Am inspired by article in paper to make Wish List. Apparently, some secret Santa type individual, (who will first have to read my extremely subtle blog) will do needful.
* I wish wish wish for miracle project that will not be pretentious, downright business like or inane and will instead be mind numbingly perfect and hencefoth change my life.
* Make that two.
* Magical potion that fights flexible Indian hips and will allow me to eat absolutely anything. This wish to also be merged with being stuck in Hershey factory for very long.
* Three months in lonely English mansion holed up with a certain author, and writing his memoirs. It must be raining outside and we must not ever need to go out for anything. There must be no doorbell either.
* Closetful of pretty flat shoes. Refer to Piggy's post for exact description.
* 5.45 a.m must become bearable. I wish to not start every morning with desire to sleep till 12.
* Anand will magically enjoy Japanese food and proceed to get drunk on Sake.
* I will wake up one morning magically fit and not be reduced to humiliating puffer on track behind runners. I will also attain insane flexibility and show off stretches at the stadium that no one else can do. (Warning that this surpasses the rest where possibility is concerned and must therefore rely entirely on magic.)
* Superstar will call me patient, organized, calm and paragon of virtue. And will bow before my tap-turning-off ways.
* Love will continue to amaze me.
* Superstar will decide to take us to Vienna for all expenses paid trip.
* I will be able to bake extraordinary dessert.
* All paedophiles will rot in collective sewer for rat type people.
* I will have overcome fear of heights before thirtieth birthday.
* Also marriage.
* By some strange inheritance, Cinema Paradiso will turn out to be mine and so will my three favourite bookshops.
* I will still love everyone I do today when I'm ninety and they will too.
* Santa will turn out to be entirely desirable sports personality with red hat and charming smile, whose whole life's mission it is to make me happy.
Friday, December 22, 2006
Friday, December 15, 2006
Attrition..
Last night we saw something beautiful. Naturally perfect, sitting there, on that smoothly polished surface that seemed created uniquely. The angle was just right, the lights softly caught the odd imperfection put there to assure one of reality. Reflections of a glassy red ashtray shone through with friendy ardour. The single engraving, almost a dent, dimpled up at me enchantingly. Coffee gold is a colour, I sighed to myself.
We were a little wary though. Perfection is misleading and often has disturbingly disappointing interiors. We gingerly listened in silence. And the sounds lifted us up, enveloping in their simplicity and full of promised intensities.
This is the one we want. Or at least the kind that deserves to be longed for.
Sigh.
Why would he have terrible feet?
Separately, I felt a bit sad with something I discovered yesterday. Also slightly glad. I had been really confused for a bit. I couldn't get how someone could go from being dedicated and full of potential to average mediocrity within a few days. I could be terribly brilliant at dancing tonight and really bad at it tomorrow? How does that work? I was reading one really bad poem that had this decent last line when it sort of made sense. How good or awful I am as a dancer, really has to do with how I feel about dancing. Reverence, honesty, commerce, conflict, love, lust...how you treat the art form/ person/ even object, is returned or rewarded in full force by the art form/ person/ even object in question.
Scary I say.
I cant dance, but there are plenty of days I grudgingly do something connected to what I love.
And I've seen very closely how easy it is to slip into being average despite having potential.
We were a little wary though. Perfection is misleading and often has disturbingly disappointing interiors. We gingerly listened in silence. And the sounds lifted us up, enveloping in their simplicity and full of promised intensities.
This is the one we want. Or at least the kind that deserves to be longed for.
Sigh.
Why would he have terrible feet?
Separately, I felt a bit sad with something I discovered yesterday. Also slightly glad. I had been really confused for a bit. I couldn't get how someone could go from being dedicated and full of potential to average mediocrity within a few days. I could be terribly brilliant at dancing tonight and really bad at it tomorrow? How does that work? I was reading one really bad poem that had this decent last line when it sort of made sense. How good or awful I am as a dancer, really has to do with how I feel about dancing. Reverence, honesty, commerce, conflict, love, lust...how you treat the art form/ person/ even object, is returned or rewarded in full force by the art form/ person/ even object in question.
Scary I say.
I cant dance, but there are plenty of days I grudgingly do something connected to what I love.
And I've seen very closely how easy it is to slip into being average despite having potential.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Pepto Bismol anyone?
I'm going to archive a bit. This is a bit of a gummy pasty collage that I want to not forget or lose within the various journals, scraps of paper ( My biggest moments are hastily scribbled onto various flyaway sheets!), photos, letters etc etc collected over the years.
These are the ones that stuck, that always make me grin, the nauseatingly sweet ones, the funny sad ones...the bits that I'm afraid will drown inside my cellphone rehearsal noisy life.
Sand...big, huge, sporadically wet piles of it in school, that I allowed to invade my black shoes and white socks..
Lying on wet grass in the only garden home that I've ever lived in. Clean fresh air and my dad's alarming attempts at barbecueing.
Swimming when I was tiny...with dad in the sea. One palm against my middle was how he ensured I didnt get washed away by a wave.
Winning. I've always loved the feeling since I was old enough to win. Even if it was a small birthday party game. It gave me a thrill that only my work has replaced over the last few years.
My wobbly little sister , following me around and earnestly growing up wanting to be me. ( Now she wants to be Angelina Jolie. )
My grandmother. We were both certain that neither of us had kissed any single person as much as each other.
Finding books that would change my life.
The first song that was sung to me. Oh I loved this absolutely. Stars in my eyes in the moment and all that.
Now that shes back in the atmosphere
With drops of jupiter in her hair,
She acts like summer and walks like rain
Reminds me that theres time to change,
Since the return from her stay on the moon
She listens like spring and she talks like june, hey, hey
Tell me did you sail across the sun
Did you make it to the milky way to see the lights all faded
And that heaven is overrated
Tell me, did you fall for a shooting star
One without a permanent scar
And did you miss me while you were looking at yourself out there
Now that shes back from that soul vacation
Tracing her way through the constellation,
She checks out mozart while she does tae-bo
Reminds me that theres time to grow
I wish it were possible to feel that age again.
The phonecalls with my best friend in school. No conversation was enough.
"You capture my imagination."
Person in question currently does not notice if I get a haircut. Or a second head I think. It must be all the glamour. Snicker.
A 56 hour conversation with a stranger that stormed into and out of my life.
Feeling freedom.
My first cat. I made him smell of peach shampoo.
January and the telephone call that promised Someday.
Discovering that food and creating it was intoxicating.
Discovering the Pencils.
Laughing with Superstar.
My first flat. The feeling of ownership and possession.
Feeling. Wondering if I'm in love.
I suppose there'd be more if I tried. I dont want to. They'll come.
These are the ones that stuck, that always make me grin, the nauseatingly sweet ones, the funny sad ones...the bits that I'm afraid will drown inside my cellphone rehearsal noisy life.
Sand...big, huge, sporadically wet piles of it in school, that I allowed to invade my black shoes and white socks..
Lying on wet grass in the only garden home that I've ever lived in. Clean fresh air and my dad's alarming attempts at barbecueing.
Swimming when I was tiny...with dad in the sea. One palm against my middle was how he ensured I didnt get washed away by a wave.
Winning. I've always loved the feeling since I was old enough to win. Even if it was a small birthday party game. It gave me a thrill that only my work has replaced over the last few years.
My wobbly little sister , following me around and earnestly growing up wanting to be me. ( Now she wants to be Angelina Jolie. )
My grandmother. We were both certain that neither of us had kissed any single person as much as each other.
Finding books that would change my life.
The first song that was sung to me. Oh I loved this absolutely. Stars in my eyes in the moment and all that.
Now that shes back in the atmosphere
With drops of jupiter in her hair,
She acts like summer and walks like rain
Reminds me that theres time to change,
Since the return from her stay on the moon
She listens like spring and she talks like june, hey, hey
Tell me did you sail across the sun
Did you make it to the milky way to see the lights all faded
And that heaven is overrated
Tell me, did you fall for a shooting star
One without a permanent scar
And did you miss me while you were looking at yourself out there
Now that shes back from that soul vacation
Tracing her way through the constellation,
She checks out mozart while she does tae-bo
Reminds me that theres time to grow
I wish it were possible to feel that age again.
The phonecalls with my best friend in school. No conversation was enough.
"You capture my imagination."
Person in question currently does not notice if I get a haircut. Or a second head I think. It must be all the glamour. Snicker.
A 56 hour conversation with a stranger that stormed into and out of my life.
Feeling freedom.
My first cat. I made him smell of peach shampoo.
January and the telephone call that promised Someday.
Discovering that food and creating it was intoxicating.
Discovering the Pencils.
Laughing with Superstar.
My first flat. The feeling of ownership and possession.
Feeling. Wondering if I'm in love.
I suppose there'd be more if I tried. I dont want to. They'll come.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Airplane story
I think I'm a little too absolute about my Pencils.
Its who I am. Ever since I've had formed thought, they've mesmerized me, and drawn me..towards a lifetime of worship and adoration. They define me and define the life I live, the food I eat, the relationships I forge, break, endure, exhaust. They are me, I am them. They give, I hungrily take. I give, they seem fed and nourished by the constant love I feel. They freely possess me, just as I possess them. There are my moments of doubt, despair, suspicion, angst. They reach out and reassure me with the sacred connection we have.
I've met people over the years and been close, or held hands, or felt indifference or boredom or thrilled....and the Pencils have always had something to do with it. It was how they had influenced the bond, that defined the worth of it to me. It was them that I wanted to be nearer as I drew nearer to men and women. It was them that kindled conversations and more. And them that led to diffidence or suitcases. If A loved a Pencil he had seen last year, and B used to collect them in school, I was excited. If C had a lucky Pencil and D drew for years, I was hooked. They, and their fleeting images in the faces that I met, became all I wanted and held on to. And the minute I saw that connection slip, the minute I felt that reverence fade, even a little, I felt nothing or less for the face or film in question.
And then I met the rest of us. Every now and then, as I grew and sought, I discovered kindred spirits. That adored and were ignited similarly. It was like finding a home. That I could not bear to be separated from. Or even momentarily parted with. And I carefully, painstakingly built that home and that life and within that, a me, that nobody could take away my beloved Pencils from. My world revolves around them and finally I had filled my surroundings with the few that could see and sustain me.
One day, a very special one left. I was bewildered, confused and hurt. The Special One had loved them just as much as I did. The rest loved them, but were not replenished and exhausted and dependant on them as we were. And for the first time I had found one of them that would and had, given his life to the Pencils. What could possibly replace that? What fantastic occurence could change a devotion that had given us more joy than what most people are entitled to? It seemed that I mattered more than the Pencils and that I was expected to have a life where they took second place?? We etched out a long, bitter parting that will haunt us both forever. and violently , suddenly broke into two halves.
Life went on. The Pencils were there and all I needed. The rest was found in strong connections that if not equally, did cherish, in their own way, the magic of the Pencils. I had, however, begun to feel a nervous fear. I guarded the pencils jealously. Nobody was allowed to degrade them or taint my sacred shrine the way The Special One had. Weaknesses were intolerable to me and only the Questions prevented fanaticism.
The Questions were what made the Pencils beautiful. People asked and the Pencils softly answered for themselves, smiling indulgently at our collective outraged arrogance. They were so true and pure and gentle in their stature, that most people fell willing slaves. I laughed with joy to see the inflow and its quality was of no distress. As long as I and a few others and those far greater than us stood still in our cause and the joy it gave us, the Pencils were safe. I was safe, and happy. they had made me a better person.
Then I began to want it again - the companionship that sharing brought. Where the wonder for the Pencils was the connection between two selves. Where the joy was mirrored at the discovery of that fantasy world....and where nothing mattered more. I guess a part of me needed to see that image in someone else, for the strange shared fulfilment that love translates into.
I saw a friend form. I saw a growing attachment in her for the pencils. And that peculiar talent to understand them as only a few of us can. I saw her revere those great men and women, lovers of my loved ones, with some strain of what I felt. Something in me wanted that desperately to form wholly and be bigger, brighter perhaps, than what it was destined to be.
She glimmered in the potential of shining and seemed to reflect that light of purity that defied age and boundary and represented instead only greatness in the future.
I saw it eagerly once, was captivated on the second, third glimpse and had greedily convinced myself of the third.
And then it shattered, when I saw that it was not the Pencils, that fuelled her, and instead, the words they could write. For her. The tragedy lay in how simple it was, how undramatic sorrow is and how deep disappointment can dig.
I got greedy. And in some ways I think the Pencils punished me. She will find her own path, and I have found mine. Its all mine and perhaps for some time to come, only mine.
I think she saw some part of my hurt. Not all or most of it because she hardly understands. But some part.I loved her deeply and will continue to do so. I have grown and suspect that this will be one of those permanent bonds. And in that, perhaps The Special One was right. There is more to life than the Pencils. Its just that, the Pencils are my life. More, is what they bring me.
Its who I am. Ever since I've had formed thought, they've mesmerized me, and drawn me..towards a lifetime of worship and adoration. They define me and define the life I live, the food I eat, the relationships I forge, break, endure, exhaust. They are me, I am them. They give, I hungrily take. I give, they seem fed and nourished by the constant love I feel. They freely possess me, just as I possess them. There are my moments of doubt, despair, suspicion, angst. They reach out and reassure me with the sacred connection we have.
I've met people over the years and been close, or held hands, or felt indifference or boredom or thrilled....and the Pencils have always had something to do with it. It was how they had influenced the bond, that defined the worth of it to me. It was them that I wanted to be nearer as I drew nearer to men and women. It was them that kindled conversations and more. And them that led to diffidence or suitcases. If A loved a Pencil he had seen last year, and B used to collect them in school, I was excited. If C had a lucky Pencil and D drew for years, I was hooked. They, and their fleeting images in the faces that I met, became all I wanted and held on to. And the minute I saw that connection slip, the minute I felt that reverence fade, even a little, I felt nothing or less for the face or film in question.
And then I met the rest of us. Every now and then, as I grew and sought, I discovered kindred spirits. That adored and were ignited similarly. It was like finding a home. That I could not bear to be separated from. Or even momentarily parted with. And I carefully, painstakingly built that home and that life and within that, a me, that nobody could take away my beloved Pencils from. My world revolves around them and finally I had filled my surroundings with the few that could see and sustain me.
One day, a very special one left. I was bewildered, confused and hurt. The Special One had loved them just as much as I did. The rest loved them, but were not replenished and exhausted and dependant on them as we were. And for the first time I had found one of them that would and had, given his life to the Pencils. What could possibly replace that? What fantastic occurence could change a devotion that had given us more joy than what most people are entitled to? It seemed that I mattered more than the Pencils and that I was expected to have a life where they took second place?? We etched out a long, bitter parting that will haunt us both forever. and violently , suddenly broke into two halves.
Life went on. The Pencils were there and all I needed. The rest was found in strong connections that if not equally, did cherish, in their own way, the magic of the Pencils. I had, however, begun to feel a nervous fear. I guarded the pencils jealously. Nobody was allowed to degrade them or taint my sacred shrine the way The Special One had. Weaknesses were intolerable to me and only the Questions prevented fanaticism.
The Questions were what made the Pencils beautiful. People asked and the Pencils softly answered for themselves, smiling indulgently at our collective outraged arrogance. They were so true and pure and gentle in their stature, that most people fell willing slaves. I laughed with joy to see the inflow and its quality was of no distress. As long as I and a few others and those far greater than us stood still in our cause and the joy it gave us, the Pencils were safe. I was safe, and happy. they had made me a better person.
Then I began to want it again - the companionship that sharing brought. Where the wonder for the Pencils was the connection between two selves. Where the joy was mirrored at the discovery of that fantasy world....and where nothing mattered more. I guess a part of me needed to see that image in someone else, for the strange shared fulfilment that love translates into.
I saw a friend form. I saw a growing attachment in her for the pencils. And that peculiar talent to understand them as only a few of us can. I saw her revere those great men and women, lovers of my loved ones, with some strain of what I felt. Something in me wanted that desperately to form wholly and be bigger, brighter perhaps, than what it was destined to be.
She glimmered in the potential of shining and seemed to reflect that light of purity that defied age and boundary and represented instead only greatness in the future.
I saw it eagerly once, was captivated on the second, third glimpse and had greedily convinced myself of the third.
And then it shattered, when I saw that it was not the Pencils, that fuelled her, and instead, the words they could write. For her. The tragedy lay in how simple it was, how undramatic sorrow is and how deep disappointment can dig.
I got greedy. And in some ways I think the Pencils punished me. She will find her own path, and I have found mine. Its all mine and perhaps for some time to come, only mine.
I think she saw some part of my hurt. Not all or most of it because she hardly understands. But some part.I loved her deeply and will continue to do so. I have grown and suspect that this will be one of those permanent bonds. And in that, perhaps The Special One was right. There is more to life than the Pencils. Its just that, the Pencils are my life. More, is what they bring me.
Saturday, December 02, 2006
Update..
Well, travel and much illness has followed me around faithfully.
Yesterday, for the first time in a very long time, I atually felt like I was recovering. I actually felt healthy. I kid you not, to someone who's been that ill, this is a step short of salvaton.
And a little sad because I was going to be letting go of a part of me that represented purity and innocence and a 3 centimetre dream that I suddenly, insanely wished was real.
I met family and friends and strangers who had watched me grow up. Most of them seemed unreal. Wanted to constantly know why I had grown so much. I kept explaining that tragically, there wasn't even a centimentre to add to the medium length that I'd been a year and a half ago. My grandmum thinks I'm too thin. Yet, she keeps bringing up strange men who've never met me, and insisting that the time is ripe to harvest with one of them.
My cousin looked pronouncedly happy as she declared me fatter from my last visit. Her pierced chin was the cause of many merciful distractions though.
I met a writer, who, lke most writers, seemed on the lookout for a readymade muse. Since I had only one small suitcase and a ticket back home, I think I fit the bill. He was interesting in that he seemed to be mesmerised by attributes that I am unfortunately certain I do not possess. However, he made my phonecalls back home more animated. He also gave me a book (The Edible Woman...yes, I have not yet lived that down) with the first page filled with suitably mournful prose and we parted on the note that I reminded him of his aunt.
I also discovered brightly coloured markets that were such a joy to trudge through. And I happily bought gifts at twice their price.
I'm back now. With lots to do and get done. Sigh.
Yesterday, for the first time in a very long time, I atually felt like I was recovering. I actually felt healthy. I kid you not, to someone who's been that ill, this is a step short of salvaton.
And a little sad because I was going to be letting go of a part of me that represented purity and innocence and a 3 centimetre dream that I suddenly, insanely wished was real.
I met family and friends and strangers who had watched me grow up. Most of them seemed unreal. Wanted to constantly know why I had grown so much. I kept explaining that tragically, there wasn't even a centimentre to add to the medium length that I'd been a year and a half ago. My grandmum thinks I'm too thin. Yet, she keeps bringing up strange men who've never met me, and insisting that the time is ripe to harvest with one of them.
My cousin looked pronouncedly happy as she declared me fatter from my last visit. Her pierced chin was the cause of many merciful distractions though.
I met a writer, who, lke most writers, seemed on the lookout for a readymade muse. Since I had only one small suitcase and a ticket back home, I think I fit the bill. He was interesting in that he seemed to be mesmerised by attributes that I am unfortunately certain I do not possess. However, he made my phonecalls back home more animated. He also gave me a book (The Edible Woman...yes, I have not yet lived that down) with the first page filled with suitably mournful prose and we parted on the note that I reminded him of his aunt.
I also discovered brightly coloured markets that were such a joy to trudge through. And I happily bought gifts at twice their price.
I'm back now. With lots to do and get done. Sigh.
Monday, November 20, 2006
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Bifurcation.
Hmmm...I have no idea how to start this..
( 7 mins later)
Last night I felt bullied. And I've never known that.
I swear, if my school had bullies, they stayed away from me despite the fact that I was capital nerd. Or maybe Dad was overwhelming in the 'all mine' way he scooped me up on Fridays.
Then I went to college and they never showed up there either.
Then I got to work, and I met cheats, leches, bitches, manipulators and even if all these people had a bit of bully in them, I never felt bullied.
But last night I did. By a friend. All he did, was speak sharply, maybe authoritatively. Not to me, but to another, dear friend whom I was laughing with. And the thing is, I instinctively felt it..some sort of violation. I couldn't retort owing to the nature of the gathering and that preservation brought out the worst within me. I fumed and bristled and made sure he heard exactly what I thought and said. I had never felt the emotion and the only way I knew how to avenge the hurt was to go on the warpath. I didnt care how silly or inconsequential anyone thought it was, I had to feel better. I was determined to tell him exactly what I thought, seconds after the group dispersed.
I steamed and stewed and prepared and hurt and boiled away. It wasn't silly. Not for me. It was about standing up for myself.
And then he beat me to it. Came and apologized. And made me feel about two centimetres tall. He wasn't the bully I'd always feared would catch up with me. He was just a friend..who'd snapped in the crazy moment...like I had so many times, and all of us do.
And for the first time, I wasn't able to take an apology gracefully. I was too ashamed of myself.I knew I might have already and would've definitely tried to hurt him back.
I felt like I had to tell him somehow and we aren't close enough for me to blurt out the meannesses I never knew I had.
So I'm going to send him a link to this post. And hope that he understands.
( 7 mins later)
Last night I felt bullied. And I've never known that.
I swear, if my school had bullies, they stayed away from me despite the fact that I was capital nerd. Or maybe Dad was overwhelming in the 'all mine' way he scooped me up on Fridays.
Then I went to college and they never showed up there either.
Then I got to work, and I met cheats, leches, bitches, manipulators and even if all these people had a bit of bully in them, I never felt bullied.
But last night I did. By a friend. All he did, was speak sharply, maybe authoritatively. Not to me, but to another, dear friend whom I was laughing with. And the thing is, I instinctively felt it..some sort of violation. I couldn't retort owing to the nature of the gathering and that preservation brought out the worst within me. I fumed and bristled and made sure he heard exactly what I thought and said. I had never felt the emotion and the only way I knew how to avenge the hurt was to go on the warpath. I didnt care how silly or inconsequential anyone thought it was, I had to feel better. I was determined to tell him exactly what I thought, seconds after the group dispersed.
I steamed and stewed and prepared and hurt and boiled away. It wasn't silly. Not for me. It was about standing up for myself.
And then he beat me to it. Came and apologized. And made me feel about two centimetres tall. He wasn't the bully I'd always feared would catch up with me. He was just a friend..who'd snapped in the crazy moment...like I had so many times, and all of us do.
And for the first time, I wasn't able to take an apology gracefully. I was too ashamed of myself.I knew I might have already and would've definitely tried to hurt him back.
I felt like I had to tell him somehow and we aren't close enough for me to blurt out the meannesses I never knew I had.
So I'm going to send him a link to this post. And hope that he understands.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Conversation..
We were at our usual dinner spot last night. Beer guzzler meets jazz musician meets fervant South Indian, there for the famously great food. Place is owned by a friend who draws like an angel, has a warm,fuzzy heart and resembles a Harley maverick. There are sad goblins on the walls that always make me want to write about them. One goblin gingerly holds a tiny fragile fairy in his palm and is staring at her, mesmerized. I'll never forget that look, of absolute longing and enchantment. It must be nice to be an art whiz with your own pub. Sigh.
Steaming soup arrives and its the best thing I've ever eaten with the rains beating a consistent drum outside.
"What does being in love really mean?"
Huh? Um..entirely wrong person to ask..I..er.. The cornered person in question looks like he'd rather be in jail..
Everyone looks serious. Well of course. This bunch never gets serious about anything! And the one topic that I would certainly mumble my way through, they choose to get philosophical over
Superstar suddenly sheds the style and gets deep. Old girlfriends are drudged up. much debris is discussed. He has a point, a lot of loves are about having fun with someone and continuing to have fun no matter how long its lasted. Most good marraiges seem to be fun.
I apologetically try and remember all the instances where I had fancied the sensation.
Another friend thinks its about middle ground. Yeah, I can relate. Compromise and all that. Your noodles for my rotis. But surely this constant "deal" is not all it's jazzed up to be? Surely it gets tiring? Especially if it's constantly conscious?
My relationship allows me room and breathing space and the random days of cranky solitude that I cannot live without.
Love is...the fantastic high that fades into a fantastic low. We all laugh at her joke. But its true. I've been troubled in situations where my closest friends have said that the pain was too much too bear, that desolation/ anger/ hurt/ weakness was the altar at which worshipping Love, made it bearable. Seems terribly painful..are you sure that this is love..I had doubtfully asked in my head..
My relationship has laughter and teasing and problems that dont become grudges or vinegered anger.
X believes Love has has the properties to heal and restore.
Y wants nothing to do with it, is in hate and likes the armour.
Z wants cotton candy and walks in the rain.
I dislike drama. I found logic and companionship, friendly warmth, even on days that tell me I cannot ever expect salvation. Sorry, Dad.
A likes languid afternoon, makes the time, cooks together.
B believes in driver's seats and equalizing power (Contradictory I know, but exactly what she said)
C is recently liberated from wet toilets and pompous last name.
D wants her to help more at home.
Turning off a tap, learning to cook, watching films alone, watching films together,...adulterous, juvenile, cuddling, candour, sex, hate, loneliness, organizing, bills, trips, fights, make-up sex, fantasies with other people, money, stability...
I chew slowly..my head swims easily. I wish my partner were here. I think we would've both been bewildered.
Love..seems complicated.
Steaming soup arrives and its the best thing I've ever eaten with the rains beating a consistent drum outside.
"What does being in love really mean?"
Huh? Um..entirely wrong person to ask..I..er.. The cornered person in question looks like he'd rather be in jail..
Everyone looks serious. Well of course. This bunch never gets serious about anything! And the one topic that I would certainly mumble my way through, they choose to get philosophical over
Superstar suddenly sheds the style and gets deep. Old girlfriends are drudged up. much debris is discussed. He has a point, a lot of loves are about having fun with someone and continuing to have fun no matter how long its lasted. Most good marraiges seem to be fun.
I apologetically try and remember all the instances where I had fancied the sensation.
Another friend thinks its about middle ground. Yeah, I can relate. Compromise and all that. Your noodles for my rotis. But surely this constant "deal" is not all it's jazzed up to be? Surely it gets tiring? Especially if it's constantly conscious?
My relationship allows me room and breathing space and the random days of cranky solitude that I cannot live without.
Love is...the fantastic high that fades into a fantastic low. We all laugh at her joke. But its true. I've been troubled in situations where my closest friends have said that the pain was too much too bear, that desolation/ anger/ hurt/ weakness was the altar at which worshipping Love, made it bearable. Seems terribly painful..are you sure that this is love..I had doubtfully asked in my head..
My relationship has laughter and teasing and problems that dont become grudges or vinegered anger.
X believes Love has has the properties to heal and restore.
Y wants nothing to do with it, is in hate and likes the armour.
Z wants cotton candy and walks in the rain.
I dislike drama. I found logic and companionship, friendly warmth, even on days that tell me I cannot ever expect salvation. Sorry, Dad.
A likes languid afternoon, makes the time, cooks together.
B believes in driver's seats and equalizing power (Contradictory I know, but exactly what she said)
C is recently liberated from wet toilets and pompous last name.
D wants her to help more at home.
Turning off a tap, learning to cook, watching films alone, watching films together,...adulterous, juvenile, cuddling, candour, sex, hate, loneliness, organizing, bills, trips, fights, make-up sex, fantasies with other people, money, stability...
I chew slowly..my head swims easily. I wish my partner were here. I think we would've both been bewildered.
Love..seems complicated.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Habit..
I crawl out of my fluid shawl..warm, enraged, pink and red ...sentences written across my temples..blue gelatin suffocating me..and my mother looming over a giant shadow, her angry heat blazing over me..
Can I climb over the iceberg?
Its frozen, its transparent juts will pretend to be meant for your trust and grasp..its ridges will covertly transform into transport and hooded accomplices will talk of safety on the way...and you'll clasp a knife of ice with your little fingers wrapped around it, and just as you begin to hoist yourself, you'll find the ice has held you forever...you're frozen and joint to the monster and you'll never be able to let go..naked and climbing an iceberg? Do you know it took centuries to shape a tiny cube made uneven by a chipped tray.
My rocking chair jerked frantically. The toes that hadn't formed yet shivered in anticipation. The cube was little and unwanted. You see, It had been tainted. At the very centre of its frozen beauty, say an accidental drop of blood. And since then, anger and astonishment had ostrasized the cube. It felt lonely and left out. It felt anger and apathy. It grew..it filled...with neglect and fear and hollow round holes in its enlarged core. And it took on a new name, because now, it had become large and strong and powerful..and had understood superstitions and tradition..and now when it laughed it became a terrible deafening roar that silenced people's hearts and made them afraid to think.
Turgid water balloons burst aginst my puckered angry fists. Silent rocking back and forth. I was the iceberg, the iceberg was me..we have so much in common..
Why couldn't I climb it?
The iceberg knew, and smiled through its slits of vision. It knew I could hear polite laughs and unnatural high pitches..it had known the permeability of amniotic fluid..and that its icy breath had snaked its way in, and curled aroud my brain...it knew my mother's fears..and my ancestral prejudices..it had sneered at the occasional Thought...and clamped its habitual forces around my arteries..I would never be free... free..I would never see the tinkling chains of tiny icecubes...wound around my willing wrists...each with a warm, red centre.
I could never climb it.
Unless I chose to.
Can I climb over the iceberg?
Its frozen, its transparent juts will pretend to be meant for your trust and grasp..its ridges will covertly transform into transport and hooded accomplices will talk of safety on the way...and you'll clasp a knife of ice with your little fingers wrapped around it, and just as you begin to hoist yourself, you'll find the ice has held you forever...you're frozen and joint to the monster and you'll never be able to let go..naked and climbing an iceberg? Do you know it took centuries to shape a tiny cube made uneven by a chipped tray.
My rocking chair jerked frantically. The toes that hadn't formed yet shivered in anticipation. The cube was little and unwanted. You see, It had been tainted. At the very centre of its frozen beauty, say an accidental drop of blood. And since then, anger and astonishment had ostrasized the cube. It felt lonely and left out. It felt anger and apathy. It grew..it filled...with neglect and fear and hollow round holes in its enlarged core. And it took on a new name, because now, it had become large and strong and powerful..and had understood superstitions and tradition..and now when it laughed it became a terrible deafening roar that silenced people's hearts and made them afraid to think.
Turgid water balloons burst aginst my puckered angry fists. Silent rocking back and forth. I was the iceberg, the iceberg was me..we have so much in common..
Why couldn't I climb it?
The iceberg knew, and smiled through its slits of vision. It knew I could hear polite laughs and unnatural high pitches..it had known the permeability of amniotic fluid..and that its icy breath had snaked its way in, and curled aroud my brain...it knew my mother's fears..and my ancestral prejudices..it had sneered at the occasional Thought...and clamped its habitual forces around my arteries..I would never be free... free..I would never see the tinkling chains of tiny icecubes...wound around my willing wrists...each with a warm, red centre.
I could never climb it.
Unless I chose to.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Addendum..
Yesterday's post was intended to be about the beautiful, beautiful Indian rain that Mahima talked about.
The thing is, my superstar hates it. And is absolutely foul when wet. Also funny and cranky in a pretty way..but mostly foul..and that evening was no exception.
The post just went another direction, all by itself.
The thing is, my superstar hates it. And is absolutely foul when wet. Also funny and cranky in a pretty way..but mostly foul..and that evening was no exception.
The post just went another direction, all by itself.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Alarm..
I was drenched again last evening..
It looked like it would rain..but then, in this city, it always does. And this time of the year, the clouds are usually conscientious about their promises.
Milk ,eggs, lettuce, butter, bread, noodles, mushrooms.. lovely rounded discs, raspberries stained with cocoa..gorgeous sparkling bottles pregnant with their enchanted aerations..guilt, first pangs..steering, veering, giving in..more beauty, soft dough..twisted temptresses...erect french fantasy..more milk, more eggs, chicken, wheat, soup...I breathe,mutter, confess, purge,relieve..relive.....Murky waters filled with fairies...no, no, no... Salt, fish, juice, soap, mugs, scrubs, tea, grapes....mutter, mutter, list, mutter...magical madness away...straight and narrow, focus, focus ..breath, breathe, chant, breath, envisage, vision, light...oh demons, angels, satanic pleasure...weeping, wandering ,wanton..cubes of darkness and danger..nestled in fragile tissue..rustling in my ears, my heart, my mind...fierce lust..fantastic fear...decision, diversion...the redness of pulp, warm, trickling, sweetened by desire, bottled by blasphemy..pure white sinner...shamelessly aged..masquerading ..mocking..pouring out its evil heart...beckoning at my heavy senses... milk ,eggs, lettuce, butter....breathe...
Oh lovely breath of rain and tea, sweetened by ginger and post coital-ish candour..
Gorgeous rain-streaked streets soak in their sodium shards..
I'm so late...
Friday, November 03, 2006
Apology
Someone I love woke me up today.
Literally..because my semi-largish( I love, absolutely adore being able to say that..no more tiny cubes of sitting room space..yay!) living room functions as rehearsal arena for this friend. And despite spare key, doorbelling plus plenty of thudding/dancing/ yelling/ jangling/ singing (performance piece..sigh..)ushers my scowl into this lovely, awake world. So at 7 a.m , life begins.
Today, he barges into my bedroom with usual flamboyance and outrageous hair. Says something (presumably Good Morning)..I mumble back....open eyes partly and affectionately regard the sweaty superstar.
"I had three bad dreams last night"..I state sulkily, proceeding to explain how weirdly the three were inter-related and yet had had substantial breaks between them..All three had left me with that unpleasant uneasiness that bad dreams produce, as opposed to the cold sweat that my nightmares are happily defined by.
As always, he interrupts me somewhere mid sentence. Unfairly, he takes complete advantage of our platonic bond and remains the only person whom I grudgingly forgive for outrageous interrupting. Probably because he's promised to let me live upstairs with my cats when he has a wife and kids and we're both juggling false teeth.
"Hey! Really??!! No wayyy!!( Despite pushing 30, anything this man says is a sort of exclamation) Me too..I had this horrible dream !"
I sceptically survey the interrupting oblivious offender. But I'm interested. How can I not be? The man is a live wire and a born entertainer..A can of beans that want to audition for Jesus Christ Superstar. Also it must be admitted, full of dramatic potential ever since he began (Good Lord), taking himself seriously. So I am interested. In both the bad dream and what will surely be an entertaining rendition.
"We were in a train and going somewhere"...He starts off and I immediately foresee the rest. There was this one instance when I made a trip to see a boyfriend and Superstar had been uncomfortable with me traveling alone (I had bravely bought a bus ticket)and accompanied me with an injured ankle. Being almost six feet tall, the bus ride and it's tiny seats( large for my frame) lasted a painful 20 hours and then he had hobbled around the city with me ,drowsy on painkillers and full of reproach on my insensitive desires to climb mountains. I predict that the 'dream' would have something to do with the bad karma I accumulated on that trip.
"We were in a train and going somewhere and suddenly X appears"( X is scum bag who tossed me around and broke many things- refer to earlier post )
He continues,"..And all of a sudden, you're going to sit with him, like you used to..and comforting and hugging him..like you used to. And you keep coming to me and saying that you wanted to give him a chance and that it was important..like you used to. And I was feeling really horrible, helpless and afraid throughout the whole thing..like I used to."
I told one of my grandmothers yesterday that it was such a wonderful thing to have no dog, kids, spouse, etc etc..and that while I would be ready for them someday, A responsibility-free life was a beauty.I also operate that way emotionally. I just go ahead and do what I feel like. Hell hath no fury like Tara stopped on her way to doing/getting what she wants. And that includes any friend, family , foes..take your pick. I do what I want.
And that I didn't realize the hurt caused. I'm sorry. All of you.
Literally..because my semi-largish( I love, absolutely adore being able to say that..no more tiny cubes of sitting room space..yay!) living room functions as rehearsal arena for this friend. And despite spare key, doorbelling plus plenty of thudding/dancing/ yelling/ jangling/ singing (performance piece..sigh..)ushers my scowl into this lovely, awake world. So at 7 a.m , life begins.
Today, he barges into my bedroom with usual flamboyance and outrageous hair. Says something (presumably Good Morning)..I mumble back....open eyes partly and affectionately regard the sweaty superstar.
"I had three bad dreams last night"..I state sulkily, proceeding to explain how weirdly the three were inter-related and yet had had substantial breaks between them..All three had left me with that unpleasant uneasiness that bad dreams produce, as opposed to the cold sweat that my nightmares are happily defined by.
As always, he interrupts me somewhere mid sentence. Unfairly, he takes complete advantage of our platonic bond and remains the only person whom I grudgingly forgive for outrageous interrupting. Probably because he's promised to let me live upstairs with my cats when he has a wife and kids and we're both juggling false teeth.
"Hey! Really??!! No wayyy!!( Despite pushing 30, anything this man says is a sort of exclamation) Me too..I had this horrible dream !"
I sceptically survey the interrupting oblivious offender. But I'm interested. How can I not be? The man is a live wire and a born entertainer..A can of beans that want to audition for Jesus Christ Superstar. Also it must be admitted, full of dramatic potential ever since he began (Good Lord), taking himself seriously. So I am interested. In both the bad dream and what will surely be an entertaining rendition.
"We were in a train and going somewhere"...He starts off and I immediately foresee the rest. There was this one instance when I made a trip to see a boyfriend and Superstar had been uncomfortable with me traveling alone (I had bravely bought a bus ticket)and accompanied me with an injured ankle. Being almost six feet tall, the bus ride and it's tiny seats( large for my frame) lasted a painful 20 hours and then he had hobbled around the city with me ,drowsy on painkillers and full of reproach on my insensitive desires to climb mountains. I predict that the 'dream' would have something to do with the bad karma I accumulated on that trip.
"We were in a train and going somewhere and suddenly X appears"( X is scum bag who tossed me around and broke many things- refer to earlier post )
He continues,"..And all of a sudden, you're going to sit with him, like you used to..and comforting and hugging him..like you used to. And you keep coming to me and saying that you wanted to give him a chance and that it was important..like you used to. And I was feeling really horrible, helpless and afraid throughout the whole thing..like I used to."
I told one of my grandmothers yesterday that it was such a wonderful thing to have no dog, kids, spouse, etc etc..and that while I would be ready for them someday, A responsibility-free life was a beauty.I also operate that way emotionally. I just go ahead and do what I feel like. Hell hath no fury like Tara stopped on her way to doing/getting what she wants. And that includes any friend, family , foes..take your pick. I do what I want.
And that I didn't realize the hurt caused. I'm sorry. All of you.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Other people's babies..
My dad's leaving for five years. It should be okay. I mean, I'm the independant black sheep. Why would it be a problem. Besides, visiting London will be great. All that theatre, delicious pursuits that struggling artists only fantasize about.
I've lived alone for two years. Its been rough at first given that I was clueless about plumbers, potties, bills, other people's noisy animals/babies/ spouses..
Now I have sense, experience(I am FanTasTic at dealing with overflowing pipes)and a maid. Also, nice flat where my bathroom and bedroom are not roughly the same size, shape and colour.
The thing is, I need dad. In the same city, not too far away. Horrendously selfish I know but there it is. He's the place where I feel safest. He's the home I know will always take care of me. Or want to at any rate. He's also the one person who'll probably be completely okay with all my eccentricities. And not think of it as a middle ground.
So anyway, I love dad. And I'll miss him like crazy. We grew up together, a team, just the two of us. This is rotten luck.
I've lived alone for two years. Its been rough at first given that I was clueless about plumbers, potties, bills, other people's noisy animals/babies/ spouses..
Now I have sense, experience(I am FanTasTic at dealing with overflowing pipes)and a maid. Also, nice flat where my bathroom and bedroom are not roughly the same size, shape and colour.
The thing is, I need dad. In the same city, not too far away. Horrendously selfish I know but there it is. He's the place where I feel safest. He's the home I know will always take care of me. Or want to at any rate. He's also the one person who'll probably be completely okay with all my eccentricities. And not think of it as a middle ground.
So anyway, I love dad. And I'll miss him like crazy. We grew up together, a team, just the two of us. This is rotten luck.
Incomplete..
I'm a little troubled, a little bare,
nude at the core of its truth..
I'm not supposed to feel this way.
Its why I flew the coop.
So you're leaving. Its only five years..
I'll visit, you'll visit, there's mail.
So why do I feel like I'm five again..
( bitter tears over the blamed airplane)
Photograph courtesy Nyc London
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
The Monologues (Other things)
In the passion of point A., I forgot or passed by other stuff that came up in the meetings.
Also, since I forsee many posts on this theme, so I'm going to give them separate titles in brackets. Hah. So there, to all those who call me disorganized.
We talked a lot. Her talking had opened up parts of us that prefer seclusion. I'm the reticent one. I talk a lot, but little that really reveals much about me. Maybe thats why writing is such a big part of who I am. While I talk here far more than usual, the general percentage is low. And I guess I also did the same here. But I winced, and felt..and generally, experienced, in a way I never have. The shocking revelation that so many women had faced abuse in their daily lives that my sheltered existence had relegated to "the unfortunate"..
And we talked of healing. One of us has worked extensively with women's groups, another with spirituality that prescribes massage..etc.. I wondered for a moment whether I fit into the conversation. And wonderfully enough, I did. For the first time in my life, I felt a kinship with my own sex. Beyond femininity.
We talked about our appearances. How one gets the silly bimbette roles and the other is constantly forced to be the mother/sister/maid..The occasional director who gratified us with vision was duly showered with praise..
Feeling fat in the mornings..feeling far too skinny every day..Sexy, bitchy, guilty, diabetic, depressed, beautiful, rotten..
I have to be careful or I'll end up on Oprah.
But its true. We, with our crazy mix of all types and stereotypes, represent all women.
I'm loving it.
Also, since I forsee many posts on this theme, so I'm going to give them separate titles in brackets. Hah. So there, to all those who call me disorganized.
We talked a lot. Her talking had opened up parts of us that prefer seclusion. I'm the reticent one. I talk a lot, but little that really reveals much about me. Maybe thats why writing is such a big part of who I am. While I talk here far more than usual, the general percentage is low. And I guess I also did the same here. But I winced, and felt..and generally, experienced, in a way I never have. The shocking revelation that so many women had faced abuse in their daily lives that my sheltered existence had relegated to "the unfortunate"..
And we talked of healing. One of us has worked extensively with women's groups, another with spirituality that prescribes massage..etc.. I wondered for a moment whether I fit into the conversation. And wonderfully enough, I did. For the first time in my life, I felt a kinship with my own sex. Beyond femininity.
We talked about our appearances. How one gets the silly bimbette roles and the other is constantly forced to be the mother/sister/maid..The occasional director who gratified us with vision was duly showered with praise..
Feeling fat in the mornings..feeling far too skinny every day..Sexy, bitchy, guilty, diabetic, depressed, beautiful, rotten..
I have to be careful or I'll end up on Oprah.
But its true. We, with our crazy mix of all types and stereotypes, represent all women.
I'm loving it.
The Monologues..(contd.)
I'm glad I got a fresh blog.
Its a little bit like a new adventure..
And I'm determined to have a new set to talk to..read with..
We got together last night.
And this morning for what we've termed 'Technical Meetings'..dreaded subjects like funding and grants and advisory committees and not collaborating with traditional cultural bodies that seem interested{Masochistic since they have lots of moolah}.
Last night was a Creative Meeting. We got talking..about the eventuality of creating a script from the narratives that were forming through our conversations( For the record, the possibility of a set of monologues is slim, particularly for me)
We had chai and admired my photographs and the staircase in my flat that leads nowhere( I love it).
The sixth woman came on board.
Even before she rang my bell,( Allow me a little drama please, it is but natural) I was apprehensive. I'd met her before professionally and bracketed her instantly as "the kind of woman I don't get along with". Yeah, I can be judgemental but I do find men less complicated and I have very deep connections with the few women I can forge bonds with. That was that. She had been frosty, a natural reaction to my indifference.
She sits, smiles and I immediatly know that some of the others feel my trepidition. "Give it a chance"..I chastise myself. But I'm afraid. That the beautiful, open energies here will tilt with the politics that certain people cannot help but bring with them.
We talk. Fill her in on last time - the original script, everything we'd discussed, our individal desires from the project... She looks puzzled. " You're asking me what I want from this?" I nod. "This whole thing about My wanting something is all very new to me", she says, shaking her head disapprovingly.
Uh oh. Trouble. She'll tell us how selfish we and this whole free Indian woman with its struggles and identity are. And we dont want to be chastised or trashed for wanting more from our lives.Not any more. We dont want to be berated and reminded about our existing opportunities and gratifying lives. Not here anyway, not in this private sanctum that accepts and understands. I'm vulnerable here, unprepared. I may not be able to fight you as well as I can in the World outside.
She quietly sliced into my fear. " I've never really had the chance to do that, you see. I come from a world, where since I've been little, I've been told what to do and taught not to want"...
A different world tumbled out. the repression of not having ever been allowed to think for herself, the lack of even a stringent private space, the literal fact that she was never allowed to close her door when alone, the torment of not having the luxury of even a journal that would be respected as private..being called dark and ridiculed by family and friends for the color that defines our wheatish race..
And a childhood of sexual abuse that could never be talked about. The inability to confide in a family that had chained her to mythical ancestral glory. Innocence lasting till the realization in a seminar that one had, after all, been violated and abused. The horror that seizes the mind, that can never be articulated in how much it defines. One becomes the abuse, takes it on, gives it a shape, a form , one's own body. And voiceless, nameless, that choking, abused body cloaks itself, in dark colours, shapeless clothes, adipose tissue.....
And the ugly rebellion that came years later..The confused grappling for an individual mind..The storms, the alcohol, the bewildered, frenzied search for some sort of peace..some sort of rebirth..
I told her later how lucky I felt to have the opportunity to be able to be a better person. Through these women, through our search, I might just end up free.
Its a little bit like a new adventure..
And I'm determined to have a new set to talk to..read with..
We got together last night.
And this morning for what we've termed 'Technical Meetings'..dreaded subjects like funding and grants and advisory committees and not collaborating with traditional cultural bodies that seem interested{Masochistic since they have lots of moolah}.
Last night was a Creative Meeting. We got talking..about the eventuality of creating a script from the narratives that were forming through our conversations( For the record, the possibility of a set of monologues is slim, particularly for me)
We had chai and admired my photographs and the staircase in my flat that leads nowhere( I love it).
The sixth woman came on board.
Even before she rang my bell,( Allow me a little drama please, it is but natural) I was apprehensive. I'd met her before professionally and bracketed her instantly as "the kind of woman I don't get along with". Yeah, I can be judgemental but I do find men less complicated and I have very deep connections with the few women I can forge bonds with. That was that. She had been frosty, a natural reaction to my indifference.
She sits, smiles and I immediatly know that some of the others feel my trepidition. "Give it a chance"..I chastise myself. But I'm afraid. That the beautiful, open energies here will tilt with the politics that certain people cannot help but bring with them.
We talk. Fill her in on last time - the original script, everything we'd discussed, our individal desires from the project... She looks puzzled. " You're asking me what I want from this?" I nod. "This whole thing about My wanting something is all very new to me", she says, shaking her head disapprovingly.
Uh oh. Trouble. She'll tell us how selfish we and this whole free Indian woman with its struggles and identity are. And we dont want to be chastised or trashed for wanting more from our lives.Not any more. We dont want to be berated and reminded about our existing opportunities and gratifying lives. Not here anyway, not in this private sanctum that accepts and understands. I'm vulnerable here, unprepared. I may not be able to fight you as well as I can in the World outside.
She quietly sliced into my fear. " I've never really had the chance to do that, you see. I come from a world, where since I've been little, I've been told what to do and taught not to want"...
A different world tumbled out. the repression of not having ever been allowed to think for herself, the lack of even a stringent private space, the literal fact that she was never allowed to close her door when alone, the torment of not having the luxury of even a journal that would be respected as private..being called dark and ridiculed by family and friends for the color that defines our wheatish race..
And a childhood of sexual abuse that could never be talked about. The inability to confide in a family that had chained her to mythical ancestral glory. Innocence lasting till the realization in a seminar that one had, after all, been violated and abused. The horror that seizes the mind, that can never be articulated in how much it defines. One becomes the abuse, takes it on, gives it a shape, a form , one's own body. And voiceless, nameless, that choking, abused body cloaks itself, in dark colours, shapeless clothes, adipose tissue.....
And the ugly rebellion that came years later..The confused grappling for an individual mind..The storms, the alcohol, the bewildered, frenzied search for some sort of peace..some sort of rebirth..
I told her later how lucky I felt to have the opportunity to be able to be a better person. Through these women, through our search, I might just end up free.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
All my Bitches..
I had to write this one down..
Its a bit smarmy so I thought a couple of times..but its for me. A sort of reminder.
I realize I've been nicest to the bitches. The ones who treated me really badly. And we all do that.
This one situation particularly where I was adored {Muse-style which is really not as wonderful as it sounds), and i adored right back. However, he was really nasty to me at times. I mean, really really nasty. And he's the only one i get teary over. The one i painfully/lovingly indulge in memories of. I have some nice ex boyfriends, who i simply have a coffee and a laugh with a coupla times a year. This one, is what I had down as The One. Why? Thats what I cant figure out. Its not the mad maverick quality of it all or the fact that I felt a bit like Princess Charming to the rescue. Sure we had some exciting times- this one captured me like no one else.
But hell, he also treated me really badly. And somehow, after each worsening trauma(particularly post break which he didnt take kindly to) I forgave , forgot and generally grieved and hurt over someone who didnt seem to give too many damns about how I felt.
What is it about people we love who treat us badly? What makes it okay to hurt someone constantly and use affection or friendship as an excuse? I wrote this down because it came into my life this week. The realization that the fascinating fantasy had had no right to use me as a very metaphorical and at instances, literal punching bag.
And I was so wrapped up in giving someone else this advice, I almost forgot to take it myself. When did I forget to promise myself never to applaud or revere something that did not deserve it?
I'll try, really hard, not to forget that. I deserve that.
Its a bit smarmy so I thought a couple of times..but its for me. A sort of reminder.
I realize I've been nicest to the bitches. The ones who treated me really badly. And we all do that.
This one situation particularly where I was adored {Muse-style which is really not as wonderful as it sounds), and i adored right back. However, he was really nasty to me at times. I mean, really really nasty. And he's the only one i get teary over. The one i painfully/lovingly indulge in memories of. I have some nice ex boyfriends, who i simply have a coffee and a laugh with a coupla times a year. This one, is what I had down as The One. Why? Thats what I cant figure out. Its not the mad maverick quality of it all or the fact that I felt a bit like Princess Charming to the rescue. Sure we had some exciting times- this one captured me like no one else.
But hell, he also treated me really badly. And somehow, after each worsening trauma(particularly post break which he didnt take kindly to) I forgave , forgot and generally grieved and hurt over someone who didnt seem to give too many damns about how I felt.
What is it about people we love who treat us badly? What makes it okay to hurt someone constantly and use affection or friendship as an excuse? I wrote this down because it came into my life this week. The realization that the fascinating fantasy had had no right to use me as a very metaphorical and at instances, literal punching bag.
And I was so wrapped up in giving someone else this advice, I almost forgot to take it myself. When did I forget to promise myself never to applaud or revere something that did not deserve it?
I'll try, really hard, not to forget that. I deserve that.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Save the paedophile
Dirty rotten scoundrel and his freshly stained sheets
Pangs of puberty, cut up and dried.
Holistic growth and rehab with a reason.
The news at nine, with fries on the side.
Flowers..
Roysten Abel's Flowers is the best piece of theatre I have ever had the privilege of watching. I say that with a curious amount of satisfaction. Probably because I"ve watched most of what goes on in India. And a small amount of foreign plays.And this man, from Kerala, is my new idol.
Writer Karnad's latest has a priest' almost divine and uncontrollable passion for the phallic representation of Lord Shiva versus his newfound, bewildering intoxication for a courtesan. It is a, well, nice story with a lot of potential. Some lovely lines in there, is what most of us would have said after a read.What we wouldn't have forseen is a brilliant director combining forces with an uncomparable actor, and creating a resonationg monologue that had little more than the sound of breathing in the auditorium.
Writer Karnad's latest has a priest' almost divine and uncontrollable passion for the phallic representation of Lord Shiva versus his newfound, bewildering intoxication for a courtesan. It is a, well, nice story with a lot of potential. Some lovely lines in there, is what most of us would have said after a read.What we wouldn't have forseen is a brilliant director combining forces with an uncomparable actor, and creating a resonationg monologue that had little more than the sound of breathing in the auditorium.
The Monologues..
So this is the new blog.
The one that I practice reality on.
Five women, all five of us are..definingly urban. And strangers. Thrown together by the desire to create an unabashed, fierce and dramatic forum. Where we can talk (albeit as a dialogue to an audience), and really understand what it means to be female and free and yet suppressed within our country. One of us is part Russian part Indian..the rest, modern Indian feminine forces. Or so we want to be.
Our conversations, are enriching. Our individual agendas, revelations.
Being Indian and urban, spells contempt on two of our artist lives. The struggle is strangely disorienting. Why does a tribal background or coming from a folk community spell greater acceptance in our careers? Exotic India wanted. As middle class urban women, are we less qualified for the arclights and applause because we're city bred and standardized models of urban chic? Fuck that. We have the fire, the talent and the intelligence. We can learn how to move like Kerala and talk like Punjab. We have understood Bengal and fallen in love with Marathi ire. we can. Why do we have to fight so hard to prove it? What makes reservaton okay? What allows discrimination condemning us to the pancake coated images that we want so desperately to shed. We are in love with the theatre. We are actors and cannot do anything else. We need to be given The Fair Chance.
One of us is a singer. Why is being a jazz musician and singing at a classy hotel so looked down upon in my country? In my home? Okay, screw that. Why have I felt discrimated against all my adult life? Too Indian abroad and not Indian enough at home?
Two of us are in love. With each other. The quiet writer and the religious dancer. A long love. Even though it seems like it may separate, it is only the lovers at stake. The friends will still fight to stay in each other's lives. Post trauma of course. One comment was " I came to grips with my sexuality, really confronted it, post realizing my bisexuality".. What about the rest? The straight ones ask.. Is being different the only route to being liberated? Why dont we talk as freely about our desires, our turning points, our bodies and the milestones of being a free woman?
Personally. my female influences are few and far between.
I look forward to meeting this exciting, beautiful group four times a week. I want to be free. Freer.
The one that I practice reality on.
Five women, all five of us are..definingly urban. And strangers. Thrown together by the desire to create an unabashed, fierce and dramatic forum. Where we can talk (albeit as a dialogue to an audience), and really understand what it means to be female and free and yet suppressed within our country. One of us is part Russian part Indian..the rest, modern Indian feminine forces. Or so we want to be.
Our conversations, are enriching. Our individual agendas, revelations.
Being Indian and urban, spells contempt on two of our artist lives. The struggle is strangely disorienting. Why does a tribal background or coming from a folk community spell greater acceptance in our careers? Exotic India wanted. As middle class urban women, are we less qualified for the arclights and applause because we're city bred and standardized models of urban chic? Fuck that. We have the fire, the talent and the intelligence. We can learn how to move like Kerala and talk like Punjab. We have understood Bengal and fallen in love with Marathi ire. we can. Why do we have to fight so hard to prove it? What makes reservaton okay? What allows discrimination condemning us to the pancake coated images that we want so desperately to shed. We are in love with the theatre. We are actors and cannot do anything else. We need to be given The Fair Chance.
One of us is a singer. Why is being a jazz musician and singing at a classy hotel so looked down upon in my country? In my home? Okay, screw that. Why have I felt discrimated against all my adult life? Too Indian abroad and not Indian enough at home?
Two of us are in love. With each other. The quiet writer and the religious dancer. A long love. Even though it seems like it may separate, it is only the lovers at stake. The friends will still fight to stay in each other's lives. Post trauma of course. One comment was " I came to grips with my sexuality, really confronted it, post realizing my bisexuality".. What about the rest? The straight ones ask.. Is being different the only route to being liberated? Why dont we talk as freely about our desires, our turning points, our bodies and the milestones of being a free woman?
Personally. my female influences are few and far between.
I look forward to meeting this exciting, beautiful group four times a week. I want to be free. Freer.
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