An unsigned message, an unexplained number. Perfect grammar.
No doubt, something heroic.
The time could be symbolic, halfway between midnight mavens and morning risers.
Usually, this time of night would mean a rooftop, on my back and looking up. The higher the better; so too if less guarded. I saw a suicide once. Well, heard it at least. I’m not sure if those on suicide-watch wake early, but this one (He? She? It.) did. Didn’t notice me; I didn’t see it either. I could hear the scuffling of its feet, and then silence.
Sure, I was there for other things, but couldn’t help prick my ears up, trying to catch its motion. There was only silence, but I do think that I could tangible recognize the moment when it jumped. We were too far up for the sound of impact to waft through, but I may have heard an early siren or too a little later.
I’d like to think that it was a woman. She steps out, hovering perhaps, just for a second, on the parapet. With a delicate face and wide eyes and in the wee hours of the morning absolutely capable of bruising my insides.
And she jumps.
Another time, I was waylaid, spending tiptoeing through cracked ceramic in a cement park; unfortunate collateral to things unforeseen from the skies. It was a wonder that no errant being or amorous lover was flattened. Death by china – from Indonesia (or so the crate read).
Am I the only one? I’d like to think that there a few left (souls or otherwise) in the immediate city around me who’d at least want to know, if not need and crave, knowledge eked from the destruction of fragility. But on dull and dim but never dark weekdays, they only churn ever so slightly, rising and falling but never stirring.
None look up anymore. Who looks around even, much less above? Perhaps evolving parallel to the pervasive parochialism preached at the pulpit of modern society, the skies have been closed off from the modern world, or the world closed off from it, even as it was brought down to us, twinkling stars nestled within every tower, every night.
I miss my sky. I miss my clouds. I miss being in a position to look up during the day and see something other than stains on a false ceiling. I haven’t ever known looking up at night and seeing the world beyond this one, but I like to think about what it would look like.
An enormous tree… the branches of a tree, maybe, tipped with millions of orange and yellow hand-made paper lampshades.
Each with a flickering candle inside that, try as one might, can be blown astray, but never blown away.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Friday, February 13, 2009
lunch
I felt like a fish that’d been spooned out of its tank in a gentle manner, still in a little pool of water to keep it breathing, only to be violently skewered by a knife into a wall. And it stays there, squirming and suspended, halfway up a whiteboard, dripping down water and blood and completely out of options.
Actually, maybe I felt like a similar fish, maybe not one that’d probably been egged out in a tank, but swam the oceans, only to be snared by a trawler net, and then to be put in a tank and then removed and pinned to a wall. There isn’t perhaps much difference between the two, only that one would hope that the second knew the feel of freedom before death.
Even that’s not right. I’m a fish, stabbed and pinned to the floor of the tank, and so are all the other fish in the tank. They all turn violent, and end up biting each other’s heads off – starting with mine, though in no particular order. Only that I’m half as bulbous and twice as meek.
No, I’m a fish in a music video. Tossed out of the water to twitch and tumble, but at the altar of entertainment, documented and filed away with no guarantees of being a single-take scene. It’ll happen again and again, until either the air-pocked and wasted lungs give way, or is haggardly rejected and flushed down the toilet.
I’m fry, picked up by a brushy whale. The irony wouldn’t escape me. I wouldn’t mind sacrificing myself as a pellet of indigestion bubbling up to the surface. It may hurt a bit, but it’ll be over soon.
I am a fish scrutinized by a ten year old snot, clutching a crumpled note and clawing at the feet of commerce. This shit owns a piranha, and feeds other fish to it. Is death preferable to rejection? Why, do I not live up to the brat’s standards? Am I not worthy of being eaten in an unclean, hazy tank?
I am a fish, sucked dry by mosquitoes and sizzling on an electric plastic tennis racquet. Bobbed up and batted out.
But there’s always tomorrow. And the rest of a lifespan to see out.
I’m a fish, and I’m all at sea.
Actually, maybe I felt like a similar fish, maybe not one that’d probably been egged out in a tank, but swam the oceans, only to be snared by a trawler net, and then to be put in a tank and then removed and pinned to a wall. There isn’t perhaps much difference between the two, only that one would hope that the second knew the feel of freedom before death.
Even that’s not right. I’m a fish, stabbed and pinned to the floor of the tank, and so are all the other fish in the tank. They all turn violent, and end up biting each other’s heads off – starting with mine, though in no particular order. Only that I’m half as bulbous and twice as meek.
No, I’m a fish in a music video. Tossed out of the water to twitch and tumble, but at the altar of entertainment, documented and filed away with no guarantees of being a single-take scene. It’ll happen again and again, until either the air-pocked and wasted lungs give way, or is haggardly rejected and flushed down the toilet.
I’m fry, picked up by a brushy whale. The irony wouldn’t escape me. I wouldn’t mind sacrificing myself as a pellet of indigestion bubbling up to the surface. It may hurt a bit, but it’ll be over soon.
I am a fish scrutinized by a ten year old snot, clutching a crumpled note and clawing at the feet of commerce. This shit owns a piranha, and feeds other fish to it. Is death preferable to rejection? Why, do I not live up to the brat’s standards? Am I not worthy of being eaten in an unclean, hazy tank?
I am a fish, sucked dry by mosquitoes and sizzling on an electric plastic tennis racquet. Bobbed up and batted out.
But there’s always tomorrow. And the rest of a lifespan to see out.
I’m a fish, and I’m all at sea.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
soil to the supermarket
Tagged by her – 21 random things about self (and to tag an equal number).
Though tagged on facebook, I elected to do the tag here because (a) I’m a blog whore; and (b) more randomly, I find this blog to be less personally invasive than facebook. But that’s not especially surprising.
This is a pretty lazy tag actually, with a lot of room for interpretation and allowing the tagee to be as self-indulgent as he/she chooses. I’m not complaining now, but I’ll feel dirty afterwards. And never admit that I like it. Kicking and screaming – that’s me.
1. I have pinched the title of this post from the tagger.
2. For the last two years, I’ve lived out of a jungle-green canvas tote bag.
3. I am not accustomed to being referred to by name in written communications. I blame the blog for that.
4. I used to be able to pull off what I considered a fairly decent rendition of The Spanish Inquisition a couple of years ago.
5. I am prone to cling to the belief that children should be referred to as ‘it’ until they start walking, talking and licking water from a bowl.
6. The Dresden Dolls should be listened to. Now. Fantomas’ The Director’s Cut too.
7. Beck needs to brainwash himself into believing, and subsequently behaving, like it’s 1997.
8. I like reading up about the lives of pro-wrestlers and porno actors on wikipedia.
9. I hoard second-hand books (invariably picked up at Premier Book Store in Bangalore).
10. I’ve typed out numbers 10 to 21 from here, all blank – filling out only 21.
11. For a while, I used to want to be manifested in sound as this little errant guitar bit in Sonic Youth’s New Hampshire, that’s audible only on headphones.
12. Do first; self-flagellate later. I follow that for that wrong things.
13. I don’t like the Doors. This appears to be a punishable offence in many jurisdictions.
14. While I am housetrained, I do shed hair.
15. I burnt myself with an electronic dog-collar that emits a little shock to stop the dog from barking – to see how painful it would be. Symbathiyempathygenineness and all that.
16. I don’t know how to smoke – the method of inhalation always seems to escape me (no pun intended).
17. This was the slot that was filled up last. No. 17.
18. I reduced it from 23 to 21. Options of 21/23/25 were provided in any case.
19. With absolutely no reference to the previous post, I’d like somebody to hug. With feeling.
20. Audrey Hepburn.
21. I believe in love. Oh yes I do. But just not in other people reciprocating mine; provided they know about it, which in itself is highly unlikely. But hey, I won’t complain if it happens.
I don't think I have 21 people to tag. But, for what it's worth..
Eyefry
Bibi
Nina (blog, woman!)
The Cat
BFH
Though tagged on facebook, I elected to do the tag here because (a) I’m a blog whore; and (b) more randomly, I find this blog to be less personally invasive than facebook. But that’s not especially surprising.
This is a pretty lazy tag actually, with a lot of room for interpretation and allowing the tagee to be as self-indulgent as he/she chooses. I’m not complaining now, but I’ll feel dirty afterwards. And never admit that I like it. Kicking and screaming – that’s me.
1. I have pinched the title of this post from the tagger.
2. For the last two years, I’ve lived out of a jungle-green canvas tote bag.
3. I am not accustomed to being referred to by name in written communications. I blame the blog for that.
4. I used to be able to pull off what I considered a fairly decent rendition of The Spanish Inquisition a couple of years ago.
5. I am prone to cling to the belief that children should be referred to as ‘it’ until they start walking, talking and licking water from a bowl.
6. The Dresden Dolls should be listened to. Now. Fantomas’ The Director’s Cut too.
7. Beck needs to brainwash himself into believing, and subsequently behaving, like it’s 1997.
8. I like reading up about the lives of pro-wrestlers and porno actors on wikipedia.
9. I hoard second-hand books (invariably picked up at Premier Book Store in Bangalore).
10. I’ve typed out numbers 10 to 21 from here, all blank – filling out only 21.
11. For a while, I used to want to be manifested in sound as this little errant guitar bit in Sonic Youth’s New Hampshire, that’s audible only on headphones.
12. Do first; self-flagellate later. I follow that for that wrong things.
13. I don’t like the Doors. This appears to be a punishable offence in many jurisdictions.
14. While I am housetrained, I do shed hair.
15. I burnt myself with an electronic dog-collar that emits a little shock to stop the dog from barking – to see how painful it would be. Symbathiyempathygenineness and all that.
16. I don’t know how to smoke – the method of inhalation always seems to escape me (no pun intended).
17. This was the slot that was filled up last. No. 17.
18. I reduced it from 23 to 21. Options of 21/23/25 were provided in any case.
19. With absolutely no reference to the previous post, I’d like somebody to hug. With feeling.
20. Audrey Hepburn.
21. I believe in love. Oh yes I do. But just not in other people reciprocating mine; provided they know about it, which in itself is highly unlikely. But hey, I won’t complain if it happens.
I don't think I have 21 people to tag. But, for what it's worth..
Eyefry
Bibi
Nina (blog, woman!)
The Cat
BFH
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
a warm sleepy
Hug?
Ok.
Approach.
Walk up normally. Arms aren’t at shoulder-level, anticipating the hug.
Be wary of knocking spectacles astray.
Or arms getting snagged on clothing or accessories.
Two kinds of hugs – intimate and stranger. Intimate hug, you inhale when you hug, so you’re reducing the distance between the other person, while exhaling increases it.
But it’s not a rule that both people inhale or both exhale.
No.
Oh, and there’s also the inner hug and the outer hug, since one person gets under the shoulders and gets to hug the torso, and the other is on the outside and has to hug the arms along with the torso.
Shorter person gets the torso. If you’re taller and inner hug, unless you stoop, you’d lift the shorter person by their armpits.
But if you’re going for a swooping hug where the lift and twirl is the point, it’s essential that the taller person is on the inside. Better grip, and the armpits provide additional safety from slipping and falling.
Duration of the hug?
Decided by the person who has the inner hug. Bad etiquette for outer hugger to unclamp inner hugger.
Arms?
Not too high, not too low.
Little movement. And definitely no movement towards the lower back.
Legs?
No shuffling about. No moving about. Some swaying allowed, but guided by the upper half. Sway may lead to falling on a bed, which is fine if executed without coercion. Half-sway mandatory to test reciprocity to swaying.
Taller person never to hug the head of shorter person. And never ever to push the head into the chest of self.
No messing with the hair, period. If hugging neck and hair in the way, flip the hair and get under it. Not to touch hair.
Fingers stationary. No tickling or groping and no feeling for vertebrae or ribs. If you’re hugging the bra-strap, be tactful and move your hand just below the strap. No fidgeting with it. And it’s not an excuse to go low. Low is creepy.
Avoid love-handles or fondling any skin.
Nibbling of ear is allowed, if circumstances already established allow for it. Or a whisper, but no talking. Talking comes post-hug.
Tears allowed only for the shorter person. No crying onto the hair. Taller person expected to sit and cry onto shorter person’s shoulder. No stooping and crying into face.
No cringing.
Smile? Smiling and happy grinning and even laughing is fine. But no making faces. It can be felt.
Sympathetic or empathetic clucking allowed. And sighing. Lots and lots of sighing.
No drooling.
Or sneezing or coughing.
Or spitting. No bodily fluids.
Chest?
Touching of chests is allowed, but if male-female, pre-conditional circumstances required to allow tight squeeze that causes compression of breasts onto chest.
Squeeze can be tight, but pressure must be administered uniformly and with smoothness. No sudden compressions and relaxations.
If male, no erection while hugging.
No.
And if erect, etiquette to jut butt out and arch lower half of body away from the other person so they don’t feel the erection.
Unless… circumstances already established allow for it?
No.
Ok then.
Ok.
Hug?
Ok.
Approach.
Walk up normally. Arms aren’t at shoulder-level, anticipating the hug.
Be wary of knocking spectacles astray.
Or arms getting snagged on clothing or accessories.
Two kinds of hugs – intimate and stranger. Intimate hug, you inhale when you hug, so you’re reducing the distance between the other person, while exhaling increases it.
But it’s not a rule that both people inhale or both exhale.
No.
Oh, and there’s also the inner hug and the outer hug, since one person gets under the shoulders and gets to hug the torso, and the other is on the outside and has to hug the arms along with the torso.
Shorter person gets the torso. If you’re taller and inner hug, unless you stoop, you’d lift the shorter person by their armpits.
But if you’re going for a swooping hug where the lift and twirl is the point, it’s essential that the taller person is on the inside. Better grip, and the armpits provide additional safety from slipping and falling.
Duration of the hug?
Decided by the person who has the inner hug. Bad etiquette for outer hugger to unclamp inner hugger.
Arms?
Not too high, not too low.
Little movement. And definitely no movement towards the lower back.
Legs?
No shuffling about. No moving about. Some swaying allowed, but guided by the upper half. Sway may lead to falling on a bed, which is fine if executed without coercion. Half-sway mandatory to test reciprocity to swaying.
Taller person never to hug the head of shorter person. And never ever to push the head into the chest of self.
No messing with the hair, period. If hugging neck and hair in the way, flip the hair and get under it. Not to touch hair.
Fingers stationary. No tickling or groping and no feeling for vertebrae or ribs. If you’re hugging the bra-strap, be tactful and move your hand just below the strap. No fidgeting with it. And it’s not an excuse to go low. Low is creepy.
Avoid love-handles or fondling any skin.
Nibbling of ear is allowed, if circumstances already established allow for it. Or a whisper, but no talking. Talking comes post-hug.
Tears allowed only for the shorter person. No crying onto the hair. Taller person expected to sit and cry onto shorter person’s shoulder. No stooping and crying into face.
No cringing.
Smile? Smiling and happy grinning and even laughing is fine. But no making faces. It can be felt.
Sympathetic or empathetic clucking allowed. And sighing. Lots and lots of sighing.
No drooling.
Or sneezing or coughing.
Or spitting. No bodily fluids.
Chest?
Touching of chests is allowed, but if male-female, pre-conditional circumstances required to allow tight squeeze that causes compression of breasts onto chest.
Squeeze can be tight, but pressure must be administered uniformly and with smoothness. No sudden compressions and relaxations.
If male, no erection while hugging.
No.
And if erect, etiquette to jut butt out and arch lower half of body away from the other person so they don’t feel the erection.
Unless… circumstances already established allow for it?
No.
Ok then.
Ok.
Hug?
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