Expression vs Impression
Recently, a dear friend suggested that angst could be a possible source of my creativity; I’ve been involved in serious, time consuming thought processes since. Is it angst that gives birth to creativity in me or is it suppression of creativity that brings forth angst? Being unable to decide, I figured that perhaps penning down some thoughts might help and here I am, typing away to glory………….
It’s Saturday today and I am home alone, rather at unease, not because I am alone but because I am alone in a messy house. All beds are to be made, carpets need vacuuming, living room needs tidying up, dining table needs to be cleared, washed dishes need be put away, dishes need be washed and who can forget the bathrooms? Yet, I find time to be on the computer to type something that might not affect my life in any way possible, why? It gives me mental peace, gives me emotional solace, gives me a sense of accomplishment – a satisfaction, and most importantly, gives me energy to finish all the pending household chores and then prepare tonight’s dinner for myself and dad.
It’s Saturday and I should probably go out tonight; isn’t that what a ‘normal’ 23 year old would do if s/he has nothing else to do? I think about it; lists of excuses creep up the back and the sides of my head; it gradually feels like someone’s hand is in my head and it’s trying to rip my brain out. I feel myself trying hard to fight the situation by conforming to what I don’t desire. I am in conflict within myself – you know that’s happening when your brain goes numb, your vision goes blank, and your head hurts from the emptiness inside and outside. The idea of going with friends for a relaxing night out tickles my fancy immensely but the thought of convincing father to let me go does not. The look of disappointment in his eyes, the harsh tone of his voice, the questions, the answers don’t necessarily deter me from asking him to let me go but my self respect, whatever little that is left, definitely does. Hence, the excuses – it is more economical to sit at home, have healthy home cooked food and read a knowledgeable book rather than being out.
I made mutter paneer for dinner yesterday (lucky it didn’t burn) after being at home, alone, all day. Dad came home after work; both of us had dinner together, quietly like sensible mature adults, on the dining table aptly located to overlook a playground behind our house. It’s like having a big screen plasma TV without a remote control. A football game was going on in the field while we were swallowing our paneer and roti, quietly. Lighting was excellent but the sound quality wasn’t all that great; well, it was non existent; it was quiet enough to hear a pin drop. Players running across the field, throwing their arms and legs in all direction with no sound amused me endlessly. Dad ate and left to go sleep while I was still busy watching the little children at the sidelines of the field cheering their parents on as they smashed each other in our prestigious full body contact American football. I turned the TV off by pulling the curtain after I had enough of seeing people getting hurt more than they were able to score. After all, I was in their position only a month ago. Had I not thought of myself capable of taking on the boys in football, I wouldn’t have fallen on my shoulder and dislocated it on the spot, and maybe I wouldn’t be sitting at home rite now aching for human presence.
After cleaning the kitchen up, I sat down to read Archie’s (my all time favourite) but was interrupted by dad who wanted me to go to bed because he had to leave for work early next morning and I had to make breakfast for him; so I did.
Yesterday morning before dad had left for work, I felt like continuing with what I like to call my ‘first effort towards my first novel’. I wrote one line, was dreaming of another, and dad entered the scene having eaten the breakfast I made him earlier. I immediately minimized the computer screen and got rid of the evidence that I had been again wasting time writing useless stories. I should’ve been working on ‘making something of my life’ instead. I should’ve been studying chemical reactions, biological processes, physical laws and making something of myself rather than wasting time and energy on reading the likes of Henrik Ibsen and sometimes, attempting to write as well. I understand how important a well paying career is to succeed in today’s “society”. I understand how important it is for me to make my parents proud; parents who brought me into this world, parents who fed me, parents who clothed me, parents who made every means possible to educate me. I understand that I can’t be a reason for their embarrassment. I understand that I can’t have my parents’ head bow in shame in front of their “society” when they hear that their ‘supposedly intelligent’ daughter is not a science but an English literature student. I understand it all so well; what I don’t understand is why I understand it all so well? Why do I sometimes wish that I was sightseeing in London on July 7? Is it because my ‘supposed’ creativity lacks expression? Or is it mere angst giving birth to disturbing thoughts which my - oh so humble - brain later converts into words?
Do we leave impressions via our expressions or do we express our impressions?
You decide because my brain has made a decision to not decide. Yet again.
Ps: Ma, Daddy misses you. Next time, take a vacation together.
It’s Saturday today and I am home alone, rather at unease, not because I am alone but because I am alone in a messy house. All beds are to be made, carpets need vacuuming, living room needs tidying up, dining table needs to be cleared, washed dishes need be put away, dishes need be washed and who can forget the bathrooms? Yet, I find time to be on the computer to type something that might not affect my life in any way possible, why? It gives me mental peace, gives me emotional solace, gives me a sense of accomplishment – a satisfaction, and most importantly, gives me energy to finish all the pending household chores and then prepare tonight’s dinner for myself and dad.
It’s Saturday and I should probably go out tonight; isn’t that what a ‘normal’ 23 year old would do if s/he has nothing else to do? I think about it; lists of excuses creep up the back and the sides of my head; it gradually feels like someone’s hand is in my head and it’s trying to rip my brain out. I feel myself trying hard to fight the situation by conforming to what I don’t desire. I am in conflict within myself – you know that’s happening when your brain goes numb, your vision goes blank, and your head hurts from the emptiness inside and outside. The idea of going with friends for a relaxing night out tickles my fancy immensely but the thought of convincing father to let me go does not. The look of disappointment in his eyes, the harsh tone of his voice, the questions, the answers don’t necessarily deter me from asking him to let me go but my self respect, whatever little that is left, definitely does. Hence, the excuses – it is more economical to sit at home, have healthy home cooked food and read a knowledgeable book rather than being out.
I made mutter paneer for dinner yesterday (lucky it didn’t burn) after being at home, alone, all day. Dad came home after work; both of us had dinner together, quietly like sensible mature adults, on the dining table aptly located to overlook a playground behind our house. It’s like having a big screen plasma TV without a remote control. A football game was going on in the field while we were swallowing our paneer and roti, quietly. Lighting was excellent but the sound quality wasn’t all that great; well, it was non existent; it was quiet enough to hear a pin drop. Players running across the field, throwing their arms and legs in all direction with no sound amused me endlessly. Dad ate and left to go sleep while I was still busy watching the little children at the sidelines of the field cheering their parents on as they smashed each other in our prestigious full body contact American football. I turned the TV off by pulling the curtain after I had enough of seeing people getting hurt more than they were able to score. After all, I was in their position only a month ago. Had I not thought of myself capable of taking on the boys in football, I wouldn’t have fallen on my shoulder and dislocated it on the spot, and maybe I wouldn’t be sitting at home rite now aching for human presence.
After cleaning the kitchen up, I sat down to read Archie’s (my all time favourite) but was interrupted by dad who wanted me to go to bed because he had to leave for work early next morning and I had to make breakfast for him; so I did.
Yesterday morning before dad had left for work, I felt like continuing with what I like to call my ‘first effort towards my first novel’. I wrote one line, was dreaming of another, and dad entered the scene having eaten the breakfast I made him earlier. I immediately minimized the computer screen and got rid of the evidence that I had been again wasting time writing useless stories. I should’ve been working on ‘making something of my life’ instead. I should’ve been studying chemical reactions, biological processes, physical laws and making something of myself rather than wasting time and energy on reading the likes of Henrik Ibsen and sometimes, attempting to write as well. I understand how important a well paying career is to succeed in today’s “society”. I understand how important it is for me to make my parents proud; parents who brought me into this world, parents who fed me, parents who clothed me, parents who made every means possible to educate me. I understand that I can’t be a reason for their embarrassment. I understand that I can’t have my parents’ head bow in shame in front of their “society” when they hear that their ‘supposedly intelligent’ daughter is not a science but an English literature student. I understand it all so well; what I don’t understand is why I understand it all so well? Why do I sometimes wish that I was sightseeing in London on July 7? Is it because my ‘supposed’ creativity lacks expression? Or is it mere angst giving birth to disturbing thoughts which my - oh so humble - brain later converts into words?
Do we leave impressions via our expressions or do we express our impressions?
You decide because my brain has made a decision to not decide. Yet again.
Ps: Ma, Daddy misses you. Next time, take a vacation together.
posted by R R at
3:21 PM
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