The last few hours have been maddeningly irritating. Everyone pretending to decipher the budget all by himself or herself. I have been pushed into a corner…to observe and understand the intricacies of unraveling the budget…. gosh it makes me laugh…. the last few years working in TV stations dumbing down the budget for the lay person to understand…and now these paper guys trying to teach me a lesson or two about reading between the lines of the budget.
Sometimes I wonder if it wouldn’t be more meaningful if I had undergone a lobotomy before joining the print medium. Many a time the pace and the silliness of those surrounding me has made me gasp and wonder…. if I shouldn’t be doing something completely different. There are a few diamonds…whose shine is diminished by the much surrounding them. But who the hell cares…in all walks the story is similar.
For me right now, the one nagging worry is how long I will survive this tomfoolery. I have finally found my niche…but then again not in “the” place of choice…but I am not going to complain….
I am rambling on meaninglessly to be precise…but the attempt is to look busy and occupied while my boss looks for one more soul to contribute to the already over-loaded budget coverage….so I shall sulk and pretend to be engaged completely. And fill up pages with absolute nonsense. But hey, nobody seems to be complaining.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
MISUNDERSTOOD
Love involves a peculiar unfathomable combination of understanding and misunderstanding. Diane Arbus
Obsessed with finding an outlet for my feelings, I completely forgot that man, who loved me and cared for me unconditionally and for life.
He felt wronged…responsible for all my misgivings…. my pain…. my raving and ranting…. he was hurt…. upset beyond relief….
Blinded by rage and misery, I had shut myself off from the surrounding universe… which breathed with me, which sheltered me…felt the urge to care for me….
But the point being…my dialogues with myself were never meant to hurt…or accuse…. or demean…or put down…or insult…or deprive anyone…. I was talking to myself…my asides are merely that…they are meant to be taken and understood in exactly that format…any other meaning imposed on them can make them harmful and hurtful for everyone else, but me!
So read me…. don’t absorb me like a sponge and cry in pain. I talk out loud to myself…to my consciousness…to my invisible breathing twin…so don’t let me affect you or spoil your sleep…let me be!
Obsessed with finding an outlet for my feelings, I completely forgot that man, who loved me and cared for me unconditionally and for life.
He felt wronged…responsible for all my misgivings…. my pain…. my raving and ranting…. he was hurt…. upset beyond relief….
Blinded by rage and misery, I had shut myself off from the surrounding universe… which breathed with me, which sheltered me…felt the urge to care for me….
But the point being…my dialogues with myself were never meant to hurt…or accuse…. or demean…or put down…or insult…or deprive anyone…. I was talking to myself…my asides are merely that…they are meant to be taken and understood in exactly that format…any other meaning imposed on them can make them harmful and hurtful for everyone else, but me!
So read me…. don’t absorb me like a sponge and cry in pain. I talk out loud to myself…to my consciousness…to my invisible breathing twin…so don’t let me affect you or spoil your sleep…let me be!
All by choice! MY Choice!
My raving and ranting aside, my life has been purely driven by personal choice...at the crucial junctures at least....
I would not have it otherwise...except if I could undo some of those thrashings I was subject to and some of the physical and mental pain...and the monetary setbacks.....despite all that I am in some parts extremely happy and in some parts not so at all....
I don't blame a damn soul for my misgivings....
I got married by choice....I love him, but I can't deal with domestic responsibilities.....
We moved here based on mutual consent of sorts....I love the fact that I finally can do something I always wanted and even get to see my name in print...but I HATE BANGALORE...the elusive maids & cooks...the exorbitant cost of living and the lack of familiarity....and the proximity to home.....
My husband loves me unconditionally....its wonderful....but I can't deal with the weight gain as a consequences of PCOS and the ugliness it brings along with!
There is a silver lining in it all....if only I could live my life by them and intelligently avoid all the potholes of daily living....I will then be the happiest soul this side of the Atlantic!
But alas...life is a BITCH!
I would not have it otherwise...except if I could undo some of those thrashings I was subject to and some of the physical and mental pain...and the monetary setbacks.....despite all that I am in some parts extremely happy and in some parts not so at all....
I don't blame a damn soul for my misgivings....
I got married by choice....I love him, but I can't deal with domestic responsibilities.....
We moved here based on mutual consent of sorts....I love the fact that I finally can do something I always wanted and even get to see my name in print...but I HATE BANGALORE...the elusive maids & cooks...the exorbitant cost of living and the lack of familiarity....and the proximity to home.....
My husband loves me unconditionally....its wonderful....but I can't deal with the weight gain as a consequences of PCOS and the ugliness it brings along with!
There is a silver lining in it all....if only I could live my life by them and intelligently avoid all the potholes of daily living....I will then be the happiest soul this side of the Atlantic!
But alas...life is a BITCH!
Monday, February 26, 2007
How Do I?
The revelations are scary. I deluded myself into domestication. Now I don’t know if I really wanted all this baggage that came along. With each passing day the muck sticks on a little harder and the more I scrub the more skin I expose to pain. I wonder if I should have listened to more enlightened souls when they yelled themselves hoarse that what I was embarking on was for the sane and the stable. I was neither and yet I figured maybe the constant exposure to these might convert me.
I am way far from conversion and from enjoying the ride. So then what shall I do?
How do I deal with these flashes of wanting to bail out? How do I replace them with fragments of sanity? How do I deal with other “weighty issues”? And convince myself that mere stress is leading me to do things that are merely screwing up my health some more? How do I replace prolonged periods of sadness with minutes of joy that last in the memory to cheer for a lifetime? How do I deal with failure?
How do I deal with the tears? How do I deal with the false laughter? How do I deal with the silly companionship promises? How do I deal with the lack of warmth? How do I deal with the brimming anger that scares even me every time it surfaces? How do I deal with the madness? How do I deal with the insomnia? How do I deal with the fatigue? How do I deal with the hunger?
How do I deal with the lack of intelligence? How do I deal with ugliness? How do I deal with constant bickering with family? How do I deal with those who let me down? How do I deal with those who understood? How do I deal with those who turned their backs on me? How do I deal with who voluntarily harmed me and then left me exposed? How do I deal with ever tempting death and freedom? Why should I deal with life?
I am way far from conversion and from enjoying the ride. So then what shall I do?
How do I deal with these flashes of wanting to bail out? How do I replace them with fragments of sanity? How do I deal with other “weighty issues”? And convince myself that mere stress is leading me to do things that are merely screwing up my health some more? How do I replace prolonged periods of sadness with minutes of joy that last in the memory to cheer for a lifetime? How do I deal with failure?
How do I deal with the tears? How do I deal with the false laughter? How do I deal with the silly companionship promises? How do I deal with the lack of warmth? How do I deal with the brimming anger that scares even me every time it surfaces? How do I deal with the madness? How do I deal with the insomnia? How do I deal with the fatigue? How do I deal with the hunger?
How do I deal with the lack of intelligence? How do I deal with ugliness? How do I deal with constant bickering with family? How do I deal with those who let me down? How do I deal with those who understood? How do I deal with those who turned their backs on me? How do I deal with who voluntarily harmed me and then left me exposed? How do I deal with ever tempting death and freedom? Why should I deal with life?
I am Tired.
I wonder if I shouldn’t run away from this sham.
I am tired of adjustments, of sacrifices, of pretending all’s well.
I am tired of the routine that life is.
I am tired of the responsibilities.
I am tired of being me.
I need change.
Some rest.
Some solitude.
I am tired of adjustments, of sacrifices, of pretending all’s well.
I am tired of the routine that life is.
I am tired of the responsibilities.
I am tired of being me.
I need change.
Some rest.
Some solitude.
Domestic Woes!
The drudgery is getting to me. I never envisioned becoming dependent on something as insignificant as domestic help.
Today my movements and social life are dictated by her moods. My timings and needs have to suit her lifestyle…or else I’m forced to lead a life of dirt and stench!
She sits in her little hut conniving how to vex me after a long and dull day at work…and while I dream about putting my legs up and enjoying a few nibbles while watching TV, she glares at me and staunchly refuses to come and complete the daily chores because I am ten seconds late!
The foolishness of being part of the population of this town is being overly and emotionally dependent on these silly yet stylish women who dictate our lives as if their fathers had paid for our upkeep! They nag us to death over acquiring material things that will make their lives more comfortable and livable, while we slog in our respective offices trying to make ends meet in this city where everything by sheer snob value costs more than a diamond tiara!
I hate her with all my heart and with each passing day imagine the sheer pleasure throwing some hot water down her neck will cause me…even as I go and cringe at her gate, throwing all caution to the wind pleading with her to please come and scrub my floor even though big dirty black spots will glare back at me the minute she steps aside…yet my need blinds me every passing day….
I need this woman to come and do those dirty menial jobs like I need no other in this world.
And I detest myself for having sunk so low. Yet isn’t this the essence of existence?
Such ignominy we’ve been reduced to!
Today my movements and social life are dictated by her moods. My timings and needs have to suit her lifestyle…or else I’m forced to lead a life of dirt and stench!
She sits in her little hut conniving how to vex me after a long and dull day at work…and while I dream about putting my legs up and enjoying a few nibbles while watching TV, she glares at me and staunchly refuses to come and complete the daily chores because I am ten seconds late!
The foolishness of being part of the population of this town is being overly and emotionally dependent on these silly yet stylish women who dictate our lives as if their fathers had paid for our upkeep! They nag us to death over acquiring material things that will make their lives more comfortable and livable, while we slog in our respective offices trying to make ends meet in this city where everything by sheer snob value costs more than a diamond tiara!
I hate her with all my heart and with each passing day imagine the sheer pleasure throwing some hot water down her neck will cause me…even as I go and cringe at her gate, throwing all caution to the wind pleading with her to please come and scrub my floor even though big dirty black spots will glare back at me the minute she steps aside…yet my need blinds me every passing day….
I need this woman to come and do those dirty menial jobs like I need no other in this world.
And I detest myself for having sunk so low. Yet isn’t this the essence of existence?
Such ignominy we’ve been reduced to!
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Consistency evades me unlike her!
Lady Lazarus by Plath
I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it----
A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot
A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.
Peel off the napkin
0 my enemy.
Do I terrify?----
The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.
Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me
And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.
What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see
Them unwrap me hand and foot
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies
These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,
Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.
The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut
As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
Dying
Is an art, like everything else,
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.
It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical
Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:
'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge
For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart----
It really goes.
And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood
Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.
I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby
That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
Ash, ash ---
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----
A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.
Herr God,
Herr Lucifer
Beware Beware.
Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.
I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it----
A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot
A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.
Peel off the napkin
0 my enemy.
Do I terrify?----
The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.
Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me
And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.
What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see
Them unwrap me hand and foot
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies
These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,
Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.
The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut
As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
Dying
Is an art, like everything else,
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.
It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical
Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:
'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge
For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart----
It really goes.
And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood
Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.
I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby
That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
Ash, ash ---
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----
A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.
Herr God,
Herr Lucifer
Beware Beware.
Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Let ME Be!
Fate has a funny method of making things and consequences run around in circles. I have at most points in my life, paid my prices at very regular intervals for any crimes I have committed till date. There has never been one incident, for which punishment hasn’t been exacted from me immediately, making me want to drown myself in the fires of hell.
But as I sit through the images of my life, as I recount my flaws, my narrow escapes from perpetual ignominy and my countless blessings, I wonder if some around me have gotten away with bigger and larger than life crimes.
If yes, when is judgment day for them? Why have I been forced to paying the price in extremely traditional and painful fashion within months of the lapse of the crime? Why have I borne the pain with forced smiles and while hollering into the night? Why have I survived with scars, but those mistakes refuse to subside and die away? Why oh why do some of the ghosts still haunt me even as I have cleansed myself and attempted at a life more meaningful and worthwhile? What has been the permanent and un-fixable error in me?
Why haven’t I been let off the hook till date? I want to lay my ghosts to rest. Let sleeping dogs lie, even as I swirl in the happiness of my present.
Please.
But as I sit through the images of my life, as I recount my flaws, my narrow escapes from perpetual ignominy and my countless blessings, I wonder if some around me have gotten away with bigger and larger than life crimes.
If yes, when is judgment day for them? Why have I been forced to paying the price in extremely traditional and painful fashion within months of the lapse of the crime? Why have I borne the pain with forced smiles and while hollering into the night? Why have I survived with scars, but those mistakes refuse to subside and die away? Why oh why do some of the ghosts still haunt me even as I have cleansed myself and attempted at a life more meaningful and worthwhile? What has been the permanent and un-fixable error in me?
Why haven’t I been let off the hook till date? I want to lay my ghosts to rest. Let sleeping dogs lie, even as I swirl in the happiness of my present.
Please.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
I deserve it all!
The confusion is driving me insane. One would have thought that merely thinking would not make events occur. Apparently not in my case....some of dreams are playing themselves out...in an extremely eerie fashion....its spooking me to say the least...but the realisation happened only now.
I am caught between the desire to stop imagining silly things and wanting to see them happen, even if its only in the distant future.
Someone asked me if I had ever attempted to annihilate myself. I wanted to say a host of things...but cat got the tongue at the appropriate moment. It ain't a worthless mission at all...frankly there have been numerous moments when I wanted to fly away and be free limp and free like a piece of cotton wool being swept away by the strong gust of wind just before a downpour, when the sand and the trees smell heavenly, when the dust sits in your eyes making tears tumble down without any reason, when every breathe you take feels muddy and suffocating and as if the flu were setting on, when the coffee suddenly turns cold and you are too lazy to walk across to pour yourself another cup, when the packet of chips in that woman's hand seems so delectable you are willing to extend a hand of friendship to that otherwise loud behenji, when all you want to do is cuddle in front of the fire inside your quilt with enough to eat and drink and the TV roaring and your teddy bear tucked in beside you....
I want so many things from life...but all my fantasies seem to play truant the minute I sit down to conjure up a moment of pleasure....
Its funny how, when you are down in the dumps and a stranger smiles at you, you say a silent prayer expecting hell to come down on him with all its fury, for the simple reason that he has what you assume has passed you by....it happened to me, yet again while I was walking past the canteen....and what was her crime...she was thin!
I am being eaten from inside...how much more time do I have to make things fall into place? I don't know. It worries me no end...
I want so many truths to be laid bare...to make amends with my past...to relive those golden moments guiltless...I want to be loved so hard and so deep.....I want so much more...from everybody, all things alive....
But all they do is stare back blankly.
Stop.
I deserve to be happy.
I deserve joy.
I deserve love.
I deserve a life.
I deserve everything.
I am caught between the desire to stop imagining silly things and wanting to see them happen, even if its only in the distant future.
Someone asked me if I had ever attempted to annihilate myself. I wanted to say a host of things...but cat got the tongue at the appropriate moment. It ain't a worthless mission at all...frankly there have been numerous moments when I wanted to fly away and be free limp and free like a piece of cotton wool being swept away by the strong gust of wind just before a downpour, when the sand and the trees smell heavenly, when the dust sits in your eyes making tears tumble down without any reason, when every breathe you take feels muddy and suffocating and as if the flu were setting on, when the coffee suddenly turns cold and you are too lazy to walk across to pour yourself another cup, when the packet of chips in that woman's hand seems so delectable you are willing to extend a hand of friendship to that otherwise loud behenji, when all you want to do is cuddle in front of the fire inside your quilt with enough to eat and drink and the TV roaring and your teddy bear tucked in beside you....
I want so many things from life...but all my fantasies seem to play truant the minute I sit down to conjure up a moment of pleasure....
Its funny how, when you are down in the dumps and a stranger smiles at you, you say a silent prayer expecting hell to come down on him with all its fury, for the simple reason that he has what you assume has passed you by....it happened to me, yet again while I was walking past the canteen....and what was her crime...she was thin!
I am being eaten from inside...how much more time do I have to make things fall into place? I don't know. It worries me no end...
I want so many truths to be laid bare...to make amends with my past...to relive those golden moments guiltless...I want to be loved so hard and so deep.....I want so much more...from everybody, all things alive....
But all they do is stare back blankly.
Stop.
I deserve to be happy.
I deserve joy.
I deserve love.
I deserve a life.
I deserve everything.
I write for you, My Love...
The light ebbed away
I shuddered in the nook of his arm
The chirping outside was eerily calming
We were not alone
Lost amongst wild cats in the jungle
We sat covered by green
Sipping on silence and intoxicants
Holding hands, shivering in the breeze
The log hut swayed to the wild tones
The samba’s head against our legs
We watched as the monkey played truant
Giggling like school children in a zoo
He kissed another year goodbye, smiling
Readied for responsibility
Striding with comfort, wife alongside
Building dreams of home, family
Courtship suddenly seems a fading past
As silly nothings make way for serious thought
We smile knowingly at the mushy yesterdays
While the night comes by kissing us goodnight
We had made our promises, our plans
No longer could we smile and waste nights
There were more years, people coming along
We will never be alone!
Written on Feb 12, 2007
I shuddered in the nook of his arm
The chirping outside was eerily calming
We were not alone
Lost amongst wild cats in the jungle
We sat covered by green
Sipping on silence and intoxicants
Holding hands, shivering in the breeze
The log hut swayed to the wild tones
The samba’s head against our legs
We watched as the monkey played truant
Giggling like school children in a zoo
He kissed another year goodbye, smiling
Readied for responsibility
Striding with comfort, wife alongside
Building dreams of home, family
Courtship suddenly seems a fading past
As silly nothings make way for serious thought
We smile knowingly at the mushy yesterdays
While the night comes by kissing us goodnight
We had made our promises, our plans
No longer could we smile and waste nights
There were more years, people coming along
We will never be alone!
Written on Feb 12, 2007
Monday, February 12, 2007
Yours, Forever.....
“How can you wear something so heavy all the time? Don’t you ever take it off? I thought you didn’t bother about all these things…” squealed this silly nobody I met for the first time about my bulky mangalsutra.
Now one can argue that by merely wearing it nobody can save their marriage…then why am I hell bent on sporting this chunky piece of yellow metal against all my convictions? For one, I have always been a tad old fashioned when it comes to matters of the heart…or atleast I believe that I don’t have to necessarily rebel against something unless it caused me actual discomfort or some other negative feeling. I do that enough in all other matters of living anyways.
So when I got married instead of opting for the diminutive Mallu leaf-like thali, I asked for a cumbersome and big Brahmin thali. Then I went ahead and decided to wear it…. not because anyone asked me to…because I chose to…to the utter surprise of others including the immediate families of my hubby and me…and to top it all I even decided to wear sindoor…. Well considering I have always had a tikka on my forehead, this didn’t change things too much, but here I was adhering to all the rules of wife-dom with utmost sincerity to the chagrin of all around me…
The point is, I have made a lifelong commitment…on all planes…. and I simply believe that these external oddities will not add or subtract from it…but hell why not try it out…. what if the formula that has worked for so many others before me rubs off some good luck on my relationship…and propels it into forever-dom if there were something of the sort?
Now one can argue that by merely wearing it nobody can save their marriage…then why am I hell bent on sporting this chunky piece of yellow metal against all my convictions? For one, I have always been a tad old fashioned when it comes to matters of the heart…or atleast I believe that I don’t have to necessarily rebel against something unless it caused me actual discomfort or some other negative feeling. I do that enough in all other matters of living anyways.
So when I got married instead of opting for the diminutive Mallu leaf-like thali, I asked for a cumbersome and big Brahmin thali. Then I went ahead and decided to wear it…. not because anyone asked me to…because I chose to…to the utter surprise of others including the immediate families of my hubby and me…and to top it all I even decided to wear sindoor…. Well considering I have always had a tikka on my forehead, this didn’t change things too much, but here I was adhering to all the rules of wife-dom with utmost sincerity to the chagrin of all around me…
The point is, I have made a lifelong commitment…on all planes…. and I simply believe that these external oddities will not add or subtract from it…but hell why not try it out…. what if the formula that has worked for so many others before me rubs off some good luck on my relationship…and propels it into forever-dom if there were something of the sort?
Back to Educating Maself!
CUBISM:
Cubism was a 20th century avant-garde art movement that revolutionized EuropeEuropean painting and sculpture, and inspired related movements in music and literature. In cubist artworks, objects are broken up, analyzed, and re-assembled in an abstracted form — instead of depicting objects from one viewpoint, the artist depicts the subject from a multitude of viewpoints to represent the subject in a greater context. Often the surfaces intersect at seemingly random angles presenting no coherent sense of depth. The background and object planes interpenetrate one another to create the ambiguous shallow space characteristic of cubism.
While mostly associated with art and literature, cubism also found its way into the automobile industry, reflected in the engine designs of at least one famous automaker. Ettore Bugatti, founder of the Bugatti marque of automobiles was regarded as a cubist, having himself attended cubist gatherings. Cubism can clearly be seen in the form of Bugatti engines. The American architect Paul Rudolph gained widespread notoriety for his three-dimensional cubist building designs with highly fractured floor plans.
Cubism was a 20th century avant-garde art movement that revolutionized EuropeEuropean painting and sculpture, and inspired related movements in music and literature. In cubist artworks, objects are broken up, analyzed, and re-assembled in an abstracted form — instead of depicting objects from one viewpoint, the artist depicts the subject from a multitude of viewpoints to represent the subject in a greater context. Often the surfaces intersect at seemingly random angles presenting no coherent sense of depth. The background and object planes interpenetrate one another to create the ambiguous shallow space characteristic of cubism.
While mostly associated with art and literature, cubism also found its way into the automobile industry, reflected in the engine designs of at least one famous automaker. Ettore Bugatti, founder of the Bugatti marque of automobiles was regarded as a cubist, having himself attended cubist gatherings. Cubism can clearly be seen in the form of Bugatti engines. The American architect Paul Rudolph gained widespread notoriety for his three-dimensional cubist building designs with highly fractured floor plans.
I AM RIGHT!
Attended a wedding last night, in a place shut off in the back of beyond. Anyhow…met my hubby’s colleagues. Was kinda fascinating…and then again only went on to reaffirm my beliefs about people in a certain profession.
Firstly, we walked in when the wedding rituals came to a conclusion; though that was the intention in the first place…so cant really complain. Second of all, we managed to get on the dance floor after so very very long. It was extremely rejuvenating and wonderful. Thirdly, the crowd was what I call uppity Mallus plus some other confused self proclaimed Westerners…. with a dash of genuine souls…. anyhow the ambience, the booze, the food and the music was good. So well I don’t really care. Only issue…I forgot my smokes at home! But all that apart I had fun to some extent.
Now coming back to my initial line of thought…the kind of people I believe work in certain professions…judgmental you say? Hell I sure am. And why shouldn’t I be? There is no crime against having a vivid imagination, which leads to frivolous yet deep thoughts and thereafter judgments. So there you are…. My husband’s lady colleagues were to say the least…. extremely frivolous and irritatingly dumb. Some were dignified and silent, and for once I was really appreciating the awkward silences…but the others who wouldn’t for a minute shut up were…So what irked me? The fact that they were apparently very fond of my husband, or that they were falling over him and couldn’t emit a sound without laying a finger on him? Or that they seemed bent on laying bare their apparent proximity to him in an attempt to make me flare up and end up “not giving him anything tonight” as they bleated? Hell, wish I had my good old instrument box. The moments when I sniggered in pride as I saw my opponent descend with his pink defenseless bottom onto a compass or a divider back in school made me realize that some pleasures of childhood were priceless.
I am not going to recount each and every creature. But bottom line, I have always maintained that women who can shake their booty, sit pretty and not have any significant and dying passion can take up this job, holds very true. Very few, like those silent self-contained ones, seem capable of having anything remotely similar to a conversation one can enjoy! The others, even as they plan more and more dos so that they can dress up and revel in the company of strange or maybe otherwise attached men, make me want to puke. What is it that they desire from this world in general? I mean, neither do they have the brains to make them want to pursue academics, nor do they have the looks to enter some glam-sham contest…. what then is their purpose in life? I am yet to decipher that one truth that might make me look at them with a little more tolerance.
For now, I shall revel in the realization that yet again, I have proven that I am RIGHT!
Firstly, we walked in when the wedding rituals came to a conclusion; though that was the intention in the first place…so cant really complain. Second of all, we managed to get on the dance floor after so very very long. It was extremely rejuvenating and wonderful. Thirdly, the crowd was what I call uppity Mallus plus some other confused self proclaimed Westerners…. with a dash of genuine souls…. anyhow the ambience, the booze, the food and the music was good. So well I don’t really care. Only issue…I forgot my smokes at home! But all that apart I had fun to some extent.
Now coming back to my initial line of thought…the kind of people I believe work in certain professions…judgmental you say? Hell I sure am. And why shouldn’t I be? There is no crime against having a vivid imagination, which leads to frivolous yet deep thoughts and thereafter judgments. So there you are…. My husband’s lady colleagues were to say the least…. extremely frivolous and irritatingly dumb. Some were dignified and silent, and for once I was really appreciating the awkward silences…but the others who wouldn’t for a minute shut up were…So what irked me? The fact that they were apparently very fond of my husband, or that they were falling over him and couldn’t emit a sound without laying a finger on him? Or that they seemed bent on laying bare their apparent proximity to him in an attempt to make me flare up and end up “not giving him anything tonight” as they bleated? Hell, wish I had my good old instrument box. The moments when I sniggered in pride as I saw my opponent descend with his pink defenseless bottom onto a compass or a divider back in school made me realize that some pleasures of childhood were priceless.
I am not going to recount each and every creature. But bottom line, I have always maintained that women who can shake their booty, sit pretty and not have any significant and dying passion can take up this job, holds very true. Very few, like those silent self-contained ones, seem capable of having anything remotely similar to a conversation one can enjoy! The others, even as they plan more and more dos so that they can dress up and revel in the company of strange or maybe otherwise attached men, make me want to puke. What is it that they desire from this world in general? I mean, neither do they have the brains to make them want to pursue academics, nor do they have the looks to enter some glam-sham contest…. what then is their purpose in life? I am yet to decipher that one truth that might make me look at them with a little more tolerance.
For now, I shall revel in the realization that yet again, I have proven that I am RIGHT!
Educating Myself!
Neoclassicism:
In the visual arts the European movement called "neoclassicism" began after ca 1765, as a reaction against both the surviving Baroque and Rococo styles, and as a desire to return to the perceived "purity" of the arts of Rome, the more vague perception ("ideal") of Ancient Greek arts (where almost no western artist had actually been) and, to a lesser extent, 16th century Renaissance Classicism.Contrasting with the Baroque and the Rococo, Neo-classical paintings are devoid of pastel colors and haziness; instead, they have sharp colors with Chiaroscuro. In the case of Neo-classicism in France, a prime example is Jacques Louis David whose paintings often use Greek elements to extol the French Revolution's virtues (state before family).
Neoclassicism first gained influence in England and France, through a generation of French art students trained in Rome and influenced by the writings of Johann Joachim Winckelmann, and it was quickly adopted by progressive circles in Sweden. At first, classicizing decor was grafted onto familiar European forms, as in the interiors for Catherine II's lover Count Orlov, designed by an Italian architect with a team of Italian stuccadori: only the isolated oval medallions like cameos and the bas-relief overdoors hint of neoclassicism; the furnishings are fully Italian Rococo G.B. Piranesi's design for a vase on stand, Rome ca 1780, appealed more to his English and French patrons. Similar gilt-bronze vases were made in London and Paris, from ca. 1768 onwards.But a second neoclassic wave, more severe, more studied (through the medium of engravings) and more consciously archaeological, is associated with the height of the Napoleonic Empire.
In France, the first phase of neoclassicism is expressed in the "Louis XVI style", the second phase in the styles we call "Directoire" or Empire. Italy clung to Rococo until the Napoleonic regimes brought the new archaeological classicism, which was embraced as a political statement by young, progressive, urban Italians with republican leanings.
The high tide of neoclassicism in painting is exemplified in early paintings by Jacques-Louis David (illustration, left) and Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres' entire career. David's Oath of the Horatii was painted in Rome and made a splash at the Paris Salon of 1784. Its central perspective is perpendicular to the picture plane, made more emphatic by the dim arcade behind, against which the heroic figures are disposed as in a frieze, with a hint of the artificial lighting and staging of opera, and the classical coloring of Nicholas Poussin.
In sculpture, the most familiar representatives are the Italian Antonio Canova, the Englishman John Flaxman and the Dane Bertel Thorvaldsen. The European neoclassical manner also took hold in the United States, where its prominence peaked somewhat later and is exemplified in the sculptures of William Henry Rinehart (1825-1874).
In the visual arts the European movement called "neoclassicism" began after ca 1765, as a reaction against both the surviving Baroque and Rococo styles, and as a desire to return to the perceived "purity" of the arts of Rome, the more vague perception ("ideal") of Ancient Greek arts (where almost no western artist had actually been) and, to a lesser extent, 16th century Renaissance Classicism.Contrasting with the Baroque and the Rococo, Neo-classical paintings are devoid of pastel colors and haziness; instead, they have sharp colors with Chiaroscuro. In the case of Neo-classicism in France, a prime example is Jacques Louis David whose paintings often use Greek elements to extol the French Revolution's virtues (state before family).
Neoclassicism first gained influence in England and France, through a generation of French art students trained in Rome and influenced by the writings of Johann Joachim Winckelmann, and it was quickly adopted by progressive circles in Sweden. At first, classicizing decor was grafted onto familiar European forms, as in the interiors for Catherine II's lover Count Orlov, designed by an Italian architect with a team of Italian stuccadori: only the isolated oval medallions like cameos and the bas-relief overdoors hint of neoclassicism; the furnishings are fully Italian Rococo G.B. Piranesi's design for a vase on stand, Rome ca 1780, appealed more to his English and French patrons. Similar gilt-bronze vases were made in London and Paris, from ca. 1768 onwards.But a second neoclassic wave, more severe, more studied (through the medium of engravings) and more consciously archaeological, is associated with the height of the Napoleonic Empire.
In France, the first phase of neoclassicism is expressed in the "Louis XVI style", the second phase in the styles we call "Directoire" or Empire. Italy clung to Rococo until the Napoleonic regimes brought the new archaeological classicism, which was embraced as a political statement by young, progressive, urban Italians with republican leanings.
The high tide of neoclassicism in painting is exemplified in early paintings by Jacques-Louis David (illustration, left) and Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres' entire career. David's Oath of the Horatii was painted in Rome and made a splash at the Paris Salon of 1784. Its central perspective is perpendicular to the picture plane, made more emphatic by the dim arcade behind, against which the heroic figures are disposed as in a frieze, with a hint of the artificial lighting and staging of opera, and the classical coloring of Nicholas Poussin.
In sculpture, the most familiar representatives are the Italian Antonio Canova, the Englishman John Flaxman and the Dane Bertel Thorvaldsen. The European neoclassical manner also took hold in the United States, where its prominence peaked somewhat later and is exemplified in the sculptures of William Henry Rinehart (1825-1874).
Flaming June!
Flaming June is a painting by Frederic Leighton produced in 1895. The painting was honored in song by Paul Weller on his "Stanley Road" album.Saturday, February 10, 2007
Sylvia was right.
I know exactly what she felt.
It’s happened to me oh so many times. This confusion as to what I should be doing. Do I want to shriek and cry or remain in the throes of some anguish I cannot explain? Do I want to be joyous and break into a smile? Or do I want to be morose and throw things at the window in the hope that some shard will spring back and hurt me letting the blood flow copiously?
Is there a solution to this torture? How do I see beyond this? I want to be happy. Everything around me at present is the way I wanted them to be, then what is it that irks me in the setting? Am I missing somebody? Do I want someone to say something…but there is nothing I am longing to hear. Is there some song I want to listen to at this very instant? Will it soothe my nerves so that I can get back to my chores? I don’t know what I really want. I want to run away from the root of this disturbance.
Why does it afflict me so, that even when I want to be happy, it plunges me into the throes of depression? Why do I feel torn between these two worlds that I shudder to inhabit? What is it that will make it better for me? Or make this moment pass with minimal pain?
Have I wanted to take my life? Have I attempted to make this end? Yes. I am not ashamed. All I wanted was to be free from this torment that made me dither. That made me wonder if I had it in me to survive, to make it to another day, to see the hope in the eyes that watch me through the night, to see the pain in those faces that wait anxiously to take the pain unto themselves, to be able to write once again, to be loved despite my flaws, to be born pure again, to be pristine and simple…
Those moments are not my best. They were shards of illusion when I felt that one single swipe with that knife could make it all go away. When I felt that these un-deserving mortals would be punished for having spoken or thought ill of me. When I assumed that it would finally bring me into a world of peace, where only my intentions and wills mattered.
They are times when I felt; that my sole aim was to walk into another disaster from the one I was surviving. That I lacked the capability of making one sane choice that would let me be myself in all moments of waking.
What did I want from this universe? I have no answers. And that makes me scared. Of lapsing into one of those unforeseen moments of irrationality and senselessness…of worry and suffocation….of fear and the lack of freedom…of wanting to break free…..
I need help!
It’s happened to me oh so many times. This confusion as to what I should be doing. Do I want to shriek and cry or remain in the throes of some anguish I cannot explain? Do I want to be joyous and break into a smile? Or do I want to be morose and throw things at the window in the hope that some shard will spring back and hurt me letting the blood flow copiously?
Is there a solution to this torture? How do I see beyond this? I want to be happy. Everything around me at present is the way I wanted them to be, then what is it that irks me in the setting? Am I missing somebody? Do I want someone to say something…but there is nothing I am longing to hear. Is there some song I want to listen to at this very instant? Will it soothe my nerves so that I can get back to my chores? I don’t know what I really want. I want to run away from the root of this disturbance.
Why does it afflict me so, that even when I want to be happy, it plunges me into the throes of depression? Why do I feel torn between these two worlds that I shudder to inhabit? What is it that will make it better for me? Or make this moment pass with minimal pain?
Have I wanted to take my life? Have I attempted to make this end? Yes. I am not ashamed. All I wanted was to be free from this torment that made me dither. That made me wonder if I had it in me to survive, to make it to another day, to see the hope in the eyes that watch me through the night, to see the pain in those faces that wait anxiously to take the pain unto themselves, to be able to write once again, to be loved despite my flaws, to be born pure again, to be pristine and simple…
Those moments are not my best. They were shards of illusion when I felt that one single swipe with that knife could make it all go away. When I felt that these un-deserving mortals would be punished for having spoken or thought ill of me. When I assumed that it would finally bring me into a world of peace, where only my intentions and wills mattered.
They are times when I felt; that my sole aim was to walk into another disaster from the one I was surviving. That I lacked the capability of making one sane choice that would let me be myself in all moments of waking.
What did I want from this universe? I have no answers. And that makes me scared. Of lapsing into one of those unforeseen moments of irrationality and senselessness…of worry and suffocation….of fear and the lack of freedom…of wanting to break free…..
I need help!
I rise with my red hair, And I eat men like air....she said!
Sylvia Plath - In Her Own Words
Author: John McManamy
Published on: May 23, 2000
"Make no mistake, The Bell Jar is THE depression memoir."
It was a bitter cold winter in 1963, and an American mother of two was doing her best to cope on her own in London, not long after being jilted by her husband for another woman. Poet Sylvia Plath, 30, left out bread and milk for her two toddlers sleeping in an upstairs bedroom.
Then she turned on the gas.
Following the posthumous publication of her Ariel poems, Sylvia Plath became a feminist cause celebre, with ex-husband poet Ted Hughes vilified as an accomplice to her death. Completely overlooked by these feminist critics, however, was Exhibit A, the writer's very own words, her semi-autobiographical novel, The Bell Jar.
Check out this description of her shock treatment:
" ... with each flash a great jolt drubbed me till I thought my bones would break and the sap fly out of me like a split plant."
The book also recounted her attempted suicide at age 20, not to mention her morbid preoccupation with death. The Bell Jar was a metaphor for the feelings of hopelessness and despair and self-contempt she carried with her everywhere:
"How did I know that someday - at college, in Europe, somewhere, anywhere - the bell jar, with it's stifling distortions, wouldn't descend again?"
Make no mistake, this book is THE depression memoir, but in an age when the disorder was misunderstood as a neurosis, if acknowledged at all, Sylvia Plath became the silent party in all the finger-pointing and mudslinging that passed for commentary in the decades following her death.
Now that is changing. Publisher Faber and Faber has just released her Journals, never before published in full. Finally, we hear Sylvia's side of her story, in her own words. According to an article in the Guardian:
"It is here in her diaries that Plath reveals what she really thinks - about her depression, about her sexuality and about Hughes."
In an early entry, she reveals her manic as well as depressive side: "God, is this all it is, the ricocheting down the corridor of laughter and tears? Of self-worship and self-loathing? Of glory and disgust?"
And again: "It is as if my life were magically run by two electric currents: joyous and positive and despairing negative; whichever is running at the moment dominates my life, floods it. I am now flooded with despair, almost hysteria, as if I were smothering."
On the day after she met Ted Hughes, she wrote a poem "about the dark forces of lust.." Entitled "Pursuit," it begins: "There is a panther stalks me down:/One day I'll have my death of him."
But first came the grim foretelling of her suicide attempt at age 20. In November 1952, she wrote:
"God, if ever I have come close to wanting to commit suicide, it is now, with the groggy sleepless blood dragging through my veins, and the air thick and gray with rain and the damn little men across the street pounding on the roof with picks and axes and chisels, and the acrid hellish stench of tar ... My world falls apart, crumbles, 'The centre does not hold.' There is no integrating force, only the naked fear, the urge of self-preservation."
With a wisdom way beyond her years, she notes:
"I am afraid, I am not solid, but hollow. I feel behind my eyes a numb, paralysed cavern, a pit of hell, a mimicking nothingness, I never thought, I never wrote, I never suffered. I want to kill myself, to escape from responsibility, to crawl back abjectly into the womb. I do not know who I am, where I am going - and I am the one who has to decide the answers to these hideous questions. I long for a noble escape from freedom - I am weak, tired, in revolt from the strong constructive humanitarian faith which presupposes a healthy, active intellect and will. There is nowhere to go - not home, where I would blubber and cry, a grotesque fool, into my mother's skirts - not to men where I want more than the stern, final, paternal directive - not to church which is liberal, free - no, I turn wearily to the totalitarian dictatorship where I am absolved of all personal responsibility and can sacrifice myself in a "splurge of altruism" on the altar of the Cause with a capital 'C'."
But the Journals also reveal a very much alive side to the poet, whose run-on writing shimmers with a bebop sense of fifties hip we normally associate with the likes of Kerouac and company:
"Falcons Yard, and the syncopated strut of a piano upstairs, and oh it was very Bohemian, with boys in turtle-neck sweaters and girls being blue-eye-lidded or elegant in black. Derrek was there, with guitar, and Bert was looking shining and proud as if he had just delivered five babies, said something obvious about having drunk a lot ... By this time I had spilled one drink, partly into my mouth, partly over my hands and the floor, and the jazz was beginning to get under my skin, and I started dancing with Luke and knew I was very bad, having crossed the river and banged into the trees, yelling about the poems, and he only smiling with the far-off look of a cretin satan. He wrote those things, and he was slobbing around. Well, I was slobbing around, blub, maundering and I didn't even have the excuse of having written those things; I suppose if you can write sestinas which bam crash through lines and rules after having raped them to the purpose, then you can be satanic and smile like a cretin beelzebub."
You can almost imagine Charlie Parker's magical saxophone transformed into Sylvia Plath's voice, a plethora of notes cascading at an impossible frenetic pace, each one improbably perfect and precise, sweeping reader and listener off their feet and hurtling right behind the poet into the arms of fellow poet Ted Hughes.
Hours later, she wrote her "Pursuit" poem, dedicated to Ted, and later "Lady Lazarus," where she boasted:
"I rise with my red hairAnd I eat men like air"
In a sense, Sylvia Plath has been restored to life, by the power of her own pen, by the power of her own words. That such a vital force was struck down by depression perhaps makes her short life all the more tragic. But her own words also portray triumph, of a woman who overcame tremendous odds just to find some joy in her life, a joy she was able to manifest in full measure.
This is the side to Sylvia Plath we have tended to overlook. Her Journals will hopefully, if belatedly, rectify that oversight.
Author: John McManamy
Published on: May 23, 2000
"Make no mistake, The Bell Jar is THE depression memoir."
It was a bitter cold winter in 1963, and an American mother of two was doing her best to cope on her own in London, not long after being jilted by her husband for another woman. Poet Sylvia Plath, 30, left out bread and milk for her two toddlers sleeping in an upstairs bedroom.
Then she turned on the gas.
Following the posthumous publication of her Ariel poems, Sylvia Plath became a feminist cause celebre, with ex-husband poet Ted Hughes vilified as an accomplice to her death. Completely overlooked by these feminist critics, however, was Exhibit A, the writer's very own words, her semi-autobiographical novel, The Bell Jar.
Check out this description of her shock treatment:
" ... with each flash a great jolt drubbed me till I thought my bones would break and the sap fly out of me like a split plant."
The book also recounted her attempted suicide at age 20, not to mention her morbid preoccupation with death. The Bell Jar was a metaphor for the feelings of hopelessness and despair and self-contempt she carried with her everywhere:
"How did I know that someday - at college, in Europe, somewhere, anywhere - the bell jar, with it's stifling distortions, wouldn't descend again?"
Make no mistake, this book is THE depression memoir, but in an age when the disorder was misunderstood as a neurosis, if acknowledged at all, Sylvia Plath became the silent party in all the finger-pointing and mudslinging that passed for commentary in the decades following her death.
Now that is changing. Publisher Faber and Faber has just released her Journals, never before published in full. Finally, we hear Sylvia's side of her story, in her own words. According to an article in the Guardian:
"It is here in her diaries that Plath reveals what she really thinks - about her depression, about her sexuality and about Hughes."
In an early entry, she reveals her manic as well as depressive side: "God, is this all it is, the ricocheting down the corridor of laughter and tears? Of self-worship and self-loathing? Of glory and disgust?"
And again: "It is as if my life were magically run by two electric currents: joyous and positive and despairing negative; whichever is running at the moment dominates my life, floods it. I am now flooded with despair, almost hysteria, as if I were smothering."
On the day after she met Ted Hughes, she wrote a poem "about the dark forces of lust.." Entitled "Pursuit," it begins: "There is a panther stalks me down:/One day I'll have my death of him."
But first came the grim foretelling of her suicide attempt at age 20. In November 1952, she wrote:
"God, if ever I have come close to wanting to commit suicide, it is now, with the groggy sleepless blood dragging through my veins, and the air thick and gray with rain and the damn little men across the street pounding on the roof with picks and axes and chisels, and the acrid hellish stench of tar ... My world falls apart, crumbles, 'The centre does not hold.' There is no integrating force, only the naked fear, the urge of self-preservation."
With a wisdom way beyond her years, she notes:
"I am afraid, I am not solid, but hollow. I feel behind my eyes a numb, paralysed cavern, a pit of hell, a mimicking nothingness, I never thought, I never wrote, I never suffered. I want to kill myself, to escape from responsibility, to crawl back abjectly into the womb. I do not know who I am, where I am going - and I am the one who has to decide the answers to these hideous questions. I long for a noble escape from freedom - I am weak, tired, in revolt from the strong constructive humanitarian faith which presupposes a healthy, active intellect and will. There is nowhere to go - not home, where I would blubber and cry, a grotesque fool, into my mother's skirts - not to men where I want more than the stern, final, paternal directive - not to church which is liberal, free - no, I turn wearily to the totalitarian dictatorship where I am absolved of all personal responsibility and can sacrifice myself in a "splurge of altruism" on the altar of the Cause with a capital 'C'."
But the Journals also reveal a very much alive side to the poet, whose run-on writing shimmers with a bebop sense of fifties hip we normally associate with the likes of Kerouac and company:
"Falcons Yard, and the syncopated strut of a piano upstairs, and oh it was very Bohemian, with boys in turtle-neck sweaters and girls being blue-eye-lidded or elegant in black. Derrek was there, with guitar, and Bert was looking shining and proud as if he had just delivered five babies, said something obvious about having drunk a lot ... By this time I had spilled one drink, partly into my mouth, partly over my hands and the floor, and the jazz was beginning to get under my skin, and I started dancing with Luke and knew I was very bad, having crossed the river and banged into the trees, yelling about the poems, and he only smiling with the far-off look of a cretin satan. He wrote those things, and he was slobbing around. Well, I was slobbing around, blub, maundering and I didn't even have the excuse of having written those things; I suppose if you can write sestinas which bam crash through lines and rules after having raped them to the purpose, then you can be satanic and smile like a cretin beelzebub."
You can almost imagine Charlie Parker's magical saxophone transformed into Sylvia Plath's voice, a plethora of notes cascading at an impossible frenetic pace, each one improbably perfect and precise, sweeping reader and listener off their feet and hurtling right behind the poet into the arms of fellow poet Ted Hughes.
Hours later, she wrote her "Pursuit" poem, dedicated to Ted, and later "Lady Lazarus," where she boasted:
"I rise with my red hairAnd I eat men like air"
In a sense, Sylvia Plath has been restored to life, by the power of her own pen, by the power of her own words. That such a vital force was struck down by depression perhaps makes her short life all the more tragic. But her own words also portray triumph, of a woman who overcame tremendous odds just to find some joy in her life, a joy she was able to manifest in full measure.
This is the side to Sylvia Plath we have tended to overlook. Her Journals will hopefully, if belatedly, rectify that oversight.
Dreams Untold...
Again someone else wrote...
What is it that yearns
in an artist's soul?
To see beauty
on canvas unfold,
To capture dreams
that were untold,
And share with the world
treasures of gold.
What is it that yearns
in an artist's soul?
To see beauty
on canvas unfold,
To capture dreams
that were untold,
And share with the world
treasures of gold.
Whose Dream Was it Anyways?
The irony of life...your dreams at so many odd moments are lived by a third party....and you live on to hear the commentary and sighs of sheer joy!
I wanted to be a TV star.....someone else in the family stepped into the shoes....made waves and basks in the limelight till date! Then my better half managed to do what I wanted for myself....be a reporter on live TV. I don't hold it against him.....but I wish it had happened to me too!
I wanted to be a copywriter....instead I helped create a monster....who lived off me, became what I hoped to be.....the silver lining was that someone else in the family decided to get into the same field, albeit in a different role...but well....
I wanted to sing...I can sing....though I hated my music lessons back then, now I look at some of those kids who turn up to cut a deal with some recording company and then wonder...at the sheer waste of talent and hell thats another dream almost gone by....again to my credit my family stepped up and a couple of people are trying to make up for it....but what the hell...its not me at the end of the day!
I want to be a writer...I always wanted to write...I write to please myself....am I any good? Don't know and frankly I don't care....the willingness and the craving to write exists...I don't want to let anybody else step in here. I am clinging on to my dream. I hope this one doesn't pass me by....
Frankly I am scared to dream now...they never materialise to my satisfaction....everyone else steals my little moments and highs....its irritatingly benumbing...
Maybe for now I should merely be content with silly black and white dreams about my little home or my already bought car, or my careening weight issues or my evading monthly visitor or my silly temparament, or my crazed tantrums....or my dwindling intellect....or my forgotten yesterdays....or my streak of individuality....
The losses seem one too many....I need to stop....Or the mere count will kill me!
I wanted to be a TV star.....someone else in the family stepped into the shoes....made waves and basks in the limelight till date! Then my better half managed to do what I wanted for myself....be a reporter on live TV. I don't hold it against him.....but I wish it had happened to me too!
I wanted to be a copywriter....instead I helped create a monster....who lived off me, became what I hoped to be.....the silver lining was that someone else in the family decided to get into the same field, albeit in a different role...but well....
I wanted to sing...I can sing....though I hated my music lessons back then, now I look at some of those kids who turn up to cut a deal with some recording company and then wonder...at the sheer waste of talent and hell thats another dream almost gone by....again to my credit my family stepped up and a couple of people are trying to make up for it....but what the hell...its not me at the end of the day!
I want to be a writer...I always wanted to write...I write to please myself....am I any good? Don't know and frankly I don't care....the willingness and the craving to write exists...I don't want to let anybody else step in here. I am clinging on to my dream. I hope this one doesn't pass me by....
Frankly I am scared to dream now...they never materialise to my satisfaction....everyone else steals my little moments and highs....its irritatingly benumbing...
Maybe for now I should merely be content with silly black and white dreams about my little home or my already bought car, or my careening weight issues or my evading monthly visitor or my silly temparament, or my crazed tantrums....or my dwindling intellect....or my forgotten yesterdays....or my streak of individuality....
The losses seem one too many....I need to stop....Or the mere count will kill me!
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Friday, February 02, 2007
You are MAD!
I am interested in madness. I believe it is the biggest thing in the human race, and the most constant. How do you take away from a man his madness without also taking away his identity?" William Saroyan
Hell, so I am! And the best part is that not a soul on earth can do a shit about it. I rule.
I am so deliriously mad!
Hell, so I am! And the best part is that not a soul on earth can do a shit about it. I rule.
I am so deliriously mad!
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