I’m sitting on a private terrace at the Neemrana Fort-Palace (fancy sounding, eh?) overlooking an amphitheater filled with a movie crew shooting one of them dance scenes Bollywood is known for except that this is actually some music video and not a Bollywood movie. I’ve heard the opening few lines to this song at least a million and a half times since this morning. This is a hell of a lot of work for one cheesy dance scene.
I just got done with a spa treatment where they gave me a facial, which was nice, a full body massage, which was awkward, and the warm oil dripping on the forehead thing, which smelled like salad dressing. The funny thing is that even as I was in the middle of my treatment I was thinking to myself, “Later I’m going to write about this, I’m going to misquote myself, and I’m going to firmly set the record wrong in my own head once I put it all down into words.” And now I’ve gone and done it. Funny how that works. The simplification of thought into language reforms the thought to fit that language. I can read a book and be unable to decide whether I liked it or not, and then it’s ultimately the words I choose when telling other people about it that make the choice about how I feel about it in the end. Ok, not relevant, I know.
Now I suppose it’s time for me to complain about the sorrows of writing by hand. On second thought, maybe I’ll just go paint a picture instead.
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