cobblestones! three of them!

The world has a sense of humour. Thank God for that.

Days like today always get me. The sky is pale pale blue, and the clouds are heavy grey hanging nouns. The light is dull, almost colourless; and there is this delightful, intense sense of expectation in the air, almost like anything could happen. Every little burst of breeze adds to it, little gusts that blow at you unexpectedly and make you smile and shrug and grimace and giggle. Everything is sharper and denser and more real, somehow.
Here is a thought: what everyone really wants in life is someone they can take for granted always. Do I not, then? Watch me pirouette and flash and flame and ask you, well, then, do you love me? And then, watch me push and pull and tug and tease and demand, how much do you love me? I have a wonderful way of pushing and pushing and pushing, till something gives. From such do I derive my perverse pleasure.
I have been getting acquainted with myself. Sometimes I am boring. It is true, and it hurts. I grow slowly reconciled to the fact that I will never be anywhere near as brilliant as I would like to be, and am probably not as brilliant as I timidly think I might be. That is something life will teach you if you are really willing to learn - your limitations, and then your utter lack of them. But truly, I would rather be brilliant and believe myself not than the other way around. There is already far too much mediocrity that passes itself off as more than it is, and I refuse to be of that number.
Another thought: what is the point, after all, of purposeless conversation?

A day has such great capacity to be filled. What is truly amazing is the fact that all it takes is a few minutes to take any ordinary day and make it extraordinary.

I feel dusky and smoky and indistinct and intangible and ethereal. My hair smells of coffee and cigarettes. Exeunt stage right.
Life wooes me, and I am not averse.

heavy in

I watched a movie with a friend, and I rediscovered the wonder of having someone to share a joke with. Companiable laughter in a near-empty theatre is something not to be scoffed at. And family moments. Aunts and cousins. Long boys with voices off-key. Uncles spouting words of wisdom. Big band music and the Rat Pack. Fusilli tri-colore with tomato sauce. Tea and crackers. Catching flying ants in my bare hands and throwing them off the balcony. Of such things are good Fridays made.
And Saturday? Saturday was better. It is a day like this that makes you feel saturated. Morning tea and oatmeal porridge. Discussions on spelling bees and quiz shows. The price of ambition. Be, have, do. Inspiration. Poor plumbing and water that flows the wrong way. Country Roads.
And then a five minute wait for a bus and an unexpected find. Red water tanks, empty sites, phone calls and messages. Old friends are something special. Talk of shoes and ships and sealing wax. Boys and books. Songs and dogs. Love. Life. Laughter. And then a lunch with rice and rajma. and papad. Jelly children, doctors and beauty queens.
One lone tree with leaves glinting in the sunshine, and an acting class with a migraine and a dead loved one. An aching band around my heart and the memory of a dead kitten.
What a strange world this is.

Perhaps I will elaborate. But I make no promises.

five of us

Any Sunday that consists of savage chickens, all your favourite food items and a three-hour afternoon nap is worth remembering fondly in dark times. A Sunday that adds to this bliss Brigade Road for half an hour on Sunday evening, unexpected phone calls, watching a play that busts your gut and a road trip to Hyderabad; is worthy of something spectacular.
The third Vin I know told us about the play at Rangashankara when we were out for coffee on Saturday night. Troupe from Chennai, highly recommended (alas if i had but known of my prior connections, but spilt milk etc so leave it be), tickets at Rs. 100, quoth she. As that fit my budget, I was all gung-ho. Vehemently told Pam to be sure and take me along if he was going. Which leads to its logical conclusion, meaning that I forgot all about it by Sunday and hence spent it as luxuriantly as I possibly could, avoiding such unnecessary items of work such as cleaning the balcony, my room, the house etc. At five-forty-five, I received a call from none other than Pam, and that brought everything back in a hurry. We meet at six-fifteen, he said. And in my unbathed state, that was cutting it rather fine. However, never say I don't rise to a challenge. It was the work of ten minutes to bathe, five to dress, and two to pelt out of the house and hail an auto.
Miraculously, I arrived at Brigade Road at six-fifteen on the dot, owing to phenomenal luck traffic-wise. I then waited half-an-hour till the boys got there. I refrain from making any comments touching upon punctuality or gender. I whiled the time away by observing the masses. I could have stood there the whole day and not been bored. Add to this an unexpected phone call from a certain mad person, a little trouble with directions and a last minute dash for tickets, and we found ourselves awaiting the play itself, which I will gloss over. I enjoyed myself thoroughly, as did my companions; and whenever I grew bored, I entertained myself with the thought of what my mother might say on hearing that I was in the company of three men all unknown to her, one of them a white man, too. As I invested my mother in this scenario with a puritanical form of expression that would have shocked the dear lady no end had she been privy to it, the excitement quotient was sufficient to keep me occupied.
Once all the laughing was done, it was half-past nine, and we wended our way (ah what a pretty phrase) to the parking lot. We took a couple of wrong turns, and then found ourselves on a highway to Hyderabad. I was sorely tempted, baby, be sure. However, two manic gentlemen, a night of balmy breezes and a car ride in the dark could not quite banish the thought of a worried parental unit somewhere Bangalore-ward, and so, after dragging out life stories and laughing like hyenuses all the way, I finally got home to sleeping mother and dinner at eleven.

Sometimes life is so good to you that you tend to wonder why people don't smile more.

all i need

anomaly. analogy.



that sums up my attitude to understanding the world pretty well.

so that's what

there is a reason why they say loving to the point of distraction. tell me, how do people ever get any work done?

tempting fate

Here's what I did then. I decided to spread loyalties. It never fails to result in some kind of reaction. I'd created a wordpress account a month ago because, well, i wanted the categories. And I didn't write anything more once the blog had actually been created, but after the blogspot debacle, I began the painstaking process of transferring some of my less annoying posts onto the wordpress place. Sure enough, I'd barely finished the last one when I discovered that I could suddenly access blogspot again. Is it irony?
I can't write much all of a sudden. I want conversation. I want doughnuts and pizza and esoteric references that aren't from literature. I want letters again.
Circles are dependable.


And nothing comes close to blogspot.

bring on that ol' spirit

A new old friend was met yesterday. A venerated person five years my senior whom I met for the first time officially in real life this evening (which is apparently a great achievement, all his regular meetings being virtual). I spammed his inbox and told him I had a penchant for being on time. Why did I do that? Why. Someone 'splain me my need for self-sabotage.
I was to meet him at three-thirty. I left home at three. At three-ten I noticed large ominous clouds hanging precisely over that part of town towards which I was headed. I had, very bravely, left the house on the two-wheeler, in a brand new top (yes, i dressed up for you (ushu) more than i did for the doc :P); sans helmet, raincoat, jacket, umbrella...well, you get the picture. However, as I'd specifically specified that I would be on time, I decided (boy, how often that phrase indicates a new 'venture) to risk the rain. I love how I pay absolutely no attention to the promptings of my sensible self when there is even the hint of good post material. At three points along the way, I almost seriously considered parking my vehicle and catching an autorickshaw, but of course, that was too much trouble. So I ended up getting caught in a right royal downpour remniscent of this, and had to stop barely two hundred metres from the proposed meeting place. Oh the irony! I spent twenty minutes in a little garage full of damp people while the Kinetic languished illegally beneath a tree, and I revelled in my departure from punctuality. When I was finally half an hour late, I decided to brave the downpour and scoot ahead. Which I did. Also found parking just exactly where I wanted it. How lovely.

Intelligent people are such joy. Does anyone know the kind of person I mean? These are the people whom teachers hate to love as kids - the kinds who spend all their time asking questions; the kind that have their heads filled with the most disjointed, disconnected, diverse range of data possible; the kinds that take everything they learn and turn it on its head; the kinds that sit in the first bench and prompt the teacher, or in the last bench and hassle her; the kinds of people who need to try things out for themselves; the kinds for whom learning is an adventure; the kinds who will always be children no matter how old they grow. Oh, let me be honest. I have a thing for smart people. Utter snobbery.

After two hours of talk (not all on my side) I offered the man a ride home, which was the cue for "lull T into a false sense of security and then open the heavens ten minutes from chosen destination." It was a fabulous ride. Absolutely. And then another hour in borrowed clothes and damp undergarments, with a hot cup of coffee and congenial folk. Delicious.

When I got home, I told the girls all about the adventure, and then the three of us dragged out our old school magazines and remembered (ah, glimpses, probably the most poorly made school magazine ever). Well, mom and I did, and my sister moaned that she couldn't. Found him and him and him. Oh lord, utterly delectable. And me. Utterly not. And all the others. What wonderful specimens they all were. The old old students. The seniors. The ones whom we were all held up against. The ones who paved the way; the good old boys and girls. And the juniors; the babies who are now all grown up. And us.
Such terrific bundles of potentiality, all of us.

Last Friday, I went back to school to watch a mathematics fest. I went to watch my sister sing the invocation, and perhaps a few events; and I ended up spending the entire day right in the first row. Truly there is something infinitely adorable about long, gangly, bespectacled boys. I miss people like that. It's only in school that you can drown in all the little things. I'm glad there are still some students who can get their kicks from solving a series or cracking a puzzle.
Alison always orders the same drink after lunch, and Adam killed Vera. (they should have changed those names, though. i would have. sigh...i miss quizzes)

I solved a sum in trigonometry for my sister last night. She'd been struggling with it for half an hour, and then she gave up. And I solved it. What a high.
How easy it is to be happy. Why does no one realize?
Because it's more fun being miserable, is why.


Oh heap big sigh. Full nostalgia is coming.
Thank you all for the memories.

so say it, then

Words are much like all other good weapons - double edged.
Oh, how a word can be turned around and made to kick you in the face; how a word will start life meaning something and then get turned on its head entirely. With a little effort and a little attention, it is so easy to get just exactly the reaction you desire. Did you know how simple it was? But then again, is it only the words? And is it all an act? And if it isn't, then why is there this guilt? Why do I feel so dirty every time I use my words to pretend something so that I can make someone else feel better? Are lies as bad as they are painted? In the middle of the night, alone with your conscience, they too often are.
I despise how easy it is to use words to seem knowledgeable. I despair at how difficult it is to use words to say exactly, exactly, what you mean. I marvel at how close I can get and still be dissatisfied. I hate how sometimes the words aren't enough. I like how sometimes the words aren't necessary.
I love how it's people that make the words. I hate how it's people that make the words.
I love that I'm smiling right now. In the end, that makes it all worthwhile.


Song for today. Mmm-mm-mm. This one's gonna be in the head for a while.


P.S. Reunions are special.

otherside
how much this building begs photographs.

sing it

Chuck Palanhiuk talks of silence in Lullaby. I couldn't find it in my heart to agree with him.
Every time I listen to a different song, my brain chemistry rearranges itself. I find myself writing different things based on what I'm listening to. I think differently when it's Sarah. Or Reznor. Or Vedder. Right now this group, and I'm feeling special and smiley and sexy.

Silence is never a way out because my mind will always find a song that it can sing. I wonder if listening to my head will help me read my mind. What a delicious thought. Sometimes I find myself walking down the road in companionable silence with myself, and suddenly a line or a tune or a chorus will flit through and set me off in new tangents.
When I make lists on winamp I sometimes end up playing the same groups together, the same families after each other. My lists get repetitive; I play certain songs after others almost automatically, so that every time I hear the end of one particular song, I expect to hear the beginning of just another. And every list is a theme. I can't play Audioslave with Norah Jones. Or The Goo Goo Dolls with Ella Fitzerald. What I love about songs the most is how one song will just beg for another when you're listening, almost like they know they all belong.

So, naturally, the most interesting reactions occur when I listen to lists someone else has created. My sister has this way of juxtaposing the most unexpected songs next to each other. It makes for some very fluctuating mind swings. She'll never play the same songs after each other, or even the same groups together. She will somehow manage to go from Stone Temple Pilots to Dave Matthews Band in the space of twenty songs. There's no familiarity in the arrangements, and it's delicious.
ow. sexy. and now this. and ow again. :D

Speaking of music, I've never been much of a lyric person. I didn't really care what was being sung about so long as it got me feeling. But suddenly I'm listening to the words and suddenly I'm quoting songs to every second person and suddenly I see how the really good songs are poems. Only better. So much.


hmmmmm right now this song. what joy.
I guess this is what makes mixed tapes such amazing gifts. If you just pay attention.
Someone is going to get one. It might just be me.

*sigh* just because. this one always. for every mood this is my song.

theory. installment one of many.

Come dance with me.

I love these theories I come up with, meanwhile. They have, most of them, absolutely no basis in fact, no conclusions drawn from anything approaching sensibly conducted experiments, and nothing concrete to back them up. They are merely products of an overactive imagination and a brutally underused mind.
(this reminds me of the essay on "gossip" i wrote aways back in the eighth standard. what a pompous earnest ass i was.)
Another necessary digression: my life is for analogies. I cannot go a day without drawing a parallel between two seemingly unrelated topics and then coming up with a million ways they are EXACTLY THE SAME. (also a fan of coincidences, adages, clichés, similes, metaphors, idioms, proverbs; dang! it's those gosh-darned patterns again!)


To resume.
Here's my theory for the week. Life is like dance.

Dance in all its forms - ordered and not. Your thoughts and feelings and emotions as music to your words and actions and decisions. Sometimes there's no music, and sometimes there's no dance. If you could think just of life as just one great big dance party - where you learn the steps and the movements; where you discover which dances are yours, exclusively yours; where you make your own; where you find all those partners, the ones who step on your toes, the ones who make you feel you could fly, the ones you get in a conga line with; where you live.
All relationships are like dancing anyway, right? Rhythm. Space. Comfort zones. Sensuality. Sexuality. Power. Control. Leading. Following. Sharing.
Push and pull.
Give and take.

I just danced through all my friends and family. And people who are not friends or family. And people who are both.
I like this theory. It has a million holes, but it's such a painfully pretty theory. Elegant and possibly completely wrong.
Ooooh.
Sacrilege.

post scripted:
mariah and amy and aretha and joss and nina and faith and christina.
also fiona and beth and sarah and norah and sheryl.
ooh and charlotte.

oh my lord.

i just thought it should be on a post.

mixed feelings

Well. Here we go again.
*facepalm*

what odd little things cheer one up.
*sigh* i miss bleady.