It's run out of life...uhh...it's got not much time left...Dammit! Times when words spread themselves on your tongue and tickle your uvula and get gibberish out instead of surrendering themselves to coherent talk. Paah! And that's what I said once cos I couldn't get the simple 'validity' word that would explain why I needed to go recharge in the middle of the night.
Words are like those slinky stinkers you find in comics. Those sideline snigger-ers. They scuttle away and peek from behind the corner to see how you're faring in the muck. And this muck has happened too often. But at times, kindly, it is refered to as gaffes. Anything to make the babbling seem light.
But even when in an interview!? Even umm and uhhs abandon me to scavenge for words and then when they're salvaged they come out in this sticky pizza cheese mess that finally snap and slop down my chin and then I'll have to quickly slurp it back before anyone notices.
Sometimes even the deranged hope, the kind your likely to face in oncoming death, gives way, and instead there's just this parrot stutter of blankness, like plain white flashes going bang! bang! bang! But you've got to credit hope for being thick-skinned. It morphs into the street smart and goes about figuring out the opposite of the opposite to the word that sits tightly wedged in a corner like an unreasonably angered child and refuses to spell itself out. Twisted but that's how I got reacquainted with 'altercation.' Truce...agreement...debate...combat...altercation!
Words are also a lot like gigantic unshapely boulders, the kinds preferred to get the sack with the body to lightless depths, where it can be nudged and nibbled by sea folks. When words go down they go down with grammar. Tenses mingle, words surrogate, conjunctions snip. But its these surrogate words that save you from falling face down into something vocabulary-less. For instance, I picked this post from 6 words back after 5 hours and it's not what I had in mind when I stopped. Even the most austere words can surrogate. I had anything but austere in my mind back then.
But context methinks gives word shape more than meaning. And any word can take the place of another, with a little help from conditioning maybe. A Clockwork Orange to start off with was interesting cos of its vocabulary which I took some time to piece together. But then tolchok, moloko, etc began to make complete sense and I even began using it in conversations in my head. That's when the book scared me and I put it away for three months, to rid myself of the vocabulary that had become part of everyday, before I started on it again. That book has proved its point of conditioning.
And words seem to be the other thing apart from music that induces hyesterical joy! Books make you fall madly in love with the most inane emotion, puts you face to face with unacknowledged fears.
Words are fancy creatures.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Summer Swelter Mad
The purpose-in-life question accosts even a coaster, wet and spilling over. A square water mark in place of the regular thick circles. Cubes thin and float like sliced strips of coconut and then go lookin like a tooth I lost when I was three and vanishes. This one too goes into the earth though a little bit more complicated than cracking up the earth and pulling out chunks of more earth and placing it within reach of maroon earth worms and then smashing it down by shoving unearthed earth back into an ugly mound to bake, crack and get chipped with the evening wind.
Rice is a turn off. So is sambar. So is food in general. Tall glasses of Orange by day. Tangerine dreams by night when I'm out on the verandah warming my butt on still-warm mosaic steps with a street lamp that's got an incessant wink, wishing to be by a beach with a whip and a staple diet that includes anything and everything citrus.
Deoderant addict. The zest with which I spray it on likens those of the eagerness of dogs dashing towards and rolling in any watery muck. Anxiety thrives in the heat. Showering four times a day has got me wondering about sobby taps and annoying watchman next door who falls asleep when the tank is jetting water slamming on to cement. Not earth even. Yes, I do want a commitee in place to ensure people turn off their motors on time.
Heat, lethargy and coffee. The latter seals me in with a pack of slugs strolling in my feet. Tea! is almost a craving. 4pm is a lovely time. It grows a lil bit more brighter right then but in a happy smug satiated way. Like crackle pop the engergy combusts within. And for the next 15 minutes I feel like a helium balloon.
At night there's only one pose to take on the bed. Splayed. Maximum exposure to whatever the fan chucks at you. Pai becomes much more luxurious than the fattest softest mattress.
Pretty scarves begin to smell tangy at the crease with brow sweat. It's a bit tamarindish with sea salt and maybe a pinch of pulichified dough. In summer a lot of motorists do stop before the stop line provided there's a nice big phat tree with its holey green above us. Even after being under these spurts of coolness why on earth do people cut trees?!!! WHY?!!!! WHY?!!! Guess their intelligence is only skin deep and that too only till the timer on the signal goes zilch and then green. Aaargh! As long as I'm riding it's cool. I stretch my hands while gripping the handles and stretch my legs on and off for the cool blast to get inside my kurta and the damp junction behind my knee.
A glass of white for restless nights on sticky sheets. Chilled buttermilk to squidge the gnawing hunger of 3am, to quench thirst from grinding teeth while restraining the urge to swat the mosquito and scratch like my life depended on it.
If I don't wash my hair on every 3rd day, I imagine itchiness that has me treating my scalp in dettoled water on the 4th. I look at my crackling strands and promise myself and oil hairwash every second day. But that half hour of soaking oil in this heat is close to hellish. The shower nozzle is something I've become thankful for increasingly.
Yet there's the human alpamness in this heat to have summer fruits who propagate more heat. Irony. Paradox. Unfair. I love mangoes. I have one all to myself and I'm against the wall with a thermometer tickling my under-tongue while my mum goes I told you so I told you so. And the watermelons go out of fashion too soon. I see them only on highways.
Freshly exfoliated skin is coated in dust within a minute. Matte finish. Menthol based skin products line the shelf. Blue is all I care for. I wear only blue. A psychological conditioning that barely works. Leaky taps fill up buckets cooled over the day and are fed eau de cologne, mint and neem leaves. I just wish I had a tub of it.
Aah tubs! Why the faff does Bangalore have fabulous ice cream parlours and Madras none!?! Shakes & Creams serves ok-fine stuff but only when the dollops threaten to run cause of their long standing policy of slow service. Why no Corner House?! Why no gorgeous mint ice cream! They did have in Casa Picola but they ran out of it in Jan.
But I do like summer. I do like the heat cause I feel alive. I pine for these days when the city's flooded. Summer redeems itself by making cotton an investment, nungu the recommended high, mangoes with vanilla icecream regular dessert, beach visits compulsory, re-introducing the joy of sleeping on hard cold floor, highlighting the importance of water, generating respect for greenery, permitting unlimited ice cubes with no threats of catching a cold, kicking me out of bed at 6 cause it's too hot to sleep and the marvel of mint.
Rice is a turn off. So is sambar. So is food in general. Tall glasses of Orange by day. Tangerine dreams by night when I'm out on the verandah warming my butt on still-warm mosaic steps with a street lamp that's got an incessant wink, wishing to be by a beach with a whip and a staple diet that includes anything and everything citrus.
Deoderant addict. The zest with which I spray it on likens those of the eagerness of dogs dashing towards and rolling in any watery muck. Anxiety thrives in the heat. Showering four times a day has got me wondering about sobby taps and annoying watchman next door who falls asleep when the tank is jetting water slamming on to cement. Not earth even. Yes, I do want a commitee in place to ensure people turn off their motors on time.
Heat, lethargy and coffee. The latter seals me in with a pack of slugs strolling in my feet. Tea! is almost a craving. 4pm is a lovely time. It grows a lil bit more brighter right then but in a happy smug satiated way. Like crackle pop the engergy combusts within. And for the next 15 minutes I feel like a helium balloon.
At night there's only one pose to take on the bed. Splayed. Maximum exposure to whatever the fan chucks at you. Pai becomes much more luxurious than the fattest softest mattress.
Pretty scarves begin to smell tangy at the crease with brow sweat. It's a bit tamarindish with sea salt and maybe a pinch of pulichified dough. In summer a lot of motorists do stop before the stop line provided there's a nice big phat tree with its holey green above us. Even after being under these spurts of coolness why on earth do people cut trees?!!! WHY?!!!! WHY?!!! Guess their intelligence is only skin deep and that too only till the timer on the signal goes zilch and then green. Aaargh! As long as I'm riding it's cool. I stretch my hands while gripping the handles and stretch my legs on and off for the cool blast to get inside my kurta and the damp junction behind my knee.
A glass of white for restless nights on sticky sheets. Chilled buttermilk to squidge the gnawing hunger of 3am, to quench thirst from grinding teeth while restraining the urge to swat the mosquito and scratch like my life depended on it.
If I don't wash my hair on every 3rd day, I imagine itchiness that has me treating my scalp in dettoled water on the 4th. I look at my crackling strands and promise myself and oil hairwash every second day. But that half hour of soaking oil in this heat is close to hellish. The shower nozzle is something I've become thankful for increasingly.
Yet there's the human alpamness in this heat to have summer fruits who propagate more heat. Irony. Paradox. Unfair. I love mangoes. I have one all to myself and I'm against the wall with a thermometer tickling my under-tongue while my mum goes I told you so I told you so. And the watermelons go out of fashion too soon. I see them only on highways.
Freshly exfoliated skin is coated in dust within a minute. Matte finish. Menthol based skin products line the shelf. Blue is all I care for. I wear only blue. A psychological conditioning that barely works. Leaky taps fill up buckets cooled over the day and are fed eau de cologne, mint and neem leaves. I just wish I had a tub of it.
Aah tubs! Why the faff does Bangalore have fabulous ice cream parlours and Madras none!?! Shakes & Creams serves ok-fine stuff but only when the dollops threaten to run cause of their long standing policy of slow service. Why no Corner House?! Why no gorgeous mint ice cream! They did have in Casa Picola but they ran out of it in Jan.
But I do like summer. I do like the heat cause I feel alive. I pine for these days when the city's flooded. Summer redeems itself by making cotton an investment, nungu the recommended high, mangoes with vanilla icecream regular dessert, beach visits compulsory, re-introducing the joy of sleeping on hard cold floor, highlighting the importance of water, generating respect for greenery, permitting unlimited ice cubes with no threats of catching a cold, kicking me out of bed at 6 cause it's too hot to sleep and the marvel of mint.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Crumbs & Crumby - Rozee's Story
It is always better to say nothing than to say something that is obvious and hurt me. Did he do it deliberately? To shoo me away? Or did he really feel that way? I will never know...This is one thing that would forever itch my mind and keep me sleepless in my sleep. For even in my sleep I hear those words, and the vibration of his voice when he said them. It wasn’t something I did not know, yet I just didn’t want to hear it from him. I thought I conveyed him the message through the fear I hid in my eyes.
Summer came with a lot of fanfare. Gold rays spurted through blinds. The clothes on the rail whipped the smell of frizzling grass indoors. Everything around grew dewy including the people. Ice tinkled every half hr onto trays and into glasses. The bottle openers were out. So were the flower pattern hankies to mop liquid black salt off tanned gorges. Through the windows you could see everyone doing a jig towards the shade.
In spite of all the gaiety by default, there came some clammy news. The Cricket World Cup. To a prototype Gingerbread boy in happy self-imposed exile this doesn’t forebode good. Well, cause people snack as they watch wickers swing and wickets down.
For a minor flashback, the original Gingerbread boy dodged quite a few and ended in a fox’ tummy. Well, all I can say is, thank god the cow didn’t get him. Regurgitation is quite unsavory. You see, gingerbread is what you call a one-time instant crunchy flavour. But I digress. I, the new prototype outran the baker, landed in an assorted cookie jar of a premium kind making its way across oceans as Monty Panesar’s gift to a girl named Sumthnwinder. Luckily for me I escaped the gorging process. And to cut a long story short I made it into the hands of a kind small-town Dhaba owner who had no appetite for anything but butter chicken. A loving keeper indeed and it grew mutual. Every morning I get a quick scrape and some pink and Ajanta blue squeezed on that get me looking iced and garish.
Even though hopes for the Hockey World Cup for India belonged only to the zany, the rest of the townspeople didn’t need no hope to smack up snacks to stack up their racks while glued to the only LCD TV in town i.e. at my keeper’s place.
Where do I fit into this easy-maintenance lot? Once in a while there’d be a shortage of kurkure or jilebi as they watched scuttling figures and made the occasional remark about sexy calf muscles. It seems focus is a snack. And when that’s out restlessness sets in and the sexy calf muscles can be damned! At tense moments as these, there’d be the rabid eye glancing my way, itching to snap me in two. But my keeper’s surly appearance by my side would squelch even the teeniest sign of mutiny. This was last year.
And now, The Cricket World Cup! It is BIG! And so would be the snacking. My keeper had been brooding the past one week and looking my way with a sense of guilt, apprehension, love and I think I noticed even hunger and faint curiosity for the unknown. Things weren’t ok as always between my gracious keeper and me. The early morning shaves had grown shoddy, the icing runny. It’s as though he just wanted to be over with me ASAP. For a gingerbread boy, I have quite a heart. It hurt I tell you.
My eyelid started ticking. There was a grudging animosity in the air. My keeper’s shoulder slid to a spooky slouch. His eyes and fingers constantly thumbed the snack racks and the quantity ledgers respectively. There were blood-shot sneaks taken my way with a drooly leer. But like menthol induced whistles there were those short bursts of love that came through. Yet, I felt day by day that I never knew him ever.
On a starry night, I was taken out of my casing for one of those nightly treats, where I could sit on his lap and trace patterns that never end with them sparkly. This time however, the unrest of many days didn’t allow excitement to stir. But once out, swinging my crispy legs off his knee, it was hard not to get comfortable. My eyes roved the silver. A sudden draft nipped my iced nose. And that’s when I noticed the utter stillness with which he sat. Right then, he took me onto his palm and peered at me wonky-eyed as I looked at him with wild hope characteristic of doom. And he said, “Sadly, it won’t be me who first tastes you, biscuit.”
Picked Tag
1. Were you named after anyone?
Yes, Dad’s mom but with 3 letters added to its end which make it sound a lot mo classy methinks
2. Do you wish on stars?
Yep. From stars to wishbones to cats that cross paths from the right
3. When did you last cry?
Tuesday
4. Do you like your handwriting?
Yes, as long as it doesn’t go beyond a paragraph cos then it’s kozhi kirukals
5. What is your favourite meat
Chicken. However, I don't mind helping myself to the rest when there's a choice
6. What is your most embarrassing CD on your shelf?
An ancient Smirnoff Megamix
7. If you were another person, would YOU be friends with you?
Yes, I’m good fun to have around
8. Are you a daredevil?
Quite
9. How do you release anger?
Clam up and let it lie/Bawl in private/Smash something I gauge to be replaceable to fight the need to punch (rarely)/ Stomp out for a long walk
10. Where is your second home?
Me. I'm quite at home with myself.
Yes, Dad’s mom but with 3 letters added to its end which make it sound a lot mo classy methinks
2. Do you wish on stars?
Yep. From stars to wishbones to cats that cross paths from the right
3. When did you last cry?
Tuesday
4. Do you like your handwriting?
Yes, as long as it doesn’t go beyond a paragraph cos then it’s kozhi kirukals
5. What is your favourite meat
Chicken. However, I don't mind helping myself to the rest when there's a choice
6. What is your most embarrassing CD on your shelf?
An ancient Smirnoff Megamix
7. If you were another person, would YOU be friends with you?
Yes, I’m good fun to have around
8. Are you a daredevil?
Quite
9. How do you release anger?
Clam up and let it lie/Bawl in private/Smash something I gauge to be replaceable to fight the need to punch (rarely)/ Stomp out for a long walk
10. Where is your second home?
Me. I'm quite at home with myself.
11. Do you trust others easily?
Nope. I think too much.
12. What was your favourite toy as a child?
No choppu and all for me. Just a bright yellow tricycle and an F1 look-alike pedal car.
13. What class in school/college do you think is totally useless?
School - Civics!!!! I hate! I hate! Bledy nasty teaches distinction! Dirty Subject
College – Mary Swamy on Prose indeedy!
PG – Almost all save for the few by guest lecturers
14. Do you use sarcasm a lot?
Nope. It comes to my rescue after the moment's passed like cops in the movies
15. Have you ever been in a mosh pit?
Eh?
16.What do you look for in a guy/girl?
Sharp, varied interests, willing to try anything or a lot of things, kind, ability to be and let me be
17. Would you bungee jump?
Ooohh yes!
18. Do you untie your shoes when you take them off?
I don’t wear shoes…like my toes breathing.
19. What's your favourite ice cream?
Mint! Chocolate also
20. What are your favourite colours?
Blue, black, wine red
21. What are your least favourite things?
Monday mornings and cockroaches
22. How many people do you have a crush on right now?
Umm I’ve been permanently crushing on my 2nd std classmate
23. Who do you miss most right now?
I'll change that to 'what' - Sleep
24. What are you listening to right now?
Love street by The Doors
25. If you were a crayon, what colour would you be?
Purple
26. What is the weather like right now?
Effin HOT!
27. Last person you talked to on the phone?
Panji
28. The "first" thing you notice about the opposite sex?
Their hands and what they do with them
29. Do you like the person who sent you this?
Oh yes…love her very much indeedy! Bestest Friend :-)
30. How are you today?
Mildly worried. My right eyelid’s been ticking like crazy
31. Favourite non-alcoholic drink?
Mint soda pop, Jal Jeera, Salt lime soda, Sweet lassi, Buttermilk, Litchi juice, Guava juice
32. Favourite alcoholic drink?
Anything Tequila based
33. Natural hair colour?
Dark Brown-Black
34. Eye colour?
Dark Brown
35. Wear contacts?
Nope. Touchwood!
36. Siblings?
None. Wheeeeee!
37. Favourite month?
November. Tis gotta lotta character with its showers, slugs, snails, croaking frogs, and the songs in its name!
38. Favourite food?
Shall overlook the hint at the singular and launch into preferred menu…Mum’s Biryani, Sparky’s Lasagne, Mexican Chicken Cheese burger from Kenzos, Vanjaram fish fry, Pecos’ Squid, Homemade pork pizza, Steak Cesare from Tangerine, Kaadai from Kaaraikudi, Tiramisu and Double chocolate gateaux from Jelly Belly, Chocolate mint cake from Mocha, Chocolate mint delight from Corner house and of course Thayir Saadham.
39. Favourite day of the year?
Any Sunday
40. Have you ever been too shy to ask someone out?
No. Asked out the big mistake of my life.
41. Scary movies or happy endings?
Sucker for happy endings but get bloodthirsty once in a while
42. Summer or winter?
Summer! Mambazham, water melon, maanga with molaga podi on compulsory beach visits
43. Holi or Diwali?
Deepavali. New clothes :-D Also, semma non-veg saapadu
44. Do you like your name?
Totally. Methinks tis utterly cool and weird.
45. What book/magazine are you reading?
Rumpole & The Age of Miracles by John Mortimer. Quite funny.
46. What's on your mouse pad?
the brand name of my comp. The excitement is killing me!
47. What did you watch on TV last night?
Hannah Montana on Pogo. Briefly. Such is the plight of CAS victims
48. Favourite Smell?
Mun vaasanai, sea breeze, Moore Market’s musty book cum fish tank stink, Pavazha malli, Raw guavas
49. Have you ever regretted breaking up with someone?
No
50. Most tiresome thing you’ve ever experienced/done?
Getting through Mondays, trying to be polite to annoying relatives, getting imagination handicapped visualizers to understand an Idea
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
An interesting shade
Noises aren't helping enough. How much can one get out of a Wheeeaah! Can't paint to show all the colours dripping off to form pretty puddles I'm trying to skirt, step through and splash in. Don't have a cam to catch the jigs, the foetal reminiscence, twitchy hands that don't know what to do with themselves, grinning eyes, the pallor of self-doubt, my clueless hair on how to hang over my forehead, the anticipatory ticking of the left eyelid, the determined pulse moving towards white papers of dreams, the content stroll, the apprehension lurking on my left.
Monday, February 05, 2007
For the love of salt
After a knee-whopping ride to the beach past the arch (known as Kapaleshwar Nagar Beach to the auto fellows) and being the object of some cackling, we toppled out on to sand and many pairs of eyes. They didn't glare, stare. They just gazed vacant with maybe a hint of curiosity in some. Immediately felt kinship with the beach, the sea and its creatures, especially the Mussel - clammed up instantly! Wondered if Ostriches would fit the landscape.
Somehow got past the freeze and plonked on the beach behind the group in a circle. Heads rotated towards the boy with the Guitar. It was such a pretty night! And it all started with some strumming and humming Simon & Garfunkel under tangerine lights. Muttered lyrics for fear of squawking, but when it came to Illayaraja, P'dner and I were mostly out there with accompaniments that go achum achum achum...Nila adhu vaanathu meley...! :-D what a song indeed!!
And then they descended - hordes of children, squeaking, giggling, loud!!! The music was lost in their bledy babble and repeated hushes they did to themselves was far worse than their yakking. But the guide saved the music of the night! Arun, a tall, lanky, bearded, hooded, sweatshirted, shorted, sweet man with a passionate disposition for the environment, took them aside for orientation. Phew! And we carried on with mi song...Wish you were here. Missed V quite a bit. It is our song after all. And the whispering of Clapton and Co went on till we were ready to trot.
Usually a crowd of 20 had tripled this time cause of the blasted kids from a school I went to and which I have absolutely no respect for. I do have reason to be spiteful. Forgot them instantly when we hit the wet sand. Ambling while the moon paced along and surf curled over feet, placid peace sunk in with each step.
Our first stop-over came quite quickly. The ones ahead had tracked a nest with 175 eggs! Fantastic pingpong look alikes! Soft, dented and pink in the moonlight. As N pointed out it's utterly gobsmacking to think that these turtles come year after year to the same beach and have been doing so for aeons. Parallel worlds I want to be a part of but then there's home and the potholed road to work. Not quite alluring but neverthless a predominant aspect. Tsk tsk.
Eels, puffer fish, bloated ones with eyes popped, tummy split, fins slit - my morbid side had a ball. Crabs skittered by for company and did their jigs across sand. Deft creatures. Cuttlefish bones to start with were a novelty. In fact I did a bit of grumbling cause the guide gave it to pesky kid. But we stumbled on many streaking phosphorescent white on the sand. Picked 2. Now figuring out ways to get rid of stench. Soon I came to be known was the Cuttlefish collector. A kid came and offered two! And the rest pointed out the picks.
Plankton I saw none but save one. Absolutely pthoooey. Bottles, crawling coconuts, garlands of the dead in ashes, but no plankton! Spotting that lone blue metallic glow was a special moment. Touch it, drag it, Voila! Light painting! Painted blue trails till it disappeared from finger tips. It's plain beautiful.
Nest 2 yielded 111 + 1 small. 1 small was deemed by a know-it-all to be born with defects. The ones who knew said no such thing. Quite a bit of know-it-alls on this trip. Having stumbled upon a dead Ridley, one loudly proclaimed it dead. Duh! We know. And how you suppose, we asked. The know-it-all did a long uhh followed by 'we'll have to take it to a vet to figure." Ok then. Most probably died of suffocation from the trawlers, said the guide. It was a 50 kg or so turtle, bleeding in trickles from the neck. Nearly 45 years old. 50, 000 left. The turtles wont be around to tell us that existence was before now.
We trotted by Bella Ciao, temples, N's old house, packs of outnumbered stray dogs, and circumvented around fishermens boats. Apparently the fishermen view us as an inauspicious element, a lot like the cat crossing the path. We happened upon 2 who had come back with quite a catch. They were untangling the net off a pile of Madava meen, silver and terribly dead.
You know you've arrived on Beasant Nagar beach when you see the plastic competing with the glitter of the sea. Plastic silver. It goes beyond the gagging reflex. But no ugly beach can deter plan for z walk in March! The hatchlings and lots of plankton... hopefully!
Somehow got past the freeze and plonked on the beach behind the group in a circle. Heads rotated towards the boy with the Guitar. It was such a pretty night! And it all started with some strumming and humming Simon & Garfunkel under tangerine lights. Muttered lyrics for fear of squawking, but when it came to Illayaraja, P'dner and I were mostly out there with accompaniments that go achum achum achum...Nila adhu vaanathu meley...! :-D what a song indeed!!
And then they descended - hordes of children, squeaking, giggling, loud!!! The music was lost in their bledy babble and repeated hushes they did to themselves was far worse than their yakking. But the guide saved the music of the night! Arun, a tall, lanky, bearded, hooded, sweatshirted, shorted, sweet man with a passionate disposition for the environment, took them aside for orientation. Phew! And we carried on with mi song...Wish you were here. Missed V quite a bit. It is our song after all. And the whispering of Clapton and Co went on till we were ready to trot.
Usually a crowd of 20 had tripled this time cause of the blasted kids from a school I went to and which I have absolutely no respect for. I do have reason to be spiteful. Forgot them instantly when we hit the wet sand. Ambling while the moon paced along and surf curled over feet, placid peace sunk in with each step.
Our first stop-over came quite quickly. The ones ahead had tracked a nest with 175 eggs! Fantastic pingpong look alikes! Soft, dented and pink in the moonlight. As N pointed out it's utterly gobsmacking to think that these turtles come year after year to the same beach and have been doing so for aeons. Parallel worlds I want to be a part of but then there's home and the potholed road to work. Not quite alluring but neverthless a predominant aspect. Tsk tsk.
Eels, puffer fish, bloated ones with eyes popped, tummy split, fins slit - my morbid side had a ball. Crabs skittered by for company and did their jigs across sand. Deft creatures. Cuttlefish bones to start with were a novelty. In fact I did a bit of grumbling cause the guide gave it to pesky kid. But we stumbled on many streaking phosphorescent white on the sand. Picked 2. Now figuring out ways to get rid of stench. Soon I came to be known was the Cuttlefish collector. A kid came and offered two! And the rest pointed out the picks.
Plankton I saw none but save one. Absolutely pthoooey. Bottles, crawling coconuts, garlands of the dead in ashes, but no plankton! Spotting that lone blue metallic glow was a special moment. Touch it, drag it, Voila! Light painting! Painted blue trails till it disappeared from finger tips. It's plain beautiful.
Nest 2 yielded 111 + 1 small. 1 small was deemed by a know-it-all to be born with defects. The ones who knew said no such thing. Quite a bit of know-it-alls on this trip. Having stumbled upon a dead Ridley, one loudly proclaimed it dead. Duh! We know. And how you suppose, we asked. The know-it-all did a long uhh followed by 'we'll have to take it to a vet to figure." Ok then. Most probably died of suffocation from the trawlers, said the guide. It was a 50 kg or so turtle, bleeding in trickles from the neck. Nearly 45 years old. 50, 000 left. The turtles wont be around to tell us that existence was before now.
We trotted by Bella Ciao, temples, N's old house, packs of outnumbered stray dogs, and circumvented around fishermens boats. Apparently the fishermen view us as an inauspicious element, a lot like the cat crossing the path. We happened upon 2 who had come back with quite a catch. They were untangling the net off a pile of Madava meen, silver and terribly dead.
You know you've arrived on Beasant Nagar beach when you see the plastic competing with the glitter of the sea. Plastic silver. It goes beyond the gagging reflex. But no ugly beach can deter plan for z walk in March! The hatchlings and lots of plankton... hopefully!
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Ingrown nails can be quite comfortable. Numbed in the pain one forgets. Similarly blackheads. I'm waiting for that pique that gets me started on the nail or the blackhead. So much has happened. I've tripped myself over a zillion times within a few hours and have the sheet in a seamen knots...almost improbable but when I do look at myself as a wrapping artist I seem to have done a darn good job!
Regrets bounce along stinging in quick pinches exactly where it hurts. 2 best friends leaving at the same time. 1 I hardly spent time with. The other, I didn't get enough off. Doubts come in mocking jaunts. Knock knees indeed. That thing called love and then me. Trying to fight the urge to be lulled by mediocrity. Learning in momentary haunts of clarity. Making peace with time. Making peace with myself.
Regrets bounce along stinging in quick pinches exactly where it hurts. 2 best friends leaving at the same time. 1 I hardly spent time with. The other, I didn't get enough off. Doubts come in mocking jaunts. Knock knees indeed. That thing called love and then me. Trying to fight the urge to be lulled by mediocrity. Learning in momentary haunts of clarity. Making peace with time. Making peace with myself.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Sigh squared
Oh and this is my car. Pretty no. She's a lil raspy when started up though. This is my room...quite a sleep inducer and yada yada yada. Variations of virtual tours of my home were spilling into my ears and shot back into my head circuitously for more chopping, re-editing, rephrasing and additional knickknacks. Somehow I manged to rest eyes in determination not to like panda for the next day. Next day. Went about like yoga went wrong with a crick by the diaphragm and refused to exhale much. Mopped, swept, cooked, wine at handy. And tequila too. And ice cream.
It wasn't till evening that I actually put a face to my cleaning bout. Didn't want to count them chickens. However, Luck crapped on the two of us. It cost him literally. And I went skittering like a popped balloon.
The one good thing that's come of this is that home has been gleaned.
It wasn't till evening that I actually put a face to my cleaning bout. Didn't want to count them chickens. However, Luck crapped on the two of us. It cost him literally. And I went skittering like a popped balloon.
The one good thing that's come of this is that home has been gleaned.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Bloody Dunes
Why is it such a big deal/issue/expectation or whatever you call it! to want it straight simple neat...the person I'm madly in love with to be just as madly in love with me...? There's no such thing as perfect, no one has it easy yada yada yada but Orkut says otherwise. They all are bledy leaving testimonials of their love for each other now! No I don't grudge them. I bet it's so bledy nice to be that way. And Orkut is probably the worst thing to happen to me. Or maybe all this swishes around in my head cos of PMS. Guess I need to bleed to be a better person. Sometimes it's that simple...or so it seems. Monthly ruminations...
Once you get used to not having, there's a shutter that leaves just about enough ventilation for it to grow on you. But these bleeding times of clarity gets it all clogged in the wedges and in need of some dusting. Baah!
And synchronised PMS is rather deadly. P'dner and I have it together. We hardly meet, but then we do talk on the phone a lot. Both of us aren't up to bail each other out but sigh or hiss with nods.
Once you get used to not having, there's a shutter that leaves just about enough ventilation for it to grow on you. But these bleeding times of clarity gets it all clogged in the wedges and in need of some dusting. Baah!
And synchronised PMS is rather deadly. P'dner and I have it together. We hardly meet, but then we do talk on the phone a lot. Both of us aren't up to bail each other out but sigh or hiss with nods.
Friday, December 08, 2006
Compass, ladder and some recipes plis...
Having blared Rare Earth, RHCP and more, Worldspace quit on my mom when she switched to the spirituality channels, which btw are the only ones that will play on not having renewed subscription. Fiddling with the palm-sized remote with tough buttons that feel like thick corn (is that what you call it?) at the junction tween finger and palm, and mine I attribute to 5 years of riding a blue kinetic with musical notes etched on the side. Tsk Tsk. It's not so bad really. Deviant me. That was no sentence. That was a strand. I'd like to think it the vapourous stuff that Dumbledore pulls out with his wand and swishes into the pensieve like a stray string of spaghetti.
Yup, fiddling with the remote didn't get the stations back. The display said CARR 75. This, the customer care persons pronounced as CARE. Some care indeed. The manual didn't have it in the index and was still missing after having run through it all. When nothing they suggested worked, I was told to clamber on to the roof and direct the antenna South East at an elevation of 45 to 50 degrees. What?! This at 11 pm with a very reluctant moon.
In between all this I was screeching as to why they i.e. mum and uncle had to mess around when all they had to do was holler for me. And while the verbal blah blahs rallied, the aquaguard was belting out it's annoying, high pitched tune while my uncle loudly read out the manual. Mad indeed! But quite funny on after thought though in a frustrating and exhausting way :-) Oh well.
I'm considering opening up whiling wonky's popcorn! Made that fabulous vanilla flavoured, orange-tang-touched butter popcorn! Most fabulous ever! And meat chips also happened by accident on frying salami cut into nachos look alikes.
Yup, fiddling with the remote didn't get the stations back. The display said CARR 75. This, the customer care persons pronounced as CARE. Some care indeed. The manual didn't have it in the index and was still missing after having run through it all. When nothing they suggested worked, I was told to clamber on to the roof and direct the antenna South East at an elevation of 45 to 50 degrees. What?! This at 11 pm with a very reluctant moon.
In between all this I was screeching as to why they i.e. mum and uncle had to mess around when all they had to do was holler for me. And while the verbal blah blahs rallied, the aquaguard was belting out it's annoying, high pitched tune while my uncle loudly read out the manual. Mad indeed! But quite funny on after thought though in a frustrating and exhausting way :-) Oh well.
I'm considering opening up whiling wonky's popcorn! Made that fabulous vanilla flavoured, orange-tang-touched butter popcorn! Most fabulous ever! And meat chips also happened by accident on frying salami cut into nachos look alikes.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Wait up! Here's a ping pong bat...will you play me?
...why am I reminded I'm alone in a lonely way? Got no issues with the former. Annoying the way it makes its presence felt with the help of the jelly legging latter, like sudden twitches of the leg making you start up in retinas otherwise glazing over. No matter what one says it'll never be ever. What makes the loneliness seep beyond the fine line of alone is the dual knowledge that you feel a constant and that the rest aren't or so it seems. Then constant is tossed on it's side and snoozes snugly but still ticking though a lil sluggish now. Alone makes its way through lonely by blaring at the other while I'm having it good and not knowing. Or so I believe. So it is nice to think so. So consolatory. Fairness. Glitches in so called constant time...when I haven't been what I want others to be. So we fill in the gaps like chocolate sauce in cookie ridges. Just isn't that sweet. Guess it's all tolerated for those moments when we're in step.
Monday, December 04, 2006
Mashed Potatos
I like the Contours. And I pretend to be able to jive pretty well in my head. Or else I should just go with calling this post 'the world's always 3 drinks behind' as Bogart said. But sometimes it's such a dizzy I dunno who's ahead.
Average life it seems. Nothing really wrong. But it's buzzing with flies waiting to land on the stink about to ensue! One of them being owing p'dner a lot. Literally and otherwise. Sometimes nothing seems enough. Literally yes. 68. That's all I got. Otherwise... wish I could erase some and flick the grubby lead into a black hole. Or mix and match to every varying sense of perfection that accosts her at every step. Or at the least conduct a lobotomy. But then she would've never been her. I don't know the answer to mind block, contentment, tossing baggage. Baah! Incompetent. It feels crazy and freakishly so like bald tyres going wonky on roads. When an integral part of you needs the rest and you just can't get the grease in the right grooves. Terrible mechanic indeed. I just ride my bike and drive my car. I don't know what makes it move apart from the gas. Peering under the hood or letting the mechanic grope under my bike only reinstates helpless. In the former I know only the radiator. In the latter I know he's just unplugged the spark and taking me for my ride indeed. Wish I knew all the hows...
All day I've been having the smell of orange rind strung to my nostrils. Thanks to a 4 am sms on flavoured butter popcorn from P'dner (after which my nose was on high alert through fat mosquitos' drones and sudden bursts of jazz piano from the radio). Loverly indeed! 100 gms butter with dried corn in presure cooker. Here the crackle. Open up and dunk powdered orange rind, seeds of vanilla (where am I going to get that here?! In the city of sickeningly sweet Vanilla essence Arun Ice Creams!) and sugar. Bliss! What a happy world! Pthisssh!
Average life it seems. Nothing really wrong. But it's buzzing with flies waiting to land on the stink about to ensue! One of them being owing p'dner a lot. Literally and otherwise. Sometimes nothing seems enough. Literally yes. 68. That's all I got. Otherwise... wish I could erase some and flick the grubby lead into a black hole. Or mix and match to every varying sense of perfection that accosts her at every step. Or at the least conduct a lobotomy. But then she would've never been her. I don't know the answer to mind block, contentment, tossing baggage. Baah! Incompetent. It feels crazy and freakishly so like bald tyres going wonky on roads. When an integral part of you needs the rest and you just can't get the grease in the right grooves. Terrible mechanic indeed. I just ride my bike and drive my car. I don't know what makes it move apart from the gas. Peering under the hood or letting the mechanic grope under my bike only reinstates helpless. In the former I know only the radiator. In the latter I know he's just unplugged the spark and taking me for my ride indeed. Wish I knew all the hows...
All day I've been having the smell of orange rind strung to my nostrils. Thanks to a 4 am sms on flavoured butter popcorn from P'dner (after which my nose was on high alert through fat mosquitos' drones and sudden bursts of jazz piano from the radio). Loverly indeed! 100 gms butter with dried corn in presure cooker. Here the crackle. Open up and dunk powdered orange rind, seeds of vanilla (where am I going to get that here?! In the city of sickeningly sweet Vanilla essence Arun Ice Creams!) and sugar. Bliss! What a happy world! Pthisssh!
Monday, November 27, 2006
Lotus Stem Vathal
Monday. The dastardly day. Fie! It rhymes already. Triple Y! Oh my gawdy! What a bawdy day indeedy! Blueberry waffles I want simply cause tis monday and monday goes very well with blue. It's a cliche and it might as well hang with something utterly yummy in sick hopes of subduing its manic sting. Yes, I'm taking off popular terms associated with the dread day - blue, manic. Tsk Tsk.
Monday is precisely 30 hours along. It eats into my last 6 on Sunday. Propped like a cubist creation on orange cushions sipping languidly on mom's tea, spliced in neat lines of dull gold, a typical sunday sun, and cream blind's narrow shadows, I feel the anxiety getting unzipped and grate over each interlocking groove. Wallowing on what's to come, devising ways of making it to alternate world, actually a fisherman or a dolphin trainer will do. Or octopus catching in Grecian Urns by the seas of Tunisia will do too.
Loathsome morn I tell you. Why awake. Why can't it slip in unnoticed during the bustling hours when it doesn't matter what day or time it is but what's on hand is all that counts. Why the faff can't it dawn monday when I'm busy squabbling with an auto fellow, or busy rummaging through a book store, flipping channels on worldspace, while going ouzo ouzo with N, or when busy doodling!
Lilly livered monday! I dare you to take me at day time! Ha! Parasite prey on sunday. Out from 'neath buttercup yellow underskirts! Milksop! Monday you!
Monday is precisely 30 hours along. It eats into my last 6 on Sunday. Propped like a cubist creation on orange cushions sipping languidly on mom's tea, spliced in neat lines of dull gold, a typical sunday sun, and cream blind's narrow shadows, I feel the anxiety getting unzipped and grate over each interlocking groove. Wallowing on what's to come, devising ways of making it to alternate world, actually a fisherman or a dolphin trainer will do. Or octopus catching in Grecian Urns by the seas of Tunisia will do too.
Loathsome morn I tell you. Why awake. Why can't it slip in unnoticed during the bustling hours when it doesn't matter what day or time it is but what's on hand is all that counts. Why the faff can't it dawn monday when I'm busy squabbling with an auto fellow, or busy rummaging through a book store, flipping channels on worldspace, while going ouzo ouzo with N, or when busy doodling!
Lilly livered monday! I dare you to take me at day time! Ha! Parasite prey on sunday. Out from 'neath buttercup yellow underskirts! Milksop! Monday you!
Friday, November 24, 2006
Episode 1 of Time and Timely Travels
Scrambled out of bed bug infested side upper at 4 am. Stubbed my toes down and into floaters and plodded through snores on my way to make myself presentable. Splashed rubbery water that rolled off without removing a tint of the train's muck. Actively rubbing with tissue, it unclogged. Old man on lower birth panicked on seeing me so sprightly. He sprung up and went about waking his relatives scattered around the compartment. Every station he peered at as though waiting to leap out through the emergency exit if need be. Sat smug knowing we were still some time away. Complacently I went about applying moisturiser and lip salve, packing in my shawl and arranging my bag for easy grabbing. His panic heightened and he went about snatching shawls off his son and wife and folding them hastily. Sporadic lights came on. The ujala ones of the train as well as glow watches. They hrumphed and they grumphed, turned their behinds on each other and regressed.
In the meanwhile, I was busy going bright eyed at myriad flashes of being received and how. At the station? Should I just save trouble and land up home and surprise? Will, I zero in on speck tween all that sludge like flow of sweatered trudgers with luggage? Or will I find him step-in from a corner? Will I kill slow minutes, squishing them with glee as one does when squelching nits and tell myself to walk patiently to the gate to prevent myself from tripping over auto men's legs? And then will I take short wisps of searing cold in bursting anticipation, recapping to the slow droll of days past? And then on seeing his car, I knew I'd grin like an idiot, highlights streaking off like the northern lights.
By now, the train promised to pull in at the station closest. I saw his apartment zip by. And it took me quite a while to figure that the train wasn't going to slow down. Drat! More time in my way. In between all this anticipation there were other eager souls who kept shoving their mousy hair under my nose as they kept ducking to see if they had indeed arrived.
Jittering and thudding on potholes I landed there pretty fast. Ripping out hairbrush, I gleaned scattered strands. Trotted to the elevator, slammed gates, n whistled like a milk cooker. That name plate :-) Ding! Dong! I tried to look composed. And my idea of composed is staring at a space nowhere. I walk in. Act like I've just arrived, plonking bag and all. And turn around to get a squg. Squg! Warm. Catholic experience. Time's zapper. Content. Blissfully blank except for one strong feeling of just being. Period. That's what I've been waiting for over a month. That's what I dreamt of and daydreamed of a trillion times. That's all I've been quite wanting for sometime. And now that I'm back, I want more!
In the meanwhile, I was busy going bright eyed at myriad flashes of being received and how. At the station? Should I just save trouble and land up home and surprise? Will, I zero in on speck tween all that sludge like flow of sweatered trudgers with luggage? Or will I find him step-in from a corner? Will I kill slow minutes, squishing them with glee as one does when squelching nits and tell myself to walk patiently to the gate to prevent myself from tripping over auto men's legs? And then will I take short wisps of searing cold in bursting anticipation, recapping to the slow droll of days past? And then on seeing his car, I knew I'd grin like an idiot, highlights streaking off like the northern lights.
By now, the train promised to pull in at the station closest. I saw his apartment zip by. And it took me quite a while to figure that the train wasn't going to slow down. Drat! More time in my way. In between all this anticipation there were other eager souls who kept shoving their mousy hair under my nose as they kept ducking to see if they had indeed arrived.
Jittering and thudding on potholes I landed there pretty fast. Ripping out hairbrush, I gleaned scattered strands. Trotted to the elevator, slammed gates, n whistled like a milk cooker. That name plate :-) Ding! Dong! I tried to look composed. And my idea of composed is staring at a space nowhere. I walk in. Act like I've just arrived, plonking bag and all. And turn around to get a squg. Squg! Warm. Catholic experience. Time's zapper. Content. Blissfully blank except for one strong feeling of just being. Period. That's what I've been waiting for over a month. That's what I dreamt of and daydreamed of a trillion times. That's all I've been quite wanting for sometime. And now that I'm back, I want more!
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Nosey worries
My monster nose is gonna give Rudolf stiff competition. Raw red, it's gearing up for the christmas season doing trial runs with make-up - tell tale snow flakes. Flaked skin. It burns I tell you. However, I am begining to seriously hope that I do take a trip across the world and land up in N's stocking on christmas day.
Should've taken up p'dners invitation and gone to Pondy tod. Uncle would've been quite willing to let us go and get drunk. Rocks to warm butt on. Green moss slapping behind your ankle. A lone fish flip-fopping. And all that pasta! Fie O Fie Arcane!
Should've taken up p'dners invitation and gone to Pondy tod. Uncle would've been quite willing to let us go and get drunk. Rocks to warm butt on. Green moss slapping behind your ankle. A lone fish flip-fopping. And all that pasta! Fie O Fie Arcane!
Monday, November 20, 2006
Apologies, confessions, purgation, lobotomy
I was contemplating avatars the other day. Figured a shriveled mushroom or even bacteria on a green bathroom tile would be apt. When faced with potent embarrassment that's bound to zap you out to extinction, you begin to ponder escape routes of a better life of a lowly miserable creature not worth noting, living blissfully for a few days in anonymity and utter contentment. Filth is at large you see.
Hoping that A doesn't write me off as disgusting and weird in need of a shrink. It was a mistake! It was a reflex! Monster House will prove my innocence at the gagging reflex. My uvula did it!
What don't I screw up? Even the art and joy of gifting refuses to take place as it should without me tripping all over it and sliding in my own butter at desperate lurches to save it. A cd I sent. In spite of having known that no one would be at home to receive it, I thickly drill squiggly lines of the residence address. Next morning I fret. So much for a surprise. I msg and reveal all in anxiety. Anxiety kicks into 5th gear and I make calls to DTDC offices in the city and out of station and finally land up with someone who is quite sweet but understands no word I say. Spelling out office address thrice and one hour later I get a call from the Chennai office for recipient's number. Recipient hasn't messaged. Was stuck with weird old man who kept emphasizing on how tongues wag when the opp sex hang out even if it's professionally. Lasted for 2 and a half hours!!! Tracking? My ass! I dunno if it's reached. Recipient is blank. Drat!
Hoping that A doesn't write me off as disgusting and weird in need of a shrink. It was a mistake! It was a reflex! Monster House will prove my innocence at the gagging reflex. My uvula did it!
What don't I screw up? Even the art and joy of gifting refuses to take place as it should without me tripping all over it and sliding in my own butter at desperate lurches to save it. A cd I sent. In spite of having known that no one would be at home to receive it, I thickly drill squiggly lines of the residence address. Next morning I fret. So much for a surprise. I msg and reveal all in anxiety. Anxiety kicks into 5th gear and I make calls to DTDC offices in the city and out of station and finally land up with someone who is quite sweet but understands no word I say. Spelling out office address thrice and one hour later I get a call from the Chennai office for recipient's number. Recipient hasn't messaged. Was stuck with weird old man who kept emphasizing on how tongues wag when the opp sex hang out even if it's professionally. Lasted for 2 and a half hours!!! Tracking? My ass! I dunno if it's reached. Recipient is blank. Drat!
Friday, November 10, 2006
ketchup
A quart of vodka, my mauve blanket and Sophie's World. Wet dogs. I smell wet dogs! Slugs trailing in tantric patterns. Shadows glued to my curtains; waving and moulding to the breeze. A lone mosquito drones by the ear. Coconut goes thudding in the next compound as I plot to jump in and save it early next morn simultaneously preparing threats at grouchy watchman. Kitten bawls. Cats come skidding. Squeals and spitting orgasms. And then sleep's breathing becomes evident, permeates and explodes. Community feeling. Can't make up my mind if it's peaceful or bothers. Any sense of belonging icks me out. Only a mutual wanting for company corks hiccups on singularity. I am not a vagina. I am not here to reproduce. Being female is being part of me. Chocolate ice cream from sunday. Sugary chocolate sauce. It never drowns, the bottle's almost empty. Splicing and shoving with a spoon. Flipping channels. Reading news that stinks when its rotted so completely triggering gagging reflexes. Twiddling toes on carpet and wondering if the living room needs a larger one. The lizard population has grown. They somersault on blinds making thudripping sounds. I miss frogs. So long since I heard a croak or saw a snails black metal trail. The cops are having a ball with the new patrol cars. They experiment with the howler. Banshee! Dogs growl. I wonder if they see some white floatsomes. A bit of a wus, I stick by the TV longer. Scalding hot water from reluctant spores come gushing in archs hitting tiles and anywhere but me. Rituals of calls and messages and fears and complications. Praying. Transit to in between.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Sun Dunk
This morning was grasped with disbelief...it's a thursday! :-) I can sniff the weekend. Spilled out of bed in a scraggly vertical line and smacked palms on the switchboard barely squinting and twiddled up to the fan knob and eased it off. Peering eagerly for a calendar that wasn't there, my mind fell back on groping with yesterday, feeling up for a detail that would've positively made it a wednesday. Umm I remembered something about Kannada Rajautsav being on wed and I knew he had an off...ha! wednesday! Sunshine crept in.
Gulped oats and stepped out to be speckled by splotches and creeping gray. It hardly lasted for 2 minutes and the sun shone all the way. Drat! I'm rhyming! Rode in a daze. Landed on a pile of work. Ick.
I inch my way to lunch break only to be jolted and cringe a feet away. There was a puraan in my lunch packet lashing meekly. I don't know what that bledy insect is called in english. Anyway, its pincers are known to send rashes round the body and bloat. Egad! It was dying. Well, it was squashed under my lunch box all this while, some curd rice and mutton. Partially squished it turned a lovely blue. I saw it breathe its last in the curd fumes before chucking in a bin.
Rashes or bloats or not, an electrocuted cat on a wall is what I look like though the bristles are subsiding slowly. I'm still sitting on edge. And now is when the cleaner decides to mop the floor with a generous helping of phenoil. But the darn dank mop has stomped over the phenoil pungency and is wafting its stench through the vents. What goes around comes around. Blistering Blue Barnacles indeed!
Zilch appetite. Ordering from the fly-o-drome below is smudging away the hunger gnawing at my throat. Waiting for 415 and some plum cake and luke warm caramelly coffee from cheta. Tick faster time...I'll feed the world some quotable quotes in your name.
Gulped oats and stepped out to be speckled by splotches and creeping gray. It hardly lasted for 2 minutes and the sun shone all the way. Drat! I'm rhyming! Rode in a daze. Landed on a pile of work. Ick.
I inch my way to lunch break only to be jolted and cringe a feet away. There was a puraan in my lunch packet lashing meekly. I don't know what that bledy insect is called in english. Anyway, its pincers are known to send rashes round the body and bloat. Egad! It was dying. Well, it was squashed under my lunch box all this while, some curd rice and mutton. Partially squished it turned a lovely blue. I saw it breathe its last in the curd fumes before chucking in a bin.
Rashes or bloats or not, an electrocuted cat on a wall is what I look like though the bristles are subsiding slowly. I'm still sitting on edge. And now is when the cleaner decides to mop the floor with a generous helping of phenoil. But the darn dank mop has stomped over the phenoil pungency and is wafting its stench through the vents. What goes around comes around. Blistering Blue Barnacles indeed!
Zilch appetite. Ordering from the fly-o-drome below is smudging away the hunger gnawing at my throat. Waiting for 415 and some plum cake and luke warm caramelly coffee from cheta. Tick faster time...I'll feed the world some quotable quotes in your name.
Friday, October 20, 2006
pinch me!
No more nasty wails whipping me awake from above, no more fear of being split haphazardly into pieces of gut and sticky flesh and red. My fan’s got a bush. Ahem! Yes, apparently it’s a gadget that muzzles it into place instead of letting it swing wildly in hallucinatory rings. Oh and it also makes it meek. Before, at around 3am or so it gets guttural and starts hiccupping and when it goes into the final lap, it begins to screech like a banshee! Without it is so silent. Without it means growing wet like frozen lemons out in the open – slippery, slithery, leathery. Without it means no sleep and squinting at it with disdain in the dark. With it means wind (it’s got four blades). No, actually a mini typhoon. With it means I get into my frog position and say ‘so screw you! I’m gonna sleep nice especially if it’s my last night!’ Now, it just wisps along demurely. Patriarch I sound like.
Gummy day yesterday. Juiced and stretched beyond wood pulp. Made quite a purchase. 7 meters of upholstery and a lovely dhurrie. My aid was a good bud, quite uncomplaining till my bike shuddered to a halt. Bledy drunk had walked out on me one more time. I rolled it up to a bunk 200ms ahead. And good bud cum aid turned coolie, lugged dhurrie, profusely sweating, cussing and hoping no one caught him trailing with a big brown mat, especially in his red jacket, which almost did well as a uniform. Sorry Kuku.
My nights slip into days considering I’m usually jilted by sleep. And what a day. Hot chocolate with good friend and a midnight chat with her lying on a hospital bed! Ankle broken in 3 places. Wired and bolted this morning, she’ll be up in 4 weeks or so.
The fragility of it all is freaky. It seems to be the only thing that’s real. Everything else, the means, the whole being perched on things that flit, is surreal. The only thing we wake up to is a tap on our porcelain window. And then quickly, it’s all plastered over and the grooves grow thick with the muck of life, only to crack up a lil later. How many wake-up calls I wonder.
She was on a bus heading home, and midway, the front tire exploded tossing the crowd out. In all that metal and meaty bodies a woman lost her leg and my friend thankfully just an ankle, temporarily. MTC will pay up I hope. But being just a statistic doesn’t help. Don’t think there’s a long wait to be barcoded. We already are. Busses will be overcrowded. People will footboard. The entire frame will be falling apart. It will still run. It will still be spitting out black fumes recklessly, with no emission control in place. Women will be pinched. One woman to another woman will advice on how modestly to drape a dupatta. Women will take men’s seats in the name of positive discrimination and holler when an old man takes a lady’s. Babies will relentlessly wail. My friend will walk. We will be numbers.
Oh yeah and then there’s Hope.
Gummy day yesterday. Juiced and stretched beyond wood pulp. Made quite a purchase. 7 meters of upholstery and a lovely dhurrie. My aid was a good bud, quite uncomplaining till my bike shuddered to a halt. Bledy drunk had walked out on me one more time. I rolled it up to a bunk 200ms ahead. And good bud cum aid turned coolie, lugged dhurrie, profusely sweating, cussing and hoping no one caught him trailing with a big brown mat, especially in his red jacket, which almost did well as a uniform. Sorry Kuku.
My nights slip into days considering I’m usually jilted by sleep. And what a day. Hot chocolate with good friend and a midnight chat with her lying on a hospital bed! Ankle broken in 3 places. Wired and bolted this morning, she’ll be up in 4 weeks or so.
The fragility of it all is freaky. It seems to be the only thing that’s real. Everything else, the means, the whole being perched on things that flit, is surreal. The only thing we wake up to is a tap on our porcelain window. And then quickly, it’s all plastered over and the grooves grow thick with the muck of life, only to crack up a lil later. How many wake-up calls I wonder.
She was on a bus heading home, and midway, the front tire exploded tossing the crowd out. In all that metal and meaty bodies a woman lost her leg and my friend thankfully just an ankle, temporarily. MTC will pay up I hope. But being just a statistic doesn’t help. Don’t think there’s a long wait to be barcoded. We already are. Busses will be overcrowded. People will footboard. The entire frame will be falling apart. It will still run. It will still be spitting out black fumes recklessly, with no emission control in place. Women will be pinched. One woman to another woman will advice on how modestly to drape a dupatta. Women will take men’s seats in the name of positive discrimination and holler when an old man takes a lady’s. Babies will relentlessly wail. My friend will walk. We will be numbers.
Oh yeah and then there’s Hope.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Flitzzz
Aah morning and I feel like a headless chicken especially when I’ve got so much time on my hands, cupped like orbs waiting to be freshly juiced. Brad Pitt’s voice from Fight Club goes like a gong in my head, ‘your life is ending one minute at a time.’ Patience evades, panic settles on skin like gooseflesh prickling to a siren. Food is gobbled. Taste scathing on tongue…like I don’t deserve to have it any longer.
Gaah! When most things are fire walled and discretion and quickies to blah and co is a must so as to not get them tagged ‘forbidden’ by abishtoo spouting IT people, and to ensure that rituals can be conducted without interference the next day, abstinence meanders to boredom, which in turn chugs towards Linda Goodman’s zodiac signs. Scorpio. I am cute. Not some husky voiced seductress. I’m specksie boo up for cuddles. Egad!! I guess it's the same difference the bones make...one's own voice sounds different from the way others get it. Can’t escape Specksie Boo even if my name is ‘Arcane’ insists p'dner.
Overall emotional compatibility – Aquarius. True. Overall incompatibility – Leo. False. People I’ve fallen hard for including my first crush in 2nd std is a Leo and I still trip on him. Plus, i've discovered him online after aeons. Though none of that sucked-in-stomach state happens anymore, it's still got the highlights going off my cheeks. Secretive. I just forget to tell. Dreamy eyes. I’m an insomniac. And I don’t have a planet anymore. Pluto isn’t a planet…tsk tsk.
Watched Hostel…freaky concept…torture house where you can explore your sadistic side on a variety of nationalities, American’s being the most high-priced. Very disturbing to know that violence of that kind is imaginable. Charles Manson’s a Scorpio. Don’t understand violence being described as animalistic. Animals hunt to survive. But then sadism seems to be a singular entity, which needs to thrive. Incidentally, goo from the vein connecting the eyeball to the skull looks like mint sauce. If this were Happy Tree Friends they'd be slurping it up
Now, how can someone constantly turn ideas into senile vegas boards?! That only. How?! An awareness ad was turned into an obituary for the dead person. Now it's cheesy glamour, uncool bling, raunchy glitz and all of it in one go has got to clear the stomach lining out.
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