Hello from No 10 Rue de Presbourg

I used to call this plave Moulin Rouge on account of the red carpeting, red bedspread, towels etc, but really, No 10 Rue de Presbourg is SO much more alluring and grand-sounding. The building is old - it used to be a house ( I like to think some Comte owned it and then fell on hard times and was forced to let it out for rent) and it has retained pretty much all its old-timeyness. The staircase is winding, the hallways are long and silent. Best of all are the doorbells....those round, ornamental, brass ones with a knob in the centre that you have to press.

The apartment itself is tiny, perfect for one messy person to live in. Luckily, Dad and I are alike enough as to BE one person, so we're ok.
The bathroom...is weird. There is a large mirror over the basin and a full-length one behind the door. The thing is...the full-length one is what you see if you sit on the pot and turn your head to the side. Seriously, who wants to see themselves while sitting on the pot?! If that is the French sense of humour, they're better off leaving it to the Brits.
I'm sleeping on a red(of course) sofa. It isn't long enough...my feet stick out at the end. It's nice knowing there's something I'm too tall for :)
It's autumn in Paris and there are maple leaves and heavy rain. There has been much potatoes, cheese and meat happening, and I have already found 5 pairs of shoes I covet!
Yesterday. I arrived without getting into too much trouble. Arrived home to find I had misplaced my comb and that my father does not believe in clothes irons. He has one, but has no idea how to use it. So...my first outing in Paris on this trip was sans ironed clothes and with hair straight off a 10 hour flight. Good thing I'm not concerned with glamour, I guess!
Today, I wandered my my way through the Arc de Triumph and all the way down Champs-Elysees. Everybody walks very fast there. There are cafes and restaurants all over, but I think they are frequented mostly by men who wish to avoid shopping with their partners. So they sit down and have coffee or a glass of wine while their lady shops happily, then comes and meets them.
My apologies for the rather scattered entry....I'm fearfully sleepy, and the laptop is almost out of battery. I'd put it to charge, but I already managed to blow up the hairdryer this morning, simply by plugging it in.
Au revoir,
T

blabber

It's been a long, long week. We're understaffed at work, I've had days when I've worked like a well-oiled machine, and a couple of days when I was just too tired to do anything. But good things have happened to. I had a long talk with Shakun two days ago. And a long-ish chat with Frobscottled. There is something about connecting, listening to these important people that softens me. Frobscottled is in a fragile place just now, and I wish, wish, wish I could be there with her. Shakun is...as beautiful as ever. As eager, as forgiving, as ready to let me be. My job doesn't allow for softness. And I don't regret what I become in my workplace. But catching up, trying to bring some calmness, some joy to a friend's mind satisfies me no end.
Apart from this, I bought lovely new agarbattis and have been having good vibes with A. I've never written a poem for A, or filled page after page in my journal about him....maybe it's because there's very little left unsaid between us. Either way..good feelings are always welcome.
Now..am off to sleep. Looking forward to a lazy Independence Day :)


Apart from this,

Will you go out with me?

At work today, there was some talk of doing a feature on 'How to ask a girl/guy out.' I was asked my preferred 'style' of being asked out...and of course I didn't know. This is mainly because all the guys I've dated have been very good friends. So our 'first date' was simply us hanging out and having fun.
But it did get me thinking. How would I like somebody to ask me out? Now, the word/concept of 'date' unnerves me. There's just too much of 'what will he think?' and 'do I seem to too eager???' and 'ohmigod do I have food stuck in my teeth??!!' I don't like making a big deal of dates. The same goes with being asked out. I don't want melodrama. I'd like it if he was quietly persistent and not in the least arrogant. If he asked me in a way that I simply couldn't refuse. Not because I didn't want to hurt him, but because he made me want to know him.
One thing I definitely don't want is to be 'proposed to.' I don't want some guy telling me he loves me right at the start. Or saying, 'Will you be my girlfriend?'
I can never simply be a date or a girlfriend...these are terms that make me squirm. I'll be a partner, a chum, a buddy, a lover, a force of nature...and I'd like the guy who asks me out to get that. Which explains why I've been friends first with all my boyfriends.
So there you have it. Don't try to date me, make me want to know you...and you've got yourself a good deal

Fanspeak: Harry Potter & the Half-Blood Prince

I wanted to write this review soon as I was out of the theatre, because, well, a day of work, too much talk and not enough attention leaves its mark on my writing. But I shall put my fascination with Harry Potter above all this...

Firstly, the HP movies are worth watching only if you're an HP fan. If you're a fan of fine cinema, I'm not too sure what you'll get out of them, except maybe the adaptation and the cinematography. You have to have read the books breathlessly, ensured you watch every movie first-day-first-show and follow all bits of Potter news with nothing less than obsession.

The makers of Half-Blood Prince depend heavily on the goodwill of HP fans. A fan who has read the print version of HBP will know its bulk, understand that to bring the intricacies, the dozens of connections that JK Rowling penned, are not possible to squeeze into a two-and-a-half-hour long film.

Instead, director David Yates looks at the bigger picture, the wider issues in the story. The characters are growing up. They are more confident, more daring, more accepting of what lies ahead. Daniel Radcliffe is a grown-up Harry. He can ask out a pretty girl in a diner without turning blue in the face. He knows his path will never be easy, and if need be, he will sweet-talk Professor Slughorn to get what he wants. Rupert Grint is his usual, goofy, lovable Ron (man I love the guy!) and Emma Watson is fresh and pretty. But it is Tom Felton who steals the show. Draco is tortured, torn in this part of the story. Felton's hollow cheeks, haunted eyes and occasional outbursts are perfect for a teenage boy chosen and condemned to perform dark deeds.

Growing up, the Potter clan of characters are also forming new relationships. Ron and Hermione are intensely aware of one another. Ron, despite his best efforts to play it cool, notices when Hermione has toothpaste at the corner of her mouth or a Butterbeer moustache. Harry and Ginny are together in the audience's mind right from the start of the movie, when she hugs him soon as he arrives at The Burrow. The Kiss, that is so magnified in the book is underplayed here to say the least. But there are moments of wonderful anticipation that had the audience on their feet and hooting. Ginny saucily asking, 'Who's the Half-Blood Prince?' and tossing the book of spells playfully at Harry. Ginny feeding Harry a pastry. But what cements the bond is after when Harry is leaning over Dumbledore's lifeless body and Ginny steps through the crowd, kneels next to him and holds him. Rarely has Harry Potter had somebody to physically comfort him.

Nostalgia and a subtle sensuality shimmers all around HBP. This is the last movie where we will see the clan as students in Hogwarts. Innocence is rapidly dying out, whether by falling in love or by plotting the Headmaster's death. These are the themes the movie picks out. In cinematography, in the sweeping background score and the director/screeplay writer's understanding that Rowling's characters, as well as their own actors are moving, albeit shakily, towards adulthood. That perhaps, is the movie's greatest strength.

Letters from the open seas

My grandparents are currently in the US, visiting my aunt. They went on a 10-day Alaskan cruise. Here are the mails my grandad sent me.

The cruise was an experience that was beyond description...it had to be gone through as it a different world as it were. If we were forty years younger, we would have gone onto the ice-land instead of viewing it from the ship. And the ship and its arrangements and luxuries - those were really countless, of all paid for as part of the fare, but you have to imagine a 14-storied vessel carrying 2200 passengers looked after by about 1000 -strong crew who organised and ran, besides the ship, five restaurants, one fully equipped Broadway-standard theatre-hall,one dining hall that could seat probably all the passengers at a time, a cyber cafe, three fully covered heated swimming pools besides five open-air ones including a zacuzzi ( spelling ? ) and probably two dozen eating places covering half a deck which catered for all tastes 24 hours.Yes, I had taken about 200 photographs which have been edited to about 80, all waiting to be processed from the digital camera., but no photograph can show the majesty of the scenes.Hope I shall be able to show those to all soon.

A while later...

I forgot some important points.11th was devoted to the best Club incl the foremost viewing gallery and behind them was a huge area devoted to indoor games including table-tennis, billiards, computers and outside them were a shuffleboard and a jogging track 1/3rd km longwhich ran roubd all these. the three decks above them were the places where passengers could go for viewing and watching and photographing the surroundings. It was from these that jampacked passengers took pictures of the Inside Passage, glaciers and icebergs of various sizes.Several classes were held - for exotic dancing, making wine and champagne cocktails, GK contests were held etc. All these were hled when there were nothing much to see except open seas. The stage shows were of Broadway hits and of the same quality. There is no end to the experiences.

Letter

Dear Michael,

I've been sitting watching your videos, listening to your songs, reading bits and pieces of your life...

Had I known you even a little bit, I would likely have played big sister to you and screamed when you got your skin changed. I'd have told you not to be stupid. Because your smile was genuine when your skin was dark. As was your sadness. You were far more poignant sitting in a blue sweater singing 'She's Out of My Life'than going 'You Are Not Alone' with droopy hair.

I'm sorry, I'm being mean. I don't speak ill of musicians usually, and certainly not dead ones. But then that's what I like about you, Mikey. That you wear silver jumpsuits and sparkling socks and yet...people on the road, when they're arguing sometimes say, 'ei, apne aap ko Michael Jackson samajhta hai kya??' And they would all know exactly who they were talking about. Nobody says, 'ei, apne aap ko Jim Morrison samajhta hai kya?'

You want to know a secret Mikey? Eh? When I was about seven years old, I thought the epitome of success was to be able to walk like you did in Billy Jean. You know, with the jacket slung over your shoulder and one hand in your pocket. I fell in love with Slash at age six, but playing the guitar with a cigarette peeking through your hair just isn't attainable. You always seen much more within reach.

I won't talk about skin and lawsuits and loneliness - what could I say that you haven't lived through countless times...

I've been writing to you entirely in the present tense, have you realised? I'm not sure why, it just seems more feasible, more direct. Or maybe it's that your videos are playing even as I write.

I'm not sure about things that live in our hearts, Mikey...I mean, no offence, but yours stopped. What chance has mine got to preserve you forever...

So I'll make no promises with my heart, y'hear? But I'll tell you this, you'll always be in my feet and in my pelvis. Because without you there I have no hope of ever doing with them what you do.

I wish you peace, Mikey. As much as I possibly can wish. I think it was the one thing even you couldn't dance your way to.

Yours, in sequins and freaky hats,

Me

Waving

The main reason I haven't been writing is that I've been working, eating junk and sleeping. Not very exciting. Another, more complex reason is that this blog is accessible to too many people. It's nice, sometimes, to be found by some of them...but I tend to clam up when observed by too many.

Also, blame it on journalism, on being crammed into a writing/editing mould for 8 hours a day...but I have temporarily lost the ability to be random and totally honest.

Which means...if I'm crying bucketfuls of tears and snot, I can't lurch over to the laptop and type out a few broken lines through trembling fingers. I now write like somebody who edits copies that are read by a certain number of people.

In a way, it's great...it's just the kind of discipline I was looking for. But, the downside is that by the time I'm through with being a journalist (yes, I do stop) I'm too tired to write anything of my own.

I figured this out a few minutes ago while replying to a comment on my previous post. I used the word 'beautiful' in my response...and the word felt strange to my fingers. I haven't written it in a long time, you see.

No one's stopping me from being poetic and hyper-intense on my blog...it's just that the written word is taking on new meaning for me as a job

If you notice, this post is written in small paragraphs, like a news article :)

My typing speed, my spelling and grammar, my ability to read a page and point out at least five mistakes in it - all these are sharpening. For this I am grateful.

But there has to be a time when I write madly, uncaring of who might be reading it later. When I put italics in at my will and break sentences

just because it's fun.