Carolime Time

a thousand words, they say, will keep the crazies at bay..

The world is celebrating the New Year, 2009, bringing it in with a bit of subdued joy. The past year has been tumultuous. I’ve come across a poem, and heard a sonnet, both referring to the different economic scandals and political big whigs that have graced our headlines. A lot of people I know are staying in, avoiding the extreme cold alert on Toronto’s streets. Others are visiting the always dependendable, immovable Nathan Phillips Square. One group of girlfriends are organizing a candlelight vigil at the Israeli consulate on Bloor against the current bloodshed in Gaza at the hands of the Israeli army. It will take place between 11:50pm and 12:15am..

I must say that I was pleased to read that so many Arab countries are coming together in support of the current Palestinian situation, which is getting more dire by the day. I didn’t expect it, to be honest.

I never know what to do on December 31st. Frankly, I feel completely neutral and indifferent to the day. Moreso than any other day of the year. It’s literally a day in limbo. I can’t get anything done cause everyone’s off and I can’t go too crazy cause I just don’t see the point. I really, really don’t. :)..Let me figure out, now, how I’ve spent my past few NYEs

2007-2008-> Goa, dancefloor

2006-2007->selling these light up toys at nathan phillips square, then running around trying to take photos at different events and make some $$..ended up stuck in the rain, in a storm..with an old friend..wishing e/other happy New year..hah..then onwards to play some pool and drink…that was probably the best one

2005-2006-> dance floor, Goa, with my parents

2004-2005->in a car, on the corner of queen and bay in toronto..by myself..i was in mourning, as my aunt passed away just a few days prior

2003-2004->this was my first year of university, i had an NYE party at my family’s old, empty and unfurnished house in Scarborough.. definitely memorable, for more reasons than one..

2002-2003->i believe i drove around Toronto with my cousin, ran down church street and pranced around with randoms all night..fell down the stairs of the Westin Harbour Castle..flirted

2001-2002->i went to a GOA dance with my best friend and whatnot

2000-2001->some dance with the parents

and the rest was family events that i can’t recall..after a while, the years blur and fade into one collective past..

I can’t say much for 2008. I learned a lot, on an individual level. I think I attained that confidence I was searching for, somehow, much to the disdain of my bank account. I didn’t think I’d ever have to pay to work. But I did. I learned a lot about how the corporate world works, the steely, well-oiled machine of man. And I learned there’s very little to lose. I had this fear, before, that the world is bigger than it is, and tougher than it is. I put aside many of my interests, picking and choosing the most important. But I realized that wasn’t necessarily the right way. Finally, I’ve gathered the experience as well as the B/S that one needs to get through this sometimes horrid affair of life. Oh, and in the last days of 2008, I laid my eggs in a basket that slips neatly into a cool, safe place. I feel pretty good right now, to be honest. Better than I’ve felt over the past two months of this year.

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We went on a little bit of a Sunday adventure today. I introduced a dear friend to the Distillery section of Toronto, and came across a Scotsman along the way. This friend is a bit anti-social and I like to surprise him with all the little tidbits of the city he hasn’t been exposed to. I like taking part in someone else’s discovery, and I especially enjoy watching his expressions of delight when happening upon something new. Luckily, the weather was friendly to us and our whole day was blessed with that crisp autumn air that I favour so.

We met at the corner of Yonge and College and hailed a cab. I sorta jumped out of this particular cab’s way as it came damn near careening in my direction. I do think it was speeding, and the whole ride sorta sped past us in a haze. Honestly, I’ve grown used to talking to Toronto cab drivers and homeless people and all those other ‘characters’ you meet in a city, on a bus or at a bar. You know the ones I’m talking about, with the painful and similarly curious stories you carry around with you the rest of the day and reference when you think of every indigenous native’s plight and every new immigrant’s struggle. I know; we all have our stories.

Anyway, this cab driver was a wrinkled, rosy-faced Scotsman. In fact, he referred to himself as ‘The Scotsman’ on his business card, which matched the red tweed print of his hat. I don’t know how he managed it, but he finagled a conversation out of me! (ha ha?) He started telling me how he quit drinking 30years before, and I found myself sympathizing with him, throwing in my own family associations with alcoholism. At the same time, I wondered why he’d confide in me so easily.

He was quite the talker, and moved into less personal talk. One story just led to another, and eventually he was telling me about his marvelous life as a confectioner of chocolates, and how he spent his youth going dancing and wooing the ladies with his chocolate-making skills. I really did feel like I was sitting at my grandfather’s knees, pushing him to tell me more. And I imagined this Scotsman from Glasgow, spinning young lasses in frocks around a dance floor, plucking his suspenders as he flirted with them and boasted of the different éclairs he could make with fresh cream. Yes, I did ask him if he regularly had fresh Devon cream with hot scones and jam!!! (I’ve never tried this and really want to) Apparently, in apology for a drunken spat at the fish and chips shop following a night of intoxicated Glasgow partying, he once traded a pound of chocolates for five pieces of fish from the lady of the shop. It was apparently the source of laughter for all his friends. Yes, before I knew it, we’d arrived at 55 Mill St. and the bricked pathways of the Distillery. It was at this point that he slipped us the business cards and I tucked it away in the safest place I could find in my wallet. Next time I’m lonely, I want to go for a drive with the Scotsman. We hopped out of the cab and my friend just shook his head at me, ‘cause of course, I’m a sucker for storytellers and characters.

For those of you who haven’t been to the Distillery Historic District, it’s an enclosed area just south of Front St. and east of Parliament, in Toronto. It is known as the Distillery District because of the grand Gooderham and Worts whiskey distillery and mill that once contributed hugely to Canadian industry. A couple of years ago, this was my favorite area of Toronto. It is great for tourists and taking friends for a short history lesson and stroll through a less-accessible side of Toronto. Less accessible only because it’s not on the subway line and not near many regularly visited sights. I’ve always liked the late Victorian-era architecture and small laneways. The Distillery is never too busy (unless you’re heading there for Nuit Blanche), and very accommodating to the common spendthrift. I can’t promise much activity, though. There are a number of theatres, including the ever-active Soulpepper Theatre and Young Centre For the Performing Arts. Cute cafes, restaurants and shops pour onto the pathways. The reason for my visit on this day? The Boiler House Restaurant! A review of this restaurant is to follow:)

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I just watched Slumdog Millionaire with my parents and brother(s).

It is referred to as the “feel good movie” of the year. As the winner of the Toronto International Film Festival’s Cadillac Award, with high ratings from pretty much every self-proclaimed movie critic I know on the ground, I went in with my expectations reined in. When I say reined in, I tried not to expect anything, but secretly knew I’d be fine.

Rightfully so, I was laughing and engaged within the first ten minutes. Off with a bang, the movie had my mom sitting upright. Having been brought up in Mumbai, she was immediately disgusted by the idea of a slum depicted on the big screen. “Chi, chi, what shit is this we’re watching?,” I heard her mumble when the lead character jumped into a pile of feces. I found this reaction particularly interesting, as I know there are Indians around the world from a generation before mine who have grown up in this place I’m not from directly. They are not as prone to pitying the slum kids without the charming texture of film, and are moreso desensitized to the poverty if not disgusted by it.

Using the timeline of a police interrogation and the popular TV show “Who Wants to Be A  Millionaire,” a young slum boy/chaiwallah is shown answering pop culture and general knowledge questions accurately and easily, one after another, much to the distaste of those in classes above him.

Directed by Danny Boyle, of Trainspotting fame,  the film plays on the current world fascination with Mumbai, India in general, and the exoticism of India’s scents and colours in pop culture. Like the speed of change in India, Boyle uses careening cars, trains, and chappal’d feet to tell the story of India’s race to success. The corruption, which every Mumbai’ite nods their head to, is apparent in Slumdog Millionaire, and those of us who are shielded from such harsh realities drop our jaws in awe. I was pleased to see my mother’s heartstrings sufficiently tugged. She was pulled in within a half hour as death, fire, and fighting struck the lives of innocent children. Truthfully, as I watched the film, I could’ve sworn I’d seen those same little girls and boys at my window and rickshaw openings in Bandra, asking for change or trying to sell me books. Really. I can’t tell the difference.There is so much truth to this film.

I guess this is Boyle’s modus operandi, in that he takes themes that are otherwise a harsh reality, jazzes them up a bit, perhaps glamourizes them to an extent to make them audience and ratings-friendly, and throws them out there to be gobbled up. It’s really prettily gift-wrapped and is told in the perfect Bollywood-esque style. And, like the Bollywood stories that are all the rage in India, Slumdog’s lead character is the object of much affection from all classes towards the end of the movie. One scene stood out to me in which the window of the slum-kid-turned-chaiwallah-turned-millionaire was being tapped on not for the sake of begging and getting some money, but to root for a slum kid on his way out and living what one may call “The Indian Dream.” ..to become a star, to be chosen from the masses, by chance, a city of 12 million or so people, and to have the opportunity to not only be rich but also famous.

I definitely felt good afterwards, although it’s obvious not all endings are so happy for the slum kids of Mumbai. You may as well hand one a hundred rupee note from your rickshaw and remind yourself that you’ve done your good deed for the day.

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I wear a body that does not look like me. the only thing that matches is my skin with its pigment, and my hair with its roots. i look at things from the inside out and i touch that which is soft, and sink my fingers into flesh, that welcoming, engulfing sensation–so that I cannot return.

i am back, i am back.

and i am touching rough again, calloused and faded, i am touching burns and shadows, can’t put my finger on it so I trace lines i won’t cross, i’ve simply tread along the edges, tiptoeing along the truth.

my hands are searching for responses, so i grasp the first thing i can hold onto for dear life. and i ask if it hurts, tell me if it hurts when i hold you. i shouldn’t have to ask.

I wake up with a start, to eyes, staring at me curiously. They are his, and i am his.
“What?”
“You were moaning in your sleep”
“i was having a nightmare”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
No, I scream.
I turn away and close my eyes, willing my nightmare to return. I’ve been having dreams,
but i tell him they’re nightmares.

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my struggle to live beyond the 4 walls of an office begin here. stifled and uninspired, i awaited my departure from the environment, anticipating the day i would get laid off or come across my dream spot (or gold-bearing partner, whichever came first that would emancipate me from the 9 to 5 shackles).

it’s not that i wanted to stop working, but that i wanted to be the sole decider of how my time would be spent.

freelance options

i think it’s quite difficult to live a freelance life. one must be wholly dedicated, hardworking, proactive, and disciplined.  one friend suggested i use facebook as my source of networking and take articles and work from those on my friends list. truthfully, that site has been absolutely useless to me, no matter how much i tried to use it as a networking tool. i had 700 friends, and i got no jobs, just a lot of welcome, warm responses to my writing and a lot of ‘friends’.

i also considered jumping from contract to contract. that would be awesome, actually. spend 3mos writing articles on the investment and financial worlds, another 6mos working as a communications assistant at the film festival, all while freelance writing along the way and working as a performer, as i please..this would be a good life for me. there’s also Nasco, a staffing company for events and entertainment, and Creative Niche, a staffing company for arts and creative careers.

i look at jobs regularly and some are fantastic…

–note–i didn’t finish this post until recently. before i could really dive into the freelance life, i came upon another 9 to 5 opportunity that struck my fancy. luckily, it’s a contract internship with a leading digital force.

learning on the side

on that note, i think it’s always important to build on our abilities when the chance arises. be it a course, workshop, or internship, it all adds up. of course, we have to make money along the way..i saved up a chunk from my past work, and am now draining that. my spending has also decreased a lot…not so much a fine diner these days! and those fruity drinks at Toronto’s Blowfish Restaurant aren’t meeting my lips..sigh..

i’ll keep you updated on the rest..

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I just watched Lives of Others, and I have to tell people to check it out…
It’s about state security surveillance of civilians, movers, and shakers in East Germany before the wall fell.
It plays out via the timeline of a romantic relationship and a bit more.
There are eyes everywhere in this film. Not just watching, but being watched. Watched, as they watch. By us, by each other.
The characters are in their bare minimums, at home, in their workplace, in their bedrooms. I guess that’s something that attracts us to movies in the first place. We want to watch others fall, pick themselves up, or sink further..as all humans are prone to doing.
The characters are meant to be taken in on a personal level here, I’d say. Not in a documentary form, where you know it’s a hard-edged truth..or when you gulp slowly and bear witness… When one finds themselves empathizing with numerous sides of a struggle, it must be admitted that the director is doing a damn good job illustrating the internal conflicts of all those involved. It wasn’t especially dazzling in its originality as a story, nor is it a wooden rollercoaster of emotions. No, I wouldn’t say I even fell in love with any one character. I was, however, peering closely to see what was in the distance of each shot. So I was immersed. I totally thought I was part of the government security, keeping an eye out on anything that seems out of place…But, of course, I’d probably fall hard for any person I’m told to watch full time. How could I not?

anyway………….i should probably get back to work haaah good night—
y’all better go watch this movie! i didn’t write this for fun!! it’s a wicked flick.. i almost cried AND I didn’t fall asleep!
Btw I was watching Benny and Joon the other night…I need to watch the rest of that movie sooooooon–i very reluctantly fell asleep in the first hour, and was really liking all the quirkiness…!! so yeah maybe i’ll recommend that next..
i’m also resisting all temptation to pause in my readings and paste further excerpts from ’shantaram’…i just got to the love part of the book and i’m entering carefully just because it’s so thick that i’m sure the rest of the book isn’t about love! it can’t be!!!

and so closes another play by play page from my memoirs..sigh..

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be still..it is a mirage, it is misleading, it stands in your way and you, you must be the force behind your actions. you must stand in the clear, of a desert, with no such thing as walking distance, you must conserve your last sip so that you may survive, and walk fiercely into the sun. there will be more. there will be others, there will be such grandeur that your cup will never run dry again, your lips will never drop petals, and your throat will never grate and rattle and shake and lose weight. you will be more. you will see it all. your eyes will squint at the first look. it will hurt, you will be weary, but you will adjust. you will see colours like never before. they will appear as daubs of paint, from an artist’s sword, and you will take shape, to never again be depicted in black and white. for you will be seen. and your cup will spill over.

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