Michael: - What is your name?Hana: - What???
Michael: - What's your name?
Hana: - Why do you want to know?
Michael: - I’ve been here three times........??
For quite some time, this film “The Reader” has been engaging me into a prolonged relationship. Before I say anything about the film, I would stop for a while and look at above-mentioned dialogues that are exchanged between two lovers who are total strangers to each other. To be precise, it is the beginning of sexual affair between the two. They happen to meet accidentally and get involved. The very first face-off happens with the breach of secrecy and subsequently, this breach gets prolonged. As they settle into this breach (by then, which doesn't remain a breach any more), they come to discover the relevance of questions which are formal and only introductory. In this case, the formal question is an indicator of lack of real question because they're looking for another context of breach of secrecy. This film is a quest for another breach which takes away their entire lives. To be simpler, it was a story of an affair getting translated into a spiritual pain for entire life. Watching this film was quite an experience catalytic enough to remind me of the unhappiness unveiled but uncoded inside me. I lost my nerves and cried like a baby. I almost laughed at myself, pitied myself and hit myself.
The sense of being a partial entity is a permanent mischief against me being played by a force unknown. Whatever and however I try to achieve a sense of completeness, I fail to embrace the other as mine. I have heard that there is lot of love and friendship. I don't deny that these two gifts of life have not happened to me. The more they have happened, the more they have heightened the sense of my incompleteness. As Love happens to me, I feel the need to assimilate it but I cannot. It comes like a breeze, touches, enlivens and transforms me into permanent waiting being. The brilliance of this magic remains for some moments and then leaves me in the lurch. I have been enjoying a magnificent gift of friends and lovers. They have turned into the stars of my galaxy punctuated by darkness all around. I can see the star but I cannot see the path. Hope is there but the danger is ever more. The moment I start treading the track, the problems of path overpower my vision and trap me into a state of near blindness. When I was young, the sheer romance of relationships was a big force that pushed me into lots of experimentation but I'm not young any more. The calculative mind of maturity has given me the capacity to identify too many holes. I hate that so much that I can't avoid it. They can take a hell out of my potential and I find myself helpless.
After putting the first article of this series on my blog, some friends responded. As it was expected, everybody responded differently. Some were concerned, some were appreciative and some were finding it interesting but one response from an old friend was noteworthy. Her response was full of concern on one side and full of rebuke on the other side. She is a special kind of person to me. In terms of one definition about her is that she is a power woman. She's a hard nut to crack. Whenever she calls, she's harsh to the extent of even insulting. She doesn't listen rather she only orders. Her arguments are very essentialist in nature and she doesn't care about any democratic spirit. But in terms of the other definition about her, she is an extremely caring young mother. She will understand what you're thinking without you even uttering a word. She will plan every possible detail of human comfort for you. Her eyes, her lips and her deep voice will take care of all the human needs you can imagine even. Between these two definitions, she has always switched back and forth so many times and at such a fast pace that it become so difficult to recognise which definition of hers is the true one. To be precise, I would have expected her to read my words and stay silent but I knew that would have been really difficult for her.
The fact of matter is that I'm only reporting from the innermost platform of my being. This world of communication is operating on the principle of one-way affair. I know that I'm being heard but I am not asking questions and I'm not interested in raising debates. I assume myself like millions of YouTube videos which are simply there. They may be controversial but not a big number of people have seen them in order to make a public nuisance out of it. To define it in a professional manner, I would call myself as a private reporter hired by my own self to collect the images of my being and communicate it to the world outside. I'm ready to fund this reporter for all the years to come because I feel this kind of journalism is seriously missing. I know Orkut, Facebook, Twitter and MySpace but they cannot be more than the headlines of what I am, what I am going through and what I'm expecting tomorrow. I believe in telling a story not just in detail but I also believing telling it again and again. That's why I have to be non-commercial and non-popular person. I have to be in a serious minority to the extent of being alone. Perhaps, that's what we are.
I'm only standing for a totally forgotten stream of journalism that may be called self-reporting. It can be equated with busting secrecy. The hidden is so safely protected that it doesn't like the idea of being reported. What to talk of liking, it feels threatened from the reporter. It stands to lose the privileges that have come along with the status of being hidden. It may be religious, it may be sublime, it may be tempting or it may be hegemonic. The moment reporting begins, the status starts evaporating and along with it, also evaporates the paraphernalia of a status. That is why reporting can be a risky activity. I have chosen to ignore all the others because I cannot proclaim to know anything about them but I can definitely try the same about myself. Self reporting can be dangerous to me but I think that the moment first trace of secrecy is reported, I find that below there, the second trace of secrecy lies hidden. The latter becomes more important over the prior thusby supporting my task. It also complicates my task too. The real intention is reporting in detail which means busting secrecy bit by bit, piece by piece. The beauty of project is that I want to bust secrecy but it gets reincarnated after every successful operation. When I say I am unhappy, I have an unending urgency to decode this unhappiness. The moment I understand it, I find it an inadequate answer. I have to understand; so I have to restart.
The sense of being a partial entity is a permanent mischief against me being played by a force unknown. Whatever and however I try to achieve a sense of completeness, I fail to embrace the other as mine. I have heard that there is lot of love and friendship. I don't deny that these two gifts of life have not happened to me. The more they have happened, the more they have heightened the sense of my incompleteness. As Love happens to me, I feel the need to assimilate it but I cannot. It comes like a breeze, touches, enlivens and transforms me into permanent waiting being. The brilliance of this magic remains for some moments and then leaves me in the lurch. I have been enjoying a magnificent gift of friends and lovers. They have turned into the stars of my galaxy punctuated by darkness all around. I can see the star but I cannot see the path. Hope is there but the danger is ever more. The moment I start treading the track, the problems of path overpower my vision and trap me into a state of near blindness. When I was young, the sheer romance of relationships was a big force that pushed me into lots of experimentation but I'm not young any more. The calculative mind of maturity has given me the capacity to identify too many holes. I hate that so much that I can't avoid it. They can take a hell out of my potential and I find myself helpless.
After putting the first article of this series on my blog, some friends responded. As it was expected, everybody responded differently. Some were concerned, some were appreciative and some were finding it interesting but one response from an old friend was noteworthy. Her response was full of concern on one side and full of rebuke on the other side. She is a special kind of person to me. In terms of one definition about her is that she is a power woman. She's a hard nut to crack. Whenever she calls, she's harsh to the extent of even insulting. She doesn't listen rather she only orders. Her arguments are very essentialist in nature and she doesn't care about any democratic spirit. But in terms of the other definition about her, she is an extremely caring young mother. She will understand what you're thinking without you even uttering a word. She will plan every possible detail of human comfort for you. Her eyes, her lips and her deep voice will take care of all the human needs you can imagine even. Between these two definitions, she has always switched back and forth so many times and at such a fast pace that it become so difficult to recognise which definition of hers is the true one. To be precise, I would have expected her to read my words and stay silent but I knew that would have been really difficult for her.
The fact of matter is that I'm only reporting from the innermost platform of my being. This world of communication is operating on the principle of one-way affair. I know that I'm being heard but I am not asking questions and I'm not interested in raising debates. I assume myself like millions of YouTube videos which are simply there. They may be controversial but not a big number of people have seen them in order to make a public nuisance out of it. To define it in a professional manner, I would call myself as a private reporter hired by my own self to collect the images of my being and communicate it to the world outside. I'm ready to fund this reporter for all the years to come because I feel this kind of journalism is seriously missing. I know Orkut, Facebook, Twitter and MySpace but they cannot be more than the headlines of what I am, what I am going through and what I'm expecting tomorrow. I believe in telling a story not just in detail but I also believing telling it again and again. That's why I have to be non-commercial and non-popular person. I have to be in a serious minority to the extent of being alone. Perhaps, that's what we are.
I'm only standing for a totally forgotten stream of journalism that may be called self-reporting. It can be equated with busting secrecy. The hidden is so safely protected that it doesn't like the idea of being reported. What to talk of liking, it feels threatened from the reporter. It stands to lose the privileges that have come along with the status of being hidden. It may be religious, it may be sublime, it may be tempting or it may be hegemonic. The moment reporting begins, the status starts evaporating and along with it, also evaporates the paraphernalia of a status. That is why reporting can be a risky activity. I have chosen to ignore all the others because I cannot proclaim to know anything about them but I can definitely try the same about myself. Self reporting can be dangerous to me but I think that the moment first trace of secrecy is reported, I find that below there, the second trace of secrecy lies hidden. The latter becomes more important over the prior thusby supporting my task. It also complicates my task too. The real intention is reporting in detail which means busting secrecy bit by bit, piece by piece. The beauty of project is that I want to bust secrecy but it gets reincarnated after every successful operation. When I say I am unhappy, I have an unending urgency to decode this unhappiness. The moment I understand it, I find it an inadequate answer. I have to understand; so I have to restart.
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