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.