Days of Lost Innocence

Several summers ago, my brother underwent circumcision, the so-called rite of passage for boys like him. It was not an experience of pleasure as I remember him having a shark of a tantrum, probably from both agony and shame. And the constant cruel teasing he got from us, insensitive brats.

For women, what is our rite of passage? Is it as Joy (or how does she spell her Jhoi?) Barrio’s poem suggests – first blood at menstruation, first blood of hymens breaking, first blood at childbirth?

All this bloodbath freaks me out.

I would like to enjoy my sovereignty and define milestones in my prosaic life as rites of passage. To some, it is the sad realization that they had been had, by their very own parents at that, and choicelessly accepting that Santa Claus is a wanker. Evil, evil parents.

To me, it was the sad realization that for all my mastery at evasions, I cannot escape adulthood. And largely, it meant stripping off my Pollyana tendencies and seeing the world as it is – incomprehensible, inconsistent, and complex at times but once you go on all your fours, it is not as execrable as you first thought.

Once our innocence is shattered (not in the tradition of vestal virgins but of the Santa-Claus-is-dead variety, dummy) as Eve experienced in Eden, many pathways present themselves, promising of a fruitful journey. In my case, losing my innocence meant learning judgment which is both a bad and a good thing. I am tempted to say circumspection but that would be untruthful. Circumspection is still a personal aspiration for me. Judgment is to some extent, a way of life.

Before I learned how to judge, there were no stomach-clenching lousy movies or bad books or uninspired music. Everything was good and palatable. How I wish I could go back to those times – less complicated. Happier, I think.

Now I feel an odd sense of sadness when I hear what to my taste, is bad music. When great musicians dish out not-so-great work, the sadness is more palpable. I guess the feeling can be compared when you are at a crossroad and you realize that you have outgrown your lover and there’s nothing more rational to do but to desert him.

But with music, I am less critical. Maybe because it is my drug of choice, I am not in any analytical mood when I am listening.

When critics dissed Chris Cornell’s latest electronica outing, I felt a bit hurt for the guy. These critics barely out of their diapers, have they listened to Soundgarden? Or Audioslave (I have not)? It was not easy to fill in Zach de la Rocha’s shoes with his Marxist soundbites but Cornell valiantly took up the cudgel.

Books are a different case altogether. They take so much from the environment – water, trees and they contribute to pollution. So I feel that my indignation over a book that is such a waste is justified.

Flip and I had this conversation a long time ago I wonder if he remembers. I told him of my mild dismay that when somebody asked me of what I considered life-altering books, the ones I cited were books I read when I was way much younger, leading to an impression that I have stopped reading at a certain age, not that I have a problem with that.

The way I see it I told Flip - I was very impressionable when I started reading fiction. I was immersed in the theme and the plot and the subtext. Everything I consumed was mind-blowing.

As I put on age, I was no longer as fascinated with the story itself but as to how it is told and re-told. In the course of this new demand, less and lesser books became stellar. No, I did not become more demanding or skeptical as Flip suggested. In fact, my needs have become more simple. Regardless of plot and how ridiculous it may be, it is the elegance of the language, the aptness and precision of the descriptions that keep me engaged. I do not care about the writer’s clarity of vision or the symmetry of events or let me just say, they are secondary considerations.

Good fiction rarely comes my way like orgasm for some women (well, not this woman) so when they come, I cry and scream in utter pleasure. In the argot of football as I am still very much into that stream of consciousness, it’s comparable to a lone goal after a series of nil-nil draws.

As for movies, I have become more genre-oriented and director-conscious so the process of elimination is easier. It’s not healthy. In music and in films, I really strive to be genre-agnostic, swear to God. God has not granted me that grace yet.

So there. As for rites of passage go, I can still think of a few but losing my innocence is enough banality for now.