A random day in 1934

Words flow easy when you are angry, done with doing over and over, the same thing I would eventually forget.
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.

Am I the product of tragedy?

Note : This wasn't written to sound uncanny. This was written with a purpose to shrug off my MBAness for awhile.

One of the foremost things that MBA has taught me was to not care when nobody else cares. A very straightforward and material fact, but skim the surface to dig out the underlying emotion and write them off like underlying assets or worse hedge them.

Yes Miss Austen, as if literature wasn't polluted enough.

The second being the law of ten and the theory of never doing enough ie if you think you've slogged your arse off for five fucking hours straight I bet you I can find you over thirty people who've worked ten times harder than you, in short what you'd do would never be enough. So even 'trying' is a breakneck decision.

And pardon me for sounding very un MBA like but I just can't stop giggling when I hear the words 'cash cow'

In short if it hadn't been for the money, we wouldn't even have been doing it. Except for those bloodsuckers, ego ruminants, bland jays and crap a doodle doo's.

But beat this. I've met plastic faced 23 year olds who tell me that its just something they have to do before getting married. A degree equals bride evaluation criteria and not job evaluation criteria, I am surprised you didn't know.Its like they decided to mortgage their ambitions to nothingness. Well quite frankly my dear, they and not I qualify to be products of tragedy.

The last of my learning's (and I'd try not to be bitter about this one) was to never ever ever ever underestimate bad luck and never ever ever underestimate a terrible opportunity.

With that said and done, its time for me to sing a different tune. She is called the Crack fiction whore. Art whore. Period.

And I need an idea to start flirting with.

I'm off to Kala Ghoda on the 5th.

 And if you wanted to, you could check out this fabulous site.

http://www.anishkapoor.com/index.htm