As it so happens, I find that I am not above writing out my New Year reveries, which is testimony to the fact that I am not the proverbial party girl this year…or any year for that matter. I am NOT complaining, or if I am than I am doing so with a much-displaced sense of grandeur. What is it about the holidays that prevents us from treating them with the blatant disregard that we offer to almost every other day? Is it the fact that we are all too aware that others are out partying it up all over the world?
If it is the latter, that still shouldn't be such a pickle. People party all the time and I am always not one of them. Why does it bug me on New Year's Eve? Perhaps my downfall is the fact that I refuse to immerse myself in the holiday blues with dedication, which is somewhat sadder than being sad on said day. There is an age-old contrived mechanism for the would-be depressives to attain new lows on New Year's Eve: Joni Mitchell records, fire places, frost and morbid TV films on Hallmark. I refuse to allow myself this treasure. I, instead resort to watching an animated Disney feature, this year its 'Cars', with a small tub of vanilla frickin' ice cream next to my Sui Northern-warning-antonym-of-a-heater. My play list invariably involves Chuck Berry, The Beegees and this year, in memoriam, James Brown. I vehemently refuse to let the blues set in. Elvis be damned (for this one night only).
Morbidity needs to be embraced, or so say the 'oh-so wise' sects of our post modernist literature. Morbidity makes us achieve unattained levels of genius, they say. I am not morbid and I can't carry it even with my best effort, which I have yet to exert for anything. I can't wear plaid colours and I cant not laugh at the dilemma that is destiny. My best effort at morbidity is that I admit New Year's Eve sucks. That's it, that's all the bitter venom I can spew forth.
I subscribe very dearly to the edict 'Save the best for Last'. Thereby on my dying day I am very likely to spew forth some words of such eloquent-sage-genius that the Angel of Death, himself will have to nod his head and say 'Aaho, changa aakhiya!' Yes my Angel prefers pedestrian. Every New Years Eve forces me to look my life over, which is why I hate this blasted holiday. The Grinch and I are synonyms today, which hardly helps matters considering the fact that the Grinch mostly had dibs on Christmas - but the sentiment still applies. 'Looking my life over' isn't high on my list of priorities, which apparently is a problem. There is one song that sums up my entire couch potato, laugh-through-life, no-goals-barred philosophy on life, love and all that could come in between if I ever let it - "Cleaning Windows" by Van Morrison.
I heard leadbelly and blind lemon
On the street where I was born
Sonny Terry, Brownie Mcghee,
Muddy waters singin 'Im a rolling stone'
I went home and read my christmas humphreys book on zen
Curiosity killed the cat
Kerouacs dharma bums and on the road
Whats my line?
Im happy cleaning windows
Take my time
I'll see you when my love grows
Baby dont let it slide
Im a working man in my prime
Cleaning windows...
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Carbohydrate Thinking
I think I have been 'thinking' all together too much these days. It isnt even a specific type of thought that I have managed to entangle myself in, just random musings of absolutely everything and consequently nothing.
Too much thinking is definitely not good for me. Its a lot like carbs in that manner. The more you indulge yourself the more it sticks to your ass!
Not that that ever stopped me from indulging.
Friday, December 22, 2006
Boxes over Bedlam
I fear that my dream of laughing life away may be floundering.
Apparently it is not a responsible notion to have such a limited goal. I have been told, at great length, that it is not practical to expect so little of life. That writing in one's journal and backpacking through the years is not a suitable lifeline to hope for.
WHY?
In essence it is perhaps the hardest pinnacle to crave, it is the deepest struggle - to be happy for as long and as often as one can be. How is this not a noble enough cause? Why do we need to say that we want to 'get rich' and 'famous' to be taken seriously.
They ask me what I want to do and I respond, "I want to be insanely, ecstatically, fanatically happy".
They stare at me and blink thereby...
Picking up from the nonsensical ramblings of my last entry, the question lingers in different tangents. I find that regardless of conformity the struggle to be true to myself is ever-pervasive. It is still there, but it seems to be getting easier. Atleast I like to think it is. The last week has been a productive one, I seldom have those. Sometimes it takes forced company to get over ones' phobias. And noone can deny the phobias are many. I discover that when coerced in company im not half bad. Good even, when need be.
Heres to victory! This probably calls for a 'victus' battle cry at midnight in a gladiator outfit.
I don't have a gladiator outfit. Plus i'd have to shave my legs, so i'll scratch that.
Back to the mythical point that I need to prove exists and hence probably doesnt. Why is it that most of us (political correctness ever important) bracket the romance department. I have always nurtured the subjective belief that a perfect other exists. He is real and one fine day a not-so-random shopping mall, rainy street or bookstore will bring us together. Lightening will strike and the Beachboys will play 'Wouldnt it be nice' in the backdrop. If that be the case than what are the perfect similarities and perfect differences that make this 'other' perfect? Just a notch over or under the prescribed recipe and the fabled love is either over or under cooked. I watched the little Mermaid for the umpteenth time yesterday. 'The seaweed is indeed greener in somebody else's Lake' - I mean poor, demented Ariel simply needed to fall in love with a human. It just so happened that the first one stupid enough to fall off his boat in the middle of a hailstorm was a prince who was handsome. But what if she had been practical and decided to test most human men before 'choosing' the one. Whom would she have picked or would she not have picked at all and waited. I mean what happened after the rainbow glittered over Ariels wedding boat?
Is that how the notion 'love' came into play?
Did it simply become too hard to wait for perfection, think about it? Thereby the dependence on one all-powerful emotion that would help us overlook all the cracks and the flaws and settle. When all the signs blink red, one can say that love was the culprit. Love was the noose. Love was the excecutioner. Love made it 'worth it'. I have always longed to say those words, hopefully not with regret as most of us do.
Nevertheless, had we waited for Mr or Ms Right...perhaps love wouldn't have been that important. The pieces would fit, it would be perfect. The 'practicality' of 'perfection' would easily win over the silly stigma that is emotion. Two people who were 'made for each other' would be happy and the x factor wouldn't need to exist. Monogamy would be overruled by biology (which lets face it, it often is) and ecastacy by comfort.
Boxes over Bedlam...
It is the most loathesome notion ever.
Apparently it is not a responsible notion to have such a limited goal. I have been told, at great length, that it is not practical to expect so little of life. That writing in one's journal and backpacking through the years is not a suitable lifeline to hope for.
WHY?
In essence it is perhaps the hardest pinnacle to crave, it is the deepest struggle - to be happy for as long and as often as one can be. How is this not a noble enough cause? Why do we need to say that we want to 'get rich' and 'famous' to be taken seriously.
They ask me what I want to do and I respond, "I want to be insanely, ecstatically, fanatically happy".
They stare at me and blink thereby...
Picking up from the nonsensical ramblings of my last entry, the question lingers in different tangents. I find that regardless of conformity the struggle to be true to myself is ever-pervasive. It is still there, but it seems to be getting easier. Atleast I like to think it is. The last week has been a productive one, I seldom have those. Sometimes it takes forced company to get over ones' phobias. And noone can deny the phobias are many. I discover that when coerced in company im not half bad. Good even, when need be.
Heres to victory! This probably calls for a 'victus' battle cry at midnight in a gladiator outfit.
I don't have a gladiator outfit. Plus i'd have to shave my legs, so i'll scratch that.
Back to the mythical point that I need to prove exists and hence probably doesnt. Why is it that most of us (political correctness ever important) bracket the romance department. I have always nurtured the subjective belief that a perfect other exists. He is real and one fine day a not-so-random shopping mall, rainy street or bookstore will bring us together. Lightening will strike and the Beachboys will play 'Wouldnt it be nice' in the backdrop. If that be the case than what are the perfect similarities and perfect differences that make this 'other' perfect? Just a notch over or under the prescribed recipe and the fabled love is either over or under cooked. I watched the little Mermaid for the umpteenth time yesterday. 'The seaweed is indeed greener in somebody else's Lake' - I mean poor, demented Ariel simply needed to fall in love with a human. It just so happened that the first one stupid enough to fall off his boat in the middle of a hailstorm was a prince who was handsome. But what if she had been practical and decided to test most human men before 'choosing' the one. Whom would she have picked or would she not have picked at all and waited. I mean what happened after the rainbow glittered over Ariels wedding boat?
Is that how the notion 'love' came into play?
Did it simply become too hard to wait for perfection, think about it? Thereby the dependence on one all-powerful emotion that would help us overlook all the cracks and the flaws and settle. When all the signs blink red, one can say that love was the culprit. Love was the noose. Love was the excecutioner. Love made it 'worth it'. I have always longed to say those words, hopefully not with regret as most of us do.
Nevertheless, had we waited for Mr or Ms Right...perhaps love wouldn't have been that important. The pieces would fit, it would be perfect. The 'practicality' of 'perfection' would easily win over the silly stigma that is emotion. Two people who were 'made for each other' would be happy and the x factor wouldn't need to exist. Monogamy would be overruled by biology (which lets face it, it often is) and ecastacy by comfort.
Boxes over Bedlam...
It is the most loathesome notion ever.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Sheep in Shepard's clothing
The compound mysteries of the universe seem so base when we view them through the eyes and hear them through the ears of others. Looking out at the cosmos can only be described along the premise of words that have been used by others in the past ‘vast, magnificent, deep, dark…’ We are so impenetrably content to continue along the cliché’s set out before us. Our competence measured only by what we can reproduce rather than what we can produce. The finalities of ‘objectivity’ often prove disconcerting - it is rather taxing to discover that the human composite is broader and simultaneously more bracketed than any other species on the planet. We are a confounded race, denounced by our perfections and announced by our imperfections. Only a mirage of preconceived notions and sell-out sycophants can survive on the basis of copying over creating.
It is a parallel of impossibility. To know not what becomes of the mind and binds the soul to precepts and concepts that need outside sponsorship. For some reason it is never enough for us human beings to believe in something unless we can convince others to do the same. An abstract collage of ‘wills’ and ‘wont’s’ does nothing to dispel the notion that we are no more than our compound being - perhaps not even a little. By and large we do not exist beyond the dust that forms us and the ideas that free us.
Any idea travels its very own, intrinsic wormhole before it is complete, indeed, if it ever is so. If every new thought holds its premise in an old thought or interconnected thought and if every new idea is layered with the undertones of logic, creativity and time – how does ‘creation’ take place? A more apt description would be re-creation and that too, over lifetimes and lifeless lines. According to Plato, an artist is quite passive during the act of creation. Indeed the artist is quite literally in the grips of the creative process. Such an account of creativity hardly flatters the artist. Not only is the artist’s ‘activity' inherently passive but the responsibility for creation is transferred elsewhere. Thereby, underlining the age-old gap that frames the un-availed transit between the Philosopher and the Artist – a reluctant admiration but a discord in algorithms. Generally speaking it is the formers dependence on logic and boundaries and the latter’s disdain for them that separate these two tangents.
A true Artist is a romantic in either parody or principle and a true Philosopher is a realist in both. Many have called it the unbridgeable gap even though many have tried to cross the divide by taking what is politely termed as the ‘middle route’. This approach in itself poses a problem, is the middle route merely another layer of sheep skin that allows mankind to fit in with the herd and adapt, or is it the ‘meant to be’ we long for? If not, and that is a big ‘if’ and a bigger ‘not’, than the absolutes are the only ones who have the courage to be themselves regardless of the consequences. In a manner of speaking, they are the only ones willing to retain the ground carved out for them over centuries of stigma.
It is so tragic that there is little room for ideas left in this world. Ideologies have replaced ideas and tyrannical idioms have replaces idylls. We are a nation of sheep, my friends. Even the Lions and Wolves no longer recognise themselves.
We are followers of followers of followers, not a confounded leader in sight!
Friday, December 01, 2006
Second base
What are the odds!
I find myself plagued by one of my deepest fears realised.
A lump.
So off to the hospital it is, for a mammogram, which by all definitions is an uncomfortable experience. Checked and cleared off all C-charges, my sigh of relief follows more along the lines of the gale that huffed and puffed the little piggies' house down.
"Nothing more than a pulled muscle".
Now to investigate how the hell I could have pulled a muscle in my breast!
But that comes later.
First I have to get over the fact that the first dude to get past second base with me was a doctor whose name I cant remember and whose face I wish i didn't.
I find myself plagued by one of my deepest fears realised.
A lump.
So off to the hospital it is, for a mammogram, which by all definitions is an uncomfortable experience. Checked and cleared off all C-charges, my sigh of relief follows more along the lines of the gale that huffed and puffed the little piggies' house down.
"Nothing more than a pulled muscle".
Now to investigate how the hell I could have pulled a muscle in my breast!
But that comes later.
First I have to get over the fact that the first dude to get past second base with me was a doctor whose name I cant remember and whose face I wish i didn't.
Patches and Goodbye's
It is an enormity of parallels.
To find oneself eclipsed between old songs and memories. I watched a History Channel biography on Cat Stevens yesterday and it brought back the days when I used to write purely for the sake of writing. A catharsis that can only be experienced by fellow misfits: Invisible people. When I was invisible I was invincible. My corners were a fortress of masked truths and free visions.
Much changes with freedom.
Today I know that I have lost some of my way. I have bent in a way I never thought I would, I have bent my mind. It used to be my body. It is a hard fact to admit: that we do many of the things we do, only to fit in. Even when we want to stand out, we still want to stand out in a manner that is contrived. The deepest chains bind you, when you are finally free.
And this time you are the gatekeeper.
Oh very young
What will you leave us this time
Youre only dancing on this earth for a short while
And though your dreams may toss and turn you now
They will vanish away like your daddys best jeans
Denim blue fading up to the sky
And though you want them to last forever
You know they never will…
And the patches make the goodbye harder still
Today I woke up to a Stevens playlist.
It opened with 'Love is in the Air' and for a brief moment while I was driving to work, Lahore was at its most magnificent. The tonga's swayed and the beggars smiled. And I marvelled at how a man who wrote songs that sang to the spirit could give them up for the notion that God doesn't like music or dancing or joy.
Then it closed with "I Love my Dog more than I love you".
To find oneself eclipsed between old songs and memories. I watched a History Channel biography on Cat Stevens yesterday and it brought back the days when I used to write purely for the sake of writing. A catharsis that can only be experienced by fellow misfits: Invisible people. When I was invisible I was invincible. My corners were a fortress of masked truths and free visions.
Much changes with freedom.
Today I know that I have lost some of my way. I have bent in a way I never thought I would, I have bent my mind. It used to be my body. It is a hard fact to admit: that we do many of the things we do, only to fit in. Even when we want to stand out, we still want to stand out in a manner that is contrived. The deepest chains bind you, when you are finally free.
And this time you are the gatekeeper.
Oh very young
What will you leave us this time
Youre only dancing on this earth for a short while
And though your dreams may toss and turn you now
They will vanish away like your daddys best jeans
Denim blue fading up to the sky
And though you want them to last forever
You know they never will…
And the patches make the goodbye harder still
Today I woke up to a Stevens playlist.
It opened with 'Love is in the Air' and for a brief moment while I was driving to work, Lahore was at its most magnificent. The tonga's swayed and the beggars smiled. And I marvelled at how a man who wrote songs that sang to the spirit could give them up for the notion that God doesn't like music or dancing or joy.
Then it closed with "I Love my Dog more than I love you".
Sunday, November 19, 2006
A ramble of proportions unparalleled
There are so many questions that seem to get lost in the not asking.
So many thoughts that are fragmented in the not thinking.
I fear of late that it is change that scares me the most. The reason why this notion is terrifying is because I have, for quite long, held myself together by the delusion that I embrace change better than most. Being on of those - a child of circumstance and crass corruption - it is infernally hard for me to accept that I may not actually 'be' who I am in my head. I have yet to figure out which version of self is less preferable. However, circumstances are forcing me to make the choice and deal with my manifold delusions. I am free inside my head. I am anything but outside of it. My cerebellum flower child spirit comes from within, so does my noxious need for approval. Needless to say it is not a pretty struggle.
Telling onesself that one is self-sufficient, solitary, silly and sassy at the same time does not make it so. It appears that we cannot, in fact and fiction, have our cakes and eat them too. What a ginormous fall from grandeur. I am not claiming in any way that I have reconciled myself to reality: that would be too big a betrayal of the seven year old girl who first locked her door to read Dahl's Matilda amid screams of scorn.
I have seen reality.
I have known it.
My delusions are not subterfuge, they are self effacing and well contrived to keep my rose-tinted spectacles intact and glossy. I believe very much in the notion that fiction only trumps fact when one accepts that it is fiction and would much rather live with the story than the truth. It is only worth savouring when we recognise it as it is. "I know that this is not the real world. I have chosen otherwise." It is the poor sods who believe the fiction to be fact that are destined to be hit over the head with it time and again.
If we are all damned anyway, what does it matter how it comes about.
Or does it?
Is that all that matters?
Many a great man (implying that there have been many great men) has said that our lives are shaped by the choices we make. Even if all the choices lead to the same conclusion and take off from the same pick-up point...it is the 'in-betweens' that gear our gait. If that truly is the case, then all that matters 'ought' to be following ones' dreams, making ones' mistakes and sucking the proverbial marrow out of life.
A dreamers recurse if there ever was one.
So many thoughts that are fragmented in the not thinking.
I fear of late that it is change that scares me the most. The reason why this notion is terrifying is because I have, for quite long, held myself together by the delusion that I embrace change better than most. Being on of those - a child of circumstance and crass corruption - it is infernally hard for me to accept that I may not actually 'be' who I am in my head. I have yet to figure out which version of self is less preferable. However, circumstances are forcing me to make the choice and deal with my manifold delusions. I am free inside my head. I am anything but outside of it. My cerebellum flower child spirit comes from within, so does my noxious need for approval. Needless to say it is not a pretty struggle.
Telling onesself that one is self-sufficient, solitary, silly and sassy at the same time does not make it so. It appears that we cannot, in fact and fiction, have our cakes and eat them too. What a ginormous fall from grandeur. I am not claiming in any way that I have reconciled myself to reality: that would be too big a betrayal of the seven year old girl who first locked her door to read Dahl's Matilda amid screams of scorn.
I have seen reality.
I have known it.
My delusions are not subterfuge, they are self effacing and well contrived to keep my rose-tinted spectacles intact and glossy. I believe very much in the notion that fiction only trumps fact when one accepts that it is fiction and would much rather live with the story than the truth. It is only worth savouring when we recognise it as it is. "I know that this is not the real world. I have chosen otherwise." It is the poor sods who believe the fiction to be fact that are destined to be hit over the head with it time and again.
If we are all damned anyway, what does it matter how it comes about.
Or does it?
Is that all that matters?
Many a great man (implying that there have been many great men) has said that our lives are shaped by the choices we make. Even if all the choices lead to the same conclusion and take off from the same pick-up point...it is the 'in-betweens' that gear our gait. If that truly is the case, then all that matters 'ought' to be following ones' dreams, making ones' mistakes and sucking the proverbial marrow out of life.
A dreamers recurse if there ever was one.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Animal Forum
I came accross a writer's inordinate lack of regret for displaying a sheep-skin rug. She said that sheep were stupid and therefore did not extract much sympathy.
I can relate.
I do agree that sheep tend to be quite foolish. However, one must consider D-u-n-keys, I mean the poor creatures from time immemorial were ivented for hard labour. Also, I can never feel sorry for Chickens, it is a weird looking contraption of a thing. I have a Khala who feels sorry for chickens and all animals - my hippiosity is much more selective.
I will glare daggers at anyone draped in a Shatoos because, well Bambi had major ranking in my life. However I simply cannot bring myself to indulge in a love for Chicken Little, atleast not to that degree. That would mean not eating chicken. It simply cannot be done. Thereby Chicken Little is just too whiny. Also Chickens just produce weirdly, not that I have ever found the reproductive process - in any animal, especially human's - remotely endearing, but with Chickens it is plain screwed up. I do, however, appreciate God's tiny Jack-in-the-box with Sea horses: a dude doing the 'give birth' thing is small consolation, but i'll take it.
Every egg has the potential of being a chick, given the right temperature. So basically scrambled eggs are scrampled fetus, poached are poached fetus, fried are....ugh. See Chickens are just wrong.
We are all selective in our animal loves and loathes. I mean, who in their right mind would defend the right of life for a Lizard. Those who do, refer to part: 2 of the previous sentence and cease further argument.
Sheep are also inordinately stupid - symbolically. 'A nation of sheep', 'lost flock', 'gather your herd'....dumb ass things never do anything for themselves. Now see lambs, those are cute - they should just never grow up. Tinkerbell needs to meet Mary, so that the latter can always have her:
'Ickle, wittle wambie'
With fleece as white as snow
To follow her till Kingdom come
Wherever, whenever, however ... she goes
I can relate.
I do agree that sheep tend to be quite foolish. However, one must consider D-u-n-keys, I mean the poor creatures from time immemorial were ivented for hard labour. Also, I can never feel sorry for Chickens, it is a weird looking contraption of a thing. I have a Khala who feels sorry for chickens and all animals - my hippiosity is much more selective.
I will glare daggers at anyone draped in a Shatoos because, well Bambi had major ranking in my life. However I simply cannot bring myself to indulge in a love for Chicken Little, atleast not to that degree. That would mean not eating chicken. It simply cannot be done. Thereby Chicken Little is just too whiny. Also Chickens just produce weirdly, not that I have ever found the reproductive process - in any animal, especially human's - remotely endearing, but with Chickens it is plain screwed up. I do, however, appreciate God's tiny Jack-in-the-box with Sea horses: a dude doing the 'give birth' thing is small consolation, but i'll take it.
Every egg has the potential of being a chick, given the right temperature. So basically scrambled eggs are scrampled fetus, poached are poached fetus, fried are....ugh. See Chickens are just wrong.
We are all selective in our animal loves and loathes. I mean, who in their right mind would defend the right of life for a Lizard. Those who do, refer to part: 2 of the previous sentence and cease further argument.
Sheep are also inordinately stupid - symbolically. 'A nation of sheep', 'lost flock', 'gather your herd'....dumb ass things never do anything for themselves. Now see lambs, those are cute - they should just never grow up. Tinkerbell needs to meet Mary, so that the latter can always have her:
'Ickle, wittle wambie'
With fleece as white as snow
To follow her till Kingdom come
Wherever, whenever, however ... she goes
A no equal C
Having debated, in a manner of thinking, syllogisms of sorts. I discover that logic aint' my thing and never can be. Perhaps not the best of omens to connect with, considering GRE is two months away.
And apparently if A= B and B=C : then A=C.
I shall never agree, what if A only equals B when its in a good mood, having danced till dawn and what if B can only match C in a fist fight, when its hipped up on stereoids and nothing else. Then A can never equal C, who is understandably (hah) good at fist fights, because A is a pacifist.
"Me no LIKEY!"
Also the whole God thing...after moderate consideration - which is more than I award to most things unless they involve the genius witticisms of Daffy Duck or Tom and Jerry - I have dicovered that Divinity IS damned.
I am not damned.
I don't like damned.
Therefore I am not divine.
There- also-fore, I dont like divine.
I can think of atleast two people, who if reading this are probably perched on railings waiting to jump. Dont JUMP - have a Coca Cola. All the answers lie in a bottle of Coke. I have the answers to all ontological dilemma's - they are fizzy and beautious.
We must all drink of the Coke
Lest a swarm of bottlecaps bruise thy into oblivion...
....Aah oblivion!
And apparently if A= B and B=C : then A=C.
I shall never agree, what if A only equals B when its in a good mood, having danced till dawn and what if B can only match C in a fist fight, when its hipped up on stereoids and nothing else. Then A can never equal C, who is understandably (hah) good at fist fights, because A is a pacifist.
"Me no LIKEY!"
Also the whole God thing...after moderate consideration - which is more than I award to most things unless they involve the genius witticisms of Daffy Duck or Tom and Jerry - I have dicovered that Divinity IS damned.
I am not damned.
I don't like damned.
Therefore I am not divine.
There- also-fore, I dont like divine.
I can think of atleast two people, who if reading this are probably perched on railings waiting to jump. Dont JUMP - have a Coca Cola. All the answers lie in a bottle of Coke. I have the answers to all ontological dilemma's - they are fizzy and beautious.
We must all drink of the Coke
Lest a swarm of bottlecaps bruise thy into oblivion...
....Aah oblivion!
Thursday, November 09, 2006
High, High Hippie Hippie High
Yes, yes ...many a cradle doth fall, but-much of late.
It can be said that the perpetual good girl has come under bad influence, or merely that she is tired of being good. Then again the recent bout of not-so-subtle substance abuse can also be attributed to the fact that mommy dearest and Khala of Gurudom are sponsors of my "as long as you have 'limited' fun, tell us and dont go over board...we dont care if you drink, you know we dont believe in the judgement bullshit". Now what does that mean, judgement bullshit?!
Hmm, oh crap was I just judged in Judy Judgerson-ness's post waste. Who cares.
I have finally had the brilliant experience of Senor Jack Daniels meeting Maestro Coca of Colas. My Khala and I, the only witnesses to my first step down Sin City and Subversive Lane. We must all drink of the Coke.
I have had my first alcohol induced epiphany...it is mani-fold, as are most of my epiphanies: Coke + Vodka = much caffine, which makes me hyper. Hyper enough to get on a computer table and sing the Rosemary Clooney version of "Mambo Italiano". Priceless hyper. As in there is no price too high for my hyper.
Yul Brynner looks even more beautiful after vodka...1-2-3 AND... The generel hippiosity of my hipness, translates to a weird stratosphere.
All of a sudden the hairdryer, hanging by my half-snutched wire offers an answer to our ontological existential dilemma. Its full of hot air. "But its an outlet of beauty"...ergo Beauty is a bag of hot air...But, oooooooooooooh, hmmmm...... Hoopilicious LA!
Also, old nursery rhymes are sublime:
Because she'll be coming round the mountain when she comes,
she'll be coming round the Mountain when she comes,
coming round the mountain
coming round the mountain...
coming round the mountain when she comes.
Singing High High Hippie Hippie HIGH!!!!!!
It can be said that the perpetual good girl has come under bad influence, or merely that she is tired of being good. Then again the recent bout of not-so-subtle substance abuse can also be attributed to the fact that mommy dearest and Khala of Gurudom are sponsors of my "as long as you have 'limited' fun, tell us and dont go over board...we dont care if you drink, you know we dont believe in the judgement bullshit". Now what does that mean, judgement bullshit?!
Hmm, oh crap was I just judged in Judy Judgerson-ness's post waste. Who cares.
I have finally had the brilliant experience of Senor Jack Daniels meeting Maestro Coca of Colas. My Khala and I, the only witnesses to my first step down Sin City and Subversive Lane. We must all drink of the Coke.
I have had my first alcohol induced epiphany...it is mani-fold, as are most of my epiphanies: Coke + Vodka = much caffine, which makes me hyper. Hyper enough to get on a computer table and sing the Rosemary Clooney version of "Mambo Italiano". Priceless hyper. As in there is no price too high for my hyper.
Yul Brynner looks even more beautiful after vodka...1-2-3 AND... The generel hippiosity of my hipness, translates to a weird stratosphere.
All of a sudden the hairdryer, hanging by my half-snutched wire offers an answer to our ontological existential dilemma. Its full of hot air. "But its an outlet of beauty"...ergo Beauty is a bag of hot air...But, oooooooooooooh, hmmmm...... Hoopilicious LA!
Also, old nursery rhymes are sublime:
Because she'll be coming round the mountain when she comes,
she'll be coming round the Mountain when she comes,
coming round the mountain
coming round the mountain...
coming round the mountain when she comes.
Singing High High Hippie Hippie HIGH!!!!!!
Monday, October 30, 2006
Fate Fable
Its just one of those days. When it rains and the sun is bright and you can’t quite figure out which to celebrate.
A forced perfection of tangents.
I have heard that life overtakes you at some point, that the elements and the colossal cosmology of ‘fate’ finally comes into play and hurls you out of your choices. I now wonder if it is any different for those of us who do not believe in deities and eschatological doorstops. Does fate knock at their door? Does it interplay in their lives or is a ‘fall- out’, a ‘bad hair day’, ‘ a lost election’ and ‘a love at first sight’ just that - the mere convergence of events to echo the words that frame them?
I feel my belief slipping away, which is weird since I have never really been able to put my finger on 'what exactly' my belief was or is. It has always been a distant nit-picking tap in my brain : "Note-t0-self: Must figure out what we believe in". But it never seemed important enough to merit more than that. I believe or did...in something, larger than myself and that is enough to keep one in check. I am always 'in check'. Not in the 'choakemchild' sense - in the manner, moreover the matter- that I am too aware of all my actions and thoughts. Hence the tendency to lean alot towards the former and too little towards the latter.
Belief and the inherent, soul-wrenching dependence on 'Fate' to work it out...changes alot. Apparently so does lack, loss or limbo of it.
For the believer’s 'Fate' can be a bitch.
Fate promises magic every time it rains. But rains pass and rains conk-out the electricity and the internet.
Fate promises a happenstance romance, every time you work hard on your hair before going out. But the romance usually ends with a smile at yourself in the review mirror of your car, followed by a string of curses at the jeep trying to run you over.
Fate promises laughter every time you meet ‘your’ people. Who only expect the same of you.
Fate promises friends, every time you’re charming in polite company. It is just too damn hard to find 'polite' company these days.
Fate promises family, every time there’s a new moon and an occasion to celebrate. Family, is definitely over-rated.
Fate promises success every time you think you’ve done your best. Which could always have been done 'better'.
Fate promises an awful lot.
And the bout of being a believer is that you buy it.
A forced perfection of tangents.
I have heard that life overtakes you at some point, that the elements and the colossal cosmology of ‘fate’ finally comes into play and hurls you out of your choices. I now wonder if it is any different for those of us who do not believe in deities and eschatological doorstops. Does fate knock at their door? Does it interplay in their lives or is a ‘fall- out’, a ‘bad hair day’, ‘ a lost election’ and ‘a love at first sight’ just that - the mere convergence of events to echo the words that frame them?
I feel my belief slipping away, which is weird since I have never really been able to put my finger on 'what exactly' my belief was or is. It has always been a distant nit-picking tap in my brain : "Note-t0-self: Must figure out what we believe in". But it never seemed important enough to merit more than that. I believe or did...in something, larger than myself and that is enough to keep one in check. I am always 'in check'. Not in the 'choakemchild' sense - in the manner, moreover the matter- that I am too aware of all my actions and thoughts. Hence the tendency to lean alot towards the former and too little towards the latter.
Belief and the inherent, soul-wrenching dependence on 'Fate' to work it out...changes alot. Apparently so does lack, loss or limbo of it.
For the believer’s 'Fate' can be a bitch.
Fate promises magic every time it rains. But rains pass and rains conk-out the electricity and the internet.
Fate promises a happenstance romance, every time you work hard on your hair before going out. But the romance usually ends with a smile at yourself in the review mirror of your car, followed by a string of curses at the jeep trying to run you over.
Fate promises laughter every time you meet ‘your’ people. Who only expect the same of you.
Fate promises friends, every time you’re charming in polite company. It is just too damn hard to find 'polite' company these days.
Fate promises family, every time there’s a new moon and an occasion to celebrate. Family, is definitely over-rated.
Fate promises success every time you think you’ve done your best. Which could always have been done 'better'.
Fate promises an awful lot.
And the bout of being a believer is that you buy it.
Friday, October 27, 2006
Sticks and Stones
It should be called the calm after the storm.
Once the tirade passes, it leaves in its wake - among other things- a sense of overwhelming quiet. Unfortunately, not the friendly kind. The quiet is pensive and lonely. Which makes it all the more necessary.
The quiet is passive and angry. Something I have much experience with.
I can live with this quiet.
This quiet has always been mine.
"Mankinds greatest delusion comes about in his trust for others and his need to lean on them. He leans, he loses. He loves, he loses. He is lost unto all, including himself ."
_ Friedrich Nietszche
Once the tirade passes, it leaves in its wake - among other things- a sense of overwhelming quiet. Unfortunately, not the friendly kind. The quiet is pensive and lonely. Which makes it all the more necessary.
The quiet is passive and angry. Something I have much experience with.
I can live with this quiet.
This quiet has always been mine.
"Mankinds greatest delusion comes about in his trust for others and his need to lean on them. He leans, he loses. He loves, he loses. He is lost unto all, including himself ."
_ Friedrich Nietszche
Monday, October 23, 2006
Boo hoo Black Sheep!
The subtle and not-so-subtle ironies of life are astounding. Again come those days of navigating family foes and friends. This time naturally, the foes win out. There is some inane solace in discovering that I am the unequivoval black sheep of two distinctly different families.
On the day, when families get together, mine contrive ways to get away...appropriate, in some manner of speaking. However, this wonderful Eid day is different. I find myself, seeking solace with my past. Solace and a form of terse settlement. I am hailed forth, called into convalescence by familial foes, as familial friends become thus.
My father's clan now welcome me, as the one I live in churns.
Such is life.
Bo hoo Black sheep
Have you been a fool?
Yes Sir, yes sir
Twice out-done in the same pool
On the day, when families get together, mine contrive ways to get away...appropriate, in some manner of speaking. However, this wonderful Eid day is different. I find myself, seeking solace with my past. Solace and a form of terse settlement. I am hailed forth, called into convalescence by familial foes, as familial friends become thus.
My father's clan now welcome me, as the one I live in churns.
Such is life.
Bo hoo Black sheep
Have you been a fool?
Yes Sir, yes sir
Twice out-done in the same pool
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Duplicity reporting, Sir!
Its been a long while, since I went over the magic of the Peanuts gang, having recently taken itch to being called 'Marcy' by some. It is a pleasure long withheld. I love these old strips and the times they represent. Of pseudo-babble and pop tarts and fortunately, little else. Inane and Intellectual, moreover a flavour of sillidom, much needed.Times were simple then. Simple and silly and sublime.
For the record, I wish self and I could manage to pull me off in Peppermint Patty or Lucy. Being a tomboy with little need for love or a self involved shruck would be a better bargain over a well-intentioned bumbling bafoonista. But the world must have its bumbling Bafoonista's.
So Marcy it is.
Reporting for Duplicitous duty... Sir!
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Single and Fabulous!
No more apologies.
It is severely disturbing how us 'oh-so-sad' singles are constantly put on the chopping block for not 'living' the life we could or should. The two strains of question perpetually designed to kill optimism. Why are we- in the immortal words of Carrie Bradshaw- 'shoulding' all over the place?
Why is it that there is no vindication or purpose to a life, unless it is coupled with a couple? And who is to say that the life we 'could' or 'should' have will be any better than the one we lead now. For us Ka-ka-ka-Katie girls, with a mountain of quirks and obtuse tangents, is there really ever a conventional solution to an unconventional enigma? Or are we doomed to 'walk' single and 'talk' double till Kingdom come - which it never doth do? Either way, the 'Single's Sorority' could seriously do without the reactionary whiplash from the 'others' or wanna-be them's.
Having seen the the single woman 'sex and the city' gospel for the umpteenth time, one thing stands out clear, there is no point in waiting for life to start after marriage. IF you are one of the poor unfortunate souls, determined to hold out for love, its about time you gave up on a time frame and just lived your life a' la carte.
If we are meant to find true love, it needs to be sans the bullshit bravado.
It needs to be real and it needs to be free of charge and change. Those of us who cant be tamed and need to run free, should bloody well get in the race and run it, for better or worse.
So for all the quirky 'Katie' girls chasing their Hubbles: STOP!
If they can't take you with your quirks and if you love 'you' with the quirks - time to cut off the thread. Snip, snip.
There is no shame in saying you come first. You do!
All you need to do is go to him and say "Your girl is lovely, Hubble". Turn your back and LEAVE.
You can send can me dead flowers every morning
Send me dead flowers by the mail
Send me dead flowers to my wedding
And I wont forget to put roses on your grave...
It is severely disturbing how us 'oh-so-sad' singles are constantly put on the chopping block for not 'living' the life we could or should. The two strains of question perpetually designed to kill optimism. Why are we- in the immortal words of Carrie Bradshaw- 'shoulding' all over the place?
Why is it that there is no vindication or purpose to a life, unless it is coupled with a couple? And who is to say that the life we 'could' or 'should' have will be any better than the one we lead now. For us Ka-ka-ka-Katie girls, with a mountain of quirks and obtuse tangents, is there really ever a conventional solution to an unconventional enigma? Or are we doomed to 'walk' single and 'talk' double till Kingdom come - which it never doth do? Either way, the 'Single's Sorority' could seriously do without the reactionary whiplash from the 'others' or wanna-be them's.
Having seen the the single woman 'sex and the city' gospel for the umpteenth time, one thing stands out clear, there is no point in waiting for life to start after marriage. IF you are one of the poor unfortunate souls, determined to hold out for love, its about time you gave up on a time frame and just lived your life a' la carte.
If we are meant to find true love, it needs to be sans the bullshit bravado.
It needs to be real and it needs to be free of charge and change. Those of us who cant be tamed and need to run free, should bloody well get in the race and run it, for better or worse.
So for all the quirky 'Katie' girls chasing their Hubbles: STOP!
If they can't take you with your quirks and if you love 'you' with the quirks - time to cut off the thread. Snip, snip.
There is no shame in saying you come first. You do!
All you need to do is go to him and say "Your girl is lovely, Hubble". Turn your back and LEAVE.
You can send can me dead flowers every morning
Send me dead flowers by the mail
Send me dead flowers to my wedding
And I wont forget to put roses on your grave...
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Obituary of an Incomplete
She remained one unfinished right uptil the end.
Maria Amir was the oldest seven year old that ever lived.
She told stories for a living. A carefully compiled collage of fantastic images and fragrant notions, carved into golden magic pots. There are some who say that by the end she had begun to cope with some semblance of reality, they are wrong. Reality had never been privy to her thoughts or her aspirations. It was the one precept and notion that always remained on the peripheries of her immense vocabulary. But was never invited in for tea.
I will remember her always, in incomplete sentences and unfinished thoughts. Lifelines that she left lingering mid-phrase and mid-gesture for us to carve whichever way we chose. Her classroom was always a pallette of impressions. We will never know if she was the painter or the paint, that we brushed onto the blank canvases that she laid out for us every Tuesday at 10 am. Maria dreamed of beauty with a dedication yet unparalleled. It was her one mission in life: to find magic. In art, in love, in pain and in humanity. Which is the reason why she always lived in halves. The magic needed to be complete for her to embrace it and it never was.
Once, over a cup of coffee and a consolation for not making the Dean's merit list, she told me that life could be summed up in an "If only" and an ellipsis. It was an unfortunate proclamation to have made, for it framed her destiny. A duplicitous series of "what ifs" were to mark her lifelong trajectory.
She was never one to be at ease in a crowd. Which is why when she stood at the podium in class, she never looked any of us in the eye. She spoke mostly to her multiple selves and we were always honoured to be included in such a select sphere. When she was seven, she told us, she had presumed that 'crowds' were merely a large composite of pixies. But it became harder to keep up the pretence over the years, when they started acting too much like people.
I will always remember her as a dreamer who inspired other dreamers. She was a shepard of only lost flock. Perpetually preaching to us, with polemics that painted the grandeurs of being lost. She always said that it was the journey to the point you wanted to get to, that needed magic, and that the prize point was only there for you to take those steps.
She loved junk food, coke and cartoons with fervour. Maria always said that an animated Disney feature could fix any form of depression imaginable. She relished her loneliness and concepts of kinship, which were something she never could quite reach. I remember her saying once, " Family could be good ... for those who like that sort of thing. Perhaps, around the holidays?" Maria believed, blindly, that laughter could cure anything. That a safe corner, a good book, someone to make you laugh when you needed it most and an honest dream, were the only gateways necessary for majesty.
She peeked her way through the million keyholes and half opened doors of our lives. It was never "How's school going, Jim?" ....with Maria it was "Do you think Jim, that Melville actually sampled an apple-dumpling in comparison to other foods before he condemned it as the in-road to hell on a bad stomach?" That- or some equally inane tangent- was how she said hello. That was her keyhole.
Her curiosity was colossal, as was her phobia of commitment - for anything. Which is why she only ever spoke and thought in halves and quarters. She could make you feel like the most special person in the world with a single sentence, but never quite managed to couple it with a good enough follow up.
Maria never married. But she insisted right till the end that she was waiting for a tall prince, dressed in white, with green eyes and a pixie laugh. She said that she was waiting for lightening to strike. That she was always ready for it. Had been for a while now...
It struck at precisely 7:20 am on a rainy Saturday morning in St Mary's , New York. She was 71 years old when her ever-hopeful heart sighed its last.
I got stuck in traffic on my way to the hospital that day and came in to find Dr Shah crouching over the corner bed by the window. He covered her face with a white hospital sheet, turning around to look at me with a whimsical smile.
"Well she did say that she wanted to go on a rainy day. I think she mentioned that it would help with her prize rendition of Gene Kelly! Going out, my style, she called it."
Dr Shah was handsome for his age and he was a good head and shoulders taller than I. I now recall Maria telling me that us short people were made this way so we wouldn't catch bypassers in the eye and be forced to make senseseless conversation on street corners. As I took in his soft smile and his crisp white lab coat, I couldn't help but wonder if he felt it too. The stark white room seemed to lose colour somehow- colour and flavour.
Dr Shah must have noticed that I was having a rather hard time working at - what she had always called - my 'He-man' face, because he put his hand on my shoulder and whispered "I know. This one was special, wasn't she?"
As I looked up at him I noticed something. Dr Shah's eyes were a bright, bottle-green.
"Yes, she was."
Maria Amir was the oldest seven year old that ever lived.
She told stories for a living. A carefully compiled collage of fantastic images and fragrant notions, carved into golden magic pots. There are some who say that by the end she had begun to cope with some semblance of reality, they are wrong. Reality had never been privy to her thoughts or her aspirations. It was the one precept and notion that always remained on the peripheries of her immense vocabulary. But was never invited in for tea.
I will remember her always, in incomplete sentences and unfinished thoughts. Lifelines that she left lingering mid-phrase and mid-gesture for us to carve whichever way we chose. Her classroom was always a pallette of impressions. We will never know if she was the painter or the paint, that we brushed onto the blank canvases that she laid out for us every Tuesday at 10 am. Maria dreamed of beauty with a dedication yet unparalleled. It was her one mission in life: to find magic. In art, in love, in pain and in humanity. Which is the reason why she always lived in halves. The magic needed to be complete for her to embrace it and it never was.
Once, over a cup of coffee and a consolation for not making the Dean's merit list, she told me that life could be summed up in an "If only" and an ellipsis. It was an unfortunate proclamation to have made, for it framed her destiny. A duplicitous series of "what ifs" were to mark her lifelong trajectory.
She was never one to be at ease in a crowd. Which is why when she stood at the podium in class, she never looked any of us in the eye. She spoke mostly to her multiple selves and we were always honoured to be included in such a select sphere. When she was seven, she told us, she had presumed that 'crowds' were merely a large composite of pixies. But it became harder to keep up the pretence over the years, when they started acting too much like people.
I will always remember her as a dreamer who inspired other dreamers. She was a shepard of only lost flock. Perpetually preaching to us, with polemics that painted the grandeurs of being lost. She always said that it was the journey to the point you wanted to get to, that needed magic, and that the prize point was only there for you to take those steps.
She loved junk food, coke and cartoons with fervour. Maria always said that an animated Disney feature could fix any form of depression imaginable. She relished her loneliness and concepts of kinship, which were something she never could quite reach. I remember her saying once, " Family could be good ... for those who like that sort of thing. Perhaps, around the holidays?" Maria believed, blindly, that laughter could cure anything. That a safe corner, a good book, someone to make you laugh when you needed it most and an honest dream, were the only gateways necessary for majesty.
She peeked her way through the million keyholes and half opened doors of our lives. It was never "How's school going, Jim?" ....with Maria it was "Do you think Jim, that Melville actually sampled an apple-dumpling in comparison to other foods before he condemned it as the in-road to hell on a bad stomach?" That- or some equally inane tangent- was how she said hello. That was her keyhole.
Her curiosity was colossal, as was her phobia of commitment - for anything. Which is why she only ever spoke and thought in halves and quarters. She could make you feel like the most special person in the world with a single sentence, but never quite managed to couple it with a good enough follow up.
Maria never married. But she insisted right till the end that she was waiting for a tall prince, dressed in white, with green eyes and a pixie laugh. She said that she was waiting for lightening to strike. That she was always ready for it. Had been for a while now...
It struck at precisely 7:20 am on a rainy Saturday morning in St Mary's , New York. She was 71 years old when her ever-hopeful heart sighed its last.
I got stuck in traffic on my way to the hospital that day and came in to find Dr Shah crouching over the corner bed by the window. He covered her face with a white hospital sheet, turning around to look at me with a whimsical smile.
"Well she did say that she wanted to go on a rainy day. I think she mentioned that it would help with her prize rendition of Gene Kelly! Going out, my style, she called it."
Dr Shah was handsome for his age and he was a good head and shoulders taller than I. I now recall Maria telling me that us short people were made this way so we wouldn't catch bypassers in the eye and be forced to make senseseless conversation on street corners. As I took in his soft smile and his crisp white lab coat, I couldn't help but wonder if he felt it too. The stark white room seemed to lose colour somehow- colour and flavour.
Dr Shah must have noticed that I was having a rather hard time working at - what she had always called - my 'He-man' face, because he put his hand on my shoulder and whispered "I know. This one was special, wasn't she?"
As I looked up at him I noticed something. Dr Shah's eyes were a bright, bottle-green.
"Yes, she was."
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Voted: Most likely to be Loved to Death
An epitaph of sorts for all that I have been- and fear with the fabric of my being- of remaining. It is a frostbite fire pit, being caught between people you love as people and those who love you on pedestals. I fear now that I am doomed to an ideal, purely because of my fastidious nature. I conform to pretty pedestals and the fall from any and every one of them is deep and damp.
It ain't a pretty picture: having you're soul replaced by kinetic stereotypes, because they fit better. Nor is it fun being loved beyond reciprocation. Everytime I have loved someone I have been frazzled by the flood of emotion, moreover by the expectation of having to reciprocate it. I am not expressive in person and paper doesnt make the cut (pun intended), in this particular case. Is it a sign of the corporeally ungrateful to crave love sans melodrama?
Too much of a good thing, isn't still a good thing. Is it?
From heart to soul
both length and bredth
Cages and canyons and caverns beget
A loonybird sprite of singular toll
to a stone prude catered and loved to death
It ain't a pretty picture: having you're soul replaced by kinetic stereotypes, because they fit better. Nor is it fun being loved beyond reciprocation. Everytime I have loved someone I have been frazzled by the flood of emotion, moreover by the expectation of having to reciprocate it. I am not expressive in person and paper doesnt make the cut (pun intended), in this particular case. Is it a sign of the corporeally ungrateful to crave love sans melodrama?
Too much of a good thing, isn't still a good thing. Is it?
From heart to soul
both length and bredth
Cages and canyons and caverns beget
A loonybird sprite of singular toll
to a stone prude catered and loved to death
Saturday, September 16, 2006
The Fool
There is a perverse lethargy that sets in with ambition. Technically, not ambition, but rather a branch of vision. For the first time in my life, my journey does not lack direction, I have set a course. And now I realise that the mapping of my future irks me.
A checklist of cap-offs sits on my tack board.
Steady job....check.
Application process, sunny side up.....check.
Thesis project progress.......check.
And I know that I am, to put it mildly, bored beyond brittle comprehension. There is an inherent abhorrence for structure set in my bones. For better or worse, I DO want more. Not more of the traditional goals, that perhaps are important to most, but I fail to find an element of priority in them. I want more of what it is the sprites call 'pixie dust'. In an inverted world where I am Queen and Shero of my fate: my life spent with a journal, a trailer and a road to everywhere and no where simultaneously. It is such a road that I hope to find love and all its labours lost with. A daily deluge of gospel guitar twangs on the radio, blank paper and sharpened pencils, loads of junkfood and a long and winding path with wider bends and steeper planks.
Then again, to dream is 'eventually' to do. Or so I like to think. Some dreams are dangerous, others silly and the rest fanciful musings. I pick the latter with a perrennial pinch of salt.
In some cultures it is considered lucky to wear ones socks inside out. Essentially implying that looking at things inverted and opposed to the norm, is either the path of the progressive and evolved or that of the fool. Again I pick the latter, this time with a cheshire grin. In the Tarot and in Zen, it is the Fool who always triumphs. He frames the first card of the deck, primarily because he is open to all firsts.
So give me the beat boys
to free my soul
I wanna' get lost in the rock n' roll
that drifts away
A checklist of cap-offs sits on my tack board.
Steady job....check.
Application process, sunny side up.....check.
Thesis project progress.......check.
And I know that I am, to put it mildly, bored beyond brittle comprehension. There is an inherent abhorrence for structure set in my bones. For better or worse, I DO want more. Not more of the traditional goals, that perhaps are important to most, but I fail to find an element of priority in them. I want more of what it is the sprites call 'pixie dust'. In an inverted world where I am Queen and Shero of my fate: my life spent with a journal, a trailer and a road to everywhere and no where simultaneously. It is such a road that I hope to find love and all its labours lost with. A daily deluge of gospel guitar twangs on the radio, blank paper and sharpened pencils, loads of junkfood and a long and winding path with wider bends and steeper planks.
Then again, to dream is 'eventually' to do. Or so I like to think. Some dreams are dangerous, others silly and the rest fanciful musings. I pick the latter with a perrennial pinch of salt.
In some cultures it is considered lucky to wear ones socks inside out. Essentially implying that looking at things inverted and opposed to the norm, is either the path of the progressive and evolved or that of the fool. Again I pick the latter, this time with a cheshire grin. In the Tarot and in Zen, it is the Fool who always triumphs. He frames the first card of the deck, primarily because he is open to all firsts.
So give me the beat boys
to free my soul
I wanna' get lost in the rock n' roll
that drifts away
Friday, September 08, 2006
Poles and Pillars
Only poles and pillars protect my person. From what, I am still unaware - but after a horrible experience of being stared down for no reason, once again. I realise that I am still myself. Regardless of the packaging.
A wizard of Was. I now see that all it takes to leave me a tangled jumble of overtly sensitised nerves, is a well-placed stare. Unbelievable. I still can’t meet people’s stares with one of my own. I can never laugh or look people in the ‘eye’. Is that cowardice, shame or virtue? My guess is neither.
I have yet to figure out what it is about people at large that frightens me to death. I can act the lunatic to perfection in the company of friends. I can dance my dementias in docile ‘Dolly’ styles for family and I can fake fractured emotions with plastic acceptance for foes. It is always the in-betweens that get under my skin. The undefined, mass of ‘people’ sitting behind desks at convenience stores, page-makers at the office that I have to direct and servants I constantly feel guilty asking to bring me a glass of water. These are the people who scare me, in the most literal sense of the word. My palms are sweaty, my tongue twisted and my stomach in knots. It is ‘all the others’ that I cannot face. Perhaps because I have not yet been able to pick a face that works for ‘just people’. I certainly can’t stick with my own.
In the depths of Tartarus, Eros was said to trap more than just bypassing sailors. The depths of the sea-caves held nymphs who, of their own will, were too terrified of looking in the mirror that framed their gate-way to freedom. The Nymphs lingered eternally in the caves, with their backs turned to the gate.
Only the incredibly naïve and overtly fanciful believe that the nymphs still linger.
Which is why I know that they do.
Oh! Mary Mary quite contrary
Putting on a fabulous show
Your winsome smiles and nonsense guiles
Are just pretty put-ons for the pranksters that know…
A wizard of Was. I now see that all it takes to leave me a tangled jumble of overtly sensitised nerves, is a well-placed stare. Unbelievable. I still can’t meet people’s stares with one of my own. I can never laugh or look people in the ‘eye’. Is that cowardice, shame or virtue? My guess is neither.
I have yet to figure out what it is about people at large that frightens me to death. I can act the lunatic to perfection in the company of friends. I can dance my dementias in docile ‘Dolly’ styles for family and I can fake fractured emotions with plastic acceptance for foes. It is always the in-betweens that get under my skin. The undefined, mass of ‘people’ sitting behind desks at convenience stores, page-makers at the office that I have to direct and servants I constantly feel guilty asking to bring me a glass of water. These are the people who scare me, in the most literal sense of the word. My palms are sweaty, my tongue twisted and my stomach in knots. It is ‘all the others’ that I cannot face. Perhaps because I have not yet been able to pick a face that works for ‘just people’. I certainly can’t stick with my own.
In the depths of Tartarus, Eros was said to trap more than just bypassing sailors. The depths of the sea-caves held nymphs who, of their own will, were too terrified of looking in the mirror that framed their gate-way to freedom. The Nymphs lingered eternally in the caves, with their backs turned to the gate.
Only the incredibly naïve and overtly fanciful believe that the nymphs still linger.
Which is why I know that they do.
Oh! Mary Mary quite contrary
Putting on a fabulous show
Your winsome smiles and nonsense guiles
Are just pretty put-ons for the pranksters that know…
Monday, August 28, 2006
Tabhisms
Wait, wait, WAIT!
You see the whole country of this system is juxtaposition by the haemoglobin in the atmosphere- because you are a sophisticated rhetoration intoxicated by the exuberance of your own verbosity.
My name is Maria Amir…
Having just experienced the post-delight that comes from yet another epiphany long, long overdue: I have a confession to make. I am, what the inimitable ‘they’ call a pseudo-intellectual: not particularly because I don’t know what I’m talking about (although that often happens, because I bear a lamentable tendency to confuse myself more often than I do others) but because I prefer to talk smart. Unless I’m on one of my sugar buzzes. Recently, I have had the long with-held pleasure of watching old Amitabh Bachan films. A much needed experience this cruel Saara Zamaana had prohibited me from during my childhood. By the way, the Pakistani version for cruel Saara Zamaana is "Zaalim Samaajh" (lest I be accused of being a dangerous anti-semite). The confession being…
The two-6-foot-legs-with-head-attached was a comical genius, folks. Seriously. There is an elusive charm that old Indian films and old westerns’ share: an intrinsic disregard for realism, even perverse logic. They are therefore a league unto themselves. When the young Amitabh slaps a man in ‘Sholay’, the said dude dies. Crap! Doth he put Arnie-Hasta-bloody-ass-Lavista to shame? Yep, that he do be. No guns in sight. Plus for some reason, the hero must always display utmost heroism with itsy bitsy guns sans bullets at the most inopportune moments, by resorting to use his fists. Fate it is.
When he says something to the tune of “Rishtey mein to hum tumhaare baap lagte hein!” he meanses, much business – more, perhaps than even De Niro and his “talking to me” mirror. The actual genius of the man, I now realise lies in the old-young, pre monochrome beard version, sans the presently put-on sophishto. It was never cheap: purely because it so blatantly was!
I mean, Dudes and Dudettes, that even Peter O Toole or Pacino’s “go to the mattresses” can in no way trump a blue saari ‘moti biwi, with a Bara naam, who replaces all mattresses ala carte’.
Hun bol, ki kehnda e?
In the infamously made famous “You’ve got mail” Tom Hanks told us of the intrinsic wisdom hidden in the manifold layers of the ‘God Father’. The I Ching of all masculine wisdoms: hence only the trifle few quotes - with mixed days of the week and the Gun replaced by the Canola. But you see, Tabhisms offer a more profound variety of Tapori lifelines, more re-usable than Godfatherisms. For much as we would like, we do not all have the bollocks (I did mean to say balls btw, but sheesh - I’m a ‘lady’, or something to that effect) to kill all at will. Tabhisms have their own diversity. They do, I tell you.
“You see I can talk English, I can walk English, I can laugh English, because English is a very phunny language” - For all of us, and I do mean ALL, who still need to prove a point to our colonial masters. We CAN TALK the English and are working very hard on the laugh and walk, wont you please let us in your great nation?
“Sir, considering the consideration to take the run, the consideration became an ultimatum and ultimately Sir, the consideration was re-considered. In the year 1979, when India was playing Pakistan in Bombay, Wasim Raja and Wasim Bari they were at the crease Sir. And Wasim Bari gave the same consideration to Wasim Raja and Wasim Raja told Wasim Bari “Look Sir, this ultimately has to end in a consideration which I cannot consider. Therefore the consideration that you are giving me must be considered very ultimately”. Therefore, Sir, in the run that they were taking Wasim Raja told Wasim Bari “Wasim Bari you take the run” and ultimately both of them ran and considerately they both got out. SIR!"
– Lightening speed delivery for whenever your boss doubts your command over the English Language or whenever he or she already has a headache and you want the rest of the day off. OR as a mere tribute to Wasim Raja who has recently left us and was very considerate.
“The race is ready to go” – for every time you have not yet completed a task you were supposed to.
“Aap andar se kuch aur, baahar se kuch aur nazar aate hein. Ba Khudaa, shakal se to CHOR nazar aate hein. Umar guzri he saari chori mein, saare sukh chein band zulm ki tajori mein. Aap ka to lagta he bas yehi sapna”Ram Ram jagna, paraaya maal apna” - for every politician you have met and have yet to meet.
Exclusion clause: The following statement is to be uttered out loud in the presence of powers that BE- only in a state of heightened drunkenness OR during a suicide mission.
“Khaike paan banaaras waala, khul jaae bandh akal ka taala” – A small price to try. Definitely worth a shot if it means breaking said taala.
“Daddu Tum?” – For when death comes a knocking. And you are momentarily speechless - having forgotten and misplaced, the exuberance of your inherent verbosity.
“My name is Anthony Gonzales (to be replaced with said or yet unsaid, proper noun/s). Mein Duniya mein akela hun. Dil bhi he Khali, Ghar bhi he Khali - is mein rahe gi koi kismet waali. Jisse meri yaad aaye, jab chaahe chali aaye. Roop mein he Prem Gali, Gholli number # 420. Excuse me please?” – Without a doubt the MOST original and creative pick up line ever.
“Maula kabhi mujhe chorna kabhi nahin,
Bhoola Tera ehsaan mein kabhi nahin. Kiya tu ne jo manaa kiya, kabhi naheen. Kabhi kisi ko phansaaya he kabhi naheen”. – A sycophant’s prayer. Maula I can personally vouch for the last part.
“YAMMA YAMMA!” – A desi’s barbaric YAWP to hail life with Carp-e-diem proclamations.
“In the English, the Bhairoon becomes a Baron and the Baron becomes Bhairoon because their minds are very narrow” – Now 'aint that the truth?
“Tumhaara kya naam he, Basanti?” _ “Ji Maria, Saahib”. I like to think this one was meant for me, not that I have a tonga or any remote aspirations to wed Dharmindar. Neither, do I harbour any subsequent regrets over not having done so.
‘Mere Angaane mein tumhaara kya kaam he? Jo he naam waala wo hi to badnaam he”. – Roughly translated: Mind your own damn business, F****** Asshole.
“Apni to Jese tese. Thodi aese ya vaise- Kat jaaye gi.
Aap ka kya ho ga, Janaab-e-Aali?” – The ‘Que sera sera’ matra for all the Lawaris’s of this ‘world he na world’.
“Lo kal lo bat” – The illegally blonde synonym for “Whatever”.
I thereby claim that this ancient Tapori gospel, despite its warped machismo, trumps the western version of un-fairy like God fathers. Times are a changin’ my friends amd 'us', wherever-the-hell-borned-still-forever-confused-desis (WTHBSFCD) have gots- ta- stick together and realign our minglish’s and mojo’s (couldn’t help it) eastward.
Keh diya na. BAS!
You see the whole country of this system is juxtaposition by the haemoglobin in the atmosphere- because you are a sophisticated rhetoration intoxicated by the exuberance of your own verbosity.
My name is Maria Amir…
Having just experienced the post-delight that comes from yet another epiphany long, long overdue: I have a confession to make. I am, what the inimitable ‘they’ call a pseudo-intellectual: not particularly because I don’t know what I’m talking about (although that often happens, because I bear a lamentable tendency to confuse myself more often than I do others) but because I prefer to talk smart. Unless I’m on one of my sugar buzzes. Recently, I have had the long with-held pleasure of watching old Amitabh Bachan films. A much needed experience this cruel Saara Zamaana had prohibited me from during my childhood. By the way, the Pakistani version for cruel Saara Zamaana is "Zaalim Samaajh" (lest I be accused of being a dangerous anti-semite). The confession being…
The two-6-foot-legs-with-head-attached was a comical genius, folks. Seriously. There is an elusive charm that old Indian films and old westerns’ share: an intrinsic disregard for realism, even perverse logic. They are therefore a league unto themselves. When the young Amitabh slaps a man in ‘Sholay’, the said dude dies. Crap! Doth he put Arnie-Hasta-bloody-ass-Lavista to shame? Yep, that he do be. No guns in sight. Plus for some reason, the hero must always display utmost heroism with itsy bitsy guns sans bullets at the most inopportune moments, by resorting to use his fists. Fate it is.
When he says something to the tune of “Rishtey mein to hum tumhaare baap lagte hein!” he meanses, much business – more, perhaps than even De Niro and his “talking to me” mirror. The actual genius of the man, I now realise lies in the old-young, pre monochrome beard version, sans the presently put-on sophishto. It was never cheap: purely because it so blatantly was!
I mean, Dudes and Dudettes, that even Peter O Toole or Pacino’s “go to the mattresses” can in no way trump a blue saari ‘moti biwi, with a Bara naam, who replaces all mattresses ala carte’.
Hun bol, ki kehnda e?
In the infamously made famous “You’ve got mail” Tom Hanks told us of the intrinsic wisdom hidden in the manifold layers of the ‘God Father’. The I Ching of all masculine wisdoms: hence only the trifle few quotes - with mixed days of the week and the Gun replaced by the Canola. But you see, Tabhisms offer a more profound variety of Tapori lifelines, more re-usable than Godfatherisms. For much as we would like, we do not all have the bollocks (I did mean to say balls btw, but sheesh - I’m a ‘lady’, or something to that effect) to kill all at will. Tabhisms have their own diversity. They do, I tell you.
“You see I can talk English, I can walk English, I can laugh English, because English is a very phunny language” - For all of us, and I do mean ALL, who still need to prove a point to our colonial masters. We CAN TALK the English and are working very hard on the laugh and walk, wont you please let us in your great nation?
“Sir, considering the consideration to take the run, the consideration became an ultimatum and ultimately Sir, the consideration was re-considered. In the year 1979, when India was playing Pakistan in Bombay, Wasim Raja and Wasim Bari they were at the crease Sir. And Wasim Bari gave the same consideration to Wasim Raja and Wasim Raja told Wasim Bari “Look Sir, this ultimately has to end in a consideration which I cannot consider. Therefore the consideration that you are giving me must be considered very ultimately”. Therefore, Sir, in the run that they were taking Wasim Raja told Wasim Bari “Wasim Bari you take the run” and ultimately both of them ran and considerately they both got out. SIR!"
– Lightening speed delivery for whenever your boss doubts your command over the English Language or whenever he or she already has a headache and you want the rest of the day off. OR as a mere tribute to Wasim Raja who has recently left us and was very considerate.
“The race is ready to go” – for every time you have not yet completed a task you were supposed to.
“Aap andar se kuch aur, baahar se kuch aur nazar aate hein. Ba Khudaa, shakal se to CHOR nazar aate hein. Umar guzri he saari chori mein, saare sukh chein band zulm ki tajori mein. Aap ka to lagta he bas yehi sapna”Ram Ram jagna, paraaya maal apna” - for every politician you have met and have yet to meet.
Exclusion clause: The following statement is to be uttered out loud in the presence of powers that BE- only in a state of heightened drunkenness OR during a suicide mission.
“Khaike paan banaaras waala, khul jaae bandh akal ka taala” – A small price to try. Definitely worth a shot if it means breaking said taala.
“Daddu Tum?” – For when death comes a knocking. And you are momentarily speechless - having forgotten and misplaced, the exuberance of your inherent verbosity.
“My name is Anthony Gonzales (to be replaced with said or yet unsaid, proper noun/s). Mein Duniya mein akela hun. Dil bhi he Khali, Ghar bhi he Khali - is mein rahe gi koi kismet waali. Jisse meri yaad aaye, jab chaahe chali aaye. Roop mein he Prem Gali, Gholli number # 420. Excuse me please?” – Without a doubt the MOST original and creative pick up line ever.
“Maula kabhi mujhe chorna kabhi nahin,
Bhoola Tera ehsaan mein kabhi nahin. Kiya tu ne jo manaa kiya, kabhi naheen. Kabhi kisi ko phansaaya he kabhi naheen”. – A sycophant’s prayer. Maula I can personally vouch for the last part.
“YAMMA YAMMA!” – A desi’s barbaric YAWP to hail life with Carp-e-diem proclamations.
“In the English, the Bhairoon becomes a Baron and the Baron becomes Bhairoon because their minds are very narrow” – Now 'aint that the truth?
“Tumhaara kya naam he, Basanti?” _ “Ji Maria, Saahib”. I like to think this one was meant for me, not that I have a tonga or any remote aspirations to wed Dharmindar. Neither, do I harbour any subsequent regrets over not having done so.
‘Mere Angaane mein tumhaara kya kaam he? Jo he naam waala wo hi to badnaam he”. – Roughly translated: Mind your own damn business, F****** Asshole.
“Apni to Jese tese. Thodi aese ya vaise- Kat jaaye gi.
Aap ka kya ho ga, Janaab-e-Aali?” – The ‘Que sera sera’ matra for all the Lawaris’s of this ‘world he na world’.
“Lo kal lo bat” – The illegally blonde synonym for “Whatever”.
I thereby claim that this ancient Tapori gospel, despite its warped machismo, trumps the western version of un-fairy like God fathers. Times are a changin’ my friends amd 'us', wherever-the-hell-borned-still-forever-confused-desis (WTHBSFCD) have gots- ta- stick together and realign our minglish’s and mojo’s (couldn’t help it) eastward.
Keh diya na. BAS!
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