The joy of Indolence

In La Martiniere, the first essay that we were made to write by Harry (yes, the same Indrashish Laharry, the slowest handkerchief-slinger in town), was on “the joy of indolence”. A very long time ago, in fact almost exactly 12 years ago. And only knowing what indolence means and not the significance of it, being a rather hyperactive kid myself, I made a hash of it. But that will be Tom Robbins-esque meandering from the topic of discussion …

The significance is that today, for a bit more than half an hours, I experienced the absolute joy of indolence.

I like Bessie more than Marina in whatever little of Chennai that I have experienced. But today, between 1600 hrs and 1630 hrs, sitting on the Marina beach with the harsh sun beating down, sunscreen and sunglasses-adorned I was reading about Sissy Hankshaw’s hitchhiking romp across beatnik America while listening to tales of the music celeb who has a blister on his little finger, and maybe one on his thumb, and the one banging on the bongos like a chimpanzee….

Absolute indolence. Joy. Transitory, yes, but there isn’t anything such as perfect happiness, as war-hardened professionals like us will know. Na?

Just a mention. I realize that I tend to gravitate towards art which has a crafted feel to it, and natural be damned. I like the edges (just as Knopfler is edgy, just as Robbins is edgy), but not the jagged, rough edges of say a Palahniuk or a Kobain. In my music, in my reading, I like order. The overwhelming completeness of the U2 sound, for example.
Some suggestions?