Words for sale

The Nuclear Aftermath

I try to sound poetic today

as I go about my routine chores

Right from the time I wake up

From that moment thereafter

A few split seconds I spend

Just lying in bed

Figuring out my life

Clouds falling from the sky

My memory failing me

These corners have gone blind

I lie in my bed and count polonium orbs

Twenty three and then I stop

My wife is fast asleep

Dreaming of the perfect breakfast

Breathing gently, her fingers outstretched

Like she was just matter-of-factly denied

The one thing she had yearned for all her enitre life

It stopped snowing awhile ago

This is no ordinary snow

Faint patches of sunlight

Uncover the earth

I picture my son in his uniform

And oxygen mask

Then glance at the newspaper

And read words that rhyme.

Culturally Defunct.

So its seven and I curl up with Granta on my bed. I've been meaning to write for quite sometime now and I have trails of thoughts on post its, behind magazines, in journals, on random pages, on my phone.. in short - everywhere. 


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. 

The charming !990's revisited

I feel so 1990's today. It always starts like that : with D and me reminiscing about the good old days when dysfunction was just a figure of speech ,when life unfolded bit by bit and so did the journal entires.
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.

Nothing on TV right now matches up to what we had in the 1990's Not even the humour, not even close. So Stephanie Meyer decides to write a cheap ass version of Buffy, but really cute vampires were in vogue even back then (James Marsters aka Spike and Juliet Landou aka Drusilla) And before Bridget Jones was even conceptualised or was any such messed up woman who couldn't keep track of her life, who could turn the tables around or upside down..or simply throw them out of the window..there was ofcourse Ally. Ally Mcbeal. I also loved loved loved Caroline in the city. Ever since then I've known what I'd turn out to be, I knew I'd keep a cat and scoff at her whenever my life was a mess..and she'd look at me with those olive eyes that said : Get a life.

 

Britney Spears : when she was sane. Whoever thought she would turn out to be such a wreck.

Backstreet Boys back then when they were too cute to be so freaking gay

Picnic : What ass decided to stop manufacturing these? They were brilliant. I could have these for breakfast, lunch and dinner and then again for a mid night snack. I think they were taken off the shelves to save me from boredom and them from being sidelined.

Chic chich chich chich Chiclets : Everything about the way they sounded and the way they clicked was so fantabulous. It was like a must have at some point of time for no lame rhyme or reason

Doom : IDDQD, IDKFA. Yes I still remember those cheat codes, the former being the one for GOD MODE and the latter for unlimited ammunition. Those huge wobbly pink monsters shaped into a somewhat magnified version of the human brain, arms and feet sticking out and the bloodied teeth ready to tear you apart. Yes games were easy back then and there was absolutely no shame in using them cheats.

WWF : There was adrenaline in the air. Dreams are seriously made of some spunky stuff when you are just about 5'2 and ever ready to kick some good ass. The WWF as the old name went was at its meanest best ever, when brains were as good as brawns drunk on beer and steroids and skimpy clad crazy women rocked the rings as well. Present day WWE is quite a drag. Or perhaps I just grew up.

Baywatch : For once it was boobs with a purpose. I mean before this life guards didn't even matter. Imagine picking up something as insignificant as that and turning it around into a sensationally sexy experience...CPR was redefined, so were the beaches and so was the colour red and the very noble profession of saving lives. Hats off to the makers of Baywatch.

So with this so this quirky post (minus my melancholic self) I'd want to wrap up my thoughts by saying  that I terribly miss the 1990's and you would always always miss what isn't here than what is here even though what is here might or might not be better than what isn't here and what was here a while ago.

The trouble with thoughts

That's me. I step under the shower after a hectic day letting the droplets of water dissolve onto my skin while I trace out my life on those sepia tiles. Back. Forth. Right. Left. Turnaround. Never stop going left. Until you smash into a tragic dead end.


The trouble with thoughts. They keep coming back.

A moment

There is this moment, after I wake up and before I am fully awake.. this fuzzy little moment, dazed by the mere possibility of reality. That moment when I can't figure it out. Who? How? Why? Where? When?
Those breathing possibilities of me being anywhere and everywhere.
It is this fleeting moment that I wake up to everyday.

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.