Sigh squared

Oh and this is my car. Pretty no. She's a lil raspy when started up though. This is my room...quite a sleep inducer and yada yada yada. Variations of virtual tours of my home were spilling into my ears and shot back into my head circuitously for more chopping, re-editing, rephrasing and additional knickknacks. Somehow I manged to rest eyes in determination not to like panda for the next day. Next day. Went about like yoga went wrong with a crick by the diaphragm and refused to exhale much. Mopped, swept, cooked, wine at handy. And tequila too. And ice cream.

It wasn't till evening that I actually put a face to my cleaning bout. Didn't want to count them chickens. However, Luck crapped on the two of us. It cost him literally. And I went skittering like a popped balloon.

The one good thing that's come of this is that home has been gleaned.

Bloody Dunes

Why is it such a big deal/issue/expectation or whatever you call it! to want it straight simple neat...the person I'm madly in love with to be just as madly in love with me...? There's no such thing as perfect, no one has it easy yada yada yada but Orkut says otherwise. They all are bledy leaving testimonials of their love for each other now! No I don't grudge them. I bet it's so bledy nice to be that way. And Orkut is probably the worst thing to happen to me. Or maybe all this swishes around in my head cos of PMS. Guess I need to bleed to be a better person. Sometimes it's that simple...or so it seems. Monthly ruminations...

Once you get used to not having, there's a shutter that leaves just about enough ventilation for it to grow on you. But these bleeding times of clarity gets it all clogged in the wedges and in need of some dusting. Baah!

And synchronised PMS is rather deadly. P'dner and I have it together. We hardly meet, but then we do talk on the phone a lot. Both of us aren't up to bail each other out but sigh or hiss with nods.

Compass, ladder and some recipes plis...

Having blared Rare Earth, RHCP and more, Worldspace quit on my mom when she switched to the spirituality channels, which btw are the only ones that will play on not having renewed subscription. Fiddling with the palm-sized remote with tough buttons that feel like thick corn (is that what you call it?) at the junction tween finger and palm, and mine I attribute to 5 years of riding a blue kinetic with musical notes etched on the side. Tsk Tsk. It's not so bad really. Deviant me. That was no sentence. That was a strand. I'd like to think it the vapourous stuff that Dumbledore pulls out with his wand and swishes into the pensieve like a stray string of spaghetti.

Yup, fiddling with the remote didn't get the stations back. The display said CARR 75. This, the customer care persons pronounced as CARE. Some care indeed. The manual didn't have it in the index and was still missing after having run through it all. When nothing they suggested worked, I was told to clamber on to the roof and direct the antenna South East at an elevation of 45 to 50 degrees. What?! This at 11 pm with a very reluctant moon.

In between all this I was screeching as to why they i.e. mum and uncle had to mess around when all they had to do was holler for me. And while the verbal blah blahs rallied, the aquaguard was belting out it's annoying, high pitched tune while my uncle loudly read out the manual. Mad indeed! But quite funny on after thought though in a frustrating and exhausting way :-) Oh well.

I'm considering opening up whiling wonky's popcorn! Made that fabulous vanilla flavoured, orange-tang-touched butter popcorn! Most fabulous ever! And meat chips also happened by accident on frying salami cut into nachos look alikes.

Wait up! Here's a ping pong bat...will you play me?

...why am I reminded I'm alone in a lonely way? Got no issues with the former. Annoying the way it makes its presence felt with the help of the jelly legging latter, like sudden twitches of the leg making you start up in retinas otherwise glazing over. No matter what one says it'll never be ever. What makes the loneliness seep beyond the fine line of alone is the dual knowledge that you feel a constant and that the rest aren't or so it seems. Then constant is tossed on it's side and snoozes snugly but still ticking though a lil sluggish now. Alone makes its way through lonely by blaring at the other while I'm having it good and not knowing. Or so I believe. So it is nice to think so. So consolatory. Fairness. Glitches in so called constant time...when I haven't been what I want others to be. So we fill in the gaps like chocolate sauce in cookie ridges. Just isn't that sweet. Guess it's all tolerated for those moments when we're in step.

Mashed Potatos

I like the Contours. And I pretend to be able to jive pretty well in my head. Or else I should just go with calling this post 'the world's always 3 drinks behind' as Bogart said. But sometimes it's such a dizzy I dunno who's ahead.

Average life it seems. Nothing really wrong. But it's buzzing with flies waiting to land on the stink about to ensue! One of them being owing p'dner a lot. Literally and otherwise. Sometimes nothing seems enough. Literally yes. 68. That's all I got. Otherwise... wish I could erase some and flick the grubby lead into a black hole. Or mix and match to every varying sense of perfection that accosts her at every step. Or at the least conduct a lobotomy. But then she would've never been her. I don't know the answer to mind block, contentment, tossing baggage. Baah! Incompetent. It feels crazy and freakishly so like bald tyres going wonky on roads. When an integral part of you needs the rest and you just can't get the grease in the right grooves. Terrible mechanic indeed. I just ride my bike and drive my car. I don't know what makes it move apart from the gas. Peering under the hood or letting the mechanic grope under my bike only reinstates helpless. In the former I know only the radiator. In the latter I know he's just unplugged the spark and taking me for my ride indeed. Wish I knew all the hows...

All day I've been having the smell of orange rind strung to my nostrils. Thanks to a 4 am sms on flavoured butter popcorn from P'dner (after which my nose was on high alert through fat mosquitos' drones and sudden bursts of jazz piano from the radio). Loverly indeed! 100 gms butter with dried corn in presure cooker. Here the crackle. Open up and dunk powdered orange rind, seeds of vanilla (where am I going to get that here?! In the city of sickeningly sweet Vanilla essence Arun Ice Creams!) and sugar. Bliss! What a happy world! Pthisssh!

Lotus Stem Vathal

Monday. The dastardly day. Fie! It rhymes already. Triple Y! Oh my gawdy! What a bawdy day indeedy! Blueberry waffles I want simply cause tis monday and monday goes very well with blue. It's a cliche and it might as well hang with something utterly yummy in sick hopes of subduing its manic sting. Yes, I'm taking off popular terms associated with the dread day - blue, manic. Tsk Tsk.

Monday is precisely 30 hours along. It eats into my last 6 on Sunday. Propped like a cubist creation on orange cushions sipping languidly on mom's tea, spliced in neat lines of dull gold, a typical sunday sun, and cream blind's narrow shadows, I feel the anxiety getting unzipped and grate over each interlocking groove. Wallowing on what's to come, devising ways of making it to alternate world, actually a fisherman or a dolphin trainer will do. Or octopus catching in Grecian Urns by the seas of Tunisia will do too.

Loathsome morn I tell you. Why awake. Why can't it slip in unnoticed during the bustling hours when it doesn't matter what day or time it is but what's on hand is all that counts. Why the faff can't it dawn monday when I'm busy squabbling with an auto fellow, or busy rummaging through a book store, flipping channels on worldspace, while going ouzo ouzo with N, or when busy doodling!

Lilly livered monday! I dare you to take me at day time! Ha! Parasite prey on sunday. Out from 'neath buttercup yellow underskirts! Milksop! Monday you!

Episode 1 of Time and Timely Travels

Scrambled out of bed bug infested side upper at 4 am. Stubbed my toes down and into floaters and plodded through snores on my way to make myself presentable. Splashed rubbery water that rolled off without removing a tint of the train's muck. Actively rubbing with tissue, it unclogged. Old man on lower birth panicked on seeing me so sprightly. He sprung up and went about waking his relatives scattered around the compartment. Every station he peered at as though waiting to leap out through the emergency exit if need be. Sat smug knowing we were still some time away. Complacently I went about applying moisturiser and lip salve, packing in my shawl and arranging my bag for easy grabbing. His panic heightened and he went about snatching shawls off his son and wife and folding them hastily. Sporadic lights came on. The ujala ones of the train as well as glow watches. They hrumphed and they grumphed, turned their behinds on each other and regressed.

In the meanwhile, I was busy going bright eyed at myriad flashes of being received and how. At the station? Should I just save trouble and land up home and surprise? Will, I zero in on speck tween all that sludge like flow of sweatered trudgers with luggage? Or will I find him step-in from a corner? Will I kill slow minutes, squishing them with glee as one does when squelching nits and tell myself to walk patiently to the gate to prevent myself from tripping over auto men's legs? And then will I take short wisps of searing cold in bursting anticipation, recapping to the slow droll of days past? And then on seeing his car, I knew I'd grin like an idiot, highlights streaking off like the northern lights.

By now, the train promised to pull in at the station closest. I saw his apartment zip by. And it took me quite a while to figure that the train wasn't going to slow down. Drat! More time in my way. In between all this anticipation there were other eager souls who kept shoving their mousy hair under my nose as they kept ducking to see if they had indeed arrived.

Jittering and thudding on potholes I landed there pretty fast. Ripping out hairbrush, I gleaned scattered strands. Trotted to the elevator, slammed gates, n whistled like a milk cooker. That name plate :-) Ding! Dong! I tried to look composed. And my idea of composed is staring at a space nowhere. I walk in. Act like I've just arrived, plonking bag and all. And turn around to get a squg. Squg! Warm. Catholic experience. Time's zapper. Content. Blissfully blank except for one strong feeling of just being. Period. That's what I've been waiting for over a month. That's what I dreamt of and daydreamed of a trillion times. That's all I've been quite wanting for sometime. And now that I'm back, I want more!

Nosey worries

My monster nose is gonna give Rudolf stiff competition. Raw red, it's gearing up for the christmas season doing trial runs with make-up - tell tale snow flakes. Flaked skin. It burns I tell you. However, I am begining to seriously hope that I do take a trip across the world and land up in N's stocking on christmas day.

Should've taken up p'dners invitation and gone to Pondy tod. Uncle would've been quite willing to let us go and get drunk. Rocks to warm butt on. Green moss slapping behind your ankle. A lone fish flip-fopping. And all that pasta! Fie O Fie Arcane!

Apologies, confessions, purgation, lobotomy

I was contemplating avatars the other day. Figured a shriveled mushroom or even bacteria on a green bathroom tile would be apt. When faced with potent embarrassment that's bound to zap you out to extinction, you begin to ponder escape routes of a better life of a lowly miserable creature not worth noting, living blissfully for a few days in anonymity and utter contentment. Filth is at large you see.

Hoping that A doesn't write me off as disgusting and weird in need of a shrink. It was a mistake! It was a reflex! Monster House will prove my innocence at the gagging reflex. My uvula did it!

What don't I screw up? Even the art and joy of gifting refuses to take place as it should without me tripping all over it and sliding in my own butter at desperate lurches to save it. A cd I sent. In spite of having known that no one would be at home to receive it, I thickly drill squiggly lines of the residence address. Next morning I fret. So much for a surprise. I msg and reveal all in anxiety. Anxiety kicks into 5th gear and I make calls to DTDC offices in the city and out of station and finally land up with someone who is quite sweet but understands no word I say. Spelling out office address thrice and one hour later I get a call from the Chennai office for recipient's number. Recipient hasn't messaged. Was stuck with weird old man who kept emphasizing on how tongues wag when the opp sex hang out even if it's professionally. Lasted for 2 and a half hours!!! Tracking? My ass! I dunno if it's reached. Recipient is blank. Drat!

ketchup

A quart of vodka, my mauve blanket and Sophie's World. Wet dogs. I smell wet dogs! Slugs trailing in tantric patterns. Shadows glued to my curtains; waving and moulding to the breeze. A lone mosquito drones by the ear. Coconut goes thudding in the next compound as I plot to jump in and save it early next morn simultaneously preparing threats at grouchy watchman. Kitten bawls. Cats come skidding. Squeals and spitting orgasms. And then sleep's breathing becomes evident, permeates and explodes. Community feeling. Can't make up my mind if it's peaceful or bothers. Any sense of belonging icks me out. Only a mutual wanting for company corks hiccups on singularity. I am not a vagina. I am not here to reproduce. Being female is being part of me. Chocolate ice cream from sunday. Sugary chocolate sauce. It never drowns, the bottle's almost empty. Splicing and shoving with a spoon. Flipping channels. Reading news that stinks when its rotted so completely triggering gagging reflexes. Twiddling toes on carpet and wondering if the living room needs a larger one. The lizard population has grown. They somersault on blinds making thudripping sounds. I miss frogs. So long since I heard a croak or saw a snails black metal trail. The cops are having a ball with the new patrol cars. They experiment with the howler. Banshee! Dogs growl. I wonder if they see some white floatsomes. A bit of a wus, I stick by the TV longer. Scalding hot water from reluctant spores come gushing in archs hitting tiles and anywhere but me. Rituals of calls and messages and fears and complications. Praying. Transit to in between.

Sun Dunk

This morning was grasped with disbelief...it's a thursday! :-) I can sniff the weekend. Spilled out of bed in a scraggly vertical line and smacked palms on the switchboard barely squinting and twiddled up to the fan knob and eased it off. Peering eagerly for a calendar that wasn't there, my mind fell back on groping with yesterday, feeling up for a detail that would've positively made it a wednesday. Umm I remembered something about Kannada Rajautsav being on wed and I knew he had an off...ha! wednesday! Sunshine crept in.

Gulped oats and stepped out to be speckled by splotches and creeping gray. It hardly lasted for 2 minutes and the sun shone all the way. Drat! I'm rhyming! Rode in a daze. Landed on a pile of work. Ick.

I inch my way to lunch break only to be jolted and cringe a feet away. There was a puraan in my lunch packet lashing meekly. I don't know what that bledy insect is called in english. Anyway, its pincers are known to send rashes round the body and bloat. Egad! It was dying. Well, it was squashed under my lunch box all this while, some curd rice and mutton. Partially squished it turned a lovely blue. I saw it breathe its last in the curd fumes before chucking in a bin.

Rashes or bloats or not, an electrocuted cat on a wall is what I look like though the bristles are subsiding slowly. I'm still sitting on edge. And now is when the cleaner decides to mop the floor with a generous helping of phenoil. But the darn dank mop has stomped over the phenoil pungency and is wafting its stench through the vents. What goes around comes around. Blistering Blue Barnacles indeed!

Zilch appetite. Ordering from the fly-o-drome below is smudging away the hunger gnawing at my throat. Waiting for 415 and some plum cake and luke warm caramelly coffee from cheta. Tick faster time...I'll feed the world some quotable quotes in your name.

pinch me!

No more nasty wails whipping me awake from above, no more fear of being split haphazardly into pieces of gut and sticky flesh and red. My fan’s got a bush. Ahem! Yes, apparently it’s a gadget that muzzles it into place instead of letting it swing wildly in hallucinatory rings. Oh and it also makes it meek. Before, at around 3am or so it gets guttural and starts hiccupping and when it goes into the final lap, it begins to screech like a banshee! Without it is so silent. Without it means growing wet like frozen lemons out in the open – slippery, slithery, leathery. Without it means no sleep and squinting at it with disdain in the dark. With it means wind (it’s got four blades). No, actually a mini typhoon. With it means I get into my frog position and say ‘so screw you! I’m gonna sleep nice especially if it’s my last night!’ Now, it just wisps along demurely. Patriarch I sound like.

Gummy day yesterday. Juiced and stretched beyond wood pulp. Made quite a purchase. 7 meters of upholstery and a lovely dhurrie. My aid was a good bud, quite uncomplaining till my bike shuddered to a halt. Bledy drunk had walked out on me one more time. I rolled it up to a bunk 200ms ahead. And good bud cum aid turned coolie, lugged dhurrie, profusely sweating, cussing and hoping no one caught him trailing with a big brown mat, especially in his red jacket, which almost did well as a uniform. Sorry Kuku.

My nights slip into days considering I’m usually jilted by sleep. And what a day. Hot chocolate with good friend and a midnight chat with her lying on a hospital bed! Ankle broken in 3 places. Wired and bolted this morning, she’ll be up in 4 weeks or so.

The fragility of it all is freaky. It seems to be the only thing that’s real. Everything else, the means, the whole being perched on things that flit, is surreal. The only thing we wake up to is a tap on our porcelain window. And then quickly, it’s all plastered over and the grooves grow thick with the muck of life, only to crack up a lil later. How many wake-up calls I wonder.

She was on a bus heading home, and midway, the front tire exploded tossing the crowd out. In all that metal and meaty bodies a woman lost her leg and my friend thankfully just an ankle, temporarily. MTC will pay up I hope. But being just a statistic doesn’t help. Don’t think there’s a long wait to be barcoded. We already are. Busses will be overcrowded. People will footboard. The entire frame will be falling apart. It will still run. It will still be spitting out black fumes recklessly, with no emission control in place. Women will be pinched. One woman to another woman will advice on how modestly to drape a dupatta. Women will take men’s seats in the name of positive discrimination and holler when an old man takes a lady’s. Babies will relentlessly wail. My friend will walk. We will be numbers.

Oh yeah and then there’s Hope.

Flitzzz

Aah morning and I feel like a headless chicken especially when I’ve got so much time on my hands, cupped like orbs waiting to be freshly juiced. Brad Pitt’s voice from Fight Club goes like a gong in my head, ‘your life is ending one minute at a time.’ Patience evades, panic settles on skin like gooseflesh prickling to a siren. Food is gobbled. Taste scathing on tongue…like I don’t deserve to have it any longer.

Gaah! When most things are fire walled and discretion and quickies to blah and co is a must so as to not get them tagged ‘forbidden’ by abishtoo spouting IT people, and to ensure that rituals can be conducted without interference the next day, abstinence meanders to boredom, which in turn chugs towards Linda Goodman’s zodiac signs. Scorpio. I am cute. Not some husky voiced seductress. I’m specksie boo up for cuddles. Egad!! I guess it's the same difference the bones make...one's own voice sounds different from the way others get it. Can’t escape Specksie Boo even if my name is ‘Arcane’ insists p'dner.

Overall emotional compatibility – Aquarius. True. Overall incompatibility – Leo. False. People I’ve fallen hard for including my first crush in 2^nd std is a Leo and I still trip on him. Plus, i've discovered him online after aeons. Though none of that sucked-in-stomach state happens anymore, it's still got the highlights going off my cheeks. Secretive. I just forget to tell. Dreamy eyes. I’m an insomniac. And I don’t have a planet anymore. Pluto isn’t a planet…tsk tsk.

Watched Hostel…freaky concept…torture house where you can explore your sadistic side on a variety of nationalities, American’s being the most high-priced. Very disturbing to know that violence of that kind is imaginable. Charles Manson’s a Scorpio. Don’t understand violence being described as animalistic. Animals hunt to survive. But then sadism seems to be a singular entity, which needs to thrive. Incidentally, goo from the vein connecting the eyeball to the skull looks like mint sauce. If this were Happy Tree Friends they'd be slurping it up

Now, how can someone constantly turn ideas into senile vegas boards?! That only. How?! An awareness ad was turned into an obituary for the dead person. Now it's cheesy glamour, uncool bling, raunchy glitz and all of it in one go has got to clear the stomach lining out.

Toodoo lama lama toodoo lama lama...

Faux pas de la vida almost lived. Not anymore. Cause I refuse to be apologetic for me and my rambles and hide. No more unsettling feelings of being exposed, of stuttering over grammar. Detachment starts here. I don't care. P'dner...faux pas de la vida's last words...actually last mother-of-paras

It's amazing how 2 words and a conjunction can take me on a spin that's totally out of order, self-inflicted, unwarranted, unfair. All it did do is throw up a few things that stand as they are in spite of anything, be it smart, talented, and all those nice positivie ego-boosting things. I don't seem to want anything bad enough. And that's what I want badly. To not want. To flit through life, get zapped by what it has to offer and move on. And there's a very convoluted connection to all this in the name of work, save, get real. In a weird ass way that I can't explain I'm happy. What I don't like about being happy is that there are so many kinds. And this one is placid. I hate placid! Duality would be easy. But duality never met. Doesn't get to meet I guess. Btw I don't believe in that. It's theoretical. It's real and therefore I don't believe. Plus, there's no such thing as duality. It would exist only if I were a sunbathing cow on cud. Why is letting go such an issue. I don't know why I cling on to things umm well like fluorescent rubber bands with polka dotted teats hanging off. I don't need a shrink. I need a blockage. I can move. Masochist in me wants to know how much longer. Apparently longer. Breaks don't do me good. Time off is absolute no no. I am running out of time. I wanna hop rides like a hobohemian. Nothing's stopping. I need to buy a ticket. Not unreserved but first class. I just have to. And when it's all done with I'll be bumming around the 'real and sensible' way because somewhere I'm above average and yet want to be safe not cause chances unnerve me but the fragility of losing it all in a wink. Detachment. It's easy. I've almost touched it and scooted back. I want to get there...pronto! I don't know how...ya think tis an entity or some privilege club that approaches you. Am I too lowly not to deserve a reason? Or ya think money can do the trick? Maybe you're going "i can't believe she's so complicated." I'm bad with knots. I just want to know. And weirdly it all boils down to one thing in the lack of detachment. Being loved.

Now, I'll just go chaperone my boredom.

RitzyKracker. I almost called the blog that. But it sounds like some peroxide blonde in a doll dress doing the splits amidst bright bulbs and hoops. Oh and that's how far my French cum Spanish goes...faux pas de la vida. Franish. Franish sounds like an omelette with foie gras and spanish tomatoes. That's pretty much z idea...faux pas...foie gras...fattened with averageness, churned into averageness, oh fie life! Enough methinks with all that pasting and grating, enough of those sporadic giggles and poke at poor geeky, plump, bespectacled, waddling life.

Toodles boredom! Tata! Shoo! Scat!

I lost my larynx...

methinks. I've been scrounging for it in replays of fabulous days that don't wait for my nostrils to dilate as I pass through moments of glee or collapse with my deep sighs on blissful moments, but just keep rushing past. And now it's almost automatic. And I can't find my larynx.

When it makes a meager appearance, it can't keep up with the speed of recaps. Soon a fresh burst of sores clog it up. Words come out searing and difficult. And I let myself be lulled by clippings of zipping on gorgeous roads with a person I hold closer than close.

And when exhausted of doing those umpteen trips, I allow myself to be gnashed in a motley mess of squatting commas, periods due for eviction, and narrow straits of dictated strains and insipid creativity.

Manual work. Shoveling bodies and parts in Lebanon. Or building. Cleaning the gore. But Red Cross apparently takes in only American citizens. Tsk Tsk. I'll settle for a lift operator. Shuttling up and down, I'll be limbo-happy in that damp, dark, musty box in a void that comes in fragments of unpeopled moments gradually growing in humidity and sweat swirls churned by the buzz of dust laden rotors.

Half the time I’m reminding myself the means to an end is just a means. The remaining quarter I let the means seep in so deep that I’m running out of time. The other quarter is reserved for those flashes of nincompoopness that laughs at its own dilemma likened to a sticky Turkish sweet that wont give. And then it swears that it wont let me be average, seeking safety. It’s lot like the East coast undercurrent. The water wallops you to the shore and the sand underneath drags you in. Clawing and digging your toes into the loose wet gold grips you in a tantalizing fear. I know I’d love to know what happens on being dragged away cause like someone said at the end of every fear is freedom. Blank-out pills help blot out all the striving that takes to be average and wanting of a world with routines, a world that’s staid and flat. But a few grains of sand have gotten under the seams, and can’t be washed out. I’m folding that bit up and stitching it up double.

Panju mittai!

Now I have two templates. Must be me wonly...one is a ghastly spiked-with-great-amounts-of-rose-escence-rose milk colour and the other, the usual speckled one. Idle hands and idle kicks I tell you...the template samples showed something close to hot pink which is a colour I like and then it turns out to be this bledy cotton candy with words scrawled all over! But if keyed in without the www then it's good ole speckles! Paah! Why won't that pink go away!!

update: pink poye pochu!

Fuzzcurr

This is all some yikety yak cause it's an experiment. You see I had just uploaded a few of my fav poems...4 of them and blogspot refuses to show them. And the few that flit past my blog might miss out on some of the most amazing poems by incredible people. So I'm hoping this post effectively puts the missing poems back in view.

So about the yikety yak...is this the feline mating season??? Cause my garden is brimming with scurrying fluff and colours of all sizes and ages!! It first started off with a perky gray one with eyes that move faster than neo. Perky one's a sucker for cuddles. All that smothering gave his catty nature of owning the world, a mega boost. He sauntered into my house. It wouldn't be a bad thing if my parents weren't finicky about the cat shedding and fear of what the cat brought in and what the cat took out. So it's just the garden and verandah.

Anyway, Neo made his home everywhere inside ma house. We figured he sneaked in at some odd hour at night through the window. Instead of some holy-aura-instilling melody, mornings were bursting with hollers of my holy name! Cos Neo used to greet my parents every morning with a well rested purr. The cat expert was alerted with the negative vibes of muttered curses punctuating every bellow . Tripping down the stairs I had to come all groggy eyed, puffy cheeked and with gnarled hair. Cradling the oh-can-we-play!?!-I-throw-ball-u-catch, grey kitty, I go through rapidly unbolted doors, out on to the verandah and into the garden and leave him in the farthest corner. And yes, Neo thought it was a game and he repeated his outings to my house till we shut the windows and he ditched us after a week never to be spotted again i.e.
permanently loitering in our garden. Though he does drop in once in a while when he's crossing over to greener pastures. This one time instead of assuaging our wounded ego at an ungrateful cat who gorged on the most sought after fishes, we were quite relieved and I slept peaceful mornings.

Neo's best bud and blood bro Zebra had us quite worried. He was a docile cat. Never used to eat much of what we fed him and always let Neo have the first helping. We thought he was a wimp and not much of a cat. He couldn't even poop right and clean up like one. Yep, he wasn't much of cat. He remained a kitten for a long time. He was tiny and skinny. While I was wondering if he should get some growth hormones injected into him, tada! He grew. Jus a tad longer. And we saw him streak under a bush with a chameleon hanging limp and wanting to be dead in his mouth. I'm happy for him.

Karuthama is one hot kitty cat! She's jet black and is slick and sleek as Naomi Campbell. She's such a tease man. You gotta see her walk with those long legs patting the air daintily with her long sinuous shimmery tail. If twas the ramp, those would be flying kisses. And she's a CAT , a real one...silent, intriguing, with a purposeful look lining her green eyes, and flitting in and out like a dream.

Then there's Puff, her exact opposite. A little pudgy with irregular white tufts grown a lil muddy. He's quite a dirty bugger unusually. He's sweet, lazy, and easy on the eye cause he just sits, sits and sits. Wonder if beneath this languor lurks a maned lion insitnct...get me food lady! Now! On the double! I sure hope that Karuthama isn't dating him. But I gotta say he is quite an endearing slob, all round in the face like some stress ball and oval slits for eyes which are perpetually half closed with a blissful sunny smirk twitching across his lil mouth, wagging his tail slumberously while lolling under the pavazha malli bush bathed in its perfume.

All brown cats must be called Ramaswamy cause my dad's childhood cat was one and we think it's him in his 9 avatars. So Ramaswamy in keeping with his name is very south indian in nature. He loves rice! And any kozhambu added to it has him snarling at us to get away from him asap so that he can bury his face in the lil rice mound. He's home early and sticks true to what they say about a cat "poona pola varudhu"...one minute he is there, the next minute he's gone! No trouble with him. He wants his rice. But give him a whiff of more exotic stuff and something overcomes him...a kind of frenzy, the kind the masses feel when they get scent of Rajnikanth being due to make an appearance somewhere. He paces on the kitchen window sill alternating hiccups of squeals and cajoling purrs while my mum carries on passively cooking the sora puttu. He's almost in tears when it's cooked for he can no longer get anything outta his lips. But otherwise he's quite a placid cat.

The amorous ones and I have quite a connection. Their hotbed is right under my bedroom window. Their orgasmic spitting and snarls has me bolt upright from the bed at unearthly hours, scramble for my phone and wake up snoozing p'dner and make her snap out of her slumber as well by holding the phone to the window. Once, the coconut tree bang outside my window got tired of their foreplay which involves some highpitched squeals and bawling like a baby, that a branch crashed on to them sending them in opposite directions spitting curses.

Apart from these regulars there are other locals who use my garden as a highway to ply between prospective food spots. Not only don't they pay toll, they don't even look sideways at us while strutting over and taking toilet breaks. Pthoo pthoo pthoo to you whiskered ones too!!

Ma bag o lyrics

Marriage
Gregory Corso

Should I get married? Should I be Good?
Astound the girl next door with my velvet suit and faustaus hood?
Don't take her to movies but to cemeteries
tell all about werewolf bathtubs and forked clarinets
then desire her and kiss her and all the preliminaries
and she going just so far and I understanding why
not getting angry saying You must feel! It's beautiful to feel!
Instead take her in my arms lean against an old crooked tombstone
and woo her the entire night the constellations in the sky--

When she introduces me to her parents
back straightened, hair finally combed, strangled by a tie,
should I sit knees together on their 3rd degree sofa
and not ask Where's the bathroom?
How else to feel other than I am,
often thinking Flash Gordon soap--
O how terrible it must be for a young man
seated before a family and the family thinking
We never saw him before! He wants our Mary Lou!
After tea and homemade cookies they ask What do you do for a living?
Should I tell them? Would they like me then?
Say All right get married, we're losing a daughter
but we're gaining a son--
And should I then ask Where's the bathroom?

O God, and the wedding! All her family and her friends
and only a handful of mine all scroungy and bearded
just waiting to get at the drinks and food--
And the priest! He looking at me if I masturbated
asking me Do you take this woman for your lawful wedded wife?
And I trembling what to say say Pie Glue!
I kiss the bride all those corny men slapping me on the back
She's all yours, boy! Ha-ha-ha!
And in their eyes you could see some obscene honeymoon going on--

then all that absurd rice and clanky cans and shoes
Niagara Falls! Hordes of us! Husbands! Wives! Flowers! Chocolates!
All streaming into cozy hotels
All going to do the same thing tonight
The indifferent clerk he knowing what was going to happen
The lobby zombies they knowing what
The whistling elevator man he knowing
The winking bellboy knowing
Everybody knowing! I'd be almost inclined not to do anything!
Stay up all night! Stare that hotel clerk in the eye!
Screaming: I deny honeymoon! I deny honeymoon!
running rampant into those almost climatic suites
yelling Radio belly! Cat shovel!
O I'd live in Niagara forever! in a dark cave beneath the Falls
I'd sit there the Mad Honeymooner devising ways to break marriages, a scourge of
bigamy a saint of divorce--

But I should get married I should be good
How nice it'd be to come home to her
and sit by the fireplace and she in the kitchen
aproned young and lovely wanting by baby
and so happy about me she burns the roast beef
and comes crying to me and I get up from my big papa chair
saying Christmas teeth! Radiant brains! Apple deaf!
God what a husband I'd make! Yes, I should get married!
So much to do! like sneaking into Mr Jones' house late at night
and cover his golf clubs with 1920 Norwegian books
Like hanging a picture of Rimbaud on the lawnmower
like pasting Tannu Tuva postage stamps all over the picket fence
like when Mrs Kindhead comes to collect for the Community Chest
grab her and tell her There are unfavorable omens in the sky!
And when the mayor comes to get my vote tell him
When are you going to stop people killing whales!
And when the milkman comes leave him a note in the bottle
Penguin dust, bring me penguin dust, I want penguin dust--

Yet if I should get married and it's Connecticut and snow
and she gives birth to a child and I am sleepless, worn,
up for nights, head bowed against a quiet window, the past behind me,
finding myself in the most common of situations a trembling man
knowledged with responsibility not twig-smear not Roman coin soup--
O what would that be like!
Surely I'd give it for a nipple a rubber Tacitus
For a rattle bag of broken Bach records
Tack Della Francesca all over its crib
Sew the Greek alphabet on its bib
And build for its playpen a roofless Parthenon

No, I doubt I'd be that kind of father
not rural not snow no quiet window
but hot smelly New York City
seven flights up, roaches and rats in the walls
a fat Reichian wife screeching over potatoes Get a job!
And five nose running brats in love with Batman
And the neighbors all toothless and dry haired
like those hag masses of the 18th century
all wanting to come in and watch TV
The landlord wants his rent
Grocery store Blue Cross Gas & Electric Knights of Columbus
Impossible to lie back and dream Telephone snow, ghost parking--
No! I should not get married and I should never get married!
But--imagine if I were to marry a beautiful sophisticated woman
tall and pale wearing an elegant black dress and long black gloves
holding a cigarette holder in one hand and highball in the other
and we lived high up a penthouse with a huge window
from which we could see all of New York and even farther on clearer days
No I can't imagine myself married to that pleasant prison dream--

O but what about love? I forget love
not that I am incapable of love
it's just that I see love as odd as wearing shoes--
I never wanted to marry a girl who was like my mother
And Ingrid Bergman was always impossible
And there maybe a girl now but she's already married
And I don't like men and--
but there's got to be somebody!
Because what if I'm 60 years old and not married,
all alone in furnished room with pee stains on my underwear
and everybody else is married! All in the universe married but me!

Ah, yet well I know that were a woman possible as I am possible
then marriage would be possible--
Like SHE in her lonely alien gaud waiting her Egyptian lover
so I wait--bereft of 2,000 years and the bath of life.



The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock
T.S. Eliot

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreatsOf restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question...
Oh, do not ask, 'What is it?'
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, 'Do I dare?' and, 'Do I dare?'
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
(They will say: 'How his hair is growing thin!')
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
(They will say: 'But how his arms and legs are thin!')
Do I dareDisturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all--
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all--
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

. . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,
Stretched on on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in
upon a platter,
I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: 'I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all,
I shall tell you all'--
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: 'That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.'

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail
along the floor--
And this, and so much more?--
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a
screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
'That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.'

. . . . .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old ... I grow old ...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.



The Revolution will not be telvised
Gil Scott Heron

You will not be able to stay home, brother.
You will not be able to plug in, turn on and cop out.
You will not be able to lose yourself on skag and skip,S
kip out for beer during commercials,
Because the revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be brought to you by Xerox
In 4 parts without commercial interruptions.
The revolution will not show you pictures of Nixon
blowing a bugle and leading a charge by John
Mitchell, General Abrams and Spiro Agnew to eat
hog maws confiscated from a Harlem sanctuary.
The revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be brought to you by the
Schaefer Award Theatre and will not star Natalie
Woods and Steve McQueen or Bullwinkle and Julia.
The revolution will not give your mouth sex appeal.
The revolution will not get rid of the nubs.
The revolution will not make you look five pounds
thinner, because the revolution will not be televised, Brother.

There will be no pictures of you and Willie May
pushing that shopping cart down the block on the dead run,
or trying to slide that color television into a stolen ambulance.
NBC will not be able predict the winner at 8:32
or report from 29 districts.
The revolution will n0t be televised.

There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down
brothers in the instant replay.
There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down
brothers in the instant replay.
There will be no pictures of Whitney Young being
run out of Harlem on a rail with a brand new process.
There will be no slow motion or still life of Roy
Wilkens strolling through Watts in a Red, Black and
Green liberation jumpsuit that he had been saving
For just the proper occasion.

Green Acres, The Beverly hillbillies, and Hooterville
Junction will no longer be so damned relevant, and
women will not care if Dick finally gets down with
Jane on Search for Tomorrow because Black people
will be in the street looking for a brighter day.
The rvolution will not be televised.

There will be no highlights on the eleven o' clock
news and no pictures of hairy armed women
liberationists and Jackie Onassis blowing her nose.
The theme song will not be written by Jim Webb,
Francis Scott Key, nor sung by Glen Campbell, Tom
Jones, Johnny Cash, Englebert Humperdink, or the Rare Earth.
The revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be right back after a message
about a white tornado, white lightning, or white people.
You will not have to worry about a dove in your
bedroom, a tiger in your tank, or the giant in your toilet bowl.
The revolution will not go better with Coke.
The revolution will not fight the germs that may cause bad breath.
The revolution will put you in the driver's seat.

The revolution will notbe televised, will not be televised,
will not be televised, will not be televised.
The revolution will be no re-run brothers;
The revolution will be live.



The Emperor of Icecream
Wallace Stevens

Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

*snicker at smacker*

The other night I was going through the Metroplus Food Guide of Chennai. I knew almost all the places and very few I had actually sampled. Many reasons for the unvisited - driven away by the yuppiness, expelled by the prices, shaken off by horrible stories of service, banished by tags such as Pure Veg and Health Food or simply cause it’s not in an area I fancy.

Perusing, I figured them ambience out in my head and scrawled numbers and names and addresses for better pocket days. And this list I know is doomed from its inception. Cause I am going to bust money on mexican chicken cheese burgers at Kenzos, a beer (I always find myself stuck with a bike to take home so...just an a will do) and platters of oil-leak-sprung kebabs at Bike & Barrel, or crumb fried chicken and hot fudge brownie at Sparky’s, chocolate mint cake at Mocha, chicken stroganoff and mint ice cream and mint soda pop at Casa Picola, or chocolate truffles at Satyam laid hands on by braving lecherous crotch-rubbing men, kids who love to push and squeal with the surge, aunties with chiffon sarees gristling against my skin and all for gooey chocolate. Tis worth it! Or else I’d be with ranji at Noodle House over steamed rice and spicy chicken gravy, or coffee world and their really real and addictively aromatic coffees, or at karpagambal mess embedding my fingers in malli poo kinda idlis and swiping the yellowing banana leaf off its gobsmakcing saambar or scraping kapaleeshwar temple’ well-renowned puli sadham out of a dhonai. Note how the tummy budget shrinks.

Well, that’s the way of my pocket and that’s where the tongue leads...to tried and tested satisfaction. Utterly conditioned by these places and having figured out ways of my shrinking wallet, my taste buds have grown conservative. But they aint dogmatic... Yet. So a lil conscious overworking of the glands will unloosen legs towards a new destination.

My tongue I must say is quite a fretter...uneasily settling in the mouth, constantly lapping and tickling roof in annoyed anticipation, oozing skepticism on what’s to come. Keeping it still is quite a task. “Can I have a fresh lime soda please?” The salinity and lime gives it a lashing. In the meanwhile I scan, peering into the menu almost expecting a culinary hole to slide down. While marinating in the salt my tongue gives sudden upstarts as I skim over loving words...cheese, spice, jalapenos, deep fried, tangy, curried, sauteed, chilli, garlic, ginger, cloves, spring onions, melting hot jacket potato, vendaka, broccoli, cream of something soup, sour cream, mayo, beer batter, tamarind paste, vanjaram, kaadai and a bunch of other stuff. I stick by my decision to try the untried and clamp it shut, grind my teeth giving myslef cheek bites and order.

If I could give my tongue a cigarette I’m sure it’ll grab the opportunity, walk out of my mouth, envelope the tobaco and puff away while marching up and down in anxiety. Breaking conditioning is hard for my tongue too. But it has to understand it belongs to me. And it is not me. So I throw it a scorching look (all internally of course). And while it sulks, people watching, spacing out, a book, or a TV with set top box has me quite occupied.

New food arrives. I am pathetic at introductions. This piping hot something or bledy cold somethinger or neither nothinger greets my glum tongue with thrusts of spoons or scooped fingers and more often than not they always click and have a ball of a time. “I told you so...I know what you like. I know what’s good for you.” Am I a tyrant? Or is my tongue just indulging me having had an understanding with my brain?

And then of course that slip of paper with the Slurp List is doomed otherwise also. We all know all that is scrawled must crawl away.

Ackpthoo baby!

An end(s)-of-days paranoid is what I've become over the last few months. Resigned myself to the idea that hell is convenient. What's to complain in a place that doesn't give a shit about etiquette, norms, bonds and other jazz. Instantaneously a nearly superhero status of Iceman overcame me. Was sweating beads of trepidation. And all this because I contemplated complete freedom and acceptance of hell. MF freezes because her conditioning of chuntu years kicked in. God was feared eventhough she isn't. Involuntary. Reflex. Conditioning done good. Heels keeled over washed out by deluge of abishtoos. Maya gave CPR. Sputter-to-life soon turned into a gurgle of glee as the nut rushed out at life with open arms. For the moment forgotten. Waiting for it to accost me while reading spoof on Vijay Kanth, while swerving to avoid pothole, fidgeting with blackhead and other such inane instances. The end isn't ashamed to reveal itself. But insipid ties and a taste for family politics glues on like tar. If this isn't sadistic on one's part and masochistic of the other (unbenokwnst) ya lay down and roll in the tar embedding specks of gravel in bosom. Expunge I say. And of course there's no pain. It lives in the head. One last emotion or 50 odd years of surfing emos and being perpetually lost in transition?

Gaah! What the faff. The talk of hypocrite. Rebels, actually registers only mild irritation not when the rut crosses my path but only when it nudges me out of the way. Not punctual. Not particularly ambitious. Hey a Canadian dude bartered a giant red paper clip for a house. SEE!!! Now why's that bit of green and silver stopping us eh? I can't have my cake and eat it too. Never understood it. Why de faff can't I?! It's ideal. That's why I can't have it. That's why no one can have it. Those who think they can, pretend. 2 ways about this thingy...ya don't listen and sink into blisfully willfully ignorant lifestyle reconfiguring means as ends or ya don't listen and look at what's in store in the direction ya don't take (as Kerouac said) with an i-pod doling out mood music by the minute to keep you in the spirit. Oh and I feel terrible for Zizou.

long time comin...

Was tagged at the beginning of the year. Now I take it seriously cause I'm bored enough :p

10 years ago...
Figured the joys of turning invisible. Turned a confirmed escapist. Read Shakespeare for the first time...The Merchant of Venice. Was an athlete...shortest on the team but always managed to place in high jump. Realized I like poetry.

5 years ago...
Passed out of school :-) got 95 % in accounts ( I get kicks out of not knowing how de faff I managed to land up with such marks considering my history with numbers). Realized there was nothing I can study except Literature and that if I tried anything else I'd be doomed for life. Went to the college of my choice and sank into blissful complacence entitled by a small world of authors, dramatists, poets, to-be-writers, I'll-just-get-married-after-this(ers), assignments and exams. Travelled by MTC for the first time. Learnt how to ride a kinetic. Figured my mom was the queen at making sandwiches! Lumbered with Thomas Hardy (though I really do like Far from the madding crowd).

Last year...
was thrilled there was just one more sem to go in the hell hole! Terribly disillusioned because a certain person of authority brought to my notice that molestation is OK and that if I felt otherwise, I must come from a middle class family without sophistication. Saw this attitude being backed by a majority of women aspiring to be journalists. Made a good friend, J. Fell in love with Rohinton Mistry. Finally decided to let the grudge I held against B'lore drop and enjoyed its bookshops, ice cream parlours and theatres squeezing me dry. Got accustomed to rats of all sizes scurrying past or nuzzling behind my laundry bag. Kinda came close to figuring how it is to be a lesbian couple when my roomy and I took care of a stray pup with a broken leg, who in spite of it insisted on playing at 4 am. Began to like the vegetables chow chow and dhondakai.

Yesterday...
Saw Mi3. Made mango souffle which initially seemed good and then decided to suck. Perused through 'Pretty Women of Paris', a directory of 18th century prostitutes in Paris and wondered which wench I'd be. Used Pril dish cleaner to wash the loo just cause I was in the mood and there was nothing else...it works pretty well...lemony and fresh! Was punching the air clasping at mosquitos and the number of hits exceeded the misses.

5 yummy things...
Vanjaram fry (mom')
Kaadai fry (Kaaraikudi)
Squid (Pecos)
Hot fudge brownie sundae (Sparkys)
After Eights

5 things I know by heart...
13 stanzas of Thiru Mandhiram (pithy, terrific tamil poetry doubling up as mandhiram)
15th ch of the Baghawad Gita ( it's the smallest and therefore the only one I tried learning)
The Second Coming by Yeats
Lines from the movie CRASH
Lyrics of Ninukori, a few others by Illayaraja and a whole bunch of Sinatra songs

5 things I'd do if I had a lot more money...
Hire assassins to snipe those I don't fancy
Fit a decent music system in my car which plays other stuff apart from my mom's Jesudas and Bhakthi paadal collection
Chumma chumma buy stuff for friends
Make mint chocolate cake a part of my everyday menu
Hoard books (and the more real ones like buy p'dner Second Sex which is overdue)

5 things I'd never wear...
Stilts (though I do rarely in my attempts to exude a certain amount of grace when I'm in a sari and to prevent me from strutting around like a thug)
Hair mascara
Gold jewelery
Kanchipuram silk
Pearls

5 favourite TV Shows...
Don't watch TV but if I did 'twud be for Friends and whose line is it anyway

5 things I enjoy doing...
Singing along to Ella Fitzgerald in hopes...sigh
Sweating it out by rummaging through stuffed second hand bookshops
Trying out new eateries
Plonking on the beach
Daydreaming

5 people I'm gonna tag...
None. Don't expect anyone to be as bored.

Mi God

has mid-life crisis.

A bit of history...The Nothing that makes him dumped in his hands some very exciting plastaceen in his early years. You see, this, Nothing had to do cause God liked to get into z laboratory of Nothing and eat prototype of mud as a kid. As a toddler he had nightmares about his destiny. The countless gazing faces, grasping hands, whimpers simpers and burps and nauseous gasses as offshoots in his name...not exciting. So this scheming kid who wanted to runaway from the looming homework, shoved copy of mud down his throat in hope that he turns out to be the protoype of a future creation - de one with a crevice in front and back and quite smooth all over. He thought gorging and squirting would be job enough and no one would kandufy such a slimy thing and probably get evicted by Nothing. *Now I dunno how he sounds like this...my God is quite nice. Anyway, let me proceed.*

Then God did grow up. Nothing was pissed that there was nil economic value or systems in God's plans. God's chosen vocation you see was that of an artist...art for arts sake. Pottery actually thanks to all the plastaceen. He was on a roll and yeah he had a ball. Everytime he stepped on the clay to make it right, he made it all quite tipsy in here awrite. And then it was done. Then he wanted to add a bit of glimmer. Wrong move #1. Actually the only wrong move. He thoovified Hope all over his creations. And then Hope being one of the last things to make the world didn't have enough raw material to make it a wholesome thingy. So it had a fragmented DNA and turned out to be this mutant of a parasite. HIV was the rage...is the rage...Hope Infected Victims :-( Hope's henchmen greed, jealousy, lack, loser, geek, sidey oggler, moonyeyed romantic and the rest of the jing bang made their presence felt by giving it all up and promoting currency and the sale of apples, fences, chalk pieces, and walls for terrtitorial pissing for the discerning kinds, the ones who make the rules, the laws, economics and all that faff by sniffing at urine splotches. They probably are lying cause it all stinks!

Anyway, getting back to God. Well, he didn't have a whitener and good thing too cause he would've been busy sniffing and getting high in his depression of having let lose a bunch of pathetic mutants. He created cockroaches next.

And so went the life of God. The parasites grew. Hope was stronger than ever...all for a better world. What faff bledy conner!

And then boom! Mid-life crisis. God's sittin clueless in his laboratory reading Pinky and the Brain and says 'faff of world! you make me whine.' God thought if he made his presence felt in every creation and got into the core, he could figure out how to get his creations out of the rut of Hope. But, he just got under our skin and we got under his. And so it's a shared ponderous grievance. I mean God's hoping too man!

Fie! Shame on us for scrambling to God under the bed, on the dias, under a gopuram and any other weird ass place cause well, we need to figure out how. In his mid-life crisis God figured there were a few clauses left by Nothing to offer him some reprieve - God helps those who help themselves, Where there's a will there's a way, The will can squish the fate *my rephrasal of something*

P.S: My god is androgynous. Maybe that's why the earth worm fascination...? Also, God is this marshmallow of volatile emotions ranging from extreme love and passion to hatred, anger and nail chewing finger chopping stuff. Oh and is quite contrary to what he himself thinks, is always all ears! And yep a bit of an addict to doing the tackle...to give or not give...I won't let you get screwed or faff off!

P.p.s: Sometimes methinks he's the fallen angel cause well, look what he's done. Sometimes methinks Hope is the bledy fallen angel. I dunno I'm still figuring out God and sometimes I think I've got him...he's a lil lost.

P.p.p.s: Why I say is it so expensive to live? Why is art, literature, music and medicine so bledy expensive??? What the faff are people who haven't got a UB supposed to live on? P'dner says survival of the fittest. Maybe Nothing didn't give a lesson on economics to the young God - 'Ya overproduce you only get depression!'

P.p.p.p.s: Am thinking I should scoot to the lands of deserts and earn pots of gold and take care of every soul I love (around 15) and keep them happy and maybe even buy some contentment.

Faffdom

We're just a bunch of neurons, life's a bunch of sensations, said two people whose name I don't remember. And life's lived in transitions...piss off isn't it. If I could hold on to this thought when it counts I wouldn't be writing about it right now in hopes that selective amnesia wouldn't recur. Fie! Fie! Fie!

Things I wish didn't come into existence:

Currency and its offshoot which is practically everything!
Monogamy
Society (not saying trash company...trash tags and norms...this is also offshoot of currency...methinks)
Hope (the worst thing ever to come out of Pandora's box)

Hmmm that's all...perfect world possible

nits

Aint there no redemption from this?!!! Aint thurr??? Bored one after bored one trundle like slugs. Eyes glazed over by no blinks. Graatch! But yes there's a kicking and a lil living...a thing that goes knock knock you stupido what the faff you sitting around and watching?! Nothing I sez...nothing. Driven to wanting to vegetate in a cinema hall of rotten films, of wondering about Christ and that I could never be him and that I don't want to be him...no redemption for me indeed. Clicking incessantly looking for some reprieve. Hopeless Romantics??? That's where you got?! Yes, I sez...yes..."im in love with my economics teacher.shes only ten years elder to me but does that matter? does my age reflect upon my abilty to love and cherish another......" says a despo dunderhead. Egad! Dunderhead me! Duffer me! Scat! Shoo! Get away from thurr...you degenerating mothball! Well, shall go back and wallow in insipid, deflating nothing...it isn't that bad actually...when there's all the time in the world to compare Amiri Baraka with Gil Scott Heron and analyze why Madonna is Madonna and why i'm the only one in office.

Insolent insomnia speakzzz

All I seem to be doing is mope over One hundred years of solitude - the wasted lives, pestilential passion, the lunacy of sainthood, the tormenting flashes of focus consistently leaving one to rot in the bog eventually, the strength of being removed from the all and the pity it evokes in smug dimwitted outsiders and the absolute irrelvance of it to the loner, the bury-you-alive capacity of vanity, times twist in bulging veins of gelatinous bags of stumbling aged flesh, the janus mask of memory; and listening to soppy songs like last kiss and reading love notes on networking sites...real lovely love notes exchanged tween two real people. I got Chaka Khan, temporarily stranded without vodka and no Colin Firth in the offing. I can't choose like you Bridget. Catch 22! What ya do when you the catch??? Sleep...I guess.

Pre-phallic fallacy

Go through hours without conversing but clued in. Go through days with only a book for company yet get along quite well with those who people everyday. Go through time without wanting to know people cause friends, relationships happen by default. Love those few.

Wouldn't call it self-sufficiency or self-possession though there are strands of that swirling within the dyke. Lil whirlpools suck the fabric off existence and experience, and reveal nothing. Nothing is just a step away. Freedom from nothing. And then life would indeed be perfect. Death would be the next natural thing, as natural as breathing. Zilch struggles with transitions.

But the dyke is two-way. Walled in. Keep cresting and peeking over the ridge. Smile and wave at pretensions. Keep making eyes at self-delusion. Throw myself at the edge and over the wall. Lil specks, droplets lie clinging to it all and then dry up. Renewed.

Frustrated and hemmed in by yearnings of why do I know and why can't it be, of things denied for some weirdass reason of time, wanting to ignore, wanting to dry up in the cliched sea of life, wanting to fear death, to live moments of transitions. And as human as one can be, give up exhausted. Resign myself to nothing. I can do without nothing, I say. But I'll never have nothing till the vanity with which I say it lets go of me.

Things could be simple I realize. But it isn't. It isn't complicated either. Black and white's real. Is. Isn't. What to do with them is the grey area. Not run of the mill yet wanting the same things plus more. Compromise is the fear of death.

One shot at life. Why snuff it out before it's even kindled.

Larry made his peace with the world. Billy ran away from it all but couldn't hide.

Drat! They didn't cut my chord right.

Taaaaaayyyeeeeemmmm eeeeezzzzzz honn maaah syyyyeeeeddd

Maybe it's Himesh Reshmiya. arf! arf! No no...Mick Jagger wonly. Just very nasal here and disoriented. Ears have clogged and suspended me in a time warp. It moves yeah. Slug like. Slug like I feel. Slippin and sliding into seconds, shimmying past minutes, gliding on top of hours leaving slick trails of nothing on it. Time's a pimp I tell you. Puts an arm around my shoulder and takes me along the sordid alley of mindless fuck ups.

Taayyymee eez on maaah saaiiieeeddd...yez teeezzzz

Nuthn's easy is it...

backstroke! bledy brilliant feeling. de amount of concentration required to make sure my lethargic body doesn't sulk at de effort is immense. Focus man. Sorta grazing by default. Snuffle when a stray Marina grass twitches past. Gazing up at de gaping blue my peaked nose peeks out of the water snorting a lil spray when a silicon like texture slips over me, fluid glass. Beautiful but highly pungent. Bob dammit! And then focus, kick straight, flat. I'm moving! I don't feel it. I don't see it. Tis de gaping blue i tell you. No markers at all.

jus anuthr bunch...

sprained my butt in the pool
kept sliding off the walls before push off and flopped around like a water rat while everyone else kicked jets
swam diagonally
focused on figuring out what's on the pool floor than actually covering distance...well, it did pay off...found a 2 buck coin...very brown with de chlorine
hands roamed all over the wet platform as though I were a blind slobbering dog while pawing the pool walls to get out
looked like a very popular alien

swimmin's phun!

Say gili gili gili

Latest thing that takes me by surprise in a very unpleasant way is the Microsoft Word document. It's blankness scares the shit out of me. It doesn't even give me a chance man! There's so much to say, so much to be keyed in. Clamps down like the lid of a cookie jar jammed down hard so that whoever wants one will probably bugger off. Oh and am I buggering off...I love the 'new post' page. It's got character...that's how umm gone I am now.

I've been wanting to write how much P.James' Magic show is an integral part of Madras' cityscape. All of those who studied in Madras schools and had birthday parties and attended loads would probably be familiar with the name. I have no idea why any parent would get this not so phunny man to perform and keep us away from the cake! That's the point? Anyway, he's this scraggly coated, musty smelling, oily faced, smooth shaven man with an insipid hat pulling out things from behind his ears and top hats that had resigned themselves to his gili gili gili. And we used to indulge him at an age when we hadn't come across the word 'indulge'. A bit of forced cackling...some of us used to laff so hard just to get it over with. I mean that guy was at every kiddy b'day party! But methinks I laughed cos I wanted the cake and make him feel good about his tricks...cos you see my bunch of snobby fellers never showed much respect for his efforts. That man's still around? Or is it his gilious offspring leavin numbers on wall.

And I love music. I'm so happy my music's around. Would've been nuts now if otherwise. I can still dream...everything from theepidika to unforgettable to don't fear the reaper. But dreams are effervescent. I wanna feel too p'dner

For those...

who have a phobia of floundering around in a single state of existence, who willfully procrastinate till kingdom come and wake up for one last moment with loss snuffing them out, who are scatterbrained and penniless in de big phat world with a head full of personal milestones to set, who live in dreams and wake up to kick real's rear in whatever way they can, who are scared of never knowing, afraid of a state of never wanting to know what's beyond...

Maybe marriage is a good thing after all. And probably so is conditioning. Cos when the ends are out of the circle of experience and therefore tagged farfetched, pigheaded and other stuff, marriage gives purpose, an end when there's none or when others are unattainable. And to indulge us there's friction, pressure, pain just to pacify the conscience kicking against de faff of nothing beyond. Or maybe it isn't a good thing (in isolation). Cos mayb it sprouts from pessimism, writin off possibility, will, perseverance, pleasure. Boxes rule i guess. Well, I seem to be thinking in one...

Or maybe it's jus my clogged ears.

'Wiggle your big toe'

Eggs on cause it’s not yet time to lie down and wait. It nudges me forward cause there’s no strength. Stuck in a wide-eyed coma. Unable to get out of it cause there’s only the white ceiling sealing in. Nothing more… there’s nothing more to tell me that my senses work. It’s a kind of claustrophobia. There’s nothing to thrash against. Stymied.

Cramps turned numb now. Can’t feel the ground. Slithering in a vacuum. Nothing to grip onto. Not even a wisp of air. Not one fucking sane strand. Not insane either. Just gasping in gulps of blandness. Passions now vague. They come in hot mercury flashes and sag and fractured, crackle and get whisked away into the blank. Zilch.

I mean look at this. This is all that comes out. This is all.

Everything I thought my chosen ‘means’ was, isn’t. My body will be physically intelligent till it can. I will wake up everyday on time, bathe, eat, get dressed, hop onto my bike, overtake, swerve, keep time, surf, write cause it’s gotta be written…words coming out in gooey, sticky gushes like blood through hypodermic needle and then splat, will orkut, will sleep and do it all over again. This till it turns to me in disgust and turns me in. I want out. No not that. I want the ceiling to crack. I want to feel.

katndawg

Bump over lil brown hardened humps to pick a spot that’s coolest so that by the end of the day my seat aint got a burnt hole darker than the black smelly rexin. That’s the first. Then fit face into a mirror that says ‘things are closer than they appear’…tell-tale signs of black heads, pollution clogged spores, and blossoming pimples and flaky lil specks of hair on upper lip…a rampage looms and the sun is an illuminator like no other. Flattening loose anti-gravity strands clipetty-clop over pebbles. The glass door recently turned hi-fi wont budge unless a card is flashed to announce that you have arrived. Darn thing needs to be treated like one of those annoying government employees who ponder over a small piece of paper pissing off time and the person waiting for a purple seal…patiently wait till it reads the card, burps and figures it’s you! That’s what comes of wanting to give an identity to inorganic stuff… bulldozes you into becoming barcodes.

An AC that’s as inanimate as inanimate can get. This is a shell. A real shell. The ones on the beach are animate with imagination in its colourful swirls, with grains of sands sticking adamantly in unreachable smooth spots. Stale sweat 24 hours old now turned sour not with yeast but microbes that send you fleeing and gasping for the air you were breathing just outside the door, fumed or otherwise. A vase with plastic flowers squishes the vibrancy the bright red wall attempts at infusing with its withered and yet undead look. Tis actually a positive thought, you know perseverance and all that jazz but the damn thing looks like it’s hooked to drudgery shots. At any moment you expect the damn flowers to throw up some of that vile colour dabbed on its petals, turn utterly pale and absorb the mashed exhalations of those who waited and sweated on three straight-backed leather chairs and go back to being its vile self.

Stride up over uneven stairs with an imitation wooden flooring sheet attempting to hide the not so rectangular slabs with its ridged edges. Push the glass door and get hit by a draft of hot tortoise kosu vathi…last nights wrestling with sleep evident till you cross the threshold into the studio.

Here, you smell the day, with the soon to begin fight of opening pores, of absorbing the sniffing AC’s cold frail strands and eliminating competition by turning others into poreless wonders through sheer will…willful dreaming. Windogurl! Magnetically charged air drafts, however minute, due to friction are magnetized and directed towards me with magnetic-tipped fingernails. She my doppelganger ;-) Janus! My Siameese twin, emitting farting noises every time she zaps a cool straying waft. There are various tones though…fly swatter, static (the kind you get when you trail a finger 0.5cm away from a comp screen) Long live DC comics! And I know no physics. Tiring of super-heroine with no real palpable powers, I eye the studio manager with envy sitting bang under the AC and the 2 fans in my heat smothered retinas look like giant windmills promising to blow away heat and its allies from my dictionary.

Come lunchtime and a shot of lead. The thought of food in a furnace with two funs churning it into froth till you’re this gigantic cotton candy of wispy heat waves wants me to turn into this mutt bounding off towards a muck filled puddle. Cud the food. Swallowing hurts.

Creativity cozies and snoozes the evening away, its absence jump starting every time the head lolls to the left and I travel through a black hole involuntarily. The vortex closes in and then the eyes smash open, the lids hitting the forehead in a look of blank emergency.

The pen feels alien in my hand. The letters come out in hexagons and the lines that make it aren’t in fact lines but squiggles like slimy worms. In disgust, creativity leaves. Then, a period of wooing. Enticing it with caramelly coffee works. Coaxed out, like an oozing mollusk, I scribble away before it slips in and gets washed away with the next tide of distraction, lethargy, or just for no weird ass reason. The warm-up pickles the mollusk! I am liking it now. I am liking my ideas.

Smugness the bitch saunters in and plonks herself on my gray beanbag. Then a lil fencing and a reworking session, sewing the miniscule strands.

Then it’s a war with the real world. If I am a pain to myself the outside is a freaking brick jammed down my larynx. A bit of herding, a bit of bickering, palpitating, materializing…the rack…stretched. Blistering blue barnacles! My bunch of appendicitis'...aches that turn up uncalled for, uninvited...part of me neverthless...the masochist has a ball.

Feeba! Feeba! Femur! Tumour!

Baah! Most of the times (which isn't much really) with men it seems like a half-hearted sea-saw ride. Bounce-dip-dunk your toes-up you go. Never, feet flat platypus like-knees apart for a squat pee-turgid calfs-and whee! and vice versa. And MF is the bony lass squiggling in palm-space seat, grunting down and up, hoping to make up for the happily smirking one on the opposite with legs dangling as though boneless. Ok so MF is an indecisive hotstepper too. But then there's this weirdass oracle nestling in my sinus wheezing thick yellowed affection, the colour of colostrum, point being matured and unconditional affection. Because somewhere Oracle deems that nothing lasts. The Oracle needs to put foot in mouth! If nothing, the nothing is at least filled with a peaceful, cordial relationship springing from non-existence. So arcanus in the tradition of remaining arcane figures that the only thing she will ever be is a comfort woman...great company. But thats all. You know...the Geisha types, Devadasi type...around but nothing defined. Arcane was comfort woman for 4 years (Arcane blames the sunflower kid who believes that it's ok to talk about love for another when you're going out with someone cause what the heck it's love after all). And then Arcane is comfort woman for 3 years ('cane blames satyavati for sticking to the deal and expecting nothing above the deal and calls it a deal eventhough it's much more in an attempt to depersonalize it. Pthrrrr!) Arcane lives. Inspite of all this Mata Hari texture to it without the really deadly elements of course, she's called Specks! True, her real name is the kind which needs a tongue with a likeness to MTC busses where every roll and judder is evident, but Arcatella?! How about Tarantula? That's not so bad. Dumb optimist.

Scoring out shoppers' eyes - those in favour of euthanasia would agree to this too

Chennai City Centre, apparently the fourth largest mall in Asia. Well, I went there yesterday. Umm my eyes were beyond repair when I came out.

Buildings here is a motley of twisted history, impersonation, glory and art classes from kindergarten that went so wrong. They all suffer from an identity crisis.

This huge vanilla cake sitting in the middle of the 'centre' seems like some weird-ass baker's PR tactic. On a closer look the icing looked ghastly...hellish in fact, like the vines you find in Jumanji. To the builders - You ran outta paint for these twistys??? It wouldn't have looked half as bad if it hadn't been staring me in my face pretending to be this snoozing, unassuming, harmless lil bit of supposed creativity as I tripped myself eager to get away from it asap.

The inside of the cake is another uhh what to say...experience (?) altogether. Signs of the impending mpd were outside but quite inconspicous I must say - pista green (methinks) vertical strip on one side and violet on the other. And then palm trees! This Victorian wannabe has palm trees! Dubai Shoppin mall feel I guess. Anyway, then there are these round mirrors in ornate frames way way above the height of the average Indian. Now...for what joy?

Btw the walls on either side of this oasis look (pthooo!) are peach and black currant. Adds flavour to all the vanilla you see. Amble along and there's another fetish - the Sistine Chapel! Well, this Michaelangelo or Os taken on contract by the bakers of City Centre have added some blue tones the vanilla...sky with birds. This brings back memories of kindergarten, scrapbooks, crayons, polythene covers with extra undies just in case. Yeah, the birds look so like those 'r' birdies we drew. Sigh!

What on earth is this place?!!! Shopping experience and all ok but why the splotches of colours, the big heart for artists who can't even doodle right, and the palm trees! What the hell are they doing there!

Somebody know architecture? Spell aesthetic? Difficult? Ok, can you try and spell 'Easy on the eye'?

It's all about the majority and the one word I hate and addicted to fearing it is conditioning. Standing alone even in the most insignificant situation invites glares and collective silence. Apart from betrayal tis a lesion in the herden mentality, unity and all that bledy jazz when ultimately and everyone knows tis one for ones own self. Hypocracy is like that lock and key games we play in LKG...maybe that's why we play it...to inculcate it and imbibe it real quick! And then there's no escape cause every time you stand alone, you'll be second guessing yourself, stepping on toes, getting trampled, shoved, and then when you're out it feels like nothing on earth! That you were right are right is a feeling lot like your heads cleared the clouds and you can feel every breath sear through your head like mint.

Hmmm the one thing that I would take from eyecandy..."how bad do you want it?"

Fig

The heights of optimism is when you're haappy tis your left side of your tummy that's achin and not your right cause well, ya know for sure that it aint appendicitis!

Ideas are fabulous things...absolutely breathtaking when you find them and then your breath doesn't come back till it's art directed well.

Anticipation smells of dried fish - Hidden Arsonist


Here's something I went a lil goldfish over yesterday! As in blinking wide eyed with a small O...


Rubbery
Fluid
I taste your blood
Rust on my tongue
Beneath the thin substance
Your lips engorged
Slip over me
Fluid
Rubbery

Your cheek exfoliates mine
Nibble my chin
The scar will be my smile
In dark rooms
And dim mirrors
A layer of me to pick at absently

The peel, caramel-coloured
Shows in photographs

I search for your cavities
Your tongue strains to find my wisdom
Dental excavations tickle

Your fingers trail over my navel
I giggle convulsively
Writhe
Pull away, pulling you closer

My stomach freezes
You forgot your hand there
My breath is stuck
The familiar free-fall
I feel when you stare too long
Or I think of you staring too long

There is intimacy in anticipation
In your weight anchoring me
In my sleep lost to your breathing
In the freedom to
Remember
Reconstruct
Recreate

Salt everywhere
Your hand holds a breast
The one without latte-brown predictions of foolish love

Memories mock


She brilliant!!

O

sod off!!!

MFWho'sane?

A dedication to Hidden Arsonist from the narcissist pinstripe of MF who embraces loserdom in all its splendour and pomposity.


Mangled Foetus is as her mom calls her a paradevathai, in mortal terms a weirdo. The things that happen to her are things that happen to everybody but with a slight twist. A lil background into the mangledness of Mangled Foetus…she’s a royal liar, lies only to get things her way, lies for survival. But all these are harmless lies and restricted to the 2 loves of her life who can’t comprehend her mangledness in its sweet entirety. MF aint a doofus, drinks sensibly, abhors tobacco, can’t party even if she tried. Not that she can’t/doesn’t have a good time but she’s the arcanus types ;-) meaning sits in a corner, drinks up and observes. Very arcane indeed! Pretty boring…? No. You aint been inside her head! Anyway, getting back to the goodness of this confounded soul…she isn’t gullible, skeptical bordering on practical.

MF knows how to get out of skirmishes but when there aint enough she creates some to whet her dodginess. And every time she believes that she must leave the unbeaten path and tries to, she is picked up by the scruff and tossed back onto it, and left to continue in her wrangled ways (aint no second chance in reality). For instance, the one time she needn’t necessarily have been honest to the 2 loves at home about the turtle walk, she decided to tell the truth. And instead, she was washed away and smacked back on to her prior belief of ‘what you don’t know can’t hurt’, by the tsunami fears.

Everybody loses their first phone due to slips of z mind blamed on fate or filched by kleptos again blamed on fate. Mangled foetus too lost her first phone. It was filched. Flicked by kleptos. Pretty much the same plot. But, this was an eunuch invasion. She blames it on fate.

This ‘bunch of neurons’ is also a physically intelligent species likened to those of Schumacher. She doesn’t know how she gets from one place to another half the time. Dodging bumps, pits, wobbly cyclists, psycho letches, she studies break lights from a distance, weaves in hairline curves and all impressive riding on her kinetic whose alter ego, a motor boat, beats her dad’s late lambretta hollow. This fascinating creature also has patriotically tuned epidermis which breaks out into goosebumps on cue to Vande Maataram and Acham Illai taking her complacent inner being by surprise at the ferocity of the bristles.

And thus rolls on the life of Mangled Foetus…

How does it feel
How does it feel
To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?

Confounded mangled foetus

Wonder if conditioning is a tool to zap one into the vicious cycle. And the darn vicious cycle seems to be happiness. The bledy flock of happiness for every occassion...its presence felt in its existence and its lack. Happiness is a fat lump of drugged bubblegum stuck up in cloud 9. Sadness has a heart. It breaches the gap and keeps egging us on towards happiness...closer, closer.

Is to want what a lot of other people want conditioning or normal? Or is normal conditioning or vice versa?

I want to travel the world, want to belong, write travelogues, work on my autobiography trashing all those nincompoops I let trot over me at one vulnerable point of time, want to do whatever cause I want to do whatever. Wanna be a bar tender, a broadway dancer, a corporation school teacher. Wanna start a school, a wildlife reserve, get madras corporation to mix rubber into tar while laying roads. Wanna save tigers, sharks and olive ridley turtles, get stung by a harmless jellyfish. Wanna play the bass guitar, play the veena, and sing! sing! sing! Wanna make chocolates and desserts like Vianne Rocher from Chocolat. Wanna crack knuckles of those who litter and throw stones at otters, thwack apathetic people, yell gibberish at my dean. Wanna dream, catch them lil pixies and move on. Wanna a real awesome romance, with wedding at a church in the lake district, a daughter, adopt a son, a dozen dogs, an awesome library, lots of love and cuddles and contentment that makes it all so atwood like "I would like to be the air that inhabits you for a moment only. I would like to be that unnoticed & that necessary" and of course with a smattering of squabbles...friction makes life interesting.

I have an estranged relationship with the last wanna. There's this constant doubt if that's conditioning. Sometimes I can't justify my phobia of conditioning but then it's a phobia. The other thing that plagues me is whether I'll be able to do all the above wannas and more if the last wanna happens. Being a total sucker for love, happiness and One fine day movies (this is a serious problem...addicted to the drasted bubble gum of a drug and this is such a clever ploy of the creators play...there is no AA no Ataraxia Annonymous to run to) I am worried that I'd turn out to be a Violet Beauregarde and chew on it and chew on it and chew on it. And never move on. Never live my dreams unless the jelly fish incident happens by default when we're off on vacation. oh fie!

Singular, alone-liker, unfettered dreamer is gonna have some serious issues with moma and papa and the bledy hordes (relatives who swarm you at every family get together and rattle of questions about getting kicked out of your very own home asap!)

Is there a love that can let you be? Aah well, or else p'dner we could stick to our plan ;-)

United Colors of de Gerrymander

Feel like a work of fevicol. Having been passed through a shredder seems like I've been glued back together. So many mes! Each one comes upfront puts forth its portion of the grey and then recedes, vanishes, blanks out or is usurped. Another comes up. Like multiple needles on a sewing machine. One at time and sometimes switch so fast that one seems continuous.

Apart from the known Joplin wannabe, mama freak, gloop foody, spacer-outer on bent out of shape spock, there are more pinstripes. For instance, the karuvad lover who sniffs at anything that smells even remotely close and goes on a trip about central station with marina wafting through its pungency.

Hmmm who decides what? It's all a majority. Inky pinky ponky...

Been trippin on this revelation for the past one week. Guess I saw tell-tale signs of shrivelling glue giving way to hariline cracks on the face in the mirror. And no I do not have mpd. I'm aware of each and every strip. And I'm harmless.

Blatherings from de haart

Ack! Bumped into this one again. Felt it all over again. My mother of a paragraph written ages ago...

This is the heights! Can’t go out for a freaking walk! I mean what’s the harm in that except that it’s 7:00 in the evening (am rolling my eyes). Could’ve been done with fresh air and a break by now if it hadn’t been for that monumental argument over why I shouldn’t go out for a walk (still no reason by the way). The outcome is that I figured that I am in fact fucking mad! Actually hypertension. Who wouldn’t!?! I mean, would you agree to stay within four walls for more than freaking 24 hrs!!! I think this episode would establish my future- writer of brilliant books cause I’ve finally got trauma to back me up! But come to think of it, this isn’t really a problem…not the worst. Nothing earth shattering really. Just four walls that cling to me. But that’s definitely good enough to start me off on “A room for whom???” I would go onto figure out original symbols which mock Angelou’s repeated use of the “caged bird” image. I did probably talk of a stripper in a cage who has freedom to flaunt her body and tease herself but can’t ever cum. There would be strains of Gilman’s yellow wallpaper though. And that bastard Rousseau’s “return to the noble savage”. What frivolity man! I’m born into the world after a freaking nine-month pregnancy of puking, fattening, and labor pains that could kill a man. To do what??? To conform to time, dress code, to eat at the table during breakfast, lunch and dinner; to study hard at something which bores you, or something you couldn’t react to within a span off few hours cause it’s so mind blowing. But who cares? You’re dumb if you can’t cope. You never learnt anything from anything if you don’t have numerals above the pass mark. And why do I study geography in school? Just to put me in my place of course. To show that all those lands are inaccessible to me, that I’m stuck in this southern port city. And to probably justify the existence of the educational system by saying “look if you don’t study hard you won’t have money to see the world”. What clever manipulation! And if I don’t have an aptitude for science, I’m hopeless. I’m a misfit; I shouldn’t have been born if I can’t marvel at it. But I do marvel at it. I marvel at the phone, the fridge, the mixy, and so many other things. I’m happy marveling at them and know how to work them. That’s all. And ultimately what is all this science put to use for? Marriage and progeny. To promote it and propagate it. “Look, get married and give birth to children. Only then can we think of stuff to keep you all pleased.” Minds work, and the economy depend on progeny. A clog in the wheel? Naah…you’re the all important axis. Being a female it makes you even more important- oh mother! No wonder they’re against gays and lesbians. The economy would crash. The mind would rot. The world wouldn’t exist. There wouldn’t be any concept of economics, people to propagate religion to (even God wouldn’t exist? Wow!), no buildings to build, no need for historians and theoreticians to come up with some crap to fill in textbooks. We would all be jobless. So I’m supposed to keep them entertained??? That’s my life’s goal? To enjoy sex and then grunt a few months later? And does it stop with that? No. I give birth to the kid and tell him/her his/her duty. And what is that? Sex. Don’t use condoms. Keep population control in mind though. (Cant even enjoy sex enough) oh but don’t jump. You have to legalize it you see. Get married. Then only they can put you down in the records and calculate the future citizens, growth of economy and mind work. Laying of new roads, malls, air traffic, why even the security of a nation depends upon you. Progeny man…that’s the key to your existence. Nothing would exist without it. Think about it. Food for thought? Ohhhh I’m going green! I hate statistics!

Bloody hell! Mighty pissed with the HR in office. The loos been out of service for nearly 2 weeks. And yep I'm pmsin and which means I need the friggin loo too work. Like p'dner says I could sue them for discrimination or worse comes to worse roll them pads in wads of paper and leave them in a corner just so that they pay attention. aaargghh! If it's not fixed by tomorrow I'm considering telling the HR guy that my periods are due. Not that I have any queasiness telling just that I have issues with the scandalized look that I'll be faced with...ugh! Bledy loo...mens loo is a perpetually wet one. I want the nice sunshiny, tin doored, sky blue, dry ladies loo on the terrace!

sheeesh!

How do they figure this? How? A lil while back my friend at an MBA institute got her curfew shortened cause a bunch of losers on bikes ragged a girl from that insitute at 7 in the evening on a lane right outside the campus. So what does the insitute do? Shorten the curfew for female students. That's the answer? What about increasing secutiry? What about police patrols? It's their duty after all. No one wants to do anything about those losers. They'd rather say they have it all under control by stuffing the girls back into the building. It sucks! Wanna clobber all those men and women who think if women want equality they gotta have their womb removed.

"Reverse culture shock is a pain!" I get u padner...

Your hairs bristle up in annoyance trying hard to be spikes that sends one scuttling in pain on contact a lot like a puffer phish. From pale green, veins turn emerald as they visibly pulsate. Your ears shut down with a howl as the air rushes out and the passage is closed to cocoon you from the upcoming onslaught, the you-are-a-fledgling-and-therefore-a-retard session. One sharp intake of breath is all you have time for to sustain you when the creepy crawly voices wash over you. It begins. You hit the fastforward. The squeaky voices rattle away, hammering you with supposed concerns, their all-knowing words result in gashes, wounds ooze a slimy green – a defense mechanism the body undertakes to get rid of the sludge. Forcing your cheeks to yield to a dumb thank-you-now-I-run-to-the-loo kinda smile you walk away telling yourself to breathe in breathe out. First thing you do is get into the bathroom, stand under the shower and scrub it all off with your dead epidermis.

As annoying as such talks are there’s no point in focusing frustration on the boring conforming do-gooders. They actually are the sober metamorphosed from the once bitten twice-shy horde. But what the heack...they are part of the popular system...one foot here and one foot there case.

Point is what is reputation. Reputation is a social construct so that all of us can adhere and live in sordid social freaking harmony cause it’s easier when you have rules cause you’ve always had rules. Staying in is always easier than running parallel cause the parallel road aint in existence...supposedly. The biggest shit of all is that this reputation thingy is not for maintaining political correctness, to truly be secular or anything worthwhile. All that jazz remains all that jazz…ideal. What they need this so called reputation for is to keep us all freaking tied down so that no one really gets one-up. Not even one-up in social life transition from daily morning visits to the beach to daily evening visits for kadalai. You can’t say you drink, can’t say some wild thing cause you’re in a wild mood, can’t talk openly of having tried out bisexuality…even if it’s only in your head. I go down = we all go down = reputation

Culture is trivialized. Culture is a metamorphosis of principles, attitudes and not bickering boxed ideas! Think we should start off by spelling B-E! Stop crapping about those who can have a bloody good time apart from their work and can do work as work and a damn good job of it! Stick to your periphery and don’t enter personal life without permission. Get your manners right! Trespassers will be prosecuted! Don’t allude. You’re not good at the finer qualities of rhetoric. Cause one, you’re stuck; two, you don’t know how to help yourself BE; three, you’re boring; four, you’re pathetic at being the model guardian cause you've got your priorities wrong!

I have dark lips and therefore I smoke. Wrong. You going out for a smoke? You wanna smoke? Well, this I got from people who eye girls who smoke with a lil derision, label her flighty, easy, etc. I appear to be a lil hoity toity or so it seems. Not once have they taken my No for what it really is. I don’t smoke cause smoking is deadly and you have to be so gone in the head to make a habit out of it. But they take my no to be NO! I’m a GIRL!

Sick and tired of sex determining lil miniscule things like visits to a tea kadai! Bugger off sexists, token women, jealous snapping guppy fish wallowing in shallow pools of waste!