Frances Ha

       

      I once came across a quote that stated a thought to the effect of, one may never find a person who understands every fibre of our being or identifies the elements we are made of; they may not vibe with our demons or take flight with our angels. Then, out of the blue, we collide with a book or a film, scrawled scratches, moving images that define our existence in a 100 paged paperback or a 130 min compact timeline.

That is what happened to me today. Just now actually. The morning had risen overcast, a chill in the air chasing us into the sanctuary of our blankets and handing us a hot beverage. Perfection. That’s how noon found me. Oversized jumpsuit, steaming mug of coffee, knee socks, with my eyes peeking out of the monkey cap that covered the rest of my face. Overkill, definitely. I sat burying myself into the comfortable couch, trolling the internet for movies to watch. However my interest lay not in the multimillion dollar budget films or the ones that were endorsed by actors who could put Aphrodite to shame with their quest for beauty. I instead was famished for the ones that depicted life in all its unflattering colours. Being a tragic realist, which simply means I am attracted to tragedy and realism, which more often than not in my mind are the same thing, I wanted to watch a movie that my 21 year old self could relate to.

I found ‘Frances Ha’.

Hidden in the dusty archives of black and white, I fell in love with the character, the story, the narrative of Frances Ha. She made all the wrong decisions. Acted completely insane, clingy, adorable, irritating and lovable, all in the same breath. Indulged in dysfunctional relationships. Avoided responsibilities by running away. Literally. To Paris in this case. Not a bad choice, I admit. She moulded her lies to make her life look pretty on the outside. To show the world she was in control, while all the time being thrown into a downward spiral. Sound familiar? It does to me.

Frances Ha is the most honest depiction of every youngling that lies suspended in the breath that separates teenage from adulthood. The transformation that goes from being an irresponsible teen with no consequences for her actions, to the first steps of adulthood which result in becoming homeless and broke with a couple of wrong steps. This story is set in that blind spot on the timeline of every human being, which discovers us battered and bruised from all the trial and error we have to go through to find our path, as well as the process of disillusion that one goes through as they break their shell and take the first sniff of the polluted air. What amused me about Frances was her attempt to retreat back into her shell, her roots, her school that provided the sheltered controlled environment, in this case amidst the throes of nature. It provided a temporary solace from the chaotic uncertainty of the real world. However, as we grow older we outgrow certain places. Sometimes the places outgrow us, and we do not fit in the way our earlier selves used to. It’s time to come to terms with it. It’s time to move on.

The trait that catapulted me to fall in love with Frances, was the struggles that she went through in her discovery of herself. The self-doubt, hate, uncertainty of her place and purpose in this world, feeling left behind as everyone in her life galloped forward and had life all figured, while the cosmos had her on her knees. She never gave up. Blinded, she kept making mistakes, until one day her decisions leaned towards the right directions. She came upon a path that her eyes could adjust to, the one she could stand on, fist tentatively testing its gravity, and then with the confidence that it won’t turn upside down in the next instant. She discovered herself. She fell in love with herself. Slowly. Cautiously. Utterly. Definitely. And with that acceptance, she moulded her life into submission of her true self. Pieces fell into place. People too. Life bent her over backwards, she did not break. She emerged admittedly a little sore, but undeniably victorious. She may not have soaring accomplishments that validate a front page in the newspaper, but she did collect a multitude of experiences, which if denoted a colour could make a canvas come alive.

Movies like these should be plastered on billboards across the globe. The ones that teach you that it’s okay to be yourself. Okay to make mistakes. Okay to be lost in the mess of youth. Okay to take time to find your path. And that it’ll all be okay in the end one way or another.

At this point in my life, this day, this moment, this is what I wanted needed to hear. This is what I needed to rekindle that hope, that magic that had been buried under all that bullshit that society piles on you all your life as you grow up. Frances Ha gave me the will to live, to be happy, to smile that much wider. I am utterly and irrevocably in love with this movie. All the lost souls of this world, go ahead, gravitate towards it and find solace in it. You have me for company. Always and forever, a little lost. Goodbye.

The Saga Of Book Ends.

   

   

I put down the book. Then snatch it back up, and flip open the last page. Again. Read the last two lines. Again. Crunch then around in my mouth, taste the syllables, and attempt to swallow them as I put down the book. Again. They stick in my throat. Again. If I reach out, I could almost feel the edges and curves of the vowels through the skin of my neck. I put up a fight of wills against every impulse in my body that screams to be reunited with the world that I just walked out of. This has been going on for the last half hour. You get the gist. Let’s move on.

Fast forward. Two hours later. Tears still cradle my cheeks. It is a trilogy. It spanned over thousands of pages. I give myself concession to deal with my post-partum grief.

People don’t get it. It frustrated me even as a child, when I would be heartbroken by a paperback, lying on my back, utterly spent; mum would walk in and ask me to snap out of it already. “How?” I would scream, internally if not out loud. Not that I didn’t try it aloud. Didn’t sit so well with the ones that had their feet planted firmly in reality with no space in their apparently sane box for the existence of the infinite worlds that my infant mind had been a refuge to. 

People gallop around in circles in search of happiness. I don’t get it. Not that I don’t want to bask in happiness, sunshine and unicorn farted rainbows. However tragedies always entranced me. Catharsis through literature was my choice of dialysis for my thoughts, ideas and existence in general. Most of the people couldn’t and still don’t get why I choose to break at the hands of words and authors and hardbounds, time and again. People search to be whole. I want to be broken. Shattered into a gazillion pieces. For I truly believe I’ll find myself not in the glossy surface of the whole, but in the unfathomable depths of the cracks that misery pries lose.

I sleep with the book I finished. You can judge me for that, but I’m not ready to let go of the world just yet; for a part of my soul that I’ve imprinted onto the pages, I'm not yet ready to let go of. 

Muse

      All throughout the history of literature, authors, poets, artists have attempted to lure the infamous muse from its hiding, just so they could glimpse the beast that moulds and folds the world they encounter, in all its enormity, complexity and grandeur, to a mere roll of the tongue, flick of the wrist and scratch on the paper. Authors identify the muse in the things that inspire them. The ones that make their soul feel at home. The profound moments that render the past and future obsolete. Crack open the spectrum of emotions just that much wider. 

I spy the muse in the breath that bewitches the inspiration into bursts of sound that enchant the mortal heart. 

You see, words come to me. Simultaneously, as the pulse of life drowns out every other thought in my head, I can feel the vocabulary cavalry march it, launch itself into the air, swirl around the space for a micro second and then wiggle into places they fit. That is how I write. Or at least that is how my subconscious writes and is sweet enough to share with yours truly.

I'm taking a break from my vow of usually never letting people know my secrets, since it is primary to understanding how the quotes, that this blog will be peppered with from time to time, came to be. They are not mine, they belong to the Muse. I simply listen, catalogue and expand.

I smile as I see what you're thinking. 

'She distinguishes herself from that voice in her head, the Muse as she calls it. Classic psychopath.'

Now hang on a minute before we board the judgemental train. Life, I realized early on, is too deeply entangled in the boring and colourless fragments of social norms and dictates. So I grant my imagination the utter freedom to build empires that defy gravity in the recesses of my mind. Just because. So there you go. Crazy, yes. Insane, not yet.  

This blog, therefore, belongs to the Muse, you, me and the story of Her that I entrust you with.

   

Her. Begins. Descends. Demolishes.

The first day of Masters in Arts approached with all the gusto new beginnings usually usher. A new place, new people, new experiences and new perspectives. Excitement bustled all around as people sized one another up. A smile here, a smirk there. Looking forward to two years of love, laughter and times to remember.

She hated it all.

Late by 5 Min, she attempted to sneak into the class like a mouse steals into a house. Hoping to never be noticed, merely in search of some warmth. That was not to be had. One step into the class and all eyes shot to her like darts. Tall, thin, broad forehead, dry and damaged hair. A couple of pimples scattered across her face as if to mock the makers attempts at perfection. Accessorized with pit stains from having sprinted across a part of the 230 acre campus. Grown out eyebrows, sling bag, feet too big, worn out ketoes, cute-ish, small boobs. 

She could rattle it all off in her head as the stares made notes. She wasn't too worried about first impressions. She knew her looks held certain promise. It was her eyes she always supposed, that made an impression. They held a long lost promise of innocence that made people hesitate before outright dismissing her. However, few could testify to having witnessed the true gigantic spectrum of emotions those big black eyes lay home to in reality. She kept her demons well hidden under coffin and gravestone, stained with salty whispers. She wasn't born with this darkness. I promise. The world drowned her in it, and before she knew, it had embalmed itself in the threads of her DNA.

When she was relaxed enough to let it surface, her smile was disarming as well, guaranteeing her whatever she wanted. The soft textures her vocal cords painted could stroke a raging bull into submission. Then again she always had her brain to fall back on if life began to gravitate downhill.

Two strides into the room, she collapsed onto the seat nearest to the door and willed it to swallow her whole.