Shrugging my Shoulders

"Mr. Rearden," said Francisco, his voice solemnly calm, "if you saw Atlas, the giant who holds the world on his shoulders, if you saw that he stood, blood running down his chest, his knees buckling, his arms trembling but still trying to hold the world aloft with the last of his strength, and the greater his effort the heavier the world bore down upon his shoulders - what would you tell him to do?"

"I ... don't know. What ... could he do? What would you tell him?"

"To shrug."


Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged.
======================


The world is a huge thing. When Atlas decides he cannot take it on his shoulders anymore, the "shrug" involved is not as simple as it sounds. It's not just a movement, the act of shrugging. Shrugging involves a feeling of utter indifference to the state of affairs, and the need to want to leave. "The need to want to leave". Some call it escapism, and, depending upon the circumstance, it might be. But, the truly strong people know that it is not escapism that drives them to their decision, but the need to want to build a better life than the one they're forced to lead - even at the cost of leaving almost everything that was important to them in the old life.These humans have assessed their options, and know that they're leaving with nothing but the wide horizon in front of them, filled with limitless opportunities - and the combined powers of their intellect, their strategy, and loads of experience that will always come in handy. The 'shrug' here depicts not the act of shrugging but the most profound thought that leads to that act. It's not easy.

It's 12:45am right now. It's way past my bedtime. If someone or something external kept me up that late on a regular day, I'd have howled the place down in anger. But tonight is somewhere in the middle of a transformation. It's like being taken into Galt's cabin in Atlantis so that when you call, Galt answers; to remind you of the reasons why it was necessary to shrug. I cannot help but feel that it would be good to have Galt around right now, to remind me of why today's decision was not only brave and the most important decision I have taken since the start of the PhD, but also the most necessary step.

I'll talk about it later. Right now, I'm too full of reflections on the past, and thoughts for my future. I hope that I am able to go through with what I have decided, and I'll post the details once it has happened.

Who knew??

I guess the hallmark of a really gifted writer is when people start (unnecessarily) interpreting her work. Go here.

The Last Link

Oh goodness, I think I just realized what exactly it is to lose my driver's license.

1. It means I don't have a driver's license any more!! I cannot drive (until I get another one, and I don't have the time or energy to get one right now).

2. It means I'd better get a state ID before I travel next, or I'll have to lug my passport everywhere.

3. Most importantly, it means I've just let go of my last link to beautiful Maryland. I listened to John Denver today, a bit of a risk considering that winter's around the corner. I realized, to my surprise, that I managed Annie's Song and For You pretty well. (Weird, considering Fi's parents are here and we don't get to communicate very often.) Then again, lately I've managed GnR, Metallica and Zombie by The Cranberries, too, so one might think all's well that ends well. But, to my intense shock, I realized I couldn't sit through Denver's Calypso. And then I remembered one long ago Fall night in Maryland in November 2002, when, studying till the birds started to twitter again, I had listened to Calypso nearly twenty times, replaying it again and again, and enjoying the energizing beat of the music as I did my math. I know that, geographically, Country Roads is a lot closer to Maryland than Calypso is, but the energy of Calypso went well with the general energy of my life in MD. Why did I have to lose my driver's license - and, more importantly, how did usually-so-careful-Me do this?

Well, maybe I should look at it philosophically. Maybe I'll be more at home here now that I have to make a home here. Maybe in time I'll be happy to "come back to IL".

Oh, what the hell, who am I kidding?

A Random Post

1. I was talking to a Maryland native the other day, and when he asked me where I had lived, I went, "Oh, Exit X off Interstate... uhhh, ...what's that called...", till he prompted, "695?" I am appalled! How is that possible? I'll be willing to live in Chicago next, at this rate. And, by the way, this is coming right on top of the loss of my driver's license (issued by the State of Maryland) - I haven't seen it since I traveled back last from NY and I believe I lost it at the airport on the way back. Boohoo.

2. I've never really doubted this seriously, even in the hurricane days of my teenage; but now I'm absolutely sure of it: My mother is always, always right. This refers to the little piece of advice she gave me two weeks ago, on her birthday, to be precise; along with her view of "the case" I presented to her. But, even in general, Mom's always right.

3. I miss Fi, but I believe he's balancing wonderfully between 'our' world and his, so I'm still okay - and too busy to worry about anything, even if there was anything to worry about. Today's Day 14, we've got 22 more to go.

Okay, when I started off, I had one big thing more, but I've created some limitations on this blog - one of which is, never to talk about my lab and associated people in more detail than I can help. Which means that I've automatically cut down the length of this post to about a tenth of what it was supposed to be. I'm still tempted to write but I do have to think of the repercussions of the 'wrong' people getting hold of this, so I'll keep my silence for the nonce. Anyway, it's bedtime.

Women of Allah

I wonder how I hadn't heard of Shirin Neshat until today. Browsing The New Yorker website a while ago, I came across a slideshow of her work. At once beautiful, disturbing and empowering, she seems to have penetrated the minds and the lives of the women she portrays. Her work, to a large extent, is autobiographical, hopefully not as much a personal experience as a cultural experience.

First it was Azar Nafisi's Reading Lolita in Tehran, and now another glimpse into this tightly veiled world. Every glimpse is frightening, and, inexplicably, alluring. I wonder what they think - these women about whom so much is portrayed. I wonder if, in reality, they're happy behind their veils, in their tightly regulated lives, with their immediate concerns. I wonder if they even agree with their sisters who've portrayed them as struggling birds in chains. Maybe they actually don't care any more; maybe they're actually happy to be looked after so well that they don't even need to think in order to exist.

Do all these women wish they were a Nafisi or a Neshat? Do they hold them as beacons for their daughters or burn them in silent effigy? Or, do they denounce them in the courtyard of their houses, with their men looking on, and then secretly raise their children to look up to them - so that a new generation of bearded men will finally snap the chains off their mothers and sisters and allow them to live? Are they even as upset for themselves as I seem to be for strangers I don't know and am unlikely to ever interact with? Where do their loyalties really lie?

Who are these women, the women of Allah?

Just to say I'm still around...

Ananymous sent me this very funny and very true (at least once upon a time) poem a while ago on email.

"Sing a Song of Europe"

Sing a song of Europe, highly civilized,
Four and twenty nations wholly hypnotised,
When the battle opens, the bullets start to sing -
Isn't it a silly way to act for any King?

The Kings are in the background, issuing commands,
The Queens are in the parlours, per etiquette's demand;
The bankers in the country house are busy multiplying
The common people at the front are doing all the dying.

- Anonymous

All Shook Up

Friday Night Music: Elvis Presley.

I wish I could karaoke Elvis today. I don't, of course, have the best voice around, but since I've a cold and a sore throat right now, it's turned quite passable. Many were the times that I've wished I actually had the 'sore-throat-voice' all the time - that way, at least, people wouldn't give me the "Please, my ears!" look when I sing.

All shook up. I have to share this. On Fi's birthday, we'd gone for the US Open. If this blog has taught you one thing about me, it is that I don't care too much for sports as a general rule. I'll bend enough to say I actually enjoy some competitive sports - gymnastics, figure skating, stuff like that. Stuff with grace, stuff that the artist in me can appreciate, too. And I have played competitive sports when I was younger: badminton, throwball, ...you get the drift. And, even now, I like playing a bit of raquetball sometimes, or swimming (which got me the 'sore-throat-voice' in the first place), apart from my regular gym routine. And, what's weirder, over the last couple of months I've found myself in situations where I land up watching competitive matches a lot - baseball, cricket, tennis... hell, golf.

Coming back. In general, I'm rather wary of sports. So, when I walked on to the stadium that day, I must've been the only person there who didn't actually belong. I was wondering if the weather would hold, appraising Ms. Ahead-of-me's outfit and wondering when was the earliest I could broach going home without sounding, well, non-sportive. So, in that mood, I accompanied Fi and Di to the Arthur Ashe Stadium, where the match between I-don't-remember and I-don't-care was going on in full spate. I watched as the crowds cheered - and jeered. I observed the eyes of the two people on either side of me hang on to the ball hungrily. I felt guilty being there - as if I was intruding on some sacred and secret ceremony. I listened as they discussed the odds of the game being won by I-don't-remember... or was it I-don't-care? I looked at the footwork of the two players and thought of a cool indoors stadium where I could see figure-skaters glide gracefully and noiselessly to music I enjoyed.

That's when the players stopped for a break, and the voice of Elvis filled the stadium. All Shook Up. I wouldn't say I belonged already - but I felt that if the people around me could appreciate Elvis and tennis in one breath, I might try too. In the end, it wasn't about the "no-sports" rule, it was about letting down some of my natural defences. Maybe I should be fair and call them 'prejudices'. That's what playing the game is all about, isn't it?

Paranoia Personified

Unlike what many of you may be thinking, this has nothing to do with Fi or his parents' arrival. (Talking about which, all are here safe and sound and apparently not hit by jet-lag at all, as evidenced by the fact that they had the stamina to walk in, admire the house and the living-room curtains - which I believe I picked last year - and inspect the kitchen from top to bottom. I only wish Fi had sounded less flustered than he did in that thirty-second call which ended abruptly, without a goodbye. That's fine, I'm glad I heard from him at all.) In fact, I should have blogged about this incident nearly a week ago - it happened last Thursday - but I got carried away by the events of the weekend.

I was on my way to Fiville and was going through the security check at the airport. I had removed my shoes, jacket, cellphone, watch, laptop, etc, and placed them in the grey bins provided. I pushed them into the X-ray, all except the last grey bin, and was waiting behind another squat little elderly man in line to hit the "security doorway" (what do you call those things?). As he walked into the door, things started to flash and beep, and he realized he still had his cellphone in his hand. He took a step backwards, realized all his other stuff was already on the other side of the X-ray machine, looked around and saw me, smiled, and went, "Oh, I'll just put them here..." indicating my bin. I shook my head vehemently.

"Come on, it's just a minute..."

"No, no, no, no, no, no!!!", that was me in successively higher pitches. I couldn't have done it better if I'd been rehearsing as an operatic soprano for weeks. I was too aghast to say anything intelligible. The only thing I could think of was, what if there's something in that cellphone, and I'm caught because it's in my bin!?!? Oh, no, you don't! Besides, it wasn't like there was nothing else to put it in. I gestured towards the little bowls meant for keys and things, and pushed one towards him. He gave me this look that plainly said "Paranoid!"

When I recovered sufficiently from the shock of the look, I glanced around to find that everyone behind me in line also had the same look on their faces. I thought they'd be commiserating with me!

Well, never mind, at least I'm certain one person will read this entry and say, "Finally my instruction bears fruit!". Right, TM?

Hyde-ing

Hyde is back in action. Fi's parents are coming over, and I might need a 'diary' so I've activated 'him' again. My exile starts tomorrow, and continues for thirty-six or so days after that. But I'm still hoping to be here a lot more than over there - this is a more interesting blog, as opposed to that one, which is just a rant in a more creative form.

Wish me luck. And, what's more important, wish him luck!

I now know exactly how to answer my friends back in Chicago when they routinely ask me the inane question about why I love New York City so much more than I love Chicago (by the way, Chicago is still on "mild liking", nowhere close to "love"). Here's the reason:

At the Red Line at State and Jackson, I hear the strains of Hotel California. At the 14th Street/Union Square station, I hear Bach's Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring.

Quod Erat Demonstrandum.