Feet to the Stars

Juni

2011-10-07T16:56:00.001+05:30

I was missing Juno today.

Her babies had more babies a month ago,

and the house is filled with a veritable army of mini fur-blobs,

racing toward the fish and rice mix

as if their lives depended upon it.

Mum keeps them safe and warm and loved in that

not-so-empty-now-renovated

household.

Juno came to us when we were in between flats and farmhouses (as usual; it feels like we've just made a home and it's time to shift again for all the wrong right reasons). Her first month was in our tiny cottage, before it's walls and floors split, broke down and slicked up to became a fancy paneled house. She was a funny reddish-tabby-striped one, with these yellow eyes that went hard and cold when she wanted her alone time.

Typical, sniff the dog-lovers in all their superiority.
The apartment, in 2010, was all white shiny tiles and make-shift settled-in. You know, with tapestries making do for curtains and all our paintings strung unto the odd hook in the wall. Landlords have a deal with the damaging relationship between hammers and nails. Juni made it a home; she cuddled into every crevice and fallen tapestry-curtain and cried to be cuddled. We two sisters and mother would watch re-runs of Lie to Me as cups of strong filter coffee, cheese-encrusted knives and bakery bread spread around us.

Juni missed the fresh air and open space of our farmland. One fine evening, she hopped into the car with Mum to see the renovation site of the cottage. Ran about sniffing and prancing up from among cables and wood panels. Even in the apartment, she was this unchanelled little wild sprite. Hunted down pigeons, rats and everything else that moved. Her hunger to prey was insatiable; it was as if she had a one-woman mission to conquer the mini-jungle of shrubs and palms between flat blocks.

She disappeared one night. A hunting expedition gone wrong, perhaps. I was in Ahmedabad, as usual, and the news came over the phone.

I transferred my energy to coddling the bigger of a teenage pair of cats that haunted the library corridors. It was soothing to run fingers through the shallow field of short fur and hear that reassuring purr.

Basic.Space

2011-10-05T17:03:00.001+05:30

So Ive been listening to a whole lotta The Xx lately,

and they've been filling up a lot of

the empty space around me.

Navrathri has swung it's way around Ahmedabad.
The season of sparkle dust high in the air, mirrorwork evenings are hot under yellow light and burning feet, people moving like cars on the highway.
I don't love this time of the year too much. The beat of the drums sounds funereal and disturbing in it's increasing feverishness, and reminds me of the same. You know, yellow fevers and 'passing-ons' (such a silly word, Whately, I know.) and bad news lapping over the mood. My asthma acts up and inhalerblue mornings last till the drugged hour post-noon.

Most of all, my home is empty. Flatmates are off dancing in a blur of orangewhirl merry-go-round, and the night does that funny thing where it goes all cheap drugstore rubber-bandy on me. You know those yellowgreenred elastic pieces in packets for 5 rupees no? They stretch and stick to one another,mewling in horrid tones, and suddenly split down the middle in when you least expect it.

Last night felt particularly empty. The room was bereft of it's usual pleasant company and my laptop charging itself to glory, as shots from my film rendered away. My orange lampshade gave me filthy looks, as if to nullify it's function as a potentially warm friend. I could feel the hard, cold fingers of an off-mood reaching out to me.

So I had to get a fix, yeah, I hadta getta fix.

Hot buttered toast, burnt on the edges and sprinkled liberally with cinnamon-sugar (My newest FabIndia love: loose ground cinnamon with brown sugar and nutmeg. Divine.) was followed by a mini canister of tea and might I confess, that I nearly forgot what coffee was for a second? Shame on me. So fickle in matters of the culinary heart and simple pleasures.
I didnt even need a playlist to colour up the scene, and peaced out in a blur until company came around 2am.

Oh, the glorious phoenix arising from a simple gas-stove!

Basic space is all you need, apart from love and chai.

Ode to yesterday

2011-09-29T19:19:00.002+05:30

That was a dream in the still of the day
that kept talking in a very soft
low-pitched, silvery voice
until I stopped listening
at that very second when the fan switched on and the
little voice in my head pressed
rewind
and replay
at a greater faster quicker volume
that beat too fast.

Today is-

2011-09-29T14:23:00.004+05:30

“If suddenly you do not exist,

If suddenly you are not living,

I shall go on living.

I do not dare,

I do not dare to write it,

if you die.

I shall go on living.” ― Pablo Neruda

Magic without a T.

2011-09-27T00:00:00.000+05:30

Image from somewhere in the internet's depths.

I have an archive of beautiful images from around the place.
Photographs, posters, fashion and artwork which is exciting, inspiring, technically emulative or simply something I'd love to keep around me.
The above image popped up and reminded me today

The Day I Gained Purpose in Life!The Day I registered my grad film, my final year project!

that I don't write much save Tweets or the teensy blog/ DA posts.
Which is sad, really. There's just so much less to think about when I write. It's easier to put words together in text, than have face-to-face conversations or participate in stilted Facebook chat sessions.
(I should just post on my Blog. And tell people to read the daily RSS before we meet.Simple aforementioned problems solved.)

Coming back to the point,
Words are powerful. Radical Self Love from my favourite blogger in the world confirms that.

The more I realise that the only thing constant in life is change, I love life a little bit more. The minority of happy people on the planet can subscribe to that notion.

The Now is:

The unbeatable roasted lush of Coorg coffee, made in a steel filter every Ahmedabadi morning

September weather spells of warm wakings up in the cold morning

The unavoidable,hilarious and exasperating daily updates of the neighbour dogs,brought to you by your lunch buddy

Skinny lizards skating over the peppery ceiling searching for roaches

The new forevers of rediscovering Neruda on a tattoo quest

The old forevers of Radiohead,Jefferson Airplane,T.S Eliot and

the blazing nows of the Xx, HerSpaceHoliday, Vampire Weekend and all the indie music in the world made for you and only you

Ego-tickles and skin-tickles and goosebumps,

Beer and perfectly made eggs in honey-teriyaki sauce to share,

Letters from never-lost long-ago-still-here girls in penguin swimsuits who

made houses out of orange tang, dinosaur baths and magazine covers FYVP when

the roof tiles were unguarded and comfort came years, years later in a car-ride

Sister cats waiting in Mysore town with babies that are sprouting like acrobats

Photograph sleeping in folder not awake not yet not again

Insomnia over coffee dates and dirty drawings of furtive couples in stretchy pants and brown sugar

spells now in not so many words,

none at all.

It's on Loop.

2011-06-16T20:03:00.000+05:30

I'm so lost that it's wonderful and not asking to be found.

Lost like

Songs on loop about the sea and and finding the stairway to higher hopes.
Finding a way to the ocean after wanting it for a year.
Air travelling into one ear and out another one.
Burrowing into comfort.
A lot of chai all at once.
A really long movie that felt less like a speech and more like a lyric.
People appearing like a cloud of smoke and dis-apparating right before brain freeze.
A line of books ready to be drank into skin,lined up on a clean shelf.
Consumerism over comedy.
Foolish frivolous talk without the alcohol kick.
Headphones is ignorance is bliss.
Treetops over very deep blue brightening skies.
Eyeball seeking dark room in bright house windows closed.
Writing today because inkpot is brimming.

So lost that I dont ask you to find me with a blissful smile.

Grey threads

2011-06-16T19:55:00.000+05:30

I forgot all about my socks
the greying worn-out ones
threadless and bare and scuffed at the soles
My feet are naked and inconsolable at their tremendous loss.

The socks went on a roadtrip though
Right through double-locked suitcases and
endless goodbyes that didnt say hello frequently enough
They seem to be wiser, for all I taught them.

That seems to happen more and more, the
more I crumple up words and forget to write
because the papers too new,
the feelings too old,
the everything's just not enough to become a
something that I'll keep with me long enough to love.

Still.My feet are inconsolable at their loss.
I've reassured them with promises of blankets.
Not so snug as socks but
comfortable enough to
keep aside on those hot
long-winding summer nights.

Tongue speak

2010-12-22T05:05:00.002+05:30

She speaks Tomorrow like another language.

Sixwordstories,some more.

Contest:'Word Prompt'
Brief was to to use the words 'Tomorrow'+'Speaks' (one after the other)together, in all of 6 words.

On a personal note: Im tired of dreaming, when falling asleep is like sinking. Not the sinking feeling that sounds so awfully,awfully poetic in a decent read. Its the slipping into darkness in spite of your nightlight on, the door letting in friendly cats and a moth-eaten stuffed toy curled up inside.
Tomorrows not really something you look for, when you've got to get through tonight first.

She

2010-12-22T04:57:00.003+05:30

Lashed shadows slept warm She smiled.

See Six-word stories on DA.

She

2010-12-22T04:57:00.000+05:30

Lashed shadows slept warm She smiled.

Six words speak so sense

2010-12-22T04:48:00.002+05:30

Feet in socks
Winter bite unheard.

Recently joined a group called Six-Word stories on DA.
Its a great exercise to get me writing more, and value the skill it takes to express more in less. Namely, writing a story in 6-words.
Stay tooned.

Sailboat

2010-11-06T22:49:00.003+05:30

Kittens bones sink in and
out of
flesh like funny little masts
billowing out vast, white
sails of health and promise.

They curl within themselves in sleep
yawning in mid-unfurl
sleekly rowing against a larger version of
themselves
that purrs, exhausted
encompassing them in all that's good and safe about this world.

Happy Diwali.

My Sister and me

2010-11-05T01:59:00.001+05:30

We're so very different,
can't you see?

Mixed blood and shifting last names,
Stronger and milder bones in between each other,
Running colours in different lights
at different times

We're so very alike.

Things I love When Im Wise

2010-10-23T23:56:00.002+05:30

Things I Love Appreciate and Hope-to-think-of-more after having my wisdom teeth pulled out(yank,to be precise!) a week ago.

-My growing collection of teas. It's like organic farming out of a packet.Out of the nine current lovelies, its organic tulsi-ginger which does the trick and washescleanthebloodstream. Organic India,you're rather wonderfully good for me.

-Giving the mirror LESS IMPORTANCE.Its amazing how a swollen jaw can distort your entire appearance, to your own eyes.I still can't recognise myself(and apparently,neither can my family hair stylist who thinks Ive aged centuries!)but hey,it's okay.See next point.

-Glowing,healthy skin(It glows in the dark too.) which must credit from The Mummy's endless doles of turmeric curds,chocolate cows milk,soaked almonds and...

-Papaya sitafal passionfruit yoghurt smoothies!Yum,yum,yum.They can pass me shady lines at any given time.

-Finishing a really well written book in one go. Thank you Michael Cunningham,for giving meFlesh and Blood. The cover was nearly as irresistable as the throw-away sale price- FIFTY RUPEES!Horrific,no?

-My green room,tantadantaaaadah!

-Got to love hand-me-downs!My aunt's plastic earrings from the 80s.So plastic!The Mummy's aerobics tights in with neon pink,black and blue swirls.Also from the 80s.

-Setting my caller tunes so I feel different inside each time the phone rings.(Hello,I just love some people a little more.)

-Watching Very Trashy Reality TV. I even saw a re-run of EMOTIONAL ATYACHAAR with full devotion.

-Getting a high score on Mah Jong Titans and vowing to play for real. I am so multi-cultural. I think I love myself a wee bit more; it's addictive. Next I will wear that new velcro-attachable saree.

-Revisiting a piece of art that means that little something more, each time.

Thanks to GalaDarling, one of my favourite bloggers for rooting these things out of my head and into the air!

Buy me a productive life for 10 rupess

2010-08-01T16:44:00.002+05:30

Please,please do!
I heard you can get one for really really cheap on Ebay,
and it comes with free health assurance.
(I didn't say insurance.)

I'm going to make a film by the end of this year.
There,I said it!

Now I really have to do it.
I really really have to do it.

So this life I'm talking about.This is the one I want you to buy me:

-Incredible skills of intuition.
I want to avoid burning myself for the third time with ma's unraveling rusty yellow iron, and also know when it's time to take my medicines.

-Amazing powers of Boservation.
It's like observation, but the boring kind. The kind that gets your backside off the laziness-stained mattress and onto the dashboard of forever-fruitful-work. It's so mind-numbingly amazing that you don't even realise how boring you're getting, and then time passes by and HEY, you've suddenly become productive and the storyboard's done.

-Excruciating blobs of self-confidence
I am the greatest animator in the world. I make Len Lye and W.Wrake wish they were as experimentadely awesome as Kaveri Gopalakrishnan. Her name's not catchy but it'll catch on. I have full knowledge of my own capacities and I can drink wheatgrass juice faster than vodka in order to pull all-nighters that end with The Greatest Plan In The CapLocksAdjective World To Create An Animation Film That Will Ice This Century.
*soundtrack of World Hold On plays on free laptop earphones*

-Writers Flock and Artists Glock
GIGANTIC mounds of creativity that get drawn toward me like soil to an earth-bender.(If you think Im talking about The Last Airbender,I suggest a good dose of 3 seasons of Avatar. The very distractingly waow TV Series.Ok, I can't go on to a hopeless audience.)

All right.
No one's buying this ten rupess life, clearly.

Does this mean what I think it does?

Oh fruitcakes.
It means drawing more with pencil and less with hypothetical constructions of blebleble.
Also, earning that ten rupess. At some point. Sigh.

Why can't Ebay just get more useful already, and send me a hundred cats to draw?

Staple pins

2010-01-22T05:19:00.004+05:30

I was lying in bed right up until a moment ago,going across the events of the past few days.
Feelings were swirling around inside me,much like stripes of airy, translucent strips of coloured paper in a windy void.

It had been two days of standing on the razors edge.

“I watched a snail crawl along the edge of a straight razor. That’s my dream. That’s my nightmare. Crawling, swiftly, along the edge of a straight…razor…and surviving.”
( Colobel Kurtz, from Conrad's 'Heart of Darkness'-a book that has lived in me since the day I read it.)

Indecisiveness, and not knowing where I stand. Wanting to be this and that, and stamping my feet in the clouds of dust under the signs at the crossroads.

I wanted to sum it up. I took a few long walks at night, and played electronic music at low volumes, and thought about love and loss and love again, and the inbetweens which we all have to make work out, for our own sakes.

And then I was taking one such walk, with a chance friend, and we came across a puppet show, put on-campus as part of a workshop.
The loud chuckles and merriment caught my attention, as did the crowd being drawn to the display of brightly coloured, tightly wound-up folk toys.
I drew closer, still lost in my own world, and the crowd around me grew thicker as the puppet-play rose to a climax.

A young boy caught my attention;gawky and hunched. He seemed not to know what to do with his limbs, and swung around restlessly behind his mother, a local. Covering her head with her pallu, she was caught up in the excitement of the play and must have presumed that her son was doing the same.

He ran his fingers along the noticeboards propped up around the play.They served as boundary walls, and had battered looking board pins and staples stuck at odd angles, stuck in the rough cloth. I was curious. His eyes were unfocused, and his mouth half open. People pushed behind me, and I craned my neck to watch him, wondering if he had a sight problem.

And then his palm flattened out,up and against the board. A square sheet of paper was moved carefully upward, while small fingers poked a bent staple pin into the top of the sheet.
His drawing was red and yellow and criss crossed into triangles.
He smiled, seeing it placed just where he wanted, pinned up on the board.

The play ended,
and I clapped
absently,
suddenly blinking
furiously,
and feeling like the luckiest, and most privileged person around me for miles.

I walked away at a snails pace,
dreaming of staple pins and paper.
and feeling secure.

The Lady of Shallot

2009-12-07T19:37:00.004+05:30

Sideswept
windswept
The words pass me by
Hair covers my eyes and
falls into my mouth.

Speeding cars
Tails of light and blur
red and bright
clashing
clanging
A sound that's too far away
and too close for comfort.

My elbows rest on the rubber edge
crossing
bending
as I peer
Searching past the motors and mouths( which in all probabilty,are the same.)
The rear view mirror catches everything and
nothing
A nothingness that falls like glass and feels like falling.

A strange sense of being the Lady of Shallot,cast upon the river of traffic.

A Better place

2009-11-28T00:03:00.003+05:30

Is it in vain
Is it a crime
Is it something I didnt explain?

Maybe I'll come by here again.

Maybe I sang too fast
And tripped over the words|
Getting pulled over for overspeeding|
Clutching the ticket and praying to a light
or something even greater up there|
Hoping I'd do it again.

Maybe I dreamed too bright|
Gulping down memories and
diving into them again|
Opening my eyes underwater
and breathing in till they burned|
Making new futures out of old paper boats
and setting sail again.

Or maybe I held my own hand too tight|
Walking on the edge of the knife
A snail on thin ice
Slipping into old skin
and slipping sliding fighting it
with worn soles
and a heavy rucksack

Preparing myself for the worst
and finding a better place,
After all.

I was listening to La Dispute by Yann Tierson.

These are a few of my favourite things.

2009-10-23T19:47:00.002+05:30

I've never considered myself to be the home-sick type.
But I'm staying back these vacations, working toward our-very-own animation film festival Chitrakatha,that's happening in just a week now,
and the hostel passages are clean-swept,
the birds' calls are shriller and more in number,
and the room's colder and smaller,
when I return to it.

Which is nearly every hour.

So all of a sudden I miss being alone at home, in my sister's quiet little room behind the staircase,with my mum in the next room fixing something light and appetite-friendly in a large ceramic bowl.

There's more.

|The smell of baking is overpowering;chocolate cupcakes and slightly crackly coconut biscuits and lemon tart.Sitting on the cool granite counter and licking cake batter off your fingers.

|Boiling hot filter coffee with a comfortingly burnt,bittersweet after-taste. The second sip( after the tongue-scalding first one) comes close to heaven.

|Heavy footsteps up the wooden ladder;feeling the walls becoming hotter with your fingertips as you climb up,and taking in a deep breath as the terrace door swings open with a rush,as the bracken-filled fields,dark green tamarind trees and peacefully inclining hills greet you.

|The whisper of furtive post-dinner plans with your grandmother.She swings out a bottle of mint Baileys from Thatha's wine cabinet(Johnny walker being the most wine-y of the lot!) and declares that there's no one she'd rather 'get tipsy with'. As the years go by,the company that you drink with can be strange,fruitful and myriad all at once.

|The couch. It's chequered and slightly squishy at one end. This customisation ensures maximum compatibility with my holiday schedule of bed-roll-shift-loo-shift-sofa-shift-bed. Interspersed with fridge breaks.

|When it rains, the whole farm goes silent. Everything is rained upon, and the coconut fronds drop like muted bombs in unison. Every single person stays silent when they look at those blackening clouds. The earth opens her parched throat in prayer. The feeling of being washed over,washed away and being cleansed by something earthly and powerful is prevalent.

|Mor. I see buttermilk being poured in a jug shaped like a bunch of amazonic bananas. If that's not exotic sounding enough,there's so much to see and inhale in deeply. At the bottom lie black til seeds,crushed whole ginger,garden-fresh kothamali(coriander) and chopped green chillies. An day's visit, before the rains set in.

|The gleam of yellow bulbs through cane landshades,over hot-cooked meals, spells familiarity and comfort.

|Being able to look through old photographs of those you've lost in your own time,not seconds borrowed or stolen. And finding it easier to not avoid that hollow feeling, when all you have in your hostel room are passport size nothings.Thats the real comfort of being surrounded by what makes your home.

|Tilting a bottle of mineral-rich and slightly sweetish waters at your lips for a good 30 seconds and staring at the ceiling fan. This beats icy steel cooler water anyday.

|Hill-top breezes in speeding cars with a hot packed drink balancing precariously on your lap, as the city slowly becomes a jewellery box of twinkling, firefly-like dots and patterns.

This is all I remember for now.

Oinkey's Eyes

2009-09-18T01:43:00.004+05:30

Oinkey's eyes
they spell of surprise
of nights in canteens and everlasting sighs

They split their lids and
widen
with fang-toothed cries
of enthusiasm and
terribly excitingly methodically designed despise

They spell of shadows beneath lashes
that hide beneath whipped-up tinsel-town porches
and flickering light bulbs
that cast outlines
around figures
in the
dark.

I could long to see them intoxicated
feverish with hot evenings and cold coffees
dinner across the table
the orbs blinking
snapping wide open
enraptured,even

exactly the way they
intoxicate
me.

A love poem to Ankita Mukherjee,who owes me a dinner date.
And yet we sit here, at 2 AM, with cold sweetened chai and our lives ahead of us and beckoning,behind.

Its going to be Winter.

2009-09-11T15:55:00.010+05:30

(From the archives..View from Chamundi hills in December,last year.Nothing special,everything cold and touched and nostalgic.)

Curled up crinkly toes
nestled in chequered socks
that itch ever so slightly in the morning.

-Bangalore in the winter of 05 and 06.

Bitten-to-the-bone fingers,
overflowing inboxes,
quick-dry medicinal affairs,
half-written letters that meet plastic wrapped dustbins,
softly,
dustily,
forgotten.

-Ahmedabad in late winter 08 and 09.

Photographs that are
wet with dull grey
and redried in rust brown
and pretended about in white-hot vain
and ignored with blue lips
and stained and ripped and chewed abruptly by hastily-shut dubbas in Thai's attic.

-Chennai in early winters over the past few years.

Christmas tree number three
plastic and real.
filter coffee and appams spilt on embroidery
over wicker tables and wobbly phonebooks.
home number three,
with little snuff-nosed ghosts
between the sofas
and behind our hearts.

-Mysore in the winter of 2005.

Ode to a Piglet.

2009-08-31T02:23:00.005+05:30

Dear Pig,

Im awful.
Im a pile of goo.Blue.Smooshy.

I haven't updated either of my blogs in ages.
I thiiink I've been loving our course on character design(though I missed 2 weeks due to viral flu:()and then these empty spaces remind me of why I am the pool of goo blue.
I have joyously not bothered,and forgotten of their existence.
Things have distracted me.The weather.Anonymous insects that eat the flesh of my knee and fingers and then abscond by morning.My Name is Red(slowly,but a wonderful escape)Then there's the Aeroplane birdmans and 4am snooze alarms and seeking of my tattoo. More bugs.Green apple vodka.Courses and backlogs.Thumbnails turning blue,and eventually hanging by a strip of skin singing 'nyah nyah!'Chocolate(in coffee/biscuit/concentrated form,it ravages).And let's not get into the days when one squeaks,"But I havent got any work to show!"

Awful,awful,de-clawed, de-inspired and de-strung me!
Shame,shame,puppy shame and all the other heartfelt abuses of childhood!

Respectfully Yours,
Me

Pig lives in Stephen Pastis' epic comic strip series,'Pearls Before Swine'. Two volumes are possessed by yours truly, in bookshelf and sowl.. I heart and <3 Pig. Only he would understand the above lament.

Blue whale in the rain speaks of no trains.

2009-07-07T12:36:00.006+05:30

By the sea
it rains
pours

endlessly.

buckets and katoris and spoons
of flailing cats and dogs
caught mid-flight, gasping
between the high and the fall.

a word-dismissive script
of piece-meal stories and haphazard,wide-eyed people
sits on my lap.

By the sea, the rain shivels into thread-bare ropes, and starts to sprinkle the city with images of what is now yesterday.

Batallions rise in the evenings
heaving over the water in blackening smoke-fish patterns.

and the nights grow longer,
and the rain plays havoc with trains,
and the pages get dog-eared with forgetfullness,
and rabbitty looking blue whale thumbs get lost in different spaces,
and an unexpected music greets the dawn,
and a new day that dissolves into the next and the next and the next one again,
and the weekend sprouts 2 extra limbs with a sudden,'hello'.

..When I go to Bombay and come all the way back.

Listen to 'Down by the sea', Morcheeba.

Goodbye Summer,Im out of love with you.

2009-06-24T18:35:00.004+05:30

Dear Summer,
It was nice knowing you. We spent two months together and it was grand.
The couch was our home, and reality show ratings went up.
I started swimming again cause of you, and proclaimed my love for getting myself back in shape. Truly a landmark moment.
The proclamation,I mean.
I created mine own muse, fashioned out of ingredients that I dare not spill out here. The wall posts have ears. So I painted on rainy afternoons, went vegetarian on and off, learned to dance (Or rather,dancing came to me.Okay,I Wish.) and became a Deviant. and most importantly, listened to lots of music alone. Unremarkable that it may sound, I rarely have put in effort to listen to a piece of music without multi-tasking.It's like eating without a book in hand, or a face in front of you.

But Im out of love with you, because I'm moving on. You see,I have a wonderful room that faces the riverside and keeps itself supremely clean and resounds with Morcheeba, Chopin(!),Radiohead and the Beatles. Beyonce is good stuff as well,thank you Jazzy for opening my eyes out to the world of dhinchak phun music. White curtains and incense and them trippy moringa lights on the walls, my goodness, it's almost heaven on earth.
Did I mention that I'm there only after 1 in the morning?
Absence makes the heart grow fonder.Absence makes cellphone clocks wear the battery down more. Absence sounds like Absynthe .It's a nice word.Horrible taste.
* Absinthe, an alcoholic beverage
* Absynthe (album), a 2003 album by Monsieur Camembert
* The Absynthe, a Trent University campus newsmedia organization
* Absynthe, A song composed by Paul Kalkbrenner, part of the album Berlin Calling
[Thank you Wiki.]

So, I will continue to spend my life in such self-sustained peace(That's not entirely true,I like people lots.) and
~Go to Jaisalmer/Goa/Hampi this year.
~Soopertamify and work on Cut Here, the Film magazine.(Shreyas, you can take a bow.No wait,I will.:P)
~PS,I'm continuing to work for Film Club this year as well. Old habits die hard.
~Make posters(Spirited Away,coming up:))
~Think of more things to do, make bigger lists with extra neon smileys,

and then get back to be less frothy and more cynically myself.

Wonderla.
Ta.

The smell of Summer

2009-04-14T04:35:00.003+05:30

It smells of dust.
Dust along the underside of the wall that bellows up when I push my bed closer to the fan.
Dust on my bookshelf; there's a faint odour of guilt staining the edges of pages I haven't visited for many moons.
Dust on the rim of my purple spectacles.The closest anyone's come to doodling my likeness is when they colour in chunky purple frames. This is regardless of the fact that I barely wear 'em.
Dust on my sore pink toes and dust inside my Rockstar chappals.

Two glorious months in which anything can happen. I could go to Hampi or paint a pretty picture or read LOTR for the five-and-a-half-eth time.
Better yet, finish my comic book. Yet again. Surprisingly,I never got bored of it. The story refuses to die- I suppose it has links too personal for me to not imagine recreating it over and over again.
Oh, and how about baking a storm?A literal mountain of mousses and brownies and lemon crumble cake. That recipe for Banana-peanut butter bread has been stalking my brain for months now.

And I'll finish listening to all the assorted,much advised music on my I-tunes. And listen to Rubber Soul for the billionth time in a week, as it sounds better each time it flows through me.

And I'll make more resolutions and keep working like the day's going to die soon and plan and plot and feverishly obsess over exactly how profitable and 'all that' my next semester will be.It's nice to become this different sorta person over two years.

And I'll breathe in clean air that smells of sunlight and lazy sprinkler-studded grass and dream some more.

Hello,Summer.

My ceiling is the sky tonight.

2009-03-14T17:03:00.004+05:30

Wait,
was that you calling out to me?

Yes,you.
The one with the lost eyes, the one who's staring
Staring right up at the sky
Almost as if he's expecting it to hurl a thunderbolt right at him
and burn him to the ground.

It's me.
The one you woke up last night,
with firecrackers of memories
and a torrent of luckless afternoons to boot.

I thought I heard you calling me
and so I awoke.
Heart iced frozen solid
lips cracked and forming
slightly forgotten(now) and fragile words of hope.

Who wouldn't?

Wait,it was a false alarm.
It must have been the wind breathing through the curtains.
The switchboard that bent its spine and brushed against my foot.
Unloved dogs seeking solace under my bed
and instead murmuring funny familiar fanciful and forgotten words
that crept their way into my pillow-case.

I stayed awake for a long time,
perhaps hoping to be on a beach.
The floor looked so smooth,speckled and polished,
stretching like the Chennai bay beneath a landing plane.

Moonlight played sail boat with my slippers
and the ceiling dissolved into a sky
of glue-on florescent stars.

I breathed deeply,until I could smell the salt and the warm dust.

It's funny how you were still standing there,
pale fingered.
With your toes slipping
slipping into the sea
and away from the shores that suddenly clung
clung to my feet with an urgency

"caressing and possessing me.."

A 4 letter word.

2009-03-03T16:24:00.007+05:30

http://what-kaveri-seas.blogspot.com.
Thats my new,renamed domain.
For the art that I do,the scribbles I scan,explorations Im lucky to get myself into.
Its still called Sea of Inky toes,but the earlier http://moonskulled-sea.blogspot.com has died a premature death. I let out a silent sigh of relief.

Why the sudden change? No,its not the jibes at my poetical nonsense.(Ok I just added the poetical bit,certain fellow illustrators/batchmates giggle at the randomness!)
I appreciate poetical nonsense,why,Ogden Nash thrived on it like a glorious,absurd little hog-rose.
See,hog-roses dont even exist and yet a Nash fan could agree with me.

Ive been doing some thinking lately,as a student of design(yes,im embracing it) and loyal practitioner of the intangible nuances of WhatTheyCallArt. Conversations with Prof Ranjan (http://design-for-india.blogspot.com) have also lent me a certain amount of understanding regarding the clash of great minds between aesthetics and functionality, in the process of creating something.
Im all for 'art for arts sake',hell,Im a good example of someone who toes the line by doing a lot of work 'because I feel like it/it looks pleasing/I love blue',etc etc.And Im definitly not product inclined,viewing the act of creating as fulfilling the needs of the masses or redesigning for better functionality.

However,when does your work become faff?
Its four letters,and can be as dirty as you want to be.

Im coming across a lot of similes in my contemporaries' work these days. The overuseage of death,of so-called morbidity which means repeated usage of the words 'alone', 'depression', 'pain', 'black+(add another word)', all disastrously in the same context.
Paisleys.God save me.Please look up the usage of the symbol in fashion today.
Hindu Gods.I find this extraordinary. If one does not follow/believe in a part of what they are promoting in their work, then how is it personal?How can you call upon the bad girl sex appeal of Kali or the boy-next-door charm of Krishna to sell yourself?

For it IS selling yourself.
Indian street graphics. Its a category of its own, I love the way people celebrate it in posters and coasters and ove toasters.But there's Autooverload. Bad imitatons of Sabyasachi's bindified and goggle-eyed ramp models. Truck art to shame all trucks.Gods with blue eyes.Blinded by this blasphemy of 'culture'.
And then theres the genre of individuals who freely place copyrights on the lyrics of The Beatles ,Floyd,The Doors,I dont know,choose your poison.
The Blogsphere is scarily full of it.

For it IS selling yourself.
Faff.
In this whole struggle to be noticed, no one seems to notice that the limelight's turned a rather unpleasant shade of red. A virtual bloodbath, with schools of fish trying to be individuals.
Its a troubling question,for who wants to be caught in the trap?
I find myself hesitating to illustrate songs I like,for fear of pretentious dragonflies omshantioms and washes of colour that will drown whatever Im trying to say.
Do I dare?
Do I dare disturb the universe,after all?
The sacred order of things that makes cash flow and the world grind to a screeching halt every once in a while?
Faff.
Precisely why I am no more http://moonskulled-sea.blogspot.com,
I'm joining the squad of sheep grazing on yonder side of the hedge.
Wish me luck.

Dear Reader,your comments and criticism will be appreciated greatly.I place my words on the table and invite you to a pleasant debate, over one of my more opinionated posts.

Dare I grow Old?

2009-02-23T16:46:00.003+05:30

Musings.
Revisiting TS Eliots' Prufrock in Visual Language class
Memoirs of visiting Rotary Old Age Home in Mysore
Indigo train rides to Madras
and longer,whirlwind journeys to smaller towns
And through it all..
Grandparents
still holdin on to the last vestiges of loveliness
Gracefully falling.

Dear New Year Fairy...

2009-01-11T20:23:00.003+05:30

Dear New Year fairy,
You are a product of my own imagination. As with most products, your functionality is baseless apart from your consumers' personal inadequencies and unfulfillments.We'd like to call it wishful thinking.
Since Xmas was uneventful and I gave up on feeling Herr Klaus's Xmas love the minute I left home, you're the only one I can write my wish list to.
The below agendas will make me a better person and a happier,more peaceful one at that.I predict that I'll become wiser in ways I can't imagine by engaging myself in things that I love and believe in.
I'm a strong believer in personal intuition and hate structured planning.So here goes.

1.Start finishing my graphic novel.The course I waited for too long for is over,and I need to keep this story alive for a very personal reason.
2.Listen to the lyrics of songs I frequently play.Its a revelation.Despite the fact that Im sorely tempted to just interpret them any way I want to.
3.Spend time at Byllakuppe, the Tibetan settlement enroute to Coorg.I get a short lived sense of peace rekindled by the feeling of slow-burning excitement in the pit of my stomach,every time we stop by.I'll do my dream project there.
4.Run my finger along the curve where the tree trunk coils,and sinks smoothly into the earth.I forgot how much I loved doing that.
5.A week at Auroville. With someone I love and respect for all their kinks.The coast,kilns,heavenly bakeries nd fascinating people there call.
6.Grow my hair till it resembles overgrown tendrilly vines licking at my bangles.The poor locks were shorn this summer and are still undergoing emotional trauma.They need respite.
7.Worship work. It distracts when you need it to.
8.Write more. It nourishes me. You need to keep doing things to remind yourself that you're alive.
9.Value the people I dont value nearly enough.And perhaps feel less,for those I regard by virtue of their status in various contexts and not for whom they dont project themselves as.
10.Laugh more.And hold that feeling inside,like tightly winding an escaping balloon's string around your finger.
11.Work more for Film Club. It's so much bigger than a free audi screening.
12.Not think about thinking too much because it all just adds up. I keep discovering exactly how much one can layer thoughts over thoughts. Chunky Bakery puffs are healthier!
13.Smell the rain!
14.Love aloneliness. Not loneliness,that can stay for the poetry and the blue funks on sunday evening. Aloneliness is letting go and liking yourself and feeling the presence of many strange and beautiful elements in the little bubble hemisphered world around you.
Amen,
it's not too much to ask now,is it?

Classic December.

2008-12-24T19:32:00.004+05:30

If you're from around my campus, you might recognise the title as the theme for this month's Film Club screenings.
It's also apt for my mood of the month.
I was looking through a senior's blog, and discovered what it was like to feel inspired and let-down at the same time. I think to myself:Girl, start working. Forsake the idea that your coursework is draining/de-inspiring, and start imagining the exciting. The nouveau. The ideas you used to have that would have you frantically grope around for a pen, only to scribble a barely decipherible thought for later reference.
It's interesting how my state of mind can affect so much.

This is a classic December, with a wee bit too much of the December doldrums thrown into it.Maybe Im worn out from feeling too much and too little and trying to forget all those little cuts and scratches from a black t-shirt that lies beside my pillow....
I've stopped feeling as enthusiastic and charged up about 'things' like earlier. You know,Things.
Strange feelings, interesting people, new music.
Coming across a book in the KMC about ancient oceanic art.
Shooting the extraordinary Thangka paintings at Bailakuppe.
Sitting at Chai Gate- an official addict- and just looking at people,smiling inside all the while.
Stopping after 3 pages of a book and going back to read a line that suddenly made too much sense.
Laughing when iTunes opens a Portishead song from shared folder, bringing back memories of cackling girls and dim lights and 3am scrambled eggs in 12th std.
Going over and over the thought that Sekhar had put forth in August -"..this will make you a better storyteller.I am sure of it."
And then theres that greenish light filtering through the studio's thick, rippled glass panes.
And going by the brilliantly twinkling rich reds, virulent greens, burnt yellows, rani pinks so fast that they shriek like cloistering,glittering, colourful stars.Your eyes burn. Thats Law Garden, from a speeding auto. A distant roar of hawkers shoppers corn-eaters honking autos.

My plane will touch Bangalores concrete shores on friday evening. And I'll speed down the highway, that long winding road of blur and splattered watercolour trees in twilight.

And the skies will be purple and orange and dying yellows, because thats how the road from Mysore to Bangalore always looks.

And I'll laugh when Ma calls me morbid and hugs me, and my sister grumbles because I always steal the pillow, and the driver Deva grunts because that still-faced daughter is back and will demand the windows to be kept down so she can hang her hand outside to feel the window whip it turbulently.

Didnt you know that your hand could get cut off that way?
I always have.

But they still are glad that Im home, and the sun will set differently every evening for me.

bang.

2008-12-01T22:41:00.002+05:30

It smacks you in the face and leaves you gasping for breath.
Every sound is as insignificant as it is noticable,every hushed expression as tragically pathetic in the light of your own mind-storms.
A terrible coldness,calming and wintery,resides in the depths of your shallow heart.
Alcohol strings it out till your exhausted, photographs are too painful and hence not worth the time to put up and garland,opulently,on your dusty laden bookshelves.
You stare dumbfounded,(and sometimes,dare one admit,without emotion)at rows of melting candle stubs marking the memorial of someones death.
Today was the memorial for an ex-NIDian, a pg girl who left college to pursue fashion.She killed herself,and Im probably one of many who dont know why.
Last semester was Bobo's memorial,his was an ending you choose not to fathom because you end up feeling like youre drowning yourself.
Again,candle stubs have this impact.
They remind me-of what?-I cant tell you,it seems to elude me.I question too much.I would start to hate the sound of laughter,and avoid reading the daily flurry of articles on the Mumbai terror attacks.
They say Bangalores the next target,in 37 days. Im hellbent all the more on going home this month. One would like to spit in the face of these so called activists, and challenge fate that extra bit.

"Dare I disturb the Universe?"

I like to See.

2008-11-22T23:22:00.004+05:30

Thats why I like watching scenary the most.
A sheet of graying ocean,rippling broadly as a tremendous universe shifts beneath it.
A long,long green landscape with the blue Nilgiris rising stealthily,heavily,from a bed of mist.
The ring roads that border metropolises for miles.I can forget that lives were destroyed so that my Ford can be the queen of the highway and zip past on fuel weathered wings.
Trees,silhouetted and black,outside the orange rimmed window.Dusk brings out harsh cries and whirring wings.
I dont need glasses or lenses or any other impairments to help me translate forms that make sense.
I can awaken from travel-induced sleep and peer through the glass and feel significantly joyful.
I can forget(and who doesnt like to?)that the rain feels far,far better misting my face than it does to merely look at.

Jamaican jerck chicken-Eliots beach-GuindiSTOP.

2008-11-10T00:11:00.004+05:30

Before you
step
into
unconsciousness..

Where in the world is Guindi?
I staggered,rather than hopped,off a crowded Madras local train at that very station into blinding sunlight.Looks like the world still does manage to go on after 12 years living away from it.
Mum thai's musty,dusty and eternally dim-lit cluster of rooms inside corners.Cold maroon tiles,cold creaky door,and endless glasses of cold milky throat-ravaging liquid that I was gratified to refer to as 'moere'and not chaas.
What are inheritances.
And how ethical is it-in whatever context you may place it-to help tabulate your own?Lets eradicate,for a moment,the rare-case scenarios. I find that classifying every other scenario ends up in insulting the idea of 'once in a blue moon'. The question still buzzes.
Sorry reminders,overexposed photographs.
'Oops,I spilt rum on your mattress.'
Burden me,burden yourself. Burden the whole world by unburdening yourself upon an ungrateful multitude. Even better,stop thinking and start living a well-baked life.
Quite like the Jamaican jerk chicken I ate at something called an 'American Diner'.The sauce tasted like lemoney rasam,and the rice like puliogarre.It was divinely exotic,I might add.
Tamilian waiters can sound like Americans(Oh my GAAD!),and Malayalees like the English.(Oh my GOAWD!)That was the most edibly enlightening bit of conversation Ive had in quite a few months. Sorry National Institute of Dejine. My heart lies in south after all.

Paperback writer,write me a song and I'll sing along.
I go,I go,in search of peace and a happy means to an unpredictable and inconsequential end.
And I end my 2-week sabbatical with inky eyes,eyes ready to spill out your story and mine.

Coastward bound.

2008-11-01T17:28:00.004+05:30

Im coastward-bound again,next wednesday.
I'll smell the peculiar saltiness of Eliot's Beach again,which reminded me of sweet corn chicken soup when I was a 5 year old on the seaside roller skating rink.
I'll go to Kilpauk and reside there,my first time in twenty years.
I'll gasp and make fisheyes at myself in the auto rear view mirror as usual,because Im two decades old and still consider it twenty years born in that not-so-little burning sandy signboard-cloistered city of Madras.

"I grow old,I grow old ,
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled."

In between,I'll continue to develop on this wanderlust that seeks respite in the passages of my bloodstream and dream of the Orient,cherry cheesecake,blue bath tubs, tirupathi laddoos that I can never have,and that cold crimson-tiled house with one markedly empty,suddenly devoid little upstairs room.

I'll also say to myself:"Sing a song of happiness"

Of loss and love and learning to fly,of writing words that have a life of their own and spring across the page like jackrabbits.

a rainy afterthought.

2008-09-13T19:47:00.003+05:30

heat rising like clouds,
from the heavy trampling on black tar of baked,lethargic bodies.
eyes blinded,traffic lights a blasphemy.
throats parched and seeking respite.

.........and then it rained.

grey skies blew torrents at muncipal market square.
heart felt light and sang softly slowly skipping a beat every once in a while.

mellow,mellow memoirs of a foggy window.of a lily pond with darting nibblers,of her tinkling laughter across the other bed,while she spun stories and kept me feeling alive and oh-sp-happy to be myself.

that unforgettable feeling,that the whole world could be yours if you just painted it yourself.
that happiness could lie in two burnt cookies with milk,and imagining everyone 'ten years from now..'rich and struggling, page three four or five.climbing the golden ladder or still lost somewhere down below at 25.

when it didnt matter,or mattered too too much.

when we'd leave after school and grow old together or maybe-
cynically,casually,caustically-
lose touch as most people do when they begin new lives in new worlds.

a happy beginning to that ending.

to you,achala,and rainy confessional auto rides,and green goop corner house sundaes.

Last night it was Oct 16th and Aug 1st

2008-09-11T19:39:00.003+05:30

Can you
can you
Can you
Can you see the burning light?

Did they
Did they
Did they snatch your dreamless hours
and turn them into wakeless nights?

Have I

fallen

in
to
the
spiraling
twisting
strangling

voiceless empty void of the voyeaur

Did not wake up to nothing last night
Did not snap my knuckles
Did not cry for you, or you, or those two
Did not see darkness no light only white
white
white
the sun rose

and I hated he who stole my nightmares and gave me this
this
this dreamless sleep
this engulfing,stabbing
whitehotblade
that went through one shoulder
and swallowed the rest.

Death is the road to Awe

2008-09-09T00:11:00.003+05:30

I am the road to awe,not death.

Awe is too far away for death to reach,though they both had the same beginnings.

The road is just a road,and scuffs the burnt souls of your feet,bruises your lips,clouds your eyes,and cocoons your heart.

But I still walk the road to awe,and death smoothly hushes behind.

Speedy Gonzalez and I

2008-09-05T12:45:00.003+05:30

I am the cat on the moon.
I am the sea that bordered my neighbourhood when I was young,that clamoured with ship-lights and spilt harsh grey into the blue horizon.
I am a hundred years and a thousand unspoken words all into one.
I am the deepest trenches of a split,quartered and seamed heart,rustling with dry leaves and strumming the wind.
I am a small,inobtrusive bundle of letters in a rain-chewed notebook with a picture of a cat in a fishbowl on it.
I am an armful of glass,bone,silver and plastic bangles that spell a lullaby for every godforsaken morning I wake up to.
I am a believer in the eternal sunshine of the spotless mind.The ideology of a million spot reduced to nothingness.
I am the song that flew into my window this morning,and settled in a cloud of dust.
I am that layer of brown which paints the inside of a bone-white china tea-cup.
I am the Mean Green Amrikan Switt Corn eating machine.
I am constantly put off by battalions of che gueveras asking me "Why so serious?" when the Dark Knight released a few meaningless centuries ago.

I am here and you are there,and my words go into nowhere with the rush of Speedy Gonzalez....

On the turning away-ode to an Island

2008-08-05T13:27:00.005+05:30

At the most ludicrous of times you start humming off-key low-pitch high-strung too-fast...And Ive found the perfect moment to allow this ink scrawling to take over a song or two.Ironic,and I shan't tell why.

On the turning away
From the pale and downtrodden
And the words they say
Which we wont understand.....Dont accept that whats happening,is just a case of others suffering..
Or youll find that youre joining in
The turning away

------extracted from 'On the turning away',Pink Floyd.

I've built walls,
A fortress deep and mighty,
That none may penetrate
It's laughter and it's loving I disdain.

Don't talk of love,But I've heard the words before;
It's sleeping in my memory.
I won't disturb the slumber of feelings that have died.

If I never loved I never would have cried.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

I have my books
And my poetry to protect me;
I am shielded in my armor,
Hiding in my room, safe within my womb.
I touch no one and no one touches me.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

And a rock feels no pain;
And an island never cries.

------extracted from 'I am a Rock',
sung by Simon and Garfunkel

The Final Cut

2008-08-04T00:27:00.003+05:30

....and you're gone into the night.

Hours spent waiting,and waiting.And waiting some more,with a familiar sinking feeling.
Of loss?Or what else?
Did I already know it,and perhaps prepare myself for a rip in the mesh of my carefully constructed universe?
At first,it was a perturbed sensation.Why you didnt call.Why I feared that Id lose your presence at the worst of moments,when I most wanted you gone. Why,during a presentation on Goya's black paintings in class,that I blinked and saw myself in the artists' deafened world,engulfed with the blackness and sorrow and self-involved madness. My dreams deafened me and kept me from sleeping for many a night.
Worse yet was Bobo's funeral in May. I saw it happening.I felt a linkage,and kept my eyes and mind open for every single little thing,telling myself "you're going to be in this again sometime soon.And you know with whom."
Thats why I didn't go for the cremation today. An oven,blackened smoke,the creaking of gears,the heat and rippling terror of what is about to come. The final cut.

Waiting.

For Friday night to end and the rambling conversations,unnecessary packs of chips and cake("you must eat!")and abrupt,fearfully tight hugs to stop.
For sleep to evade me on the flight;it never did.
For the 11am call in Chennai-to resolve the confusion.My grandmother says-'say your final goodbyes.' The doctor says-'Hes gone.'
I say let it be,and sing a sad song to make it better.

Waiting.

To tell myself that that waxy yellowskinned man is not my father, that when I kissed his cheek it wasnt the stark,soiled bandages that were dead and cold to my lips.I pressed my lips to his face once again to make sure.
Those eyes didnt move under the film of tape when I spoke,clutching the now bony,fuzzy hand.
Thats not my father, he moved on a long time ago.
This is but a body,whose chest is being artificially pumped with a ventilator.
Exactly what kind of life support,I asked myself.Waiting for an answer and stiffening my features to look into my sisters eyes.

"A face to meet the faces that you meet".(TS Eliot)

I masked it well,perhaps to the point of seeming heartless.In response to the emotional irrationals of those around me,in response to that little voice that sang "no I wont break down.."

Why do we sing these ridiculous songs in our heads at times like these??

Waiting. To hear family friends say "you're too young" when someone had to sign the permit to take him off life support.

Technically holding that power in my palms,if you call it that. So i went into that blindingly white room all over again,where men strapped into faded white beds thrashed and moaned and frantically fastened their eyes onto anything around.Or simply lay still.Alive. Until I reached a corner with a lone red sign-'Handle With Care'.
I thought my first glimpse would be my last,but its inevitable that we have no choice when we want one most.
Thats not he,and so I signed.A mere formality.

Waiting till I fell asleep in a strange,impeccably cleaned apartment with neutral toned furniture. Knowing that we were all waiting for that blue zigzag to become a clean pure line,so that smoke would be all that was left.

I waited no more,and we caught the next flight at 3 the next day. Not before going to the house,and gathering some of the last remnants of a man who left no trace,wherever he went. We're alike in that way.
Numbly,eyes stretched wide open and polite nods of the head mark my departure.
Ambling in the Mysore house,crickets chirp and foods a mockery.

I dream of campus, and otherwise feel as detached as ever.

Years ago,Jazz told me-" We all face obstacles we think we cant face,at some points in our lives.Yours are just earlier."

A silent,rustling undercurrent at the belly of the sleeping monster.

Entre of a working woman

2008-05-26T12:52:00.004+05:30

That title sounds so good.
Todays the 1st day of my internship at a graphic design company.
Its website design time,for a rally racing company. me-the technologically ignorant creature,who manages to work her way through designery stuffs via a trial and error process with illustrator and photoshop-is currently enjoying the benefits of a mac.just dont tell all those mac-obsessed creatures on campus(who actually keep those free ipod apple logo stickers!)
so far,im LOVING these ComputerArts UK works,theyre so inspiring I could spend hours and hours and HOURS on them.
Above are some images of peoples work..
2 and a half weeks is going to fly by.
OH,and the people seem nice...If i open my mouth(still mouse in the house corner for me,squeaking questions earnestly and tripping over more than one wire!)
I think my ideas are good,but they never feel professional enough when you look at sites like Red Bull and all...do a bit of snip and cut here and there,play with images on illustrator and maybe SOME hand work...hopes hopes hopes.
so far so good.
:DDDD
*grins with anticipation*

Dr Jekyll takes a bow

2008-05-14T12:42:00.004+05:30

Indeedy it is.
Hope y'all like the 2o second photoshop/paint platter Ive spread above.
Delectable,aint it?
Ze new blog,eets up.
Take a peek at http://moonskulled-sea.blogspot.com
...for those who likes nais nais peektures,not my relentless yarns and spools.The end of one era,and beginning of the other.Well,not quite.But the choice is yours.
comments and suggestions welcome.

Chitron ka Bandhan

2008-05-12T22:44:00.002+05:30

Coming soon.
A blog with less words and more pictures,so rejoice,ye who bore of my tireless ranting!
For over a year now,Ive left a hundred stories untold between the pages of my sketchbooks.Now,its time to let those little critters out for a breath of fresh air.
The second blogs already got one post-but alas,I dont know how to un-do the 'private' setting listed so friends can see whats up...oh well,till then!
ps-Im aware the title is hypocritcal,as Im still struggling with my Hindi skills..give me strength and creativity people..:D

The Astounded Ocean

2008-05-10T23:27:00.003+05:30

"The days are bright and filled with pain
Enclose me in your gentle rain
The time you ran was too insane
We’ll meet again, we’ll meet again

Oh tell me where your freedom lies
The streets are fields that never die
Deliver me from reasons why
You’d rather cry, I’d rather fly"

It was like I felt nothing at first..then I saw the coffin,and I heard the cries of family and lovers who were suffering at a level I couldnt possibly fathom,and it hurt me inside like a fist knocking at battered wooden door,the sound echoeing...
I cant believe he's gone,and I had to be so strong..for a person or two who needed me,and that made me feel all the worse.
Death isnt about being poetic and morbid, about wearing skulls on ur t-shirt or contemplating the art of a glistening blade against young skin.It isnt about using dramatic words and it isnt about watching movies which sell sorrow and darkness.
Its about thinking about life itself, and how it can just.....go. disappear. vanish.
Id never seen a cremation before, Id never really felt the pang of the death of a loved one,like the merry old uncle who succumbed to cancer the year before,burying our laughter and memories with him.
I realised it affects you more when the persons someone you've lived with,laughed with or at,argued with or even eaten with. Someone who breathed the same air as you did....and you didnt see it any other way.
Why would you,really?
We're coccooned,all of us,safe and insecure in our worlds that keep colliding,always bouncing back and taking the simplest things for granted.
It makes me want to appreciate what I have more.Its rare I feel this,for I feel few things close to me. I actually wanted to return to Mysore, and Im soaking in the feeling right now.
Im speechless,and Im blank,and I dont like explaining it beyond the fact that I want,want,want to be back on campus right now...

Just to know what it feels like again.

jam jar

2008-04-26T12:33:00.004+05:30

Im caught in the jam jar.
That would have been the title for this illustration/painting,nearly 2 years ago now.
how the years have flown!
I remember I had fallen so low,sunken into my own head,all because of a little bit of paper Id received from someone.I felt utterly rejected and everything that goes with it,you know...
then an hour past that feeling,a friend of mine,lets call her gaycat(is neither and both of the two words)took me on a walk.

Small hands firmly grasped my own,and we walked furthur off campus.Past rusty gates meant to be opened,and past groves of trees which held the wind-cackling voices of the minions of witches,to be sure,at night.We kept walking.
Then the land dipped,and dry golden grasses scratched our arms and hid us.Then the land split,and rocks emerged like beached sea creatures.We lay on our backs,and the heat seeped through cloth and skin.
We talked of cabbages(the wilted ones) and kings(the many downfalls and triumphs).What we wanted and simply how we didnt know what we wanted.We were disappointed and happy and glad to be lying on bare stone in a bare land talking to the skies.
During an exercise at the study centre,with the commerce and humanities batches mixed,we had to speak of our happiest and saddest moments.I spoke of that day.
And then,one hour late,we strolled into art class.They were there,the friends and the mixed feelings ones and the small talkers.I swallowed in my disilliusionment and spread it out onto paper with crayon and ink.

watching clouds make patterns

2008-04-24T16:41:00.004+05:30

Summer vacation has truly begun.
Im sitting in a cottage in Mysore(my mums'),and spending my days wondering why:
-I dont paint
-I dont write
-I have lots and lots of ideas,
spilling into one another and skittering across the floor,desperately hoping to be picked up.
I cant say that I feel that same desolation I felt over the past year,wondering what I was doing and why,and whether this was good enough and if that wasnt a mistake after all....
Things disturb me.A supposed friend recently 'took' an entire concept from me.Its funny to defend an idea,especially when its only something youve talked and laughed about and done the funny sounds and visualised the comical timings and characters and what not.Nevertheless,it was something that meant a lot to me.I dont talk about my ideas to many people,because either a)I dont socialise with many and b)I usually think they wont understand (and sometimes,'wierd' stops being interesting and starts me overthinking about what people really mean when they say...)
Then I realise that this happens a lot to people,but they deal with it in a better way.Such as cutting it at the source,and abiding by 'creativity is best when its hidden'.

Its a puzzle.
Id rather just trust people.
YAH!you humbug!

upsidedowned saraswathi

2008-04-07T17:14:00.002+05:30

saraswathi=godess of knowledge.
so where do i figure in that one?
skimming the skies with my toenails only!
a year has passed,is passing,heck,its passed.
im looking at everything with dimmed eyes.i cry more frequently for no apparent reason...this realization comes seconds after the moment.
and then i feel like a silly fool who doesnt know how to comprehend the world around her.
maternal love has never been such a meaningful factor for me.i missing mummy.strange,you say?me the detached little absorbant/observant prune!

animation film designer. aiiyo. why the tag. and will i get it?lately everything seems unfair.i got a b+ in design drawing,for gods sake ive got piles of extra work.and quality too.c+in science and liberal arts.all because of a late assignment.
its hard to imagine these could affect so much.
so much.

swirl of the feltpen girl

2008-04-03T14:31:00.001+05:30

limelight squeezer

2008-03-19T20:59:00.000+05:30

limelight squeezer
inaudible screamer
"trawling your dark as owls do"
why do you sing so loudly?
how do you smile so widely?
where do those helium-filled promises fly to?

a spoonful of sugar and a bright blue sky.
a river of promises and empty canoes.

i find it hard to take you seriously.

thriving in a crowd like a baby on a milk high.
a weed in the flowerbed.
a needle in my finger.
why do i let you affect me so?
i dont crave the sky you seek so sweetly so unconscience-ly
without a care for all the little ants you trod on
so intent upon painting your words on that brick wall for all to see.

i find it hard to take u seriously.

momentous hugs,instant maggi happiness.
vows of great intent and little feeling.
little feeling or too much.

its like the eternal question while making that perfect cup of coffee.
"how much sugar?"

i find it hard to take you seriously.

i really do!

the fountain and the light

2008-01-12T21:17:00.000+05:30

for every shadow,no matter how deep,is threatened by the morning light".
Izzy(the fountain)

I kept telling myself to watch it,and so did he,so far away in various scattered lands.

worth every single second.

and all exaggerations can fly away with the wind.

what was it about?

the meaning of life *tantararaah!*
spirituality?
and there was this kinda pure love inscribed into the whole movie,about she and he and they and their world through three ages. ancient spain with blood gore and the mayan jungles.present day(or maybe 10 years ahead) with a dying woman blinding snow and an unfinished tale.
like a poem,like something you and i and no one else in this universe could ever conceive and portray.
it was so beautiful.so incredibly made,i fell in love with love all over again.
and i never thought itd happen so suddenly,like that gigantic bubble racing through Xibaba.
Xibaba,the dying star wrapped in a nebulis....the death-world of the mayans.its all a part of the tale of the fountain,the tree of life.
ordinarily,im your average scarred feminist cynic.the one who fell in love once upon a sunshine valley ouch* ago and afterward,after the ward,couldnt see it any more.
thank god for this.else id be a senseless moron.
and haha isnt that easy these days?especially here.(oops,here comes the cynical side..)
a random outburst at the insensitivity heard in the auditorium today.
this girls breaking down onscreen,real pain(koel puris just killer in everybody says its fine,methinks).shes been repeatedly molested by her father.since childhood.u see her unravelling,the confusion,the lovehatred i feel myself ouch* and people LAUGH.imitate her moans while the movie pauses. this reminds me of the time when one of the faculty in the 1st course was gay..reactions to him were so STUPID.honestly.like 5th std kids,who laugh at their teacher who wears strange shoes or something.
this place isnt liberal,for all it claims. sure its liberal,say the few wise voices...we can party smoke up in class bunk a week....gee whiz,id like to dunk you down the loos in the insti.(hehehehehe sadistic laugh)
random unrelated thoughts after sudden love rush i felt during the fountain.
oh well.
toodles.
yeah and its funny how this has gone from being a private blog to...
well more people i unexpectedly gave this site name to.
eeshes and feeshes.:O

whiskey and wired

2007-12-01T20:38:00.000+05:30

strung on a line of soft cotton linings
of yellow and fluff,
he lay curled up,
his ears folded back.

burnt sepia fur,
an eye turned blind to the world.

when he was happy,
he sang the song of gargles
in a hot water shower
after a friday night of whiskey and lemons in water.

his tail twitched like the jagged barb
at the middle gates when life reared back on its hind legs.

fickle love dusted the corners
of the scruffy soul,
warm palms swept him away.

it was cold on the court
and he chewed up a battilion large,black ants which smelt of a strange juice.

"malignant fate with looks intent"
tossed him into room 304
and hence i lift my heels
to pay him a token visit.

whiskey purrs.

returns,reminsces.

2007-11-22T00:18:00.000+05:30

This is it.
I return tomorrow,
to the city of walls.
many threads left knotted and
still others wrapped up.
I cried my heart out and
slowly pulled it back together.
found some stones amidst the shards of glass.
Theyd reflected off the newfound-sungod which was left in.
laughed,accidently.
then god said it was good,so I laughed some more.

its still happening.

a long way to go,
and Im leaving on a jet plane!

dust smoke blurry eyes dark ledges off which you stare into the lawns
and attain enlightenment.

at 5am,in september.
wake me up when it ends,
for Im happy and Im alive and Im leaving tomorrow to NevereverherenowLand
and relief trepidition excitement familiarity is crowding my senses.

like a tower.

2007-11-17T00:03:00.001+05:30

caught in the thorns of the words I heard.
a desire to strip my skin bare
and paint those wires red.
the lonely mast plays with the skies
so turbulent
like the sea at high tide
a deathly calm
with the low mourn of the dirge.

this isnt sorrow.

it's what happens when the ash tree battles the wind.
when I lifted glass bottles and painted the whitewashed walls a different hue.

disgustshamerageconfusion
regret?
regret what?

that,my friend,is the question.

for id need a hundred more seas and twenty fleets of ships to erase the clouds which sparred across my battlefield,the days i thought and the days i fought.
within and without.

blue strung on high wires

2007-11-16T22:27:00.000+05:30

Its funny how a single colour
can evolve with a shade
deeper than the rest.
you dip one finger into a pot of black
and in that single,
gratifyingly slow,
dramatic instant,
the view shifts.

the virgin blue.
centuries of mistrust and betrayal
lies sunken lower than the bottom of a barge.
reborn,
history repeats itself in those softly unspoken whispers

etched on your back.
stained with the moss of
"a hundred sordid images".
a wine red sliced deeper
slower
achingly more mottled than all the rest
it bubbles beneath
the cold sheet of iced blue.

the boat sails.
the wire is drawn.
the bottles capped.

"because it dripped down the sides ".
"my family portrait".
"I didnt have a sharper brush".

"dare i disturb the universe?"

2007-10-22T18:56:00.000+05:30

fingers dusted with yesterdays words
they traced your name and mine
in a hundred patterned cuts.
skin on skin,
eyes devouring a universe.

the times i said "this will not do"
and for all the years i wish it hadn't.

a smile stretched too wide at all the wrong hours
when notes struck a jarring discord
the goblet shatters.
breaks.
shimmers.
a million different pieces,each split in half
your words and mine.
my face today and the one ill wear tomorrow.

"and i have seen them all...."
the cats that drank their own blood on speckled floors.
the painting i broke with the other echoes in my head.
the whispers that strung a washing line between the high towers.
the screams,
the sighs,
the silences,
the black darkness inside the tightly capped bottle of ink.

these words go out to the unnamed few.
perhaps one or two.

child.

2007-10-20T16:01:00.000+05:30

she was a princess
queen of the highway
no can stop her...
broken glass pieces of parts
splinters from a door once opened
the windows creak
the wind blows
she stares out
unseeing.
"everything all looks different.."
the world outside is cold
inside,the bird sings
a sad long song
of love
and peace
and cries
and all things inbetween.
hm hm.

it happens

2007-08-05T13:23:00.000+05:30

WHY
why
and whYYYYY
sang the cat to the bumblebee on her window.
why now,
when now isnt now but in the month of february
when everything seems to be a perfectly baked cake
alll sugared and toasted with bittersweet cinnamon and iced just the right amount.
why did bugs that smell of coconuts enter the lives of kavebess that pondered over mighty mites?
its a strange story with a happy middle.it deserves a happy ending,durst it not?
this cat feels lonely and meows pitifully when her cellphone doesnt beep,or the post office room door is locked,or her inbox is empty despite pile of orkut/facebook scraps.
its the littler things which matter,and she washes her paws.
outside,its raining.
inside,the city of walls stays put.it holds much within and still she looks out.

dedication to one,with iris by the googoodolls playing in the background.

ze strange and ze byootifools...

2007-07-30T19:05:00.000+05:30

I'm not sure what I quite want to snip out today.keyword mindfabric for the uninformed.
change is in the air,I can feel it.
I didnt sleep last night.a couple of things happened,which were all a part of this not-so-uncommon-anymore phenomena.
firstly,i vented,on the rare occassion.voiced out a frustration that has been echoing in my heart for quite some time now.the listener listened and said
"well Im not sure what to say about that right now".
I ached,and felt better.listening to helplessness on one end of the phone is always better than hearing something that you dont want to.
After that,i socialised.sat with some seniors who werent so bad,and laughed till our sides split about the antics of the various fools u meet between the pages of tinkle comics.also consumed a bun stuffed with piping hot,red masala doused egg bhujia at 2am.
even more interestingly,two pyjama clad boys rode into the verandaharethingamajiggy on a rickety cycle and offered sliced buns with margerine clinging onto the sides-voila the maska-bun!happycat consumes them at 530am.and goes off to her room at 8am.and goes to class.and falls asleep.and gets dehydrated.and then ironically thulps off some killer coffee..!all very very good,she reassures herself.
anyhow,change.
yeah.
so shes talking to those people and feels a current in the air.is it good,or is it bad?her toes tingle and she thinks Lets Experiment With This One.

people are strange
when youre a stranger...

pitfall smile

2007-07-17T19:19:00.000+05:30

If I Could Paint Your Picture
I'd Paint You As The Sea
I'd Let You Become The Tide
If I Could Fall Into You
I'd Let You Swallow Me
So I Could See You From The Inside
And It's A Cruel Melody
That You Sing When I'm Away
Trying To Find Where The Sun Shines
In A Land That's Turning Gray
And It's A Cruel Memory
To Look Back On Who We Were
'cause My Past Is A Poison
And I'll Never Find A Cure
If I Could Break A Promise
I'd Tell 1000 Lies
To Have You Look At Me Agains
But Your Heart Is Empty Of Me
I See It In Your Eyes
It Wasn't Meant For Me To Win
And It's A Cruel Melody
That You Sing When I'm Away
Trying To Find Where The Sun Shines
In A Land That's Turning Gray
And It's A Cruel Memory
To Look Back On Who We Were
'cause My Past Is A Poison
And I'll Never Find A Cure
Take Me Away, I Might As Well Be Yours

Fall in love or something like it,and feel happy when you least expect to....
the lyrics sent by a fool fallen into the same pit that I
did a year ago.

bookstores bring out the best of the blues

2007-07-17T18:50:00.000+05:30

you walk into crossroads,and are bathed in yellows.

and of course its one of those aah!I see the light now! kinda moments.
i was soaked in chocolate flavoured coffee(doused by an earnest,apologetic friend who later allowed me to drink her coffee up)and dying for a restroom.walking past those rows of polished bookshelves,my eyes began flickering-
birdsswim fishfly-gayathri prabhu

the famished road-ben okri

half of a yellow sun-adichie

the rising tide-amitav ghosh
and i couldnt stop my feet from following my eyes and devouring all those titles.hungry was i,dying for a book to fall into.
or so i thought.
it was then,while browsing through these emotional,psychologically intrigueing capsules full of image-soaked ink blood that i heard a calling.

i wanted to write!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
like write properly,more than typing out random scraps and under/over dramatizing them(right from the heart of course)into my blogspace.at one point,my notebook with the cat in the fishbowl on its cover was my life.what i felt,i spilled onto its pages in a cryptic script which meant little to those who chanced upon it,but made more sense than the facts-of-life to me.

i wanted my name to be on one of those intrigueing pieces of literature,and it was more than fame calling me.
to be more precise,it was
Fate.

Fine,laugh at me.but ive decided one thing after looking clearly at a coupla other things namely
#1-Im pursueing a diploma/degree in design,at a place i wanted to be in for a good portion of my life.
#2-on the other hand,anything i do as a lifecalling will definitly involve art(proper art,not this design technique nonsense of perrfectlineslineslines and principles and multidisciplinaryapproachyadayada)people(learning about them,being with them,the whole shindig) and literature.wherein i will write.

it sounds so simple!

and i will be so happy!

nothings gonna change my world....lalalala..jai guru deva...

Ps-do note abovementioned books,my birthday occurs at the end of this year and such consideration will be truly appreciated.

of lost strings and buttons

2007-07-15T23:35:00.000+05:30

along the way,you stitch your bit of fabric.
it was yeats who wrote a poem(which a certain fisheelaydy introduced me to)about how dreams are like sheets of embroidered cloths,with interwoven blues and golds..you had to tread carefully upon them for they were all he had.
the strings are the connections..the links to people,the knots that sometimes happen.they can tug at the corners of your mind,sometimes with a sharp,nagging jerk and otherwise mere reminders of what your pathway in life involved.

the buttons are the ones you sew on yourself.you make relationships and sometimes stitch them on extra tightly with the strings,hoping they wont fall off.
after all,you dont always get those neat little extra buttons(identically matching) in the inside of the fabric.

so what do i see now?
i cant find some buttons.there was a neat,perfect little pearltoned one iv had for 15 years.i didnt see it for a while but found some thread holding it on,however loosely.hope.

then the stubborn,hard,wooden one which held onto my fabric itself.i cut it off with a sharp pair of scissors and it fell down with a clunk.right now,im searching for it.not quite sure it has a place yet,though.
and theres the large red one,which smells of frenchfries,liquerchocolate,coconuts,the new year,cocoa,warmth,and something familiar which i havent found elsewhere.

it rolled off by itself into a dark little corner.there are times i see it glinting-but thats just to show its there.theres nothing connecting it to my fabric...except one worn,knotty little string.

the needles pricking my fingers and i cant be bothered to search for the other buttons...theyre drifting away into smoke,in and out,like mooring ships.

sing me a song

2007-07-02T20:10:00.000+05:30

...said the little girl with the inky eyes.
and so the pool of water lying in front of her sang.
it opened up and swallowed her whole,as she flew in a long-drawn,gurgly and high pitched sound floated out.
it was dark with long streaks of light filtering through.she couldnt see much but her ears were twitching.and then the song began again.
its colours were a dark,vaguely shimmering red and an a shade of yellow she could only describe as misty.
it didnt make much sense to her,this wasnt what shed asked for.
she tried to fly up and push through the ceiling.but she didnt land up on the other side,in the world where she asked for a song and didnt hear it.
it didnt make much sense and so she tipped her head down,looking into another pool of water.

suppose everything

2007-06-22T19:53:00.000+05:30

...............was different and you were in this different place.maybe u wanted to be there all your life(ah you know us humans,all our dreams and hopes and yadayada for the 'future')and suddenly youre there.partly luck,partly talent,partly that roll of the dice which cometh from above.
its strange.once your actually living in that castle of dreams,you find out life aint all that chirpy(pardon the pun but birds DO fly high in the sky:D)up there.au contraire,you find yourself longing for the old familiars..no matter how good,bad or ugly the new experiences are.
people,mostly.you meet em in all colours and shapes.its a brillaitn experience..starting new relationships and discovering layers,lucky if u can be the one to peel em.
whatever it is...you dont stop or rather CANT stop closing your eyes once in a while-or rather every few minutes-and taking a breather.
if only we could all be dorothies and meet wizards of ozes(ozes????)and click our spankin new red shoes together and chant "theres no place like home" a billion times or so.
home is where the heart is..all so clichedly perfect a thought.

dream on,baby

2007-06-03T22:42:00.000+05:30

and i was there,in the flesh...as much as he was.steven tyler,u may have a sinewy strung out face which aint the prettiest sight on huge screens but that concert was a rip roarer if ever i saw one.

right in front!clutching onto puppysha as we sang along word to word..."..the sweetest dream would NEVER do.."..love lorn lovers,no doubt.strange looks undeterred.memories of loo singing intensified.

excitement factor 9.

hoarseness factor 11.1

girlieness factor(well lets see 4 of us.high pitched voices.drooling over joe perrys fingerwork.kicked as ever about the fact that we were THERE.no male company to soothe the screamy female factor,note.)..so thats a big 12.

and joe perry...fine a little too much billing from tyler but none the less awwwwwwwwwwgh.so beautiful.
i was there!in the sweaty flesh!dyyyyying for some bisleri (^$@^$*#s confiscated it at the entrance).

i've heard 'em say

'overrated'.
'steven tyler so didnt want to be there on stage...'

'didnt play dude looks like a lady/crazy/amazing'
ill admit i wanted those numbers too.

exhilirated...that was what we came for,right?so who's complaining???
oh,and 'living on the edge'.
so pumped up,i'm still split wide grinning.

sighs...back to homebase tomorrow.

oh well-atleast im visiting the alma mater.and chocopie mama,whos place i shamelessly ended up at,just gave me a rawther lovely letter to read.also batboy called and made me whine and laugh and think,"do i really sound that much like a baby in person?"

talk about jogging down memory lane..this cats on her last leash.i'm just waiting with all my heart for college to start.

countdown begins:9 days.

as kingfishers catch fire,dragonflies draw flame

2007-05-31T14:28:00.000+05:30

they painted up your secrets with the lies they told to you/
and the leash they ever gave you was the most you ever knew/
and you wonder where those dreams go/
when the world gets in your way.

frida kahlo.queen of the highway.sometimes a harpy in your nightmare,everything you ever wanted to be secretly.or maybe everything u knew you were but hid inside you.

pale watermelon sliced to perfection, a monkey(i once met one,called marathi), blood red drapes on the grecian godess' tainted skin.the ring you keep losing,or the one which broke and now sleeps between those jeans which used to fit a summer ago.

archetypes are a strange concept.i wonder how jung managed not to lose his head between all those soul searching and mind cracking.

she had such a brilliant,dramatic life!frida,i mean.ironically you see just how beautiful salma hayek really was..shes nothing close to the raw deal.

imagine losing your toesies right before u lose ze headsies.

yikes.

i likes.

bing bong and coconut oyl

2007-05-31T00:50:00.000+05:30

calcutta was the city for bonefisheii and me.weeks of planning(not the organised sort,darlings,castles in the air hold up the best) and more importantly a hell of a lot of cajoling(please?PLEASE?@*$@%`# then..) and we were off.
clambered into that dutty,dutty little carriage and tried not to make friends with the lovely,earnest strangers on the upper berths.ate squashed mangoes and said "we'll never forget this".
typing this more than two weeks later i agree.so did the roaches and that little ant which crawled into my pants and nibbled on some skin.not quite the closure i wanted.fishielady takes lots of photos and we swing our feet out of the train,talkin about life and those many gossippy thingies and those even more pressing issues such as when the hell we were going to get there.karnataka,andhra(boy that was huge) orissa(the script i deem as rawther cool) and lets not forget,drenched in layers of sweat.for gods sake the water bottles were melting!not really,but the water seemed pretty steamy anyways.
calcutta!across the howrah on the ferry.out again by taxi.then the metro.tram.oldfashioned matchbox buses.auto once(yaaaah bengaluru beat that)
bignosedboy hosted us through all the modes of transport,including our feet.aaaach.acres across the freaking maidan.101 temperature.sunstroke?ill never know.it made for a highly dramatic night though.we shall not get into the ways,one must have a privacy policy you know.*sly smile*.
oh and guess how our fishy friend was dropped off?in style no less.bong-land has never seen(undue credit,here)the sight of three scruffy youths squashed into a cycle rickshaw.the things people will do for a buck....and the things one will endure for a ride in the heat.needless to say,i sacrificed a little more than my dignity that day.
revisiting ones childhood-water park??oh well,it made bignose happy.polkameow tries not to drown in wavepool.theres a LIMIT to standing on your toes,after a while god stands back to laugh at the 5 foot something struggling to beat the odds.
and froots!galore!!talsa?say what?these things taste like coconut but look like flat lichis.then furry purple seeds which taste like velcro,deemed 'dilchious'.slurp.then gooseberry flesh-like,capsicum-shaped ones which remind one of....nothing.
if i was mrs moore(old lady,deluded,nice philosophizing though despite being trapped in a cave and hearing echos..)id say:
"from everything comes nothing,and nothing everything."
love and peace.

merry christmas,you sulky cat.

2006-12-25T00:36:00.000+05:30

As of now my mind has a marketplace of thoughts colliding into one another and it isnt a pretty sight.
Interesting yes,for there are violent images referring to "I hate men!"declarations(of northindian mites and marshmallow origin),
fond reminiscences of my feline friend slevin(whos turned out to be female,after all),
and caantemplations (as put a hotheaded malyali nigga i know of)
about whether it was a good idea to create a random blog in the first hour of xmas
as per the advice of a literary character from a 19th century poem,known to many as la belle dame sans merci/bonifisheii.Love you narcisstic hotheaded leatherclad bonifisheii,who ironically has permanent xmas 'coloured lights' in her room that 'lighten up' my life..hehehe.
Strawberries and cream come close to heaven when consumed at 11 pm AND procured furitively from a rattling old fridge.
On rawther a serious note I here endeth.
meow and a merry christmas to myself.