A Dance of Desperation

“O how often she wants to get close to him with seductive words, and call him with soft entreaties! Her nature denies it, and will not let her begin, but she is ready for what it will allow her to do, to wait for sounds, to which she can return words”
-Ovid’s Metamorphosis

So this is what ‘they’ went on and on about. Rather anticlimactic, one would think…no “I”! Rather anticlimactic ‘I’ think and we already know that ‘I is someone else’.

Such is my present place, this space that I am forced to sit in and pretend to breathe from. It is a regurgitating well of disappointment, lingering nostalgia and that desperate urge to get back to that pretty pedestal of perennial optimism that I used to command so well. I miss that girl, with her positively Panglossian window to the world or whatever passes for the direct opposite of nihilism these days.
It still lingers in some forgotten cracks I suppose, that romance in betrayed beauty. That somewhat desperate need to see, hear, smell and touch some purpose in everything is not completely dead. But it is desperate now.
Desperation is distinctly unbecoming.

So this is what it feels like to lose your heart, your head, your surface and whatever passes for the thing that lies beneath. Why do people glamorise broken hearts so damn much? They are not glamorous, they are pathetic and the illusion one grows up with is trite and stupid when it shatters. I find that the cruelest fate for the perennial optimist is to discover that she only ever falls in love with the perennial nihilist. I have spent my past term reading altogether too much into the philosophical and literary undertones of ‘the Other”. I wish I could treat it in the general feminist vein of De Beauvoir or Freidan and debate semantics, but trust me to have to recognise it in my being as that elusive ‘truth’ I was so set on stumbling upon for so long. That no matter where I go or how far I get, I will always seek in opposition to my self. What I want and what I want to be will never inhabit the same space and so I continue to stare at him from a distance (there’s that word again)… desperately.

By chance, the boy, separated from his faithful band of followers, had called out ‘Is anyone here?’ and ‘Here’ Echo replied. He is astonished, and glances everywhere, and shouts in a loud voice ‘Come to me!’

She calls as he calls.

I chalk out my library schedule and my meal times in accordance with optimizing my chances to set sight on him and while doing so I work actively at remaining as inconspicuous as I possibly can. I have gauged from my observation of “active social behaviour” that the modus operandi when one “has a crush” is to dress up and not down. Generally I have been acknowledged as the girl who arms herself well with her apparel, I coordinate colours and costume jewellery like camouflage, they are put together just right to balance out being noticeable but not ‘noticed’. My face beneath its subtle coat of paint is too naked for me to tolerate but lately I have taken to exposing it. I wear myself and choke on myself in a corner as I hear him speak about the non-ness of existence while I so dearly covet its “other”. Sadly, I realise more than ever that this is what draws me to him so, the fact that he does not see anything or need to and I do see everything and need to. I envy him his nonchalance.

I never thought I could envy that in anyone.

I find that even in my fantasies of him, I do not covet sex. This surprises me, because I thought that leaving my former self and finally being able to openly acknowledge my Ignostic affiliations would allow me to pursue physical pleasure sans guilt. I am a tad deflated to recognise that it was never guilt that stopped me in the first place and that it was that notion of “closeness”…of sharing that I desperately needed to precede the act. This proves to be a bit of an oxymoron considering that one needs to be “open” to allow oneself to be “close” to someone: to let them kiss your neck, hold your hand, smell your hair and share your sheets. You need to trust that they will not curtly nod the 'morning after' and tear to bits that shy web you are weaving of ‘wanting to be with them’. That they will not laugh in the face of your lilting ministrations to get them into your mind, hoping they will like it there. So my mind has an issue with sex.

My body and virtue are waiting …desperately…for my mind to get over it.

He looks back, and no one appearing behind, asks ‘Why do you run from me?’ and receives the same words as he speaks. He stands still, and deceived by the likeness to an answering voice, says ‘Here, let us meet together’. And, never answering to another sound more gladly, Echo replies ‘Together’, and to assist her words comes out of the woods to put her arms around his neck, in longing.

In the past few months I have deliberated myself into oblivion. I have tried to find a sense of ‘certainty’ in attraction and lust. I have used, reused and discarded everything from ‘Fallibilism’ to ‘Determinism’ to ‘Fatalism’ to ‘Solipsism’ to ‘Agathism’ and have stumbled back upon Nihilism, a position I have major qualms starting from in the first place. It is unpleasant recognising that one is a ultimately a masochist.
It leads to…desperation.

Much of my state is exacerbated by the fact that I have been reading Leonard Cohen, Simone De Beauvoir, Ovid and Jorge Louis Borges in tandem. I particularly enjoy the latter in ‘The House of Asterion’ opening with “I know they accuse me of arrogance and perhaps of misanthropy, and perhaps of madness. Such accusations (for which I shall exact punishment in due time) are derisory. It is true that I never leave my house but it is also true that its doors (whose number is infinite) are open day and night…” But each offers only a corner of caprice, nothing concrete for me to define this need or take charge of my deepening affections. I suppose it was a tad naïve of me to think I could finally find the convenient corner of philosophy to dump ‘unrequited love’ in and be done with it.

That’s probably the Echo in me.

He runs from her, and running cries ‘Away with these encircling hands! May I die before what’s mine is yours.'
She answers, only ‘What’s mine is yours’

Stand-up Tragedy

“It’s a feeling you have that you know something about yourself nobody else does. The picture you have in your mind of what your about …will come true. That kind of a thing, you kinda have to keep to your own self, because it’s a fragile feeling and you put it out there and somebody will kill it. So its best to keep that all inside.”
-Bob Dylan, Interview for Rolling Stone Magazine

“People are people wherever you go”, I cant really recall who said it, but the past few days all I have been thinking about is how its not really the fact that people don’t change, but that we don’t. I suppose a more trite spin on the existing epithet would be to say that I am the same, wherever I go. Ordinarily this ought to provide some consolation, constancy of character and all that… it doesn’t. I find that in my mind, too much rested on my changing along with my time zone and one transition without the other leaves something to be desired. It’s a lot like finding yourself lost in a music store, standing in front of a copy of the brand new Dylan album and missing your wallet. It’s being able to see and absorb a new life, but still being too scared to seize it and live it as you thought you would be able to if you were removed from the you, you were once bound to.

I’ve been going through quite a few of those “Tangled up in Blue” days, listening to way too much Dylan and Cohen for my own good, even reading both in my sparse spare moments and I find that there is a lingering loneliness that accompanies taking flight. Sure, it is seldom perceived under the sheer volume of new experiences and new insights, but it is there…the not having a sounding board part. I suppose it would be natural to say I miss home, while still being very clear that I don’t want to go back, but its much weirder the things that I do miss: things like Abbot road ke Channay and waiting for the light to turn green at Kalma Chowk while I’m heading to tell mom about something new I discovered, or read, or wrote, or thought or want. I miss the sense of security that comes with knowing there is no pressure to succeed or ‘be’ anything right now, that all that will come later. That, more than anything has changed. Later is now, Here is come and I find that the words are actually flooding my skin. Every day, while I wade my way through my endless readings I can feel them buzzing under my hairline and I know that if ever there was a time for me to write, or find what it was I wanted to write about in depth…it is now and it is here and that scares the shit out of me. That accompanied by the sheer, overwhelming sense of inadequacy that this city has the potential to hit you with all the time.

“Am I good enough?”
Probably not.

“Can I?”
Can you?.

“Cant I?
Cant you?.

“Will I fail?”
Do you want to fail?

“Will I succeed?”
Do you want to succeed?

“Will I be a roaring success?”
Whyever would you want to be a roaring success?

“Will I be labelled the Town Clown?”
Haven’t you always been the Town Clown?

“Does it matter?”
I don’t know, does it?

“Of course it matters!”

“Does it matter enough to stop me?”
Will you let it?

I suppose it is mostly the fact that I still don’t know how to talk to people. Sure I can babble – hopefully endearingly – to no end but I can’t confidently seek company. I am one of those quintessentially accidental, social junkies. I will mesh with backgrounds, contrive to place myself in situations where I can be alone with a book, while still remaining in a room which allows opportunity for company should I seek it. This allows me to keep my options open and bail at any given moment. Actual, no-nonsense dinner’s and parties still petrify me to no end, so I always pretend I have extra readings or laundry to do.
Besides numbing one’s senses a notch via inebriation, what else does one do at these things?

Although if I am remotely honest with myself it isn’t that - I have met and continue to meet and converse with more people now than I have ever done in my locked up life, it is the connection I miss: of choosing the company, of seeking out someone with similar interests to actually ‘talk to’ rather than just ‘talk with’. I have never really been great at juggling loads of people in my life, ironically I tend to be rather monogamous in my friendships. One real connection is more than enough for my over sensitized being, I can relish it and rest in it with ease.

Mostly it is the fact that I still can’t seem to shun my fucking rose-tinted glasses. I still cannot perceive steel grey hues and stark realities, I still need to paint the edges of every morning with lilacs and nutmeg. I still need to romanticise absolutely everything: cups of coffee, my bicycle, the weather, old bookstores and conversations with strangers on street corners. I cannot possibly conceive casual hook-ups and late night bar binges. I still need to be at the receiving end of ‘intellectual conversations’ rather than initiating them, and when I do happen upon one of those I still need to be the one laughing at myself. I suppose that is something I can still be grateful for, because not many people are prone to laughing at themselves here, most tend to consider themselves the Indent and Full stop to every possible sentence they utter.
This scares me like it never did before. Some part of me always relished the idea of being the naïve, romantic, sarcastic, whimsical idealist I was. It thrived on being the wordsmith carving in a language no one was interested in listening to anymore because it was so far removed from the granite reality of tomorrow. I shall admit that I quite liked being the perennial poet. I fancied myself this last, lost Balladeer forever trumpeting Beautitudes that were reminiscent of all the great poets that drove me to write: Dylan, Barrie, Cohen, Ginsberg, Tennyson. Some part of me, actually enjoyed the impracticality that came with being that lost cause, that odd little sprite that few could understand.

But it is nothing short of terrifying today.

The underlying denial is so palpable it has been driving me to tears –literally- at the weirdest of junctures, in coffee shops and while waiting in line for the ATM machine. The fluttering tension behind my eyelids is so ripe it ought to be sliced with a machete.

See, it is an actual choice that needs to be made now.
It is no longer a far off ideal.

Crunch time, if you will.

I must either choose to continue as myself - as Beentherella, who apparently is real and not a manufactured figment of my need for attention or I can change tack and be what I need to be to be something more. Even as I write this I can hear Mohammad Ali roaring in my head “I know where I'm going and I know the truth, and I don't have to be what you want me to be. I'm free to be what I want to be.”

You see the dichotomy arises in the simple fact that those who can stick to that sense of individuality, that notion of freedom and autonomy are special. They are it, and they know it. I am unsure on both counts. Wavering and completely low on ‘faith, trust and pixie dust’. Exactly how much of a narcissist does one have to be, to believe that they are exempt from ordinariness, that they can push beyond it because –for some reason- they deserve better and shall get it?

Is it really only about believing it enough and letting that carry you, sustain you and challenge you to face the alone-ness that comes with being a troubadour of any sort? Because no matter how much of an idealist I am on my better and badder days

…that is a tall order.

Stranger in a Strange Land

It’s a funny place to start from, really…a Beginning. It’s almost as if one needs to shed skins and begin from scratch. Life is different now, as is she and this is disconcerting. It begs the question: so what happened to the old Maria? Did she just dump her in her overzealous quest to start over and trade her in for ‘Maria’ ala Espaneol. Or is she just waiting to see where the other one fits in?
Then again, that one was never much good at ‘fitting in’.

That is the problem with beginnings, they presume that nothing ever existed prior to the present precipice and it is hard to put pictures to things she can hardly remember or re-construct in her head or heart anymore. Perhaps this is the reason why she has found it so hard to venture out of her self-imposed sabbatical. Writing about oneself must be a much harder exercise when one is supremely conscious of the fact that they cannot recognise a thing about themselves.
Oxford, in a nutshell is a bashful beginning, but a beginning nonetheless.

She might recognise the purely tourist-ical overtones of the following notion, but there really is ‘something’ about this city that has the ability to make her seem bigger than she is, even to herself. On one hand this may prove to be counter-intuitive, as she was pretty much everything to herself from the get go, alone and all too comfortable with her alone-ness. But it is doing wonders for her self esteem. Her face shimmers every time a random check-out counter clerk, asks if she is a student and she can claim a discount and a smile from a complete stranger all in one nod.
Somewhere over the past month she has learned to get over her fear of counters and the people behind them… she is by no means confident, but she can ask an actual question now without hyper-ventilating or subsequently melting. She has also learned that washing one’s clothes takes less time than drying them, even though both exercises are mechanically accomplished. Above all she has learned that somehow paying for a crate of coke in pounds makes it taste like an elixir… an unbidden luxury, a taste of the familiar, of home, of past, present and future. Coca Cola, remains her only constant somehow bridging all her September ‘Me’s’ to the ‘I’s’ of her October.
Its rather amusing how one day on a plane can reverse the social order of an entire being.

This month has taught her a few things that she probably didn’t know about Maria.

Maria enjoys sitting in crowds and getting lost, specifically the steps on the mural in City centre. All it takes to completely fade into the architecture is a cup of coffee, a sketchbook and charcoal and Dylan crooning in the Basement Tapes through her head phones.

Maria cannot survive without scarves and woollen caps.

Maria adores riding a bicycle in the morning, periodically locking and unlocking it to various posts around the city and waiting to see it waiting for her, it is currently her only companion constant.

Maria inherently disapproves of beer being the staple British social conduit.

Maria still thinks that libraries are magical and she hasn’t managed to tire of them, despite taking up temporary residence in the Bodelian.

Maria still collects key chains. They are now the only thing she can afford, asides from Primark half-off’s -which is not something to boast about- she is told.

Maria is capable of making friends, she even tries to. She also appears to enjoy company for longer than 2 hours if need be. This is supremely surprising.

Maria can dance, she is taking salsa lessons and has not tripped all over herself despite her devastatingly attractive, and proportionally homosexual instructor.

Maria is trying very hard to feel like a feminist without acting like one.

Maria enjoys studying, her long walks and her even longer procrastinating pauses over bridges, at street corners, on random benches and in museums.

Maria no longer feels lost. Ironic, considering her rapidly flailing sense of direction and the fact that ‘getting lost’ is an exercise she is pedalling to a martial art.

Maria no longer feels ugly, or stupid. This is particularly pressing, considering she is in a city where almost everyone is smarter than she is.

Maria is learning to appreciate the true value of a hot shower and comfortable shoes completely lacking in any aesthetic appeal.

Maria loves the theatre and the Ballet. Apparently she does not mind grown men dancing in tights half as much as most grown men do.

Maria is learning to appreciate the occasional cup of a Mocha Latte on a cold day. She is also beginning to appreciate the fact that cookies can easily constitute a basic food group when basic food groups no longer retain -what ought to be - their inherent personality: flavour.

Maria has taken to collecting socks and writing long letters to people in her head rather than on paper.

Maria still appreciates the majesty of freshly sharpened pencils, blank pages and funny hats.

Maria still loves the rain, she has even learned to appreciate umbrella’s.

Maria is not missing the other one… too much.

She is still silly, sentimental, hopelessly hopeful and hoping to accidentally fall into a random handsome stranger’s unsuspecting arms. She still misses new cartoon releases and she is desperately searching for pizza that actually tastes like pizza in this city.

All in all, I am beginning to think that she might be worth getting to know better.

Tartarus

"He’s a walking contradiction, partly truth and partly fiction taking every wrong direction on his lonely way back home” - The Pilgrim (Kris Kristofferson)

I believe in the typical life of a mammal they call this intermission of self ‘hibernation’. Those winters where the Great Mountain Grizzly skulks into its solitary cave to wait out a season it has little care for until it can stumble again upon the one it does. Only it is summer, and my cave consists of mostly memories; severe bouts of nostalgia; words of others than myself; packing boxes and strains of folk music. I have been boxing up my past and recent present quite literally and soaking up both the heat and inertia that the experience offers in full, till my time comes.

The past months have been spent avoiding the sweltering heat outside, reading The Beats – Ginsberg and Kerouac, mostly – and listening to far too much of the old folk blue banter. I have observed something about American literature (the good kind), it always talks of the illusion of movement, but it never does. Sure, there is a lot of hitchhiking and old Harley’s to be found on roads to self discovery but no movement in motivation or character. One is deluded into movement by remaining perfectly still. It is beautiful. It is slow and sticky, this soul cruising... and I am living it.
I am still.
Kerouac makes mention of the list of 30 essentials to composing prose honestly and for once I feel that I need to listen to someone other than myself to be mindful of the metamorphosis taking place beneath the surface of my skin. I shall use his principles randomly and without care for their ramifications, as the man would have wished. I have missed communing with myself far too much these past months, and the following is purely an exercise in self-gratification.

Nothing more, nothing less…in short, everything.

2. Submissive to everything, open, listening

It is a hard task counting down ones own life in the dial of a wristwatch, but it is altogether too easy when one tries to. This is disappointing, clocks tend to move much slower in the summer, especially when one’s anima is bursting with the anticipation for…anticipation.
I can hear Old songs. I hear Old rights and I hear Old wrongs. I hear them far too clearly to counteract my upchuck reflex as I skate over memories that ought to expire from sheer re-cyclability. I see an old clock maker sitting on a desk in a tiny room twiddling idly with a dial that is to decide all my moments: my pasts, my presents and my futures and all the probabilities in between. He appears to me simultaneously careless and careful; careless of the consequences of his actions and careful of the mundane pride of perfection he sets store to his task.

Four o’ clock in the evening: Somewhere, somehow there is push and a pull, the birth of a flight for freedom… for inspiration.
Seven o’ clock in the morning: There is a fall, a voyage down a birth canal.
Eleven o’ clock in the morning: There is a struggle and a beginnings of a beginner’s smile.
Nine o’ clock in the evening: There is a bond with tears and terror’s.

Midnight: Somewhere else
Twilight: Someone else

Dawn: Back again

The freshly soldered clock ticks away its idle ode to a life never lived for the fear of perfection and the absence of it, paid for in micro-chasms.

10. No time for poetry but exactly what is

F.u.c.k.

I do not know when it happened, but somewhere along my route to emancipation I developed a dastardly double standard. Five years ago a friend coerced me out of my inhibitions and asked me to try alcohol and I did. Another one convinced me to try dancing on a party table and I did. Yet another one thought smoking weed for an asthmatic might be fun and I tried that too before I almost gave up.

It has always been the words that are the problem, they have also always been the solution.

I find that I have severe qualms about writing ugly things. Ugly words, ugly images…the crass, depraved honesty that I find all too apparent in my existence must always be kept absent from my words because that would spoil … ‘it’. I have never be-fouled the world within my world, my Neverland’s and utopia’s must remain pretty if they are to prosper at all. I have never really told the truth in its element.

So…FUCK!

19. Accept loss forever

Here is what I know: I know that it bothers me how badly I need to feel important. I know that I miss chances just so I can begrudge someone, anyone…something, anything. I know that I am longing for something that I will -in all probability-deny myself if it ever finds me. I know that loneliness is a fragrance one finds neatly folded in the bedsheets after they wake up tossing in the middle of a bed without ever needing to choose a side to sleep in. I know that the past can never come back, but it doesn’t really need to because it lives in your skin. I know that I hate the fact that I can see people’s thoughts and I never like what I see. I know that I want more and will probably get more, but it will still never be ‘more’ enough.

4. Be in love with your life

Little Mermaid Diary , November 29, 1992
Late Night Time
Dear Diary,
I am reading the Peter Pan book and it is much harder than watching the cartoon. I always have to look inside the dictionary and there is a word that is not even in the dictionary: it is “Hoop La!”. It is the only word Tinkerbell says in the book. I think the reason it is missing from the dictionary is because Tinkerbell is a fairy and does not speak English.
In the book by Mr J.M Barrie, Peter is very childish, which is why Wendy pretends to be his mother. But Peter also wants to kiss Wendy! I think Peter is stupid.

But I really like Neverland and the Lost boys.

They get found in the end.
Maria

8. Write what you want bottomless from the bottom of the mind

It is odd how the moment you dread most creeps up on you at the most unexpected time. I have spent six years now, dreading the day I might run into you, but in retrospect I am relieved I did. I am even a little happy. A very little.

People have told me that time heals wounds and ego’s. My mother and I always listen to them patiently and we seriously pretend to absorb their words as we look into each others faces to see the sheer ‘knowing otherwise’ that rests there. We never speak of you, you know. It is rather odd, because we speak about you far too much… but never of you. You are an easy person to caricaturize, demonise but a hard one to absorb, especially in memory. And we share far too many memories to acknowledge you any longer.

I never really expected to look up from my menu that day and see you staring at me from across the room. I didn’t anticipate the distant sound of a gun shot still echoing in my ears either. It is still as loud as I thought it was. I am proud though, that I did not look down and hide under my table. I am ashamed though that I hoped your face would soften slightly.

It didn’t.

You didn’t.

And I no longer need you to.

I walked away once, I'm doing it again and this time I wont be looking over my shoulder.

17. Write in recollection and amazement of yourself

A prison guard stands calmly outside an Iron cage door. His smirk speaks all too loudly of lofty opinions bought from nothing more than a higher vantage point.
“I am proud of myself.”
His smirk deepens as he seats himself on the rickety stool perched against the wall.

I have never really known what it was like to feel pride in one's self. I have only ever, been a spectator to the accomplishments of others, the hired help on most occasions, the court jester to cheer on their victories.
And I feel that I have played my part well, I was never blatantly jealous or resentful. I took in stride the entire childhood spent being told I was ugly and stupid. I believe I bore it well, exhibiting only the faintest traces of reactionary wry wit and sarcastic humor. I read my books and kept my head down.
So now, as I take this one step that opens a door to a future I never saw myself seeing, yes I am proud. Am I overbearing? I am not sure…but were I to be, who would be witness to it anyway, so where lies the harm? And now, I absolutely refuse to ‘be told’ how to feel anything about anything.

“You may leave. I shall not be needing your services any longer.
I never hope to again.”

His smirk fades slowly, making its way carefully into his dark eyes. But it is not alone in there, it shares uncomfortably close quarters with something he had not anticipated…
A sallow, begrudging glimmer of pride.

9. The unspeakable visions of the individual

And even as I know that they make me the way I am, I know that it is not their fault. They were never meant to be Him, and my attempts to make them such were not only futile they were full of spite.My fears are my fault and their favours. I wanted them to fail as much as they wanted to, but you know what they say about the best laid plans.
I have not really ever tried to give away my heart. I am not much good with hearts. And yet I find it odd how one can still manage to collect so many sticks and stones without ever going in for the gamble.

“It’s all your fault, you try too hard to be good for everyone, but you're not. You will never be because of all your bloody trying”

It is funny, how this one never seems to collapse on itself. As it turns out when you try to be good for yourself, it still is your fault.

“You will never get what your looking for, there is no such thing as a happily ever after, and if that’s what your looking for or working for, you should be prepared to remain alone for a very long time.”
Needless to say I am prepared, a tad whimsical…but most certainly prepared.

“Learn to settle! Life is all about settling, nobody’s that special”.
Settling is all I know. I refuse to settle this one time, trust it to be the one where I'm expected to!

“You are nothing but a brainless cunt.”
Silence.
I have dealt with bruised ego’s before.
This is the only way I know how.

18. Work from the pithy middle eye out, swimming in language sea

Our perpetual confusion rests in the not knowing of whether it is our words that give birth to our thoughts or our thoughts that beget our words. There is a someone I am writing this for, a somebody too busy being nobody, anybody, everybody just to escape being who I need them to be.
So I sit sipping currents of forgotten kisses in tiny plastic spoons, recalling their jaded reprisals of rank afternoons spent knowing things I know absolutely nothing about. Lazy evenings spent drowning in conversations we would both never dare put to action, lest they expose us. A variety of subjects: the number zero, the volume of frequent flyer miles to their credit, cough medicine, whether they think I am in love with them. They don’t, they won't…and so I don’t and I won't.

It is a pretty pattern.
My sorry excuse for tales of talent ripe and bold, are only introduced so that they can be battered down by their need to criticize everything... but with a smile. A polite smile, no less. There are promises to be plumbed, dreams to be framed on pink walls. But I shall not dream them here, now. I refuse to swim in these savage waters any longer.

Luscious lies dressed in ball gowns dance a kiss we will never manage
Terrible truths clad in pin stripe guard the doors, half open… for me to run out of
And I shall leave now

For I am a turquoise sprite, riding a unicorn, eating a bowl of chili and dancing in delusions of daisies and sugar candy and they are a charcoal grey Armani suit inside out.
It is time to shatter my friend
It is time to scatter.

29. You’re a Genius all the time
& 13. Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition

It is now time to decide who we are to be. Not who we want, mind you…wants are misleading. Are’s are attainable. So, dear sprite…who ‘are’ we to be? A choice must eventually come from limitless potential. And all potential is limitless.
So where are we to guide this flood of potential and genius? Kerouac himself said that writers are made, but genius’s are born. But they do not discover their genius in their life time, that is for others to do so. And if indeed it is for others to discover and for you to do then you needn’t worry about your reception.There are no rules, only resolutions. Everything, that has not been done before, in this manner before… is genius, he said.
So pick your poison.
Choose a path and act it.
There is to be no hiding, skulking, waiting, wading and marauding now. There are only to be now’s and be’s. If the choice is to write…
Then by all means…
WRITE.

1. Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild type written pages, for yr’ own joy

It is the end that must come at the beginning: for my own joy. There is an all too fragile notion that must be shattered here, now on this precarious juncture of this particular sixth page and second last paragraph: that life must be lived for others. It mustn’t. It is mine and those that wish me well want me to embrace it, those that don’t must be left behind.
For all the scribbles that my seven-year-old self began in her bound Little Mermaid Diary, that have led my twenty five-year-old madness wrapped in her boundless notebooks and paper scraps to this place…here is my gift to that girl.
To be given the gift of birth, of life, of possibility
To wait till one is ready to receive it…

To receive it.

20. Believe in the holy contour of life

I find it surprising that I have somehow managed to escape the loss of grandeur that one anticipates when disposing with ‘holiness’. If anything withdrawing from the ‘need’ to believe in something has made it much easier to believe in what is. And there is so much. There is a world to be seen, words to be written and wonders to be wished for. There is an open road and all one needs is the spirit to travel it and the naivete' to keep one going even when it gets ugly.

I am reminded of the Greek custom of commemorating a eulogy for the fallen, they asked only one thing, “ Did he have passion?”.

That was all it took to make or break a person then.

That is all that ever should.

You couldn’t spell ‘DIFFICULTY’ if you’re life depended on it!!!

‘Mrs D, Mrs I, Mrs F, F, I…Mrs C, Mrs U, Mrs L, T, Y.’
Yes, why are all these women – in fact and fiction – married?

It has been a long month, and mommy tells me that she finally has the answers to the riddle that am I.
“You’re difficult.”
As in, I don’t listen?
“No, no…you’re just complicated and …difficult”.
Gee thanks mom that really clears up everything.
“That’s what confuses people about you, you don’t want normal things and normal people want normal things. It’s not that bad to want normalcy. What is so bad about being just regular for once! You spend too much bloody time with yourself!”

My mother, poor soul, has worked herself into a healthy rant worrying about what is to become of me. Apparently now that I really AM leaving, my future, my choices, my lack of choices and my general person requires some drastic revamping. This exorcism gives my mother something to do and prevents her from focusing on the looming broken nest syndrome that constantly covets her waking attention. I admit that I am a little flattered but I am a lot more flustered.

Come again? And who are these people I am confusing so much?
“Men!”

*sigh*

It appears that I have somehow completely managed to overlook the fact that I received the good fortune of being accepted to Oxford in order that I may find and ‘hook’ a suitable mate. It also appears that 1100 years ago the city of dreaming spires was born to later be the international hub of learning, so that one fine day in the oh-so-distant future it could hope to provide for the Malang, Maria Amir, an ideal breeding ground of class, intellect and let us not forget wealth to solicit. Or with luck to be solicited by, but I am told that one is a long shot and it is these very ‘impractical’ notions that have now propelled me into the ‘desperate measures need to be taken’ sub-category of shemale. Like I said …it has been a long couple of months.

A few days back I was reading ‘Matilda’ again, my attempt to take a break from Dawkins’ ‘Selfish Gene’, and I got to reminiscing about the Trunchbull in depth. That mean, middle-aged spinster that hung little boys from fans by their shoelaces for being ‘difficult’. The song these children were taught to help spell the word ‘Difficulty’ is especially telling, apparently nothing explains ‘difficult’ better than a string of married women. I find this amusing, seeing as I am being pegged by the same title for being precisely the opposite.
But it did get me thinking about whether or not my ‘me-ness’ was ‘difficult’. If so, how does one even begin to fix something like that? If the ‘you’ in ‘You’ is confusing, essentially flawed, odd, eccentric, impractical, maniacal or ‘difficult’…what then is the remedy? I can foresee nothing short of amnesia or a lobotomy, and I sincerely doubt that either of those have ever been considered cures for anything.

Some of my more noticeable ‘me’s’ include the fact that I cannot seem to enjoy company for very long, people inevitably tire me but I complain about being lonely far too much in my writing, my ranting and some of my more eloquent ravings.

I have tiny hand writing, miniscule really. I usually end up cramping twenty five to thirty five words (depending upon the size of the page) in one line and I write one, three-letter word, to the typed text size of a single alphabet. Apparently my writing has shrunk over the years and anyone who reads it looks at me strangely. At which point I promptly point out that regardless of its size, my hand writing is very tidy. I do not know what this last statement is meant to prove, but I never leave a conversation without it.

I cannot sleep unless I am dreaming. This is why I generally need to lie down for fifteen minutes contemplating something, anything that I can turn into a series of events to last me till morning. Yesterday, I believe I was thinking about roses falling out of people’s brains and power trucks. I do not know what I made of it but I am sure it was suitably difficult.

I am unable to drive without music. I become very nervous if I listen to traffic, and ironically the louder the music, the more confident I am driving anywhere. I also seem to have an unquenchable thirst for ‘roaming’. Luckily my job covers fuel cost, because I drive for no other reason than to listen to my play lists in a confined space, amidst constant motion. It provides the illusion that my going somewhere is actually Going Somewhere.

I love the Oxford English Dictionary, it is probably my favourite book of all time, and that is saying something. My pride purchase of late is the electronic version of said dictionary and I am ferociously looking up words that I had underlined in my tiny ‘word book’, but had never got around to searching. I like the fact that no matter how many new words I can collect, there will always be others. It is a continuity I am comfortable with.

I cannot get through a day without coke. I have tried. I can NOT.

I collect key chains for no reason and for all reasons. I have often claimed to my writing wall, that I will marry the man that can find me the perfect key chain. I do not know what a perfect key chain looks like. But I will. I currently have a single rung with 18 key chains woven in, it is heavy but it goes wherever I go. There are only 5 keys.

I buy irrational amounts of DVD’s and television series. Perhaps this compulsion of mine exists, because I avoid company and prefer the screen- big and small. The conversation is better and the faces are prettier. And I don’t have to change my clothes.

The contents of my purse are unending and I judge women with tiny purses harshly. They manage an elegance with this particular prospect that I cannot fathom. My hand bags are always large, lumpy and tattered. This could be because they always contain: a book I read, a book I write in, my word book / now an electronic dictionary, a piece of charcoal, a pencil, wallet, Key rung (with rings attached), tiny nail clipper, turquoise mirror, a case with my crystal pendulum (which I have stopped using, but like to think I could if I relinquish my cynicism…when), mint strips, kaajal, solid perfume, lip gloss, inhaler, vanilla/mint lotion, cell phone, iPod, some form of candy, Press pass and occasionally something to post to someone or the other. Which is why, I resent people who can ‘travel light’ it makes me feel neurotic. This is not something I need to actively be pressed upon with by complete strangers.

I am phobic about clean teeth, I brush mine four times a day and my recent attempt to try smoking because it hypothetically kills the appetite, has proven that I was meant to favour food over cigarettes. A love for cholesterol is the only passion I am comfortable sharing with my father. I ended up giving my full box of ‘More’s’ (sic) to the Baba Ji who I pick up key chains from at Ferozpur Road.

I am unable to write characters. I cannot willingly lend my emotions or impressions to something other than myself. Even though I realise that essentially a character would merely be an extension of my emotions, I can never give my critters names. I fear that they might become too independent. I am terrified I might lose my mind if they developed their own lives outside of it.

I find that I take comfort in chores, if they are my own. I like doing my laundry, cleaning my room, making my bed and sorting my shelves. It nurtures a notion of normalcy. Which is funny, since I apparently avoid normalcy.

I dislike diamonds. They are by far my least favourite stone, probably because they aren’t one. I collect semi-precious stones and pretend that they actually effect my mood, diamonds only mood-ify money. I loathe money. I do, however, relish the act of ‘buying’. I agree that this is oxymoronic…or maybe just Oxy.

I prefer the company of men to women but I am terrified of being a woman in their company.

I repeatedly make the mistake of choosing healthy skin, bright eyes and well nourished hair over a depleting waistline, via the consumption ratio of select edibles high in almost everything. Apparently in this particular equation three odds are not better than one.

I am haunted by the notion that matrimony could very likely be the ‘End of all that I am’ and relish the idea of leaving a world where it is the only solution to being female. However, I cannot for the life of me explain why I already know- in excruciating detail- what my wedding dress and shoes will look like.

I apparently have the power to make babies laugh. No matter where I see them, in street corners hanging by the arms of beggars or staring up at me in restaurants. If I smile, they smile. It has never ‘not’ happened. I do not know what this means.

I am incomplete without the presence of the colour ‘Turquoise’ in my life.

I can cook, when I choose. I find watching BBC Food one of the most therapeutic exercises known to woman, apart from reading Austen perhaps. I actually enjoy cooking. I conceal it well.

I believe altogether too much in Love at first sight, I do not however believe in Love that lasts.

I take intense, irrational pleasure in defying religious thought, ritual and belief. I have written in my will, that I want to be cremated when I die. I find the notion of flowing with the wind far more preferable to being buried in the earth. I think I shall be ignored when the time comes.

I judge people by their voice. Always. I either trust their voice or I don’t. Sometimes, if I cannot make out the tone I am looking for I look at their hands, but I usually get what I need from the voice.

I am impressed by people that are completely unimpressed by me. This is depressing.

I hate being ignored. I pretend, quite convincingly, that I prefer it. I do not know why I do this.

I miss having pets more than I miss my parents, my sisters or my lives. I miss horse riding at night, clad in bulky sweaters and talking to my dogs. I miss the sympathy that only animals can give and that I can take without feeling like a hypocrite.

I dislike ‘big’ things. Houses, cars, boats, egos. I have lived a life where ‘bigness’ was the only thing that mattered and I was always the shortest person in my class since kindergarten. I like Volkswagen’s and cottages.

I can talk a mile a minute and stay silent for days. My audience has nothing to do with it.

I take comfort in collecting, framing, taking and compiling collages and albums of old photographs, letters and mementos. I save candy wrappers of my favourite chocolates, ticket stubs, flowers and bottle caps.

I write for the sake of hearing a pencil scrape on paper. I cannot abide pen's. I only use them to fill out forms. If I can’t think, I write notes to my television, prayers to my hand lotion and odes to my bathroom sink.

I am unable to appreciate the allure of tea. I do not relish its taste and I cannot fathom the brand of ‘eastern chai’ writing that has spawned a generation of ‘exotic’ eastern authors. I shall say it ‘I do not like tea’…in anything but lotions and bath products.

I sometimes pretend to read books I haven’t to sound smart. Then I always go back and read them, so as not to feel dumb for needing to sound smart.

I hope – desperately- for a life that is unpredictable; filled with toe-tingling kisses; travel; mistakes; rainy days; spicy flavours; words; yellow flowers; camping trips; guitar twangs; poems; lingering promises; post-its on bathroom mirrors; road trips; bear hugs; sarcasm; coffee mugs; theatre tickets; running; bicycle rides; salsa dancing; useless reveries; mood swings, photographs; crest toothpaste; pizza; children’s laughter; old books; new shoes; falling out of skies; library cards; coloured glass; baby powder; flowing skirts; long letters; jukeboxes; paint brushes; grape candy; straw hats; horses; side walks; tip toes; sharpened pencils; blue pillows; flip flops; airport escalators; silver charms; song dedications; balloons; animated movies; swords; fairies; stars; old leather couches; big TV’s; grand parents hands; thunder storms; black and white movies; post cards; burritos and enchiladas; Green tea shampoo; old spectacles; coca cola; fire places; key chains; silly phone calls; cold nights in blankets with cups of coffee; back packs, concert T-shirts; lamp light; gardens; involuntary smiles and persisting madness.

I don’t mind it being Difficult.

On Finding Freedom

I have spent the past few weeks drowning in a sensation I cannot begin to identify. The trouble is that I am unable to decide if I am overwhelmed or underwhelmed. Whether I am drowning in a flood of colours, flavours and odours or whether I am drowning in a lack thereof. I am either beginning to believe that nothing exists or that everything exists. Either all is a lie or all is truth. This may have something to do with the fact that in my over-zealous bid to catch up on my 'religious know-how' for Oxford, I have begun reading the scriptures again.

The two Testaments and the Quran read together make for quite the grotesque picture, and much as I cannot empathise with a word in them, I find that I can't help being swallowed by the sheer volume of absolutes in dogma. I reckon, that I may actually be beginning to indulge a little in 'be all's' and 'end all's'. Not in the books, mind you, but in the notion of 'one or the other' that they all advocate.

This is not good.

I am not comfortable with absolutes. I loathe absolutes, and wavering between being numb or being a mortal universal conduit is not a pretty choice. I have taken to watching 'LOST' which I suppose is appropriate in my present position, and for some reason I find that I desperately want to climb a mountain. I am undecided about whether I want to climb it for the climb, the view from the summit or to foster the fall.

I have finished reading 'Simulcra and Simulation' by Jean Baudrillard. I thought a pinch of nihilism or secularism would keep me balanced while I was wading through all the scriptures but a certain observation is not letting go of me.

"The apocalypse is finished. Today it is the precession of the neutral, of forms of the neutral and of indifference…all that remains, is the fascination for desert like and indifferent forms, for the very operation of the system that annihilates us. Now, fascination (in contrast to seduction, which was attached to appearances, and to dialectical reason, which was attached to meaning) is a nihilistic passion par excellence, it is the passion proper to the mode of disappearance. We are fascinated by all forms of disappearance, of our disappearance. Melancholic and fascinated, such is our general situation in an era of involuntary transparency."

Ironically enough -in retrospect- I cannot begin to comprehend what any of this means, but I know that it meant something when I first read it.

An odd, intangible illusion of freedom or freedom from illusion.

Now isn't that the question?

Another Little Mermaid Diary Entry

24 September 1992

Dear Diary,
Today I watched a scary movie called 'Labrynth'. It is about a girl who loses her baby brother to the Goblin King. The Goblin King is always nice to the girl. He buys her a ball gown and he even dances with her at a party. He gives her many gifts and makes her special.
I think the movie is scary because she likes the Goblin King even though he is evil in the end.

Maria Amir

Little Mermaid Diary Entry

Late Night Time
3rd September 1992

Dear Diary,
I got a gift from mom today. It was an Ariel doll, she has a wedding dress and tail costume to help her turn back into a mermaid.
I have decided that when I marry Prince Eric, I want to keep my brown hair. Brown hair people are more smarter than red hair people and the red hair people are smarter than yellow hair people. Einstein says so.
(To clarify I have since checked and am unable to find proof to support that Einstein actually vocalised the following sentiments. However he was a 'notably smart' guy, I'm sure he thought it.)

But I have decided that I want to keep Ariel's green eyes because Green eye people are pretty-er than Brown eye people. Even Blue eye people are pretty-er.

Maybe Prince Eric will take one look at my Brown eyes and not want to marry me.
Maybe no one will?
I don't think I like my eyes.


Maria Amir

Swimming in Swan Lake

I find it increasingly odd how moments surprise you, surpass you, catch you as they fragment you into a million tiny pieces. Ironically enough, these moments almost always end up being the In-betweens, Go-betweens or Tween’s of time: a split-second leading on to a minute, where you step out of your car to open the gate and somewhere in the span of those meandering 22 seconds you feel all of your senses rise up and answer a calling to something you can’t begin to explain.

A real moment of clarity almost never lasts more than a micro-chasm.
You are altogether too aware of the wind blowing in your face, of the blossoms serenading the air around you, and you can hear the faint strains of Tchaikovsky’s ‘Sleeping Beauty’ as you begin to hum “I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream, I know you the gleam in your…’ and just like that it is over and you make your way back to the car. Life and time start again. It’s kind of like staring into a fire, or at a candle…something about the flickering makes everything still and the stillness makes you stand out.

I find that I am craving Time-tweens more and more these days. I see myself as the connoisseur of in-between seasons, the accountant of go-between emotions and the tortured Time tweener of unwritten passages that blind me in all the precious split seconds that I have lost from my life. It is odd how we never stop to consider how many chasms of ideas we dismiss because we just happen to find them skulking in doorways, driveways, hallways and run away’s. I triumph as the troubadour of dreams and possibilities, coveting new thoughts and old things.

I think it best to surmise my current self with Swan Lake.
You see, I have this thing about Tchaikovsky.
I am in love with his soul.
Have been for quite some time now.

I believe it started when I was about fourteen and I first heard it playing on my grandfather’s computer as he was clicking away at a bridge tournament with his CPU. I remember that I was holding a tea-tray and I froze as I heard the strains of music through the door. The eclipse must have lasted a long time, enough time for the tea to turn cold and for me to face repercussions for said turning of tea tables. But what I remember more was being haunted…hunted by the music of the self proclaimed ‘Creator of Captivating Nightmares’. I remember sneaking into my grandfathers room while he was asleep that night and stealing that CD. I remember switching off all the lights in my tiny room and plugging in my headphones.
I remember listening to it over and over again at full volume until it consumed me.

That captivating nightmare never really ceases to capture my emotions and my fears. I truly believe that the First Act of Swan Lake engages every spectrum of human emotion. Those seven and a half minutes are a lifetime if one can see them, read them and feel them fully.

Today I ended up dodging work and spending the entire day with my mother in her new house. As we sat in here atrium, engulfed by that gorgeous in-between seasonal sentiment that is both Sun and Wind at the same time, she had Swan Lake running in the background. The magic flooded every doorway, every window and every locked lost yearning I didn’t know I didn’t know. The crescendo at the end of the first act actually prompted me to do something I have never done before. My mother and I were both sitting in creaky cane chairs and she was having her tea as I sipped my morning coke. We were both painting our toe nails letting the strains of sound flow through us as I found myself picking up a red vial. I realise that it is an odd progression to have to experience all of one's ‘coming of age’ moments at the age of 25 - seeing as my real-time coming of age was a decade squandered in limbo - but this just happens to be one of my bigger break through's. I have never worn red as a colour, not in anything.
I am strictly a Turquoise person.
Still I found myself finally break an unwritten proclamation I had bound myself to at the oh-so precocious age of seven: Thou shall never wear red nail polish.
Let it be Thought a Wicked Thing To Do.
Let that Thought Be Adhered To Hereafter.
Only loud, over-confident, ‘womanly’ women wear red nail polish. Thou shall never join the ranks of women who are confident in their appearance and their ability and/or desire to attract the opposite sex.

I like the fact that I came of age, listening to Tchaikovsky, espcially the gospel of Swan Lake. I have often wondered how I would translate Swan Lake, into words if I were given the chance. I have wondered whether Tchaikovsky’s chords would speak as unflinchingly as Dylan’s poetry or Leadbelly’s musings or Bowie’s brashness.

Today, this is what I heard:
(Act 1: Waltz - Translation)

It is the ‘stepping out’ of my shadow that scares me
I so lack the nobility that every seeker must possess in spades

And you whisper to me, crouched behind curtains of dances we never shared
I seek your face in a mirror I am too frightened to look at
And I know you long to corner me:
comb my hair,
sing me songs,
play me prayers

I recognise your hope,
It hides behind my hurt.
We both hunt for our humanity
.
We are skating along the stars,
Wearing our scars with pride
You catch me as I fly and it costs you your fall.
I am Lost in the Losing, Loving and Looking
So I will Run again, Hide again, Hate again.
And you will not stop me…again.

But I shall miss you.
As all the Others scavenge your soul for scraps of shelter
I miss you as you long to give of yourself to Someone…Anyone.
Someone Else, Anyone Else.

Their voices, their talking, their taunting
Is more yours now, than you were ever mine
And I stand silently, seeing myself slip and stumble in your eyes.
I simmer as I catch you finding the someone else
To translate for you the Me that I used to be with Us.

So now you shall wait,
Now you shall wonder
Now you shall wander.

No longer will I give of my madness to save you.
You are no longer worthy of the wonder in me.

But if I ask you to run with me,
From me,
For me,
Behind me,
After me,
To me…will you?

Meet me in my shadow
So that I can count your eye lashes
Meet me in my shadow
So that I can see the colour of your cravings

Be the You that knows the I in Me
There are no ‘I’s in Them.
We will be safe.
There will be no ‘We’ in their World.

So, make that choice… ask me.

I shall say yes…
I shall run, I shall scream, I shall fade, I shall follow, I shall flounder
…but I shall say yes
I shall send you my dreams in a basket
If you would hand me your hopes

… I shall say ‘Yes’.

The Music Muse

Well, apparently I have been tapped, by the one chain letter I cannot possibly ignore.Here’s to the iPod Shuffle, and no that is not an oxymoron.
The Rules Goeth Thus: a) To be putting your player on shuffle. b) For each question, to be pressing the next button to get your answer. c) You must write the name of the song no matter what. Ergo there is no cheating, Bah!

1.IF SOMEONE SAYS “IS THIS OKAY?” YOU SAY?
‘Dance Ballerina Dance’… Nat King Cole (Makes for a perfect response, I tell you)

2.WHAT WOULD BEST DESCRIBE YOUR PERSONALITY?
‘Travellin’ Through’… Dolly Parton (I’m a puzzle I must figure out… )

3.WHAT DO YOU LIKE IN A GUY/GIRL?
‘By the River Dark’ … Leonard Cohen (Trust that to be a creepy, ominous prophetical, pathetical mess from the get go!)

4.HOW DO YOU FEEL TODAY?
‘Roll another Joint’ … Tom Petty (Its bloody genius, the iPod! Prophetic, No … Sheeriously!)

5.WHAT IS THE PURPOSE OF YOUR LIFE?
‘Circle Game’ … Joni Mitchell (And the seasons they go round and round and the painted ponies go up and down, we’re captive on a carousel of time. We can’t return we can only look behind from where we came, and go round and round and round in the circle game…)

6.WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO?

‘The Loony Toons Theme’ (That’s all Folks!)

7.WHAT DO YOUR FRIENDS THINK OF YOU?
‘Hello, I Love you’ … The Doors (Aww…shucks!)

8.WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR PARENTS?
‘Bring it on Home to Me’ … Sam Cooke (Mayhaps, mayhaps indeed…)

9.WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT VERY OFTEN?

‘I’m Changing the Words’ … The Louvin Brothers (No kidding, words are my wonder)

10.WHAT IS 2+2?
‘Dance of the Infidels’ … Bud Powel (No Shit Sherlock, that goes for ALL kinds of math for you)

11.WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR BEST FRIEND?
‘Khilona Jan Kar’ … Rafi (Umm morbid much, or is that an omen? I’m ignoring this one. As if an iPod is any kind of judge of character anyway. I mean, that’s just mean)

12.WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
‘We Don’t Stand a Chance’ … Barbara Streisand (Hahaha, Enough Said! Its raining its pouring my love life is boring)

13.WHAT IS YOUR LIFE STORY?
'Let Love In'... Goo Goo Dolls (...)

14.WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP?
‘Honest Lullaby’… Joan Baez ( … And they slept at home resentfully covered in their dreams. Forfeiting my A’s for zero’s, future’s unforeseen)

15.WHAT DO YOU THINK WHEN YOU SEE THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
‘Wouldn’t it be Lovely?’… Audrey Hepburn (Yup, wouldn’t it? Because all I DO want is a room somewhere far away from the cold night air with one enormous chair, lots of chocolate, warm face, warm hands, warm feet and sitting absaBLOOMALUTELY Still!)

16.WHAT DO YOUR PARENTS THINK OF YOU?

‘You Cant Always Get What You Want’ … Rolling Stones (Oh Har-Dee-Bloody-Har Har!!)

17.WHAT WILL YOU DANCE TO AT YOUR WEDDING?
‘Shall we Dance’ … The King and I (Oh Hoopiliciousness all round! 1-2-3 And!)

18.WHAT WILL THEY PLAY AT YOUR FUNERAL?
‘Bye Bye Love’ … Simon and Garfunkel (I’m not complaining, there are worse ways to go, “Ta!” to y’all too)

19.WHAT IS YOUR HOBBY/INTEREST?
‘Kung Fu Fighting’ …The Village People (Don’t I wish!)

20.WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST SECRET?
‘Queen Jane Approximately’ … Bob Dylan (And your Father to your sister, he explains…That you’re tired of yourself and all of your creations)

21.WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR FRIENDS?
‘All the Madmen’… David Bowie (Sheeshdomness this is too perfect! Because I’d rather be here with the mad men than all the sad men roaming free)

....Apparently I am not at liberty to exempt anyone who reads this as being tagged to do the same. Otherwise the wrath of the Music Muse shall be upon all your selves. Tune-less-ness shall be thy curse.I’m taking the last one back, ‘Tune-less-ness’ sounds like a worse curse (Alleged ‘tune-less-ness’ injected for dramatic effect) than Death.

The "Hoop La" Heart Finally Beats

I’m not quite sure how to describe my current state of euphoria, or even if it is possible to describe such a state at all. I am not accustomed to euphoria as an honest emotion, unless I am fabricating it for the benefit of an audience.
But euphoria this is…

There is something to be said for the power of an acceptance letter, any acceptance letter I suppose, but especially a university acceptance letter. The multitudes of silent emotions that race within you in those five to six minutes span a ridiculous spectrum. There is the apprehension that comes with finding the innocuous envelope and seeing it much smaller than you would have hoped. The mingled mass of dread and desperate hope as you open it and the sheer, resounding breathlessness that collects in the stillness as you read the first sentence. An eternity skulks in the silent corners of those masquerading minutes.
It can make or break that moment, that day, that year, that you.

“Dear Ms Amir,
I am delighted to tell you that your application for admission to the University of Oxford as a graduate student has been successful…”

It is oddly discomfiting the sheer volume of insecurities a mere letter can expunge. It almost makes it seem as if all of your earlier apprehensions were somehow silly, almost trivialising everything you have been; been through or done to get here. It is an odd experience. Truly...

All of a sudden there is a validation to simply being ‘you’, that you realise perfectly you should not have needed but are overjoyed at having all the same.

Lahore is beginning to look pretty these days.

Traffic isn’t horrific, it is bustling.

The weather isn’t rank, it’s misty.

The people aren’t boors, they ‘just don’t know better’.

You are suddenly saintly in your handing out of unbridled forgiveness, to those that do, don’t and shouldn’t deserve it. Nothing matters now that you’ll finally be out to make your own way, be whoever you could now be. You are no longer dejected about not being able to share this with your family. You are no longer vindictive about wanting to rub it into their faces that you made it. You are not upset about the scores of people who couldn't possibly be happy for you, are blatantly jealous or are looking at you with their raised eyebrows and “You couldn’t ‘possibly be serious’, Oxford…You! Pffffft!” expressions.

You are singing, painting and running every day and have finally learned how to play ‘Suzanne’ on your guitar. You are no longer worried about your job being a resplendent exercise in the art of time suckage, because it is giving you time to write and you are... like a crazy, obsessed TV-movie version of compulsive author. You are reading like there is no tomorrow, theology, philosophy and for some reason a lot of CS Lewis and Tolkein again. You are picturing yourself sitting and sketching in the purple meadows of Magdalen College and you catch a peek of yourself at the Bodelian. You are hoping you still remember how to ride a bicycle. You are beginning to forget the face of the woman who – upon hearing that you were hoping to be able to continue your Masters in Women’s Studies with a PhD in Comparative Religions – said that girls should really not study so much to prevent them from ‘adjusting to life’.

You are finally losing weight out of sheer determination and have not had a ‘real’ coke in three days… this is the only dark cloud hanging over you. You are filling out visa forms and accommodation forms and scholarship forms and you are absolutely loving it, because it means that all of this is real and not just in your head. You are dreaming ridiculous dreams about applying for a job at Penguin Publishing’s or the BBC and are not stopping yourself from dreaming so. You are beginning to believe in big dreams. You are finally letting go of hopeless strains of ‘would be, could be, may be’ romances that danced around in your head but never happened because you were too scared to even smile in their direction.

You are making plans with a ‘real’ time frame and one that keeps getting narrower and you love that. You are wallowing in the nostalgic irony of how five years away from your father, your former self, your former corners and your former fears could have possibly brought you here. You are not sure if it is luck or hope, but don’t want to jinx it so you send a silent thanks to whatever helped you get here. You are buying balloons and almost daily narcissus posies from random street boys that give you an honest smile. You have taken to using ‘Hoop la’ at the end of almost every second sentence that comes out of your mouth. You have developed the ability to smile at select strangers, especially children in backseats looking out of the rear window shield.

You are buying Green Tea shampoo’s, Crest toothpaste and tangerine Body gels and have forgotten to purchase the toilet paper and cotton swabs on your grocery list. You spent almost RS 400 at the Al Fatah candy counter yesterday on a composite of skittles, crazy roll-up bubble gum and marshmallows.

You are dancing every evening in your room at 3 AM for No reason,
for Every reason,
for Any reason.

You are jumping out of your skin, bubbling out of your mind, skating on sunshine and walking on air.

It can’t possibly last long.

An Hour is Seven Years and Fourteen Minutes

I do not know if I am still here or where ‘here’ is for that matter. Lately I find myself extremely conscious of two things, the first being that I shall turn 25 this year and have almost nothing to show for it and the second that I may just hate the fact that I am a woman.

Both these observations met me a week ago. They told me that they had travelled through a month of absolute hellishness as I slithered in my blasé lethargy. Work has been non-existent of late, even for those of us with steady employment and I have spent my hours at the office reading a new book almost daily. Presently I find myself immersed in the travel diaries of hobos with excerpts from Kerouac, Guthrie and Faulkner. At home I find myself painting absolutely nothing just because I happen to enjoy the acrid aroma of turpentine and watching a string of films. My skin is ashen, my morale is at an all time low despite the fact that I am over the moon about my break-out moment approaching in September and my mother tells me my teeth are slightly crooked again!

But I am writing. For real it seems, with characters and some semblance of storyline. Unfortunately it appears my writing and my characters will lead to nothing short of a ‘father-daughter’ cliché. Perhaps I need to get this dynamic out of my system, my hope chest and my imagination once and for all. I do not really know if I am writing or performing an exorcism which is indicative of the vehemence with which I am taking to it.

Still, where is the sense in arguing with the dark confines of a hyper-conscious and endlessly spiteful Muse?

Observations Alpha and Omega met me while I was re-watching all of the Batman films for the umpteenth time. I am going over trilogies again, I began with Star Wars, then the Lord of the Rings, Superman, the X-men and now Batman. I saw myself dressed in a Batman (not bat girl, I can’t abide that woman) costume lying on a shrinks couch admitting that I had ‘Daddy issues’ and needed some help. I also heard Bat-self mention that I was almost 25 and I couldn’t believe that I still revered cartoon heroes more than real ones. I also confessed to a dirty dream I had about Christian Bale. The fact that I would turn 25 this year meant that it had been 18 years to the day I first decided to make an escape from myself. I was sitting in my tiny pink room planning on how to go about writing my first true confessional to my father and then running for my life. It also struck me that 25 is just five years away from 30 and that 30 meant a strike-off point for being an independent woman with a career, a husband and a baby on the way and that I was no where near any of those things. Somehow my mind jumped straight from Single, Fabulous and Thirty to ‘I am going to die ALL alone’ and this prophetic hyperbole was my cue to hyperventilate.

I didn’t hyperventilate.

And the lack of reaction is more disturbing.

Observation Omega met me while I was driving in Defence. I parked in front of the Mc Donald’s jogging park in Y-block and yearned for the familiarity of being flippant about important things. I do this often, stalk people from my car, while listening to some folk strains and sipping my coke. It hit me that I didn’t not like being a woman because of all the man issues, or the marriage issues or the appearance issues…I didn’t like being so damn ‘aware’ of everything: my emotions, my insecurities and my persistent longing. For the first time in my life I curse my imminent need to find ‘meaning’ in every damn thing I read, see, touch, watch or hear. I hate the fact that I can’t dismiss anything in my head and that I cant be ‘meaningless’ about things that – by every definition- ought to just be left meandering without definition. I always marvel at how people can spill around double entendres of ‘meaningless encounters’ and ‘meaningless conversations’, because I wouldn’t even know how to go about initiating either. Sure I talk gibberish more fluently than I talk sense, but there is always an emotional solvent to douse out the ‘meaningless-ness” of it all.

I don’t know if this curse is about me being a woman or about being just me, but I long to rid myself of it. It has been fourteen minutes spent staring at my computer screen mocking me. At times like this a flashing cursor and a blank sheet of paper are the most formidable of foes one can encounter....in any realm. That thing that people always say about how all girls are the same because they all think they are different, I wish I could truly believe it.

Its been fourteen minutes.

I am resolved to believe it.

Of Dark Beauty and Light Betrayals

I spy with my little eye something that begins with the sound of stillness.

It is rather beautiful… this time, this winter, this overwhelming sense of quiet. I believe I am even grateful for the constant power outages in Lahore these days, because there is a lot to be said for forced nostalgia brought on by the company of grandparents sitting by a fire in a candle lit room for two hours every evening. We talk about nothing and everything, as my Nani ‘tch tch’s’ and my Nana and I spend our daily load shedding interval debating religion and bashing it to bits with rhetorical philosophy, poetry and prognostication. I am also morbidly aware of the feeling of dread that lurks under my skin as I ‘truly enjoy’ myself talking to him, because I know that he might not last too long and that this moment, this particular quandary and this particular monologue might haunt me in the future.

I find myself studying his face while I try to argue with his mind, hoping to somehow simultaneously learn from both. I find that his face is a better teacher than his mind, because his mind can seldom entertain arguments, but his face contorts every time I stump something up there in that world he lives in. I love seeing it happen.

I have discovered that I genuinely love the dark - that I always have and perhaps always will. A few years back I used to think this was part of my para-literal quest to appear ‘mysterious’ whatever that means, but now I realise that I have always found darkness comforting. I can never understand it when people mention how pitch-blackness is foreboding. I always find bright lights foreboding. Light enhances every flaw and underlines every hidden thing, putting it out there in the open for everyone to see. Light uncovers a good deal of effort spent keeping secrets, and I have never been one for sunny days or brightness. Give me grey skies and impending storms any day. Contrary to what people presume, I dont enjoy darknes because it is morbid, but because it is soft, unsure and hazy. I am also partial to dim lit rooms and I never light more than one light-bulb.
Ironically enough this realisation comes at a time where I am re-reading Kundera’s ‘Unbearable lightness of Being’ and I am quite sure that he didn’t mean for his words to be taken so literally, it probably kills the romanticism of his impressions. I am well aware that had this been my novel and my title, I would take offence to a reader not delving deeper into my supposed sentimentality.

I can never figure out if I like Kundera, if I think that his subjective abstractness is genuine or put on, which is why I tend to re-read him a lot. It’s not like Kafka, where I know that re-reading the words will re-reveal revelation. But this time around there are a couple of quotes that pinned me “From that time on she knew that beauty is a world betrayed, the only way we can encounter it is if its persecutors have overlooked it somehow” and “Betrayal means breaking rank. Betrayal means breaking ranks and going off into the unknown”.

I have been thinking a lot about what I find beautiful and the fact that it almost always contradicts the accepted perception of beauty. I find scary ‘beautiful’. Any and everything that I know intimidates me or that I find myself incapable of assimilating, I find beautiful. This can’t be good. Such a masochistic notion of beauty only means that one will be disappointed by it. This means that I set myself up for disappointment and mask it in the poetry of proposed beauty. What a load of shit!

The second thing that the combination of winter, quiet, procrastination and blues has brought to the forefront is ‘betrayal’. Ever since I regained some semblance of confidence in myself by getting into great grad schools and being short-listed for full scholarships, I have been battling betrayal. All this, all my chances and all of my freedom can be pegged down to the betrayal of a father and ‘the breaking of ranks'. Is that really a good starting point? Is the fact that I can’t stand - or seem to follow- rules a curse? There are two kinds of people that really, truly bother me… the ‘Too’ people and the ‘Just’ people. People who can’t help but throw in a synonymous ‘Its too cold, its too high, its too long, its too easy’ and the ‘Its just a cold, its just a building, its just the sky’. One eulogises and the other trivializes and I can’t stomach either. The problem is that the world can largely be segregated into these two people and their flock. The variables are few and far between and I am growing tired of searching for someone who I don’t need to explain, defend or sell myself to.

I just read a post on a blog I tend to frequent where the writer said “… I wondered at their stupidity for having allowed themselves to love someone so unreservedly” and for some reason that I cannot fathom, I feel horribly embarrassed.
I feel terribly Betrayed by my search for Beauty.


Well, now time passed and now it seems

Everybody's having them dreams.

Everybody sees themselves walkin' around with no one else.

Half of the people can be part right all of the time,

Some of the people can be all right part of the time.

But all the people can't be all right all the time

I think Abraham Lincoln said that.

"I'll let you be in my dreams if I can be in yours,"

...I said that.
– Bob Dylan (Talking World War 3 Blues)

The Business of Breaking Hearts

He was eighteen years old, when she was eight and all she ever remembered was having fantasies about him paying her a compliment.
She had navigated all of her movements towards attaining this one, ever-elusive goal. She followed him around like a faithful puppy, bought his drinks from the kitchen even when he didn't ask for them and laughed at all of his jokes.

And finally here she was…
Perched next to him on top of a park bench in the midst of a warm summer afternoon. She alternated her time by glancing periodically at the peonies she had gathered and sneaking a peek at his profile, which was at least three feet above hers. He looked down at her and smiled.

“You, kiddo, will break many-a-heart when you’re older”.

She couldn't’t help but feel let down. It probably showed on her face too, but she was clever enough to bow her head so that her bangs covered her eyes in a shroud of ebony foliage. She had been longing for something simple, nice, warm…something articulated just for her. Just one sentence that she could pocket and keep forever. A quote about her eyes perhaps, or her smile, but this….well this wasn’t even really a compliment.
It was nothing really, just the promise of something …someday.

She was heartbroken, utterly desolate, as she flashed a cheeky smile up at him.

“But I don’t want to break hearts.”

“You will. Every girl wants to break hearts when she grows up.”

She decided then and there that she never wanted to be noticed or praised.
Never wanted to have this power.
Never wanted to deal with hearts.

Hearts were a messy and tiresome business and she wanted no part in it. Ironically enough, the more she denied her emotions, the clearer it became to her that she could break hearts if she chose to. That sentence stuck in her head like a salacious spell cast in skin “Every girl wants to break hearts when she grows up”. Did this mean that every girl was wicked or did it mean that every girl was weak? Why did love always require that something or someone 'break' or 'fall' or 'die'? Why were there no happy synonyms?

No, she wanted no part in the ‘heart business’, she didn’t want to 'break them' or 'capture them' or 'change them' or 'keep them'. Most of all she was scared that she might begin to like it if she started. That she too might begin to derive the same perverse pleasure she had seen streak the faces of so many girls her age. The coy glances, the batting of eye-lids, the perfectly timed flashes of pearly teeth…all designed and choreographed meticulously to break hearts.

Killing with kindness, they call it.

She couldn’t want that could she? The facade of emotion to mask emotions that were already hiding from themselves.
But a part of her still thought she might be good at it if she ever tried it.
She might even learn to like it.

This part was, predictably, the heart.