Consider this my photo dump

my take on another year down, another to come, happy 2024!

With the end of the year comes the desire to sum things up, in some way. I woke up this morning on an air mattress in the studio apartment of my best friend from high school, Rithvic, and opened Instagram, seeing many selections of the community’s best moments from 2023. I wondered what mine would be, and made a list in my notes app. The shorts I shot, the plays I was in, came to mind. The trips to film festivals and time spent with family come to mind. If I go hard enough on the recollection, I remember every top ten contender being colored with darker shades. But things look so nice, curated and summarized, in retrospect, and I think that is a blessing. 

I sit on a sunlit roof in Tampa, Florida right now, where I came from Woodstock, Georgia. For the last week, I was at my parents’ house in Georgia. The week before, we were on a cruise through the Bahamas. I’m trying not to call it my “parents’ house” as much because Indian people don’t do that. Indian-American people do that sometimes and feel bad about it. I’m also hoping to never be on a cruise again, but I’ll understand if the circumstances require that of me at some point again. 

A few weeks ago, Kel and I went to an amazing dance recital by our good friend, Mara, who is a really talented dancer. Going to support a friend, who we had just worked with extensively, we were unprepared for the fact that everyone had chosen to look super rich for this event, while we had chosen to look normal and kind. Which is to say we were underdressed and stressed about it. I’ve been in these situations before, for sure. As a guy from the most normal town ever in Southeast Michigan, who has followed a sense of inspiration to theatre school, Los Angeles, and all over the globe, I feel the most myself when I’m out of my depth.

Walking around the theatre, I was struck by a poster advertising an old ballet show. Anxious as I was, masquerading at this event, something about the poster knocked me into stillness. It affected me, as great works often do. The feeling of being in awe oftentimes comes, for me, with a sense of panic. Part of that panic is a sense of loss, that I have lived for so long without having seen this thing before. Part of the panic is that I will never see this thing for the first time again. And thus comes inspiration: to honor this feeling through the creation of something else. 

Being inspired gives me, personally, drive to move towards the future with force. In that sense, being inspired keeps me living, which keeps me alive, as I often write about. Luckily, I am no prude when it comes to finding inspiration. I am in awe of conversations, of walks, inspired by the scent of body soap in a hot shower, energized by conflict, by movies, by the views in windows, the movement of hands, by animals hanging out with other animals, by bodies, by paintings, by memories, by artifacts in museums and closets, by sadness and happiness. Every time I am inspired feels like the first time it has ever happened, and it feels like it will be the last. Life is terrifying. But this feeling of inspiration tells me, at least in the moment that I stand in the corner, looking at this poster of an old ballet concert, that I belong. Because how could someone, inspired by a place, or a moment, or a people, be unwelcome?

“Art” is a broad term, and every time I use it in that way, I feel like an undergrad, which I am, ultimately, and may forever be given that I received a lot of my education on Zoom. But part of what I love about consuming “art” (which if I were to loosely define, I would say is something that is considered or refined or practiced or spectacular in some way, if you’re lucky, to a degree that feels humbling) is that it stirs up emotions and reactions in an environment that is, ultimately, safe. A lot of experiences in life feel less safe, and there’s value in that too. But I feel protected by theaters and museums and headphones (which is part of why I really take issue with things like mass shootings. Oftentimes they choose events or places that I think look really cool.)

I’m working on feeling that sense of safety all around, but it helps that I can practice through interacting with art. I like being “just” an observer. It’s easier, ultimately, and less risky than having a conversation, where both parties are observers and contributors to the experience. 

As an observer, the piece travels from the source into my brain, and stirs up a bunch of chemical reactions as I sit silent in my chair. Then, there is an awareness of that reaction within me, and an internal conversation to be had from there. During the piece, I get to practice turning the volume on that internal dialogue up or down. After exiting the show, I get to practice that more and more, taking in every interaction like a never-before-seen piece of dance. 

Observing, in general, draws attention to internal feelings, some of which can be unsavory: like feelings of anger, or awkwardness, of insecurity or sadness. I think a lot of things are sold or marketed as solutions to those feelings, ways of pushing them away or making them smaller. Part of what I like about witnessing things you’ve never seen before through intaking a piece of art, is experiencing feelings you’ve never had before, recognizing that some of them feel bad, or unsavory, and that these ugly feelings belong just as much as the good ones. I get thrilled to become a gracious host towards an ugly feeling, seeing it at the door and welcoming it inside. Letting it sit down to dinner and asking it about its day.

This year, I learned that a bad day is nothing more than a bad day, and I will keep having them pretty often all the time until I die. To enjoy the act of living, the practice of being alive, I believe, right now, is to also be a gracious host to the bad moments that make it up: the work that is grueling, the heavier days at the gym, the auditions that go nowhere, the writing that will never be read; the boulder that we push up the hill, and are happy to do so, and are NOT happy to do so, and do so all the same, and are happy to.

This year presented me with a lot of new problems, and a lot of challenges that no one who has ever lived has ever been exempt from: growing along with heartbreak, death, career anxiety, changing relationships with people I love. I had to jump higher to get out of bad places and know deeply now that these are the jumps that change us. 

Switching metaphors right now: staircases. At this stage in life, I am more aware than ever that everyone is climbing different sets of ever-changing staircases. I like the stairs that I’m climbing; I think I’ve chosen a good set of them. I have put a lot of time towards choosing the staircases that I take. Rather than how fast you climb, or how high you go, the choice of the stairs is important. Different staircases promise different things: there are a few wide, sturdy, and heavily favored marbled staircases promising, nearly guaranteeing, a climb towards fame and fortune, success and popularity, above all else: validation. I think the choice of these stairs is one that makes sense and comes with a lot of incentives and treats along the way. I have felt out of step at times, when I find myself walking jankier, wooden steps with an obscured path. But I have more curiosity about the climbs emblazoned with difficult steps: stairs that ask to be principled in the face of temptation, inventive in the face of conformity, and self-assured when asked to seek the sensation of acceptance elsewhere. 

Self-acceptance is a tricky predicament- I don’t feel incredibly inspired by people who act like “prioritizing themselves” is radical, or not something that is heavily incentivized by an individualistic society, another marbled staircase. At the same time, I think self-assuredness is a great pathway towards self-actualization. Where is the line between self-respect and self-centeredness, between empathy and fealty, community and codependence? 

When I feel an ugly feeling, I try to accept it, and myself, quickly. I assure myself that there are no rules, and thus no way to ever be too wrong, and that being wrong is ok too. I trust other people to give me the grace to do things, and to live, imperfectly. I guess that also means that I should do the same in return: sometimes that’s easier, sometimes that’s harder. 

But to some extent, I feel that a greater sense of self-acceptance can also calm the urges towards self-centered behavior. I do believe a person who is secure in themselves needs less to be the center of the lives of other people. Clearing out insecure thought patterns, which usually are definitionally fairly self-centered, through more frequently navigating pathways to self-acceptance, can make more space in the head to pay attention to other people, to be more present. I think self-acceptance gives you more room to more greatly improve the quality of your character, and that improving the quality of your character invites a greater sense of security in choosing self-acceptance.

The ugly feelings will continue to knock at the door. After welcoming them in for dinner, I try to send them off with gratitude for what we both have, and a decisive action towards what we want.

A vaccine for your next awkward moment: present your next thought, or action, confidently, trusting that because it came from your head it is a valid thought to come from a person’s head regardless of if it falls within a social convention or not. Social convention is an ever-changing set of ideals, anyway, and many have been created to preserve the power of the social classes with the institutional power to spread their ideas about what is socially acceptable anyway.

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I barely told any of my friends that I was going on a cruise with my family over break. I did not expect to like it, but in the weeks since have developed that particular kind of fondness you develop for unsavory experiences when they are in the rear view mirror. Even so, I can’t help but think of a cruise line as a modern-day vehicle of colonization, staffed with labor from pillaged nations working under inane conditions under the constant barrage of billboard 2014 pop hits, so Americans are offered a cost-effective opportunity to bring the magic of Florida to what effectively are small colonies in countries that coincidentally don’t seem to be inhabited indigenously by too many white people. But people in real life don’t like to talk about that stuff with me the way that google docs does. I will admit, the desserts banged.

I had two oases on board. One was the balcony attached to our room, where outside of the doors of the ship I was witness to power unlike anything I’ve ever known. Endless ocean surrounding our ship, at a depth I can’t attempt to conceive of. Every inch I could see was constantly crashing and churning, every few cubic feet containing crushing force. All put together, the magnitude was humbling. I understood why the characters of The Lighthouse got like that. 

When I looked at the waves from my chief oasis, I saw the constant motion captured in the splashes as the result of countless opposing forces underwater and above. Every moment, a new result of the pushes and pulls at play in every instant of the sea. It made me think of how amongst endless time, and the infinite circumstances, the forces crashing together in every moment of life resemble any random snapshot of these waves. These waves could form any and every configuration I could imagine, anything that is possible. 

My other oasis onboard was a small network of TV channels available, including TCM: Turner Classic Movies. I had seen TCM selects before, but never watched the program in its entirety: a channel that broadcasts classic films, with explanations of plot, commentary by esteemed directors, presented with historical and trade-specific context. I was in awe, watching timeless cinema amongst the backdrop of the churning ocean. I was also frustrated by what I know of its current predicament, which is that this oasis is owned by and in danger from the doomed hands that currently hold the future of the film industry, as entertainment giants slash and burn all that is beloved by artists and unappreciated by algorithms. Amongst the troubled circumstances out to sea, this channel brought me unparalleled joy, and how could that be misunderstood as anything but value?

Today is the last day of 2023. I remember the start of 2022. It was my first year fully out of college, the first year where, as the clock struck midnight on January 1st, I had nothing on my calendar for the rest of the year. Total emptiness, crashing waves, the feeling of riding a skimpy raft on the ocean. Hours before the clock struck midnight, I was cast in my first short film in LA, which I had auditioned for a week or two prior. 2022 featured changing tides of employment, money gained and lost, travels taken with friends, ending with the discovery of intense sources of joy and uncertainty and doubt. 

2023 quickly introduced me to heartbreak, but also consistent employment, and even excess opportunity, as I balanced a steady and reliable day job amongst days on set and in rehearsal. I experienced intense forms of loss with the death of my grandfather, and performed miraculous creative achievements in writing, visual art, film, and theater. Overall, developing an increase of strength and resilience, an awareness of and commitment to talent and possibility. A self-assuredness that I hope to wield alongside compassion as much as possible in the new year.

I am so excited for the crashing waves to come, amongst the endless unknowable sea of 2024. Thank you for reading, have a happy new year.