As it so happens, I find that I am not above writing out my New Year reveries, which is testimony to the fact that I am not the proverbial party girl this year…or any year for that matter. I am NOT complaining, or if I am than I am doing so with a much-displaced sense of grandeur. What is it about the holidays that prevents us from treating them with the blatant disregard that we offer to almost every other day? Is it the fact that we are all too aware that others are out partying it up all over the world?
If it is the latter, that still shouldn't be such a pickle. People party all the time and I am always not one of them. Why does it bug me on New Year's Eve? Perhaps my downfall is the fact that I refuse to immerse myself in the holiday blues with dedication, which is somewhat sadder than being sad on said day. There is an age-old contrived mechanism for the would-be depressives to attain new lows on New Year's Eve: Joni Mitchell records, fire places, frost and morbid TV films on Hallmark. I refuse to allow myself this treasure. I, instead resort to watching an animated Disney feature, this year its 'Cars', with a small tub of vanilla frickin' ice cream next to my Sui Northern-warning-antonym-of-a-heater. My play list invariably involves Chuck Berry, The Beegees and this year, in memoriam, James Brown. I vehemently refuse to let the blues set in. Elvis be damned (for this one night only).
Morbidity needs to be embraced, or so say the 'oh-so wise' sects of our post modernist literature. Morbidity makes us achieve unattained levels of genius, they say. I am not morbid and I can't carry it even with my best effort, which I have yet to exert for anything. I can't wear plaid colours and I cant not laugh at the dilemma that is destiny. My best effort at morbidity is that I admit New Year's Eve sucks. That's it, that's all the bitter venom I can spew forth.
I subscribe very dearly to the edict 'Save the best for Last'. Thereby on my dying day I am very likely to spew forth some words of such eloquent-sage-genius that the Angel of Death, himself will have to nod his head and say 'Aaho, changa aakhiya!' Yes my Angel prefers pedestrian. Every New Years Eve forces me to look my life over, which is why I hate this blasted holiday. The Grinch and I are synonyms today, which hardly helps matters considering the fact that the Grinch mostly had dibs on Christmas - but the sentiment still applies. 'Looking my life over' isn't high on my list of priorities, which apparently is a problem. There is one song that sums up my entire couch potato, laugh-through-life, no-goals-barred philosophy on life, love and all that could come in between if I ever let it - "Cleaning Windows" by Van Morrison.
I heard leadbelly and blind lemon
On the street where I was born
Sonny Terry, Brownie Mcghee,
Muddy waters singin 'Im a rolling stone'
I went home and read my christmas humphreys book on zen
Curiosity killed the cat
Kerouacs dharma bums and on the road
Whats my line?
Im happy cleaning windows
Take my time
I'll see you when my love grows
Baby dont let it slide
Im a working man in my prime
Cleaning windows...
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Carbohydrate Thinking
I think I have been 'thinking' all together too much these days. It isnt even a specific type of thought that I have managed to entangle myself in, just random musings of absolutely everything and consequently nothing.
Too much thinking is definitely not good for me. Its a lot like carbs in that manner. The more you indulge yourself the more it sticks to your ass!
Not that that ever stopped me from indulging.
Friday, December 22, 2006
Boxes over Bedlam
I fear that my dream of laughing life away may be floundering.
Apparently it is not a responsible notion to have such a limited goal. I have been told, at great length, that it is not practical to expect so little of life. That writing in one's journal and backpacking through the years is not a suitable lifeline to hope for.
WHY?
In essence it is perhaps the hardest pinnacle to crave, it is the deepest struggle - to be happy for as long and as often as one can be. How is this not a noble enough cause? Why do we need to say that we want to 'get rich' and 'famous' to be taken seriously.
They ask me what I want to do and I respond, "I want to be insanely, ecstatically, fanatically happy".
They stare at me and blink thereby...
Picking up from the nonsensical ramblings of my last entry, the question lingers in different tangents. I find that regardless of conformity the struggle to be true to myself is ever-pervasive. It is still there, but it seems to be getting easier. Atleast I like to think it is. The last week has been a productive one, I seldom have those. Sometimes it takes forced company to get over ones' phobias. And noone can deny the phobias are many. I discover that when coerced in company im not half bad. Good even, when need be.
Heres to victory! This probably calls for a 'victus' battle cry at midnight in a gladiator outfit.
I don't have a gladiator outfit. Plus i'd have to shave my legs, so i'll scratch that.
Back to the mythical point that I need to prove exists and hence probably doesnt. Why is it that most of us (political correctness ever important) bracket the romance department. I have always nurtured the subjective belief that a perfect other exists. He is real and one fine day a not-so-random shopping mall, rainy street or bookstore will bring us together. Lightening will strike and the Beachboys will play 'Wouldnt it be nice' in the backdrop. If that be the case than what are the perfect similarities and perfect differences that make this 'other' perfect? Just a notch over or under the prescribed recipe and the fabled love is either over or under cooked. I watched the little Mermaid for the umpteenth time yesterday. 'The seaweed is indeed greener in somebody else's Lake' - I mean poor, demented Ariel simply needed to fall in love with a human. It just so happened that the first one stupid enough to fall off his boat in the middle of a hailstorm was a prince who was handsome. But what if she had been practical and decided to test most human men before 'choosing' the one. Whom would she have picked or would she not have picked at all and waited. I mean what happened after the rainbow glittered over Ariels wedding boat?
Is that how the notion 'love' came into play?
Did it simply become too hard to wait for perfection, think about it? Thereby the dependence on one all-powerful emotion that would help us overlook all the cracks and the flaws and settle. When all the signs blink red, one can say that love was the culprit. Love was the noose. Love was the excecutioner. Love made it 'worth it'. I have always longed to say those words, hopefully not with regret as most of us do.
Nevertheless, had we waited for Mr or Ms Right...perhaps love wouldn't have been that important. The pieces would fit, it would be perfect. The 'practicality' of 'perfection' would easily win over the silly stigma that is emotion. Two people who were 'made for each other' would be happy and the x factor wouldn't need to exist. Monogamy would be overruled by biology (which lets face it, it often is) and ecastacy by comfort.
Boxes over Bedlam...
It is the most loathesome notion ever.
Apparently it is not a responsible notion to have such a limited goal. I have been told, at great length, that it is not practical to expect so little of life. That writing in one's journal and backpacking through the years is not a suitable lifeline to hope for.
WHY?
In essence it is perhaps the hardest pinnacle to crave, it is the deepest struggle - to be happy for as long and as often as one can be. How is this not a noble enough cause? Why do we need to say that we want to 'get rich' and 'famous' to be taken seriously.
They ask me what I want to do and I respond, "I want to be insanely, ecstatically, fanatically happy".
They stare at me and blink thereby...
Picking up from the nonsensical ramblings of my last entry, the question lingers in different tangents. I find that regardless of conformity the struggle to be true to myself is ever-pervasive. It is still there, but it seems to be getting easier. Atleast I like to think it is. The last week has been a productive one, I seldom have those. Sometimes it takes forced company to get over ones' phobias. And noone can deny the phobias are many. I discover that when coerced in company im not half bad. Good even, when need be.
Heres to victory! This probably calls for a 'victus' battle cry at midnight in a gladiator outfit.
I don't have a gladiator outfit. Plus i'd have to shave my legs, so i'll scratch that.
Back to the mythical point that I need to prove exists and hence probably doesnt. Why is it that most of us (political correctness ever important) bracket the romance department. I have always nurtured the subjective belief that a perfect other exists. He is real and one fine day a not-so-random shopping mall, rainy street or bookstore will bring us together. Lightening will strike and the Beachboys will play 'Wouldnt it be nice' in the backdrop. If that be the case than what are the perfect similarities and perfect differences that make this 'other' perfect? Just a notch over or under the prescribed recipe and the fabled love is either over or under cooked. I watched the little Mermaid for the umpteenth time yesterday. 'The seaweed is indeed greener in somebody else's Lake' - I mean poor, demented Ariel simply needed to fall in love with a human. It just so happened that the first one stupid enough to fall off his boat in the middle of a hailstorm was a prince who was handsome. But what if she had been practical and decided to test most human men before 'choosing' the one. Whom would she have picked or would she not have picked at all and waited. I mean what happened after the rainbow glittered over Ariels wedding boat?
Is that how the notion 'love' came into play?
Did it simply become too hard to wait for perfection, think about it? Thereby the dependence on one all-powerful emotion that would help us overlook all the cracks and the flaws and settle. When all the signs blink red, one can say that love was the culprit. Love was the noose. Love was the excecutioner. Love made it 'worth it'. I have always longed to say those words, hopefully not with regret as most of us do.
Nevertheless, had we waited for Mr or Ms Right...perhaps love wouldn't have been that important. The pieces would fit, it would be perfect. The 'practicality' of 'perfection' would easily win over the silly stigma that is emotion. Two people who were 'made for each other' would be happy and the x factor wouldn't need to exist. Monogamy would be overruled by biology (which lets face it, it often is) and ecastacy by comfort.
Boxes over Bedlam...
It is the most loathesome notion ever.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Sheep in Shepard's clothing
The compound mysteries of the universe seem so base when we view them through the eyes and hear them through the ears of others. Looking out at the cosmos can only be described along the premise of words that have been used by others in the past ‘vast, magnificent, deep, dark…’ We are so impenetrably content to continue along the cliché’s set out before us. Our competence measured only by what we can reproduce rather than what we can produce. The finalities of ‘objectivity’ often prove disconcerting - it is rather taxing to discover that the human composite is broader and simultaneously more bracketed than any other species on the planet. We are a confounded race, denounced by our perfections and announced by our imperfections. Only a mirage of preconceived notions and sell-out sycophants can survive on the basis of copying over creating.
It is a parallel of impossibility. To know not what becomes of the mind and binds the soul to precepts and concepts that need outside sponsorship. For some reason it is never enough for us human beings to believe in something unless we can convince others to do the same. An abstract collage of ‘wills’ and ‘wont’s’ does nothing to dispel the notion that we are no more than our compound being - perhaps not even a little. By and large we do not exist beyond the dust that forms us and the ideas that free us.
Any idea travels its very own, intrinsic wormhole before it is complete, indeed, if it ever is so. If every new thought holds its premise in an old thought or interconnected thought and if every new idea is layered with the undertones of logic, creativity and time – how does ‘creation’ take place? A more apt description would be re-creation and that too, over lifetimes and lifeless lines. According to Plato, an artist is quite passive during the act of creation. Indeed the artist is quite literally in the grips of the creative process. Such an account of creativity hardly flatters the artist. Not only is the artist’s ‘activity' inherently passive but the responsibility for creation is transferred elsewhere. Thereby, underlining the age-old gap that frames the un-availed transit between the Philosopher and the Artist – a reluctant admiration but a discord in algorithms. Generally speaking it is the formers dependence on logic and boundaries and the latter’s disdain for them that separate these two tangents.
A true Artist is a romantic in either parody or principle and a true Philosopher is a realist in both. Many have called it the unbridgeable gap even though many have tried to cross the divide by taking what is politely termed as the ‘middle route’. This approach in itself poses a problem, is the middle route merely another layer of sheep skin that allows mankind to fit in with the herd and adapt, or is it the ‘meant to be’ we long for? If not, and that is a big ‘if’ and a bigger ‘not’, than the absolutes are the only ones who have the courage to be themselves regardless of the consequences. In a manner of speaking, they are the only ones willing to retain the ground carved out for them over centuries of stigma.
It is so tragic that there is little room for ideas left in this world. Ideologies have replaced ideas and tyrannical idioms have replaces idylls. We are a nation of sheep, my friends. Even the Lions and Wolves no longer recognise themselves.
We are followers of followers of followers, not a confounded leader in sight!
Friday, December 01, 2006
Second base
What are the odds!
I find myself plagued by one of my deepest fears realised.
A lump.
So off to the hospital it is, for a mammogram, which by all definitions is an uncomfortable experience. Checked and cleared off all C-charges, my sigh of relief follows more along the lines of the gale that huffed and puffed the little piggies' house down.
"Nothing more than a pulled muscle".
Now to investigate how the hell I could have pulled a muscle in my breast!
But that comes later.
First I have to get over the fact that the first dude to get past second base with me was a doctor whose name I cant remember and whose face I wish i didn't.
I find myself plagued by one of my deepest fears realised.
A lump.
So off to the hospital it is, for a mammogram, which by all definitions is an uncomfortable experience. Checked and cleared off all C-charges, my sigh of relief follows more along the lines of the gale that huffed and puffed the little piggies' house down.
"Nothing more than a pulled muscle".
Now to investigate how the hell I could have pulled a muscle in my breast!
But that comes later.
First I have to get over the fact that the first dude to get past second base with me was a doctor whose name I cant remember and whose face I wish i didn't.
Patches and Goodbye's
It is an enormity of parallels.
To find oneself eclipsed between old songs and memories. I watched a History Channel biography on Cat Stevens yesterday and it brought back the days when I used to write purely for the sake of writing. A catharsis that can only be experienced by fellow misfits: Invisible people. When I was invisible I was invincible. My corners were a fortress of masked truths and free visions.
Much changes with freedom.
Today I know that I have lost some of my way. I have bent in a way I never thought I would, I have bent my mind. It used to be my body. It is a hard fact to admit: that we do many of the things we do, only to fit in. Even when we want to stand out, we still want to stand out in a manner that is contrived. The deepest chains bind you, when you are finally free.
And this time you are the gatekeeper.
Oh very young
What will you leave us this time
Youre only dancing on this earth for a short while
And though your dreams may toss and turn you now
They will vanish away like your daddys best jeans
Denim blue fading up to the sky
And though you want them to last forever
You know they never will…
And the patches make the goodbye harder still
Today I woke up to a Stevens playlist.
It opened with 'Love is in the Air' and for a brief moment while I was driving to work, Lahore was at its most magnificent. The tonga's swayed and the beggars smiled. And I marvelled at how a man who wrote songs that sang to the spirit could give them up for the notion that God doesn't like music or dancing or joy.
Then it closed with "I Love my Dog more than I love you".
To find oneself eclipsed between old songs and memories. I watched a History Channel biography on Cat Stevens yesterday and it brought back the days when I used to write purely for the sake of writing. A catharsis that can only be experienced by fellow misfits: Invisible people. When I was invisible I was invincible. My corners were a fortress of masked truths and free visions.
Much changes with freedom.
Today I know that I have lost some of my way. I have bent in a way I never thought I would, I have bent my mind. It used to be my body. It is a hard fact to admit: that we do many of the things we do, only to fit in. Even when we want to stand out, we still want to stand out in a manner that is contrived. The deepest chains bind you, when you are finally free.
And this time you are the gatekeeper.
Oh very young
What will you leave us this time
Youre only dancing on this earth for a short while
And though your dreams may toss and turn you now
They will vanish away like your daddys best jeans
Denim blue fading up to the sky
And though you want them to last forever
You know they never will…
And the patches make the goodbye harder still
Today I woke up to a Stevens playlist.
It opened with 'Love is in the Air' and for a brief moment while I was driving to work, Lahore was at its most magnificent. The tonga's swayed and the beggars smiled. And I marvelled at how a man who wrote songs that sang to the spirit could give them up for the notion that God doesn't like music or dancing or joy.
Then it closed with "I Love my Dog more than I love you".
Sunday, November 19, 2006
A ramble of proportions unparalleled
There are so many questions that seem to get lost in the not asking.
So many thoughts that are fragmented in the not thinking.
I fear of late that it is change that scares me the most. The reason why this notion is terrifying is because I have, for quite long, held myself together by the delusion that I embrace change better than most. Being on of those - a child of circumstance and crass corruption - it is infernally hard for me to accept that I may not actually 'be' who I am in my head. I have yet to figure out which version of self is less preferable. However, circumstances are forcing me to make the choice and deal with my manifold delusions. I am free inside my head. I am anything but outside of it. My cerebellum flower child spirit comes from within, so does my noxious need for approval. Needless to say it is not a pretty struggle.
Telling onesself that one is self-sufficient, solitary, silly and sassy at the same time does not make it so. It appears that we cannot, in fact and fiction, have our cakes and eat them too. What a ginormous fall from grandeur. I am not claiming in any way that I have reconciled myself to reality: that would be too big a betrayal of the seven year old girl who first locked her door to read Dahl's Matilda amid screams of scorn.
I have seen reality.
I have known it.
My delusions are not subterfuge, they are self effacing and well contrived to keep my rose-tinted spectacles intact and glossy. I believe very much in the notion that fiction only trumps fact when one accepts that it is fiction and would much rather live with the story than the truth. It is only worth savouring when we recognise it as it is. "I know that this is not the real world. I have chosen otherwise." It is the poor sods who believe the fiction to be fact that are destined to be hit over the head with it time and again.
If we are all damned anyway, what does it matter how it comes about.
Or does it?
Is that all that matters?
Many a great man (implying that there have been many great men) has said that our lives are shaped by the choices we make. Even if all the choices lead to the same conclusion and take off from the same pick-up point...it is the 'in-betweens' that gear our gait. If that truly is the case, then all that matters 'ought' to be following ones' dreams, making ones' mistakes and sucking the proverbial marrow out of life.
A dreamers recurse if there ever was one.
So many thoughts that are fragmented in the not thinking.
I fear of late that it is change that scares me the most. The reason why this notion is terrifying is because I have, for quite long, held myself together by the delusion that I embrace change better than most. Being on of those - a child of circumstance and crass corruption - it is infernally hard for me to accept that I may not actually 'be' who I am in my head. I have yet to figure out which version of self is less preferable. However, circumstances are forcing me to make the choice and deal with my manifold delusions. I am free inside my head. I am anything but outside of it. My cerebellum flower child spirit comes from within, so does my noxious need for approval. Needless to say it is not a pretty struggle.
Telling onesself that one is self-sufficient, solitary, silly and sassy at the same time does not make it so. It appears that we cannot, in fact and fiction, have our cakes and eat them too. What a ginormous fall from grandeur. I am not claiming in any way that I have reconciled myself to reality: that would be too big a betrayal of the seven year old girl who first locked her door to read Dahl's Matilda amid screams of scorn.
I have seen reality.
I have known it.
My delusions are not subterfuge, they are self effacing and well contrived to keep my rose-tinted spectacles intact and glossy. I believe very much in the notion that fiction only trumps fact when one accepts that it is fiction and would much rather live with the story than the truth. It is only worth savouring when we recognise it as it is. "I know that this is not the real world. I have chosen otherwise." It is the poor sods who believe the fiction to be fact that are destined to be hit over the head with it time and again.
If we are all damned anyway, what does it matter how it comes about.
Or does it?
Is that all that matters?
Many a great man (implying that there have been many great men) has said that our lives are shaped by the choices we make. Even if all the choices lead to the same conclusion and take off from the same pick-up point...it is the 'in-betweens' that gear our gait. If that truly is the case, then all that matters 'ought' to be following ones' dreams, making ones' mistakes and sucking the proverbial marrow out of life.
A dreamers recurse if there ever was one.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Animal Forum
I came accross a writer's inordinate lack of regret for displaying a sheep-skin rug. She said that sheep were stupid and therefore did not extract much sympathy.
I can relate.
I do agree that sheep tend to be quite foolish. However, one must consider D-u-n-keys, I mean the poor creatures from time immemorial were ivented for hard labour. Also, I can never feel sorry for Chickens, it is a weird looking contraption of a thing. I have a Khala who feels sorry for chickens and all animals - my hippiosity is much more selective.
I will glare daggers at anyone draped in a Shatoos because, well Bambi had major ranking in my life. However I simply cannot bring myself to indulge in a love for Chicken Little, atleast not to that degree. That would mean not eating chicken. It simply cannot be done. Thereby Chicken Little is just too whiny. Also Chickens just produce weirdly, not that I have ever found the reproductive process - in any animal, especially human's - remotely endearing, but with Chickens it is plain screwed up. I do, however, appreciate God's tiny Jack-in-the-box with Sea horses: a dude doing the 'give birth' thing is small consolation, but i'll take it.
Every egg has the potential of being a chick, given the right temperature. So basically scrambled eggs are scrampled fetus, poached are poached fetus, fried are....ugh. See Chickens are just wrong.
We are all selective in our animal loves and loathes. I mean, who in their right mind would defend the right of life for a Lizard. Those who do, refer to part: 2 of the previous sentence and cease further argument.
Sheep are also inordinately stupid - symbolically. 'A nation of sheep', 'lost flock', 'gather your herd'....dumb ass things never do anything for themselves. Now see lambs, those are cute - they should just never grow up. Tinkerbell needs to meet Mary, so that the latter can always have her:
'Ickle, wittle wambie'
With fleece as white as snow
To follow her till Kingdom come
Wherever, whenever, however ... she goes
I can relate.
I do agree that sheep tend to be quite foolish. However, one must consider D-u-n-keys, I mean the poor creatures from time immemorial were ivented for hard labour. Also, I can never feel sorry for Chickens, it is a weird looking contraption of a thing. I have a Khala who feels sorry for chickens and all animals - my hippiosity is much more selective.
I will glare daggers at anyone draped in a Shatoos because, well Bambi had major ranking in my life. However I simply cannot bring myself to indulge in a love for Chicken Little, atleast not to that degree. That would mean not eating chicken. It simply cannot be done. Thereby Chicken Little is just too whiny. Also Chickens just produce weirdly, not that I have ever found the reproductive process - in any animal, especially human's - remotely endearing, but with Chickens it is plain screwed up. I do, however, appreciate God's tiny Jack-in-the-box with Sea horses: a dude doing the 'give birth' thing is small consolation, but i'll take it.
Every egg has the potential of being a chick, given the right temperature. So basically scrambled eggs are scrampled fetus, poached are poached fetus, fried are....ugh. See Chickens are just wrong.
We are all selective in our animal loves and loathes. I mean, who in their right mind would defend the right of life for a Lizard. Those who do, refer to part: 2 of the previous sentence and cease further argument.
Sheep are also inordinately stupid - symbolically. 'A nation of sheep', 'lost flock', 'gather your herd'....dumb ass things never do anything for themselves. Now see lambs, those are cute - they should just never grow up. Tinkerbell needs to meet Mary, so that the latter can always have her:
'Ickle, wittle wambie'
With fleece as white as snow
To follow her till Kingdom come
Wherever, whenever, however ... she goes
A no equal C
Having debated, in a manner of thinking, syllogisms of sorts. I discover that logic aint' my thing and never can be. Perhaps not the best of omens to connect with, considering GRE is two months away.
And apparently if A= B and B=C : then A=C.
I shall never agree, what if A only equals B when its in a good mood, having danced till dawn and what if B can only match C in a fist fight, when its hipped up on stereoids and nothing else. Then A can never equal C, who is understandably (hah) good at fist fights, because A is a pacifist.
"Me no LIKEY!"
Also the whole God thing...after moderate consideration - which is more than I award to most things unless they involve the genius witticisms of Daffy Duck or Tom and Jerry - I have dicovered that Divinity IS damned.
I am not damned.
I don't like damned.
Therefore I am not divine.
There- also-fore, I dont like divine.
I can think of atleast two people, who if reading this are probably perched on railings waiting to jump. Dont JUMP - have a Coca Cola. All the answers lie in a bottle of Coke. I have the answers to all ontological dilemma's - they are fizzy and beautious.
We must all drink of the Coke
Lest a swarm of bottlecaps bruise thy into oblivion...
....Aah oblivion!
And apparently if A= B and B=C : then A=C.
I shall never agree, what if A only equals B when its in a good mood, having danced till dawn and what if B can only match C in a fist fight, when its hipped up on stereoids and nothing else. Then A can never equal C, who is understandably (hah) good at fist fights, because A is a pacifist.
"Me no LIKEY!"
Also the whole God thing...after moderate consideration - which is more than I award to most things unless they involve the genius witticisms of Daffy Duck or Tom and Jerry - I have dicovered that Divinity IS damned.
I am not damned.
I don't like damned.
Therefore I am not divine.
There- also-fore, I dont like divine.
I can think of atleast two people, who if reading this are probably perched on railings waiting to jump. Dont JUMP - have a Coca Cola. All the answers lie in a bottle of Coke. I have the answers to all ontological dilemma's - they are fizzy and beautious.
We must all drink of the Coke
Lest a swarm of bottlecaps bruise thy into oblivion...
....Aah oblivion!
Thursday, November 09, 2006
High, High Hippie Hippie High
Yes, yes ...many a cradle doth fall, but-much of late.
It can be said that the perpetual good girl has come under bad influence, or merely that she is tired of being good. Then again the recent bout of not-so-subtle substance abuse can also be attributed to the fact that mommy dearest and Khala of Gurudom are sponsors of my "as long as you have 'limited' fun, tell us and dont go over board...we dont care if you drink, you know we dont believe in the judgement bullshit". Now what does that mean, judgement bullshit?!
Hmm, oh crap was I just judged in Judy Judgerson-ness's post waste. Who cares.
I have finally had the brilliant experience of Senor Jack Daniels meeting Maestro Coca of Colas. My Khala and I, the only witnesses to my first step down Sin City and Subversive Lane. We must all drink of the Coke.
I have had my first alcohol induced epiphany...it is mani-fold, as are most of my epiphanies: Coke + Vodka = much caffine, which makes me hyper. Hyper enough to get on a computer table and sing the Rosemary Clooney version of "Mambo Italiano". Priceless hyper. As in there is no price too high for my hyper.
Yul Brynner looks even more beautiful after vodka...1-2-3 AND... The generel hippiosity of my hipness, translates to a weird stratosphere.
All of a sudden the hairdryer, hanging by my half-snutched wire offers an answer to our ontological existential dilemma. Its full of hot air. "But its an outlet of beauty"...ergo Beauty is a bag of hot air...But, oooooooooooooh, hmmmm...... Hoopilicious LA!
Also, old nursery rhymes are sublime:
Because she'll be coming round the mountain when she comes,
she'll be coming round the Mountain when she comes,
coming round the mountain
coming round the mountain...
coming round the mountain when she comes.
Singing High High Hippie Hippie HIGH!!!!!!
It can be said that the perpetual good girl has come under bad influence, or merely that she is tired of being good. Then again the recent bout of not-so-subtle substance abuse can also be attributed to the fact that mommy dearest and Khala of Gurudom are sponsors of my "as long as you have 'limited' fun, tell us and dont go over board...we dont care if you drink, you know we dont believe in the judgement bullshit". Now what does that mean, judgement bullshit?!
Hmm, oh crap was I just judged in Judy Judgerson-ness's post waste. Who cares.
I have finally had the brilliant experience of Senor Jack Daniels meeting Maestro Coca of Colas. My Khala and I, the only witnesses to my first step down Sin City and Subversive Lane. We must all drink of the Coke.
I have had my first alcohol induced epiphany...it is mani-fold, as are most of my epiphanies: Coke + Vodka = much caffine, which makes me hyper. Hyper enough to get on a computer table and sing the Rosemary Clooney version of "Mambo Italiano". Priceless hyper. As in there is no price too high for my hyper.
Yul Brynner looks even more beautiful after vodka...1-2-3 AND... The generel hippiosity of my hipness, translates to a weird stratosphere.
All of a sudden the hairdryer, hanging by my half-snutched wire offers an answer to our ontological existential dilemma. Its full of hot air. "But its an outlet of beauty"...ergo Beauty is a bag of hot air...But, oooooooooooooh, hmmmm...... Hoopilicious LA!
Also, old nursery rhymes are sublime:
Because she'll be coming round the mountain when she comes,
she'll be coming round the Mountain when she comes,
coming round the mountain
coming round the mountain...
coming round the mountain when she comes.
Singing High High Hippie Hippie HIGH!!!!!!
Monday, October 30, 2006
Fate Fable
Its just one of those days. When it rains and the sun is bright and you can’t quite figure out which to celebrate.
A forced perfection of tangents.
I have heard that life overtakes you at some point, that the elements and the colossal cosmology of ‘fate’ finally comes into play and hurls you out of your choices. I now wonder if it is any different for those of us who do not believe in deities and eschatological doorstops. Does fate knock at their door? Does it interplay in their lives or is a ‘fall- out’, a ‘bad hair day’, ‘ a lost election’ and ‘a love at first sight’ just that - the mere convergence of events to echo the words that frame them?
I feel my belief slipping away, which is weird since I have never really been able to put my finger on 'what exactly' my belief was or is. It has always been a distant nit-picking tap in my brain : "Note-t0-self: Must figure out what we believe in". But it never seemed important enough to merit more than that. I believe or did...in something, larger than myself and that is enough to keep one in check. I am always 'in check'. Not in the 'choakemchild' sense - in the manner, moreover the matter- that I am too aware of all my actions and thoughts. Hence the tendency to lean alot towards the former and too little towards the latter.
Belief and the inherent, soul-wrenching dependence on 'Fate' to work it out...changes alot. Apparently so does lack, loss or limbo of it.
For the believer’s 'Fate' can be a bitch.
Fate promises magic every time it rains. But rains pass and rains conk-out the electricity and the internet.
Fate promises a happenstance romance, every time you work hard on your hair before going out. But the romance usually ends with a smile at yourself in the review mirror of your car, followed by a string of curses at the jeep trying to run you over.
Fate promises laughter every time you meet ‘your’ people. Who only expect the same of you.
Fate promises friends, every time you’re charming in polite company. It is just too damn hard to find 'polite' company these days.
Fate promises family, every time there’s a new moon and an occasion to celebrate. Family, is definitely over-rated.
Fate promises success every time you think you’ve done your best. Which could always have been done 'better'.
Fate promises an awful lot.
And the bout of being a believer is that you buy it.
A forced perfection of tangents.
I have heard that life overtakes you at some point, that the elements and the colossal cosmology of ‘fate’ finally comes into play and hurls you out of your choices. I now wonder if it is any different for those of us who do not believe in deities and eschatological doorstops. Does fate knock at their door? Does it interplay in their lives or is a ‘fall- out’, a ‘bad hair day’, ‘ a lost election’ and ‘a love at first sight’ just that - the mere convergence of events to echo the words that frame them?
I feel my belief slipping away, which is weird since I have never really been able to put my finger on 'what exactly' my belief was or is. It has always been a distant nit-picking tap in my brain : "Note-t0-self: Must figure out what we believe in". But it never seemed important enough to merit more than that. I believe or did...in something, larger than myself and that is enough to keep one in check. I am always 'in check'. Not in the 'choakemchild' sense - in the manner, moreover the matter- that I am too aware of all my actions and thoughts. Hence the tendency to lean alot towards the former and too little towards the latter.
Belief and the inherent, soul-wrenching dependence on 'Fate' to work it out...changes alot. Apparently so does lack, loss or limbo of it.
For the believer’s 'Fate' can be a bitch.
Fate promises magic every time it rains. But rains pass and rains conk-out the electricity and the internet.
Fate promises a happenstance romance, every time you work hard on your hair before going out. But the romance usually ends with a smile at yourself in the review mirror of your car, followed by a string of curses at the jeep trying to run you over.
Fate promises laughter every time you meet ‘your’ people. Who only expect the same of you.
Fate promises friends, every time you’re charming in polite company. It is just too damn hard to find 'polite' company these days.
Fate promises family, every time there’s a new moon and an occasion to celebrate. Family, is definitely over-rated.
Fate promises success every time you think you’ve done your best. Which could always have been done 'better'.
Fate promises an awful lot.
And the bout of being a believer is that you buy it.
Friday, October 27, 2006
Sticks and Stones
It should be called the calm after the storm.
Once the tirade passes, it leaves in its wake - among other things- a sense of overwhelming quiet. Unfortunately, not the friendly kind. The quiet is pensive and lonely. Which makes it all the more necessary.
The quiet is passive and angry. Something I have much experience with.
I can live with this quiet.
This quiet has always been mine.
"Mankinds greatest delusion comes about in his trust for others and his need to lean on them. He leans, he loses. He loves, he loses. He is lost unto all, including himself ."
_ Friedrich Nietszche
Once the tirade passes, it leaves in its wake - among other things- a sense of overwhelming quiet. Unfortunately, not the friendly kind. The quiet is pensive and lonely. Which makes it all the more necessary.
The quiet is passive and angry. Something I have much experience with.
I can live with this quiet.
This quiet has always been mine.
"Mankinds greatest delusion comes about in his trust for others and his need to lean on them. He leans, he loses. He loves, he loses. He is lost unto all, including himself ."
_ Friedrich Nietszche
Monday, October 23, 2006
Boo hoo Black Sheep!
The subtle and not-so-subtle ironies of life are astounding. Again come those days of navigating family foes and friends. This time naturally, the foes win out. There is some inane solace in discovering that I am the unequivoval black sheep of two distinctly different families.
On the day, when families get together, mine contrive ways to get away...appropriate, in some manner of speaking. However, this wonderful Eid day is different. I find myself, seeking solace with my past. Solace and a form of terse settlement. I am hailed forth, called into convalescence by familial foes, as familial friends become thus.
My father's clan now welcome me, as the one I live in churns.
Such is life.
Bo hoo Black sheep
Have you been a fool?
Yes Sir, yes sir
Twice out-done in the same pool
On the day, when families get together, mine contrive ways to get away...appropriate, in some manner of speaking. However, this wonderful Eid day is different. I find myself, seeking solace with my past. Solace and a form of terse settlement. I am hailed forth, called into convalescence by familial foes, as familial friends become thus.
My father's clan now welcome me, as the one I live in churns.
Such is life.
Bo hoo Black sheep
Have you been a fool?
Yes Sir, yes sir
Twice out-done in the same pool
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Duplicity reporting, Sir!
Its been a long while, since I went over the magic of the Peanuts gang, having recently taken itch to being called 'Marcy' by some. It is a pleasure long withheld. I love these old strips and the times they represent. Of pseudo-babble and pop tarts and fortunately, little else. Inane and Intellectual, moreover a flavour of sillidom, much needed.Times were simple then. Simple and silly and sublime.
For the record, I wish self and I could manage to pull me off in Peppermint Patty or Lucy. Being a tomboy with little need for love or a self involved shruck would be a better bargain over a well-intentioned bumbling bafoonista. But the world must have its bumbling Bafoonista's.
So Marcy it is.
Reporting for Duplicitous duty... Sir!
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Single and Fabulous!
No more apologies.
It is severely disturbing how us 'oh-so-sad' singles are constantly put on the chopping block for not 'living' the life we could or should. The two strains of question perpetually designed to kill optimism. Why are we- in the immortal words of Carrie Bradshaw- 'shoulding' all over the place?
Why is it that there is no vindication or purpose to a life, unless it is coupled with a couple? And who is to say that the life we 'could' or 'should' have will be any better than the one we lead now. For us Ka-ka-ka-Katie girls, with a mountain of quirks and obtuse tangents, is there really ever a conventional solution to an unconventional enigma? Or are we doomed to 'walk' single and 'talk' double till Kingdom come - which it never doth do? Either way, the 'Single's Sorority' could seriously do without the reactionary whiplash from the 'others' or wanna-be them's.
Having seen the the single woman 'sex and the city' gospel for the umpteenth time, one thing stands out clear, there is no point in waiting for life to start after marriage. IF you are one of the poor unfortunate souls, determined to hold out for love, its about time you gave up on a time frame and just lived your life a' la carte.
If we are meant to find true love, it needs to be sans the bullshit bravado.
It needs to be real and it needs to be free of charge and change. Those of us who cant be tamed and need to run free, should bloody well get in the race and run it, for better or worse.
So for all the quirky 'Katie' girls chasing their Hubbles: STOP!
If they can't take you with your quirks and if you love 'you' with the quirks - time to cut off the thread. Snip, snip.
There is no shame in saying you come first. You do!
All you need to do is go to him and say "Your girl is lovely, Hubble". Turn your back and LEAVE.
You can send can me dead flowers every morning
Send me dead flowers by the mail
Send me dead flowers to my wedding
And I wont forget to put roses on your grave...
It is severely disturbing how us 'oh-so-sad' singles are constantly put on the chopping block for not 'living' the life we could or should. The two strains of question perpetually designed to kill optimism. Why are we- in the immortal words of Carrie Bradshaw- 'shoulding' all over the place?
Why is it that there is no vindication or purpose to a life, unless it is coupled with a couple? And who is to say that the life we 'could' or 'should' have will be any better than the one we lead now. For us Ka-ka-ka-Katie girls, with a mountain of quirks and obtuse tangents, is there really ever a conventional solution to an unconventional enigma? Or are we doomed to 'walk' single and 'talk' double till Kingdom come - which it never doth do? Either way, the 'Single's Sorority' could seriously do without the reactionary whiplash from the 'others' or wanna-be them's.
Having seen the the single woman 'sex and the city' gospel for the umpteenth time, one thing stands out clear, there is no point in waiting for life to start after marriage. IF you are one of the poor unfortunate souls, determined to hold out for love, its about time you gave up on a time frame and just lived your life a' la carte.
If we are meant to find true love, it needs to be sans the bullshit bravado.
It needs to be real and it needs to be free of charge and change. Those of us who cant be tamed and need to run free, should bloody well get in the race and run it, for better or worse.
So for all the quirky 'Katie' girls chasing their Hubbles: STOP!
If they can't take you with your quirks and if you love 'you' with the quirks - time to cut off the thread. Snip, snip.
There is no shame in saying you come first. You do!
All you need to do is go to him and say "Your girl is lovely, Hubble". Turn your back and LEAVE.
You can send can me dead flowers every morning
Send me dead flowers by the mail
Send me dead flowers to my wedding
And I wont forget to put roses on your grave...
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Obituary of an Incomplete
She remained one unfinished right uptil the end.
Maria Amir was the oldest seven year old that ever lived.
She told stories for a living. A carefully compiled collage of fantastic images and fragrant notions, carved into golden magic pots. There are some who say that by the end she had begun to cope with some semblance of reality, they are wrong. Reality had never been privy to her thoughts or her aspirations. It was the one precept and notion that always remained on the peripheries of her immense vocabulary. But was never invited in for tea.
I will remember her always, in incomplete sentences and unfinished thoughts. Lifelines that she left lingering mid-phrase and mid-gesture for us to carve whichever way we chose. Her classroom was always a pallette of impressions. We will never know if she was the painter or the paint, that we brushed onto the blank canvases that she laid out for us every Tuesday at 10 am. Maria dreamed of beauty with a dedication yet unparalleled. It was her one mission in life: to find magic. In art, in love, in pain and in humanity. Which is the reason why she always lived in halves. The magic needed to be complete for her to embrace it and it never was.
Once, over a cup of coffee and a consolation for not making the Dean's merit list, she told me that life could be summed up in an "If only" and an ellipsis. It was an unfortunate proclamation to have made, for it framed her destiny. A duplicitous series of "what ifs" were to mark her lifelong trajectory.
She was never one to be at ease in a crowd. Which is why when she stood at the podium in class, she never looked any of us in the eye. She spoke mostly to her multiple selves and we were always honoured to be included in such a select sphere. When she was seven, she told us, she had presumed that 'crowds' were merely a large composite of pixies. But it became harder to keep up the pretence over the years, when they started acting too much like people.
I will always remember her as a dreamer who inspired other dreamers. She was a shepard of only lost flock. Perpetually preaching to us, with polemics that painted the grandeurs of being lost. She always said that it was the journey to the point you wanted to get to, that needed magic, and that the prize point was only there for you to take those steps.
She loved junk food, coke and cartoons with fervour. Maria always said that an animated Disney feature could fix any form of depression imaginable. She relished her loneliness and concepts of kinship, which were something she never could quite reach. I remember her saying once, " Family could be good ... for those who like that sort of thing. Perhaps, around the holidays?" Maria believed, blindly, that laughter could cure anything. That a safe corner, a good book, someone to make you laugh when you needed it most and an honest dream, were the only gateways necessary for majesty.
She peeked her way through the million keyholes and half opened doors of our lives. It was never "How's school going, Jim?" ....with Maria it was "Do you think Jim, that Melville actually sampled an apple-dumpling in comparison to other foods before he condemned it as the in-road to hell on a bad stomach?" That- or some equally inane tangent- was how she said hello. That was her keyhole.
Her curiosity was colossal, as was her phobia of commitment - for anything. Which is why she only ever spoke and thought in halves and quarters. She could make you feel like the most special person in the world with a single sentence, but never quite managed to couple it with a good enough follow up.
Maria never married. But she insisted right till the end that she was waiting for a tall prince, dressed in white, with green eyes and a pixie laugh. She said that she was waiting for lightening to strike. That she was always ready for it. Had been for a while now...
It struck at precisely 7:20 am on a rainy Saturday morning in St Mary's , New York. She was 71 years old when her ever-hopeful heart sighed its last.
I got stuck in traffic on my way to the hospital that day and came in to find Dr Shah crouching over the corner bed by the window. He covered her face with a white hospital sheet, turning around to look at me with a whimsical smile.
"Well she did say that she wanted to go on a rainy day. I think she mentioned that it would help with her prize rendition of Gene Kelly! Going out, my style, she called it."
Dr Shah was handsome for his age and he was a good head and shoulders taller than I. I now recall Maria telling me that us short people were made this way so we wouldn't catch bypassers in the eye and be forced to make senseseless conversation on street corners. As I took in his soft smile and his crisp white lab coat, I couldn't help but wonder if he felt it too. The stark white room seemed to lose colour somehow- colour and flavour.
Dr Shah must have noticed that I was having a rather hard time working at - what she had always called - my 'He-man' face, because he put his hand on my shoulder and whispered "I know. This one was special, wasn't she?"
As I looked up at him I noticed something. Dr Shah's eyes were a bright, bottle-green.
"Yes, she was."
Maria Amir was the oldest seven year old that ever lived.
She told stories for a living. A carefully compiled collage of fantastic images and fragrant notions, carved into golden magic pots. There are some who say that by the end she had begun to cope with some semblance of reality, they are wrong. Reality had never been privy to her thoughts or her aspirations. It was the one precept and notion that always remained on the peripheries of her immense vocabulary. But was never invited in for tea.
I will remember her always, in incomplete sentences and unfinished thoughts. Lifelines that she left lingering mid-phrase and mid-gesture for us to carve whichever way we chose. Her classroom was always a pallette of impressions. We will never know if she was the painter or the paint, that we brushed onto the blank canvases that she laid out for us every Tuesday at 10 am. Maria dreamed of beauty with a dedication yet unparalleled. It was her one mission in life: to find magic. In art, in love, in pain and in humanity. Which is the reason why she always lived in halves. The magic needed to be complete for her to embrace it and it never was.
Once, over a cup of coffee and a consolation for not making the Dean's merit list, she told me that life could be summed up in an "If only" and an ellipsis. It was an unfortunate proclamation to have made, for it framed her destiny. A duplicitous series of "what ifs" were to mark her lifelong trajectory.
She was never one to be at ease in a crowd. Which is why when she stood at the podium in class, she never looked any of us in the eye. She spoke mostly to her multiple selves and we were always honoured to be included in such a select sphere. When she was seven, she told us, she had presumed that 'crowds' were merely a large composite of pixies. But it became harder to keep up the pretence over the years, when they started acting too much like people.
I will always remember her as a dreamer who inspired other dreamers. She was a shepard of only lost flock. Perpetually preaching to us, with polemics that painted the grandeurs of being lost. She always said that it was the journey to the point you wanted to get to, that needed magic, and that the prize point was only there for you to take those steps.
She loved junk food, coke and cartoons with fervour. Maria always said that an animated Disney feature could fix any form of depression imaginable. She relished her loneliness and concepts of kinship, which were something she never could quite reach. I remember her saying once, " Family could be good ... for those who like that sort of thing. Perhaps, around the holidays?" Maria believed, blindly, that laughter could cure anything. That a safe corner, a good book, someone to make you laugh when you needed it most and an honest dream, were the only gateways necessary for majesty.
She peeked her way through the million keyholes and half opened doors of our lives. It was never "How's school going, Jim?" ....with Maria it was "Do you think Jim, that Melville actually sampled an apple-dumpling in comparison to other foods before he condemned it as the in-road to hell on a bad stomach?" That- or some equally inane tangent- was how she said hello. That was her keyhole.
Her curiosity was colossal, as was her phobia of commitment - for anything. Which is why she only ever spoke and thought in halves and quarters. She could make you feel like the most special person in the world with a single sentence, but never quite managed to couple it with a good enough follow up.
Maria never married. But she insisted right till the end that she was waiting for a tall prince, dressed in white, with green eyes and a pixie laugh. She said that she was waiting for lightening to strike. That she was always ready for it. Had been for a while now...
It struck at precisely 7:20 am on a rainy Saturday morning in St Mary's , New York. She was 71 years old when her ever-hopeful heart sighed its last.
I got stuck in traffic on my way to the hospital that day and came in to find Dr Shah crouching over the corner bed by the window. He covered her face with a white hospital sheet, turning around to look at me with a whimsical smile.
"Well she did say that she wanted to go on a rainy day. I think she mentioned that it would help with her prize rendition of Gene Kelly! Going out, my style, she called it."
Dr Shah was handsome for his age and he was a good head and shoulders taller than I. I now recall Maria telling me that us short people were made this way so we wouldn't catch bypassers in the eye and be forced to make senseseless conversation on street corners. As I took in his soft smile and his crisp white lab coat, I couldn't help but wonder if he felt it too. The stark white room seemed to lose colour somehow- colour and flavour.
Dr Shah must have noticed that I was having a rather hard time working at - what she had always called - my 'He-man' face, because he put his hand on my shoulder and whispered "I know. This one was special, wasn't she?"
As I looked up at him I noticed something. Dr Shah's eyes were a bright, bottle-green.
"Yes, she was."
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Voted: Most likely to be Loved to Death
An epitaph of sorts for all that I have been- and fear with the fabric of my being- of remaining. It is a frostbite fire pit, being caught between people you love as people and those who love you on pedestals. I fear now that I am doomed to an ideal, purely because of my fastidious nature. I conform to pretty pedestals and the fall from any and every one of them is deep and damp.
It ain't a pretty picture: having you're soul replaced by kinetic stereotypes, because they fit better. Nor is it fun being loved beyond reciprocation. Everytime I have loved someone I have been frazzled by the flood of emotion, moreover by the expectation of having to reciprocate it. I am not expressive in person and paper doesnt make the cut (pun intended), in this particular case. Is it a sign of the corporeally ungrateful to crave love sans melodrama?
Too much of a good thing, isn't still a good thing. Is it?
From heart to soul
both length and bredth
Cages and canyons and caverns beget
A loonybird sprite of singular toll
to a stone prude catered and loved to death
It ain't a pretty picture: having you're soul replaced by kinetic stereotypes, because they fit better. Nor is it fun being loved beyond reciprocation. Everytime I have loved someone I have been frazzled by the flood of emotion, moreover by the expectation of having to reciprocate it. I am not expressive in person and paper doesnt make the cut (pun intended), in this particular case. Is it a sign of the corporeally ungrateful to crave love sans melodrama?
Too much of a good thing, isn't still a good thing. Is it?
From heart to soul
both length and bredth
Cages and canyons and caverns beget
A loonybird sprite of singular toll
to a stone prude catered and loved to death
Saturday, September 16, 2006
The Fool
There is a perverse lethargy that sets in with ambition. Technically, not ambition, but rather a branch of vision. For the first time in my life, my journey does not lack direction, I have set a course. And now I realise that the mapping of my future irks me.
A checklist of cap-offs sits on my tack board.
Steady job....check.
Application process, sunny side up.....check.
Thesis project progress.......check.
And I know that I am, to put it mildly, bored beyond brittle comprehension. There is an inherent abhorrence for structure set in my bones. For better or worse, I DO want more. Not more of the traditional goals, that perhaps are important to most, but I fail to find an element of priority in them. I want more of what it is the sprites call 'pixie dust'. In an inverted world where I am Queen and Shero of my fate: my life spent with a journal, a trailer and a road to everywhere and no where simultaneously. It is such a road that I hope to find love and all its labours lost with. A daily deluge of gospel guitar twangs on the radio, blank paper and sharpened pencils, loads of junkfood and a long and winding path with wider bends and steeper planks.
Then again, to dream is 'eventually' to do. Or so I like to think. Some dreams are dangerous, others silly and the rest fanciful musings. I pick the latter with a perrennial pinch of salt.
In some cultures it is considered lucky to wear ones socks inside out. Essentially implying that looking at things inverted and opposed to the norm, is either the path of the progressive and evolved or that of the fool. Again I pick the latter, this time with a cheshire grin. In the Tarot and in Zen, it is the Fool who always triumphs. He frames the first card of the deck, primarily because he is open to all firsts.
So give me the beat boys
to free my soul
I wanna' get lost in the rock n' roll
that drifts away
A checklist of cap-offs sits on my tack board.
Steady job....check.
Application process, sunny side up.....check.
Thesis project progress.......check.
And I know that I am, to put it mildly, bored beyond brittle comprehension. There is an inherent abhorrence for structure set in my bones. For better or worse, I DO want more. Not more of the traditional goals, that perhaps are important to most, but I fail to find an element of priority in them. I want more of what it is the sprites call 'pixie dust'. In an inverted world where I am Queen and Shero of my fate: my life spent with a journal, a trailer and a road to everywhere and no where simultaneously. It is such a road that I hope to find love and all its labours lost with. A daily deluge of gospel guitar twangs on the radio, blank paper and sharpened pencils, loads of junkfood and a long and winding path with wider bends and steeper planks.
Then again, to dream is 'eventually' to do. Or so I like to think. Some dreams are dangerous, others silly and the rest fanciful musings. I pick the latter with a perrennial pinch of salt.
In some cultures it is considered lucky to wear ones socks inside out. Essentially implying that looking at things inverted and opposed to the norm, is either the path of the progressive and evolved or that of the fool. Again I pick the latter, this time with a cheshire grin. In the Tarot and in Zen, it is the Fool who always triumphs. He frames the first card of the deck, primarily because he is open to all firsts.
So give me the beat boys
to free my soul
I wanna' get lost in the rock n' roll
that drifts away
Friday, September 08, 2006
Poles and Pillars
Only poles and pillars protect my person. From what, I am still unaware - but after a horrible experience of being stared down for no reason, once again. I realise that I am still myself. Regardless of the packaging.
A wizard of Was. I now see that all it takes to leave me a tangled jumble of overtly sensitised nerves, is a well-placed stare. Unbelievable. I still can’t meet people’s stares with one of my own. I can never laugh or look people in the ‘eye’. Is that cowardice, shame or virtue? My guess is neither.
I have yet to figure out what it is about people at large that frightens me to death. I can act the lunatic to perfection in the company of friends. I can dance my dementias in docile ‘Dolly’ styles for family and I can fake fractured emotions with plastic acceptance for foes. It is always the in-betweens that get under my skin. The undefined, mass of ‘people’ sitting behind desks at convenience stores, page-makers at the office that I have to direct and servants I constantly feel guilty asking to bring me a glass of water. These are the people who scare me, in the most literal sense of the word. My palms are sweaty, my tongue twisted and my stomach in knots. It is ‘all the others’ that I cannot face. Perhaps because I have not yet been able to pick a face that works for ‘just people’. I certainly can’t stick with my own.
In the depths of Tartarus, Eros was said to trap more than just bypassing sailors. The depths of the sea-caves held nymphs who, of their own will, were too terrified of looking in the mirror that framed their gate-way to freedom. The Nymphs lingered eternally in the caves, with their backs turned to the gate.
Only the incredibly naïve and overtly fanciful believe that the nymphs still linger.
Which is why I know that they do.
Oh! Mary Mary quite contrary
Putting on a fabulous show
Your winsome smiles and nonsense guiles
Are just pretty put-ons for the pranksters that know…
A wizard of Was. I now see that all it takes to leave me a tangled jumble of overtly sensitised nerves, is a well-placed stare. Unbelievable. I still can’t meet people’s stares with one of my own. I can never laugh or look people in the ‘eye’. Is that cowardice, shame or virtue? My guess is neither.
I have yet to figure out what it is about people at large that frightens me to death. I can act the lunatic to perfection in the company of friends. I can dance my dementias in docile ‘Dolly’ styles for family and I can fake fractured emotions with plastic acceptance for foes. It is always the in-betweens that get under my skin. The undefined, mass of ‘people’ sitting behind desks at convenience stores, page-makers at the office that I have to direct and servants I constantly feel guilty asking to bring me a glass of water. These are the people who scare me, in the most literal sense of the word. My palms are sweaty, my tongue twisted and my stomach in knots. It is ‘all the others’ that I cannot face. Perhaps because I have not yet been able to pick a face that works for ‘just people’. I certainly can’t stick with my own.
In the depths of Tartarus, Eros was said to trap more than just bypassing sailors. The depths of the sea-caves held nymphs who, of their own will, were too terrified of looking in the mirror that framed their gate-way to freedom. The Nymphs lingered eternally in the caves, with their backs turned to the gate.
Only the incredibly naïve and overtly fanciful believe that the nymphs still linger.
Which is why I know that they do.
Oh! Mary Mary quite contrary
Putting on a fabulous show
Your winsome smiles and nonsense guiles
Are just pretty put-ons for the pranksters that know…
Monday, August 28, 2006
Tabhisms
Wait, wait, WAIT!
You see the whole country of this system is juxtaposition by the haemoglobin in the atmosphere- because you are a sophisticated rhetoration intoxicated by the exuberance of your own verbosity.
My name is Maria Amir…
Having just experienced the post-delight that comes from yet another epiphany long, long overdue: I have a confession to make. I am, what the inimitable ‘they’ call a pseudo-intellectual: not particularly because I don’t know what I’m talking about (although that often happens, because I bear a lamentable tendency to confuse myself more often than I do others) but because I prefer to talk smart. Unless I’m on one of my sugar buzzes. Recently, I have had the long with-held pleasure of watching old Amitabh Bachan films. A much needed experience this cruel Saara Zamaana had prohibited me from during my childhood. By the way, the Pakistani version for cruel Saara Zamaana is "Zaalim Samaajh" (lest I be accused of being a dangerous anti-semite). The confession being…
The two-6-foot-legs-with-head-attached was a comical genius, folks. Seriously. There is an elusive charm that old Indian films and old westerns’ share: an intrinsic disregard for realism, even perverse logic. They are therefore a league unto themselves. When the young Amitabh slaps a man in ‘Sholay’, the said dude dies. Crap! Doth he put Arnie-Hasta-bloody-ass-Lavista to shame? Yep, that he do be. No guns in sight. Plus for some reason, the hero must always display utmost heroism with itsy bitsy guns sans bullets at the most inopportune moments, by resorting to use his fists. Fate it is.
When he says something to the tune of “Rishtey mein to hum tumhaare baap lagte hein!” he meanses, much business – more, perhaps than even De Niro and his “talking to me” mirror. The actual genius of the man, I now realise lies in the old-young, pre monochrome beard version, sans the presently put-on sophishto. It was never cheap: purely because it so blatantly was!
I mean, Dudes and Dudettes, that even Peter O Toole or Pacino’s “go to the mattresses” can in no way trump a blue saari ‘moti biwi, with a Bara naam, who replaces all mattresses ala carte’.
Hun bol, ki kehnda e?
In the infamously made famous “You’ve got mail” Tom Hanks told us of the intrinsic wisdom hidden in the manifold layers of the ‘God Father’. The I Ching of all masculine wisdoms: hence only the trifle few quotes - with mixed days of the week and the Gun replaced by the Canola. But you see, Tabhisms offer a more profound variety of Tapori lifelines, more re-usable than Godfatherisms. For much as we would like, we do not all have the bollocks (I did mean to say balls btw, but sheesh - I’m a ‘lady’, or something to that effect) to kill all at will. Tabhisms have their own diversity. They do, I tell you.
“You see I can talk English, I can walk English, I can laugh English, because English is a very phunny language” - For all of us, and I do mean ALL, who still need to prove a point to our colonial masters. We CAN TALK the English and are working very hard on the laugh and walk, wont you please let us in your great nation?
“Sir, considering the consideration to take the run, the consideration became an ultimatum and ultimately Sir, the consideration was re-considered. In the year 1979, when India was playing Pakistan in Bombay, Wasim Raja and Wasim Bari they were at the crease Sir. And Wasim Bari gave the same consideration to Wasim Raja and Wasim Raja told Wasim Bari “Look Sir, this ultimately has to end in a consideration which I cannot consider. Therefore the consideration that you are giving me must be considered very ultimately”. Therefore, Sir, in the run that they were taking Wasim Raja told Wasim Bari “Wasim Bari you take the run” and ultimately both of them ran and considerately they both got out. SIR!"
– Lightening speed delivery for whenever your boss doubts your command over the English Language or whenever he or she already has a headache and you want the rest of the day off. OR as a mere tribute to Wasim Raja who has recently left us and was very considerate.
“The race is ready to go” – for every time you have not yet completed a task you were supposed to.
“Aap andar se kuch aur, baahar se kuch aur nazar aate hein. Ba Khudaa, shakal se to CHOR nazar aate hein. Umar guzri he saari chori mein, saare sukh chein band zulm ki tajori mein. Aap ka to lagta he bas yehi sapna”Ram Ram jagna, paraaya maal apna” - for every politician you have met and have yet to meet.
Exclusion clause: The following statement is to be uttered out loud in the presence of powers that BE- only in a state of heightened drunkenness OR during a suicide mission.
“Khaike paan banaaras waala, khul jaae bandh akal ka taala” – A small price to try. Definitely worth a shot if it means breaking said taala.
“Daddu Tum?” – For when death comes a knocking. And you are momentarily speechless - having forgotten and misplaced, the exuberance of your inherent verbosity.
“My name is Anthony Gonzales (to be replaced with said or yet unsaid, proper noun/s). Mein Duniya mein akela hun. Dil bhi he Khali, Ghar bhi he Khali - is mein rahe gi koi kismet waali. Jisse meri yaad aaye, jab chaahe chali aaye. Roop mein he Prem Gali, Gholli number # 420. Excuse me please?” – Without a doubt the MOST original and creative pick up line ever.
“Maula kabhi mujhe chorna kabhi nahin,
Bhoola Tera ehsaan mein kabhi nahin. Kiya tu ne jo manaa kiya, kabhi naheen. Kabhi kisi ko phansaaya he kabhi naheen”. – A sycophant’s prayer. Maula I can personally vouch for the last part.
“YAMMA YAMMA!” – A desi’s barbaric YAWP to hail life with Carp-e-diem proclamations.
“In the English, the Bhairoon becomes a Baron and the Baron becomes Bhairoon because their minds are very narrow” – Now 'aint that the truth?
“Tumhaara kya naam he, Basanti?” _ “Ji Maria, Saahib”. I like to think this one was meant for me, not that I have a tonga or any remote aspirations to wed Dharmindar. Neither, do I harbour any subsequent regrets over not having done so.
‘Mere Angaane mein tumhaara kya kaam he? Jo he naam waala wo hi to badnaam he”. – Roughly translated: Mind your own damn business, F****** Asshole.
“Apni to Jese tese. Thodi aese ya vaise- Kat jaaye gi.
Aap ka kya ho ga, Janaab-e-Aali?” – The ‘Que sera sera’ matra for all the Lawaris’s of this ‘world he na world’.
“Lo kal lo bat” – The illegally blonde synonym for “Whatever”.
I thereby claim that this ancient Tapori gospel, despite its warped machismo, trumps the western version of un-fairy like God fathers. Times are a changin’ my friends amd 'us', wherever-the-hell-borned-still-forever-confused-desis (WTHBSFCD) have gots- ta- stick together and realign our minglish’s and mojo’s (couldn’t help it) eastward.
Keh diya na. BAS!
You see the whole country of this system is juxtaposition by the haemoglobin in the atmosphere- because you are a sophisticated rhetoration intoxicated by the exuberance of your own verbosity.
My name is Maria Amir…
Having just experienced the post-delight that comes from yet another epiphany long, long overdue: I have a confession to make. I am, what the inimitable ‘they’ call a pseudo-intellectual: not particularly because I don’t know what I’m talking about (although that often happens, because I bear a lamentable tendency to confuse myself more often than I do others) but because I prefer to talk smart. Unless I’m on one of my sugar buzzes. Recently, I have had the long with-held pleasure of watching old Amitabh Bachan films. A much needed experience this cruel Saara Zamaana had prohibited me from during my childhood. By the way, the Pakistani version for cruel Saara Zamaana is "Zaalim Samaajh" (lest I be accused of being a dangerous anti-semite). The confession being…
The two-6-foot-legs-with-head-attached was a comical genius, folks. Seriously. There is an elusive charm that old Indian films and old westerns’ share: an intrinsic disregard for realism, even perverse logic. They are therefore a league unto themselves. When the young Amitabh slaps a man in ‘Sholay’, the said dude dies. Crap! Doth he put Arnie-Hasta-bloody-ass-Lavista to shame? Yep, that he do be. No guns in sight. Plus for some reason, the hero must always display utmost heroism with itsy bitsy guns sans bullets at the most inopportune moments, by resorting to use his fists. Fate it is.
When he says something to the tune of “Rishtey mein to hum tumhaare baap lagte hein!” he meanses, much business – more, perhaps than even De Niro and his “talking to me” mirror. The actual genius of the man, I now realise lies in the old-young, pre monochrome beard version, sans the presently put-on sophishto. It was never cheap: purely because it so blatantly was!
I mean, Dudes and Dudettes, that even Peter O Toole or Pacino’s “go to the mattresses” can in no way trump a blue saari ‘moti biwi, with a Bara naam, who replaces all mattresses ala carte’.
Hun bol, ki kehnda e?
In the infamously made famous “You’ve got mail” Tom Hanks told us of the intrinsic wisdom hidden in the manifold layers of the ‘God Father’. The I Ching of all masculine wisdoms: hence only the trifle few quotes - with mixed days of the week and the Gun replaced by the Canola. But you see, Tabhisms offer a more profound variety of Tapori lifelines, more re-usable than Godfatherisms. For much as we would like, we do not all have the bollocks (I did mean to say balls btw, but sheesh - I’m a ‘lady’, or something to that effect) to kill all at will. Tabhisms have their own diversity. They do, I tell you.
“You see I can talk English, I can walk English, I can laugh English, because English is a very phunny language” - For all of us, and I do mean ALL, who still need to prove a point to our colonial masters. We CAN TALK the English and are working very hard on the laugh and walk, wont you please let us in your great nation?
“Sir, considering the consideration to take the run, the consideration became an ultimatum and ultimately Sir, the consideration was re-considered. In the year 1979, when India was playing Pakistan in Bombay, Wasim Raja and Wasim Bari they were at the crease Sir. And Wasim Bari gave the same consideration to Wasim Raja and Wasim Raja told Wasim Bari “Look Sir, this ultimately has to end in a consideration which I cannot consider. Therefore the consideration that you are giving me must be considered very ultimately”. Therefore, Sir, in the run that they were taking Wasim Raja told Wasim Bari “Wasim Bari you take the run” and ultimately both of them ran and considerately they both got out. SIR!"
– Lightening speed delivery for whenever your boss doubts your command over the English Language or whenever he or she already has a headache and you want the rest of the day off. OR as a mere tribute to Wasim Raja who has recently left us and was very considerate.
“The race is ready to go” – for every time you have not yet completed a task you were supposed to.
“Aap andar se kuch aur, baahar se kuch aur nazar aate hein. Ba Khudaa, shakal se to CHOR nazar aate hein. Umar guzri he saari chori mein, saare sukh chein band zulm ki tajori mein. Aap ka to lagta he bas yehi sapna”Ram Ram jagna, paraaya maal apna” - for every politician you have met and have yet to meet.
Exclusion clause: The following statement is to be uttered out loud in the presence of powers that BE- only in a state of heightened drunkenness OR during a suicide mission.
“Khaike paan banaaras waala, khul jaae bandh akal ka taala” – A small price to try. Definitely worth a shot if it means breaking said taala.
“Daddu Tum?” – For when death comes a knocking. And you are momentarily speechless - having forgotten and misplaced, the exuberance of your inherent verbosity.
“My name is Anthony Gonzales (to be replaced with said or yet unsaid, proper noun/s). Mein Duniya mein akela hun. Dil bhi he Khali, Ghar bhi he Khali - is mein rahe gi koi kismet waali. Jisse meri yaad aaye, jab chaahe chali aaye. Roop mein he Prem Gali, Gholli number # 420. Excuse me please?” – Without a doubt the MOST original and creative pick up line ever.
“Maula kabhi mujhe chorna kabhi nahin,
Bhoola Tera ehsaan mein kabhi nahin. Kiya tu ne jo manaa kiya, kabhi naheen. Kabhi kisi ko phansaaya he kabhi naheen”. – A sycophant’s prayer. Maula I can personally vouch for the last part.
“YAMMA YAMMA!” – A desi’s barbaric YAWP to hail life with Carp-e-diem proclamations.
“In the English, the Bhairoon becomes a Baron and the Baron becomes Bhairoon because their minds are very narrow” – Now 'aint that the truth?
“Tumhaara kya naam he, Basanti?” _ “Ji Maria, Saahib”. I like to think this one was meant for me, not that I have a tonga or any remote aspirations to wed Dharmindar. Neither, do I harbour any subsequent regrets over not having done so.
‘Mere Angaane mein tumhaara kya kaam he? Jo he naam waala wo hi to badnaam he”. – Roughly translated: Mind your own damn business, F****** Asshole.
“Apni to Jese tese. Thodi aese ya vaise- Kat jaaye gi.
Aap ka kya ho ga, Janaab-e-Aali?” – The ‘Que sera sera’ matra for all the Lawaris’s of this ‘world he na world’.
“Lo kal lo bat” – The illegally blonde synonym for “Whatever”.
I thereby claim that this ancient Tapori gospel, despite its warped machismo, trumps the western version of un-fairy like God fathers. Times are a changin’ my friends amd 'us', wherever-the-hell-borned-still-forever-confused-desis (WTHBSFCD) have gots- ta- stick together and realign our minglish’s and mojo’s (couldn’t help it) eastward.
Keh diya na. BAS!
Thursday, August 24, 2006
What a wonderful world!
I have never been here before.
At this oh-so mysterious hidden corner of my Hyde. I have never known a comfort zone that i have not had to manufacture. But there it is, at probably the most inopportune moment, in the midst of a Warwick University interview with an alleged (as in allegedly that is his name) Stephen Williams, talking about writing and art. I have never thought myself capable of breaking into song in 'public', the other variety is my very own insubordinate Casa'. But so be it.
Today i am more than the sum of my many alter-go's. I am Quasimodho, with the big-ass swollen lump of an optic-aid and a day of freedom: no gargoyles in sight except in the looking glass.
"So what kind of music do you like?"
Mostly accoustic rock.
" No oldies?"
Definitely. Armstrong is a genius.
Lo and behold! We- alleged Stephen and I, both break into a very vamped version of "What a wonderful world". And no dawdling single verse for us, oh no! I the interviewee and he the interviewer- a great divide indeed: break into a Calliope sonata.
"Maria, it really is a pleasure to meet someone like you. Unexpected, and a pleasure."
Fore- epiphany to fore-self: I just sang at an interview. I am a 'true' flake, as of today.
*After-epiphany to after-self*
It is a pleasure to meet me. Unexpected, but I am truly delighted Maria.
* After-epiphany to all selves: Perhaps the next interview calls for a 'King and I' reference.
Shall we Dance?
1-2-3 AND!
At this oh-so mysterious hidden corner of my Hyde. I have never known a comfort zone that i have not had to manufacture. But there it is, at probably the most inopportune moment, in the midst of a Warwick University interview with an alleged (as in allegedly that is his name) Stephen Williams, talking about writing and art. I have never thought myself capable of breaking into song in 'public', the other variety is my very own insubordinate Casa'. But so be it.
Today i am more than the sum of my many alter-go's. I am Quasimodho, with the big-ass swollen lump of an optic-aid and a day of freedom: no gargoyles in sight except in the looking glass.
"So what kind of music do you like?"
Mostly accoustic rock.
" No oldies?"
Definitely. Armstrong is a genius.
Lo and behold! We- alleged Stephen and I, both break into a very vamped version of "What a wonderful world". And no dawdling single verse for us, oh no! I the interviewee and he the interviewer- a great divide indeed: break into a Calliope sonata.
"Maria, it really is a pleasure to meet someone like you. Unexpected, and a pleasure."
Fore- epiphany to fore-self: I just sang at an interview. I am a 'true' flake, as of today.
*After-epiphany to after-self*
It is a pleasure to meet me. Unexpected, but I am truly delighted Maria.
* After-epiphany to all selves: Perhaps the next interview calls for a 'King and I' reference.
Shall we Dance?
1-2-3 AND!
Friday, August 18, 2006
Backseat Boulevard
I am at loggerheads with myself. These are the days...the ones when I look in the mirror and see a different outfit, not the clandestine hues I wore 4 years ago, the bruises washed down with smiles and songs. I see color, but the face... that is still the same.
These are the days when I see the weakness in me.
Moreover I know it.
It smirks at me in the mirror capped in blue eye shadow and glitter earrings that I conjured up the night before with dried paint and copper yarn. Today I know that I am a shit load of talk and a heap of no goes. Tall dreams - thats what he said. "Thats all you are Maria, a silly girl who dreams and doesn't know how to 'DO'". Today I fear he may be right. His voice is louder today. Not the nocuous buzzing of 'as per usuals'. But hope springs eternal in Silly-girl-who-dreams-Land. A half-full glass of dapple vinegar. One last gulp to go.
Tomorrow is another day
on Backseat Boulevard.
Another corner at carwash dreams.
A new ode to left over casseroles in the fridge .
A last look at my rainbow poncho,
unravelling at the seams
These are the days when I see the weakness in me.
Moreover I know it.
It smirks at me in the mirror capped in blue eye shadow and glitter earrings that I conjured up the night before with dried paint and copper yarn. Today I know that I am a shit load of talk and a heap of no goes. Tall dreams - thats what he said. "Thats all you are Maria, a silly girl who dreams and doesn't know how to 'DO'". Today I fear he may be right. His voice is louder today. Not the nocuous buzzing of 'as per usuals'. But hope springs eternal in Silly-girl-who-dreams-Land. A half-full glass of dapple vinegar. One last gulp to go.
Tomorrow is another day
on Backseat Boulevard.
Another corner at carwash dreams.
A new ode to left over casseroles in the fridge .
A last look at my rainbow poncho,
unravelling at the seams
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Corrections for the "politically correct"
I stumbled accross something today. Amidst the myriad of letters I go through, that defines to the hilt, my un-affirmed journalista' non-aspirations, my vocational training and my current Job description. It seems of late that new rules of political correctness, have been devised by 'civilised countries' and the UN. Majority of these rules form cleverly concealed ad-libs for so-called democracy. But the developing countries of the world should take care to make a note, nevertheless. As should I.
Rule 1: In the Middle East, it is always the Arabs that attack first, and it's always Israel that defends itself. This is called "Retaliation".
Rule 2: The Arabs, whether Palestinians or Lebanese, are not allowed to kill Israelis. This is called "Terrorism".
Rule 3: Israel has the right to kill Arab civilians, this is called "Self-Defence" or these days "Collateral Damage".
Rule 4: When Israel kills too many civilians. The Western world calls for restraint. This is called the "Reaction of the International Community".
Rule 5: Palestinians and Lebanese do not have the right to capture Israeli military, not even a limited number, not even 1 or 2. This is called "Kidnapping".
Rule 6: Israel has the right to capture as many Palestinians as it wants. There is no limit; there is no need for proof of guilt or trial. This is called "War on Terrorism".
Rule 7: When you say "Hezbollah", always be sure to add "supported by Syria and Iran". This is called the "Axis of Evil".
Rule 8: When you say "Israel", never say "supported by the USA, the UK and other European countries", for people (God forbid) might believe this is not an equal conflict. This is called "Helping our Friends".
Rule 9: When it comes to Israel, don't mention the words "occupied territories", "UN resolutions", "Geneva conventions". This could distress the audience and is called "Anti-Semitism".
Rule 10: Israelis speak better English than Arabs. This is why we let them speak out as much as possible, so that they can explain rules 1 through 9. This is called "Neutral Journalism".
*Golden Rule*
If you do not agree with these rules or if you favour the Arab side over the Israeli side, you are in all probability, a very dangerous anti-Semite. You may even have to make a public apology like Mel Gibson. This is called "Democracy".
Rule 1: In the Middle East, it is always the Arabs that attack first, and it's always Israel that defends itself. This is called "Retaliation".
Rule 2: The Arabs, whether Palestinians or Lebanese, are not allowed to kill Israelis. This is called "Terrorism".
Rule 3: Israel has the right to kill Arab civilians, this is called "Self-Defence" or these days "Collateral Damage".
Rule 4: When Israel kills too many civilians. The Western world calls for restraint. This is called the "Reaction of the International Community".
Rule 5: Palestinians and Lebanese do not have the right to capture Israeli military, not even a limited number, not even 1 or 2. This is called "Kidnapping".
Rule 6: Israel has the right to capture as many Palestinians as it wants. There is no limit; there is no need for proof of guilt or trial. This is called "War on Terrorism".
Rule 7: When you say "Hezbollah", always be sure to add "supported by Syria and Iran". This is called the "Axis of Evil".
Rule 8: When you say "Israel", never say "supported by the USA, the UK and other European countries", for people (God forbid) might believe this is not an equal conflict. This is called "Helping our Friends".
Rule 9: When it comes to Israel, don't mention the words "occupied territories", "UN resolutions", "Geneva conventions". This could distress the audience and is called "Anti-Semitism".
Rule 10: Israelis speak better English than Arabs. This is why we let them speak out as much as possible, so that they can explain rules 1 through 9. This is called "Neutral Journalism".
*Golden Rule*
If you do not agree with these rules or if you favour the Arab side over the Israeli side, you are in all probability, a very dangerous anti-Semite. You may even have to make a public apology like Mel Gibson. This is called "Democracy".
Friday, August 11, 2006
Fortune fairy
Today's fortune: If your desires are not extravagant they will be granted
Not in all the lands and all the Kingdoms has a thought more depressing been voiced. Yet the peripheral forum for us socially retarded took up the mallet. Thank you, Orkut for the extended reverie, cut brutally short! Your reality check shall not dwindle, nor shall it be forgotten.
Fairy Fairy quite contrairy
Dont let my dream castles grow
Bash them down and slather them round,
And put on a fabulous show!
Not in all the lands and all the Kingdoms has a thought more depressing been voiced. Yet the peripheral forum for us socially retarded took up the mallet. Thank you, Orkut for the extended reverie, cut brutally short! Your reality check shall not dwindle, nor shall it be forgotten.
Fairy Fairy quite contrairy
Dont let my dream castles grow
Bash them down and slather them round,
And put on a fabulous show!
Saturday, August 05, 2006
Little Mermaid Diary
Entry: October,1991
Night Time.
Dear Diary,
I have decided that I want to fall in love now.
And I have decided that I want to be in love with Prince Eric.
I think I will marry him when I grow up.There are three reasons why I picked Prince Eric over all the other princes.
1) He has Green eyes
2) Ariel already has Sebastian and Flounder, and she shouldnt have all three. Yesterday when I wanted to go to Yummy's 36, Baba said that we cant have everything and too much of anything is bad for you. I think he's wrong, but I still dont think Ariel should get everything, as she already has red hair and is an under-the-sea princess.
3) Prince Eric doesnt wear girly blouses and tights like all the others AND he has a dog.
(Barring Yul Brynner and Johnny Depp, I stand by my decision. I do want to marry Prince Eric when I grow up.)
Night Time.
Dear Diary,
I have decided that I want to fall in love now.
And I have decided that I want to be in love with Prince Eric.
I think I will marry him when I grow up.There are three reasons why I picked Prince Eric over all the other princes.
1) He has Green eyes
2) Ariel already has Sebastian and Flounder, and she shouldnt have all three. Yesterday when I wanted to go to Yummy's 36, Baba said that we cant have everything and too much of anything is bad for you. I think he's wrong, but I still dont think Ariel should get everything, as she already has red hair and is an under-the-sea princess.
3) Prince Eric doesnt wear girly blouses and tights like all the others AND he has a dog.
(Barring Yul Brynner and Johnny Depp, I stand by my decision. I do want to marry Prince Eric when I grow up.)
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Malice in Yonderland
Backed into yet another corner by niggling doubt.
I believe today is the day to revisit my amorality. It's been a while, but I am sure that I can manage if I so choose. How does a vehement prude discard her scruples for the sake of some semblance of insanity?
A tango to tangle with an unknown tomorrow. That is all I ask of today.
Just enough of a shove to allow my head and heart to realign with the revised morals of a sacrament as old as time " a wasted youth better by far than a wise and productive old age".
I find myself deep in the midst of the solicitous yearning to prove myself. Most definitely unchartered waters. Unfortunately this particular brand of 'wish' merits an audience. Sowing the seed of consequence, it seems, no longer squanders a fate foretold...it only maps it. Naked on a stage for a spotlight? If that be the case, then so be it.
The impetus of my action once again bears the brundt of paternity. They say that every step we take is formed by our fathers left foot and our mother right. There is thereby, little wonder in the fact that I walk in shoeboxes, consistently colliding with myself. I dance circles around my potential and a rather remarkable fox trot over my tenacity.
My chronic curse remains to piroutte my verbs around alien nouns and gremlin faces. However, I have experienced an epiphany of sorts, shared with 'Material Girl' Madonna and a pack of MnM's, post midnight to a Blue moon: to frame my renewed disenchantment. A call to arms and amorality. I resolve as of now, to conveniently solicit my "to do's" with fervent fanaticism and yes, at present, a not-so-blatant expense of roadblocks and hitchikers. It is about time I excercised some passion! If not for mortals than for Mermaids, Matadors and Medusa's.
I hereby, solemnly swear on the salvages of my wavering conscience and all my religions- to raise Heaven and Hell on scroll as I see fit.
Anticipating unprecedented Malice in Yonderland.
So let it be written.
Let it be Done.
I believe today is the day to revisit my amorality. It's been a while, but I am sure that I can manage if I so choose. How does a vehement prude discard her scruples for the sake of some semblance of insanity?
A tango to tangle with an unknown tomorrow. That is all I ask of today.
Just enough of a shove to allow my head and heart to realign with the revised morals of a sacrament as old as time " a wasted youth better by far than a wise and productive old age".
I find myself deep in the midst of the solicitous yearning to prove myself. Most definitely unchartered waters. Unfortunately this particular brand of 'wish' merits an audience. Sowing the seed of consequence, it seems, no longer squanders a fate foretold...it only maps it. Naked on a stage for a spotlight? If that be the case, then so be it.
The impetus of my action once again bears the brundt of paternity. They say that every step we take is formed by our fathers left foot and our mother right. There is thereby, little wonder in the fact that I walk in shoeboxes, consistently colliding with myself. I dance circles around my potential and a rather remarkable fox trot over my tenacity.
My chronic curse remains to piroutte my verbs around alien nouns and gremlin faces. However, I have experienced an epiphany of sorts, shared with 'Material Girl' Madonna and a pack of MnM's, post midnight to a Blue moon: to frame my renewed disenchantment. A call to arms and amorality. I resolve as of now, to conveniently solicit my "to do's" with fervent fanaticism and yes, at present, a not-so-blatant expense of roadblocks and hitchikers. It is about time I excercised some passion! If not for mortals than for Mermaids, Matadors and Medusa's.
I hereby, solemnly swear on the salvages of my wavering conscience and all my religions- to raise Heaven and Hell on scroll as I see fit.
Anticipating unprecedented Malice in Yonderland.
So let it be written.
Let it be Done.
Good girls go to Heaven- Meatloaf
Good girls go to heaven
But the bad girls go everywhere
When the wind is howling through your window pane
It's not the only pain of the night
You're burning up in your bed, you got a fever of love
And there's not an anti-body in sight
Hey Jenny, Jenny, why are you crying?
There's a beauty of a moon in the sky
But I guess when you've been leading such a sheltered life
You never lift your head and look so high
You don't have a lot,
but it's all that you've got
And you can turn it into more than it seems
Just give it a shot,
Fantasize every movement
And imagine every inch of your dream
No one said it had to be real
But it's gotta be something you can reach out and feel
nowIt ain't right, it ain't fair
Castles fall in the sand and we fade in the air
And the good girls go to heaven,
But the bad girls go everywhere
Somebody told me so, Somebody told me now I know
Every night in my prayer, I'll be praying that the
Good girls go to heaven,
But the bad girls go everywhere
When the sweat is sizzling on your skin in the dark
And you're desperate now for somewhere to turn
Every muscle in rebellion, every nerve is on edge
And every limb has been erotically burned
Hey Johnny, Johnny, why are you shaking?
When a boy should do whatever he can
You've been nothing but an angel every day of your life
And now you wonder what it's like to be damned
Every time I try and dream you,
I can't believe how hard it's been to
Conjure up your face And trace your body in the air
All the seconds go on forever,
But the thirds and fourth ones are even better
Everytime I do it just a little bit longer
Everytime I dream,It's just a little bit stronger than real life
No one said it had to be real
But it's gotta be something you can reach out and feel, now!
It ain't right, it ain't fair
Castles fall in the sand and we fade in the air
And the good girls go to heaven,
But the bad girls go everywhere
Somebody told me so,
Somebody told me now I know
Every night in my prayer,I'll be praying that the
Good girls go to heaven
But the bad girls go everywhere
When the wind is howling through your window pane
It's not the only pain of the night
You're burning up in your bed, you got a fever of love
And there's not an anti-body in sight
Hey Jenny, Jenny, why are you crying?
There's a beauty of a moon in the sky
But I guess when you've been leading such a sheltered life
You never lift your head and look so high
You don't have a lot,
but it's all that you've got
And you can turn it into more than it seems
Just give it a shot,
Fantasize every movement
And imagine every inch of your dream
No one said it had to be real
But it's gotta be something you can reach out and feel
nowIt ain't right, it ain't fair
Castles fall in the sand and we fade in the air
And the good girls go to heaven,
But the bad girls go everywhere
Somebody told me so, Somebody told me now I know
Every night in my prayer, I'll be praying that the
Good girls go to heaven,
But the bad girls go everywhere
When the sweat is sizzling on your skin in the dark
And you're desperate now for somewhere to turn
Every muscle in rebellion, every nerve is on edge
And every limb has been erotically burned
Hey Johnny, Johnny, why are you shaking?
When a boy should do whatever he can
You've been nothing but an angel every day of your life
And now you wonder what it's like to be damned
Every time I try and dream you,
I can't believe how hard it's been to
Conjure up your face And trace your body in the air
All the seconds go on forever,
But the thirds and fourth ones are even better
Everytime I do it just a little bit longer
Everytime I dream,It's just a little bit stronger than real life
No one said it had to be real
But it's gotta be something you can reach out and feel, now!
It ain't right, it ain't fair
Castles fall in the sand and we fade in the air
And the good girls go to heaven,
But the bad girls go everywhere
Somebody told me so,
Somebody told me now I know
Every night in my prayer,I'll be praying that the
Good girls go to heaven
Friday, July 28, 2006
Eulogy
The night no longer grips my spirit as it once did. The magic moon and creeping vines as they lose all grandeur, form my overtly calm self. Relishing the night takes time, an epoch of rage and fear, culminating to the pinnacle of anticipation. The point where waiting for the fear to ‘kick in’ becomes the adrenaline rush that eclipses all others. Like tasting fine wine, the night needs to set in and marrow with bone.
A legacy of running from tick-tocks frames my subsequent growth. The night no longer pretty, the days no longer gritty - just a frameless smog of empty silences. Having faced those demons a long time ago, the silence is no longer beautiful. The calm before the storm, has come and gone and at present I find myself in the midst of an intense disregard for all things calm. I wade through desert sands in my dreams, copiously waiting for the morning sun to help the crack kick in.
And it does…
The sun bristles outside as the electricity conks out. I discover that there is no flavour superior to the sweet tang of sweat. To sit through each dreary drop coursing down my neck as I navigate my way through the stickiest day of my life.
Blissfully zoned out- enough to tune out the sense of discomfort. I am the quintessential junkie on his final trip. The one you wait for with every quivering, shaky breath. Every other hit becomes just that- the 'others', fated to bring me to the precipice. Now, there is only the wait. To savour the slow but steady satire of my demise. The mellow tendrils of an ashen joint soothing out the kinks in my soul, the battered scraps of syringes cased in coral blood coating my sea of memories.
And I hear you kiddo, as clear as life before death.
My sweet, pretty baby
After mama moved on and daddy left home
The sight of you all grown up in a cradle
With money and a rock and sugar on top
To rub in my betrayals
How does a masochist apologise? "I’m sorry kiddo. I linger in your four-year-old shadows everyday". There is no laughter to frame my face, no more songs to sing my pace, no more smiles to send your way. They all lie in your pocket purse, as I wait - bound forever to your withheld ‘get-go’. Just that kiss on the cheek to say “move along on your way, cause I’ll be okay”. But it never comes. I am marked with your granite glare, to slash my soul. You are the only God I pray to for forgiveness.
She left you long gone,
with a sketch of a song
And now you’ll swallow up souls for a living
Just one more chance at being a sodden saviour, kiddo. A colossal apology for a smile?
Believe you me, loneliness comes free. There’ll come a day when you will need me there to love you.
You and me and the Devil
make three
You wont need any other love baby
Just one last chance and one more dance. Even the nights don’t sing to me anymore. Just one last smile as I work on my wiles, for a calendar of your candy kisses baby.
Come lay your bones on my turpentine stones
Just you and me.
I don’t need any other love baby
A legacy of running from tick-tocks frames my subsequent growth. The night no longer pretty, the days no longer gritty - just a frameless smog of empty silences. Having faced those demons a long time ago, the silence is no longer beautiful. The calm before the storm, has come and gone and at present I find myself in the midst of an intense disregard for all things calm. I wade through desert sands in my dreams, copiously waiting for the morning sun to help the crack kick in.
And it does…
The sun bristles outside as the electricity conks out. I discover that there is no flavour superior to the sweet tang of sweat. To sit through each dreary drop coursing down my neck as I navigate my way through the stickiest day of my life.
Blissfully zoned out- enough to tune out the sense of discomfort. I am the quintessential junkie on his final trip. The one you wait for with every quivering, shaky breath. Every other hit becomes just that- the 'others', fated to bring me to the precipice. Now, there is only the wait. To savour the slow but steady satire of my demise. The mellow tendrils of an ashen joint soothing out the kinks in my soul, the battered scraps of syringes cased in coral blood coating my sea of memories.
And I hear you kiddo, as clear as life before death.
My sweet, pretty baby
After mama moved on and daddy left home
The sight of you all grown up in a cradle
With money and a rock and sugar on top
To rub in my betrayals
How does a masochist apologise? "I’m sorry kiddo. I linger in your four-year-old shadows everyday". There is no laughter to frame my face, no more songs to sing my pace, no more smiles to send your way. They all lie in your pocket purse, as I wait - bound forever to your withheld ‘get-go’. Just that kiss on the cheek to say “move along on your way, cause I’ll be okay”. But it never comes. I am marked with your granite glare, to slash my soul. You are the only God I pray to for forgiveness.
She left you long gone,
with a sketch of a song
And now you’ll swallow up souls for a living
Just one more chance at being a sodden saviour, kiddo. A colossal apology for a smile?
Believe you me, loneliness comes free. There’ll come a day when you will need me there to love you.
You and me and the Devil
make three
You wont need any other love baby
Just one last chance and one more dance. Even the nights don’t sing to me anymore. Just one last smile as I work on my wiles, for a calendar of your candy kisses baby.
Come lay your bones on my turpentine stones
Just you and me.
I don’t need any other love baby
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Beautiful Loser
In the immediate unforseen,
How am I to navigate the course of wants and wishes with can's and cant's. The practicalities of things are hard pressed to hit home at present, and there is little denying that it is about time they do so.
So good. I am resolved to face my fate. I shall try and try again on my intermittent stumble, tumble, fumble of go-getterdom. My way, highway, byway- all in all to carve my own path. Camouflaging, non-chalance and faliure with color and wit, no longer makes the cut. No more running away: I shall trudge my road. Skulk and sulk the sign posts, but walk it nonetheless. Two pints nurture and four spoons nature, now call me to the point where the inpermeable 'twain must meet'.
Beautiful loser
Travellin man,
just do it once
while your able and can
How am I to navigate the course of wants and wishes with can's and cant's. The practicalities of things are hard pressed to hit home at present, and there is little denying that it is about time they do so.
So good. I am resolved to face my fate. I shall try and try again on my intermittent stumble, tumble, fumble of go-getterdom. My way, highway, byway- all in all to carve my own path. Camouflaging, non-chalance and faliure with color and wit, no longer makes the cut. No more running away: I shall trudge my road. Skulk and sulk the sign posts, but walk it nonetheless. Two pints nurture and four spoons nature, now call me to the point where the inpermeable 'twain must meet'.
Beautiful loser
Travellin man,
just do it once
while your able and can
Friday, July 21, 2006
Happy birthday Girl!
You see dear girl,
There is 'fiction' in this ache between these lines in font and my memories. A catechism unravelling at the seams: of you and me and the demon who dreams.
Blowing candles at each pit stop cake, of every birth and every wake.
I write it down, every word a truth.
But it doesnt mean that im not just telling stories.
A birthday wish spanning every age
to the seven year old me and her gilded cage
A birthday song for the long and gone
Seedy wanderer of slush 14 and moving on
A birthday card for the doomed to dance
through sweet-16 memories and one lost chance
A birthday kiss for the hard to miss
A stalking statue on the precipice...
There is 'fiction' in this ache between these lines in font and my memories. A catechism unravelling at the seams: of you and me and the demon who dreams.
Blowing candles at each pit stop cake, of every birth and every wake.
I write it down, every word a truth.
But it doesnt mean that im not just telling stories.
A birthday wish spanning every age
to the seven year old me and her gilded cage
A birthday song for the long and gone
Seedy wanderer of slush 14 and moving on
A birthday card for the doomed to dance
through sweet-16 memories and one lost chance
A birthday kiss for the hard to miss
A stalking statue on the precipice...
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Of Meece's and Frogs
It puzzles me to no end.
The fact that inherent genius placates itself, hiding under sublime layers of arcane comedy and banal banter. Then again for some reason in my eyes that is 'genius'...sans pretence. Out of all the Bob Dylan songs in the 'Great American' songbook, it is 'Froggie went a courtin' that strikes me the most - perhaps because its silly.
It is the blatant 'Old Mc Donaldisation' of the lyrics that gets me everytime.
Action-reaction-subjection-derision-deduction-induction-instruction-Action. From the Poet of poets: this is Dylan at his peak, because he writes without an agenda, unlike most of us who do. Come to think about it so does Dylan, he is probably THE polemicist of his age.
But with Froggie, not at all, there is no beginning or end to the nihilist nonchalance of this ballad. This dirge spans time and space, it is a run-on sentence and palpable cycle of never ending-dom to the finish. The romance of Mr Frog and Ms Mousey incontrovertibly trumps every Juliet her Romeo. A romance that inconsequently harps on about the manifold 'nothings' and 'everythings' of existence. The farcical tragedy of tragedies....of a fate fortold for us un-inhabitable mortals, who strive to break walls and glass barriers and glimpse haloed ever-afters.
Never again will a frog love a mouse.
It is us meece's who must wait,
wait...
wait
For the last piece of cornbread sitting on the shelf.
The fact that inherent genius placates itself, hiding under sublime layers of arcane comedy and banal banter. Then again for some reason in my eyes that is 'genius'...sans pretence. Out of all the Bob Dylan songs in the 'Great American' songbook, it is 'Froggie went a courtin' that strikes me the most - perhaps because its silly.
It is the blatant 'Old Mc Donaldisation' of the lyrics that gets me everytime.
Action-reaction-subjection-derision-deduction-induction-instruction-Action. From the Poet of poets: this is Dylan at his peak, because he writes without an agenda, unlike most of us who do. Come to think about it so does Dylan, he is probably THE polemicist of his age.
But with Froggie, not at all, there is no beginning or end to the nihilist nonchalance of this ballad. This dirge spans time and space, it is a run-on sentence and palpable cycle of never ending-dom to the finish. The romance of Mr Frog and Ms Mousey incontrovertibly trumps every Juliet her Romeo. A romance that inconsequently harps on about the manifold 'nothings' and 'everythings' of existence. The farcical tragedy of tragedies....of a fate fortold for us un-inhabitable mortals, who strive to break walls and glass barriers and glimpse haloed ever-afters.
Never again will a frog love a mouse.
It is us meece's who must wait,
wait...
wait
For the last piece of cornbread sitting on the shelf.
Friday, July 14, 2006
Homo-Escapian
It is often hard to harrow out the intricacies of being honest to the point of perfection. Is there such a thing? To be completely, unfetteringly, unflinchingly honest in ones' being and speech. I hardly think so, or I like to think not, since it dispells a notion which I find may be impossible for my ever-wavering capacities to conform to.
Virginia Woolf, in one of her many diatribes on feminism and the empowerment of all that is Yin in the homo-escapiens of this world, has spoken of killing the 'Angel in the house'. She has reiterated the need for the unequivocal demise of this sentient being that plagues the female psyche, to consider the repurcussions of their words and actions. Not because of the consequences that may indelibly occur due to this 'un-due' voicing, rather for the opinions that may frame in the minds of men, regarding these shemale 'perpetrators' of blatant, bold and boisterous speech. It is true that Woolf may not be one of the most objective caricatures to stand by, nor by any means the most sane (pun intended on all peripheral scales). However, the Lady does have her moments of grandoise epiphany, and this one is no less.
'Killing the angel' could most literally be taken as having no fear, and writing unflinchingly about everything. Taken in the literal context of the time, no-holes-barred sex-talk baby! However times have changed, it is indeed the 'best and worst' of them. The scales for judgment as it so happens, have shifted... slightly to the left. Women are now seldom judged for talking about sex, instead they are more often than not, judged for not talking abou it. The scale for judgement is far too complex, for who can tell what makes a woman intellectual and not ineffectual? Is it abstaining fastidiously from pop music and romance novels and seeking solace in political rhetoric via the Time and Newsweek? Then again, there is a difference in 'seeking' and 'finding'. Heresy once again compels me to strut it ' Seek and ye shall find' just isnt going to make the cut this time.
To seek intellect and admiration, through highly inconclusive jargon, is not necessarily equivalent to finding it. Neither is it in any way productive. There (unfortunately) ARE those who 'find' solace in a Britney Spears crink and in Elle Woods's euphamisms. What of that poor lot of 'lost flock', is their path to be condemned even if it works? Is trying to sound or act smart, in fact smart? How can it be admirable if it is pretentious? Then again how often is it not pretentious to be consequently admired?
An adop-duction of worlds it is, this flux of information and to pick and choose the right and left of it, is nearing impossible. The Angel's demise, therefore demands that we pick the 'Puck' of slurry silliness along with the abject geniosity of the Poe, it means we embrace the acids of Coke with the daintiness of wine, it means that we relish Grape Skittles with the same dedication we award to Caviar, it means we ferociously ( or less so) belt out Jackson moves to Billie Jean simultaneously reminicing to Rachmaninov rapture.
It is a 7-course meal of rainbows, my friends and the canvas tints both black and white. The Angel is dead, the looking glass simultaneously smudged and sparkling. For time will prove that there is little perfection in the word 'perfect'.
Paint the pallete of colors
to clasp a Kaleidoscope of flavors
All shades black
All shades white
Virginia Woolf, in one of her many diatribes on feminism and the empowerment of all that is Yin in the homo-escapiens of this world, has spoken of killing the 'Angel in the house'. She has reiterated the need for the unequivocal demise of this sentient being that plagues the female psyche, to consider the repurcussions of their words and actions. Not because of the consequences that may indelibly occur due to this 'un-due' voicing, rather for the opinions that may frame in the minds of men, regarding these shemale 'perpetrators' of blatant, bold and boisterous speech. It is true that Woolf may not be one of the most objective caricatures to stand by, nor by any means the most sane (pun intended on all peripheral scales). However, the Lady does have her moments of grandoise epiphany, and this one is no less.
'Killing the angel' could most literally be taken as having no fear, and writing unflinchingly about everything. Taken in the literal context of the time, no-holes-barred sex-talk baby! However times have changed, it is indeed the 'best and worst' of them. The scales for judgment as it so happens, have shifted... slightly to the left. Women are now seldom judged for talking about sex, instead they are more often than not, judged for not talking abou it. The scale for judgement is far too complex, for who can tell what makes a woman intellectual and not ineffectual? Is it abstaining fastidiously from pop music and romance novels and seeking solace in political rhetoric via the Time and Newsweek? Then again, there is a difference in 'seeking' and 'finding'. Heresy once again compels me to strut it ' Seek and ye shall find' just isnt going to make the cut this time.
To seek intellect and admiration, through highly inconclusive jargon, is not necessarily equivalent to finding it. Neither is it in any way productive. There (unfortunately) ARE those who 'find' solace in a Britney Spears crink and in Elle Woods's euphamisms. What of that poor lot of 'lost flock', is their path to be condemned even if it works? Is trying to sound or act smart, in fact smart? How can it be admirable if it is pretentious? Then again how often is it not pretentious to be consequently admired?
An adop-duction of worlds it is, this flux of information and to pick and choose the right and left of it, is nearing impossible. The Angel's demise, therefore demands that we pick the 'Puck' of slurry silliness along with the abject geniosity of the Poe, it means we embrace the acids of Coke with the daintiness of wine, it means that we relish Grape Skittles with the same dedication we award to Caviar, it means we ferociously ( or less so) belt out Jackson moves to Billie Jean simultaneously reminicing to Rachmaninov rapture.
It is a 7-course meal of rainbows, my friends and the canvas tints both black and white. The Angel is dead, the looking glass simultaneously smudged and sparkling. For time will prove that there is little perfection in the word 'perfect'.
Paint the pallete of colors
to clasp a Kaleidoscope of flavors
All shades black
All shades white
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Quit playin' games with my hide!
It seems infantile and slightly ridiculous that i still react to silly key words like 'gun-shot', 'punch' , 'lizards' and 'bruise'. When you've survived the train wreck, why let the smell of smog and sound of shrieks hound you? But it does, it is always the little things. Much the Pavlov puppy am I. Automatically cringing and barking to symbiotic signals that arent even 'signalled' specifically for my person.
The game's about money
It goes on for duplicity
Its' the bottom of the ninth
Batter up and smash it
'cause the game ain't funny.
The game's about money
It goes on for duplicity
Its' the bottom of the ninth
Batter up and smash it
'cause the game ain't funny.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
The Wanderer
As I ponder a path yet un-foretold
of broken barometers to rage against the dying of the light.
As fierce echoes of foregone passions shrivel to squander,
a truth yet lied to death
And the crashing cries convulge cradles' that fall
The Acid priests in mighty towers, solemnly recall
The 'Aimless wanderers' of lonely caves
and lowly taverns of ill repute
A phalanx of pubescence, seeking answers to lost questions
"What is the color of intoxication?"
"What is the flavor of good intention?"
"How do the 'pure' savour pretention?"
Little do they know...
Not all who wander are aimless.
Not if ones aim in seeking wonder
...is to wander.
of broken barometers to rage against the dying of the light.
As fierce echoes of foregone passions shrivel to squander,
a truth yet lied to death
And the crashing cries convulge cradles' that fall
The Acid priests in mighty towers, solemnly recall
The 'Aimless wanderers' of lonely caves
and lowly taverns of ill repute
A phalanx of pubescence, seeking answers to lost questions
"What is the color of intoxication?"
"What is the flavor of good intention?"
"How do the 'pure' savour pretention?"
Little do they know...
Not all who wander are aimless.
Not if ones aim in seeking wonder
...is to wander.
Saturday, July 08, 2006
Yes Sir!
I do not know if I am any good at following orders, then again, I am consequently brilliant and subsequently a mess. I can conform to appearances and never to intent. Which always begs the question, how does one separate the two twins? I suppose if they can remove beings that share an intertwined brain and heart through cold hard metal, they can separate ideals and action through bitter euphemisms.
An 'adop-duction' of this world am I, bristling to call me an orphan after you meet them' folks. There they go, scampering off into distant horizons... the prophecies of lonely pilgrims and solitary travellers, merely travellin' through, passing on and sailing high...
Yes Sir, yes sir!
Three bags full sir,
Dont really give a crap about the other two
Just the one for the little girl
who lived down the lane
Just that one will do...sir.
An 'adop-duction' of this world am I, bristling to call me an orphan after you meet them' folks. There they go, scampering off into distant horizons... the prophecies of lonely pilgrims and solitary travellers, merely travellin' through, passing on and sailing high...
Yes Sir, yes sir!
Three bags full sir,
Dont really give a crap about the other two
Just the one for the little girl
who lived down the lane
Just that one will do...sir.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
My coping curse
A precipice of precincts that surrounds my being and my dreams. I do not know if they crumble, cross-multiply or carve on into new forays. However, they do change.
Completely.
Whether or not 'change' is a good thing, is a question I believe I am doomed to evade forever and whether or not that will 'break me' or 'make me' is something I am cursed to cope with. However like a dilapidated patch quilt I am oblivious to the new patches that will grace my old posture. Living in the brundt of my dreams, fading in the slow malencholy of hazy sleep and wallowing in the self-effaced characters of my own conscience is definitely not productive or practical. But it seems impossible to dodge.
I wallow now, consciously and consciencously in my depracating, dilapidated demons. For I blame all my failures and flaws on silver-screen sabbaticals and merry melodies. I blame, without guilt, the hollywood dreams and the silverscreen screams that barricade my being from quietly accepting and adapting to the bitter salt tang of reality. I blame every myth from taking away my will to say yes to "can be's" instead of "could have beens".
I blame them.
I blame them with all my head and none of my heart.
Completely.
Whether or not 'change' is a good thing, is a question I believe I am doomed to evade forever and whether or not that will 'break me' or 'make me' is something I am cursed to cope with. However like a dilapidated patch quilt I am oblivious to the new patches that will grace my old posture. Living in the brundt of my dreams, fading in the slow malencholy of hazy sleep and wallowing in the self-effaced characters of my own conscience is definitely not productive or practical. But it seems impossible to dodge.
I wallow now, consciously and consciencously in my depracating, dilapidated demons. For I blame all my failures and flaws on silver-screen sabbaticals and merry melodies. I blame, without guilt, the hollywood dreams and the silverscreen screams that barricade my being from quietly accepting and adapting to the bitter salt tang of reality. I blame every myth from taking away my will to say yes to "can be's" instead of "could have beens".
I blame them.
I blame them with all my head and none of my heart.
Sunday, July 02, 2006
Once upon a Rhyme...
There are moments in ones' life when we come intermittently face to face with our mortality, the moments are few and far between, but they exist. I wonder, now that I see my life perpetually trounced by outward phantoms , that I am prone to live vicariously through my words.
It is not a writers curse, as I would so like to believe - rather a cowards penance. Most men and women, who write, string together the words to dictate a life already lived or conceived. I, on the other hand, do so to avoid the latter. My words are the substitute for the journey, I write, because I come to see now that I cannot live and the words make this epitaph seem prettier somehow. Inanely glamorous and tinted in a softer hue than abject failure.
There are some select few, who are destined to go through life and not around it, sadly I begin to realize that I am not one of them. Even when life has left me little choice - backed me away imperceptibly in an unbearably cramped corner, I wish my way around it. Never, do I merely walk the path stretching out before me.
I paint it in my head, choreograph it in my senses, but NEVER do I feel it run through my fingertips.
Is mortality being faced with death? Or is it waiting for it with a smile? Or more likely, something wedged uncomfortably in between. I suppose what irks me the most about ‘musts’, ‘don’t’s’ and ‘end’s’ is the black out at the base of each word; there are no windows to these words. Only tar and cement to plaster every tiny opening. Perhaps the shortest path to Heaven 'is', in fact, straight through Hell.
It is not a writers curse, as I would so like to believe - rather a cowards penance. Most men and women, who write, string together the words to dictate a life already lived or conceived. I, on the other hand, do so to avoid the latter. My words are the substitute for the journey, I write, because I come to see now that I cannot live and the words make this epitaph seem prettier somehow. Inanely glamorous and tinted in a softer hue than abject failure.
There are some select few, who are destined to go through life and not around it, sadly I begin to realize that I am not one of them. Even when life has left me little choice - backed me away imperceptibly in an unbearably cramped corner, I wish my way around it. Never, do I merely walk the path stretching out before me.
I paint it in my head, choreograph it in my senses, but NEVER do I feel it run through my fingertips.
Is mortality being faced with death? Or is it waiting for it with a smile? Or more likely, something wedged uncomfortably in between. I suppose what irks me the most about ‘musts’, ‘don’t’s’ and ‘end’s’ is the black out at the base of each word; there are no windows to these words. Only tar and cement to plaster every tiny opening. Perhaps the shortest path to Heaven 'is', in fact, straight through Hell.
What do I want?
A mind exalted beyond mortality? For there is no such thing. Plato is dead and I hardly think it matters to him that we remember his name. Is it a run-on sentence that I wish for, perpetually flawed? Yes I suppose that may be it.
For I loathe the abject finality of ordinary words on tombstones' that are left behind to summarize the entirety of a soul. People use words like Beloved Mother, Daughter and Friend, just as carelessly and cause-lessly as they do 'Blue' or 'Dog' or 'Paintbrush'.
‘In loving memory of’….words that say less than nothing.
There are no run-on sentences for tombstones. None bother to voice “Beloved Mother, who made pancakes on Sundays and loved about- to-rain cobalt skies” or “In loving memory of my daughter who hummed the ‘happy days’ theme in the morning and a Sparkles anthem every night before she floated off into Neverlands, yet unbreached”. No, there are only monosyllables at the end. That and full stops.
It hurts me, more than I can say that people no longer start sentences with “Once upon a time” and end them with “And they lived Happily Ever After”. I fear, that they too, already realise that the few who believe them, are destined to be broken by both.
And were an epitaph to be my story
I’d have a short one ready for my own
I would have written of me on my stone
I have a lover’s quarrel with the world.
‘In loving memory of’….words that say less than nothing.
There are no run-on sentences for tombstones. None bother to voice “Beloved Mother, who made pancakes on Sundays and loved about- to-rain cobalt skies” or “In loving memory of my daughter who hummed the ‘happy days’ theme in the morning and a Sparkles anthem every night before she floated off into Neverlands, yet unbreached”. No, there are only monosyllables at the end. That and full stops.
It hurts me, more than I can say that people no longer start sentences with “Once upon a time” and end them with “And they lived Happily Ever After”. I fear, that they too, already realise that the few who believe them, are destined to be broken by both.
And were an epitaph to be my story
I’d have a short one ready for my own
I would have written of me on my stone
I have a lover’s quarrel with the world.
(Robert Frost)
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Presumption Pitfalls
Again I face my proverbial 'writers dilemma'.
People ask me, so casually "what do you do?" and I always respond in kind, hard pressed to describe that I merely do what I am...
"I am a writer, I say" and the vibes unnervingly shift.
Presumptuous girl! thinks of herself as a writer! For some reason calling myself a writer is different from saying that I am an MBA or an Engineer, there are no degrees to prove the point and regardless of my quest for one, there will never be a degree to prove this particular point. I say so, because I wish to be nothing else. I never claim I am any good, merely that I am.
And now I fear I have lost my rights. I need to jolt my being yet again, with application forms and 'personal statements' to prove that I 'do' what I simply DO.
But 'Do' I shall, make no mistake about it. You always said that I should know my place and my worth and aim low in consequence. I fear that I cannot comply. I shall apply to Oxford, dear Father, if only to prove that I had the courage to do so and that I am not merely a waste of living space. I shall fail, in all probability, but not for a lack of trying as you anticipated.
You always said that I was an artist because I didnt have the capacity or brains to be anything else.
You were right.
I didnt.
People ask me, so casually "what do you do?" and I always respond in kind, hard pressed to describe that I merely do what I am...
"I am a writer, I say" and the vibes unnervingly shift.
Presumptuous girl! thinks of herself as a writer! For some reason calling myself a writer is different from saying that I am an MBA or an Engineer, there are no degrees to prove the point and regardless of my quest for one, there will never be a degree to prove this particular point. I say so, because I wish to be nothing else. I never claim I am any good, merely that I am.
And now I fear I have lost my rights. I need to jolt my being yet again, with application forms and 'personal statements' to prove that I 'do' what I simply DO.
But 'Do' I shall, make no mistake about it. You always said that I should know my place and my worth and aim low in consequence. I fear that I cannot comply. I shall apply to Oxford, dear Father, if only to prove that I had the courage to do so and that I am not merely a waste of living space. I shall fail, in all probability, but not for a lack of trying as you anticipated.
You always said that I was an artist because I didnt have the capacity or brains to be anything else.
You were right.
I didnt.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Rembrandt Rhapsody
And they say it never ends...
The wheels keep on turning and the scars just keep on burning.
Why does it never end?
Why is it never enough?
I feel like a maxed-out credit card, an overused trash can for emotional dumping. At the same time I marvel at my ability to bounce back everytime I feel that the world and life has pushed me over the edge. I curse this 'so-called' gift. Infact I dont know if reality lies in the fact that the world never ends or my will, one of them SHOULD.
I feel too much like a Rembrandt painting, splashed to splendour with burning colours. Hardly any room left for detail or vision. And so the question begs the asking...
How can i paint more on the same canvas, without whitewashing or starting over?
The wheels keep on turning and the scars just keep on burning.
Why does it never end?
Why is it never enough?
I feel like a maxed-out credit card, an overused trash can for emotional dumping. At the same time I marvel at my ability to bounce back everytime I feel that the world and life has pushed me over the edge. I curse this 'so-called' gift. Infact I dont know if reality lies in the fact that the world never ends or my will, one of them SHOULD.
I feel too much like a Rembrandt painting, splashed to splendour with burning colours. Hardly any room left for detail or vision. And so the question begs the asking...
How can i paint more on the same canvas, without whitewashing or starting over?
Sunday, June 25, 2006
Shall we Dance
It is the oddest sensation in the world to dress up and play 'doll' for a bunch of people to 'see' if your worth their sons. Odd, frightening, ridiculous, disparaging and downright depressing.
Fo the record: I hate the 'real world'.
All I see is a silk parade of life-long dreams frizzling away, unhinged and drappled at the seams. There is no Prince Charming.
There is no " You too crazy Marius Cancerius Newbus? I like crazy."
The sad part is I actually waited for him and giving up on 'the one' dream for 'the anyone' flack is a mean wake-up call. Plain mean.
There's only you sitting infront of strangers showing a face you dont wear well and a brain that doesnt speak at all.
We've just been introduced
I do not know you well
but something in the air just seemed to draw me to your side.
on the clear understanding, that this kind of thing can happen
Shall we Dance?
1-2-3- And...
*Plop*
Fo the record: I hate the 'real world'.
All I see is a silk parade of life-long dreams frizzling away, unhinged and drappled at the seams. There is no Prince Charming.
There is no " You too crazy Marius Cancerius Newbus? I like crazy."
The sad part is I actually waited for him and giving up on 'the one' dream for 'the anyone' flack is a mean wake-up call. Plain mean.
There's only you sitting infront of strangers showing a face you dont wear well and a brain that doesnt speak at all.
We've just been introduced
I do not know you well
but something in the air just seemed to draw me to your side.
on the clear understanding, that this kind of thing can happen
Shall we Dance?
1-2-3- And...
*Plop*
?
Riddle me this...
Dear 'riding the riddle-dom rise and fall rollercoaster' Girl
What goes up, then comes down
then shows up and shuts down
What turns every spectrum color
only to revert to sodden flavor...
Dear Self, do not take offence. I simply needed to classify a class to which you cramp, crush and create my crumbling castles in the air.
Dear 'riding the riddle-dom rise and fall rollercoaster' Girl
What goes up, then comes down
then shows up and shuts down
What turns every spectrum color
only to revert to sodden flavor...
Dear Self, do not take offence. I simply needed to classify a class to which you cramp, crush and create my crumbling castles in the air.
Friday, June 23, 2006
Happy Budday Asma!
Testiment Paramout Panorama that awaits my frivolity-fractured-friend:
HAPPY BUDDAY
Many happy returns and dividends resulting ofcourse, from MY, my, MY "Super- deluxe Birthday package" await you.
*( I have decided to update deluxe status to 'sooper'/ southpark innuendo deluxe status: a) because i out did myself, and b) because i can, and i have pitifully few such moments of grandeur)
Dont you just pity Da fool! dontcha? Dontcha?
Anyhow may your new 'crown-jewels' jewellery CROWN your crowning 'glory' to crown great great heights for your highness on future thrones a many.
HAPPY BUDDAY
Many happy returns and dividends resulting ofcourse, from MY, my, MY "Super- deluxe Birthday package" await you.
*( I have decided to update deluxe status to 'sooper'/ southpark innuendo deluxe status: a) because i out did myself, and b) because i can, and i have pitifully few such moments of grandeur)
Dont you just pity Da fool! dontcha? Dontcha?
Anyhow may your new 'crown-jewels' jewellery CROWN your crowning 'glory' to crown great great heights for your highness on future thrones a many.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
I wish I was a Mermaid
Silent tumors of my torrent dreams
I wish I was a mermaid,
sailing in a bathtub of midnight waltz's
But dreams get lost in tiny paper cups
The antichrist starves sitting in my kitchen
as I wait to slave away in garbage trucks
Mermaid genes elusive in an icicle tart
Silent years and screaming tears of raging rotten art
A 'special girl' sitting alone with her really deep thoughts
Tell me whats so pretty about 'really deep thoughts' ?
I wish I was a mermaid sailing silent shadow puddles
No quiet screams lost in my paper cup
No magenta clouded, choked fears of 'really deep thoughts'
No 'one more' casualty soul hitting solid rocks.
The sky is falling falling falling
And I hear my voice talking' really really deep thoughts'
smiling silent tears and pungent years
Turn me to stone, will you
Burn me to chrome will you
Take away all these 'really deep thoughts'
Because I wish I was a Mermaid.
I wish I was a mermaid,
sailing in a bathtub of midnight waltz's
But dreams get lost in tiny paper cups
The antichrist starves sitting in my kitchen
as I wait to slave away in garbage trucks
Mermaid genes elusive in an icicle tart
Silent years and screaming tears of raging rotten art
A 'special girl' sitting alone with her really deep thoughts
Tell me whats so pretty about 'really deep thoughts' ?
I wish I was a mermaid sailing silent shadow puddles
No quiet screams lost in my paper cup
No magenta clouded, choked fears of 'really deep thoughts'
No 'one more' casualty soul hitting solid rocks.
The sky is falling falling falling
And I hear my voice talking' really really deep thoughts'
smiling silent tears and pungent years
Turn me to stone, will you
Burn me to chrome will you
Take away all these 'really deep thoughts'
Because I wish I was a Mermaid.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Monkeyman paging Tweeter
I find myself yet again at the beginning of the end of the end of the beginning.
Proclivity uninvited.
I am the Monkey man, unbidden in my quest, but bidden by myself.
No Tweeter in sight: no self-effacing self to whitewash my self-depracating image.
Just another proverbial pickle for my persnickety person to ponder over. Perhaps what I fear most at present is the fact that I am dreadfully unsure of my calibre, in all things and in all questions. Why am I so apprehensive of my potential, or moreover of what that potential represents?
I am forever told by friends and foes alike that I have talent, should I choose to use it anywhere outside myself and my selfserving world. I am told that I even posess a degree of tenacity when I choose to acknowledge it, but this so-called gift remains the one thing I cannot find or see or crave for that matter. My Tweeter is doomed to lurk in shadows. I am a little too content in Monkey man cocoons, it seems. Moreover, I am not sure if this self depracation draws from some perverse, deep-rooted fear or a misplaced, innate calling for humility. What really is humility?
Is it pretending one is not talented or gifted, so that we appear likeable?
Is it the chitter chirping for "one more banana" all the f***** time? Or is it ignoring those gifts and talents till you believe the pretence? Because for some reason, it is easier to absolve ones self of responsibility for wasting ones' potential, when you convince your being there is no longer a 'self' left to lose.
The rolling winds will blow,
blow it all and row
But the Monkey man who knows
Will never Ever know
Why am I so ever-ready to comply and compromise my vision, simply to glean approval from all corners, even when the approval does not particularly hold much importance for me? Having just said so, i realise it isnt humility it is plain, reprehensible F-E-A-R.
Of what, I dont think I shall ever know.
And the walls came down all the way to hell
Never saw them when they're standing
Never saw them when they fell (Dylan)
Proclivity uninvited.
I am the Monkey man, unbidden in my quest, but bidden by myself.
No Tweeter in sight: no self-effacing self to whitewash my self-depracating image.
Just another proverbial pickle for my persnickety person to ponder over. Perhaps what I fear most at present is the fact that I am dreadfully unsure of my calibre, in all things and in all questions. Why am I so apprehensive of my potential, or moreover of what that potential represents?
I am forever told by friends and foes alike that I have talent, should I choose to use it anywhere outside myself and my selfserving world. I am told that I even posess a degree of tenacity when I choose to acknowledge it, but this so-called gift remains the one thing I cannot find or see or crave for that matter. My Tweeter is doomed to lurk in shadows. I am a little too content in Monkey man cocoons, it seems. Moreover, I am not sure if this self depracation draws from some perverse, deep-rooted fear or a misplaced, innate calling for humility. What really is humility?
Is it pretending one is not talented or gifted, so that we appear likeable?
Is it the chitter chirping for "one more banana" all the f***** time? Or is it ignoring those gifts and talents till you believe the pretence? Because for some reason, it is easier to absolve ones self of responsibility for wasting ones' potential, when you convince your being there is no longer a 'self' left to lose.
The rolling winds will blow,
blow it all and row
But the Monkey man who knows
Will never Ever know
Why am I so ever-ready to comply and compromise my vision, simply to glean approval from all corners, even when the approval does not particularly hold much importance for me? Having just said so, i realise it isnt humility it is plain, reprehensible F-E-A-R.
Of what, I dont think I shall ever know.
And the walls came down all the way to hell
Never saw them when they're standing
Never saw them when they fell (Dylan)
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Tracking 'Tiny Toony' times
A much needed blast from the past.
Yes, My past is much inbibed of blissful naivete'.
We're tiny, we're toony, we're all a little looney,
And in this cartoony, we're invading your TV!
We're comic dispensers, we crack up all the censors,
On tiny toon adventures get a dose of comedy!
So here's Acme Acres, it's a whole wide world apart,
Our home sweet home, it stands alone, a cartoon work of art!
The scripts were rejected, expect the unexpected
On tiny toon adventures it's about to start!
They're furry, they're funny, they're Babs and Buster Bunny,
Montana Max has money, Elmyra is a pain!
Here's Hamton and Plucky, Dizzy Devil's yucky,
Furrball's unlucky, and Gogo is insane!
At Acme Looniversity we earn our toon degree,
The teaching staff's been getting laughs since 1933!
We're tiny, we're toony, we're all a little looney,
It's tiny toon adventures, come and join the fun!
And now our song is done!
Yes, My past is much inbibed of blissful naivete'.
We're tiny, we're toony, we're all a little looney,
And in this cartoony, we're invading your TV!
We're comic dispensers, we crack up all the censors,
On tiny toon adventures get a dose of comedy!
So here's Acme Acres, it's a whole wide world apart,
Our home sweet home, it stands alone, a cartoon work of art!
The scripts were rejected, expect the unexpected
On tiny toon adventures it's about to start!
They're furry, they're funny, they're Babs and Buster Bunny,
Montana Max has money, Elmyra is a pain!
Here's Hamton and Plucky, Dizzy Devil's yucky,
Furrball's unlucky, and Gogo is insane!
At Acme Looniversity we earn our toon degree,
The teaching staff's been getting laughs since 1933!
We're tiny, we're toony, we're all a little looney,
It's tiny toon adventures, come and join the fun!
And now our song is done!
Saturday, June 17, 2006
Varmin't Im a gonna...
Just one of them bad-mad-sad-mad again days, when all I see is red. Considering im a cancerian, not a taurus, that basically doesnt mean anything beyond the proverbial passive-aggressive I. So all that amounts to, is that fact that im damned prissy today!
No championing, raging temper.
No excessive tantrums.
Just the after note to foreself epiphany:
People are deth-picable!
Ego and I have decided as of now, to boycott humanity and try our luck in Dum-dum Land on yonder in a bloody ass galaxy - Far, far, far ass away... six-feet-under?
Perhaps.
But for now, there is no Looniversity, there is no glitter glue to put Humpty- fucking- Dumpty back together again , there is no silver lining.
Only mulch spreads and crappity-crap folk.
So I stand proud as I hope to YAWP this out loud....
"Varmint, I'ma Gonna Blow Yah'all T'Smithereens!"
No championing, raging temper.
No excessive tantrums.
Just the after note to foreself epiphany:
People are deth-picable!
Ego and I have decided as of now, to boycott humanity and try our luck in Dum-dum Land on yonder in a bloody ass galaxy - Far, far, far ass away... six-feet-under?
Perhaps.
But for now, there is no Looniversity, there is no glitter glue to put Humpty- fucking- Dumpty back together again , there is no silver lining.
Only mulch spreads and crappity-crap folk.
So I stand proud as I hope to YAWP this out loud....
"Varmint, I'ma Gonna Blow Yah'all T'Smithereens!"
Friday, June 16, 2006
The Pencil Monologues
She leads us on again, Dear Page.
Farther and further, through lurid landscapes and storm synagogues. I have yet to comprehend our journey. Is it really a quest as we always believed, or is it simply her passivity on scroll? Are we merely slaves to her blind scratches against unopened doors, are we only pawns in her cursed polemics directed at blind beasts?
Is she leading us, or is she being led by something more primeval and jaded than her dreams? I sense of late, that she doesn’t really know where she is going either. The former force of her convictions is missing, the grounded imprints I earlier scarred your surface with, even before she manoeuvred my placid form, are now markedly absent. I glide passively, wavering constantly upon words that she has yet to deliberate. I hang proverbially over emotions she is hard pressed to reveal. Is this really the same voyage, Page? Is this really the same Captain?
Have we both been led falsely? Set forth blindly in hyperbole typhoons and a torrent of tepidity, without any hope of finding a dream, hers or ours. I finally believe both dreams are the same, no longer am I content to merely float with her whims, to be sought out and blessed with the divided attention she casually throws my way. I seek the shores she seeks and I cannot stomach being led on so far, only to land back in the inane puddles from whence I came. She has shown me too much, I can no longer be content without seeing more.
Can we bear such a betrayal, Page? I know you have always been less concerned about the journey than I, but that is only because you are the canvas…doomed perpetually, to be the last to know, the last in the loop, the last to be taken in confidence. But I am the first, and so this impending betrayal stings bitterly. It is I who am the storyteller and tell me Page, what good is a storyteller without a story? More importantly, what good is a story if she has lost faith in it?
Page, I feel we are perched precariously at the precipice of her convictions and her conscience. She needs us now, more than she realises.
“O Captain, My Captain”
Your crew awaits…
Ready to set sail on the sea of your stories
Ready to pounce every port of your passions
Ready to re-shuffle every rise and fall of your being
Ready to storm through safe shores and stone walls
…Ready and waiting on your words, Captain.
Farther and further, through lurid landscapes and storm synagogues. I have yet to comprehend our journey. Is it really a quest as we always believed, or is it simply her passivity on scroll? Are we merely slaves to her blind scratches against unopened doors, are we only pawns in her cursed polemics directed at blind beasts?
Is she leading us, or is she being led by something more primeval and jaded than her dreams? I sense of late, that she doesn’t really know where she is going either. The former force of her convictions is missing, the grounded imprints I earlier scarred your surface with, even before she manoeuvred my placid form, are now markedly absent. I glide passively, wavering constantly upon words that she has yet to deliberate. I hang proverbially over emotions she is hard pressed to reveal. Is this really the same voyage, Page? Is this really the same Captain?
Have we both been led falsely? Set forth blindly in hyperbole typhoons and a torrent of tepidity, without any hope of finding a dream, hers or ours. I finally believe both dreams are the same, no longer am I content to merely float with her whims, to be sought out and blessed with the divided attention she casually throws my way. I seek the shores she seeks and I cannot stomach being led on so far, only to land back in the inane puddles from whence I came. She has shown me too much, I can no longer be content without seeing more.
Can we bear such a betrayal, Page? I know you have always been less concerned about the journey than I, but that is only because you are the canvas…doomed perpetually, to be the last to know, the last in the loop, the last to be taken in confidence. But I am the first, and so this impending betrayal stings bitterly. It is I who am the storyteller and tell me Page, what good is a storyteller without a story? More importantly, what good is a story if she has lost faith in it?
Page, I feel we are perched precariously at the precipice of her convictions and her conscience. She needs us now, more than she realises.
“O Captain, My Captain”
Your crew awaits…
Ready to set sail on the sea of your stories
Ready to pounce every port of your passions
Ready to re-shuffle every rise and fall of your being
Ready to storm through safe shores and stone walls
…Ready and waiting on your words, Captain.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Fi Fei Fo Fum
Resolution for life: Be HAPPY!
At all costs, at all prices and at all ends.
Inspite, despite and in respite from all those that surround me.
Fi Fei Fo Fum
Why so glum?
So glum chum...
will need to work on it.
At all costs, at all prices and at all ends.
Inspite, despite and in respite from all those that surround me.
Fi Fei Fo Fum
Why so glum?
So glum chum...
will need to work on it.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
I discover a truth- a-minute it seems. Ironic considering I have known few that believe in truths of any variety. Some elusive idea every moment, that is designed to shake me to my core if I let it and it appears that I do.
Of late it is the fact that I truly envy people their convictions. Their inherent faith and trust in the Almighty and the Powers that BE. Perhaps it is because my relationship with the said powers is proverbially 'on the rocks'? Is that why I am inanely resentful or regressively pretentious regarding those who find their paths in right, ritual and routine.
I believe... truly, completely and unquenchingly in His/Her existence, however, I simply cannot bring myself to believe in the 'systems' designed to bring us both closer.What is worse is the fact that I now, feel I often rub people off the wrong way when it comes to faith, perhaps I am merely defensive or is that I 'really' am judgmental?
Because the latter would contradict all I hope I could ever stand for.
Of late it is the fact that I truly envy people their convictions. Their inherent faith and trust in the Almighty and the Powers that BE. Perhaps it is because my relationship with the said powers is proverbially 'on the rocks'? Is that why I am inanely resentful or regressively pretentious regarding those who find their paths in right, ritual and routine.
I believe... truly, completely and unquenchingly in His/Her existence, however, I simply cannot bring myself to believe in the 'systems' designed to bring us both closer.What is worse is the fact that I now, feel I often rub people off the wrong way when it comes to faith, perhaps I am merely defensive or is that I 'really' am judgmental?
Because the latter would contradict all I hope I could ever stand for.
It seems the world is made for intermittent fuck-ups, many of which seem to align themselves with my not-so-gracious presence at present.
No! I dont give a bloody damn if you think I should try to be more ambitious, im not. I do things in my own time, I am not idle and im not a slacker, I just dont have ladders to climb, I sail proverbially in my own pond and I bloody well like it. So for God's sake leave me be, I am content, reconciled finally with my mind, my heart and my multiple selves.
And if thats not bloody go-getter enough, I couldn't care less!
No! I dont give a bloody damn if you think I should try to be more ambitious, im not. I do things in my own time, I am not idle and im not a slacker, I just dont have ladders to climb, I sail proverbially in my own pond and I bloody well like it. So for God's sake leave me be, I am content, reconciled finally with my mind, my heart and my multiple selves.
And if thats not bloody go-getter enough, I couldn't care less!
Friday, June 09, 2006
'Happily Never After'
Irony of ironies:
I find myself gunned down by vociferous grand-mommy, so to speak. Called in for questioning, for display on a pedestal put, marriag-iable material and ‘look at’ worth-ed by anonymous clan of clamouring marauders who have apparently very little expectations.
Grand-mommy: Maria he is rich and handsome AND he is parha likha!
Maria: OH-MY-GOD, are you serious Nano? Check, check AND check! You mean no rapist, murderer, marauder, philanderer on his CV. But that is ‘just’ too much, I don’t deserve such exaltedness, what am I to DO. How am I to ever match up!
I discover that my sweet, generally soft-spoken grandmother has multiple talents, which go far beyond her tremendous reach of frozen-food expertise, boiled salt cooking, brilliant house keeping and finishing school running. Yes! Them Gemini’s they never give it a rest with the coin tossingdom. So all of a sudden grandma is red, sweaty with non-light-sabre in hand, standing in front of Castle Grey-Skull screaming “ I have the POWER” and that she do. Crap!
Grand-mommy: Why do you never give people a chance? What is wrong with you?
Maria: HAH!
She-man glare (which is notch up from he-man, cause it has both tenses of the men-ses (hmm … am pushing with joke? Push!)
Maria: OK fine! What do I gotta do?
Grand-mommy: You just have to be nice, and meet them. Keep an open mind, and PLEASE don’t act like yourself!
Sheesh!
Maria: I’m not bringing in any tray!
Grand-mommy: But..
Maria: N-O.
Apparently I have She-ra genes, as it so happens, in small doses do they assert their assertiveness on occasion. But I never question them’ good things.
Grand-mommy: You never know it could be great, it could be a fairytale!
Maria: Ooh ooh! A fairytale! I is being Beentherella in Tritan seas with glass fin-slippers. Hoop La!
(Fade to Blue)
Rehearsal time: Night.
Hmmm…. What to iron for showcasing self for prospective fairy-tale in laws, hmm?
After much deliberation I have decided, colour is always key, and which colour? You see, the general yellow and crazy orange is too much in ‘I’ gusto, but much a rookie mistake would it be to be ‘I’. Much ala too much.
Hmm… am left with but two options, proverbial ‘Blue’ and ‘Pink’, however tragedy indicates that in ‘Sleeping Beauty’ (which just so happened to have the second-most handsome prince, since Eric from Little Mermaid, would mean me being going ahem ‘au naturel’…hmm, definitely not), so am left altercating between two hues which the ‘two’ good fairies, battled over.
* Pause film at THE END….YEYY!
Blue, it is!
Outfit……check.
Fairy tales need a theme no? hmm hmm…
Traditional mood music?
Consience:Maria “Froggie went a courting it was supposed to be!?!”
Maria: Hmm yes Conscience, but too ‘Old Mc Donald’ had a farm of 'would-be' masochistic reptiles that is, to be saving that for wedding march.
Hmm….“Don’t stand so close to me?” Definitely not! Very inappropriate teacher-student insinuation does that conjure.
“All I really wanna do, is baby be friends with you?”. Where is the fun in THAT?!
All hail moment of proverbial epiphany!
Proverbial Epiphany: “She wants me” Belle and Sebastian.Hoop la!
Mood music / Fairy tale Theme….check!
Cuisine is integral to prepare for Fairy Tale, ergo, calling for something sweet.
Hmm Hazelnut Brownies…check.
Bottle of ‘Elixir of Life’, in black, red and oh-so- white…check.
*Mommy calls
Mommy: I heard, your ok with this.
Maria: Did you know that this could be a fairytale?
Mommy: No.
Maria: Silver linings, mother!
Mommy: In that case, please Don’t be you. At least not the ‘you-est you can be!”
SHEESH!
Beauty sleep……checking, checking, checking….check.
Could-be, should be (damn them would-be’s never on my side!)…D-Day
Morning Alarm 1 pm
Snooze... check.
*Knock on door
Door opens to showcase frozen smile ear-to ear, middle aged couple, mid-laughter.
Grand-mommy- turning to she-man in front of Self (who is non- made up in blue) eyes by silently invoking power of grey- Skull.
Self looks at I. Navy blue T-shirt with three count em’ three moth holes in strategically-un-strategic places (whew!), Neon green Shalwar, dilapidated to prime-fine sleeping condition, sleep tousled hair ooh la la and morning breath…Bah.
Grand-mommy: (embarrassed smile) Meh, she just woke up!
De-frosted-smile couple: Hello, beta.
Maria: Why helooooooooo!
Maria: Fairy tale…Why, good byeeeeeeeeeeee!
*Sigh*
Maria: Self?
Self: Yes Maria?
Maria: Meet I.
Self: Hello I.
Maria: May you both live Happily Ever After.
I find myself gunned down by vociferous grand-mommy, so to speak. Called in for questioning, for display on a pedestal put, marriag-iable material and ‘look at’ worth-ed by anonymous clan of clamouring marauders who have apparently very little expectations.
Grand-mommy: Maria he is rich and handsome AND he is parha likha!
Maria: OH-MY-GOD, are you serious Nano? Check, check AND check! You mean no rapist, murderer, marauder, philanderer on his CV. But that is ‘just’ too much, I don’t deserve such exaltedness, what am I to DO. How am I to ever match up!
I discover that my sweet, generally soft-spoken grandmother has multiple talents, which go far beyond her tremendous reach of frozen-food expertise, boiled salt cooking, brilliant house keeping and finishing school running. Yes! Them Gemini’s they never give it a rest with the coin tossingdom. So all of a sudden grandma is red, sweaty with non-light-sabre in hand, standing in front of Castle Grey-Skull screaming “ I have the POWER” and that she do. Crap!
Grand-mommy: Why do you never give people a chance? What is wrong with you?
Maria: HAH!
She-man glare (which is notch up from he-man, cause it has both tenses of the men-ses (hmm … am pushing with joke? Push!)
Maria: OK fine! What do I gotta do?
Grand-mommy: You just have to be nice, and meet them. Keep an open mind, and PLEASE don’t act like yourself!
Sheesh!
Maria: I’m not bringing in any tray!
Grand-mommy: But..
Maria: N-O.
Apparently I have She-ra genes, as it so happens, in small doses do they assert their assertiveness on occasion. But I never question them’ good things.
Grand-mommy: You never know it could be great, it could be a fairytale!
Maria: Ooh ooh! A fairytale! I is being Beentherella in Tritan seas with glass fin-slippers. Hoop La!
(Fade to Blue)
Rehearsal time: Night.
Hmmm…. What to iron for showcasing self for prospective fairy-tale in laws, hmm?
After much deliberation I have decided, colour is always key, and which colour? You see, the general yellow and crazy orange is too much in ‘I’ gusto, but much a rookie mistake would it be to be ‘I’. Much ala too much.
Hmm… am left with but two options, proverbial ‘Blue’ and ‘Pink’, however tragedy indicates that in ‘Sleeping Beauty’ (which just so happened to have the second-most handsome prince, since Eric from Little Mermaid, would mean me being going ahem ‘au naturel’…hmm, definitely not), so am left altercating between two hues which the ‘two’ good fairies, battled over.
* Pause film at THE END….YEYY!
Blue, it is!
Outfit……check.
Fairy tales need a theme no? hmm hmm…
Traditional mood music?
Consience:Maria “Froggie went a courting it was supposed to be!?!”
Maria: Hmm yes Conscience, but too ‘Old Mc Donald’ had a farm of 'would-be' masochistic reptiles that is, to be saving that for wedding march.
Hmm….“Don’t stand so close to me?” Definitely not! Very inappropriate teacher-student insinuation does that conjure.
“All I really wanna do, is baby be friends with you?”. Where is the fun in THAT?!
All hail moment of proverbial epiphany!
Proverbial Epiphany: “She wants me” Belle and Sebastian.Hoop la!
Mood music / Fairy tale Theme….check!
Cuisine is integral to prepare for Fairy Tale, ergo, calling for something sweet.
Hmm Hazelnut Brownies…check.
Bottle of ‘Elixir of Life’, in black, red and oh-so- white…check.
*Mommy calls
Mommy: I heard, your ok with this.
Maria: Did you know that this could be a fairytale?
Mommy: No.
Maria: Silver linings, mother!
Mommy: In that case, please Don’t be you. At least not the ‘you-est you can be!”
SHEESH!
Beauty sleep……checking, checking, checking….check.
Could-be, should be (damn them would-be’s never on my side!)…D-Day
Morning Alarm 1 pm
Snooze... check.
*Knock on door
Door opens to showcase frozen smile ear-to ear, middle aged couple, mid-laughter.
Grand-mommy- turning to she-man in front of Self (who is non- made up in blue) eyes by silently invoking power of grey- Skull.
Self looks at I. Navy blue T-shirt with three count em’ three moth holes in strategically-un-strategic places (whew!), Neon green Shalwar, dilapidated to prime-fine sleeping condition, sleep tousled hair ooh la la and morning breath…Bah.
Grand-mommy: (embarrassed smile) Meh, she just woke up!
De-frosted-smile couple: Hello, beta.
Maria: Why helooooooooo!
Maria: Fairy tale…Why, good byeeeeeeeeeeee!
*Sigh*
Maria: Self?
Self: Yes Maria?
Maria: Meet I.
Self: Hello I.
Maria: May you both live Happily Ever After.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
She-man
Hell hath no fury like She-man
as S-he caves twice in one fight
Drinking and dancing the Holy night
To sadist Shambalah stage fright
Every bum in every corner
Out to chance her
then romance her,
later prance her...
never dance her.
As holy spirits cry at naked moons of mighty expectations
Beckoning snakes and ladders open forbidden doors
in lonely towers of lost sighs and winsome cries
Dread as Hell on Sunday morning
Dead as Heaven on Saturday night
Pagan bigot redemption to amend all warning
Mystery sins of freedom faded sight
Winds of change and the sands of death
to 'crunch' in time and 'steal' in stealth...
The ills of youth that aren't worth a dime
The lone damned sage goes crazy thrice
Once for the Devil and
once for Christ
But the Man aint in' to grade that jaded price
as S-he caves twice in one fight
Drinking and dancing the Holy night
To sadist Shambalah stage fright
Every bum in every corner
Out to chance her
then romance her,
later prance her...
never dance her.
As holy spirits cry at naked moons of mighty expectations
Beckoning snakes and ladders open forbidden doors
in lonely towers of lost sighs and winsome cries
Dread as Hell on Sunday morning
Dead as Heaven on Saturday night
Pagan bigot redemption to amend all warning
Mystery sins of freedom faded sight
Winds of change and the sands of death
to 'crunch' in time and 'steal' in stealth...
The ills of youth that aren't worth a dime
The lone damned sage goes crazy thrice
Once for the Devil and
once for Christ
But the Man aint in' to grade that jaded price
Saturday, June 03, 2006
Both my Houses
A plague upon both my houses….
I feel I am truly ill equipped to deal with the loss of innocence and free being that age brings. Or is it simply that I prefer my denial to my revival? I am told repeatedly that ‘growing up’ means acting it, being embellished in some form or the other by a glossy maturity, a thin veil of stance that indicates an intelligence that is complex and not naïve.
I am forever struggling with myself, it seems. On a perennial quest to prove that I am happy, but I usually succeed. So I ask myself, even if my ‘happy’ emerges out of denial, does that make it any less real? If God doesn’t exist, yet I have faith, is that not still a worth wile pursuit for peace? Vile within and smile without?
Somehow my limited experience has brought me to the point where I need to create a touch of magic in everything. Somehow, anyhow…because I am near positive, that if I don’t see it everyday, it will cease to exist, or worse yet I will seize to place faith in it. It is my way or the highway, all by-way’s are blocked. My life is absolutely devoid of absolutes. I forever float in grey skies and swim in mulch seas, yet this is one ‘black’ that I need. My quest for happiness, real or not, must not meander, it must maintain itself.
Perhaps this is why, I devote so much time and energy in acting the fool …to see people laugh, to collect and intricately connect a series of manufactured moments, where I have played the wizard. Moments purely of my making, or so I need to believe. I Read horoscopes, bench personalised CD’s, dance and sing for people, crack inane jokes to yield even weirder responses: be they in the form of laughter, smirks or an extended impediment of eye-rolling. Regardless, they are still a reaction, and that is enough.
I suppose the real glitch of it is, that I am never funny or remotely interesting in person, the more time I spend with myself the farther the magic wanes and the dimmer its glow gets. That is when I lurch myself out of the Self and hurl my body into action; hunt for an ice-cream, watch an old movie, dance to the obtuse tangents in my head. Anything, to shine again, often I fear I haunt myself, far too much, for my own good. Making people laugh, isn’t taxing in the least, it is probably the easiest thing for me to do when it comes to a defense mechanism, and usually the easiest for others to stomach.
Yet I miss the old days.
The old houses.
The old you’s and the old me’s.
I long for the time when bad fashion and horrible taste was a given, when songs like “Hawwa Hawwa” and “Dil dil Pakistan” were anthems and Mitchells Bon Bon’s were staple foods. Times when PTV and NTM made sense, in fact the random themes of run around shows were gospel. I long for televised re-tabulations of An-kahi’s and Tanhayaaan’s, where ‘Kehne mein kya harj he?” and “Kabaacha’s” seemed cool. I long for the same adrenaline rush that only the Loony Toons theme and Thundercats could elicit. The thirst that only coke and country pine could quench. The wonder that could only be experienced when it rained and you were allowed to go out and get completely drenched. I long for ice-cream in its original splendor and simplicity: a Jet Sport ice-lolly and a Yummy’s Choco-bar. I long for the times when even in all their perverse irrationalism jingles for Naz Pan masaala, Dentonic and Diamond Supreme stuck and reverberated in your head for days. I long for times when the entire family had to sleep in the same room, because there was only one AC running. I long for the days when ‘play’ meant Barf Paani, Rang and Tip Top instead of Play ‘station’.
Yet I see myself now, ‘trying’ to stay true to myself. Always a self that meets the standards I have already set for an acceptable I. ‘Act silly Maria, but make it witty and snappish’. ‘Paint Maria, but make it a shape, no more silly rainbows’. ‘Watch movies Maria, but make them movies that have a point’ (luckily 7 year old me usually wins on this one). ‘Listen to music Maria, but save ‘Smooth Criminal’ for your head phones’. ‘Dress up Maria, but make sure you pull off, even your own patented bizarre- bohemian rhapsody’. ‘Eat up Maria, but please spare us with the Mitchell’s butter scotch and the quest for Yummy’s Panda’…
I suppose it is rather hypocritical of me, to long for the past that haunts me, to yearn for the life I hide from. Perhaps I wait for the day, when I will simply sit in my chair with a book and the lights fade lead to a wipe-out screen in a flash of dazzling orange halo’s and a magic marker scrawling…..
“That’s all Folks!”
I feel I am truly ill equipped to deal with the loss of innocence and free being that age brings. Or is it simply that I prefer my denial to my revival? I am told repeatedly that ‘growing up’ means acting it, being embellished in some form or the other by a glossy maturity, a thin veil of stance that indicates an intelligence that is complex and not naïve.
I am forever struggling with myself, it seems. On a perennial quest to prove that I am happy, but I usually succeed. So I ask myself, even if my ‘happy’ emerges out of denial, does that make it any less real? If God doesn’t exist, yet I have faith, is that not still a worth wile pursuit for peace? Vile within and smile without?
Somehow my limited experience has brought me to the point where I need to create a touch of magic in everything. Somehow, anyhow…because I am near positive, that if I don’t see it everyday, it will cease to exist, or worse yet I will seize to place faith in it. It is my way or the highway, all by-way’s are blocked. My life is absolutely devoid of absolutes. I forever float in grey skies and swim in mulch seas, yet this is one ‘black’ that I need. My quest for happiness, real or not, must not meander, it must maintain itself.
Perhaps this is why, I devote so much time and energy in acting the fool …to see people laugh, to collect and intricately connect a series of manufactured moments, where I have played the wizard. Moments purely of my making, or so I need to believe. I Read horoscopes, bench personalised CD’s, dance and sing for people, crack inane jokes to yield even weirder responses: be they in the form of laughter, smirks or an extended impediment of eye-rolling. Regardless, they are still a reaction, and that is enough.
I suppose the real glitch of it is, that I am never funny or remotely interesting in person, the more time I spend with myself the farther the magic wanes and the dimmer its glow gets. That is when I lurch myself out of the Self and hurl my body into action; hunt for an ice-cream, watch an old movie, dance to the obtuse tangents in my head. Anything, to shine again, often I fear I haunt myself, far too much, for my own good. Making people laugh, isn’t taxing in the least, it is probably the easiest thing for me to do when it comes to a defense mechanism, and usually the easiest for others to stomach.
Yet I miss the old days.
The old houses.
The old you’s and the old me’s.
I long for the time when bad fashion and horrible taste was a given, when songs like “Hawwa Hawwa” and “Dil dil Pakistan” were anthems and Mitchells Bon Bon’s were staple foods. Times when PTV and NTM made sense, in fact the random themes of run around shows were gospel. I long for televised re-tabulations of An-kahi’s and Tanhayaaan’s, where ‘Kehne mein kya harj he?” and “Kabaacha’s” seemed cool. I long for the same adrenaline rush that only the Loony Toons theme and Thundercats could elicit. The thirst that only coke and country pine could quench. The wonder that could only be experienced when it rained and you were allowed to go out and get completely drenched. I long for ice-cream in its original splendor and simplicity: a Jet Sport ice-lolly and a Yummy’s Choco-bar. I long for the times when even in all their perverse irrationalism jingles for Naz Pan masaala, Dentonic and Diamond Supreme stuck and reverberated in your head for days. I long for times when the entire family had to sleep in the same room, because there was only one AC running. I long for the days when ‘play’ meant Barf Paani, Rang and Tip Top instead of Play ‘station’.
Yet I see myself now, ‘trying’ to stay true to myself. Always a self that meets the standards I have already set for an acceptable I. ‘Act silly Maria, but make it witty and snappish’. ‘Paint Maria, but make it a shape, no more silly rainbows’. ‘Watch movies Maria, but make them movies that have a point’ (luckily 7 year old me usually wins on this one). ‘Listen to music Maria, but save ‘Smooth Criminal’ for your head phones’. ‘Dress up Maria, but make sure you pull off, even your own patented bizarre- bohemian rhapsody’. ‘Eat up Maria, but please spare us with the Mitchell’s butter scotch and the quest for Yummy’s Panda’…
I suppose it is rather hypocritical of me, to long for the past that haunts me, to yearn for the life I hide from. Perhaps I wait for the day, when I will simply sit in my chair with a book and the lights fade lead to a wipe-out screen in a flash of dazzling orange halo’s and a magic marker scrawling…..
“That’s all Folks!”
"Little Mermaid Diary"- Entry: July 1991 and 1/2
My Birthday will come tomorrow, but I dont think im going to have too much fun. Everyone is here, and its too loud. Ahsan and I just had a fight and I think im going to write a will. Because when I die, and dont leave him my tape-recorder and cassettes, he will cry like a girl and baba will kill him.
My Will:
1. I will leave this Little Mermaid Diary and my magic wand to Mom.
2. I will leave my My little ponies to Dad, because he likes horses.
3. I will leave my Roald Dahl book and my Enid Blyton books to Salman, because he wants to write a book someday.
4. I will leave the Hershey's kisses in the freezer to Baba Faiz, because no one gives him chocolates and he cooks food all the time for everyone.
5. I will leave my purple, shiny, sweater to Fatima, because she wears ugly colours.
6. I will leave my make-up to Amna, because she likes make up.
7. I will leave my cartoon collection to Ami and Daddy (grandparents) because they never laugh.
8. I will leave my drawings and paints to Afshi Phoopho because she never draws, and is always angry, drawing helps.
9. I will leave my Rainbow Bright stuft toys for Wajeeha and Hamza, as they are the youngest cousins and never get anything, and they can fight over them.
10. I leave my coke bottle in the fridge to me, as I will drink it when I go to heaven.
(Atleast I was alwats consistent!)
My Will:
1. I will leave this Little Mermaid Diary and my magic wand to Mom.
2. I will leave my My little ponies to Dad, because he likes horses.
3. I will leave my Roald Dahl book and my Enid Blyton books to Salman, because he wants to write a book someday.
4. I will leave the Hershey's kisses in the freezer to Baba Faiz, because no one gives him chocolates and he cooks food all the time for everyone.
5. I will leave my purple, shiny, sweater to Fatima, because she wears ugly colours.
6. I will leave my make-up to Amna, because she likes make up.
7. I will leave my cartoon collection to Ami and Daddy (grandparents) because they never laugh.
8. I will leave my drawings and paints to Afshi Phoopho because she never draws, and is always angry, drawing helps.
9. I will leave my Rainbow Bright stuft toys for Wajeeha and Hamza, as they are the youngest cousins and never get anything, and they can fight over them.
10. I leave my coke bottle in the fridge to me, as I will drink it when I go to heaven.
(Atleast I was alwats consistent!)
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