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!
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
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!
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!
Monday, February 27, 2006
What's in store for me in the direction I don’t take ? - Kerouac
Cowering in the musty balcony seat at melody from the rattling guns aimed randomly all over the 5 guys of RDB, spattering assured with smattering, shattering shins, stuttering on gushes of blood, all smothered by giggles at the crescendo…a denouement that never happened. This movie left me on the peak…teetering on what could be if anyone or I supposed an If.
Pondered over the point of their deaths. Would it have been better if they hadn’t died? No. The impact they left behind, had, would’ve never been possible without their dramatic deaths
What would they have been or done if they were alive? Political unrest? Definitely. Coup? Maybe. Revolution? Yes. Or would they have just simmered down to a fund? An organization whose big picture gets chipped away with time? Chances are.
What about them? Them? Micro lives really lose out in the big picture. They would’ve served time probably, tried and what not. Media coverage is all that will be. But that’s what makes movies so amazing…art and literature. The viewfinder can escalate from the micro to the macro and keep both within their periphery or mix and match. These are a few lives. Macro makes his history. Macro instigates.
From the storyteller’s point of view I understand why they had to go. They just had to die. Or a lot would’ve been in vain. Guess a lil juggling around can invert positions. We watch them come and go. We find the flare when we pass them by while surfing. Well we can’t have Dylan or Marley glued to our ears to keep us at it. Neither can we plaster the beats or Marx to our eyes. All them greats can spin indifference around to take notice of itself…its sickly pale, bland, blanched mangle…bleached clean of life, dehydrated of anything worthwhile. We can’t keep sniffing at sewage. We can’t keep spacing out on the blood on tv. It’s amazing the amount of wickedness and cruelty human beings are capable of. But somewhere it’s better than apathy.
In this stage where everyone gets their turn, where audience turn to props, props turn to audience…rationed theatre appreciation, only a few get the lead role. Well, if nothing the creator’s definitely fair. There’s a will. There are choices. Survival of the fittest. Yes, there’s also willful suspension of disbelief. We can either keep getting shuffled around to periphery roles of audience or a prop and fill in the scene. Or take centerstage, twist the spotlight our way, grab the mic and deliver.
I don’t like the previous paragraph. It’s clichéd. Guess it’s cause its an oft repeated thingy. High time…been a long while.
In a weird ass way narcissists make a difference in society.
Pondered over the point of their deaths. Would it have been better if they hadn’t died? No. The impact they left behind, had, would’ve never been possible without their dramatic deaths
What would they have been or done if they were alive? Political unrest? Definitely. Coup? Maybe. Revolution? Yes. Or would they have just simmered down to a fund? An organization whose big picture gets chipped away with time? Chances are.
What about them? Them? Micro lives really lose out in the big picture. They would’ve served time probably, tried and what not. Media coverage is all that will be. But that’s what makes movies so amazing…art and literature. The viewfinder can escalate from the micro to the macro and keep both within their periphery or mix and match. These are a few lives. Macro makes his history. Macro instigates.
From the storyteller’s point of view I understand why they had to go. They just had to die. Or a lot would’ve been in vain. Guess a lil juggling around can invert positions. We watch them come and go. We find the flare when we pass them by while surfing. Well we can’t have Dylan or Marley glued to our ears to keep us at it. Neither can we plaster the beats or Marx to our eyes. All them greats can spin indifference around to take notice of itself…its sickly pale, bland, blanched mangle…bleached clean of life, dehydrated of anything worthwhile. We can’t keep sniffing at sewage. We can’t keep spacing out on the blood on tv. It’s amazing the amount of wickedness and cruelty human beings are capable of. But somewhere it’s better than apathy.
In this stage where everyone gets their turn, where audience turn to props, props turn to audience…rationed theatre appreciation, only a few get the lead role. Well, if nothing the creator’s definitely fair. There’s a will. There are choices. Survival of the fittest. Yes, there’s also willful suspension of disbelief. We can either keep getting shuffled around to periphery roles of audience or a prop and fill in the scene. Or take centerstage, twist the spotlight our way, grab the mic and deliver.
I don’t like the previous paragraph. It’s clichéd. Guess it’s cause its an oft repeated thingy. High time…been a long while.
In a weird ass way narcissists make a difference in society.
Friday, February 24, 2006
Feel like a work of fevicol. Having been passed through a shredder I've been glued back together to make me of many ones. And like musical keys that come alight with flashy colours when fingered each me comes to the forefront, fades, vanishes, recedes, withdraws and fuses out to let another one come upfront.
Saturday, February 18, 2006
Zonked
I've got nothing to say...none. Though every second sentence in the spiralling namelessness of feral thoughts, the only thing that attempts to make its presence felt through the void of utter scatterbrainedness, begins with the word shoot. And that's all I detect in the flitting matter spinning in self-possessed orbits like in the cosmos. But that's it. It begins...is heard fleetingly and then dies out like a wannabe echo in a dingy room that would never know acoutics more than its pile of dusty musty old newspaper, rotting cardboard boxes spotted with rat droppings. After that one word there is supersonic noise that I can't hear and therefore feel it's all a balnk. Something important flits away and just the word remains...shoot. I so want to get it over with. I've held my breath long enough.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
A souped-up para...(my take off on dream deferred)
Prostitution of dreams
Versatile, multi-tasking
superfluous waxy batty vain
fantasizing phantasmagoric marshland
orchestrator of meandering hopes
bends lit with possibilities with high improbability neon signs blinking rapidly
stutter down another bend oozing a sordid waste of time
in curvaceous gutters
of grey
speckled with history
stinking
with all the incompleteness
debris of attempts
swirled thick
by the fast flitting /by a feeble rustling
will.
Internal marijuana
nerve ends twitch in anticipation
collector of broken, ancient
and sometimes in tact memories of the darnedest things
showcased on either sides of the glass tunnel.
What’s in a look?
Why you turn yourself into a closet?
Why you want to be an urn
Of Vegas’ scraped shimmer?
Flushed
you shrug off this and take on one
of an inconspicuous spy
as though that was you of those beatnik days
tattoo on shoulder and Woodstock.
Never made it to a reading
Never been really
Flux
Now more sober, assimilate,
break down distortion to create
your way of noise
twitch as a small facial muscle ticks
to an unseen threat.
Contain excitement in a fragile canister
when something is discovered
rotate 360 as though turning over a colourful sea worn shell
like a kid would
with awe, exhilaration…quizzical.
Glean
There’s time still
Instead you nuzzle
In the nook of vanity
State your twisted way with a pomposity
make you a cult
wallowing
in cardboard sets
of what could have been
dressed in wine red
with a dash of more discerning faculties (?)
A kushy life for your pedestal
When will you ever let them all be
Out of rut
Versatile, multi-tasking
superfluous waxy batty vain
fantasizing phantasmagoric marshland
orchestrator of meandering hopes
bends lit with possibilities with high improbability neon signs blinking rapidly
stutter down another bend oozing a sordid waste of time
in curvaceous gutters
of grey
speckled with history
stinking
with all the incompleteness
debris of attempts
swirled thick
by the fast flitting /by a feeble rustling
will.
Internal marijuana
nerve ends twitch in anticipation
collector of broken, ancient
and sometimes in tact memories of the darnedest things
showcased on either sides of the glass tunnel.
What’s in a look?
Why you turn yourself into a closet?
Why you want to be an urn
Of Vegas’ scraped shimmer?
Flushed
you shrug off this and take on one
of an inconspicuous spy
as though that was you of those beatnik days
tattoo on shoulder and Woodstock.
Never made it to a reading
Never been really
Flux
Now more sober, assimilate,
break down distortion to create
your way of noise
twitch as a small facial muscle ticks
to an unseen threat.
Contain excitement in a fragile canister
when something is discovered
rotate 360 as though turning over a colourful sea worn shell
like a kid would
with awe, exhilaration…quizzical.
Glean
There’s time still
Instead you nuzzle
In the nook of vanity
State your twisted way with a pomposity
make you a cult
wallowing
in cardboard sets
of what could have been
dressed in wine red
with a dash of more discerning faculties (?)
A kushy life for your pedestal
When will you ever let them all be
Out of rut
A vetti day occupation
Road of diametric opposites – The road to theosophical society in Beasant Nagar. Treacherous, well-paved, smooth ride with deadly curves and juddering rumblers, tree lined and streamlined traffic, steady drones, dying moans, rising wails, skid marks, spaced out – adrenaline pumping succumbs to composure as green exudes O2 enticing a pranayama quickie.
Sputter into theosophical society’s old gates and roll on a died down engine rolling till you bump to a stop under a tree. Sweet smell of flowers with highly nose pinching sticky sweet smell of rotting flora and fauna. All natural. Lemon yellow butterflies, pretty sedate moths, shriveling fungi, chameleons sunning themselves, sparrows looking busy, pigeons emitting their signature guttural talk, parrots acting like hoity-toits squawking and zipping all over the place. And then there’s the library, comfortable, co-existing and non-intrusive.
Musty books are guarded zealously in large rooms. The only place a reader knows is the shiny slippery smooth glinting mosaic and comfortable reading tables and wooden chairs with 2 parallel racks stacked with magazines of theosophy, philosophy and the environment in English, French and Polish and Space! Breathe easy. Mind space expands to gigantic proportions. Time lapse. The sun never looked prettier in any room…personal.
Getting back to the possessiveness that is the core of theosophical society apart from the things it is generally known for, the reader has to go through catalogues, scrawl numbers with a blunt pencil on lil squares and wait for 45 minutes to an hour for the books to be tracked, dusted and brought down. Well, one can enjoy time lapse but to assume that it’s a norm is a lil unsettling.
More cribs – Firang-sucker hatred takes root quite strongly. Borrowing membership is selective. Walking membership is selective. Apart from the theosophists who live there you see just firangs…mostly. Got nothing against them. Cross my heart. Just the management irks me. A walking membership requisition letter is necessary. Fine. But it’s not just a requisition. You gotta state why you want to walk there and why not the beach. Now really people got their quirks you know. The fact that the place is beautiful isn’t enough?! And then someone there decides if it’s reason enough, then you get to tread on those lovely dirt pathways with mango groves and the famed banyan tree, footsteps hushed by fallen flowers, sun streaks winking at you, and alternating gaps of warm and cool which surprise you every four steps, smothered by tweeters and crickets, sweetened silence.
As I was mulling over this, over the unfairness of it all, that I who live in this city, down the road from this personal space would have to wait for a whole freaking year, The Wasteland came along or so I thought. Turned out to b a criticism of The Wasteland. Happens when it’s just numbers and not books you’re thumbing through.
Fell in love with a freaky passage likened to psychedelic rock and got mighty troubled by its roots.
Here it is…
Sputter into theosophical society’s old gates and roll on a died down engine rolling till you bump to a stop under a tree. Sweet smell of flowers with highly nose pinching sticky sweet smell of rotting flora and fauna. All natural. Lemon yellow butterflies, pretty sedate moths, shriveling fungi, chameleons sunning themselves, sparrows looking busy, pigeons emitting their signature guttural talk, parrots acting like hoity-toits squawking and zipping all over the place. And then there’s the library, comfortable, co-existing and non-intrusive.
Musty books are guarded zealously in large rooms. The only place a reader knows is the shiny slippery smooth glinting mosaic and comfortable reading tables and wooden chairs with 2 parallel racks stacked with magazines of theosophy, philosophy and the environment in English, French and Polish and Space! Breathe easy. Mind space expands to gigantic proportions. Time lapse. The sun never looked prettier in any room…personal.
Getting back to the possessiveness that is the core of theosophical society apart from the things it is generally known for, the reader has to go through catalogues, scrawl numbers with a blunt pencil on lil squares and wait for 45 minutes to an hour for the books to be tracked, dusted and brought down. Well, one can enjoy time lapse but to assume that it’s a norm is a lil unsettling.
More cribs – Firang-sucker hatred takes root quite strongly. Borrowing membership is selective. Walking membership is selective. Apart from the theosophists who live there you see just firangs…mostly. Got nothing against them. Cross my heart. Just the management irks me. A walking membership requisition letter is necessary. Fine. But it’s not just a requisition. You gotta state why you want to walk there and why not the beach. Now really people got their quirks you know. The fact that the place is beautiful isn’t enough?! And then someone there decides if it’s reason enough, then you get to tread on those lovely dirt pathways with mango groves and the famed banyan tree, footsteps hushed by fallen flowers, sun streaks winking at you, and alternating gaps of warm and cool which surprise you every four steps, smothered by tweeters and crickets, sweetened silence.
As I was mulling over this, over the unfairness of it all, that I who live in this city, down the road from this personal space would have to wait for a whole freaking year, The Wasteland came along or so I thought. Turned out to b a criticism of The Wasteland. Happens when it’s just numbers and not books you’re thumbing through.
Fell in love with a freaky passage likened to psychedelic rock and got mighty troubled by its roots.
Here it is…
What is that sound high in the air
Murmur of maternal lamentation
Who are
those hooded hordes swarming
Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked
earth
Ringed by the flat horizon only.
What is the city over the
mountains
Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air
Falling
towers
Jerusalem Athens Alexandria
Vienna London
Unreal
A woman drew
her long black hair out tight
And fiddled whisper music on those
strings
And bats with baby faces in the violet light
Whistled, and beat
their wings
And crawled head downward down a blackened wall
And upside
down in air were towers
Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours
And
voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.This land that was desolate is become like the garden of Eden; and the waste
and desolate and ruined cities are become fenced and are inhabited…
Ez.36:
26; 34-5; 38The last bit bothers me…more like nudge nudge and pops questions. Who? What? How? And just why? Why?
Strode off on a lil tangent after this and had Never ending math equation by Modest Mouse on a loop. Check them out…
I'm the same as I was when I was 6 years old
And oh my God I feel so damn old
I don't really feel anything
On a plane, I can see the tiny lights below
And oh my God, they look so alone
Do they really feel anything?
Oh my God, I've gotta gotta gotta gotta move on
Where do you move when what you're moving from
Is yourself?
The universe works on a math equation
that never even ever really ends in the end
Infinity spirals out creation
We're on the tip of its tongue, and it is saying
We aint sure where you stand
You aint machines and you aint land
And the plants and the animals, they are linked
And the plants and the animals eat each other
Oh my God and oh my cat
I told my Dad what I need
Well I know what I have and want
But I don't know what I need
Well, he said he said he said he said
"Where we're going I'm dead."
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