Caution : What you could come across in the process.
Insignificant references to my life, an abstract and distracted thought sequel, monotony, inconsistency, vague vague perception, whorish intellectualism, feminist bullshit, armchair activism, causes I try to relate to, sharp sarcasm, even sharper criticism, frivolous details.
Nonetheless Happy Reading.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Friday, October 7, 2011
Friday, July 8, 2011
Sunday, June 5, 2011
What he glorified as love seems to me as nothing more than an obsession, a perverted kind of obsession that lasts all life. So Florentino Ariza has to endure the curse of love and all its flu like symptoms for about fifty three years when finally a widowed and lonely Fermina Daza gives in to what she never thought possible.
Our mainstay, Florentino would, after his first agonizing heartbreak, for the next fifty years use sex as a coping mechanism and fuck every department of womankind including the widows and the sweet sixteen year old's. He would however prefer the skinny inconspicuous lot of them who turn out to be most of the times as per his calculations astonishingly exceptional in bed.
My heart has more rooms than a whorehouse, says a dejected Florentino Ariza.
And if I could, I would ask Florentino Ariza only this... How many?
'Book Devourer' says D. Lets see what I was able to tick off my list this summer.
- White Teeth - Zadie Smith
- The Autograph Man - Zadie Smith
- Flesh and Blood - Michael Cunningham
- The Brief and Wondrous life of Oscar Wao - Junot Diaz
- Still here - Linda Grant
- McSweeney's Collection Volume 1
- Who's Afraid of Virignia Woolf
- Barney's Version - Mordecai Richler
- Granta 96 The best of young British Novelists
- Love in the time of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Friday, June 3, 2011
They shut long ago
when you weren't looking.
The knocking ceased, when
somebody hung a DO NOT DISTURB
on the once shiny door knob
There is silence and sometimes
a creaking when you climb the stairs.
The stairs overlook a forgotten corridor
where you'd once count your stash of juicy fruit
or kiss your lover
or sometimes a stranger
and once your own best friend.
or yell 'I'll be back in a while..'
Only, it was quite a while
In the meantime your mother prepared dinner
roast chicken and salad sprinkled with a bit of parmesan
the way you liked it
after which she waited
on that very corridor
Until the winds changed
and you came upon that shut door
Only this time you knocked
instead of barging in (and throwing your bags and keys)
or sneaking in (a shoe in each hand)
Monday, April 25, 2011
So here I am trying to accumulate details of this city when I hear a weepy voice. At first I presume it to be boy trouble, so I don't pay much attention and then ultimately I am forced into eavesdropping on my next door neighbor's conversation because My God her voice is beyond screechy,squeaky and loud. Really loud, and I wipe my hands off all the guilt because I am pretty sure the entire floor heard the conversation with amazing clarity as well.
Miss cranky doodle doo apparently had a tiff with her parents because her 'Chachi' or 'Booa' or somebody like that found a picture of her holding hands with some random guy on facebook who she claims to be her friend.
Boyfriend? A friend? But why would he hold her hand? And why would they go public?
And why would they take a picture? And why would they go out together like that? So without a rhyme or reason I'm guessing this Chachi or Booa or whoever picks up the phone does what she saw her favorite vamp do in a serial day before and the drama painfully unfolds.
So its been an hour now and my next door neighbor is still trying to convince her parents otherwise.
Yes. Generation Y is going to hell. You heard me. Generation Y-1 certainly thinks so. Culture and tradition have literally evaporated out of our lives. We now shamelessly hold hands on facebook. God save us.
Now with all due respect,I do appreciate and respect culture and to an extent even tradition and religion. What I do not however accept is blatant notions and opinions we all know we are better off without. Perhaps Chachi or Booa would do good to society it they watched more of the cooking shows than those retarded soaps.
We wear masks and gather the dirty laundry in a basket that sits right at the end of the closet. We wear make up. We hide scars.
What is the need for perfection when there isn't going to be any?
Something similar happened on my facebook page as well and I guess facebook is the source of all scandal, taking the social media by storm. It wasn't anybody's business but then through an unlikely source it just happened to be everybody's business.However I just wasn't into squealing and screeching and didn't have much of explaining to do because my parents knew that I was who I was and nothing I did and nobody I went out with was ever going to change that. So I am going out with a wonderful person for 10 months now and that hasn't made me any less of a feminist or who I used to be. Any less ambitious than what I used to be. Love isn't a temporary setback that happened to me. Love isn't something I would give up my whole life for.
Culture is what you make of it. Tradition is how you define it. All of us have inherited the basic ability to know and draw the line between right or wrong, to call a spade a spade. Its a line you have to draw and not a mask you have to wear.
Fall in love. Its hormonal. Its beautiful.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
With its feet held firmly on the ground, nothing about the 1990's was too fast or too complicated or too confounding.
Since I grew up in the 1990's, the nostalgia is bound to creep in. I mean the social scene might have been broken and scarred but TV was such a delight and PC's were coming to light. And yes I was a fan of rhyming poetry back then, now it just seems to much work. So I just took the time and patience to note down the things about the 1990's that I really miss.
Note that this list is not even close to being exhaustive due me staying way past up my bed time, and the fact that I would be ridiculous enough to declare it on my widely unread blog just goes out to prove it.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
The trouble with thoughts. They keep coming back.
Those breathing possibilities of me being anywhere and everywhere.
It is this fleeting moment that I wake up to everyday.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Wake up on better days, not hiss at cats, not spill coffee or feelings because it turns out to be a mess anyway.
I scan the traces of my clumsiness - a bruise here, a bruise there. Tripped. Brushed off the broken frame of a door. Hit the the edge of a table. Drunk, yet so sober. So bloody sober.
I lie awake on a badly made bed that wouldn't and couldn't accommodate anything other than myself. Abominable thoughts scarring the entire process of imagination. What should I be thinking about right now? Possibly?
Human race? Dammed Human Race? Art? Cats? Work (that hardly seems like work)? What?
I forgot all that I read, all of a sudden it evaporated through my skin and bones into the mist that surrounded me. Left me pale on a hot sunny day, and I realized it wasn't sunny anymore. I was under a cloud. The cloud let me bask in a gloom of obscurity.
Breathe. I said to myself over and over and over. Until the words walked with me and became a part of me.
These 'maybe's' and 'if only's' that you carry with you around your waist, they clamber on your back, sticking to you like a leech, squeezing the life out of you. The life that told you to go watch a movie and take your girlfriend to dinner.
I would at this juncture want to be reincarnated into the Persian cat I found sprawled outside a magazine store, coming out of which I regretted not having picked up Tate? Why? Why? It was a good price. These were weird people who did weird things without ever having to feel sorry for themselves.
The cat, sprawled on the floor. How adorable are eyes that say to you - Nothing. I feel nothing!
Art scene : A splash of colors, form, shape, dimension, structure, a chromatic excess of bleh, worst of all .. price tags. Like inheriting some vague form of judgement that you were better off without knowing.
The more I found myself looking, the more I realized it wasn't art. Nothing was art and art was nothing. It was just meaning that wasn't undone.Couldn't be undone.