Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Bought the latest issue of National Geographic yesterday. The cover story, Love -- The Chemical Reaction, has plenty of food for thought. The online edition of the magazine gives only a gist of the story, so love specialists might have to buy a copy. But I shall quote the blurbs, which should suffice for the lay lover:
Love and obsessive-compulsive disorder have a similar chemical profile. Translation: Love and mental illness may be difficult to tell apart. Translation: Don't be a fool. Stay away.
Studies around the world confirm that passion usually ends. No wonder some cultures think selecting a lifelong mate based of something so fleeting is folly.
Novelty triggers dopamine in the brain, which stimulates feelings of attraction. So riding a roller coaster on a first date is more likely to lead to second and third dates.
If dopamine induces romance, according to the article, a hormone called oxytocin leads to long-term attachment. So if you are looking for a lasting relationship/happiness, you need plenty of oxytocin. And if you run out of it, there are ways to produce it. Here's how, according to anthropologist Helen Fisher: "Massage. Make love. These things trigger oxytocin and thus make you feel much closer to your partner."
My conclusion: if you seek a permanent place in your partner's heart, the route to take is through the genital. Give him/her good sex and the two of you will live happily for ever after.
Monday, January 23, 2006
Friday, January 20, 2006
a child tugged at my trouser
thinking I was the father
First nervous, then it smiled
I knelt, patted the cheek
and no longer it was meek
It explored my pocket
and played with my pen
with all its fingers ten
Then the mother yelled
"Sammy! Where are you?
Here I am looking for you!"
The child changed hands
angelic eyes fixed on me
as I sat there on my knee
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
The Ghost Catches Up, And Now It is Mine
I am cautioning you because this is a post I am writing solely for myself, just to express -- and overcome -- the joy that has gripped me for the past three days. And when you suffer from obsessive compulsive disorder, even the silliest of reasons can numb your senses with so much joy that you find yourself unable to write. Silly because it was as simple as finding a CD and a particular song in it; numb because of the song's anaesthetic effect. When I woke up from the numbness this evening, I realised this is my the most favourite song, surpassing everything else I have heard in my lifetime.
Flashback. 1981. A house in my neighbourhood displayed a poster for the film that would be running in the nearby theatre. Walking back from school, every Wednesday, we would notice the next-change. One of the posters I hazily remember. It showed Rekha holding a little lamb. The title of the film was Mangalsutra. For the next seven days we saw the same poster. The reviews were coming from classmates. I remember one of them saying, "Beta! Yeh daraavni picture hai (Boy, this is a horror film)!" A few weeks later, one of its songs came on Chitrahaar.
Chitrahaar, and not cricket, was the religion those days. Because there was no live cricket then, only highlights. And India was yet to win the World Cup. So Chitrahaar ruled. For the benefit of those who don't understand, I must explain what Chitrahaar is, or was (do they still show it?). It was an assortment of film songs shown on Doordarshan every Thursday evening. Homeworks were set aside during that half an hour, and the ultimate punishment for not studying was not to be allowed to watch Chitrahaar. On Holi they showed Holi songs, on Raksha Bandhan they showed bhai-behen songs, on Christmas they showed 'Christian' songs -- even a Christian wedding would do. One staple Christmas song was Sanjeev Kumar singing for his sweetheart on the occasion of the wedding of his Christian friend, "Manchahi ladki agar koi mil jaye, apna bhi iss saal shaadi ka iraada hai (If I find a girl of my liking, I also plan to get married this year)."
So one Thursday the Mangalsutra song came on. It was a suhaag-raat (first-night) song -- something obvious to even a 11-year-old then. Rekha was coyly romancing her new husband, the hero, who I did not like because he was not Amitabh Bachchan or Jeetendra or Dharmendra. He was a new face, who did not look like the traditional Hindi film hero. But there was something unusual about the song: the mukhdas were followed by a puchhh! -- the sound of the peck they planted on each other's cheeks. That was not the only reason why I registered the song: the tune was soft and catchy too. So Chand banoon main, raat bano tum was registered in my mental record book and left forgotten to gather dust. I never thought of the song again. Not even for once.
Twenty-five years later. 2006. I am on a Bhupinder trip. The beauty of Aawaz Di Hai Aak Ek Nazar Ne (Aitbaar) had made me discover the silkiness of his voice. In this song, Bhupinder, along with Asha Bhosle, casts a spell -- an expression misused so often that it has become a cliche. Aawaz Di Hai aroused the investigator in me and I began hunting for more of Bhupinder -- his rare stuff. In the process, I stumbled upon the dust-laden file in my mental record room. The Mangalsutra song came back in a flash, Chand banoon main aur raat bano tum.
I instantly google-searched. The song actually turned out to be Raat banoon main aur chaand bano tum (Let me be the night and you be the moon). Bhupinder and Asha Bhosle. Music: R.D. Burman. Lyrics: Nida Fazli. The hero, who I hadn't liked then, turned out to be Anant Nag, who I like now. But. Where do I find the song? Google didn't help here. It wasn't there on raaga.com, smashits.com or musicindiaonline.com. Google did throw a result which showed what looked like the cover of a LP record. The name of the record company I hadn't heard of: INRECO. And nowhere it seemed to say how I could get hold of it.
The more the song proved to be elusive, the more determined, rather obsessive, I got about listening to it. Last Sunday, I scanned Music World and Landmark for a VCD of Mangalsutra. No luck. I went to the music section of Landmark, looked for movies under the alphabet 'M'. No luck. Scanned every R.D. Burman and Bhupinder and Asha Bhosle. No luck. Fuck! I went through the compilations. Just in case. My eyes fell on a familiar CD cover. INRECO!
Who says perseverance does not pay off? But in this case, I think it was also the obsession. It had reached such heights that RD's ghost took pity on me and quietly placed the CD there before I began searching further.
Raat banoon main aur chand bano tum
Saturday, January 14, 2006
The Road To Literary Awareness
That way, my literary journey is that of rags to, well, not riches yet, but certainly middle-class. I grew up believing that Khushwant Singh is the greatest living writer. A collection of his writings was the first book I ever bought. To tell you the truth, the first books I ever bought were the improve-your-will power, improve-your-word power types. Mr K Singh came a little later.
But once I discovered him, I was gripped: a Sardarji who could laugh at himself, who wrote the way one talks, whose writing was so easy to understand. And so much masala in his stuff: the women with their breasts and bottoms, the sex, the gossip, the private side of the rich and the famous. The book, if I recall it right, was called Not A Nice Man To Know.
The second book I bought, courtesy a review I read in India Today, was Dom Moraes' Never At Home. It led me to his My Son's Father, which is perhaps the best of his prose. (I got the two books signed by him when came to Chennai shortly before his death). Suddenly Dom was my hero: nobody could be better than him. Then Naipaul came into my life, through An Area Of Darkness. I was quick enough to buy A Wounded Civilisation. Another hero added to my gallery. Shamelessly I discarded Khushwant Singh -- perhaps the only Indian writer who has more words written about him than he has himself churned out. Bit of an exaggeration that, but you know what I mean. His prose, as I rediscovered, was written with a mix of everyday Punjabi and Hindi, albeit in Roman letters. Fun to read, but nothing to imbibe if you are looking for the craft. And it was the craft I was looking for then, because I aspired to be a writer. And I also strongly believed that if books are to be bought, they should only be non-fiction. Fiction, according to me then, was false, where the writer was just taking you for a ride.
Ironically, it was Khushwant Singh who got me hooked into fiction. I read Train to Pakistan, and reread it. Then I happened to pick up Salman Rushdie's East, West. So far, I was in awe of writers, East, West made me jealous. My road to literary awareness had suddenly found a bylane. Graham Greene, George Orwell, Maugham... they all had put up stall on that lane.
Another bylane opened up after I read Hemingway's A Moveable Feast. And yet another with Salinger, who directed me to a big road in the company of Jack Kerouac. From there I branched off to travel-writing: Naipaul again, Dalrymple, Bill Bryson (how does he manage to write like that?!)...
That's how it all began. Today, there are plenty of lanes and bylanes still to be discovered, but I at least know where they are, and I have the choice whether to go there or not. What matters is I am finally on the road. Where the journey eventually takes me, I do not know yet.
P.S. If you are wondering why I wrote this, I will explain. Today is a holiday and this morning I was scanning my shelf to pick something I hadn't read in a while. That's when these thoughts came to my mind. And these days when stray thoughts come, I instinctively... well, you do that too, don't you?
Friday, January 13, 2006
A Sort Of Life
In the train I tried visualing my life in the city. Food was the easiest to visualise: images of idlis sprang up instantly. I tried visualing my would-be colleagues. Nothing concrete came to my mind: they ended up looking like the people who were travelling with me. When I thought about a house, I could only imagine a window opening to a coconut tree. When I visualised about sex, I could see Silk Smitha biting her lips and beckoning me.
Today, it is five years in Chennai. Five years in the office. Five years in this house. Lucky me. Five years is a long time for luck to sustain itself in one go, and time is approaching when luck will tell me: "Now you take over. I'll come back later." Sure Lady Luck, I will take care of myself when you go, but do come back soon. I cannot wait to have you back in my arms.
I cannot decide whose embrace has been more delightful: Chennai's or Lady Luck's. But in these five years, both have given me enough material to write my own version of Henry Miller's 'rosy crucifixion' trilogy, Sexus, Nexus and Plexus. 'Rosy crucifixion' was the death, at age 33, of one Henry Miller and the ressurection of another.
I can identify with him in the sense that the man who took the train five years ago died the moment it arrived in Chennai. All his friends died too: they are today mere 10-digit numbers in the mobile phone directory. The man who walked out of the station was a stranger to the world -- homeless, friendless -- and waiting for his canvas to be peopled. And then the people came. Some left. Some remained. Some more came. Some more coming.
I just shut my eyes to took a quick mental trip down those five years, looking for people who have mattered to me the most -- people who sustained me, shaped me, tolerated me. A strange coincidence: the names of most people whose faces shone in the dark alley begin with 'S'. I can't help listing them here, in the order of their appearance in my life.
S, the Solid. Friend from day one. Remains a friend and will continue to remain so. We call each other 'buffoon'.
S, the Master. Excels in the art of editing and the art of drinking. Spend too many evenings with him and you will need to learn the art of living.
S, the Rabbit. My support system for a long, long time. Went away suddenly one day, I don't know why. Never told me why. I feel sad.
S, the Virgin. Never said 'I love you', but loved each other in our own ways. A short but memorable relationship. Now happily married.
S, the Naughty. Taught me the art of kissing. She thought I did not know how to kiss. Maybe I did not.
S, the Boss. Grace, beauty and kindness personified. My confession box. My truest friend. Makes life obstacle-free.
S, the Goddess. Gave me many sleepless nights. A good friend now.
S, the Glam. Known each other for three years but seems thirty. Walks in and out of my life, but is never out of my thoughts. Not even for a moment.
S, the Obsession. My biggest weakness. Loves music. Loves books. Loves writing. Loves stationery. Loves pens. If only she loved me!
Thursday, January 12, 2006
But then, the human mind isn't a thing to be analysed in such a scientific manner. In fact, science does not even recognise the existence of the mind. But if you, for a moment, consider that mind was made up of matter, then, in that, case, a non-thinking mind would conform more to scientific analysis than a thinking mind. Come to think of it, a non-thinking mind is nothing but matter. Like a vegetable.
A woman, while in college, falls madly in love with a classmate. She is so obsessed with him that she pierces a needle into her wrist and writes his name in her blood. The very thought of his absence makes her lose her apetite, and his presence makes her want to jump up and touch the stars. Then one day her father discovers the affair. One scolding and two slaps from him and she returns to her senses. She tearily marries the man of her father's choice but once she is married, she lives happily ever after. The boyfriend becomes an 'ex-lover', someone to be avoided like plague. In other words, the obsession destroyed itself before destroying the girl's 'future' -- something science and the society would agree upon.
Now take the case of a woman who is capable of thinking and whose father is in total contrast to the evil dads you see in Bollywood movies. Since this woman has a mind that thinks, she manages to juggle effectively between her studies and her love. And then one day, the love leaves her. And since she has a mind that thinks, she does not take the extreme step of plunging a needle into her veins and writing his name in her blood, but her obsession is no less. In fact it is worse, though it escapes the attention of the society and also her father: she lights up the remnants of the cigarettes stubbed out by him and smokes them just to get the 'feel' of him, she pulls the T-shirt left behind by him over her breasts again and again just to get the 'feel' of him, she makes it a point to read the books he read, she makes it a point to remember the lines he mouthed, she clings to the lyrics of the songs he liked.
The next indicator of the obsession is her wanting to hear bad things about the lover. If you tell her, "Oh, that fellow! He is a sunnovabitch. A cruel bastard," she will immediately agree: "Yes, yes, that is why he is out of my life." But don't believe her. She, in effect, means: "He is still not out of my life, even though I have made peace with his absence." In any case, Freud has said that the more you express your hatred for someone, it only means you want his or her attention.
At the end of the day, such a woman is left with a lasting sense of longing. Nothing can ever compensate for the absence of the man she had wanted to possess but could not. I do not know why I wrote this. Maybe I know. Maybe she knows too.
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
A Piece Of The Moon
Sunday, January 08, 2006
Old Thoughts, New Process
Newspapers and magazines, when they don a new look, are obliged to explain to their readers why they are doing so. They just can't change their looks on whim. The eye of the reader, after all, is used to a certain format, which is the identity of the paper. The blog, however, is not and can never be a newspaper. For the sole reason that a blogger is not accountable or answerable to his audience. The readers can either take him or leave him.
But as a newspaperman I feel I should explain the new look. Had I been a software guy, I would have created a dream template. But I had no option but to choose from the dozen or so templates that are offered by Blogger. There were two problems here: one, the neighbour's template always looked better than mine; and two, I felt as if I was being forced to alter my thought process as per the requirements of the template.
The template you see now is called Minimalist. To me it means freedom -- less of me and my template, and more of my thoughts. And this freedom is only possible because of friends who suggested this template, friends who worked on it. My ignorance about codes only made me impatient with them while they worked, miles and miles away from me. I lost my cool, they lost their temper in return. To them: a big thank you and and a bigger sorry.
So welcome to my new-look blog. The Thought Process remains the same. Only that it has acquired more elbow space. Keep returning, then, for more on women, love, sex, Pancham and everything that touches your life and mine.
Saturday, January 07, 2006
An Inheritance Of Shambles
USP: Party with a difference
Builder’s name: Lal Krishna Advani
Vote-catcher: Atal Behari Vajpayee
Spokesmen: Krishan Lal Sharma, K R Malkani
Muslim face: Sikandar Bakht
Highly respected leaders: Sundar Singh Bhandari, Kushabhau Thakre
Firebrand leaders: Kalyan Singh, Uma Bharati
Ideologue-in-chief: K N Govindacharya
Agenda No. 1: Construction of Ram temple at Ayodhya
Aim: To come to power.
That was 1995. Now let’s look at the party’s bio-data in 2005, in a laterally inverted form... Full story.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Burying The Bitch
a pair of shiny eyes
lost, looking lost
I brought it home
For two years
she shared the flat
1 o' clock lunch, 7 o' clock reunion
she shared my burdens
as we tried reading
each other's eyes
the bitch died
I buried her silently
now I am angry, without solace:
why did I get her home
in the first place?
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
That way, life isn't bad. But today, January 4, is a bad day: in Hindi you would call it manhoos (inauspicious). Exactly 12 years ago, we got the news that RD, or Pancham, is dead. But every fan will tell you that he is still alive. In fact he is getting more alive every passing year. In that sense, this is a day to celebrate. And I am going to celebrate by taking break from work and running across the road to Musicworld to buy a couple of his albums. I know I wouldn't find a dream album, but I can at least dream up an album which has the best ten love songs composed ever by R.D. Burman. Best, according to me. Love, because that's me.
Here goes the list (listen to them sometime guys, you won't regret it):
1. Hum Tum Hum Do Raahi (Yeh To Kamaal Ho Gaya). It's a Kamal Hassan movie released in 1981. S P Balasubrahmanyan has weaved magic.
2. Jeene Ko To Jeete Hain Sabhi (Yeh Vaada Raha).
3. Mausam Pyaar Ka (Sitamgar).
4. Tu Mera Kya Laage (Oonche Log).
5. Aapki Aankhon Mein Kuchh (Ghar).
6. Roz Roz Aankhon Taley (Jeeva).
7. Ek Hi Khwaab (Kinaara).
8. Raat Banoon Main (Mangalsutra). Amazing song. Not popular, but a gem. Bhupinder and Asha.
9. Poochho Na Yaar Kya Hua (Zamaane Ko Dikhana Hai).
10. Jalpari (Saagar). The background music that plays when Rishi Kapoor, from behind the bushes, watches Dimple bathing. Must listen.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
Throw The Publishers Into The Bin
Write a reasonably decent passage or a poem and show it to a friend and ask: "Do you think this is good enough to get published?" The reply is likely to be: "Nicely written and all, but you see..." If the friend likes to be blunt, the reply could be: "You call this a poem?!"
Now steal a passage from, say Henry Miller or Salinger, and show it to the same friend, saying you have written it. "Do you think this is good enough to get published?" The replies are likely to be more or less the same.
Now take another of your own pieces and show it to the same friend, saying: "Look, how beautifully Henry Miller writes! This passage is so awesome that I jotted it down, here..." The friend is likely to say: "Brilliant. Really awesome. If you write like this you will have publishers queueing up."
Today, my suspicion was confirmed after I saw the latest issue of London's Sunday Times, whose top story screamed: "Reject! Booker winners get tossed in the slush pile."
The paper recently sent out the opening chapter of V.S. Naipaul's 1971 Booker-winning In A Free State to 20 agents and publishers. Only the name of the author and the names of the principle characters were changed in the 'manuscript'.
But it only got rejection slips.
One agency apologised saying: "In order to take on a new author, several of us here would need to be extremely enthusiastic about both the content and writing style. I'm sorry to say we don't feel strongly about your work." The other replies were on the same lines.
Rejection slips poured in similarly for Stanley Middleton's Booker-winner Holiday, whose opening chapter was also submitted by the newspaper to the same set of publishers and agents.
To me, the scoop is of far more importance than the petty sting operations carried out by our TV channels from time to time. The channels only show men taking a few thousands rupees in bribe, which is commonplace in India. They never go for the big fish.
But when a book that has won the Booker gets rejected by publishers, what message do we get? That the publishers go only for big names even if they churn out trash? And that talented writers get trashed even if they turn out something that matches the calibre of a Booker winner?
If the judgment of seasoned publishers can be clouded, can you blame your literarily-illiterate (if there exists such a term) friend for finding your piece unworthy of publication?
But there is a ray of hope emerging from all this. Publishers in India are now going to be pretty careful, in case a newspaper or TV channel tries to pull off the same stunt here. In their eagerness to be fair and objective, they might even end up considering manuscripts that are average. So guys, I am going to try my luck.
I thought hard, and the answer turned out to be 'no'. The senior Burman has, in Pyaasa at least, but not RD. Then I thought harder and the answer came like a flash, as if in reward for thinking so hard. There was a movie made in the 70's called Aa Gale Lag Jaa, starring Shashi Kapoor, Sharmila Tagore and Shatrughan Singha. Music: R.D. Burman. Lyrics: Sahir Ludhianvi. I, like many others of my generation, had seen the film only on Doordarshan: we had missed watching it in the theatres by 15 years.
No one but Sahir could have written the lyrics for a movie like this: the story of a skater who falls in love with a rich man's daughter. It's while skating they sing the famous Kishore-Lata song Waada karo nahin chhodogi tum mera saath (promise that you won't leave me ever). Then circumstances make them make love and they end up have a child. The rich man takes his daughter away, and Shashi Kapoor is left to tend to the child, who turns out to be lame. He is bitter about losing his love, but nevertheless is content seeing her in the child.
As the child grows up, Shashi Kapoor, in Kishore's voice, sings a heart-wrenching song for his disabled son, Ae mere bete, sun mere kehna, chahe dukh hoe, hanste hi rehna (O my son, listen to me, smile ever in sorrow). The film has another popular song, Tera mujhse hai pehle ka naata koi (I think we have an old bond). Only Sahir could have written these songs, the importance of which I did not realise during the Doordarshan days. But today I sat thinking, replaying these songs in my mind, and also the songs of Kabhie Kabhie, yet another testimony to Sahir's genius.
I was wondering how to translate such intensity into words when someone, suddenly, made it easy for me. As I sat staring at the blank page, wondering what to write, a message arrived -- a comment for one of my posts. The commentator turned out to be a fellow blogger. I clicked on his (I presume the gender to be 'his' because the blog profile does not specify anything) ID. His post -- his first and the only so far -- jolted me out of the mattress. I suddenly saw a modern-day version of Sahir -- the Sahir of Aa Gale Lag Jaa combined with the Sahir of Kabhie Kabhie. If you think I am being over-enthusiastic in my reaction, why don't you judge the post for yourself? Here it is.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
Old Confessions, New Resolutions
Eclairs can be addictive: you have one and you would want to have another. And another. Bad for your teeth, but good for your innocence, or whatever little of it is left inside you. So I went out looking for the engineer. Fortunately, he was there on the corridor. I extracted two more toffees and went to the balcony. Sparklers were lighting up the sky. Bikes could be heard zipping past. More crackers.
I got back home stark sober. The last time I had spent the New Year-eve in office was 11 years ago: a freshly-minted sub-editor dutifully doing his night-shift. Since then the coin went place to place, and I can barely recall a New Year morning when I could remember how I got home the previous night. But this year I was at work out of choice: I did not feel like celebrating. There was nothing compelling for me to put on the mandatory black and hit the dancing floor. At 25, you just need an excuse to drink and dance, but at 35, you need a reason. And the demise of 2005 was certainly not a reason to celebrate. What was wrong with the year that it had to go?
But go it must. And -- like Rajneesh said in one of his discourses, which I happened to read this morning -- one must never cling to the old. Just let it go. But the problem is with memories: they, unlike the years and the people, refuse to go away. And I am carrying a bagful of memories of 2005 into 2006.
For me, 2005 was a year of obsessions. Obsession with yoga, to begin with. The sun would be well past its noon position but I would still begin my day with 12 rounds of sun salutation, or surya namaskar. Google-search yoga poses: just to marvel at the ease with which they do it. Buy yoga books: again to marvel at the achievement of those poses. Today, apart from the lives of Kishore Kumar and R.D. Burman, yoga is another subject I can write on without the aid of any reference material. How much of a yogi that makes me, I do not know. Practice might make one perfect, but man is never perfect enough to practise what he preaches.
2005 also, miraculously, pushed some of the most beautiful minds to my doorstep. I say minds because because I have only seen their minds: they have refused to let me see anything else. But who cares, the minds are beautiful enough to make me want them to be beside me when I watch the sun of 2035 set. I don't think any of that will happen, but they have certainly shaped the course of my journey from here till 2035. When I will look back at them, I will look back with a deep sense of gratitude that one reserves for mysterious benefactors; and also with a sense of loss, because I would have wanted them to come along. That sense of loss would be similar to the one you experience when the pet dog or cat dies. Dogs and cats are not humans, so their deaths do not qualify for the wails and the chest-beating reserved for the demise of a human being. The owner of a pet must grieve silently, or else the world will think he is out of his mind.
Any journey must have a starting point. And the journey of a human being, since he is capable of thinking, has many starting points. At any given point, he has the choice of abandoning his old starting point and choose a new one. Victory is in sticking to a course for as long as possible. I have made resolutions in the past -- some were silently made, some were written down, but none adhered to, for the simple reason that I was never accountable to anyone. But today when I jot down my resolutions, I am committing myself to Blogdom and its inhabitants. The inhabitants need not care what resolutions I make or whether I am sticking to them, and ideally, they should not care. But when something goes 'online', which is today's parlance is the equivalent of getting published, you are bound to be a little more careful about sticking to what you have said.
2005 was also the year when I bought more books than in any single year. Forty-six, to be precise. One of them was magician David Blaine's autobiography, Mysterious Stranger. A lot of people might dismiss Blaine as a man who does crazy things -- such as standing on a 90-feet pillar for 36 hours or getting self-imprisoned in an elevated glass cage for weeks -- for the sake of publicity. But I genuinely think the man is only seeking to prove what our yogis have proved centuries ago: the human mind is more powerful than anything else. And Blaine doesn't invent quotes like our New Age gurus: his book is peppered with the time-tested ones. Two of them which gripped my imagination:
"I submit to you that if a man hasn't discovered something he would die for, he isn't fit to live. -- Martin Luther King Jr.
"When a man sits with a pretty girl for an hour, it seems like a minute. But let him sit on a hot stove for a minute -- and it's longer than an hour. That's relativity." -- Albert Einstein.
At the end of the book, Blaine's give his Dream Manifesto. And that would be my resolution for 2006:
- Never overindulge.
- Have few extravagances.
- Resist addictions.
- Respect all life.
- Remember that a mistake is a mistake only when you fail to learn from it.
- Accumulate knowledge. Listen. Read. Observe.
- Visit the ocean.
- Try to interact with all different types of people from all walks of life.
- Wonder and be amazed.
- Love and respect those close to you.
- Learn to love yourself.
- Pursue your dreams and goals with passion. Our potential to create is limitless.