I made another one of my increasingly frequent forays into a bookshop yesterday, seeking , as ever, to dissolve the ennui of a now tedious vacation in the please-grope-me smell of fresh paper.
Armed with little more than conspicuously light pockets, i stepped cautiously into the decidedly regal premises, and felt the full force of a dozen 'Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince' hard-bound editions staring me in the face, snickering in all their over-hyped, but i must admit, not wholly undeserved glory.
After this rather inauspicious beginning, i started looking around the vast and immensely complicated labyrinth, stumbling hurriedly past sections entitled Cookery (I've never understood the motivation for buying, leave alone writing, cookbooks) , General Knowledge (whatever that may be), Erotica ( ok, so i sneaked a little peek here), and reached Literature, quietly occupying a little corner, uninhabited but for a Japanese girl feverishly haranguing a shop-attendant for a copy of Chuck Palahniuk's Fight Club.
Tyler gets me a job as a waiter, after that Tyler’s pushing a gun in my mouth and saying, the first step to eternal life is you have to die.
With a half-smile, and afore-mentioned fatalistic utterances, now on my lips, I look up and see a new edition of The Fountainhead, the redesigned cover lily-white and Communist Red,colurs i would have thought hardly appropriate.
Howard Roark, i am sure, laughed.
Jack Kerouac simply sits, in satori-induced stupor, not taking insult, in true Buddhist fashion, at the ignominy of being placed next to Jackie Collins(why are you here ?),and I think of Dean Moriarty, I even think of Old Dean Moriarty the father we never found, I think of Dean Moriarty.
Continuing on my merry ride, i spot other masters laid to a dusty rest, Gogol's Dead Souls probably lamenting Sophocles' Tragedies (under 'Greek', you see) , Kawabata and Murakami and Ishiguro and Oe trying manfully to catch the Japanese cutie's attention, Huxley's Doors of Perception leading to Hugo's Hunchback, and so on and on and on in a never-ending rollercoaster through the literary ages.
And after three hours or so , With the customary sigh, i prepared to troop out, Neruda's clouds waving white handkerchiefs of goodbye, my pockets still feeling the same, but my spirit well and truly uplifted, when Scott Fitzgerald, genius of the Jazz Age, chronicler of the 1920s, beckons me one last time, and who am I to refuse?
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
Before I die, I want to own a book-shop.
Sunday, July 31, 2005
Saturday, July 30, 2005
20 something
Twenty is such an awful age. I can't even blame my deficiencies on teenage angst anymore.
Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed- interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisure wear and matching luggage. Choose a three piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing sprit- crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing you last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself. Choose your future.
From Trainspotting
Ahhh.
So many choices, so little time.
Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed- interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisure wear and matching luggage. Choose a three piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing sprit- crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing you last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself. Choose your future.
From Trainspotting
Ahhh.
So many choices, so little time.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Wish
I just wish tomorrow goes by as quickly , and as painlessly, as possible .
The sun is the same
in a relative way,
But you're older.
Shorter of breath, and
One year closer to death.
The sun is the same
in a relative way,
But you're older.
Shorter of breath, and
One year closer to death.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Circle of Life
You could, one day, if the notion appeals to you, find yourself an empty bench in the neighbourhood park and watch the world go by, joining me, in unspoken harmony, in observing the curious traits of an unhappy civilization.
Let us, for the sake of brevity, assume the aforesaid park is roughly circular in shape, its circumference eternally lined by teeming multides of walkers, joggers et al, performing their daily exercises oblivious, or perhaps disdainful, of nature's bounty spread out like a tiny forest across the centre.
Notice, if you will, the top software company executive, attired in designer walk-wear, striding along like a pot-bellied colossus, earplugs in one ear, cell phone kissing the other. Quietly following him, his wife (by arranged-marriage, of course) looks around sadly, discontentedly, the dissatisfaction in her eyes impossible to miss.
Groups of women chatter along excitedly,no doubt playing out their own mobile version of 'Desperate Houswives', complete with fake Nikes on pedicured feet and simulated concern in hoarse voices. A single, lonely old woman then walks by, arms swinging in true Hitlerian fashion, the determination in her eyes fiercely contesting the truth which her failing body cannot hide - the inevitability of death.
Suddenly, as you look closer, a grandfather appears on the scene, pushing a little pram having, presumably, his infantile grandson. They move anti-clockwise, unlike everybody else, and get in everyone's way. The baby, dotted on its cheek to ward off the evil eye, invites broad smiles, the grandfather receives only cold stares.
Amidst all the quiet mayhem, you , and I, half the world apart, softly whistle 'Colonel Bogey's March', and do nothing.
Let us, for the sake of brevity, assume the aforesaid park is roughly circular in shape, its circumference eternally lined by teeming multides of walkers, joggers et al, performing their daily exercises oblivious, or perhaps disdainful, of nature's bounty spread out like a tiny forest across the centre.
Notice, if you will, the top software company executive, attired in designer walk-wear, striding along like a pot-bellied colossus, earplugs in one ear, cell phone kissing the other. Quietly following him, his wife (by arranged-marriage, of course) looks around sadly, discontentedly, the dissatisfaction in her eyes impossible to miss.
Groups of women chatter along excitedly,no doubt playing out their own mobile version of 'Desperate Houswives', complete with fake Nikes on pedicured feet and simulated concern in hoarse voices. A single, lonely old woman then walks by, arms swinging in true Hitlerian fashion, the determination in her eyes fiercely contesting the truth which her failing body cannot hide - the inevitability of death.
Suddenly, as you look closer, a grandfather appears on the scene, pushing a little pram having, presumably, his infantile grandson. They move anti-clockwise, unlike everybody else, and get in everyone's way. The baby, dotted on its cheek to ward off the evil eye, invites broad smiles, the grandfather receives only cold stares.
Amidst all the quiet mayhem, you , and I, half the world apart, softly whistle 'Colonel Bogey's March', and do nothing.
Sunday, July 17, 2005
Memory Lane
The sun today, as is its wont at this time of year, chose to hide behind the big fluffy clouds that blanketed the sky in great black portentous wisps. The wind, not daring to disturb the delicate equanimity in the firmament, blew gently, soothingly. And I, never one to pass over as fine an oppurtunity as this, walked a few miles down memory lane, to the house of my childhood.
The roads were empty, and I strode quickly, hopping over little brown puddles of water, remnants of late night thunderstorms and poverty-stricken tears. As the roads slowly began to grow narrower, and the skyline shorter, I knew I had arrived again in the old neighbourhood, three years after I had left without as much as a goodbye.
I gazed down at my feet as I walked, studiously avoiding old acquaintances who chanced upon my path, when all of a sudden, without warning, i was engulfed in an irrepressible wave of nostalgia, and thoughts safely locked away in a never-to-be-delved-into-again reservoir exploded through the proverbial floodgates, overwhelming me with the sheer ferocity of their reminiscence.
And so, i gave in, and remembered. The memories simply came rushing back.
Memories of growing up, of spending ten years of childhood,
of living in a neighbourhood that was more ghetto than suburbia,
of the utter decrepitude of the buildings, windows broken, walls peeling, pillars threatening,
of how poverty and beauty meshed so completely that you couldn't tell the difference,
of interminably long summer vacations spent playing hide-and-seek around the infinitely complex maze of run-down sheds,
of cross-breed stray dogs we christened after reigning beauty queens,
of butchers beside temples, and mosques behind, and never was a stone thrown in anger,
of people who were there before me, and are predestined to stay there forever,
of the first pair of twins i ever knew, with rhyming names and identical clothes and everything, bless them,
of climbing trees in the neighbourhood park- the regular haunt of cosying-up couples, and as legend would have it, the occasional rapist,
of strange old men with giant-size pipes and vintage cars and foul mouths,
of the jangling sound of coins in my pocket that were never enough for what i really wanted,
of the flea-market, teeming with diseased flies and a million lies, and the vegetable vendor who never gave the discount he offered the last time around,
of the first, and only, time i have stared at a teacher for a time more than that was strictly necessary,
of prodigious imaginations that would have conjured up profound visions of apocalypse at my sudden departure,
of the best friends i ever had, and lost.
And i closed my lips in a soft 'goodbye' , turned and walked away, and closed one chapter of my life.
Forever.
The roads were empty, and I strode quickly, hopping over little brown puddles of water, remnants of late night thunderstorms and poverty-stricken tears. As the roads slowly began to grow narrower, and the skyline shorter, I knew I had arrived again in the old neighbourhood, three years after I had left without as much as a goodbye.
I gazed down at my feet as I walked, studiously avoiding old acquaintances who chanced upon my path, when all of a sudden, without warning, i was engulfed in an irrepressible wave of nostalgia, and thoughts safely locked away in a never-to-be-delved-into-again reservoir exploded through the proverbial floodgates, overwhelming me with the sheer ferocity of their reminiscence.
And so, i gave in, and remembered. The memories simply came rushing back.
Memories of growing up, of spending ten years of childhood,
of living in a neighbourhood that was more ghetto than suburbia,
of the utter decrepitude of the buildings, windows broken, walls peeling, pillars threatening,
of how poverty and beauty meshed so completely that you couldn't tell the difference,
of interminably long summer vacations spent playing hide-and-seek around the infinitely complex maze of run-down sheds,
of cross-breed stray dogs we christened after reigning beauty queens,
of butchers beside temples, and mosques behind, and never was a stone thrown in anger,
of people who were there before me, and are predestined to stay there forever,
of the first pair of twins i ever knew, with rhyming names and identical clothes and everything, bless them,
of climbing trees in the neighbourhood park- the regular haunt of cosying-up couples, and as legend would have it, the occasional rapist,
of strange old men with giant-size pipes and vintage cars and foul mouths,
of the jangling sound of coins in my pocket that were never enough for what i really wanted,
of the flea-market, teeming with diseased flies and a million lies, and the vegetable vendor who never gave the discount he offered the last time around,
of the first, and only, time i have stared at a teacher for a time more than that was strictly necessary,
of prodigious imaginations that would have conjured up profound visions of apocalypse at my sudden departure,
of the best friends i ever had, and lost.
And i closed my lips in a soft 'goodbye' , turned and walked away, and closed one chapter of my life.
Forever.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Experiments with truth
I spent my evening today watching Rodgers and Hammerstein's singularly influential contribution to the Austrian tourism industry ,'The Sound of Music'. Cut to a converation between the Von Trapp children.
Brigitta (observing the guests in the ballroom): "The women look so beautiful!"
Kurt: "I think they look ugly."
Louisa: "You just say that because you're scared of them."
Kurt: "Silly, only grown-up men are scared of women"
We find wisdom in the most unexpected places.
Brigitta (observing the guests in the ballroom): "The women look so beautiful!"
Kurt: "I think they look ugly."
Louisa: "You just say that because you're scared of them."
Kurt: "Silly, only grown-up men are scared of women"
We find wisdom in the most unexpected places.
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Monday, June 27, 2005
Peeping Tom
I went down to the cinema for the first time in more than 18 months today. I have always felt a natural aversion to theatres; a sense of claustrophobic loneliness that suffocates slowly and leaves me gasping for a breath of fresh air.
They gave me the best seat in the house, right at the back of the balcony, and as I later realized, this turns out to be as good a vantage point as any to pursue voyeuristic endeavours, let alone mundane activities such as movie-watching.
Whenever the actor and his girl start getting it on, as if on cue, the couples in the audience cuddle up a little closer, hands tighten over shoulders, and sweet nothings begin wafting across the now infinitesimal distance between lip and ear.
It's so sickeningly sweet it makes my head swim .
The film, by the way, was 'Batman Begins', by Christopher Nolan, the same director who gave us the unforgettable 'Memento'; and despite working on a fundamentally weak premise, it does not disappoint. 'Batman Begins' continues to build on the oeuvre established by the Spiderman series of movies, of infallible yet sensitive superheroes with three-dimensional personalities, not just slam-bang-there-you-go-ma'am types.
Perhaps the only letdown is the token female interest- Katie Holmes- utterly under-utilized in a weak role. I wonder what Tom Cruise thinks about her height though; she pretty much towers over him, just like old Nicole Kidman used to.
I can almost hear the feminists screaming in my ears, and do correct me if I am wrong, but if the man is taller, it does make the couple more photogenic, no?
They gave me the best seat in the house, right at the back of the balcony, and as I later realized, this turns out to be as good a vantage point as any to pursue voyeuristic endeavours, let alone mundane activities such as movie-watching.
Whenever the actor and his girl start getting it on, as if on cue, the couples in the audience cuddle up a little closer, hands tighten over shoulders, and sweet nothings begin wafting across the now infinitesimal distance between lip and ear.
It's so sickeningly sweet it makes my head swim .
The film, by the way, was 'Batman Begins', by Christopher Nolan, the same director who gave us the unforgettable 'Memento'; and despite working on a fundamentally weak premise, it does not disappoint. 'Batman Begins' continues to build on the oeuvre established by the Spiderman series of movies, of infallible yet sensitive superheroes with three-dimensional personalities, not just slam-bang-there-you-go-ma'am types.
Perhaps the only letdown is the token female interest- Katie Holmes- utterly under-utilized in a weak role. I wonder what Tom Cruise thinks about her height though; she pretty much towers over him, just like old Nicole Kidman used to.
I can almost hear the feminists screaming in my ears, and do correct me if I am wrong, but if the man is taller, it does make the couple more photogenic, no?
Monday, June 20, 2005
a la Winona
Since last week or so, everytime I walk into a mart, it has become increasingly difficult for me to resist an overwhelming temptation to pick up something from the shelves, slip it into my pocket and simply walk away.
I have even gone to great lengths in checking the positoning of the security cameras, and the vigilance of the personnel, and the only thing that prevented me from snapping up two extra-large bars of Swiss chocolate was an unexpected intervention from a hitherto unrecognised moral recess of my character that forced me to place the items on the billing desk.
Its not that I don't have the money, or that I am in need of thrills; I don't even have an urge to steal anything particularly expensive. Maybe these are early symptoms of kleptomania.
It is in moments like these that i feel great sympathy for actress Winona Ryder, who was convicted for shoplifting, and appeared in a daze throughout her trial. Interestingly, her favourite book is Franny and Zooey. When I see her, I am going to ask her to marry me. We must be made for each other.
P.S
I just saw Michael Stipe make a surprise guest appearance with his band on Boston Public( of all T.V. shows) and perform 'Losing my Religion' . R.E.M just make me so happy. The greatest living band in the world.
I have even gone to great lengths in checking the positoning of the security cameras, and the vigilance of the personnel, and the only thing that prevented me from snapping up two extra-large bars of Swiss chocolate was an unexpected intervention from a hitherto unrecognised moral recess of my character that forced me to place the items on the billing desk.
Its not that I don't have the money, or that I am in need of thrills; I don't even have an urge to steal anything particularly expensive. Maybe these are early symptoms of kleptomania.
It is in moments like these that i feel great sympathy for actress Winona Ryder, who was convicted for shoplifting, and appeared in a daze throughout her trial. Interestingly, her favourite book is Franny and Zooey. When I see her, I am going to ask her to marry me. We must be made for each other.
P.S
I just saw Michael Stipe make a surprise guest appearance with his band on Boston Public( of all T.V. shows) and perform 'Losing my Religion' . R.E.M just make me so happy. The greatest living band in the world.
Monday, June 13, 2005
the hospital chronicles
Let me, at the outset, thank everyone for their kind wishes. I am truly touched, and deeply grateful. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. My mother is doing pretty good after the surgery , alive though not quite kicking , but well on the road to recovery.
All hospitals seem to have a particular smell, a sickly sweet smorgasbord of acrid vapours that waft into your olfactory receptors,smirk at the sheer helplessness of your condition, and eventally pummel you into a numb stupor.
No scholarship interview, or major college-entrance exam I have ever written, can compare with the excruciating ninety minute wait outside the operation theatre. There is just something utterly submissive about an operation, about leaving the well-being of a human being completely in the hands of another.
As I spent three sleepless nights in the ward with my mother, my only company was a beautiful, moving book called 'Norwegian Wood' by the celebrated Japanese author Haruki Murakami, and it is perhaps ironic that it is in such unhappy cirumstances, sharing the ward with a dazed lady who gave birth 2 weeks before time to a 1.67 kg waif, that i finally discovered my fictional alter ego - Toru Watanabe be his name.
By the way, it amazes me how nurses manage to keep in such good cheer amidst such disease, despair and often, death. God bless their souls.
Another thing. As i rummaged through my mother's medical files, I noticed something funny; evidently she had had three previous operations, two of which I knew were Caesareans for me and my lil sis, and discreet enquiries revealed that the third was a miscarriage.A bloody miscarriage. And I didn't even know.
Maybe that's why I feel so lonely all the time.
I miss my lost sibling.
All hospitals seem to have a particular smell, a sickly sweet smorgasbord of acrid vapours that waft into your olfactory receptors,smirk at the sheer helplessness of your condition, and eventally pummel you into a numb stupor.
No scholarship interview, or major college-entrance exam I have ever written, can compare with the excruciating ninety minute wait outside the operation theatre. There is just something utterly submissive about an operation, about leaving the well-being of a human being completely in the hands of another.
As I spent three sleepless nights in the ward with my mother, my only company was a beautiful, moving book called 'Norwegian Wood' by the celebrated Japanese author Haruki Murakami, and it is perhaps ironic that it is in such unhappy cirumstances, sharing the ward with a dazed lady who gave birth 2 weeks before time to a 1.67 kg waif, that i finally discovered my fictional alter ego - Toru Watanabe be his name.
By the way, it amazes me how nurses manage to keep in such good cheer amidst such disease, despair and often, death. God bless their souls.
Another thing. As i rummaged through my mother's medical files, I noticed something funny; evidently she had had three previous operations, two of which I knew were Caesareans for me and my lil sis, and discreet enquiries revealed that the third was a miscarriage.A bloody miscarriage. And I didn't even know.
Maybe that's why I feel so lonely all the time.
I miss my lost sibling.
Thursday, June 02, 2005
oh hell
They've diagnosed my mother with fibroids in her uterus. I have no idea what fibroids are, all i know is that they are serious enough for the doctors to advise an immediate hysterectomy - the surgical removal of the uterus.
Mom will be operated on this Saturday, and despite the doctor's assurance that it is a fairly uncomplicated procedure, I can't help feeling a bit nervous about this. My last memory of a hospital, and this is about two years back, is watching my grandmother having a stroke and flopping around gasping for air, and then proceeding to die on me.
This is not going to be a fun weekend at all. Please God, please let everything be all right at the end of it.
Mom will be operated on this Saturday, and despite the doctor's assurance that it is a fairly uncomplicated procedure, I can't help feeling a bit nervous about this. My last memory of a hospital, and this is about two years back, is watching my grandmother having a stroke and flopping around gasping for air, and then proceeding to die on me.
This is not going to be a fun weekend at all. Please God, please let everything be all right at the end of it.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
The long arm of the Law
It should be made compulsory by law that all fathers-or-lawyers-to-be be given a copy of 'To Kill a Mockingbird'. Never has a book had as admirable a central character as Atticus Finch, be it in his gentle but firm style of parenting, or his silent determination as a defense attorney.
For whatever reason, lawyers have always been looked upon somewhat derisively, while the law itself, as George Bernard Shaw informed us,is but an ass, and the cornucopia of lawyer jokes doing the rounds is perhaps representative of this image.
Case in point:
Q)If you were stranded on an island with Adolf Hitler, a lawyer and the Devil himself, and you had a gun with two bullets, whom do you shoot ?
A)The lawyer twice.
I am beginning to like lawyers though. Despite my abhorrence of John Grisham's yearly forays into the bestseller lists, and his now innumerable imitators, I've always had something of a soft spot for Ally McBeal, and am now wholly in awe of James Spader's Emmy winning performance in The Practice.
Just shows how the long arm of the law has tightened its grip around the neck of pop culture.
For whatever reason, lawyers have always been looked upon somewhat derisively, while the law itself, as George Bernard Shaw informed us,is but an ass, and the cornucopia of lawyer jokes doing the rounds is perhaps representative of this image.
Case in point:
Q)If you were stranded on an island with Adolf Hitler, a lawyer and the Devil himself, and you had a gun with two bullets, whom do you shoot ?
A)The lawyer twice.
I am beginning to like lawyers though. Despite my abhorrence of John Grisham's yearly forays into the bestseller lists, and his now innumerable imitators, I've always had something of a soft spot for Ally McBeal, and am now wholly in awe of James Spader's Emmy winning performance in The Practice.
Just shows how the long arm of the law has tightened its grip around the neck of pop culture.
Friday, May 27, 2005
frankly, my dear
If there's one thing that really puts me in a bad mood, it's a movie with a sad ending. Especially if it is three-and-a-half hours long, like Gone with the Wind was. Of course, not that i would mind ogling a bit more at old Vivien Leigh ,or Clark Gable for that matter ;) , but for god's sake, why can't everyone live happily ever after ?
I had read the book a few years before, and i knew what was coming, but that didn't make it easier to take. It's depressing to watch pretty four-year-old girls die in horse-riding accidents.
Sigh.I'm such a sucker for sentimentality.
And I can't understand Scarlett O'Hara.First she wants to marry Ashley, who is attracted to her but loves another, in order to make him jealous she marries Charles, who dies in the American Civil war, whilst Ashley battles on grimly; then she saves Ashley's wife from death in labour, and proceeds to slyly marry her sister's beau to pay off taxes on her family plantation, all this while Rhett wooes her with characteristic panache; when the second husband dies, she gets married to Rhett, produces the doomed afore-mentioned pretty girl, and oh if you forgot, she still 'loves' Ashley during this tumultuous period. And so, finally, when Ashley's wife dies and he is there for the taking, she decides to stay with Rhett (?!), who utterly put off by her Ashley-obsession, walks out on her with the immortal words, "Frankly my dear,I don't give a damn. "
Phew. Talk of confused women .
I can't help wondering if they are this way in real life too.
I had read the book a few years before, and i knew what was coming, but that didn't make it easier to take. It's depressing to watch pretty four-year-old girls die in horse-riding accidents.
Sigh.I'm such a sucker for sentimentality.
And I can't understand Scarlett O'Hara.First she wants to marry Ashley, who is attracted to her but loves another, in order to make him jealous she marries Charles, who dies in the American Civil war, whilst Ashley battles on grimly; then she saves Ashley's wife from death in labour, and proceeds to slyly marry her sister's beau to pay off taxes on her family plantation, all this while Rhett wooes her with characteristic panache; when the second husband dies, she gets married to Rhett, produces the doomed afore-mentioned pretty girl, and oh if you forgot, she still 'loves' Ashley during this tumultuous period. And so, finally, when Ashley's wife dies and he is there for the taking, she decides to stay with Rhett (?!), who utterly put off by her Ashley-obsession, walks out on her with the immortal words, "Frankly my dear,I don't give a damn. "
Phew. Talk of confused women .
I can't help wondering if they are this way in real life too.
Thursday, May 19, 2005
Ode to a squishy stomach
I hate looking up at billboards and seeing those muscular, brawny body-building types smile their fake plastic
smiles and cavort in their Jockeys or Calvin Kleins.
I don't have a six-pack. Or a four-pack. Or a one-pack. Or any abs to speak of. If you want to know the bare truth, I have a nice squishy stomach.
And what's more, I'm proud of it. Proud of having dropped 4 inches across my waist over the last year, down to a very respectable 30. Proud of not letting my self-esteem suffer at the hands of gym-obsessed image addicts with a penchant for giving individuals less statuesque than themselves inferiority complexes.
Maybe I'm just averse to sweating it out. Big lazy bum, I can almost hear you say, grimly nodding your all-knowing head. Maybe you should try sitting around with my books and my music, with a bit of football thrown in, just for fun. And who says fat people can't play a bit of the beautiful game ? Just look at good old-Che tattooed hand-of-god junkie Diego.
I'm sure a killer body feels good. And impressive to some too. I'm just happy with my squishy stomach thankyouverymuch.
Somebody pass me that chocolate cake.
smiles and cavort in their Jockeys or Calvin Kleins.
I don't have a six-pack. Or a four-pack. Or a one-pack. Or any abs to speak of. If you want to know the bare truth, I have a nice squishy stomach.
And what's more, I'm proud of it. Proud of having dropped 4 inches across my waist over the last year, down to a very respectable 30. Proud of not letting my self-esteem suffer at the hands of gym-obsessed image addicts with a penchant for giving individuals less statuesque than themselves inferiority complexes.
Maybe I'm just averse to sweating it out. Big lazy bum, I can almost hear you say, grimly nodding your all-knowing head. Maybe you should try sitting around with my books and my music, with a bit of football thrown in, just for fun. And who says fat people can't play a bit of the beautiful game ? Just look at good old-Che tattooed hand-of-god junkie Diego.
I'm sure a killer body feels good. And impressive to some too. I'm just happy with my squishy stomach thankyouverymuch.
Somebody pass me that chocolate cake.
Friday, May 13, 2005
beauty
" ...her beauty is superhuman ; for in her are realized all the impossible and chimerical attributes of beauty that poets assign to their ladies; that her hair is gold; her forehead the Elysian Fields; her eyebrows rainbows; her eyes suns; her cheeks roses; her lips corals; pearls her teeth; alabaster her neck; marble her bosom; ivory her hands; and her complexion snow; and those parts that modesty has veiled from human sight are such, I think and trust, that discretion can praise them, but make no comparison. "
- Don Quixote
Wow.
I wonder who old Miguel had in mind when he wrote this.
- Don Quixote
Wow.
I wonder who old Miguel had in mind when he wrote this.
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
peace
I'm back home.
And it didn't take me too long to settle down into my daily rigmarole of food, sleep, more food, television, sleep. Oh, did I mention hot-water showers?
After living in that hell-hole for four months returning home is my yearly (over?)dose of hedonism, the elixir guaranteed to exterminate all the evils that germinated over the course of one semester in college.
Admittedly, home may not offer some of the finer joys of life, such as high-speed-internet or Miguel , but it does make up for some of its shortcomings with an abundance of pampering; my wish is very much my folks' command, atleast for the first one week or so, and bad exploitative melon that I am, I intend to cash in. *evil grin*
Of course, I probably will have to look for an internship somewhere, but for now I'm content with putting my feet up, reading a good book, and leading the good life.
:)
Currently reading -
Don Quixote , Miguel de Cervantes
I can't believe I missed this one growing up. Salman Rushdie called it 'the best novel ever written', and despite his propensity for the hyperbolic, that's a not bad recommendation to have.
And it didn't take me too long to settle down into my daily rigmarole of food, sleep, more food, television, sleep. Oh, did I mention hot-water showers?
After living in that hell-hole for four months returning home is my yearly (over?)dose of hedonism, the elixir guaranteed to exterminate all the evils that germinated over the course of one semester in college.
Admittedly, home may not offer some of the finer joys of life, such as high-speed-internet or Miguel , but it does make up for some of its shortcomings with an abundance of pampering; my wish is very much my folks' command, atleast for the first one week or so, and bad exploitative melon that I am, I intend to cash in. *evil grin*
Of course, I probably will have to look for an internship somewhere, but for now I'm content with putting my feet up, reading a good book, and leading the good life.
:)
Currently reading -
Don Quixote , Miguel de Cervantes
I can't believe I missed this one growing up. Salman Rushdie called it 'the best novel ever written', and despite his propensity for the hyperbolic, that's a not bad recommendation to have.
Monday, April 25, 2005
tired
I am really tired today.
tired of staring at my cell for messages that never arrive of studying endlessly for exams to make them happy of my ego of giving so much and getting so little of empty email inboxes of checking certain blogs for new posts that never come of pretending to be "all right" when i am not of broken promises of praying for somebodythingthatwillneverbemine of dying of a broken-heart disease of being lonely and wishing things would be different but knowing that they never will be because im merely a little pawn in His great game and He hates me.
somebody hug me today.
please
tired of staring at my cell for messages that never arrive of studying endlessly for exams to make them happy of my ego of giving so much and getting so little of empty email inboxes of checking certain blogs for new posts that never come of pretending to be "all right" when i am not of broken promises of praying for somebodythingthatwillneverbemine of dying of a broken-heart disease of being lonely and wishing things would be different but knowing that they never will be because im merely a little pawn in His great game and He hates me.
somebody hug me today.
please
Sunday, April 24, 2005
Serenity Prayer
God,
Grant me the serenity to accept the things i cannot change,
the courage to change the things i can,
and the wisdom to know the difference.
Whenever in doubt, I turn to Epictetus.
Unlike others, he doesn't let me down.
Grant me the serenity to accept the things i cannot change,
the courage to change the things i can,
and the wisdom to know the difference.
Whenever in doubt, I turn to Epictetus.
Unlike others, he doesn't let me down.
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
More think than you drunk i am
This past week saw the passing of another "Hostel Night", our yearly testament to the ability of adolescents on the throes of adulthood to relinquish any semblance of self-control and willingly submit to the joys of public inebriation, in an astonishing mockery of the expectations that are believed to burden those studying in a college, which according to CBS TV's '60 Minutes' programme, is "Harvard, MIT and Princeton all rolled into one." (hehe, funny that)
This being my first such occasion in my present hostel of residence, I was a little unsure of what exactly to expect. I might even have been excused for believing it was going to be a nice put-your-feet-up-and-relax evening, especially after the rendition of a few songs by some of my co-residents in wonderful spirit, even if the original singers might have cringed in their graves at the attempt. Even the food, in all fairness, wasn't too bad. Given the kind of rubbery rot that is the norm in our mess halls, we quite appreciate any change.
As the night wore on, and the programmes on stage grew more tedious, the bottles and rolled up sheets of tobacco (and marijuana, i would think) came out, and thus began the great orgy of bacchanalia. And poor lonely teetotaller that i am, all i could do was watch as one bottle after another was emptied down some dying liver, and one man after another began lolling around and dropping off like bowling pins.
It made me sick.
P.S
Incidentally, the hostel night is the only occasion when girls are allowed inside the hostel premises.
Thats a rant for another day.
P.P.S
If I met you on a train going from Budapest to Paris , and was getting off a couple of stops before you , in Vienna , would you get off the train and spend one single night with me walking the streets of Vienna, talking about life, the universe and everything , until dawn breaks and our paths diverge forever?
This being my first such occasion in my present hostel of residence, I was a little unsure of what exactly to expect. I might even have been excused for believing it was going to be a nice put-your-feet-up-and-relax evening, especially after the rendition of a few songs by some of my co-residents in wonderful spirit, even if the original singers might have cringed in their graves at the attempt. Even the food, in all fairness, wasn't too bad. Given the kind of rubbery rot that is the norm in our mess halls, we quite appreciate any change.
As the night wore on, and the programmes on stage grew more tedious, the bottles and rolled up sheets of tobacco (and marijuana, i would think) came out, and thus began the great orgy of bacchanalia. And poor lonely teetotaller that i am, all i could do was watch as one bottle after another was emptied down some dying liver, and one man after another began lolling around and dropping off like bowling pins.
It made me sick.
P.S
Incidentally, the hostel night is the only occasion when girls are allowed inside the hostel premises.
Thats a rant for another day.
P.P.S
If I met you on a train going from Budapest to Paris , and was getting off a couple of stops before you , in Vienna , would you get off the train and spend one single night with me walking the streets of Vienna, talking about life, the universe and everything , until dawn breaks and our paths diverge forever?
Friday, April 15, 2005
Things I've learnt this week
1)I hate pretentious chauvinistic over-self-assured men who claim that they don't cry. I'm very much a crier.
2) Some people will always hate you no matter how nice you try to be to them.
3) Some people will always be nice to you no matter how indifferent and ignorant you are of their presence.
3) I suffer from a chronic shoot-yourself-in-the-foot-and-self-destruct syndrome.
4) I'll never get tired of watching "Before Sunrise" and "Before Sunset". They just keep reminding me that the possibilites are infinite.
5) Having something dedicated to you feels really good. Thanks, Sid.
6) I am destined to remain a misfit all my life, wherever i go.
7)There's absolutely nothing like a conversation on a moonlit terrace.
2) Some people will always hate you no matter how nice you try to be to them.
3) Some people will always be nice to you no matter how indifferent and ignorant you are of their presence.
3) I suffer from a chronic shoot-yourself-in-the-foot-and-self-destruct syndrome.
4) I'll never get tired of watching "Before Sunrise" and "Before Sunset". They just keep reminding me that the possibilites are infinite.
5) Having something dedicated to you feels really good. Thanks, Sid.
6) I am destined to remain a misfit all my life, wherever i go.
7)There's absolutely nothing like a conversation on a moonlit terrace.
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About Me
- melon collie
- a recluse waiting for salvation