Crap. Haven't written for ages. I expect you to be as pissed off with me as I am with my self. (Expect is the operational word.) But then again, I haven't been doing a lot of things I'm actually meant to be doing. Reading, watching flicks, thinking of a book and all.
The new work has drifted me to a new place. Swanky of course.
My writing has somehow suffered on my dear bloggie woggie because too many people know who I am. Sometimes I've sold my bloody worth to people and told them this link, and then of course, there's this clique that just knows.
It's not a bad thing but I seem to have grown bloody conscious while writing -- and I'm afraid this betrays the first good reason of keeping a blog -- to write.
There's been a bit of disassociation after coming back from Hyderabad. I was there in the city to report for 2 weeks (which basically meant that it was an exercise to ruin happiness in a vantage space of happiness.) And since I've returned, futility embraces me.
Won't get into details. Who wants to listen to a good crib?
Well then, so i think I'll keep this bloggie woggie of mine. Enough for the reason to keep spilling words, the usual ones and the unusual ones, and keep you distantly at it.
Now I know that I've covered a good aspect of how 'professional' (which also means that i have no life) my life has been -- I did get to see one film that you'd (if you'd) like to know that I came across:
Jim Sherdian's In The Name of The Father (1993). If you don't go very legal on this movie, and skip a few factual errors, the way this movie is brought about is brilliant. It's a true story of the Guildford Four. Remarkable in it's staunch Irish lip work, and brutally jolting in its shot sequences -- the plot pulling together an anti-authoritarian setup.
At this moment I'm unsympathetic, cold and cynical.