Bridging the Gap

Here is my new Blog which is a part of my Media Monitoring Exercise on my Journalism Course. Please do give it a read.

Here, this could be another debate about who and what a Journalist is or what he or she does. While majority of you might say that Writing defines us, Felix Salmon would disagree and so would I. Felix Salmon is out there Teaching Journalists How To Read in his blog and he is doing it for all the right reasons. 

At a breakfast by The Audit, Felix Salmon shares his ideas of what the old media is missing and what the trendy blogosphere is doing right. Even though he said this roughly about 5 years ago, his thought is still equally (if not more) relevant to this day. He is right when he says that everybody now is a publisher. Journalism is no more a journalist with a Press Pass, but a conversation.

According to Dean Starkman and his description of ‘Hamster wheel’ of contemporary journalism, new age journalism amounts…

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Letter to the Best Friend

My Best friend and I are changing cities. She’s moving to Mumbai for a Degree in Fashion Communication. While I am moving to London, a continent away. This is just me pouring my heart. Its really sloppy, but hey cut me some slack. I am grieving with the move and all. So ignore this if heartfelt ode to a best friend isn’t your cup of tea.

Dear Best Friend,

So its understandable that life’s too short and there are too many people to meet. But, I am grateful to have met you. Its been short, our ride, 2 years of knowing someone has never been this insightful. It is amazing how comfortable we make each other and we can be at our worst when together. I can say a lot of nice things about you to you and make this all about the good times but no, I am going to do what I do best. Take the moment away.

I am sorry for all the times in life that you felt less because of me. I am sorry when you had to go through shit, which you otherwise wouldn’t have had to if I wasn’t in the picture. I am also sorry that I say awful things to you. I am always the one who yells at you, who picks fights, who drags you into mirror mazes when you absolutely hate them, pull you to social scenes where you feel awkward and shut up for eternity. I am sorry for all of this and more.

The truth is- between us- I am the talker and you are the listener. I am not all that good a talker but you are the best listener I have ever met. You listen to me. You take my advices you execute them and you imply them. Do you know how much that means to me? Its my everything. You, you make me feel important. You make me feel like I am something. You give a crap about me.

A lot of people mock us about the fact that you click me way too many pictures, which you do and I force you to. A picture to the world is when I post it on Facebook and we have a photography page that we haven’t really worked on. But the thing is that Pictures are our thing. Its not just the end result, its the process. All that planning, even on a train, all the clothes, all the logistics, the posing, the ‘be natural’ ‘don’t make that face’ ‘you want to jump?’ ‘Twirl around’ and then the picture selection, deleting 400 pictures and then me lecturing you about pictures like I know jackshit and then the final picture which you always think isn’t good enough. Its not just the picture, its us, how we actually do it. No one understands it like we do. I like helping you out with your passion, its so real. Obviously I am selfish, but I do it for you (and the 500 Facebook likes). You are good at it, you are going to be better with time. And then someday we’ll click pictures at each other’s wedding. However, at your wedding we’ll hire a photographer or I will focus on the wrong thing all over again.

I wish we could talk through our exam nights, but I do not want to jeopardise NIFT exams for you. I am actually very happy for you. We need to be out there you know? You’ll do really well. I have always told you make wrong decisions right? Let me tell you you are strong. Take all my advices, visualise them, take them in and just hell with them anyway. Because you are perfect and I believe in you. I believe in you like I am your family, like only I do. I believe in your talent and in your soul. Go get NYFA. Through it all remember me. Also remember to call me up because I might forget (Smile bitch). You make a nice Pillow and you are the world’s best driver. Remember the things I told you. The things I prepared you for because I am Mumma from day 1. 

The problem with going away is, the fear of the unknown. We’ve been attached to the hip through these 2 years. And then suddenly that won’t be the case. All over ‘outgoingness’ will come down to FaceTime (see the Mac joke). And I am just scared. I will miss you, dude. I always make jokes about going away and missing you and everything but god dammit it hurts. It’s going to be difficult with out you like only 11 kms away. The truth is, you’ve always been nice to me. Very nice in fact. And I’ve only been funny. I am sorry I took moments away because I hell need some right now. I should’ve always told you how much you mean to me instead of cracking a stupid joke. I hope you know that I am telling you now. 

You mean World to me. If there is a friends forever, I want to make it with you 🙂

Are you crying? Awh. Check under your bed. I hid a huge fluffy nothing! 

I love you and I will always remember you and I will miss you. I will see you ever year and we’ll continue being us in different continents. We’ll be fine, babe.

Yours,

Forever.

Inconsistency

Let’s celebrate the fact that my blog is now a year old. And I haven’t written since the last few days (okay, months.) I started this blog hoping I would create something vividly interesting, be someone’s reason to look forward to life, but alas, here I am, a giant writer’s block posting popular, deep and irrelevant poems just to keep the followers going.

The truth is that, I am Inconsistent. Inconsistent with reality, inconsistent with people, inconsistent with the pace of time; basically just lost. On some days, I am Julie Andrews from Sound of Music and then most days I am just Jack’s inflamed sense of rejection. It’s a feeling of impending doom that just won’t subside. You wake up every day hoping to achieve certain standards and then its 3 a.m. when you are blatantly staring at the wall. There’s this spirit in me that wants to do something but I lack the motivation to act on it. There’s this idea but I lack the resources to execute it. There’s this plan but I just don’t show up.

Inconsistency lies in the fact that I want to but I don’t. There’s no reason, there’s no trigger and there’s no way out. And it absolutely bums me out to have this sense of delusion with no rationale. I cannot call it depression or boredom or unhappiness or misery or dejection. But I feel depressed, bored, unhappy, miserable and dejected. Adjectives but no nouns. What is more inconsistent than the fact that I cannot explain it? I am caught in this circle of life where all I can do is wait. My life is supposed to change drastically but there no reaction-time. For good or for worse my life is supposed to change. Either way, the valence is all negative. And I stand to lose in every situation. Every time I play it in my head, it is inconsistent.

And if it sounds like my life is a mess, it isn’t. My life is practically perfect at the given moment. This makes it worse, because I am inconsistent with its perfection. What do I do if I stand to lose no matter what I do? Am I a bad person if I choose to escape? I am all over the place, confusing you like this. But you will understand me if you know what it feels like not to be good enough, to die ordinary, to be afraid of the unknown, to run out of patience, to wait for something you desperately want.

That echoed. Either you are inconsistent with my writing or you are inconsistent like me. And I hope it is the former.

Stillborn by Sylvia Plath

These poems do not live: it's a sad diagnosis.
They grew their toes and fingers well enough,
Their little foreheads bulged with concentration.
If they missed out on walking about like people
It wasn't for any lack of mother-love.

O I cannot explain what happened to them!
They are proper in shape and number and every part.
They sit so nicely in the pickling fluid!
They smile and smile and smile at me.
And still the lungs won't fill and the heart won't start.

They are not pigs, they are not even fish,
Though they have a piggy and a fishy air --
It would be better if they were alive, and that's what they were.
But they are dead, and their mother near dead with distraction,
And they stupidly stare and do not speak of her.

-Sylvia Plath

The More Loving One

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.

-W.H. Auden

Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven by W.B. Yeats

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,   
Enwrought with golden and silver light,   
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths   
Of night and light and the half light,   
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;   
I have spread my dreams under your feet;   
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.