they’re out clubbing in CP, of course, duh—it’s a Saturday. We then get a mentally/socially/directionally challenged taxi driver for too much money; we just want to get to a bed. Finally get to the enormous apartment complex, find the place, wait for the clubbing kiddos, and eventually eat a bit of spicy curry and rice, socialize with the nice folks and pass out—Jori in a camping tent on top of the bed in case of mosquitoes. Hilarious.

The next day is setting up to be a scorcher, we get in an AC taxi and I go straight to my old ‘hood to Subrata and Sima’s house. Prep for Dharamsala, play with Sarang, play on the interweb and eat TONS of home-cooked Bengali food. Mmmmm, svadist haay. The in-laws are in town (Subrata’s parents) and papa is sick, so it’s a bit cramped and sleepless in that one bedroom. They are wonderful hosts though, and I have a whole day and a half of relaxing. Take a bath, clean underwear, et all good things.

Bus to McLeod Ganj = 11-ish hours with 2 nice drug-induced naps. I am shaken awake at 4 AM at a pit stop, eat that good vanilla ice cream and stay up reading with a flashlight till the sun comes up. And at this point the roads are winding. Serious mountain roads, on a fast bus. We arrive around 6, 6:30 AM and everyone else walks off or rickshaws off to their booked accommodations. I wander. Sit and keep reading, I’m almost done with Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged. The monks and women of Tibet-in-exile’s capital walk and chant past me. Mantras while moving. That’s real ras.

I like this traveling alone thing. I find the one chai shop that’s open and get a cheap glass of the hot stuff that’s SO delicious and that I missed much in the South (chai’s just not a big thang down there). I’ll definitely be making this at home. Black tea leaves + milk in a pot, add as much cinnamon, cardamom + ginger as I want, and then of course plenty of sugar. No water necessary for the real good, milky stuff.

I finally find an open internet shop and check my stuff. No reply from Gabe yet, I assume he’s still at a spot called Samadhi House, where they slept the night before. Sounds good, right? By 8 AM he wouldn’t have left, right? Wrong. I grab a rickshaw up the hill, wander a path a bit with my heavier and heavier baggage, and no Gabe nor Alli. They left this morning, I’m told. I know they’re moving further up the hill today, somewheres in Dharamkot, so I head up. Chai shop. Stop. Read. Eat. Read. Wait. Nice people surround. Wait. This feels like Peet’s! Like sitting outside of a Peet’s! I meet a nice woman from Palo Alto and look at her gorgeous photographs from her travels all over, talk with some straight Peet’s Coffee Bums, and around 10 AM here comes Gabriel up the hill, carrying a bunch of stuff, like it’s nothin. It feels Normal to be seeing this face…hmmm yet we’re in the Himalayas. He says almost immediately, “This is like Berkeley, right?!” Wild.

Embrace, and then we move. Into an amazing apartment that’s a little hard to find, but the perfect spot on the hill.

We’re getting set up, he already knows his way around (they got here 3 or 4 days earlier) and I’m in a daze. But happy. Not sure what to make of this place, this supposedly-spiritual, high spot filled with people searching, or people found…

It is sunny but not boiling! That’s a start. You can see a snow-capped mountain in the not-so-distant distance. And we’re perched at the top of a valley filled with spiritual jews, yogis, tai chi-ers, hikers, farmers, tourist homes and of course monks and nuns. I meet the puppy named: Shanti, Roscoe, Ruoch, Shakina, and add one of my own—Winky. She winks. Adorable, just a few weeks old, teething but loving. She sleeps with me the first two nights and then goes adventuring/missing. Maybe she’ll come back. The kids in the upstairs apartment are sad she’s gone. Kai, Kenya, Saleef + baby Solomon. But I don’t think the baby’s even aware there was a puppy. Beautiful kids.

I have a blissful, mind-full, body-full day of yoga morning, brunch, belly dancing, and yoga evening, then cooking and relaxing at home with new + old friends. The agama yoga center is tres cool, and I love the peeps I meet. We do a set of several sun salutations with mantras in the later class, and I absolutely love the feeling of the vibrations in my stretching body.

Climbing up and down this hill at least once a day, sometimes thrice (!), is really getting me fit. Also eating yummy but simple meals, feels clean, delicious—cheap veggies galore. This is health. Some weasel or other creature steals our good cheese, but we’re too shanti to mind. I sleep so comfortably every night and wave to Alli when she leaves for yoga at 5 AM.

Gabe, Noam, Debora and I hike to a waterfall “just around the bend,” through occasional sleet (and sun), through an occasional herd of grazing mountain goats and jump in the Northern-Pacific-Ocean-Cold pool of mountain water. Pins and needles and feeling HIGH. I slip and scrape and almost fall while climbing (3 of the 4 of us are wearing flip flops. Brilliant.) Then, disaster kind of actually strikes when Gabe accidentally drops his open backpack into the water. We both jump down and rescue the bag, with most of the contents spilled out and floating. We think we’ve saved everything—Both our passports, my wallet, Both our journals (ALL of gabey’s writing), the mango, etc. We think we’ve got it all. A couple days later, packing up all my stuff, I am looking for my Leatherman knife and I remember where it was used last… it must now be lying with the rocks at the bottom of a small pool on a high hill in that dang waterfall. This is sad. We used it to open a Delicious papaya as soon as we arrived at the falls, so at least in its glorious last day it was put to good use and will be remembered fondly…

That incident and stepping on a bee were the only negative experiences I had, 5 days in Bhagsu-Dharamkot-heaven. Oh, and now I am starting the PERFECT book to read after Ayn Rand, to accept her philosophy, but clarify, balance and complicate it. Zen And The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Mais bien sur.

Thanks, everyone I met, I am so filled with gratitude. Especially Francisco and Mena, for Mena’s AMAZING sunday feast of homemade gnocchi.

We did some walking, some music, a little yoga, a little shanti, some lunch, more shanti, some thoughtful time, more yoga, some more shanti… Actually, we did a lot of shanti.

 

and looking back, it seemed as if time had flown

I have chosen this trip for myself, and my it’s jam-packed.

I’ve been flying, and I’ll fly again soon. But first I’ll take a bus trip tp the mountains, and the towns of Tibet-in-exile.

The two weeks of my Kerala vacation were mostly absolute bliss as well as good reflection time. It was meeting up with fellow traveling pairs and having interesting, easy conversation, as if for the first time. I now know friends in Australia and 4 young folks in England. And they’re all lovely, interesting, intelligent people.

It was walking on beaches, having a scary dog-chewing-up-my-dress experience, having a nice hiking-with-dog experience, seeing mist on endless tea plantations, feeling alive and well, sleeping long and hard when it wasn’t too hot, sweating a lot, eating good food for good prices, playing new games and old drinking games, singing to myself in autorickshaws, giving british boys high fevers. oh, and reading a really good, long novel.

Jori and I made one flub. I was counting on her good judgment, good counting skills, but neither of us looked at a calendar much… therefore we arrive at the Kochi airport ready to fly to Delhi one entire day early. Shit. We feel real stupid. We had been such good travelers, planners, and had just finished congratulating ourselves when our trip is suddenly extended an unexpected day, including the added expenses (mostly just of taxis to and from the airport, plus one nice dinner and drinks for the extra night spent in Fort Cochin)! But it turned out to be more than worth it. We had such a beautiful last day, feeling like giddy high schoolers again, but playing foreigners on an island-honeymoon-tv show. Or something.

She and I said goodbye yesterday. Now I’m on my own for a bit. But I kind of always was on my own, I’m better at it than I think. I’m smarter than you may know. I just need the space, the chance, the courage–to show.

I love my family, so far away. I look forward to my continued near-year abroad, and I’m trying to figure out how to record and upload videos of myself onto this thang without paying for the really nice HD videopress subscription.

I’m thinking about money, but not in a frightened way. I want to work again, feel like I’m earning my keep. I’ll see if I can make any random money in Paris.

I have lines to learn, a new role to play, exciting!

Pictures on facebook soon.

 

kerala

yo, it’s hot and sweaty.

we arrive in Kochi (formerly known as Cochin) friday evening after two short flights, jori’s head killing her the whole way. lame. i’m happy as a clam though.

in the taxi to our first hotel in ernakulam, i feel like we’re in Mexico suddenly. or even further south. it’s effing tropical. a completely different india than i’ve seen thus far. then i decide, no, it’s not Mexico we’re in but a southeast asian island with a large catholic presence. there’s a lot of saints around here. we pass a neon carnival dedicated to saint george on the main drag… except it is definitely permanent.

now we’ve spent a couple nights in fort cochin, which is SO much nicer, calmer, tourist-friendly than ernakulam, a day being the only whiteys on a beach (arabian sea–gorgeous!), dripping sweat the whole time. just met a nice woman from oakland yesterday at breakfast, her name’s Osa, she’s a chef. we’re getting out of the heat and driving up to Munnar (a popular hill station) to hopefully hike around, check out the tea plantations, maybe rent bicycles and watch a little tv in the hotel.

this feels like a different country. the writing looks like spaghetti. i love india. i am sad and lonely and peaceful and eating well.

there are really really cute awesome lovely goats here, everywhere. i want a goat.

i am lazy and reading and sleeping a lot. it’s cool. it’s hot.

love!

 

leaving delhi

first, a poem for mama rona on mother’s day.

my mother gave me

A thought, a wish

A pact, expecting

A song, a room of my own

A labor of love, of pain

A blanket, pairs of arms

A place to live, air to breathe

A face, a smile, learning by looking

All the time, all embrace

Too much space and growing aches

Clothes to make me happy, clothes to keep me warm

Where to belong? A conversation, a home

A call on the phone

A plane ticket or ten

A fear, sharing

A practice, believing

A rose or four

All this and more.

I am saying goodbye to Delhi, to my SIT friends and to my two surrogate families, De and Bahkshi.

It was a really good last month. Ups and downs, but everything came through in the last week with nature, trees, walking and singing on my side. Friends and independence both. It’s hard to say goodbye, and not just want to fly by on the waves. Take me with you, summer. I’m going to Kerala.

more photos on facebook, abhi.

 

all that can be accomplished when not writing the paper…

…that is due May 8th. Sounds so far away. Alas, Hannah, Katherine and I are moving out of the cushy apartment this Tuesday, the 5th and we leave for Mussorie early-morning the 6th. Therefore this weekend I must

Have three copies of paper printed, bound, give one copy to advisor (who maybe hates me now, long story. that makes me pout), schedule last meeting with said advisor if she’ll have me, invite people to my presentation, get my crapola together (includes: start prepping a box to ship to Brooklyn house), make CDs from my Garageband files for the Appendix to said paper, drop off books, sitar and hopefully a bag of other crapola (clothes mostly) back at the program center to live there while I travel from the 15th till I leave India for good June 11th. Also, this weekend,

Must spend a little more time with the De fam, get a sari and blouse fitted with Sima, maybe a little haircut, and probably a beer with Subrata. I’m having my mommy send them a couple bottles of wine from California because she’s the best and they are also the best, deserving of the best, and wine here is either bad or too expensive. And it’s definitely not from California.

So, a lot can be accomplished, thank you very much. Today, Thursday, I wrote a bit of the dang pape, watched some American Idol performances (very important—and yes Adam is good, ma, but I think he’s scary-looking, at least in the shiny white suit), sang through two of my three pieces I’ll perform on the 13th, responded to friends’ emails, and planned the rest of my week in Delhi. Ate half a pizza, too. Didn’t leave my cool, cool apartment until 6:30 pm. Then saw a lovely Odissi dance recital of Swaranjali students: gorgeous costumes, really impressive dancing, good ol’ Indian tunes as well. ‘Twas a Good day.

***

Summa my favorite music terminology… mostly hindi, some sanskrit (one or two are tamil..?):

gurukulavasam = living with the guru’s family

nada = all unmanifest and manifest sound, nada brahma = sound of Brahma

(Om “is the sound in Hindu cosmology believed to be the pervading silence of the universe. It represents in the Hindu system the Absolute as sound and is often called nada brahma. The production of this sound by the human voice is the totality of all perceived vibrations whether by the ear or by the subtle senses of the spirit.”)

ahata nada = created sound (nada brahma, with awareness added)

sarira = inborn or natural vocal talent (“The capacity of the voice to manifest the melody type even without constant practice is called sarira. It is so called as it is born along with the body.”)

pakka gana = ripe song, mellow song

srot = continuously flowing body of water; unending fluidity in melody, moving like a current

shlok = poetry, usually of four lines

raag = derives from rang = color… to color or tinge with emotional color, “raag defines a melody.”

sisurvettipasurvettivettiganarasamphani = even the infant, cow and serpent feel the charm of music, or “music has the power to mesmerize infants, beasts and snakes too.”

seena ba seena = from breast to breast (transmission of traditional music from master to disciple. “Is a very serious matter in India.”) Sheila Dhar also says: “The highest compliment for an Indian musician is to be told that his work is reminiscent of the masters he admires and that he is a torch bearer.”

22 srutis versus 12 semitones, debate among different generations of Indian ethnomusicologists… long story. Basically, all this business about Indian music being so “different” because it uses microtones instead of semitones is waay fluffed up and BS-ed. Today’s Indian music (classical and otherwise) is based on a 12-note system, similar to Western solfege (do re mi fa sol la ti do). And yes, srutis exist in the graces and slightly different tunings of raags, but it is not the basis of Indian music.

sruti is also defined simply as “object of hearing.”

There’s a staggering amount written about ideal qualities of a voice, and possible demerits of a voice. The Sangita Ratnakara lists 8 blemishes or dosas of the voice: ruska (dry), sphutita (broken voice), nihisara (hollow), kakoli (cawing like a group of ravens), keti (traversing the three registers but without excellence), keni (a voice that has difficulty in approaching the lower and higher registers), krisa (extremely frail), bhagna (a voice like the braying of an ass or the grunting of a camel)

This is all so fascinating. To me. So how can I find myself sick to death of this paper?

Bombaka is hollow, harsh and high-sounding; it arises out of excess of vata or wind. Sarngadeva (an ayurvedic physician and musicologist) was the fist to classify the singing voice based on the physiological terms used in ayurveda. There are three other types of voice production, he says, one arising out of a predominance of phlegm (creamy and soft voice), one arising from a predominance of bile (full and deep voice, capable of traversing the three registers), and Misraka which is a combination of the three.

‘Often it is not until the artist has been singing for hours that he or she begins to show the real range, versatility & ingenuity of his art.’ Peggy Holroyde

She asks the controversial, ‘Can we in the West ever really enjoy Indian classical music?’ and claims, ‘We must disabuse ourselves of the idea some scholars hold, that this music is to be ‘preserved,’” (and insofar as ‘preserved’ means unchanging, I agree. This music is living and dynamic, it cannot be stuffy or stuffed up in some air-tight chamber). Holroyde describes herself ‘as one who was totally ignorant of the music but was pulled instinctively by force of emotion across the boundaries before even learning the mechanics…’ and there, at least, she and I see eye to eye.

Friday, the first of May, my paper will be done. Let me know if you want me to email you a copy. But if I were you, I’d skip it.

Unless you’re real bored.

 

great story

David Chernicoff, in The Symposium on April 15 in NYC

 

i am getting bitten by mosquitos.

And this is my favorite song right now. Click on this, why don’t ya.

I don’t know what the video is. But the song is good. The movie [that the song is from], Synecdoche, New York is perhaps my favorite of all time. At least on one end of the spectrum of my tastes.

Both the film and lyrics are Charlie Kaufman’s. Deanna Storey and the voice inside my head [this week] are the singers.

 

nada brahma. and i wanna ride a bike gosh darn it

Give me song, song, song, song, Sound was and is creation.

Deafness is worse than blindness, as Sam Johnson figured out, and I wholeheartedly agree.

Trying to set definition on language is only for the “harmless drudge,” Johnson also said. Same as trying to set grammar, theory, analysis and definition on music, Nettl, the ethnomusicologist would say. But these men are extremely intelligent, hard-working harmless drudges of the world…

Not I, I say, not I! I will be a harmful delight! And, then, sometimes, I guess I like drudging around crafting perfect little things. But I definitely could not make my life trying to craft, critique, or define other peoples’ inventions. I guess I want to be an artist or something. And I’m ready to say that. Make that leap.

I compiled some poetry made from alphabetized song titles… a little pastime of mine. Each one is somewhat stand alone, the order is random but often nice, and I suggest reading aloud:

This train
This is how we do it
This flight tonight
This book is a movie

I’m waiting for the man
I’m so tired
I’m just a little person
I’m in love with a girl
I’m going to get my baby out of jail
I’m calling it love
I’m a bitch

I will remember you
I will never forget
I will keep the bad things from you
I will

It’s too late
It’s only a paper moon
It’s all understood
It ain’t over till it’s over
It ain’t me

When I come around
When I was a young girl
When it falls
When it hurts so bad
When it’s over
When the world ends
When you’re good to mama
Whenever you breathe out, I breathe in
Whenever, wherever

Can’t take my eyes off of you
Can’t make a sound
Can I walk with you?
Call my name
Call me
California

By your side
By the mark
By my side
Buy me a mercedes benz

Neon
Neon bible
Never ending math equation
Never ever
Never is a promise
Never leave lonely alone

Sleep to dream
Slide
Slim slow slider
Slow company
Slow dancing in a burning room
Slow like honey
Slump
Smoke
Smoking cigarettes
So far away, so fresh, so clean
So fucking special
So right
So sorry
So what

Some kinda love
Some song
Someday
Someone to watch over me
Somersault

Lover’s spit
Lover undercover
Lovely Rita
Lovefool
Love vs. romance
Love song for no one
Love ridden
Love, love, love,
Love is a battlefield
Love in war
Love in the lies
Love hater
Love and some verses
Lovable,
Lost without you
Lost ones,
Lost in space
Losing my religion
Losing hope
Loser

Look up

Everywhere
Everything you want
Everything reminds me of her
Everything means nothing to me
Everything is everything
Everything hits at once
Everyday is a winding road
Everybody’s got something to hide except me and my monkey!
Everybody hurts,
Every morning,
Every ghetto, every city,
Every breath you take
Everest.
Evaporated.

Every time we say goodbye.

Don’t even sing about it
Don’t know why.
Don’t let me down
Don’t panic
Don’t pass me by
Don’t speak
Don’t stand so close to me
Don’t stop
Don’t stop me now
Don’t think twice, it’s all right

owlbiter’s music on myspace

’strings of sitar,’ montage of photos from my sitar recital weeks back, music by subrata de

Recent inspirations. Inspiring new friends, family, futures, pasts, presents. Gifts and gratitude, and what the hell am I going to do with all this stuff I’ve gained in India?? So, I’ll ship it. Literally, I’ll be sending a package home to Brooklyn (in about a week I think) with this laptop (!), hecka indian clothes, some books, and nicknacks I don’t need. Come June 11, I’ll be leaving behind some sneakers, a towel maybe, other clothes that I’m simply done with—to be donated to a good children’s charity in Delhi. Metaphysically, I’ll ship my gratitude in friend-vessels, smile-ships, letter-carriers, and well-wishes, psychic thought…

I just got tailor-made jeans, though. Very cool. We’ll see how they turn out on Monday when I pick ‘em up. Sweet guys of a couple generations in the jean-warehouse/mall Mohan Singh Place in CP, smoking cigarettes and sharing chai with their sweet foreign customers, us.

Walking down a street in Delhi (even for 20 minutes) is walking through the desert. Delhi is desert land. It’s easy to forget that. This week I was forced to remind myself, though. Constant slight heat stroke is no fun, and took my appetite away, made me tired, along with some fun dia dia rheeaaa… every Indian faux-family member told me I looked like I hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks. “It is in your eyes!” They saw something I didn’t. So today, I rehydrated like a pro with fresh coconut water galore and my emergency electrolyte packet. Yippee skippee, back to hungry, happy Carina.

It’s still hot as hell, though. Don’t go outside during the day!! We’re told. But the ’sun’ is out (smog blocks the sun always, actually, but the heat is out) from 6 am to 8 pm! What’s an independent woman to do??

I have a large paper to write. Madd Keejiyay! (Help Me!) Thik hay, thik hayy.

 

gana rasta

gana = song + rasta = the way…. the way of song…

My vocal teacher asks, innocently, “But, which raag really… sings ?” As in, which is my favorite to sing(?)—of the two full compositions and one incomplete one we’ve learned together(?)— And I’m at a loss. I almost want to cry! I feel like I’ve been grinding away at an impossible boulder. Not really singing. Not just… letting my voice, my heart, sing. As I realize how full of psychoanalysis and emotional complexity this moment has the potential energy for, I sort through options. So I respond, trying not to add any more confusion into our already haphazard, tilty, broken-angrezee conversation: “I think I like Raag Yaman the most, so I’ll definitely perform that, and maybe also Raag Bhairav.” Simple. Keep it simple.

Looking back on that decision of favorites, Yaman is the more joyful, still complex but pop-y (maybe) and easy to sing along to. Bhairav is the more beautiful, I think, and definitely more melancholy. As soon as I figure out how the heck to do so, I’ll put up audio files, or links to audio files.

There is this, Dolonji, me, and a snipit of Raag Yaman, but it’s pretty poor: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K41HVcj8E-g&feature=related

Also, from now on I vow to journal each afternoon post-lesson, just so I can chronicle what went down each day. That, I think, should help immensely when beginning to structure my fat-ass paper I have to write. Soon. It’s officially due May 8, but I should be finished by May 6, and I should have a draft to show my advisor…. hmm…. I don’t know… in five days or so. Fabulous. But she is fabulous, my advisor. And tons of help, encouragement—from a very learned Indian Music academic—is quite special. I’ll go over to her house Sunday, meet her husband (an Australian man, and vocal student of 30 years apparently), have lunch and get another round of her telling me what to write about, all the books I should read (but barely have time to find!), while I scribble furiously, smiling.

The other night, frustrated and feeling creatively constipated (or maybe just without my usual creative outlets plus academically burnt-out and stressed-out under imagined pressure) I wrote:

I have trouble reading.
All I want to do is sing, but I have trouble doing that too. I seem to get in my own way. or perhaps I just move slower than the world around me, than I want to, than my dreams do, than some imaginary standard tells me I should. move. If I don’t push myself to move faster and be more on top of ‘it’ everyday, I’m scared that I’ll slip into a depression. But I know I won’t. Right?

I have an unbearable fatigue, sometimes. I find company unbearable and I can’t even take it out on them, because it’s not ‘in my nature’ to be snippy, rude, ungrateful. So I go from strange, fun, out-of-the-blue spontaneous Carina to tired, silent, solitary, sad, thoughtful and picky-particular-perfectionist Carina.
Not that it’s black and white. But it feels it, now, looking back at my actions. I want to be kind to people. I want to be kind to myself. Why does that sound so simple? Sounding, not always realizing. Sounding perfectly is a lifelong impossibility.

I wish I was just living here right now, that I didn’t have to work on this paper. And, for the most part, I have just been living and having fun here. But this weekend in Rishikesh woke me up to the absolute pleasure of not having this ISP deadline and whatever/whomever’s expectations looming over me like a headache cloud. Now back in Delhi, the headache is pounding worse than ever, and I just want to be happy and free like I know I should be, but for some reason that full happiness is intrinsically in conflict with academia, or at least these academic expectations. It’s surprisingly hard to do a month of research and study on your own, with very few specific guidelines, making your own schedule and project. Especially when you set high standards for yourself and have already impressed the people around you, the people who will be grading you— But it seems to you like you’ve been faking it maybe. Maybe you should have been disappointing from the start, so you could just do what makes you happy and fuck everything else.

So maybe I’m learning that I’m done with academia. For now at least. It’s frustrating! Because I want to be good at Everything that Other People Are Good At, but GET OVER IT, right? I know I can write, I can do classes, and I’m thoughtful and often articulate (I’m a good listener more than an explicator or analyzer…) But once prompted, I feel as if I can do anything. I just really internally struggle when I have to prompt myself. Or when I just have to write a paper. I’m one of those creative types(?) Who only likes to work on their terms, when they have a burst(?) But I’m scared that I don’t have enough bursts and, left to my own devices (no teachers, directors, parents even) I’ll just sleep all day, get fat, listen to the same music I’ve been listening to for years and watch tv. Surf facebook and try to picture other people’s lives.

Like, I’m fucked up but not fucked up enough to be a genius, probably. Where to get the courage? Where did I pick up all this fear, shame, laziness, sorrow? How do I get comfortable enough somewhere to trust myself and be myself, without being stuck there. I want to travel and be unique but flexible, constantly changing and learning. I want to be told I’m beautiful, I don’t want to be this egotistical, and I want to make people laugh. I want to be the second one to cry sometimes.
Honesty. Is also the way.
Gana Rasta.
How to sing?? How can so many people do it? How do I do it—why? Sometimes I hate it, sometimes I sound like I’ve never sung before in my life. What perseveres and is retained in my body? Why do I love so much and feel so hard, then get so fickle. I can hate myself just like I hate other people.
These annoyances are normal, and they’re also mine.