We were talking, so very long ago, in the callow
languor of youth (call me a tyro perhaps? And I should not be hearing giggles
at that) and a not-quite legal high, swinging our knees from the top of the third
water tank (the one at the back and in the shade of a gulmohar canopy) and conversation fell, as it sometimes does, to
figuring out the loss of which of our senses would we most struggle with. Now, this
is a question I do not have too much trouble figuring because I know that I
would absolutely hate to lose my sight. I love my food and I can tolerate
talking but I know that if matters came to a cinch, I would probably be okay
without tasting my food and on most days, I don’t care to talk anyway. What remains?
Smell and hearing again are critical inputs to re-constructing our
surroundings, but sight and all that it entails - colour, the perception of
depth, the separation and delineation of entities – is so very essential to
getting the complete picture if you will. I might be biased of course, with my
wonky eyesight and my occasional nightmares of being blind, rendered
exquisitely in blacks and purples and reds of
course, but our inputs are so overwhelmingly visual during our interactions
with the physical world and while we do supplement visual data with other
sensory information, the foundation (be it for a session of imaginary world
building or in a simple dream) of our thoughts is mostly visual. It doesn’t
hurt that our eyes are probably the most sophisticated of our sensory organs
and our brain has succeeded in optimising the inputs it receives through adding
presumptions and can adapt in a multitude of surroundings (one recommended
reading here, Steven
Pinker – How the Mind Works). I remember making kaleidoscopes and periscopes when
I was around 10 or 12, mirrors and broken bangle bits and tape and plastic and
cardboard boxes – one creating new worlds through light and chance and the
other bringing things nearer. I would while away hours just turning the
kaleidoscope this way and that, often glimpsing an absolutely beautiful design
for a second’s fraction, before momentum took it away for ever. And what
remained were snatched reminiscences, backgrounding dreams and half-hearted
tries to recapture a lost moment.
A pretty long-winded way of coming around to the
matter of dreams. They used to say that dreams portend future. Which is likely another
way of hosanna-ing human imagination and willpower. Doesn’t lessen the power of
it though. I do not understand the science of it, however they seem to be stories
we tell ourselves, processed from a thousand inputs received while wide awake
and asleep, solving problems, inspiring us. Do they help retain memories? Or
perhaps create stories that help connect dots, subconscious distilling cogency
from fractured realities? I remember but a few of my dreams. Probably that’s
for the best. There are enough regrets remembered anyway. I half-remember a dream
from my childhood, which involved a car on a mountain road and a big balloon
(the kind you’d see in Cappadocia, not that I had heard of it then) and there
being a race of utmost importance – I think was I was through my nth reading of
Boy’s
Choice (a beautiful Hamlyn hardbound with gorgeous illustrations that I/Dad
would have probably bought from my usual second hand bookshop) at that time. I
do believe that dreams help focus in on solutions because I remember being 10
and waking up with drool on my chin and just knowing the solution to the puzzle
that I had been staring at as I had fallen asleep. I was insanely pleased and
smug and then (as is my wont) I started worrying – did the solution remain true
when I was wide awake and did I need to fall asleep just so for the dreams to
come? My dreams these days, those that I remember somewhat, are mostly about me
falling and I remember looking up at blue skies and white clouds and red earth
before I jerk awake, curling inwards and feeling safe. They are on an itinerant
loop, these dreams, been over years now, I guess reflecting the relative stasis
and ordinary worry of life as I go through years. I wish it were possible, to
dream at will, neurons firing away with the staccato cadence of REM sleep,
nudging and shaping half-formed ideas that you weren’t even aware of. Waking up
to pen and paper, writing them down and making them real.
So, dreams can be prophetic, mystical, physiological (the
order is Homeric, Platonic and then Herodotic(?) broadly I think) or an
imagined reality that offers refuge or even a promise of how things can be. And
while reality is there and its inescapable and it is to what we must eventually
return, it is good to dream, if only for a while.
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The awards season is underway. I haven’t watched many
of the contenders this year – I did catch The Shape of Water recently
and thought it was quite good. It is definitely different to see a mute girl as
the protagonist and Sally Hawkins is terrific in the role. Michael Shannon is
such a brooding, physical presence – though I didn’t quite get his motivation,
he seemed to be patriot itching to get out of a boondocks town but that doesn’t
really explain his cruelty and viciousness, arresting as it is. Guillermo Del Toro
is a visual wizard and the palette of greens and browns and blues beautifully re-creates
1970s Americana (as I know from my reading and shit). It’s a sexy movie too. I
have also watched Get Out and probably would
consider that a better, sharper picture than The Shape of Water – and Allison Williams is possibly a creepier
villain.
Talking about nostalgia, I finally got to around watching
season 1 of Stranger Things and I
enjoyed it greatly. Definitely some Enid Blyton vibes which amps up the
nostalgia factor some, accompanied by a killer instrumental background track and
some very strong performances (including from Winona Ryder and David Harbour,
apart from the set of incredibly precocious kids). And talking about connections,
Harbour’s gonna play Hellboy next and of course, Del Toro did direct the first
couple of Hellboys. And the Merman in The
Shape of Water is basically Abe Sapien.
A couple of interesting articles for your perusal,
about a couple of inspiring people – Laura
Hillenbrand, the author and Edmund
Hillary. I am currently reading Neverwhere
by Neil Gaiman and finished a one-shot called God
Country – can’t recommend it enough.
P.S. Yes, I have watched Padmaavat and yes,
I do wish I hadn’t.
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A couple of songs to close out. Jazz today.
1. Miles Davis - So What. One of the best songs ever.
2. John Coltrane - My Favorite Things. A traditional song made mysterious and new.
I could listen to them for hours.
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The year has ended. Ended on a sad note actually – an untimely
loss in the family. Its weird to have a definite beginning and a sudden end to relationships
– we usually drift apart, don’t we? Winter is going away now, it did make its
presence felt a bit more this year, even in Bombay.
I wish just that I could know if someone was alright :)
