Daddy's grown up girl

You’ve loved me in every way you knew how

You brought me “kill bill yellow” flowers,

And traveled across oceans to surprise me.

Your crooked smile never failed to mend my broken heart.

You taught me harsh lessons,

And pretended to disappear.

I know I never called your home mine,

I know it upset you,

I know you worried about a place I could call home.

But everywhere I wandered,

I had a sense of home,

Because I had you.

You were my superman.

My only man.

There was no kryptonite in my version of your story.

I didn’t see it,

Because I was it.

I wish I had.

I wish I knew.

I wish all that you taught me included that.

I’d eat all the onions,

Scrape my plate and cringe,

If I could change what I did today.

I’m sorry you taught me so well.

I was always your little girl,

But after today,

I’ll be grown up for you. 

Storm Chaser

I spin around in circles,

To make myself dizzy.

I don’t like the calm.

It’s not for me.

Spin around,

Settle down.

That’s the feeling I miss.

It’s too calm in my head.

The world is too settled.

I’m waiting for a storm,

To pick me up,

And take me away.

Some place far away.

I lean my head out,

Hoping to catch it first.

The storm laughs,

And blows me a kiss.

"I’m only passing through", he says.

I know this feeling,

I’ve had it before.

So I brush away the wind from my hair,

And offer him a coke.

He prefers juice and a smoke instead.

I smile at the irony,

Of chasing a storm,

When all I thought I wanted

Was some peace and calm.

Hanna and her slip ups.

I was sure I didn’t like Hanna until I realized that people are loving it! And when I say people, I don’t mean the masses who have scrambled eggs for brains, I mean people I associate myself with, the sunny side up for brains, and I’m trying to figure out what they liked about it. Because I came out of Hanna feeling… nothing.

So I thought about it… and then it hit me. I didn’t hate it. In fact, I never hated it. And that’s the thing. While you’re watching it, you’re not bored; in fact, you find yourself smiling a lot of the time, because it’s ingenuous! It’s violent, yet funny; thrilling, yet sensitive. It has Cate Blanchett and Saoirse Ronan, who deliver great performances and might I add, bear a striking resemblance to each other. It has great characters, great cinematography and a great sound score featuring the Chemical Brothers. But as it happens, snippets of greatness do not a great movie make.

The attention to detail by setting the tone of the movie in greys and reds is very arty and it’s combined with great action sequences cut in perfect sync to the music, which is all very well, but these two great facets don’t come together.  At one level you love it for the former and at another for the latter, but as a whole, it’s neither.  It’s not an art film, it’s not an action film and neither is it a music video.

And as much as I respect a director’s choice to make something out of the box, I failed to grasp the meaning of wanting to do so. Clearly he had something else to say with the film, because it started out as an action thriller and then it slowed down, with the promise of being something more, but it never quite delivered on that promise.

So as much as I have nothing bad to say about this film, I really have nothing great to say either. You want to give it a standing ovation on the grounds of bravery and choices well made, but it falls short on so many accounts, that your knees give way just as you’re about to stand up. 

Of Heffalumps and Hollow Trees

‘Twas past her bedtime

So I put her to bed.

Read me a story she said.

Knowing not more than me when I was ten

The honey bear and Blyton were called upon again.

If sleep was a friend

Some shame must have passed

For he had found his abode someplace far.

She cocked her head, with a look of disbelief,

“It’s a plain ol’ elephant and tree!”

With an arrow that pierced the depth of my soul,

I tried to explain; and myself console,

The heffalump in its fantastical form

And the house inside a tree trunk.

As I battled to keep my childhood alive,

Her army surrendered,

To my friend who had blundered.

I rescued my past, but left it’s soul on the battlefield

Hoping that one day she would follow it’s lead.

Love in the time of Censorship.

Tom and Jerry is now rated PG13! It’s Tom and Jerry for chrissakes!! C’mon! We all watched it and a few of us went out there and became extremists. But violently speaking, the majority of us turned out alright, right? Ok, I’ll admit, it’s not so much the Tom and Jerry thing that’s bothering me, it’s more that the hype around sex and violence is made such a big deal out of, that when you give a kid a Bob Dylan record nobody even raises an eyebrow. Kids can’t watch the same cartoons as us but they can and do listen to the same music and nobody questions it? What’s my problem with love songs, you ask? They’re deceiving, and have been for generations! 

Love songs make you believe that the person you fall in love with will be able to express his love for you as romantically as Bob Dylan or the Counting Crows. And the disappointment, on learning that not everyone is as lyrically in tune with the world of romance as these heartbroken conjurers of poetry are, is likely to cause much more damage to a kid than watching a cat and mouse beat the living daylights out of each other with pots and pans. At least the violence depicted in Tom and Jerry is real and not some cover up trick for the real thing.

Love is real, as is heartbreak… but these guys make it sound like it’s an amazing, beautiful feeling. It’s not! Having your heart broken and dealing with the emotions of falling in love are the most painful things you could ever experience. A physical wound will heal faster because you can see it and heal it. You could live with the pain of a broken heart forever and noone will see it, so noone will care and when they step on it, they won’t know because they can’t see it…but you’ll still feel it. And it’s not the kind of pain that’ll go away with a painkiller and there’s no heartbreak ward in the hospital that you can check into. You are in it alone and only you can get yourself out of it. And no matter how many times you listen to ‘Something’ by the Beatles or (if you have bad taste) ‘Total eclipse of the heart’ by Bonnie Tyler, the pain is not going to go away. But you’ll still listen to it on repeat... making yourself more miserable and falling deeper into the hole of self-pity.

People will warn you about sex, drugs and violence…but nobody prepares you for heartbreak. The only thing you can hope for is that it hits you so hard and so fast that it dulls you and your heart, forever. Should you be so lucky, you’ll have on that invisible cloak that all of us have been wishing for since we were kids. You’ll think you’ve conquered the world; that you’re indestructible. But in truth, they’ve taken your soul and rendered you dead. But it’s such a smooth, clean kill that there’s not a trace of evidence.  No evidence means not guilty, so the love song gets off scot-free. In the meantime, while the heartbreak casualties increase, censorship boards continue to waste their time with sex and violence. I don’t get it.

Burn Ward

Why do we need to see the person we recently had sex with so badly? Random? Yes. But it’s true isn’t it?

I was in the car today with a friend, who was talking to another friend on the phone, when she put it out there, like it was a fact of life, “In any case, you feel like you have to see the guy the day after you’ve had sex with him. That’s just normal.”  She had just hung it up on the wall with the rest of the things we take for granted like period cramps, hunger pangs and hangovers.  I had never thought about it before. I just assumed it was a curse that would kill me piece by piece until I saw ‘his’ face. But looks like we all go through it. So now that it’s out there… in the open, flitting about freely… will I save myself some heart burn in the future, knowing that it’s just another one of those dreadful things that I must endure like everyone else till it passes? Or is it another one of those things that no matter how much or how little you know, will affect you in the same way every time contact is made? A bit like the oil splatter from frying chips.

Man Overboard

So what’s the deal with this women’s lib thing I wonder? I always considered myself to be one of those old fashioned, 'man open door' type chicks until I found myself single, in a city where sex is free flowing, and nobody expects anything in return. You go out, hook up and meet the next day as though nothing happened. That phenomenon has always scared me a tad. I can’t say I haven’t done it. I’m just saying I can’t do it anymore. Maybe it’s my heart that’s kicking in? Maybe my head’s fading? Or maybe I just don’t live in denial anymore? Who knows? But the fact is I now suffer huge heartburns when I hook up with someone I know and am friends with. I know, because yes, I caved and tried to blend in and no, it didn't do the trick. I’m not saying all sex is meaningful I’m sure I can still go out and find anonymous sex if I was looking for it. But I’m not anymore. Because I do believe that sex with another person should lead to something more endearing, otherwise I would just invest in a collection of sex toys instead. So yes, even if it’s just great conversation, a guy who makes you laugh hysterically, or someone who’s hug will lift the weight of the world off your shoulders…there has to be that added extra. The only problem is, once you have that added extra you automatically have emotions attached to it. It’s something you don’t want to get rid off and hold onto for as long as it makes you happy.

So I decided, that since all the pricks I knew were only interested in the newly painted sign on my forehead that read ‘single and available for one night only’ (which I hadn’t noticed of course) were going to get nowhere with me, I finally made the bold move of asking a guy on a date. He’s the sweet, nice, ‘good on paper’ kind of guy, who’s untapped potential had recently set my emotions on fire. At first there was this whole confusion, because his film had just released and he was fretting with every drop in box office figures. And so our date was postponed, indefinitely. I thought it was nerves and being in such a precarious situation, he was allowed them. He then postponed our date further by informing me he was leaving town to get his mojo back. Again, I excused him. Four days after he returned, he messaged to say he was back and asked when we were doing dinner. We fixed dinner for the next night at my favourite restaurant in town. He picked me up, I paid for dinner. Our date ran five hours long…and I thought we had a pretty good time. Good time enough for second date potential. He dropped me home and after accusing me of almost breaking his car door, he promised to take me out in return.  It sounded like a promising end to our first date.  And then he snapped his fingers and vanished into thin air. No ‘thank you’ message or ‘wassup’ message. Zip! Zero!...ummm…Nothing!

Three days later, I get a text saying “ I think I’ve become a 24 zombie” referring to his recent addiction to the popular televesion series. Then he somehow managed to invite me and my nearest buds to a 9 course meal at his restaurant in a neighbouring city. So we arrived, along with his mother, sister, friends…et al. It was a fabulous meal, and the whole experience of driving out of town for a meal was even more exciting. We came back knackered, and most of our company smashed beyond motor skill coordination.

The next day, he broke his agenda down very precisely for me… his head hurt, he intended on watching 24, attending his grandmother’s birthday in the evening and then going to the gym at some point in between it all. After which, he proceeded to ask me out for a movie the next day. I unfortunately passed out for the next 5 hours and only replied later on, by which time he had already made a plan to watch the movie of my choice with someone else on another day, but said we could watch another movie. I agreed.

The fated day of our movie date came along and he first asked if we could just meet for coffee as he wasn’t feeling up to doing a movie which later led to a complete cancellation of our plans on the account of his coming down with the flu. So in my empathic state, I asked him the next day if he was feeling any better? His response was that he felt slightly better. So I advised him to pop the vitamin c and wished him a speedy recovery to which I got the monosyllabic ‘ya’ in reply.  That was it. I had checked all my boxes off and he had failed. In truth, I just couldn’t deal with the practicality of it all…the death of romance was not something I was willing to deal with, at least not at this phase.

So now I’m led to think this poor guy has either been hurt real bad or he’s just not interested. But mostly I’m just thinking…what a waste of an effort! And So much for women’s lib! I got onto to the net today and his status update read ‘It begins with a glimpse or a passing thought and it ends in heartbreak’. I’m all out of tricks with him now and back to waiting for my knight in shining armor. Yes he does exist! And he will come knocking on my door. Won’t he?

Run Away Lover

That old feelings back again
The sound of the click,
The sound of the silence,
The sound of waiting, knowing noone’s going to answer.

I’m laughing out loud
Mind the puddle of tears on your way out
I’d loan you my gumboots
But I’d rather you splashed around a little

You take your time to come around
I’ll take my holiday now
You say you try
I’m saying you tried

Yes it’s that time of the year again
The same time as last time
To pack your bags
Go on vacation

Check into your heartbreak hotel
Maybe you'll meet Elvis
Maybe you’ll bump into a hooker
Don’t pay for sex, It pays for itself

The hotel room’s for free
And so is the vacation
The shopping's where they'll fuck you

So I take the next flight out
Bye bye birdy
This chicken has flown the coop

If I could spread my wings, I would
But chickens don’t fly
So I take the plane instead

Yes that old feelings back again
The sound of a crack
The sound of your head
The sound of you knowing he’s gone for good

So put your phone off, it ain’t gonna ring
This plane’s ready for take off
And I want to land safely.

Groupie Love

She said come now baby,
I went along.
No questions asked, no tantrums thrown,
Against my intention to this day prolong.

I’d heard him before
But this time was blown.
What say you to a boy with locks,
Spins yarns and tunes to make you stay
I stayed and stared, like never before.

He saw me I think
But I can’t be sure
I stared too hard to notice.

Ask me what he looks like
And I haven’t a clue
But name me the song and I know the lyrics.

He finished his song,
I waved my hat,
I’ve seen you before he said,
I’ve heard you before I said.
He smiled and walked away.

I’ll be your groupie any ol’ time,
I’ll hold you to it, said he,
Still walking away.

I meant every word
He couldn’t care less
I tipped my hat to bid adieu
And followed the rest.

So here I sit,
Writing this shit,
There seems not another way
To get him to come out and play.

And so I rest my shit for that day
When to his songs again I'll sway.

Aliens Househunting on Carter Road

“Doesn’t it feel like home?” she asked putting her bag down and taking in what she wanted to be her new home.

“I’m just worried about the wind factor,” said he looking out at the sea.

“I think it’s just perfect. And a little wind never hurt anyone anyway,” she said.
Without waiting for him to agree or disagree, she pulled out her little stove from her trunk and began to boil the water for their evening tea.

“Is it that time already?” he asked, placing his reading chair in full view of the sea and looking at his watch, “I didn’t realize it had gotten so late.”

She looked at him from behind the gassy waves of disillusion coming from the stove and smiled in his direction, but to herself. Of course he had no idea. That’s what she was there for. She gave him his cup of tea and perched herself on the arm of his chair, as they both stared out at the beautiful view of the ships coming in, meandering in their respective thoughts.

“I think I like our new home. Don’t you?” she said breaking the silence.

“I can feel the wind already. It’s going to get cold in the nights I’ll tell you that,” said he, fidgeting a little in his position.

Just then, a gust of wind blew causing a twig to fall into his cup of tea. He picked it out, slightly irritable and threw it on the floor, taking another sip of his tea.“The twigs here have a funny flavour”, he said crossing his eyebrows and smacking his lips as if still trying to decipher what went wrong with his tea. “I’m sure there must be other places with a view where the twigs don’t taste so funny” he said and stood up as if he had made up his mind. “In any case the wind over here is going to cause much trouble,” he said picking up his suitcase and hat. He looked at her waiting for her to get up, while she stayed perched on the chair, in the hope that he would change his mind. But when he put his hat on, she knew there was no convincing him to stay. So she packed up her stove and the tea cups and the strange couple walked out onto the promenade, hand in hand, their belongings on their back, completely oblivious to the looks being passed from the onlookers taking their evening walk, as they trudged along, looking for a place to call home.

To Abhay with love

Who the hell is this guy?

I call him “gust of wind”. Because that’s what I thought he was when I first encountered Abhay Deol, at my cousin’s house in London. He came into the house, dumped his rucksack at the bottom of the stairwell, ran up the stairs and then ran back down holding two jackets up in front of me. “Which one?” he asked. I looked up to see two, almost identical, jackets dangling in the distance between us. “The one with the elbow pads,” I said. He chucked the other jacket onto his rucksack and put on the one I suggested. I looked at my watch; it was time for me to head back to the gallery and get ready for the opening of my exhibition. I picked up my bag and headed toward the door. “Hang on we’ll go together”, he said picking up his wallet and rushing in front, to open the door. On our way to the bus stop, just before he got on his bus, he cut me a deal: “I’ll come for your exhibition if you’ll come for a party with me after.” I smiled, he had himself a deal. But I couldn’t help but ask myself “Who the hell is this guy and what the hell is he doing here?” That was it. I put it out there for the universe to bring me the answers.

I arrived at the gallery, did the final touch ups and waited, then decided to make the best of the free bar and started to get light headed….the people came, I smiled, answered their questions, took some critique, drank some more, pretended to look at the stuff like I’d never seen it before and just when I thought I had my fill of it… in he walked, in the jacket of my choice, disarming everyone with his smile as he made his way past the people to the video exhibit. I waited. I watched…. he got up. I went up to him…. “I recognized only one actor. Because of the mole.”  No hi, no hello…no siree, he cut right through that opening conversation. “Drink?” was all I could get myself to say. I grabbed the free beers… he grabbed my hand and then we grabbed a taxi to his ‘Socha Na Tha’ party. That was Abhay Deol’s debut into my life and ‘Socha na Tha’ was his debut in the Indian film world.

The next evening we decided, on a random whim, to go see a movie. By the time we got to the theatre, the movie had already begun and just as I was buying tickets thinking we were only 5 minutes late, I noticed Abhay walking off. “I can’t watch it. We already missed the beginning.” And he left. That was Abhay Deol. No questions asked, no answers given.

I think that’s the last I saw of him until he randomly called me three years later in Delhi, “Do you know who this is?” he asked. How would I? What kind of a question was that? That’s when I finally met Abhay in his world, on the sets of Anurag Kashyap’s ‘Dev D’. I hugged him tight and looked into his face. It was him alright…. but not. He was more aware, more cautious, more actor, less person…. he was on his way to become the “critically acclaimed” star of Bollywood. The Abhay Deol that they were waiting to fall in love with, with his next two releases of ‘Dev D’ and ‘Oye Lucky! Lucky Oye!’.

With ‘Honeymoon Travels’, ‘Manorama Six Feet Under’, ‘Dev D’ and ‘Oye Lucky’ under his belt, I thought it was the last I’d see of him and his newly acclaimed stardom. But then came Bombay, and I found myself standing in his open doorway, seeing him perched atop his dining table with a purple chandelier in his hand, “Do you think this is too much?” It would normally be too much, but it was perfect in his pop-kitsche house. And the familiarity whooshed back; he still refused to open a conversation. It was as if I had been standing there since the first time I met him.  That was Abhay Deol, not the star, not the gust of wind, just a guy dripping in sweat, waiting for his air-conditioning to be fixed and doing up his new bachelor pad.

“I’m moving to New York,” he told me “I’m bored.” And that was that, he signed on four more films, got himself an apartment and moved to Manhattan. I called him yesterday to ask him when he was coming back and he said, “For what?” “Life…film…family…. friends?” I say. “But I still have all that,” he stated. It ended there. No questions asked, no lies told.

So the universe did answer my question. Who the hell is he? He is, Abhay Deol, the gust of wind with the rucksack, who became the star, remained a friend and is sitting in Manhattan waiting for someone or something to give him reason to leave and come back.

Here's looking at you kid....

People keep asking me "What's your favourite film?'. And I'm at a loss. So many films...so many great films...how do you decide? But I think I've narrowed it down... looking at all the films I own, I would have to say it was a tough decision between 'Casablanca' and 'Goodfellas'. But I think I would have to give it to 'Casablanca'. It's near flawless. The more times I've seen that film, the more times I'm convinced that there is absolutely nothing about that film that does not work.

Some may say that 'Casablanca' got lucky. I suppose luck was on its side when they chose to release it only three weeks after Eisenhower marched into Africa. But looking back, it was an accomplishment in the true sense of the word. Although 'Casablanca' is most remembered for its romantic idealism, the story did not have a happy ending. 'Havana' tried to recapture 'Casablanca''s romantic idealism and all star cast and the result was a complete failure...because there was more to 'Casablanca' than mere romance. There was mystery, political propaganda, heroism, romance...all mixed into one. The characters are the most well loved characters of our time, but in truth, there was nothing lovable about the characters themselves. They were hypocrits, cynics, liars, underground leaders, and thieves. But somehow the movie let them rise above all that and redeemed them of their various character flaws. The end...I think almost all would agree that it is one of the best movie endings. The movie would not have had the same resonance if Bogey had left with Ilsa. That little selfless act at the end managed to turn Rick into a hero, while throughout the film, he was just a drunken hypocrite, who had given up on life and ran a bar.

But the fact is, if  'Casablanca' had been made today, it would never have been popular. We've all seen too much and know too much. Our cynicism would never let us appreciate a movie of such simple values. But it's nice to believe that life was once a lot less complicated and simpler, irrespective of whether that might be true or not. I could go on and on...but I'm too sleepy. I'll say one thing though...those dialogues that make it the most quoted film (I think besides 'Pulp Fiction') ...to think that it was all an improvised script. Now you tell me, could anyone pull a stunt like that and get away with it today? I quite seriously doubt it.

Postmodernism. Is it dead?

The thing about postmodernism is that there is no one-way to define it. That is apparently the most postmodern thing about it. Where do critics fit into this postmodern picture? After I go watch a film I like to read reviews, and although it interests me to see what people have to say about it I don't think it defines my own opinion of it but that's only because I probably have the same knowledge as them and can put that same knowledge into a different perspective.... but what about people without that knowledge? Must they depend on a singular person's perspective? Critics are forever trying to pass off their own opinions on things as the "right" one. Is there a right opinion? If there is, then clearly postmodernism is dead. Postmodernism only came into being because of the knowledge of the fact that there was far too much knowledge in the world to narrow information down but here are people who are making a whole career out of narrowing it down for us.

It can't be helped.... if enough information leads you to one direction then, unless you have access to all the other information, you tend to follow in on that one. Isn’t that a deconstruction of postmodernism? All art, all film... is in theory post modernistic and yet we have art awards and film awards. Does an Oscar winning film automatically mean a film's good? There has never been a theory or set of rules that defines what makes a good film, good and good art, good. It’s all personal. You take from films and art what you will. Titanic sailed through all the Oscars that year...and one year later those same critics that applauded it, suddenly decided it was no more than a soppy, romantic film. Postmodernism was still standing to an extent...but what is its place in the 21st century? I can't help but think we're slowly progressing into a post-post modernistic age, where all the distinctions we took away are being brought back into force. We’re redrawing all the lines we once rubbed out. How do I define a film in documentary, narrative or experimental? Are there no other genres? Do all the films I ever made not even count? If film and art is postmodern, is its interpretation becoming post-post modern? Will the two coexist? If not which one will survive?

Art. Is it really? What is? and How? and Why?

What is art? Is it a piece of blue tack stuck on a wall; or an unmade bed; or a cabin transported into a gallery from it's original location? It so happens that all of them are art. Well they were pieces by artists and shown in galleries. Is that then what defines art? Someone who's been labelled an artist? Who gave him/her the label? I like to refer to myself as an artist, and although i have shown work in galleries, and have been referred to as an artist, I know that there are enough people out there who would beg to differ. Yes, of course anyone can stick blue tack on a wall and spend hours getting people to place one piece of blue tack in the "right' position on the wall, or stick an unmade bed into a gallery, or even get people to move a cabin from a beach to a gallery....but there are only a few people doing it... and even if you did, what would be your reason for doing it? Would you have one? Was the cabin still art when the artist saw it on the beach or did it become art only when she transported it into the gallery? The unmade bed was considered beautiful to some and grotesque to others. Well I think the grotesque bit was not the unmade bed but the snot filled pieces of tissue paper scattered all around....and did she take the bed back to sleep on or buy herself another one? If it meant so much to her that she could put it in a gallery then surely she would want it back? But then if she did want it back, it's not really art is it? You have to put art out there and let it grow. How can it grow if you put it right back where it started?! At a family get together once, (I think it was the year Damien Hirst was showing dead cows and was later nominated for the turner prize) my aunt was absolutely appalled, "Picasso must be rolling over in his grave!" she exclaimed. "No it's what he would be doing if he were alive!" she was told. Art moves. It grows. It has to be allowed to breathe. You might disapporove of some art and like others, but you have to stop and understand where the artist is coming from. It's not for you or me to decide what art is....it's not for anybody to decide what makes art.....if it asks a question and gets you to think, even if it gets you to hate it....it's a job accomplished.

"Unappreciation" of the art film

Has the history of narrative cinema denied us the pleasure of seeing things as they are? I'm beginning to believe that with the absence of the "glitz and gloss" of narrative cinema we are starting to undermine our own capabilities of seeing things for what they are. Is it really that people find art films boring? Or are they just scared of letting themselves go into a world where you're left to your own devices and conclusions? Art films don't set out to do, or say anything in particular. Various things happen....and the expectation of that one particular thing to happen never gets fulfilled. They provide no answers to what one might understand as the principle question. They don't try to engage us with conversation and we never really find out anything about the characters in the film (if there are any). Ideas and images are thrown together to tell a story....and only a story....the conversations never come alive and neither do the characters....you never enter their world.....you can watch from afar....and take what you like and leave what you don't understand. That's the joy of it! You don't have to understand. You just watch and appreciate things for what they are. Have we gotten so used to the ideas of clear cut narratives where there exists a security of a plot and illusion, characters and situations that can be followed, and emotions that can be shared, that the idea of just looking at something for what it is without putting it into a greater perspective is lost? Are situations and images not able to stand on their own without standing out? The feeling of security that one gets from narratives is a lot more. Of course it is, they provide us with emotional resolutions and final endings. But their endings are so absolute, that it feels almost as if they were taking possesion of the world with their final endings. And with the knowledge that the world is not absolute and it isn't actually possible to take possesion of the world, why aren't we able to overlook the narrative structure? Is it a history we can't let go of? Or do we just always need to identify with something?

"Life's not meant to be"

Someone said that to me and I coudln't help but wonder if it was a "trying to be smart" comeback for what I had said to her just before that comment was sparked or whether she truly believed it. The fact is, that life is exactly the way it's meant to be, because at any given time, we've all made decisons, and those decisions were the reasons we're here for 'here and now'. I'm not syaing that 'here and now' embodies the entire essence of life. It doesn't! But it does most definitely play a major role in the future, because futures are made of a number of pasts and life is made up of all our pasts and futures. So for all the times you've sat moping about how life isn't going your way, you might want to retrace your steps. You'll find, as I have, that at some point, you made a conscious decision to do something, which led to a chain of events that landed you in this spot in time. So really, it's perfectly plain. "You pay for your sins in this lifetime," they say. And consequences have led me to believe that it holds true. So every decision you make and every step you take in life has it's consequences. Fair or not is arguable....but meant to be?! Well clearly you put yourself in it ... by whatever means ... so yes it is meant to be!