November 23rd, 2014
June 4th, 2014
I just found this in my drafts, written probably on March 9th or 10th 2012. San Miguel de Allende is the most elegant usher across the threshold into 40. A place to experience beauty in all its forms – in the mingling of people from all walks of life, at all hours in the public square, to the glow of many cathedral domes and spires across the horizon, to the cuban band waiting for the church bells to stop ringing before resuming their number, to multiple mariachi bands singing away, not bothering they are one on top of each other.
June 4th, 2014
I’m back on Indusubaiya.com. 2013 was a hard year but a transformative year. And now we’re in 2014 and the climate is calmer. I hope I write about all the things I love: Writing itself, film, Health 2.0, the brain, India, Los Angeles, my family, product design, and self-reliance.
January 1st, 2013
December 31st, 2011
December 23rd, 2011
After seeing Page One, the stellar documentary about the state of the New York Times in an age of dying print news, I’m more convinced than ever that the NYT can become more profitable than anything. I know there are a gazillion brilliant people who’ve been working at this issue for a long time but I think if I had access to capital that was willing to be patient for a while, I could figure out a model. For one, their online presence is so under-leveraged. The year in review in pictures can’t even be embedded in another blog – this gorgeous visual history – I can’t share with anyone other than via a hyperlink. That is the kind of difference I’d be exacting about if it were my company. It’s the kind of thing that actually makes a difference. When I sign in, why can’t I customize the page better? Why is Times Topics buried in a random link up top when it’s the coolest thing ever? And many more questions.
December 18th, 2011
I read about this song in Lapham’s Quarterly, in a piece written by Billy Holiday herself where she talks about how the song came about — partly based on a poem and partly based on how her father died. Every time she sang it she had to run to the bathroom where she got sick – it took that much out of her. It starts, “Southern trees bear a strange fruit, Blood on the leaves and blood at the root.” I listened to it just now, and the waves of chills are still coming.
October 31st, 2011
After 7 years, it’s the particular joy of returning. Of finding the same painting on the side of a building, the same wind tunnel sound of the S train, the same dark dreams. And of course the Park Inn which caught my eye as soon as I arrived in Berlin and dominated my visual-mind-scape for the entirety of my stay – for reasons I can’t fully articulate.
September 4th, 2010