Gargantum stalking marshmallows have annoyed dancing camels to come together in a funky desert of primrose pringles, washing away the lime soapy water with waves of mouthwash freshness that the Dishwasher Gods have bestowed upon the earth!
And yet the lost prophecy of the upside-down custard crusader and tangerine troubadour tells of the day when the fruity-smelling hair will come bouncing along - strawberries will cringe, apples smile and cocounuts clammer. The Lord of the Fertilizer shall bequeath the earth with rich bounty bars and mnm rain, and men will cheer and smoke and drink their own CDs.
Saturday, April 29, 2006
Friday, April 28, 2006
Beentherella
One minute more to 'pumpkin time' dear Beentherella
A panic mad dash to the alter of "I do"
A recurring sad rash to forever falter you
Graceful tales often retold to entice both mice and men:
A crimson mixture of transient Now
A jaded fixture of persnickety Then
Just another glacial glance
at a glass slipper trying to tackle a bolstrap boot
Just one last passing dance till
Prince Alarming altercates his alternate Route.
A panic mad dash to the alter of "I do"
A recurring sad rash to forever falter you
Graceful tales often retold to entice both mice and men:
A crimson mixture of transient Now
A jaded fixture of persnickety Then
Just another glacial glance
at a glass slipper trying to tackle a bolstrap boot
Just one last passing dance till
Prince Alarming altercates his alternate Route.
The Herd
'tis a fine fine sunshine day when we are coerced into the throws of all things we wish we were able to do, by those able to do them. Moreover, there is an odd sort of solace to be found in the exposure gained by absolute parallels in people, who one would never meet voluntarily. However circumstances force paths to cross and 'lo and behold' an accquaintance of questionable repute now ranks in your otherwise spotless charge sheet.
You are 'officially' interesting, because you can now rub shoulders with 'the popular'. So you rub the shoulders, walk the walk, talk the talk and act the act. Then you step back, stop and realise THAT is what makes you "UN-interesting", you are officially part of the herd, no doubt a popular herd. More of the pedigreed, pampered posse' than the working class dregs, but a herd never the less. You can now BAAAAAA! to your hearts content.
The solitary lion in you is going, going...gone.
You are 'officially' interesting, because you can now rub shoulders with 'the popular'. So you rub the shoulders, walk the walk, talk the talk and act the act. Then you step back, stop and realise THAT is what makes you "UN-interesting", you are officially part of the herd, no doubt a popular herd. More of the pedigreed, pampered posse' than the working class dregs, but a herd never the less. You can now BAAAAAA! to your hearts content.
The solitary lion in you is going, going...gone.
Bite me!
I find it particularly vexing, how the few eventful, fun moments i have in a year turn into absolute nightmares the moment i get home. The facts are i have a curfew, jes jes treagedy of tragedies, but so what i respect the 10 o' clock home curfew, almost always. Its the 'almosts' that kill you, even if there are special circumstances involved. The perpetual downhill of living with grandparents who believe that only brothels and homes of ill repute are open after 10 pm.
And there ARE special circumstances, circumstances where you, who is a perpetual recluse is cornered by pop stars who are willing to be interviewed for your exclusive, a boss who is calling repeatedly asking if you got your 'scoop' and security guards who have locked the bloody auditorium so you cant get out. So you call and say " will HAVE to be late, PUHLEESE dont go ballistic". But nope nope nope, ballistic it is.
Sigh! so my one social homecoming is officially only a 'bloody come home coming'. UGH!
Isn't it weird how compliments make you want to bite people when youre in a crap beyond crappy mood.
"You look so nice today".
Bite me.
" Hey that was a good piece on the Freoz Khan thing!"
Bite me.
"Nice Shirt!"
Bite me.
'Im so hungry, im cranky!'
hmmm...i'll bite.
And there ARE special circumstances, circumstances where you, who is a perpetual recluse is cornered by pop stars who are willing to be interviewed for your exclusive, a boss who is calling repeatedly asking if you got your 'scoop' and security guards who have locked the bloody auditorium so you cant get out. So you call and say " will HAVE to be late, PUHLEESE dont go ballistic". But nope nope nope, ballistic it is.
Sigh! so my one social homecoming is officially only a 'bloody come home coming'. UGH!
Isn't it weird how compliments make you want to bite people when youre in a crap beyond crappy mood.
"You look so nice today".
Bite me.
" Hey that was a good piece on the Freoz Khan thing!"
Bite me.
"Nice Shirt!"
Bite me.
'Im so hungry, im cranky!'
hmmm...i'll bite.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Gene Jenie
I now notice, how subtle the influence of genes is, how much weight they truly weild. No matter how much I try to hide from it, it haunts and plagues me. The tinesiest splinters of you, that I still carry. I often stop to ask myself why it embarasses me so much, all shreds of you in my person, but it does and so I do what I always do, I hide from myself. In a book, in a movie, in music...all back benches that you think are beneath me.
I downloaded a classic blues and gospel playlist yesterday put it on random play in the background and started cleaning, to clear my head. On comes Hank Williams with 'Jambalayo' and I stop, mid-dusting, sit down and burst into tears for the longest I have done in four years.
To think about it, I think it was a long time coming, my admission that I miss you, dad. That I need to cry, and not always smile inanely.
The irony is, its a funny song, silly really. But its the only thing that I have ever seen 'you' smile with - silly songs, country gospel, camping and horse riding were the only grey hues to your 'otherwise' black. It hurts more somehow to admit that you are human, and that you have good in you, that I could not bring out more. Perhaps if I HAD stuck it out, I could have. But everyone tells me that 'people dont change' and I have begun to believe them.
I dont know what has come over me, today I find myself walking through me. Passing through the hours, without any sense of consciousness or consienciousness. I feel as if 4 years of making a new 'me', considered worthwile by most, is collapsing. I feel shades and hues overlapping, and I see in myself the same maria of 4 years ago. I wore black today.
I never wear black.
I downloaded a classic blues and gospel playlist yesterday put it on random play in the background and started cleaning, to clear my head. On comes Hank Williams with 'Jambalayo' and I stop, mid-dusting, sit down and burst into tears for the longest I have done in four years.
To think about it, I think it was a long time coming, my admission that I miss you, dad. That I need to cry, and not always smile inanely.
The irony is, its a funny song, silly really. But its the only thing that I have ever seen 'you' smile with - silly songs, country gospel, camping and horse riding were the only grey hues to your 'otherwise' black. It hurts more somehow to admit that you are human, and that you have good in you, that I could not bring out more. Perhaps if I HAD stuck it out, I could have. But everyone tells me that 'people dont change' and I have begun to believe them.
I dont know what has come over me, today I find myself walking through me. Passing through the hours, without any sense of consciousness or consienciousness. I feel as if 4 years of making a new 'me', considered worthwile by most, is collapsing. I feel shades and hues overlapping, and I see in myself the same maria of 4 years ago. I wore black today.
I never wear black.
Friday, April 21, 2006
Thursday, April 20, 2006
A fine romance of words this is
Since I find myself the designated driver and back bench to formally archive this monumental event, here goes.
A Desi Writers' meet, my first has made two things, among many, many others... 'much' clear. The first is that as opposed to the usual; here we know the people behind the faces. It is the faces that are new. I guess I've seldom found myself more nervous, than meeting people who actually knew how ...(hmm how to say this politely, so as not to offend my conscience) 'odd' i was capable of being. The character had already been put to canvas, and you had seen it. 'Twas scary, but eerily satisfying, to not have to act proper (trust me i CAN do that, when required).
And second, I truly have realised the power of words. Even if they are sheer 'brain farts', because they open doors to people easier on pixel than in person. To carry off on what Mrs Cluck, said to the 'he who we shall not name' I can see why this is a cyber family, in much more concrete terms than most live ones.Everything we feel, and think comes out on this forum. The truly personal, the perverse, the primeval and the profound.
In many ways this community is a book being written onto itself, we are the characters and our posts are the dialogue. Think about it, if we do take up thunder thief's quest and archive all the pieces here by author, it shows a stream of thought and a growth as writers, that couldnt really have materialised otherwise. I guarentee it would be the best book most of us have read, purely because both the crap and the crux are honest.
A Desi Writers' meet, my first has made two things, among many, many others... 'much' clear. The first is that as opposed to the usual; here we know the people behind the faces. It is the faces that are new. I guess I've seldom found myself more nervous, than meeting people who actually knew how ...(hmm how to say this politely, so as not to offend my conscience) 'odd' i was capable of being. The character had already been put to canvas, and you had seen it. 'Twas scary, but eerily satisfying, to not have to act proper (trust me i CAN do that, when required).
And second, I truly have realised the power of words. Even if they are sheer 'brain farts', because they open doors to people easier on pixel than in person. To carry off on what Mrs Cluck, said to the 'he who we shall not name' I can see why this is a cyber family, in much more concrete terms than most live ones.Everything we feel, and think comes out on this forum. The truly personal, the perverse, the primeval and the profound.
In many ways this community is a book being written onto itself, we are the characters and our posts are the dialogue. Think about it, if we do take up thunder thief's quest and archive all the pieces here by author, it shows a stream of thought and a growth as writers, that couldnt really have materialised otherwise. I guarentee it would be the best book most of us have read, purely because both the crap and the crux are honest.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Conscience Calling
Often the glass shards of my mind, contrive to form kaleidoscopes that blind me.
“No you simply scamper off shit scared in the opposite direction”
I wander aimlessly through memories that are not mine, merely an abstract collage of wishin’ and hopin’ hopefuls. Sing-along-song nonsense that I contrive to make real, by voicing the voices complete with accents and baritones of quasi-characters that I myself have put to canvas.
“Don’t bloody romanticise your perverse fears, don’t make your life out to be a crusade which it isn’t. Life sucks, deal with it”
I play god in a world that lingers in limbo, sometimes real, somewhere fragmented. Often the characters are tangible, people who I interpret in my mind to my taste and converse with on my terms. More often they are not, they are faceless captions waiting for me to complete and edit.
“It isn’t the headline, it’s the bottom line stupid girl”.
All friends, I wish I were friendlier with. All demons I wish I was still scared of. Only so that some manner of emotion could be extorted from my blank, barren existence by another human being, and yet I cannot. They remain others, and I remain practically oblivious to their existence.
“You are so bloody selfish. More than that you are self-involved beyond belief! ‘Real conversations’ scare you, ‘real’ people intimidate you, ‘real’ life choices deflect you. In short anything ‘real’ makes you run. Everyone likes to think they are more mysterious then they are, You are not. Get over it”
My loneliness is a brand unto itself. An overcharged ache, for friends who I can never for the life of me commit to. Foils I can use, when I am tired of seeing my own face and battered reflection, but never souls that I can side with. People who are just that… ‘people’. Why is it that there are no ‘persons’ in my life? Why is it that I find it so colossally hard to commit to another human being, for anything more than a transitory bypass on my ride home, to a book, a movie and an ice cream?
“And whose fault is that? ‘People’ take work sweetie. ‘People’ take preference. ‘People’ take commitment. In short, you’re just too fucking chicken to work on yourself. Too bloody mind-mighty to relocate the ivory tower and move down the ladder to dullsville.”
Am I that scared of emotion, scared enough to invent rather than invert. Are alien thoughts and ideas so threatening to my fragile capacities? Why is it that my entire existence is merely a vendetta to prove some worth, in my being? To constantly counteract that I am not stupid, that I am not ugly, that I am not worth being abandoned and designated to far-off corners, by all.
“Oh boohoo, isn’t my life just ‘so’ tough? Aren’t I just doomed to misery, because of my past? Aren’t I just the oh-so misunderstood waif perpetually lingering in the dark?”
But then again I ‘am’ left. I am in my corner, having already ridden my circuitous path till Kingdom come. Loneliness is not empty, it is safe, it is mine. I finally am King of my capricious castle. Having decorated it with all human emotion sans humanity. I have placed my life in the hands of all things intangible, all the untouchables that touch me.
“ Well, well, well… all hail the conquering spinster”
And then I ask: Why do I pine, why do I perish, why do I placate myself.
Is this not the smart choice?
“ No sweetheart, if you still have to ask….its the only choice”.
“No you simply scamper off shit scared in the opposite direction”
I wander aimlessly through memories that are not mine, merely an abstract collage of wishin’ and hopin’ hopefuls. Sing-along-song nonsense that I contrive to make real, by voicing the voices complete with accents and baritones of quasi-characters that I myself have put to canvas.
“Don’t bloody romanticise your perverse fears, don’t make your life out to be a crusade which it isn’t. Life sucks, deal with it”
I play god in a world that lingers in limbo, sometimes real, somewhere fragmented. Often the characters are tangible, people who I interpret in my mind to my taste and converse with on my terms. More often they are not, they are faceless captions waiting for me to complete and edit.
“It isn’t the headline, it’s the bottom line stupid girl”.
All friends, I wish I were friendlier with. All demons I wish I was still scared of. Only so that some manner of emotion could be extorted from my blank, barren existence by another human being, and yet I cannot. They remain others, and I remain practically oblivious to their existence.
“You are so bloody selfish. More than that you are self-involved beyond belief! ‘Real conversations’ scare you, ‘real’ people intimidate you, ‘real’ life choices deflect you. In short anything ‘real’ makes you run. Everyone likes to think they are more mysterious then they are, You are not. Get over it”
My loneliness is a brand unto itself. An overcharged ache, for friends who I can never for the life of me commit to. Foils I can use, when I am tired of seeing my own face and battered reflection, but never souls that I can side with. People who are just that… ‘people’. Why is it that there are no ‘persons’ in my life? Why is it that I find it so colossally hard to commit to another human being, for anything more than a transitory bypass on my ride home, to a book, a movie and an ice cream?
“And whose fault is that? ‘People’ take work sweetie. ‘People’ take preference. ‘People’ take commitment. In short, you’re just too fucking chicken to work on yourself. Too bloody mind-mighty to relocate the ivory tower and move down the ladder to dullsville.”
Am I that scared of emotion, scared enough to invent rather than invert. Are alien thoughts and ideas so threatening to my fragile capacities? Why is it that my entire existence is merely a vendetta to prove some worth, in my being? To constantly counteract that I am not stupid, that I am not ugly, that I am not worth being abandoned and designated to far-off corners, by all.
“Oh boohoo, isn’t my life just ‘so’ tough? Aren’t I just doomed to misery, because of my past? Aren’t I just the oh-so misunderstood waif perpetually lingering in the dark?”
But then again I ‘am’ left. I am in my corner, having already ridden my circuitous path till Kingdom come. Loneliness is not empty, it is safe, it is mine. I finally am King of my capricious castle. Having decorated it with all human emotion sans humanity. I have placed my life in the hands of all things intangible, all the untouchables that touch me.
“ Well, well, well… all hail the conquering spinster”
And then I ask: Why do I pine, why do I perish, why do I placate myself.
Is this not the smart choice?
“ No sweetheart, if you still have to ask….its the only choice”.
Saturday, April 15, 2006
'Half'
Four years and everyday I wonder, are you safe?
Are you happy, are you living.
What am I to you now, the runaway, the bitch, the other, the ‘half-sister’. I think I fear the latter the most. “Half” as if somehow that made me love you at a demarked store rate.
Four years… you have both played the circle game from four to eight and five to nine…every day I look at your pictures and talk to your voices in my head, I answer the endless stream of questions I know you both no longer ask, I complete the mid-sentence thoughts I know you no longer think, I run wild with you. And then I stop short to realize you no longer run.
Does she oil your hair every Sunday? Does she let you watch TV till nine? Does she make French fries on week days? Does she do the voices in The Little Mermaid? Does she do the Hokey Pokey to Little Richard? Does she force you to read stories and tell them? Does she answer all the questions you ask, and all the ones you don’t? Does she tuck you in bed every night? Does she take pictures while you sleep? Does she sing 50’s be-bop?
Why am I so jealous of her, she is your mother after all? We both abandoned you, her first, me second. But I am, I am green inside out, to think that you aren’t dreaming any longer. To think that you no longer wear your hair long in pigtails, to think that you no longer wear pretty pinks and silly yellows. I am black thinking you no longer laugh as much, or break into song for no reason. I am beyond jaded to think that you are no longer children, that she constantly screams at you to grow up.
And then I think ‘who am I’? I am only the sister, who lived alongside you, who left and who you will forget in another four years. I can live with that, because I remember. I saw a picture of you both today, standing beneath the porch, in front of the blue Benz, waiting to go to school.
Neither of you are smiling.
This I can’t live with.
Are you happy, are you living.
What am I to you now, the runaway, the bitch, the other, the ‘half-sister’. I think I fear the latter the most. “Half” as if somehow that made me love you at a demarked store rate.
Four years… you have both played the circle game from four to eight and five to nine…every day I look at your pictures and talk to your voices in my head, I answer the endless stream of questions I know you both no longer ask, I complete the mid-sentence thoughts I know you no longer think, I run wild with you. And then I stop short to realize you no longer run.
Does she oil your hair every Sunday? Does she let you watch TV till nine? Does she make French fries on week days? Does she do the voices in The Little Mermaid? Does she do the Hokey Pokey to Little Richard? Does she force you to read stories and tell them? Does she answer all the questions you ask, and all the ones you don’t? Does she tuck you in bed every night? Does she take pictures while you sleep? Does she sing 50’s be-bop?
Why am I so jealous of her, she is your mother after all? We both abandoned you, her first, me second. But I am, I am green inside out, to think that you aren’t dreaming any longer. To think that you no longer wear your hair long in pigtails, to think that you no longer wear pretty pinks and silly yellows. I am black thinking you no longer laugh as much, or break into song for no reason. I am beyond jaded to think that you are no longer children, that she constantly screams at you to grow up.
And then I think ‘who am I’? I am only the sister, who lived alongside you, who left and who you will forget in another four years. I can live with that, because I remember. I saw a picture of you both today, standing beneath the porch, in front of the blue Benz, waiting to go to school.
Neither of you are smiling.
This I can’t live with.
Finally I comprehend the sheer need for the "daddy's Benz driving, flashy cell toting, 'lets go to zouk' every day boyfriend". (I know... how thick of me to not have gotten it before), but in my defence, I hadn't seen them before.
Their absolute, ravishing leather soles and the feeling of corporeal bliss when I slip my fish feet in their spongy depths. Then I saw the 3000 rs price tag... shit fuck, fuckity shit shit fuck shit! Life is 'just' not fair, im a somewhat much odd, by all grandparent standards 'good girl', who cant afford to dish out 3000rs for a Clarks' pair of loafers.
THIS IS WHY you have boyfriends!!! My mother is finally making sense. The world is officially coming to an end, save yourselves, those of you who can.
Meanwhile I shall spend my last moments standing miserably infront of a window, gazing longingly at my unrequited, twin passion.
Their absolute, ravishing leather soles and the feeling of corporeal bliss when I slip my fish feet in their spongy depths. Then I saw the 3000 rs price tag... shit fuck, fuckity shit shit fuck shit! Life is 'just' not fair, im a somewhat much odd, by all grandparent standards 'good girl', who cant afford to dish out 3000rs for a Clarks' pair of loafers.
THIS IS WHY you have boyfriends!!! My mother is finally making sense. The world is officially coming to an end, save yourselves, those of you who can.
Meanwhile I shall spend my last moments standing miserably infront of a window, gazing longingly at my unrequited, twin passion.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Shadows on my walls
I keep hearing your concerns for my happiness
Always walking
Always talking of my idleness
Sad returns to pester in me, a sense of consciousness
Don’t jump the gun
I’m having fun
Swimming in my recklessness
Counting shadows on my wall
Doesn’t bother me at all
Sitting on a beanbag made from carbon capers
Watching lost musicals and re-run trailers
Playing solitaire with a deck of 51
Writing 'loop-da-loop' scrawls sum in some
Yesterday I danced the tango with Mr much and Dr drunk
Loads of flavour, loads of laughter… loads of boastful spunk
Im doing fine
Just minding mine
No ‘where or care’ for two
So don’t you yell and don’t you bell…
That I’ve got nothing to do
Always walking
Always talking of my idleness
Sad returns to pester in me, a sense of consciousness
Don’t jump the gun
I’m having fun
Swimming in my recklessness
Counting shadows on my wall
Doesn’t bother me at all
Sitting on a beanbag made from carbon capers
Watching lost musicals and re-run trailers
Playing solitaire with a deck of 51
Writing 'loop-da-loop' scrawls sum in some
Yesterday I danced the tango with Mr much and Dr drunk
Loads of flavour, loads of laughter… loads of boastful spunk
Im doing fine
Just minding mine
No ‘where or care’ for two
So don’t you yell and don’t you bell…
That I’ve got nothing to do
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
The 'Dream Maker'
Dear shadow, sitting in your lonely skin- how do you bear your corner so well?
Always the 'one' unfinished. Always an incomplete canvas of halves and quarters.
How far are you from me, from us all? Your every glance, your every smile, your every sigh- all half-opened gateways, half-shut barricades locking you in and us out. All passageways of infinite flavour and tangible emptiness. You are a parallel of possibility to us all.
How do you dream Child?
Oblivious to the world around you, pervious only to your own. Help me, I pray only for a nature like yours. The 'Wizard of Is', Dr. Junk dancing in a circle of pink Ballerinas, Moses on a motorcycle. Tell me, what do you dream, Dream Maker?
As we all celebrate our mediocrity, paying in blood for all things free. Hunting ravenously for a bargain to buy back our brains. How do you sit so calm, sailing on your decade of dreams? Fighting the battering bullets with butterflies.
Teach me! I am floundering, failing, flailing... in this sea of nameless faces and faceless places. Echoing silently in this allegro of laughter and tears. Misting over in this kaleidoscope of blacks and whites. Forever going 'round and round' on the merry-go-round, when I know I must fall. We all fall down. Dont wake me up in the morning, because I am the girl they find impossible to forget and infernally hard to remember.
'All' sings to you. 'All' dances with you.
So, tell me child...
How do you dream?
Always the 'one' unfinished. Always an incomplete canvas of halves and quarters.
How far are you from me, from us all? Your every glance, your every smile, your every sigh- all half-opened gateways, half-shut barricades locking you in and us out. All passageways of infinite flavour and tangible emptiness. You are a parallel of possibility to us all.
How do you dream Child?
Oblivious to the world around you, pervious only to your own. Help me, I pray only for a nature like yours. The 'Wizard of Is', Dr. Junk dancing in a circle of pink Ballerinas, Moses on a motorcycle. Tell me, what do you dream, Dream Maker?
As we all celebrate our mediocrity, paying in blood for all things free. Hunting ravenously for a bargain to buy back our brains. How do you sit so calm, sailing on your decade of dreams? Fighting the battering bullets with butterflies.
Teach me! I am floundering, failing, flailing... in this sea of nameless faces and faceless places. Echoing silently in this allegro of laughter and tears. Misting over in this kaleidoscope of blacks and whites. Forever going 'round and round' on the merry-go-round, when I know I must fall. We all fall down. Dont wake me up in the morning, because I am the girl they find impossible to forget and infernally hard to remember.
'All' sings to you. 'All' dances with you.
So, tell me child...
How do you dream?
I find it, unnervingly odd, how the opinions of random obsevers leave lasting impressions on me. Why is it that i take both criticism and praise with a pinch of salt? Forever ready to rearrange whatever it is in my picture-imperfect self to conform with the general consensus.
And at the same time i actively harbour the notion that i am a non-conformist, atleast in spirit...but what is the point, if that confidence is so transient and flighty?
Why is it that the desire to stand out and and fade in, vy for equal rights in my oh-so mixed up self, 24/7.
Be or not to be,
see or not to see.
sweet by and by
not one glance for free.
And at the same time i actively harbour the notion that i am a non-conformist, atleast in spirit...but what is the point, if that confidence is so transient and flighty?
Why is it that the desire to stand out and and fade in, vy for equal rights in my oh-so mixed up self, 24/7.
Be or not to be,
see or not to see.
sweet by and by
not one glance for free.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Am battling 'but-much' with my multiple identities these days. My iodized saccharine self when faced with family, my competent yet comical charade when faced with my "FOUR" yes count them... 4 separate bosses, my sarcastic scab sultriness online and my morbid, moody, quintessence in the mirror.
Juggling my many selves, was never hard, infact it was natural.
What has changed? I refuse to admit that 'growing up' requires a relinquishing of 'selves'.
I had been so precariously groomed to believe it depended on them.
Juggling my many selves, was never hard, infact it was natural.
What has changed? I refuse to admit that 'growing up' requires a relinquishing of 'selves'.
I had been so precariously groomed to believe it depended on them.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
He-man the Barbie
A weird thought...
(Ok a weirder thought than usual)
A random debate about men and women, yes the umpteenth attempt at understanding the 'oh-so' elusive dynamic, has led me to believe that if little boys were encouraged to play with barbie's and little girls were encouraged to play with X-men and Transformers, perhaps half of the worlds differences could be taken care of, and we could FINALLY make way for new problems, in our ever-elusive, ingenious manner.
Think about it, on some underlying level is it not 'fundamentally' distrubing that little boys grow up playing with tiny men and little girls with pretty women?! Does it not 'fundamentally' screw us up somewhere 'up' there? Thereby laying the groundwork for years of damage that 'should' be inflicted by actual people. Seriously these little plastic contraptions are stealing our thunder, vying for equal "im gonna f**** you up rights", which are the singular driving motivation to becoming a parent.
Moreover does it not encourage men to be even more machismo...if possible, and girls to be flambouyantly girly-girl, ergo widening the already existing chasm.
Were roles to be reversed...maybe the girly-girlness in a little girl could be balanced by He-man machismo, and the Batman broodishness of little boys could be softened by Care Bear stares... leading to a tidy blend of inherent genetic make-up and instilled counter agents.
hmmm..hum dum dee dum doo dum dee dum.
Hmm can I picture mini-me with my barretted pigtails, running around with a BB gun, while my cousins run around with dolly's?!
.......
.......
No.
(scratch it!)
(Ok a weirder thought than usual)
A random debate about men and women, yes the umpteenth attempt at understanding the 'oh-so' elusive dynamic, has led me to believe that if little boys were encouraged to play with barbie's and little girls were encouraged to play with X-men and Transformers, perhaps half of the worlds differences could be taken care of, and we could FINALLY make way for new problems, in our ever-elusive, ingenious manner.
Think about it, on some underlying level is it not 'fundamentally' distrubing that little boys grow up playing with tiny men and little girls with pretty women?! Does it not 'fundamentally' screw us up somewhere 'up' there? Thereby laying the groundwork for years of damage that 'should' be inflicted by actual people. Seriously these little plastic contraptions are stealing our thunder, vying for equal "im gonna f**** you up rights", which are the singular driving motivation to becoming a parent.
Moreover does it not encourage men to be even more machismo...if possible, and girls to be flambouyantly girly-girl, ergo widening the already existing chasm.
Were roles to be reversed...maybe the girly-girlness in a little girl could be balanced by He-man machismo, and the Batman broodishness of little boys could be softened by Care Bear stares... leading to a tidy blend of inherent genetic make-up and instilled counter agents.
hmmm..hum dum dee dum doo dum dee dum.
Hmm can I picture mini-me with my barretted pigtails, running around with a BB gun, while my cousins run around with dolly's?!
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No.
(scratch it!)
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