Of musings.in transition.impatient.incomplete.obscure and obdurate.

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

Exhaustion. and a labyrinth.

For conversations that only take place in the head. For days crossed off the calender. For the football and the pints that have replaced the pink and giggles. For unending episodes of Sex and the City. For being tired of being the listener. undocumented trains of thought. Songs and nightly walks. Rediscovering fiction. and not labelling. for not caring. for empty musings at the end of long days. for mediocrity and songs over shisha. or is it shisha over song. For the ME that overshadows all rationale expectations of time and people. For lists that will never be made. For selfishness that never ceases to surprise. For Santa on the tube in a glitzy shop window. and for not being connected and loving it. For Sundays that are my own. For walks around canals and high streets. For being okay. For laptops piled up and hairballs appearing out of nowhere. For disliking dirty bathrooms and my own writing. For blank pink diaries and dark tunnelly vision. For shutting out and peering in. For tweed frills and self-pity. For decisions inexplicable and a picture window looking out onto a tree-lined street. For bootlegged walked through misty rain. For unexpected long emails and tears in the shower. For tickets that hurtled through bad finances, emails and a 62 minute phonecall. For the lack of straps and wine-bottle-ashtrays. For uncertainty that comes with geography. For security in the lack thereof. For fears of losing the self to the familiar. for the fear of drowning time in people. For boys and men and a conversation over a canape. For being fiercely guarded by red keychains, the Atlantic ocean and the ubiquitous phone credit. For being the insignificant spot on the white bridge. For blue lights and my fifth bench.
-----
Of the sent and received:
I am looking for validation - of my twisted syntax and vacuum-packed, bubble-wrapped brain...

This city is home. It spells ME on the sides of buses, smudges on glitzy shop windows and the little pink dress that I would've never have worn before...the kind of squeal-inside-my-head-randomly-coz-am-all-alone-on-my-own-me joy is inexplicable outside

"with love and a hot trench coat"

Who knew that inadequacy would creep in on a Thursday evening, jostling with rain-limp hair and an unfamiliar bus ride? Just when I thought I was coming to terms, with coming to terms with the present. Inching my way through finally knowing to work a newly cut-key and reading at the headboard, and sleeping at the footboard. Never barefeet. But restless. Nestling in the couch of pride of straying, and steering through lines drawn by me. My self-respect and ego fiercely guarded by instinct...

Love? She asked me. you wouldn't acknowledge it if it announced itself as the next President of the United States. For all the fear, ego and bravado you know where you stand. You are spirited and you suddenly squint your eyes when you think. You like striped socks and you like cooking at 1am...

where after 4 pints you could recite wordsworth, there are 5 seasons here..they all include rain..bus number 6 takes you home...almost every indian buffet in town would compete at 7 pounds per head, at 8 pints down, you enact shakespeare..9 is too late for dinner, its almost time to tune into the bbc (again)..and 10... is the number of times you will debate with yourself every day...whether you want to stay or go .

...Because you let me down. and you left me alone...
And I wait. because that is what I chose to do.

...enough to make me cry on a busy street...I love you.

Don't make mountains.

Sunday, August 10, 2008

check.

i am...
a blog-reader
a grey question mark
a bare-backed turtle
a procrastinator
a black-scribble paper pile
a thought in an email. in five.
a rational idealist
a cry baby
a bad writer
a worse researcher
a user of fullstops
a left hand of faded mehendi.

a completely unnecessary post.

random writing.

i have lost a part of you. to you. that part has dissipated into fragments. fragments that have stuck to old clothes, new people and in the recesses of your mind.

through walks in grey rain. tube rides on the central line. a 2GB ipod playing a 'my' song. my fingers curl around memories of you that frost across the glass pane looking out onto central london. im the person who holds on tightly to a fist full of sand. i am melodrama. i am the once-walled, now razed to the ground.i am a proud egotistic mess of hopeful prayers and rational words.

and i should be working on my dissertation.

Saturday, May 31, 2008

Draft 1.

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

- e e cummings

I'm out of words tonight. Out of words that I churn out of my mind. Try them on for size, and see if they fit. I write for the audience of one - me.
Tonight, I am out of words. My audience sits waiting.

Saturday, May 24, 2008

my sorry excuse for statistics and epiphanies

Lack of responsibility
but, only, for the self/
Thus, gray. Conveniently
not black or white.

Saturday, May 10, 2008

From the inbox.

From her, whose writing I have missed.

...life settles in all sorts of patterns, screwy squiggles too (but those are the most "aww-inducingly" fascinating ones, no?). And, sometimes we just forget that we knew we were/"obviously-would-have-been" okay as the soft grey of the pencil danced crazy on that sheet of paper.

...the kind that makes you wonder if you'll ever be able to count all the stars. But one that comforts you with the thought that, look, I've already got 111,28790 stars logged in my notebook. It suddenly stealthily also unties one from the moorings she held on to. It's scary and its bracing. It's bracing because its so scary. And the other way, too.

Msm.

In the midst of libertarian discourses, and rants about lost cutlery, the space still exists.
Though carefully veiled with pride, and which most certainly will remain.
That, and a self-preservation hood.
The space of habits. and of blankets.
Of the sun rising every morning.
So blatantly. Simply.

A part of me, almost disapproving.
The outward narration of woes. Of a denial of existence. Of following herds.

A space colonised, transformed, through miles and self-induced complications.
That which is expansive. of joy and secure laughter.
That which I am so sure of.
And then, Maybe, maybe, I will grow up.
Till then, I catch myself, and the quiet declarations.
This is how I want it to be. I think I really do want it to be the long mile.

Monday, May 5, 2008

I like the 5th raindrop

From an old bus ticket. No. 15. April 20, 2008. Scribbled in green pencil.
and another one. Megabus. April 25, 2008. Scribbled in black pen.

...I love walks down The Strand Should I wait for the light to turn green Damn I left the umbrella in the red bag And I forgot my Oyster Bloody Brilliant Have I got my key HSBC I shouldve withdrawn some money
Maroon 5 Last time I heard this song I was sitting on the bus to Terezin talking about Czech Republic in the post communist era What was the name of the woman again She had a black Labrador Though I will always associate the song with Che on a wall in Central Delhi
Oh an old bus I like the old London buses With the conductor and where one has to really hold on tight everytime the bus halts
I really should suck my stomach in and walk
Are they married
Do i remember which stop it is The one in front of the Tower Bridge I think
I like her shoes Though I would I ever wear pink Alastiar Campbell was wearing a pink tie Im glad I audited those modern political campaign classes Gosh Boris Johnson will be a horrific mayor
Maybe distance does do people some good
Why is S taking Y to India
Why would anyone want to vote for the Conservatives Pizza
Express does have funny looking plastic bags The Slug and the Lettuce
My what an ugly camera I miss mine Maybe it will turn up in my mailbox someday
I hate losing earrings R is a doll I love sussex
I was supposed to reach 20 minutes back
Do I have a crush on T
I should visit St Pauls
Why do people wear yellow
Was I too loud
I miss him But the feeling is still there
I should call him and find out
Brass polish
But then again relationships are complicated Maybe I was too impulsive
Isnt the bus supposed to turn left I think its the next stop
the ring does look nice on her finger
Why is he in the middle of nowhere without any network
What on earth is she listening to Is Jurassic Park a band
I shouldve picked another daisy
I wonder why it feels so normal I should be freaked out right now Am I shutting in again Isnt one person shutting in at a time enough
I shouldve worn the other socks
The guy is cute
I need to buy rice...

Sunday, April 20, 2008

the blue box

how do you seek attention?
wrestling with the shadows of pride. and common sense.
holding up the apparently, callously made self.
wishing someone would see through the veils of egotistical self-preservation.
at red bus-stops and slouched on floors.
through crackling words at the other end.
on the grey and green nights.
beyond the echos that have become commonplace.
casually raising my hand. even though i know im not tall enough for anyone to see me.
is it possible to feel so small?

Monday, April 14, 2008

i procrastinate. a lot.

port wine in a plastic glass. laundry smells. crumpled blue-green-red-yellow. lead scribbles. compulsive dialling. raised eyebrows. blue showers. powder dipped fingers. unflattering elevator lights. red spots on brown dots. broken umbrellas. errand boy errands. expectant eagerness. rejection? flawlessly naive hope. parenthesis. cuticles.

yellow post-its piled on glossy screens. date diaries. red plugs. a double chin. empty letters. scars. the ones on skin.

lies. attention. mismatched socks. the lemony-green striped ones. trips i may never make. take?

what if's down a blue carpetted corridor. carpetted with a single t?

conversations. of boxes. little boxes on the hillside. or with lager.

and because grey relationships have yet to not puzzle me. and the thump. somewhere below my left foot.

note to self: permanent press, the next time.

Sunday, April 13, 2008

Letters and Y

Y. who i adore. Of emails exchanged.

From/to she who makes sense of garbled words and more:

....Kinda numb to the world. Have lost my way. Looking for the light. Or even the tunnel. The tunnel through which i could express my feelings. Now its either lip bitting, throat lumping swallowing of emotions or outbursts from time to time...
***
rationality and irrationality are relative, right?
***
i think its about kicking a habit. its about filling up the spaces that are so easily and obviously filled... you'll find your mojo soon
***
i am going to hold my head up... and hope that my smile makes me stronger.....
***
you?!
***
i feel like a stupid, bimbette, jealous, dumbfuck..
***
im in this wierd time warp now. where time fuckin slips past and im left tired, but ironically with little done. time spent with you whirlpooled exactly like that.
***
: ) its strange how im reading this mail '0 minutes' after you wrote it!!!...yes, I do wish I had more calm time with you...dont fixate on being fixated!!!!
***
i wana dig a hole nw!!!
***
love you to grain-sized pieces!!!
***
i think im pms-ing or maybe im just stupid. show me the light!!
***
muddle is muddle becomes clear then muddles again...
***
the liberating paunch
...It had gotten comfortable somewhere in between the sunshine, and the familiarity; somewhere during the time when I started to let go...
***
stop calling me auntie...i detest it as much as babe!

sublime

...maybe I should give in. to the moments of silence. of the three thousand and twenty one seconds I spent staring at the computer screen.
maybe I should give in. to the moments of weakness. of the songs that I overplayed. of the mails that were re-read. of gmail dependency issues.
maybe I should really give in. to the moments of wanting to be pampered. to be seen through.

A mail from M made me realise today that unlike my "vehemently constructed self" my blog
"reeks of 'sappiness' and want". It is true. Like the very love letter I found on a random google search, and passed around while I should've been writing on critical discourse analysis - a lot of posts did want to make me hurl. But then again, I have my moments.

Lines from the letter I liked:
I have a thousand images of you in an hour; all different and all coming back to the same...
...I think of you eating omlette on the ground...I think of you against a skyline...

Rupert Brooke to Noel Olivier, 1911

I really do like the mundane.

Sunday, February 24, 2008

Looking for a roadmap..

...Wishing so so intensely that I can get one off google.
Or seeking people who knew me when "all the history happened", desperately hoping that they help me locate the "YOU ARE HERE"

I have no idea how to get there anymore.

AND, I am not dressed for the occasion.


Postscript: ST here, being the good samaritan who pointed out to the ones I so obviously missed out on...a definite good read.

Friday, February 8, 2008

Going in circles

For self-defined selves
bubble wrapped sublimation
and othered distances

For hopeful calenders
prioritised dots on the map
and longing

For snatches of cities and the drums
efforts at moulding.
and despicably inane awkwardness.

Wednesday, January 30, 2008

My myth of a moment.

I dream in colour.
And my moments are born in a vacuum.

the circumstance. and the choice.
through bus rides and turnstiles. and episodes of Grey's anatomy.
through the grey that we wish we could all break down into black and white.
through goosebumps and rushes of adrenaline on the bridge.
I wish I could be the shrink who noone talks to at all.
through tear drops on the strand.
through ipod walks.
through black bars of chocolate

through conversations that have lasted. and the moments that built them.
we'll do it all.
through chasing my tail around my head.
for finding my own.
in between full-stops.
for the you and for the me I know because.
for the effort. for making the choice to make the effort.
for drifting away.
for all the insane questions that cloud beer evenings and sunday skype.
for learning to offer my seat. correction. seats.
for wanting my point of view back.

for not needing anyone.
for not needing anyone but reaching out?

I'm scared there will come a day when I won't be scared of losing you anymore.

if I ever tell myself enough, will everything be okay?

does standing water in a glass stagnate?

I always dream in colour.

Friday, January 25, 2008

From the inbox

From P..it has been a while.

Flowers (excerpts)

And often…you grow out of some fragrances,
You just have to remember how it was like to row ureself..
And not be afraid of doing so..
alone…
Sometimes you get so caught up in the rowing,
That you forget to smell the fragrance…

…But you forget to stop….

But sometimes….
You forget to move on…….

Conversations..or lack, thereof.

It's like the urge to step out and smoke one blasted cigarette after you've quit smoking. I'm dying to dial the number. I know it's not good for me.
It's a conversation that is not going to happen.

The second, is a mutual sense of comfort - in distance. We talk - every once in a while. Efforts to clear our heads. But distance, and I think, the subconscious realization of now-disparaging world views...or maybe, we just don't want to clear our heads anymore.
We've made our peace with the cloistered thoughts, and messed-up minds.

Tuesday, January 22, 2008

Of flying my kite into the sky of the mundane.

Or is it that I'm surprised at how I'm letting the string loose, even as I see the others around me pull and snap?
Am I going to be able to run after it, following its shadow on the ground?
I might need to..
Will I want to?
My floating anchor...
...of colours.
Do I want it in sepia?

Monday, January 14, 2008

A Normative Dilemma

How, and how often, should you judge your importance in somebody else's life?

Sunday, January 13, 2008

Email

...I write to you because I need to know. what it is I'm looking to know, I'm not too sure. I write because you're the only person - I'm aware of - who I can seek solace from. I know not of anyother. or anything. that is probably why i shut you out. to look for things, not instead of you, but other than you. with you. to look for things I can generate out of my scattered fragments of belief. I look for a figment of my unknown imagination.

Thursday, January 10, 2008

On being "positive" and "productive"

So much for my New Year's resolutions working out. (So, does one write New Year with 'n' and 'y' in caps even when not wishing people Happy New Year?)

I was never good at taking decisions. To stay in, or go out. To call. Or to give in. To step out. But what about the seemingly bigger things? - people who you need to have around. academic modules that might need you to step out of your academic comfort zone.

Where did introspection go? Or self-reliance for that matter?

I've been in this hazy time warp for the last two months. Cloudy sensibilities and intermittent waves of activity. I'm stagnating in a drugged sense of self.