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.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Friday, July 07, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, June 12, 2006
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
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
Friday, May 26, 2006
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.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
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.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
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
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.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
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!
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!
Saturday, May 06, 2006
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
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
Friday, May 05, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, May 01, 2006
'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.
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.
Monday, April 17, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
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.
Friday, March 31, 2006
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'?
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'?
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
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?"
Hmmm the one thing that I would take from eyecandy..."how bad do you want it?"
Monday, March 27, 2006
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!!
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!!
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Monday, March 13, 2006
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?
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?
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