Clouds race into dark night's oblivion behind me. Overhead, they are wisps of fluff breaking off a huge mass ahead of me, a formless entity that threatens to bring storm and rain, even fire and brimstone.
She brushes her long, long, black hair at the window, looking into a mirror that I can't see placed right next to it. Her white nightgown covers her modestly, but in the street lamp's glow filling the window behind her, the shape of her naked body beneath the cotton is all too evident. I find the stirring in my loins has taken a holiday. Even the young, impudent, pert breast that is outlined in the strange play of light and shade as she stands at her window, perfectly aware of my presence on the terrace next to the building she lives in, does nothing for me.
Other than of course writing these thoughts at midnight. Or 6 minutes to it. As I watch her. The thrill, I think, is in the voyeuristic pleasure rather than its outcome.
Most men are obsessed with their libido at all ages. And I mean all ages. Even when one is a child unknowing of penile erections and its associated consequences, one still considers one's libido in a most immature, though fascinated way. If one was to explain in detail, one might stray into the forbidden territory of child pornography, so one shall abstain. Even if they are my own nonage experiences.
Libido and death. Procreation and destruction. Today I heard of another close to my age who has died, someone I had known briefly but well, and stayed in touch with his news through common friends over the years. Tonight I sit on a breezy terrace in a monsoon soaked city and pen lines on my libido, or the lack of it. Temporary, I also hope. Today too, someone talked of those who talked of sex and those who didn't. The ones who didn't, he said, were getting it. This he said with reference to our age, us half-centurions and nearabouts. Do we talk of sex as much as we do it, or do we just talk anyway?
Well past midnight I'm drinking Goa's feni sent with love by a friend through another who had visited. It's an acquired taste I'm told. Well, I seem to have had no problems acquiring it!
Why am I writing all this? Its not that its a diary of any importance. I have a computer, I am literate, I probably have too much time on my hands, and my mind is a ceaseless traveller. Random thoughts inspired by a combination of feni and Himachal's green gold can form into presumptuous literature in the dark under these circumstances.
Today we discussed the concept of “the creative explorer” - jargon if there ever was one. Yet beneath jargon there is truth. A conscious, and therefore curious acceptance of an acknowledged reality couched in the language of those who misuse it. Somehow the discussion of such esoterica is work for me these days. A far cry from my earlier days of hardcore marketing: meeting targets, achieving revenue collections, creating product/brand acceptance and consciousness, and being a pissed off piss-off to all and sundry. All at the same time.
Creative explorer is a term that encompasses the client we are working with, their brand, their brand's target client̬le, the way our client should work with the brand, the way we should, and the way we all Рclient, agency, client's customers - want the positioning of what the brand represents in our collective and individual consciousness. Not all of it can ever be in tune but it's possible to find common ground. At least we hope so if we want to earn some money.
All of this is so mundane, so trite, and yet given such priority because revenues are all important. Ho hum! Fee, fie, fo, fum, money do go and money must come. Or else all is undone. Rum pum pum! Truth, and the bitterness of it all. Could be a song, yes?
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