there is a lot of talk about the kinds of love which pass through our lives-the first love, the real love, the soulmate love and many more kinds of beautiful loves. Today i want to add to this list another slightly less glamorous love. When we come into this world, our parents are thrilled beyond belief, but the people who give us love with abandon, without restrain, without questioning us are the people who brought our parents into this world. To turn our back on their love is denying ourselves a source of comfort. There is the grand gesture and then there is the grand love. Today lets love them.
No electricity for the last 7 hours and no hope for a quick fix. As I try to entertain myself by figuring out what creativity is, I find I have to be extremely creative to keep my mind alert and on the subject. Though sitting in the dark is one of the greatest sources of inspiration-when the body cannot distract the mind by being active, mental power is sharpened with its steel edge rapidly cutting through one idea after the other. The words inspiration, creativity, passion, are words which when pronounced should shout out their meaning loud and clear. They are not timid words, not words to be droned, not words which can be used to hide behind. So when I hear people talking about artistic freedom, creative thought, and inspiration with a voice which is betraying their dishonesty, I wonder who they are fooling.
Can creativity, ingenuity, imagination, originality be applied scientifically like a theory? Can they be broken down into little pieces, explored, understood, and then once put together be the property of any and every random individual? Can we be anything less than vehemently passionate when it involves all our seductive senses? It is a battle to continuously fight rebel forces trying to structure us, harness our creativity and neatly place us in a box-where we must exist churning out work of brilliance, logging hours to prove our effectiveness.
To these people of little imagination, I say stick to your side of the turf and don’t intrude into areas of which you know nothing of. Talk to us, don’t talk at us. For our erratic work patterns, don’t appear smugly superior. Pick our brains, but not our mind. Get inspired by us, feed off our zsa zsa zu, but don’t drain it out of us. If you can’t add to our positive karma, don’t mix into our vibeology. One minute of the right company can rejuvenate us, give us a heady rush of ideas, and one second of the wrong company can turn us off so completely that to recover would mean lots of damage control.
If you expect us to be brilliant, keep your inanity inside, don’t let us see it, don’t speak and don’t for god’s sake try to preach to us about the ‘structure of creativity’ the ‘theory of imagination’ the ‘scientific breakdown of inspiration’ We cannot be labelled so don’t call us names invented by your own limited minds. One word cannot begin to describe us. One feeling would leave us gasping for air, suffocating. One idea at a time would be confining us to an average life. We must be a 1000 feeling words simultaneously, we must soar free without restrain in our imaginary world so that when we come down to earth we are liberated, inspired, stimulated, enticed, titillated even. We have to nurture our soul, feed it for long hours, and only then does our mind act, react. Our hearts are our nerve centre-what we do must come from there, or not at all.
I remember one rainy day a couple of years ago where it rained so hard with such majestic beauty that whatever we did seemed not to do justice to the rain. The rain flooded roads, floated cars, stranded people, but karachiites came out in hordes to drive through the canals with windows down, music blaring, all set to enjoy the festivities. It was the perfect day for reading a great book-one of those feel-good-all-is-amazing-in-the-world type of a book. I ran out of work, spent an hour getting home where I got a brilliant surprise. The newly released Harry Potter: The order of the phoenix. A friend had bought it for me and dropped it off. I spent the entire afternoon, evening, night, listening to the rain and reading my precious new book. The happiness it gave me is not explainable-it was sheer joy.
It is raining again today not with the same power but definitely the same yearning for the perfect book to curl up with in a chair with a hot mug of tea and a blanket.
Eeading ‘The Maltese Falcon’
Listening to ‘Here with me’ by Dido.
I had a few hours of heightened awareness.
I could have danced all night.
I was the most stimulated creative individual there could be.
I would have been the girl with the huge grin – If I had let myself.
I could have conquered the world with a look.
I knew I had the extra zsa zsa zu.
I could have used my zsa zsa zu and brought someone to their knees.
I could hear the zingggg of the inspiration in my head.
I absolutely floated.