flying by the seat of my pants

as of 1pm today, i'm partially in charge of vidya, my 28-year-old sister. her full-time nurse has gone to fetch the replacement, this happens once every 6 months. for about five days we're left to ourselves. four adults, one of whom is two-and-a-half year old. and a fussy eater with a strange sense of humour.

currently she's very amused at the sight of her clod of a sister trying to assume responsibility. we did quite well for a while, when she was still reeling from the shock of seeing me up before 5pm. physiotherapy, a change of clothes, and medicines all on time. by the time we got to lunch i was feeling relieved and at peace with the world and my neighbour. and then suddenly she stops eating. just like that.

it was like trying to feed a wall. i tried cunning, hiding the rice under a piece of pappadum. i tried the element of surprise, sneaking in a spoonful when she was distracted by something funny that i had just said. i even - and i'm not proud of this - lied through my teeth, telling her it was all uperi when really it was also rice.

but she's had more experience at this than me. so i gave up, telling myself that she did eat enough. i don't fuss too much about food, i think she'll eat when she's hungry. but this sudden shutting of mouth as though it was filled with concrete alarms me.

the next few days, i am certain, will be filled with similar incidents. i'm going to get the royal substitute-teacher treatment. my tentative grip, anxious gaze and desperate attempts at humour will give me away. it's no use speaking sternly, i suck at that. my mother is slightly better at this because when faced with mutiny, she can say with perfect conviction things like: fine, then sit here all night. sleep in the bathroom, if you want.

i, on the other hand, am too scared she will.

what would i do without you?

it's the season of doing without. i've made some old resolutions and have no real reason to believe they'll hold this time around. except that i really need them to.

things i'm doing without:
1. rice=starch=not so good for me
2. talking. my kindly ear's flown south for the winter, where she will be by herself and take baths standing in a tub. besides, i talk, i've found, expecting instant relief. when really i should just talk. can't just talk. ergo, not talking.
3. eating with distractions. in front of the tv, in front of a book, in front of theonion.com. no more.

this last one is proving to be the most difficult. but i welcome difficulties at this point. the funnest part, i remember, of playing house was the making up of random rules. wipe your feet before you come in, go to bed at 8, eat what's on your plate. rules that you recognise as dumb and mysterious, hence grown-up. somehow though, rules are tougher to follow when you see the logic behind them.

the unbearable lightness of being a puppy

if there's a sweeter sight in the world than a puppy rolling about in tall grass i haven't seen it today

this, here, now

choosing life is not the hope-drenched, sunny eyed, firm-footed move it's sometimes made out to be. rats deserting a sinking ship get bad press. the captain who went down with his ship is a honourable man. we will make movies about him, and that moment when he decides to hold on to the sea princess, his breath growing dearer by the second, is shot through with incandescence. they disappear into the far blue, graceful, entwined, dead. he held his baby, and she took him down. the poem, it just writes itself.

the rats, on the other hand, are vermin. they eat precious supplies, bore through linen, shit on larder shelves, and scurry about guiltily. they make veiny, transculent babies and occasionally eat them. their tails are an unacceptable length of gross, and their eyes are beady and shifty, and all those other words that novelists find so useful.

the thought that these dirty little bags of disease actually want to go on living is despicable to us. that they would swarm about covering corridors and stairs like a grey, writhing carpet is just so infuriating. after all that the poor ship did for them, gave them a place to scavenge, keep warm, breedbreedbreed, this is how they repay her. they run away when she needs help the most. the ocean's pouring in gleefully, splintering floors, storming through hinges. oh, why won't the rats do something? organise rafts, radio for help, play violins, something.

there are times when you need to go away to stay alive. and it isn't pretty. it isn't easy. sometimes it isn't even legal. you get called names. bastard. slut. coward.

nobody gives him a hand when a husband of sixteen years looks into the tired eyes of his wife, sleep-deprived from mourning her seventh miscarriage, vulnerable in her torn housecoat, ridden with self-doubt and the smell of greasy dinner, and says, it's over i'm leaving. a mother who up and leaves her daughter after the girl's second attempt at suicide, is not going to have a prayer said for her come sunday morning. except maybe to condemn her wretched soul. war epics aren't inspired by the scaredshitless men who ran away from the battlefield, jumping over carcasses and thinking, glad i'm not him.

they should have stayed. organised rafts, radioed for help, played violins, something.

those rats, they die too. the poor dumb fucks, where did they think they were running to?

if you asked them, they'd say, squeak keek, keek. not to, from.

back

psychologists who would know say that just as a person commits the act of suicide - pops the 30th pill, kicks off the chair, dives into that black sheet, rests his head wearily on the steering wheel - his will to live sharpens to the keenest edge. not so much life flashing before your eyes, then, but its receding headlights. come back, i've changed my mind.

last week, when i was being blinded by logic and deafened by epiphanies - seriously they were going off like those siren rockets on diwali night - i looked at my blog and thought: enough. i don't want another indulgence cluttering up my life. besides, this is crap. god, i can't stand to look at it. off with your head.

i love a good bit of drama in the afternoon, don't you?

but i was serious. and i clicked on that tab that said 'delete this blog', expecting blogger.com to beg me to reconsider my decision. are you sure you want to delete? are you sure you're sure? but blogger is no ms office, and just like that it was gone, poof.

it felt good. then horrible. then not so bad. i felt liberated. then empty. then restless. i said pah a lot.

but i had made a decision, and this time i would not budge. this is good for you, deepa. no worrying about your stupid writing (groan). no worrying about how bloodyawful clumsy it sounds (groaner). no worrying about whether this makes any sense to anybody (let us please not go there). less to worry about, life will perch lightly on the tip of your nose.

but who wants a light life? what's going to keep me from floating away, turning somersaults in the sky, being lectured by geese?

so am back. my stomach pumped, my neck hard-collared, my lungs cleared, my brow mopped. and i had to re-post all that archive stuff for the same reason that people need to put up old pictures on unfamiliar walls.

centrefuge

do you remember spinning around as a child? it usually starts off with a slow circle or two. then faster and faster. not so much because you're enjoying the repetitive scenery, but you sense that if you stop, you'll feel giddy and sick. so it's important to outrun the giddiness. you know that this will only make it worse when you finally do stop. but for now, in the centre of this blurred circle, you're safe.

a pleasant walk, a pleasant talk, along the briny beach

there is something captivating about stupidity. for one thing, it's so beautifully simple. utter idiocy like inherent genius is characterised by its straight pure lines and unblemished ridges. i try not to get sucked into an argument with persons in their idiot-phase. they dither so convincingly.

i've worked myself into a knot over this. a tight, wet-shoelace knot. this is why i should never argue. it's so distressing, to argue. especially with prejudices. i know it's stupid, i know it isn't worth losing my ragged peace over, but before i know it i've burst a vein and tumbled into the pit. now i'm covered in jelly and the sides of this damn tub are slippery and i'm sticky and cranky and on the brink of tears. oh, the ugliness of it all.

but then there's another kind of person. she loves to argue. in her tempestous youth, she practically founded the If You Can't Convince Them, Confuse Them school of thought. now she's mellowed out and wisened gracefully. but she can still dam the most strident stream of red-blooded ism with a well-placed and devastating, hmm.

and frustratingly often she's "in that frame of mind when she want to defy something, although she doesn't know what to defy." but this person i'm crazy about. which goes to show you how very full of shit i am. and how very very smitten.

you see, charm always gets me. charm, the philosophical equivalent of asking nicely. of nudging a length of blue through the eye of a needle. of glinting warmly at a pat of butter as you slice through it. of curling up in a lap and purring commands of stainless steel. of pattering softly, endlessly for centuries upon a rock, till it cracks itself open in its eagerness to please.

the movies

for a whole year i reviewed movies for a website. english, hindi and telugu films. good, bad, but mostly ugly films. i've rarely had people agree with me but i've often had them show genuine concern for my career prospects. "have you considered any other line of work? why not leave the reviewing to qualified folks?"

being of unbalanced mind, i freaked out everytime something like this got said. which it did almost every week. but i kept at the reviewing. not because i thought i was getting better. or because i enjoyed watching movies for free. or even because i'm a masochist (i'm not). i just kept at it because it was my job. and if the guy signing my check was still signing it every month, then bring on the movies.

another reason was i love going to the movies. this is not the same as loving the movies. it has much more to do with popcorn and cola slush. on tv or cd i don't enjoy a movie as much, it usually requires summoning up of the appropriate mood. also since i mostly watch sitcoms, i have the attention span of a hummingbird on steroids when it comes to a full-length feature.

the problem with reviewing is that most of the time i either liked the film or didn't. most of the time, i didn't. this is because most movies are crap. at least the ones that release here, in hyderabad, are crap. films today have sharper, more coherent publicity campaigns than they do scripts. most people cannot act. the ones that can have not enough screen presence. the ones with screen presence get no decent roles. the ones with decent roles have hatchetmen for directors.

sometimes a really terrible film will become a huge hit. while seabiscuit disappears from the theatres in less than a week. i loved that sappy film so. it had three underdogs and william h macy. and nobody went to see it. godzilla, however, ran for three months. in all three languages too. chipkali ke nana hai, chipkali ke hai sasur

we feel so strongly about our films. and our triggers are all so different. telugu film audiences for example go beserk over some really unlikely heroes. what they look for in their leading man is staying power. someone who's been around for years and years. if jackie shroff was a southie hero, he'd have at least one temple to his name by now. in their leading ladies they look for unrestrained voluptousness. a female presence in a telugu film is more of a background detail, so while people do have preferences, they're not too attached to their women.

hindi film audiences in hyderabad love shah rukh khan and aishwarya rai. and lots of fast-paced songs. never mind the kissing. and never mind karan razdan. they also love really bad comedy. toilet humor is a big hit in hindi films here.

english movies that do really well have to be either action or comedy. or passion of the christ. or titanic. or godzilla. big. we like our english movies big.

so i'm glad i quit. i miss the adoring public though. to be told your work sucks by harassed-sounding strangers gives life a timbre of violence that it now lacks.

pat

swift judgments are quick and painless. and so complete. you know them by their non-messiness. like a piece of food regurgitated whole. plop. wipe. you're ready to go.

these usually occur for me late at night. the collected details of the day churn uneasily and out pops a theory of utter might. some experience of past epiphanies makes me wary of such clean truth. but, god, it's so irresistable.

last night's notion: gay people can be homophobes too.

i was so relieved when that shot out of the darkness as i let myself through the back door. it was 2.30 am and because the day had been largely perplexing, it felt so good to have this wisdom delivered to me so effortlessly. there you go, now stop worrying your pretty little head about it.

how the theory went: gay people can be homophobes too. not just the ones in denial of their homosexuality. but even the apparently 'out' caste need not be accepting of gayness. perhaps for some it's a wretched declaration, wrung out of sheer helplessness. there's no way in hell they could pass off for straight (they know because they've tried), so, yes, i'm gay. there, are you happy? perhaps they're mad. because it isn't easy and they have no choice. that tends to suck. perhaps they're snobbish about how tough they've had it and think every gay individual deserves to suffer like they have. perhaps and on and on

obviously the charm of this idea hasn't died. i'm still pretty sweet on it. but it was so easypeasy. plus i'm unromantic in my caution of paradoxes. especially tart ones that wait till 2.30 am to surface and smirk. when i'm most vulnerable to easypeasy.

on the whole i prefer my theories regular i.e. bilious, painful, and with an aftertaste that lurks forever. the kind that burn a trail, punctured with misleading signs, rattling potholes, and upsidedown maps. how can you trust a journey you don't remember?

brazen

on my bleary-eyed, cold-cheeked walk with mac every morning, i see a tree. she's tall, for a flowering tree. with sinews as tightly wound as a neem. she stretches solemnly to the second floor of her home, where she bursts into a mist of yellow.

this must be her season because she's never looked as radiant. and yellow is her tongue. she brandishes it like she just invented the colour. she might have too, because you haven't seen yellow, you haven't known yellow until you've seen it like this. before it was married off (happily) to red, green and black, this was yellow. and this was its purpose: to be gently buttered by the rays of a sleepy sun, and drip warmth all day on dry, gaping eyes.

she defies you to come closer and say hello. you've had a sip of gorgeous, dare you put your glass down and subject it to scrutiny? if you saw, for a serendipitous second, sunlight filtered through the wing of a dragonfly, would you stay to see how light splits? or would you trace iridescent veins? would you hold your breath and fill your cup? or suspend wonder till you've had a good look?

so i walk up to her, storing away the yellow where wordsworth kept his daffodils. and looking, looking, looking instead. at the few leaves, a feeble attempt at green, carelessly strung around her neck. at the virile expanse of brown, like dry mud, that tethers her to the ground. at the flowers she drops continuously, melting even before they hit the earth. bruised by air on their way down.

flowers, they say, have complicated sex lives. heavy with pollen, skirts spread seductively, they describe a perfect dark-centred pucker. and inside strains a tongue of clear nectar. all this sex appeal and they still have to pout. and sway. and damn near wink.

it's enough to make anyone sigh.

i'm amazed that you can stand up straight

contempt is old currency 'round here. it speaks all languages. it comes in small, handy denominations. it commands an exchange rate that obliterates the competition.

crisp, sharp-edged notes of new hurt. pliant, much-handled yet servicable, papers folded along familiar creases. shiny coins that can buy you a song of fresh pain. the jukebox swallows, blinks, stands aside.

knowing doesn't change a thing. forewarned is forewarned, not much else. you can duck behind a desk, pull the covers over your head, get under the bed. it don't matter, the stain is upon you. rubbing at it only grinds it in deeper. sink and swim.

who was it that said money doesn't have to talk, it listens? ah yes, pratchett. it listens. ear to the ground, finger on the pulse, muzzle at the jugular. half of a good fight is letting your opponent beat himself. the rest is familiarity. and its bastard spawn, contempt.

everybody needs a bosom for a pillow

puppies play a complicated game of twister in search of the perfect pocket of warmth. as soon as they find it, they fall asleep. it doesn't matter if they're almost upside down and have someone's bottom pressed to their nose. sleep swallows them in a smooth gulp. you could watch them all day. eight of them. precious preemies too. they dream of milk, their tongues curled around an invisible teat, their paws marking slow circles in the air.

sometimes the mother will sit by me and watch them too. she isn't motivated by sentiment, i'm sure. so it must be something like concern. anyone pee or have the runs? any licking required? any bees or wasps around? no? ok, my work here is done. see you guys around.

i wish i could be as charmingly detached.

some people say they have vivid memories of being in the womb. maybe they don't really. perhaps they just have a very real idea of what it must feel like. which might suggest a very real urge to revisit. and not leave. wishful thinking really. in times of stress, imagine you're in the womb. fed on blood, clothed in membrane, sung to sleep by a heartbeat. a body wrapped around your every need. such complete convenience.

perhaps some people just wish more vividly than others. so vividly in fact that the wish is imbibed by the body. the want absorbed. a daydream doesn't occur in a bubble overhead, it shudders in the marrow. a fantasy isn't created, it's remembered.

dog

(this had to happen sooner or later: the dog blog. inspired by the litter of puppies under our coconut tree. right now they're resting between meals. meals is taking five under my window, looking disillusioned with motherhood, while her children grunt softly and lie dreaming in a heap.)

mac is a black dog. one of the blackest. so he scares people and makes little girls cry. because apart from being black, he is also big and has a white grin. nandini, yesterday's little girl, saw right away that this was a dangerous dog. and though she was told repeatedly that he wouldn't do "anything", she, knowing better, continued to scream every shade of blue.

he is dangerous. not because he'll bite; it wouldn't occur to him. not because he'll scratch or paw; that's reserved for early morning declarations of love. not because he drools buckets; like an old golden retriever i used to know, who even had his own towel and a mopping service. no, mac's problem is quite different. he has little or no awareness of his size. and he will try to get on your lap. if you're standing up, he'll aim for the shoulders.

also, he will whack you continuously with his otter-tail, try to lick your face, all the while regaling you with warm dog breath. once the initial pleasantries are done, he will sit at your feet and watch intently as you transport food to your mouth. then, he will put his paw on your knee, begging for a scratch behind the ear. this will soon extend to a belly-rub. and the minute you stop, the paw is back on your knee. very few people appreciate this kind of neurotic need for affection.

dogs are like bottomless pits when it comes to love. and food. this is also true of some dog-lovers. we once knew a dog named lucky, who was found dying in a patch of sun outside a temple, crows pecking at her eyes. she was taken home to a bath and an obscene amount of love. also, she was fed a small planet. in her later years, visitors to the house often mistook the dog for a bolster with a tail. she'd never been known to refuse a snack. or a belly-rub.

some people like their dogs to do tricks. i've personally not had much luck with tricks; all the dogs we've ever had have been extremely individualistic. the most self-possessed dog i've ever met was rufus. a basset hound with deeply reproachful eyes, and ears that had to be tied up on his head when he ate. erykah badu-style.

rufus once auditioned for a hush puppies ad, during the course of which he ate seven packets of biscuits and refused to do a single thing they asked him to. he would not sit. he would not stay. and he most definitely would not look soulfully at a pair of shoes. they might have lucked out if they stuck a piece of sandpaper on the loafers; rufus had a purple passion for sandpaper and 50-rupee notes.

our neighbourhood has lots of dogs. they each belong to a different gang, and they're cool, and tough. some of them are friendly. and when i go for a walk in the morning, four of them escort me to the park. in return all they ask for is to be allowed to jump up on me and unplug my walkman. one of them is a hairless little thing, with oily skin, scabs all over, and chocolate-cake eyes. she gets so excited when she's petted that she can't stand still and squeals endlessly. soon she'll settle down and melt slowly under your palm for as long as you let her.

waiting at the bus-stop

i took the bus today. an hour and a half it took me to reach where i had to get. that's twice as long as usual. i walked a hot smoky distance to the stop, waited a really long time, got a thorough once over from a tired looking lady with insatiable eyes, and waited some more at a second stop a mere 2kms away from the first. it was the most together i felt all day. at one with the solitude of the masses and at once alive to the echoes inside.

waiting for a bus is one of the most carefree activities a frantic world offers us. it is such a simple thing. all that is asked of you is repose. to wait patiently for a certain number to show up on the top of your coughing chariot. control has been temporarily surrendered, so you needn't worry about whether you are making the best possible use of your time or if there isn't something else you should be doing. we are not used to this sudden suspension of expectation. so people fidget with their phones, go over their biology diagrams, spit and scratch in search of meaning, and read the antiquated bus schedule again.

but if you are in for the long haul, like i was today, your body soon catches up. you try and get comfortable using small, economical movements so as not to make unneccessary human contact. you lean against a pole. if you were younger you might have clutched it to your chest instead, swinging closely, and tasting the rust in your nose. or you dust off a bit of the pavement and sit down, carefully arranging your bag and things about you. feeling like an old woman with a precious bunch of keys.

or you might prefer to stay standing. set your feet a little apart, arrange your shoulders for maximum comfort, and weave your fingers into a cradle just under your chest. like you were about to recite a poem in school. some people sit on the bench, but that's usually a recreational spot. for boyfriend-girlfriends and vendors with jasmine to thread.

then there are the creative souls. they perch on that metal barrier in front of the bench, meant only to be leant on. on this they sit and swing their legs. it looks like fun. but it can be dangerous. once i saw a schoolgirl overcome with mirth at something her friend said. one minute she was turning pink and leaning back, and the next her pale legs and green panties were waving forlornly in the air. i didn't laugh because i suspected there was a moral in it for me.

of course, a busstop is far from a place of idyll charm. the eyes never stop looking for that ride out of here. once it arrives we turn back into purposeful soldiers with elbows of iron. but for a while there you were spectator, and someone else was holding the remote.

doing time

the worst thing about boredom isn't that it is paralysing. or that it is destructive. or that it is, inspite of all that, comfortable. the absolute worst part about boredom is that it won't let you play. i can't think of a more horrifying way to stay in the moment. sentenced for a second is worse than sentenced to life. because eternity is benevolent, but the minute hand keeps score.

still

what i looked forward to most was the not talking. being around people, and not talking to them. how lovely. look down at all times, be self-effacing, get left alone. without that sucking pressure in your ears forcing you to say something.

and sit everyday. for 12 hours. that's a long time to observe your breath, even if it is a riveting object. and it's a long time to see with your skin, to absorb sensation and see it sleep. to note when an itch arises and to observe how very much you want to scratch it. to look at pain and say, hmm how interesting, i wonder how long it will last.

when you sit on the floor for long periods of time, without stretching your legs or rubbing your toes together, you get numb. it's like your legs, from the knees down, are trying to cleave to the cold floor and become part of it. blood carries with it awareness of touch, and the blood is trapped. your calves, ankles and soles feel like the faintly remembered stations of a phantom limb. oh good, you're thinking, numbness is all right. numbness i can live with.

then, in the centre of the cottony silence of your knee, there knocks the tread of a pulse. has the blood, sneaky fiend, found a way to flow after all? no, this can't be blood. blood is warmth, blood is relief. whereas this growing area of feeling is anything but welcome. this is not blood, this is the steady trickle of hurt.

the sum total of: the sinking of metal teeth in your temples, the ache that ambles up and down your back, the vicious twists of a cramping muscle. all the little hurts from all over your body fill up slowly in the pit of your stomach, where fear lives. an uneasy liquid, soon calmed, then distilled. sharp, clear, citric, it trickles down your leg. stopping, drop after pregnant drop, at the centre of your knee.

i can do this, i can do this.

in 30 minutes, you go from bovine meditator to blotch of screaming red. your entire body is a throb of pain. nothing exists but the knowing of this endless rhythm. no, that's not true. you don't know the pain at all. a pigeon getting sucked into a plane's engine knows nothing of aerodynamics. she only knows her own scream, it fills her tiny skull.

it filled mine. observe, they said. don't react, observe. how how how?

but strangely, you do. just like you seize upon the most arbitary detail in moments of great stress-the magnified weave of fabric, the smell of tar, the humidity of someone's breath on your wrist-you notice the slow shrinking of your mind. and the one thought that it curls around. mine was, run.

stretch. get up. quit. run. run. run.

it doesn't help to know that being trapped makes you mad. but you see that you're not angry with the bars, you're angry with the solidity of its hostage. the dumb weight of the calves. the helpless thereness of the ankle. the crumpled anguish of the toes.

stillness is not contentment. stillness is not peace. stillness is endless violence.

still like the door of a coffin. still like a poised scalpel. still like the string on a guitar. and taut like silences drawn.

new

not enough is said about the wonder that is falling out of love. no dizzy songs, no recognition from hallmark, no poetic twirl, swish or piroutte. why not, i wonder.

it can be just as intoxicating, just as conducive a spirit to stupid regrettable acts, just as awesomely new. the butterflies have moved from being trapped in your stomach to flying in between your fingers, in that mad giddy insect way of theirs. the ache eases up around your heart and surfaces on your soles, forcing you to walk, walk, walk. the acid of anger and tension drips off the eyebrows and dissipates in mid-rant. how nice to have your rage back.

room101

blackandwhite cinema is of another world. it's classic. poignant. spooky.

back when doordarshan reigned supreme, old obscure hindi films would find their way to the late night slots, along with steamy french movies and subtitled, depressing kannada ones. one such hindi film was about a princess who wouldn't smile. the king tried everything - jesters, clowns, animals with tricks. and yet she sat there, wrapped in monochrome gloom.

at this point in the proceedings, as the line of laugh-makers were working their way to the royal mehfil, a cold finger ran down the spine.

the scene went something like this, with no variations at all: business in the royal court, presumably comic. the assembled citizenry, including king, queen and punkah-boy, laugh in hearty staccato fashion. synchronised turn of necks to look at gloomy princess. upon seeing gloom still in place, dejected, yet synchronised, hanging of heads.

this went on for a goodly bit, till i turned off the tv in terror. me, whom boredom had disciplined to sit through any color of tripe, through all languages of incomprehension. i turned off the tv and read a book.

in color it might not have been so creepy, but in b&w it slayed. sometimes, on sleepless, empty afternoons, i can see that courtroom and its people laughing without any trace of mirth, in traditional ha-ha-ha motif, in desperation, in SYNC.

if the year was orwell's 1984, and i was caught drawing a mustache on big brother's handsome and noble visage, they would haul me into room 101 and play this scene endlessly. in the meanwhile, i would feel the tiny nails of large, flesh-colored, translucent lizards bellying their way toward my inner thigh. and a jar of honey would be poured down the back of my shirt, to inch slowly s-t-i-c-k-i-l-y into my armpits and lick deep into the folds of my waist.

liquid

dreams are like images colored on water's surface. each time you dip in to recall a detail, you distort the shape of the experience. when you are still sleeping and analysis is redundant, the picture is elastic, but clear. it expands, contracts, rises and falls, but holds onto its centre. when you sleep, you watch the picture from under, through leagues of murkiness, so its meaning is everchanging but irrefutable. like the rays that filter weakly past the initial depths.

but your waking breaks the image and you rise colored. on first surfacing, when the paint is fresh upon the skin, you understand the dream like you never will later. as the day wears on and the colors evaporate, you're not so sure. so you turn around and look at the water's surface to see a torn canvas, already fading in the sunlight.

and then each time you attempt to straighten an edge, patch pieces into coherence, you rob the picture of its color. they come off on your fingers and escape in a whiff of memories into the muddle of the day. sometimes they return, but by then they're so infused with smells of the city and punctured beyond recognition with darts of analysis, that they aren't free creatures of sleep anymore. just weary travellers trying to find their way home.

allow them a free pass through your brain, let them slide bumpily down the spine, permit a cautious circling of the navel, before they totter briefly on the tip of your tongue.

the last laugh

words are wild. they don't care about you or what you're trying to say. they exist complete and self-fulfilled. sometimes they like to amuse themselves, and that's when they adhere, in such large numbers, to people like me.

people like me have a fatal fascination for implements of magic. and we learn soon enough that there isn't a magic as compulsive as a string of words, tied end to end, and pulled incessantly out of a gaping gullet. we discover this fascination in repose, while the world sleeps, while the summer sun bends to its will the shaggy heads of asoka trees. we read, read, read. till the world swims around us, and words pop out, without warning, in a bubble over previously mundane articles - knife (gleam), tar road (molten), ice cubes (tinkle), sofa (sink), ladle (soup), and so on (etc.)

as with all love affairs, the beginning is bewildering, then blissful. we can't keep your hands off the beloved and nothing turns us off. not even the sorry books that accompany her. bring em on, bring em all on. then turn around and leave us be. close the door behind you.

soon we get more picky. about the books that is; we're just as smitten by the unit of storytelling. big words, small words, words with hyphens, words that follow other words. prime words, that rhyme with nothing but themselves. heavy words, that threaten to tip the whole sentence over unless balanced quickly with airy verbs. lazy words, that just sit there no matter how many furious nudges they get from conscientious conjunctions.

then there are other words.

ones with hidden barbs. smug. ones with fat jolly elbows. ribald. ones that pause unnaturally in between. punc-tilious. ones that are inconveniently apt, sounding so pretentiously arty. juxtapose. ones that sound like the action they describe. gulp. ones that can be spelt in a song. onomatopoeia (to old macdonald had a farm...p-o-e-i-a) foreign words. concerto. rendezvous. cummerbund!

the next stop on route crippling addiction is in-tone-ation. some words are better than others at saying what they mean because they incorporate into their selves syllables of precise aim. prePOSterous conveys not only contempt at an idea, but also some of the sputtering rage it causes. SWirl is the shape of milk as it's stirred into black coffee. LANguid dozes in a hammock, its fingers trailing in the sand.

and slowly, as we, the charmed, begin to look up from the books and increasingly onto a blank page, the magic states its price. much like the chemical trigger in the brain that commands eat! another one develops that demands write! only this time there's no heady rush, no wilful intoxication, no rigorous bliss. this time you're behind the curtains and you can see the strings, pulleys and cogs that make it all go. the nubile magician's assitants eye you in disdain. the rabbit nips your finger, the dove poops in your hair, and you notice that the confetti is recycled, swept up after every show.

not so pretty, and here you must stay. you must learn not only the act, but also the magician's flourish. you must perfect the performance, and break in the dancing shoes. the words lie in your hand, guileless and reproachful as putty. your mouth is dry, your brain groans at yet another regurgitated line. abracadabra and hokus-pokus. pick a card, any card and think of a number from 1 to 100.

and yet, despite how inadequate you feel, despite the way self-doubt scurries through the brain, and despite the tricks that don't come out right, you are always here. trying to make up in dusty confetti, what you lack in stage presence. pulling words around you in comfort against the draughts of slience. effacing frantically everything that sounds wrong, or worse, (oh much worse) contrived. hoping every night that the spotlight will wash away your tremble, the microphone smooth out your stutter.

but the audience misses nothing. and the words laugh hardest of all.

s&g

soul and groove. sugar and ginger. simmer and grieve. simon and garfunkel.

each song has a time of day. iris, for example, sounds sexy any time of noon, but if you really must know the song - fill it in your cup, swirl it around, let it run over your teeth and feel the sun set down your throat - then you must listen to iris at 3am, after your eyes have soaked in the darkness and learnt to swim. that is when the song really hums and shakes itself all over you.

the best time for simon and garfunkel is similarly specific to the quality of light available. you don't want to flood the room with color; a song like scarborough fair might be too shy to step out. but try listening to this faraway lover's hymn with the light softened to a dull peach, then watch as the song tiptoes around the room, turning darkness to glass and dust to pigments of rose.

the 59th street bridge song (feelin' groovy) might have you fooled as a morning song. but evenings are really the best time to feel groovy, because that is when you start to think of death, swollen ankles and the commute home. this is also the best time to talk to lamp-posts because they've heard a fair number of good stories by the evening. if you have a secret, don't tell it to a bird.

the boxer is a good song to listen to on your way to work. the image of an ugly bruiser in red shorts and torn boxing gloves finding comfort at the breast of a tired whore will hopefully remind you of the devastating effects of kindness and a hug. and that heroes crumble easy.

mrs. robinson is for to listen to as you drive, maybe afer lunch. primarily because it's such a good song to wait in traffic to. as you will the light to turn green, and that vein in your temple starts its slow scream, it helps to hear the voice of such cheerful doom. you have no say in anything, your fate is controlled not by big brother as much as big sister, the starched matron of holy authority from one flew over the cuckoo's nest. straitjacket with a fur collar.

not all songs fit as neatly within the 24-hour day. el condor pasa (if i could) is a rainy day song. sure, it also works in drier climes, but that's sort of like eating a muffin without coffee. lovely, but you crave something to wash it down with.

why write?

why write? when you can just as easily not write?

why write when you can read? why write when you can talk? why write when you can watch a movie? why write when you can fly a kite? download a song? eat a fruit? walk your dog? play a game?

why write when the words are so unwilling? like an unruly class of kindergarteners who refuse to make a circle. why write when the ideas are so hazy? and probably ultimately dumb anyway. why write when the head aches, the blood is languid, and the spine unbends only enough to glance at the clock above? why write when all you've said before has refused to stay silent and raises a clamour that makes your toe curl?

[for to be able to write, the extremities must be untroubled and at rest] why write when you have nothing to say goddammit?

because you can't stare at a work of creation for long, no matter how delightfully it thrums within the skull. after the long gaze comes the retreat. and that is when you write. you write all the way home, so the trail of crumbs will lead you back some day. you write all the things you cannot say because you were interrupted, chided, repressed. you write down an idea because it's restless to use its legs, never mind that they're spindly and weak.

you write so you can mark this day, this instant, this quicksilver of belief, before it runs away laughing. you write because a movie is even at its slowest a rush of color and light which doesn't care if that hole in the dark is a yawn or a gape.

because the song is nice but wears out, strawberries are not in season, the leash has knotted around itself and solitaire is an inbetween sport, to play while you're tapping your foot.

because you know that kindergarteners can be bribed, the headache is an old friend, blood can be sloshed awake, and the spine arched into acquiescence. you also know that the clamour of the past can be soothed to sleep by the steady scritchetyscratch of a new page.

and besides, you can't fly a kite.

All right, I’ll go. But you can’t make me have a good time.

It’s true, you can’t.

If there’s one thing I’ve know through every tantrum I ever threw, every fit I ever pitched, every time I got dressed grumpily, it’s this – you can’t make me have a good time. It’s a comforting thought.

There comes a time too early in your life when you realize that your will will not be done. The only way to deal with this is to do it with extremely bad grace. Be surly. Be unpleasant. Drop things and don’t pick them up. Take up more space than you need. Snap at people trying to cheer you up. Don’t smile for longer than absolutely necessary. Be icy. Yeah.

If the world was a graffiti board, what would your inscription read? Often I think about things like this. And the best I’ve come up with is – I wasn’t here. I’m not a morbid person and I don’t have a death-wish (sometimes I wish I did, some focus would be nice). But the way I go through life is walking backwards, erasing my tracks. I’m convinced they are bad tracks and I hate that they ruin the nice clean ridges in the sand. But once you start walking you’re going to leave tracks. I have some trouble with this concept.

This is too long for a first post. What will you think of me? I was going to do something shy, self-conscious and short. Like me. But then what’s the point of having another identity exactly like the old one?