ガゼットのこと私の心にいる言葉、感じと愛。かかって来い！The words, feelings and the love I have for The GazettE. Come at me!

ガゼットのこと私の心にいる言葉、感じと愛。かかって来い！

The words, feelings and the love I have for The GazettE. Come at me!

 Yet another time of watching The GazettE’s NSLB Tokyo Dome Final Live Tour DVD and I still am not satisfied with having watched it the last I honestly don’t know how many times. Time and time again, when I have some or the other task to work with on my laptop—whether it’s a trifling thing or something very serious—I never for once fail to get the temptation jumping up in my heart to just sneakily go towards the search bar, type in “Tokyo Dome” and click on any one of the three discs’ video. Though I start to watch one, then seek the disc ahead to relive another favorite moment somewhere in the video, then having realized that I somehow finished watching this one video, I click the next one or two in line and play them over and over again till I get tired of minding the time which reminds me I am yet to even start with my task for which I brought the laptop to life for now. When I’m finally done with all the watching and regaining my pure love for them again, I realize that the time is way past than what I’d initially intended my deadline to be. Sighing, I notice a lazy smile unintentionally stretching its way across my lips and decide to post pone whatever task I had to do for a later time and close the lid of my laptop.

Given my nature for profound laziness, whenever I get to secretly immerse myself in such…things which I adore, respect, love and love to re-live, I can’t help but give in to that desire which makes me want to stop and indulge in whatever it is, though that might always not point towards the right direction, I get to feel awed. I told people that I fell in love with Japan all over again when I came back from that most wonderful country. But then again, that feeling is never lost within me—I get to fall in love with The GazettE over and over again with the mere watching of that one Final Live DVD.

Why I love The GazettE so much? Feh, you’re welcome to search for that answer along with me. Let’s make it a quest to hunt out for a proper answer for that question, shall we? It’s not because of the fact—yes, fact—that they’re all unbelievably gorgeous thirty plus year old men, who look as if they had been once dunked in the fountain of eternal glory and youth, or because they are more stunning than all those pencil thin ‘beautiful’ models and actors and other celebrities that the media and other forms of publicity always seem to parade around, or because I’m simply amazed at how a normal looking man can be so…so ‘OMG!’ {and when I say OMG, its always “Oh My GazettE” and NOT “Oh My God” as in ways more than one, The GazettE IS my god} or because they have so many, many fans all around this blue marble of a planet and I’m also itching to be just one among them, it’s not for the fashion. Or the glamour they have to present. My love is for none of all these bling bling factors. Though I never had to have added the fashion and glamour because it’s more of a natural asset to them.

It’s about that tingly feeling in you when you hear they’re going to release a new piece of music—I won’t say a ‘single’ or an ‘album’ because considering all that they’ve done so far, it never really makes sense to me to label their works like that; they are in the process of creating so much music, beside the scores of music already created, its endless…these guys put in so much into what they do that they seem to be working nonstop. So each new ‘single’ and ‘album’ for me is just a new piece of whatever feeling they have in their hearts at present.

I drew ire, criticism, ridicule and much more from a co-participant of a two week scholarship to Japan just because I loved The GazettE. Come on, people! It only counts when you have a serious reason to bully. After getting just a slight wind of how much my love for The GazettE is, this person goes so far as to create a fake ticket/”VIP backstage passes” of The GazettE, claiming that they’re to come to perform in Palace Grounds, Bangalore, Karnataka, INDIA in December (2011). This he did during our scholarship’s final local orientation as he wouldn’t get another, more glorious chance to play such a cheap trick at me. I got this really nagging doubt as to why The GazettE should go abroad elsewhere ignoring all those main league countries where their fan base is more predominant, while their TOXIC LIVE TOUR was going on. Still, blinded by the momentary illusion’s rush, thanks to his lie that he made sound so damn legit, I couldn’t help but scream out like a maniac every two minutes for the next week or so almost everywhere I’d think about it, not minding where I was.

Imagine being told and convinced out of the blue that the gods who you worship almost every second are going to come over to your city to perform and you’ve got VIP Backstage Passes? Who wouldn’t freak out? Who wouldn’t fall to such a shameless fraud when you’re so blinded with all the love you have for them? Who wouldn’t do what I did?

Having gotten permission from my damn strict orthodox family to attend their ‘Live-in December’ concert was something I couldn’t believe; I guess I must probably have gotten out of my way some time or the other about The GazettE that made my parents understand at least a little of it. Texting every contact on my phone to goad about how The GazettE was finally going to show up here so much that my phone’s credit talk balance would expire just as soon as I recharge it with more  money. I don’t think I have ever been more active than then in my life of sixteen years till now, not even when I heard that I had got selected to go to Japan for two weeks.

Again, I insist that in the midst of all this blinded celebration, there was always this rather huge question mark stuck right there in my head as to why I believed and going along so stupidly with this scandalous news. I now accept that I had been a fool back then, I couldn’t help but fall into the deviously schemed plan by that person. Stupid, trusting, naïve lamb that I was to always ignore that question mark and just go ahead and rush with gushing over it!

Then after the said ‘day when The GazettE were to perform’ had passed, this person has so much guts as to text me saying that it was all just a plain trick he played on me just to enjoy watching me make a fool of myself. Though I did retort quickly with a smart message that I’d known about his dirty intention all the time, and that I was going along with it just to fool him in the end, the regret has never left me. Fifty years from now and I will still be looking back at this incident with pure shame, loath and disgust. And from that day, I have ceased almost all contacts with that smart ass son of a bitch. I am a person who never succumbs to any sort of profanity and this is gone so out of my hands that I can’t swear at it all the time.

But in a way, I am sort of thankful—though I shouldn’t be in any way—to that person as I would never have realized the deep love, admiration, affection and all the other positive, overwhelming vibes of feeling I have for The GazettE if that person had never scorned me so much. But I am thankful for just that AND NOTHING ELSE. He should be counting his blessings that it has never occurred me to personally confront him about this and leave a huge shameful dent upon his personality; good lord, who knows what I might do to that person when I act on a whim all of a sudden! Now I really do understand what Shakespeare said when he said ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’. Because oh no, I’m not scorned! I am feeling something much more deeper than that, can’t really put a finger on what exactly it is.

I wonder if that person understands even just a little of how I feel, of all that I am now ranting. But something tells me the answer is just plain negative. That person should understand how it feels like when you are cheated out of those fantasies you dream about something you set your heart and soul into loving. The feeling is intense and is something you only get to know when you experience it in the worst state possible, I believe. I have been bullied, harassed and cornered in the last two years of high school even by people who were the most closest to me all because I loved Japan, and everything the culture. Never once did I care for that. I continued pursuing it with all my passion and I guess I’m now slowly reaping the fruits of that. It is disappointing when people bully you, play really childish and worthless tricks all because of a mere, fucking unbelievable invalid reason. Shame on those people. I guess their rejoicing in it only raises the bar for their stupidity and I don’t think I could possibly do anything about it but go about my own track and crack their foolish ideas by flaunting my success and my cool attitude in front of them. Maybe that would be more 

effective than a direct slap to the face?

Now that I’ve written this, I feel more calm and relaxed. It always helps me a lot when I open the lid of the laptop the moment I’m frustrated, vent it all out on the keys and then sighing so huge when I notice the heavy feeling being lifted from my chest. Yup, I’m done with this now. But one question remains in me: should I email a copy of this to that person and directly declare my disgust for what he’s done, no matter how good a friend he’d been to me before?

Help, please.

――――＞I really love The GazettE so very much from my heart and from my soul, too. If anyone has a problem with this, then come at me straight!

－－－→私はガゼットが心からと魂からも本当にとても大好きです。そのことのついて誰が問題があると、私へ真っ直ぐかかって来い！

Shakespearean Rondo

Author: April Twelving.

24-10-2011 13:44:51

Miss April’s first encounter with Shakespeare was when she was a girl whose juncture of age was no more than that of which a child would have just evolved from the phase of skimming through picture books for the basic means of trifle education and entertainment. It was her father who had introduced him to her; he had bought her a cheap version of an abridged copy of “THE TEMPEST”. To say frankly, for a little girl of that age who only had awareness and familiarity of the standard Indian names and vistas that Miss April had been so used to, she took to reading the book which was filled with rather strange and vivid pictures of its characters with relish as she honestly found them and their names quite funny. Miss April still couldn’t put a finger on what its plot was even after reading—she should rather say ‘skimming’ as that is what she used to do back then—it a fair few times. But maybe after a year or so after that, she did fully grasp the contents of the plot and used to cogitate upon every scene in it that she found to be quite intriguing.

Time flew by, Miss April grew up and there was not once when she even threw a second glance at the book except for those times when she would dust off her book shelves to restyle them, stacking all the novels she had acquired by then in order, by size and personal preference just to please her parents, to show them that she could at least take good care of those books which they had bought for her upon her vehement outbursts for more books. But all that time, she was constantly mindful of the fact that Shakespeare was very famous and that he was associated with everything in that which literature partook. She had known that he was from a medieval period of time—though not a very early time—as she had read the infinitesimal amount of information that had been presented for his profile in the Preface part in the book her father had bought her.

By the time Miss April was in high school, people around her were convinced that she had developed this ‘queer-according-to-them’ penchant for poring over thick volumes of novels or books whenever she could get her hands on one. That is something she doesn’t quite understand—just because Miss April tends to appreciate the flavour of those novels which people don’t, that doesn’t give them any damn right to either comment about or mock her for it, people should just shut up and mind their damn businesses which they make a wreck of instead of poking their noses and almost everything else into what insightful venture she tries to undertake. If not being encouraging, they should at least stop with their trivial dictum.

So it didn’t really surprise her classmates when Miss April used to always read an old version of “THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE” which she happened to chance upon in the non-popular, crumbling corner of the poor excuse of a library in her old school. By the looks of it, she could easily gather that not many people had even strayed by the book—Indian kids just love to scratch away at any good book or object they happen to lay their hands upon—as this book was in a pretty good shape without any doodles in any of its pages, except for its battered form because of the flow of time it had been subjected to. Back then, Miss April’s class had had to study just an overview of the play “THE MERCHANT OF VENICE” in their English class. So as she was really curious as to what content the unabridged version of it possessed, she used to read the same play from the thick compilation.

They had also studied Sonnet Number xxix, whose translation from what Miss April was able to perceive back then, was quite extraordinary according to her English teacher. The other kids used to blink pointedly while she rambled on with her review of the sonnet. Her teacher was so happy that she had beamed about it to every other teacher in the school who had known Miss April. She used to say, “Those who do not understand the “Shakespearean language” are normal.” Miss April guesses that was meant to point out that she was in contrast from the others: abnormal. But frankly speaking, she had not much trouble with the “Shakespearean language” as her teacher deemed the form of English used in Shakespeare’s works, to be that much of a challenge at all. True, she would occasionally stumble upon many words that she was ignorant of in almost every other page, but that ignorance would be non-existent when she would try to grasp its meaning almost immediately with some form of trusted reference. Miss April gave in to her ignorance and learnt loads from it rather than just slump her shoulders and berate that she was a poor scholar of words and understanding when it came to the English language.

Miss April loved the gentle cadences of speech of Shakespeare’s time and thought she ought to learn more of it. But ugh! Ninth Grade had ended by the time she could finish reading the play and she really was not allowed to spare even second looks at any form of books other than the prescribed schoolbooks when in Tenth Grade. Relentless as she was to conquer more of Shakespeare’s works, she tried to hunt for a complete compilation of his works—just like the one she used to read in the library in her old school…she later came to hear that the copy which she used to lovingly pore over was somehow misplaced or stolen. Miss April was surprised to find herself involved in a heated discussion with the librarian—she would rather it was a fight—about how the woman could be so careless and misgiving about such a piece of treasure! All the librarian could do was hang her head when Miss April told her how much such a copy of the compilation might cost in the local bookstores—figures! That was all the woman cared about; she was constantly fretting over the loss of an expensive book when she could have been mourning the misplacement of a jewel as that. What came out of the search for that book, Miss April never knows to this day as she cares not for those who do not try to even appreciate the flavour and essence a book has to offer. Pathetic fools!

Though Miss April had wanted to acquire a copy of Shakespeare’s compilation more than anything else, it made her frown when she came to know of how expensive they could cost. But by Jove! Lady Luck seemed to have looked over at Miss April when she found a great copy for a very, very low and reasonable price after a few months when she was out with her cousin sister at their favourite haunt of a bookstore.

The compilation was in her possession for about five months in an idle state before she started to mesmerize herself with “A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM” just today. Miss April was intrigued by what Edward, the lead character of the ‘Twilight’ fiction series had said in the novel—either in ‘Eclipse’ or in ‘New Moon’, she does not remember which to be exact—about love while he spoke of it with comparison to A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM. Miss April decided to trust the fictional vampire character that was deemed to be a good judge of such things given that he was a century old and delve into reading the play.

Just a few pages into the play and she had already made her way to the kitchen where mother worked, to crow at her about how she felt—‘It’s absolutely amazing, mother! Now I finally get why everyone remarks Shakespeare a real genius. This is just like a long soap opera—there are other plots hidden beneath the main plots—but those which I can keep track of. And the vivid, fantabulous descriptions! Ah, what refreshing scenes they offer me with every word I read aloud!” Miss April’s mother just smiled at her, what knowledge of Shakespeare did she have in her to offer and share some with Miss April? That is something Miss April adores in her mother: she never gives half-baked advices or suggestions. Isn’t it simply much better staying put when you’re not aware of something than stutter over some newly formed assumptions the prideful mind can think of?

Miss April had stopped after just a few pages into the play for she had much academical studying to do for her mid-term examinations in her college. But she is sure that she will come back to start from where she had left off as she is very, very much eager to drown herself into the deeply exciting world the enthralling plot has to offer. But then again, Miss April would not be wrong if she said that she had also quit for the moment as she is very nervous and afraid of how the next turn in the plot might turn out to be—so much for immersing completely in it, ha! Like Miss April said, it has had on her all the effects that she would be crushed with when dutifully engrossed in an interesting sitcom of her choice, just like a soap opera.

Miss April does not really comprehend as to what ending note she should write in here as she cannot but think of only writing further about Shakespeare and his influence on her—beginning words—than put a stop to it in any way. The advent of Shakespeare on her life time and time again in different revelations and periods of time has made Miss April realise the constant changes in her outlook toward things, a different outlook every single time, how she comes to appreciate the distinct essence of everything she comes across and too much more that she could possibly come to know herself and put down in words—Shakespeare is Miss April Twelving’s personal rondo.

Starting afresh just proves that writing is no less than the pheonix

"I'm female, I'm sixteen and no I don't like pink. I am outspoken, I don't give a damn to how people bat their eyelashes when they think what I do is weird. I just give a finger and I'll be done with it. I am into anything and everything that has to do with Japan. I'm glad that I am out of that phase now: though I'm one of the admins of the Bangalore Anime Club. I draw anime as that's the only thing that inspires me with. I write what I feel as I believe that a true writer is someone who writes only for the sake of pure, unadulterated writing. I relish in the thought that I feel much better when I write away whatever that is there within my bosom: feels like a good night's sleep. I am more super normal than all those crazy teenagers out there who are purely driven by their hormonal rages and self-indulgent pleasures; I deserve a parole, man! I used to play the violin: I use the past tense as I'm currently on hiatus with the instrument. I was supposed to write more here, but I'm not going to do that now. You can feel free to contact me if you want to anything more."

---------> This is what you should have noticed in the right hand side of Miss April's blog. But since she thought what you see displayed right now explains more of her nature with concern to writing, she thought it would be prudent enough if it remains so. Miss April has had her fair share of blogging: she used to maintain a blog with LiveJournal for quite some time when she was in an age which she deems she was very immature in. So when she decided to stop the connection she had with LJ and decided to create a website for her own to let out her creativity, she just stopped using that website and posting anything on it. Why you ask? Well, that is something for which she knows the answer not. Now that she had decided to carve out yet another new identity for herself on Blogger, she hopes that she will strive to work more on her writing skills and update them whenever possible without any excuses.

Saw the title of this post yet? "Starting afresh just proves that writing is no less than the pheonix" Miss April wrote this and she firmly believes by this.

NOTE---> Miss April Twelving is not a stranger but is only me: Haripriya Ramakrishnan. But since April Twelving is an identity of mine which I use to write with, all the posts here will remain only in the third person view as in where you find someone else describing me. For this, you can call me a snob, bratty or even just as a plain old bitch for all I care. For it is not you for whom I am writing: I wrote for me, for myself. But with no offence intended whatsoever, if you like my writing...or even me after being influenced by the writing, I welcome you with open arms. Constructive criticisms are always welcomed, and so are flames and bad opinions.

Miss April writes what she thinks and feels just at the moment. What justice would she be doing you if she bars you from writing bad about her writing?! Miss April is not judgmental in any way possible and that is just part of what she wants to express in her writing. True, this post here might be true for what a conventional first post must be--bragging about all the non-essentials. But as Miss April is in no way an exerciser of such practices, she will cease to write now.

(She also ceases to write now because of her little five year old cousin's forcal for her to stop writing and go doodle with her)

To writing, to Shakespeare who always inspires Miss April, to Blogger for providing her a platform, to her ever beloved and respected Pradeep Senpai, to Sudarshan San who boosted her to writing this post, to her little five year old cousin who kept her off the short five or ten minutes' writer's block with her stream of little never ending questions. To Miss April Twelving herself for finally kicking her own ass to go sit at the computer at her aunt's and start on this blog which she had been contemplating whether or not to start for the past...who knows from when?!

Till the time my fingers next touch a keboard, adieu.