Woke up with a horrifuck cold and aching head. My nose is still leaky and I have a Christmas party at Tnt this evening where I have to be painfully chirpy. Met Ankush for coffee on Wednesday. We have to meet once every 2 months or so since we both suffer from the Syndrome of Acute Randomness. I tried to steal another of his shirts (he was carrying this huge pile of freshly-laundered clothes) but he wouldn't let me :(

I picked up some Penguin Pocket Classics at th TnT sale. Currently am reading 'Summer in Algiers' by Camus. I'm also half-way through 'Conscience Deluded' which is a gorgeous collection of stories by Russian women. I recommend all books published by Kali which is the first publishing house run by women in India. Look out for 'Relationship' which is a series of letters between writer Nayantara Sehgal and E.N. Mangat Rai.

I've been meaning to write about some Bernardo Bertolucci movies I saw in Cal this time. 'Last Tango in Paris' and 'Stealing Beauty.' I didn't watch them with as much care as I should have, but what I noticed was that there is no mere object in his movies. Everything has a purpose, a reason for the camera to slither around it, caress it, worship it. Everything is raw, thrown open. Nothing is too sacred for the camera...in fact it is the camera that makes it all sacred with its touch. I loved them.

Enough name-dropping. Aami ghoom dite jachhi.

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The Infinite Teen Slang Dictionary

Ahana (adj.) likely to shout at school."Check out my Ahana pet animal!"

The Infinite Teen Slang Dictionary

Dr Unhemlich's Disease Registry

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The Prior-Art-O-Matic

Ahana: Ahana is a toothbrush! It makes amusing belching noises.

Get yours here.

NOW HEAR THIS!!!

Today I walked into an enormous room and fell in love. There were rows to choose from. Some winking coyly, others rugged and deep. I turned to one only to nuzzle another only to breathe in a third. I wanted them all. But I am fickle. One intense session of attachment and love-making and I am done. There are few I can return to. Ah well. I should get used to it.
I never was a book-virgin anyway.

P.S. A confession. I went to the Indian Classical Music section first. Grinning to myself the whole time. Fuck, it's fun having a crush!!

?????????????!!!!!!!!!!!

So another cop-turned-rapist article in today's newspaper. Reaction: People will draw their womenfolk closer to home and remind them of their vulnerability. Plenty of outrage from feminists. Marches and walks and awareness campaigns all waving signs saying 'FOR WOMEN.'
Just a question here. Who are the men we are generally warned about? The driver, the construction worker, the security guard...the blue-collar public. How much of this awareness reaches out to them? If it's education that colours the collar, why not educate them? In fact, why not educate all men-folk? What's the root of rape? Making a patriarchal point? Repressed sexual urges?
I want to know. I want to know if rape is a clear, concise 'to-do' in a man's brain or a reflexive assertion of his superiority. I want to know why, if women are shedding the burden of being silent, men cannot see past centuries of drummed-in culture. There are women who have stood up and said 'I have been raped. It is wrong and I want justice.' Is there a man who will stand up and say 'I have raped. It is my right and I want it legalized?' They don't care if it's legally wrong. Would they say it's traditionally right? What's their story? Women feel defiled, humiliated according to sexual norms. Does the rapist feel satisfied, secure as per his 'maleness' requires him to? I don't know if there's a woman alive who would say she enjoyed being raped. Are there men who think-'Well if one can express anger, frustration, hunger, insecurity, need...all through the penis....why not?'
The ones we're warned against probably don't read newspapers or slogans. The ones we're not warned against probably do. But nobody talks.

I walked away:

A blue shirt
where the collar leaned into
jasmine skin

A little green bulb
Bleeding racous beats
Sawing into sound-proof corners

The gleam of razored sunlight on railroad tracks
I heard the hiss, saw steam
Remembered...

I walked away
With heavy arms
And a breath I could not exhale.

Finally in touch with Roshni! I was really wondering if she'd taken one look at the college...or maybe been accosted by the head of the ISU...and decided to become a dog-trainer in Alaska.
All she says is that she missed me the night before last and that it is snowing where she is. Wherever she is!!!
I'm getting increasingly itchy as my time in Spain comes to an end. My only purpose has been to spend time with my mother...and it is a very nice purpose. I don't want it to end. My mum has grown to be the only person in my life who does not want to shape it. Being apart for almost 4 & 1/2 years has taught us both the importance of small doses. Neither of us are inclined to 'live with.' Aloneness is too fragile, to possessive. And therefore I fight passively against learning to 'be with.' The one choice I made when my brain had prickly heat. I am rude and rowdy and apathetic towards those who might have mattered. I had no conditions for togetherness. Perhaps that is why I now feel the expected conditions pressing on me. Familiarity. Disabled conditions that will allow me to be the saviour. A struggling rag of the 'prince-charming' concept. And above all a need for complete independence from need.
Hugs to those who have loved me/become victims of my ignorance.

I won a prize for Arithmetic in Kindergarten. 'The Musicians of Bremen'...a Ladybird Classic. What I remember most is the word 'Arithmetic' written inside on a card. In broken letters. My love for addition and mental multiplication came up to that word.
Later, when my marks decided that English was to be my chosen path, that I was perpetually the best arranger of words on paper...I did not flinch. I who forever shrugged off labels no matter what the cost, accepted that the written word would be my facist hacksaw, would chop pieces out of me, hang menacingly over my head if I dared to pull away. I chose to choose to obey.
Then came the phrase 'just words'. I foolishly ignored it and down swooped the Dementor Dictator. Just words....JUST words, just WORDS, it was said with a shrug, with palms outstretched signifying disregard, helplessness, comfort...the 'just' with soft stress on the 'j' or the 's', 'words' amplified as much as possible. When I ignored it, I had the pleasure of mass-understanding, once I singled it out, I didn't know what to do with it.
My 16-out-of-20 and 21-out-of-25 marked essays, my mawkish, over-sentimental journals, the fragmented scribbles I consider my forte....words.
Expression, medium, language.....words.
Arithmetic didn't bring me to addition and mental multplication. They brought me to 'arithmetic.'
When I touched the keys of a piano, I thought of the word 'touch.' I couldn't listen to classical music because there were no lyrics. Then I started making up music-word associations and writing them down.
I had 'lyrics' for every composition I heard. When I played, I thought of 'precision' and 'wrinkles.' I loved my 'metronome.'
I don't love words because they give me images. I love images when they give me words.

Now, every situation, no matter how personal is story-material. Not for marking. For arranging and playing with words. I love word-ambigrams. I adore the tight, toxic distance I have with a guy I love because I can juggle adjectives about it.

:)
'smile'

Masquerade

Are we really happy with this lonely game we play,
Looking for the right words to say?
Searching but not finding -- understanding anyway,
We're lost in this masquerade.
Both afraid to say we're just too far away
From being close together from the start.
We try to talk it over, but the words got in the way
We're lost inside this lonely game we play.
Thoughts of leaving disappear each time I see your eyes,
And no matter how hard I try
To understand the reason why we carry on this way
We're lost in this masquerade.
We try to talk it over, but the words got in the way
We're lost inside this lonely game we play.
We're lost in a masquerade.
And we're lost in a masquerade.

- George Benson

If Albee had been a romantic....'Virgina Woolf'...might have been thus shaped.

I bought 'Unless' by Carol Shields today. Paid a ghastly amount for it but since I was locked out of the house...and consequently out of my half-read material...
I'm half-way through it and it typifies my reading preferences. Plentiful use of metaphors, some form of intense, psychological 'wrongness' and for all its rich verbosity...strangely matter-of-fact. Seriously, in most of the books I read either someone ages backwards, or sits on a street corner wearing nothing but a sign reading 'goodness' or whatever.
I also have this thing for extra-marital stories, instances being 'The Bridges of Madison County', 'Lolita', 'The Maid's Request'. The first is a bitter-slightly-sweet romance, the second a gorgeous narrative on obsessive romantic and sexual ideals and the third is a silent, attentive awareness between an ageing artist and his maid...apparently having tangential reference to Da Vinci.
The anonymity of these relationships attracts me. They are extra-marital sometimes in the sense that neither party is married, sometimes where one is or one marries merely to be close to the real object of desire. I abhor unfaithfulness and not even in 'Bridges' is that word mentioned. It isn't glossed over either and it pleases me that neither character refers to marriage while discussing the outcome of their own relationship.

Another day in Nerja with lots of meat and cheese and alcohol. The local cigarettes really suck. I am as yet receiving e-mails which promise to increase the size of my penis by 3". Perhaps the senders are eminent psychologists who are convinced that I am suffering from an extended Electra complex.

I just checked out some artwork by Dave Mckean. Let me confess that I am no art connoisseur. I find images in words and am rarely able to do the reverse which is probably why symbolic art attacts me. I love swirls and shapes and wonky stuff. Mckean is wonky. Scary-wonky. I was looking at some images he created for the Skybox Master series. I'm putting up the link so have a look. My personal favourites are The Bee-Giver and The Scary Man.
Adios.

The room was tiny,dimly lit by red-shaded lamps, inhabited by several Vague Human Characters. I was seated on a chair attached to the top of a steel pole about 8 feet high. My head touched the ceiling and when I looked up, it too was steel and my reflected face was huge and puffy, daubed with soot. All I could distinguish was a little, white scar cutting into my right eyebrow.
The VHC's asked me why I was there. I told them it was to make up for being with other people the rest of the time. They never looked at me or at each other...instead they looked at the reflections in the ceiling.
I had no shoes on...my feet were wrapped in dirty, mummy-like bandages and then re-wrapped in sheets of steel. The chair was a swivel, but it only worked when I looked upward at my reflection. The faster I spun, the more the VHC's disintegrated. Or at least their reflections did. My own face blurred. All except for the scar.
Sometimes it looked like a fingernail.
I decided it was a foetus.
My fingers were smooth, polished steel as I raised my hand to stroke it. The eyebrow curled and grew moist around them.

Hola de Espagna

Apart from nearly being arrested in Paris, I managed to reach Malaga without too many hitches. Had my first meal at Oh Calcutta! last night. Lovely mussels and some version of an Italian stew and chocolate mousse. As of now I am wrapped in a woolly pink robe having my hair vigorously towel-dried by Mum.

Nerja seems an idyllic paradise. The only businesses here are shops, restaurants and bars with the odd bank thrown in. No hotels...instead people rent apartments or cottages for vacations. This is actually my second trip here, but the first doesn't really count. I left 98% of me in Calcutta that time. This time I'm here completely. The strange thing is that there's no consciousness of being 'away.' Last time I gazed at the sea, upon sunsets. I gloried in soaking in the bathtub (which I still consider the ultimate luxury). I was the ultimate tourist. Ok, I didn't have any paella and this time I've deigned to 'be introduced to the fine art of wine-drinking' which I vetoed last time....but it's completely casual. No thrill at flying 11 hours or being on the Continent. I might as well be the bored businessman next to me on the flight who spent his entire time reading the Wall Street Journal and making copious notes on his air-sickness bag.
This time my thrills come from the electric mattress-heater in my bed, being put to sleep by Mum...oh and Mum's new pink-framed glasses.

A Toast

To J...and all the possibilities you are.
Congratulations!

The Sibling Diaries

E (kissing me on my temple) : I kissed your brains. Now you'll do well in your exams.

Me: You might have done this a week ago. My exams just got over.

E (thinking it over) : You'll have more exams won't you?

A minute later.

E: Tia Didi, I'm making my own skateboard. If you don't disturb me I won't disturb you.

Ode

I love my feet. I mean really love them. They're clean and size 5 with short, uneven toe-nails. The veins show up clearly and there's nearly always a blister on the little toe. The heels are usually dry. I've given up wearing nail-polish and now they just look strong and well-used. And they've served me pretty well so far. They've kicked vulnerable male genitalia, walked on mud, animal excreta and the roads of Pune...all while wearing shoes that are the opposite of polite.
I've been decorating them a lot of late. Right now I have a pair of thin, silver anklets and of course my magic toe-ring in which resides the wise, two-headed elephant-genie. Thank you again, Pigwidgeon!

Question: How do things stop mattering?

I went pujo shopping yesterday and finally bought some skirts. One outfit is totally Bunty aur Babli...or in dad's words 'jhakkas'. Anyway they're both lovely and I'm in one right now. I'd almost forgotten what it was like not to have my legs separated by layers of denim...and more recently in cotton linen. Feel skin on skin.
I'm getting 'short-tempered' according to my co-worker. I do blow off steam on him. Hee.

This was an exercise at the NSD workshop last December.
We were asked to lie down, close our eyes and concentrate. Music was playing. Sitar and drums. We had to let it penetrate us completely, let images build up. I saw the sea. I was deaf and dumb but I knew there was music playing. I was desperate....to speak, to let out. The music grew higher, I knew it did. I felt it breathing, tugging at my silence. Insisting that I wasn't in bondage.

Later, we had to perform those images.
I know my voice quivered....I know I cried.
I don't know how it ended...

I started taking a mock-S.A.T online last night to keep myself awake since I was working on 'Bookshop'. It was going pretty well...and then my consistent computer pulled its usual stunt and I had to shut down. I intend to keep going though, even if it's in fits and starts. And i'll post a new 'S.A.T word' each day:) Shaunak is absolutely right...my vocabulary really is pathetic for someone who claims to love words.

'Bookshop' is getting tricky. I've been trying to create a link on my blog, but my PC doesn't seem to want to. But there is a murder at the end and i like the way I've started building up to it verrrry subtly. Also, my protagonist does not have a gender so no pronouns. Hee. I am a terribly lazy writer. I'm at my best at night, and I'm perfectly willing to give up on sleep and college isn't a problem but I simply can't go into work half-dozy. I have less than a month so wish me luck.

I watched 'Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind' and loved it. It could have been a litle better edited, but then I watched it in halves. Anyway, the concept was ephemeral and radical so yay!

Mum's down with laryngitis and Shuchita is laid up with a slipped disc and Jivraj has viral fever which Mrinalini calls dengue!! Such preposterous goings-on.

S.A.T word: ameliorate(v): to relieve,as from pain or hardship

somethings

Did you know that.......

. I like to read chick lit?
.My lips curve inwards while holding a cigarette?
. I don't like the taste of alcohol?
. I get a faster buzz from one cigarette than a 60 ml shot of vodka?
. I know someone who has a toothbrush which has the exact shades of blue and white as the cover of the centennial edition of 'Atlas Shrugged'?
. I act out most of the scenes and situations that I write?
. I am a monster of solitude?
. I succeeded in pushing someone away?
. I drink scalding, black coffee when I'm angry?
. I love gypsy clothes?
. I am fiercely competitive regarding speed and English marks?
. I can consume 2 packets of Lays Magic Masala and 2 packets Kurkure Red Chilli Chatka in a day?
. I believe I would make a marvellous burglar?
. I love J because he is so many possibilities?
. I smell naturally like my dad?
. I love shurshuri?
. There are 6 people who I don't mind calling and receiving calls from?
. I am hopelessly in love with our mini vacuum-cleaner?
. I do get tired of listening and I do need to talk long and very slowly and there are very few people I can be honest with about it?
.

I'm in the mood for late-night talk and there's no one around and no one I can call.
I'm standing on the precipice of possibility and staring down into the abyss of hopelessness.

Did you know that I love Disney movies and i love 'Terminator'? Both are so relentless.

Tiffany....thanks so much for your appreciation. I'm sure you'll create a wonderful blog. Please do keep contact.
Love.

No Full Stops in....

I have just devoured a huge chocolate bun from Just Baked and am realizing that while the shop is pretty small everything it stocks is outsize and though the cream was a little stale it was delumpcious and scrumplicious ( read all the secret seven books if you don't know these words, they appear in one of them hee) and I am nursing it down with a glass of Amul Buttermilk which I recommend highly to anyone who is tired of aerated drinks and juices and I watched 'Lost in Translation' and 'School of Rock' yesterday and liked them both a lot especially the first scene of the former yes I know it shows Scarlett Johansson's pink panties but I think it's a beautiful shot and why do we speak of panties in the plural when we usually wear one and I loved Bill Murray's dry, wry humour and i think Scarlett has this heavy, decided beauty no not just in the first shot and I have become a total 'Salaam Namaste' groupie having watched it 3 times and having bought the audio cassette and dowloaded the ringtones of 2 songs and Mrinalini, Jivraj and Dipto are coming for a visit in December and now I've made it official in writing and I haven't used the phrase 'most probably coming' so now they'll have to come HAH but really if I can't go to Calcutta and TCS, let them come to me and I read 'Diddi' by Ira Pandey and it's ever so gentle and flowing and beautiful and I'm sending it to Thammi and sending 'The Oxford Illustrated Corbett' for Dadu and while I was looking for the books I realized how little I think of them and who they are and what they like and that you can't buy a book for a stranger even if it's for inspiration and comfort and I got all emotional and I got a lovely face and head massage and i don't care if my skin glows and my hair grows at the speed of light all i really cared about was being touched and i hadn't realized how starved i was nor why i was writing so much about it and it was cathartic and my obsession with physical touch is...what do you suppose it is?

I read a nice quote today. 'Nostalgia isnt what it used to be'. That'll go up in my room along with 'supernatural' and 'the mouse's lamentation' and Ankush's drawing.

I'm almost through 'Atlas Shrugged' and have been reading it in wonder and total infatuation. The desperate fight against mediocrity, the refusal to 'settle' is beautiful. Precision has received its reward in the book. It's so convincing that I'm not even shocked at how my love for the blurry, the undefined and the intangible is wavering.

Certainty stems from innocence. There is no power greater than the ability to choose.

As of now I'm reading 'Fountainhead', 'Babyji' by Abha Dawesar, Radiance of Ashes by Cyrus Mistry, The Boyfriend by R.Raj Rao and Mapping the Edge by Sarah Dunant.
I read 'Pig' by Andrew Cowan and loved it. Coming of age stories leave so much of scope for both the writer and the reader.

I'm working on a story called 'Bookshop'. I am sapped of eagerness and haven't chosen to recharge.

Mi said 'Loving and relating are not the same thing'.

Yashar said 'We say we see the light, but we do not realize that we see only because the light is there'.

I said 'We all need to be screwed with skill and consideration...but we also need to be on our own'.

Dave Matthews says 'GRAVEDIGGERRRRRRRRRRRR!!!'

Guess who just called from Cal after picking up my grades from BCL!! OOohhh, the woman knows how to get to me. Wouldn't I love to put her in an oven and roast her with hoi-sin sauce!!

I had very nice session at the Vaishvik art gallery where our creative writing workshop was held today. And my driving went well today :)........ :( still no betterment in mood.

I haven't written for the last few days...and now i don't know what to say. Mmm....I'm going to be working in this bookshop called Twist N tales starting tomorrow. According to my dad it's 'like asking a drunkard to guard a liquor store'.

If my skin was branded to mark me as being of inferior race, I wouldn't feel inferior. I wouldn't complain of the pain. I would feel restricted...helplessly categorized. Wonder how the African slaves felt. The Haitians and Cubans. Even the Jews with their yellow star during World War II.

I told Ankush that my art was 'somwhat restricted'. 'There's no such thing,' he said. 'I know you're a very passionate person, so i'm certain you have it in you'. All this in regard to his asking me to buy an olive-green T-shirt for him and paint it.

Ever heard of anyone getting an upset stomach by smoking after a meal?

scribble

Just bought 'High Plains Tango' by R.J Waller, Atlas Shrugged (thanks for recommendation, honeybee), and 'The Boyfriend' by R. Raj Rao.

What I wouldn't give to be soft and dreamy and reminiscent with J. But the sustenance of our slight interaction depends on caution and remaining strictly in the present.

In the last month, I've been bending backwards to buy books that entertain. Books I can stretch out and snack with. Just today, I bought Meg cabot and Betty Neels....and walked out of the shop feeling extremely guilty.
Is it what i know, or what i want to be known as? There are parts of my 'image' I rebel against. Sweetness, for example. What exactly am I trying to maintain? And should it alarm me if parts of me dissolve from time to time?
There's a huge debate hidden behind the conflict between the image and the reality. Whether the two even are separate.

I absorb environment...fictional, palpable...completely. I am liquid. To hold on is to restrict.

Now what?

Mum forwarded this mail to me. I'm putting it up here...partially because reading it made me miss some people, and partially so I can keep it without cluttering my Inbox. It's the speech made by Steve Jobs, CEO of Apple Computers and Pixar Animation Studios to the graduating class of Stanford.

I am honored to be with you today at your commencement from one of the finest universities in the world. I never graduated from college. Truth be told, this is the closest I've ever gotten to a college graduation. Today I want to tell you three stories from my life. That's it. No big deal. Just three stories.
The first story is about connecting the dots.
I dropped out of Reed College after the first 6 months, but then stayed around as a drop-in for another 18 months or so before I really quit. So why did I drop out?
It started before I was born. My biological mother was a young, unwed college graduate student, and she decided to put me up for adoption. She felt very strongly that I should be adopted by college graduates, so everything was all set for me to be adopted at birth by a lawyer and his wife. Except that when I popped out they decided at the last minute that they really wanted a girl. So my parents, who were on a waiting list, got a call in the middle of the night asking: "We have an unexpected baby boy; do you want him?" They said: "Of course." My biological mother later found out that my mother had never graduated from college and that my father had never graduated from high school. She refused to sign the final adoption papers. She only relented a few months later when my parents promised that I would someday go to college.
And 17 years later I did go to college. But I naively chose a college that was almost as expensive as Stanford, and all of my working-class parents' savings were being spent on my college tuition. After six months, I couldn't see the value in it. I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life and no idea how college was going to help me figure it out. And here I was spending all of the money my parents had saved their entire life. So I decided to drop out and trust that it would all work out OK. It was pretty scary at the time, but looking back it was one of the best decisions I ever made. The minute I dropped out I could stop taking the required classes that didn't interest me, and begin dropping in on the ones that looked interesting.
It wasn't all romantic. I didn't have a dorm room, so I slept on the floor in friends' rooms, I returned coke bottles for the 5¢ deposits to buy food with, and I would walk the 7 miles across town every Sunday night to get one good meal a week at the Hare Krishna temple. I loved it. And much of what I stumbled into by following my curiosity and intuition turned out to be priceless later on. Let me give you one example:
Reed College at that time offered perhaps the best calligraphy instruction in the country. Throughout the campus every poster, every label on every drawer, was beautifully hand calligraphed. Because I had dropped out and didn't have to take the normal classes, I decided to take a calligraphy class to learn how to do this. I learned about serif and san serif typefaces, about varying the amount of space between different letter combinations, about what makes great typography great. It was beautiful, historical, artistically subtle in a way that science can't capture, and I found it fascinating.
None of this had even a hope of any practical application in my life. But ten years later, when we were designing the first Macintosh computer, it all came back to me. And we designed it all into the Mac. It was the first computer with beautiful typography. If I had never dropped in on that single course in college, the Mac would have never had multiple typefaces or proportionally spaced fonts. And since Windows just copied the Mac, its likely that no personal computer would have them. If I had never dropped out, I would have never dropped in on this calligraphy class, and personal computers might not have the wonderful typography that they do. Of course it was impossible to connect the dots looking forward when I was in college. But it was very, very clear looking backwards ten years later.
Again, you can't connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future. You have to trust in something - your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever. This approach has never let me down, and it has made all the difference in my life.
My second story is about love and loss.
I was lucky ? I found what I loved to do early in life. Woz and I started Apple in my parents garage when I was 20. We worked hard, and in 10 years Apple had grown from just the two of us in a garage into a $2 billion company with over 4000 employees. We had just released our finest creation - the Macintosh - a year earlier, and I had just turned 30. And then I got fired. How can you get fired from a company you started? Well, as Apple grew we hired someone who I thought was very talented to run the company with me, and for the first year or so things went well. But then our visions of the future began to diverge and eventually we had a falling out. When we did, our Board of Directors sided with him. So at 30 I was out. And very publicly out. What had been the focus of my entire adult life was gone, and it was devastating.
I really didn't know what to do for a few months. I felt that I had let the previous generation of entrepreneurs down - that I had dropped the baton as it was being passed to me. I met with David Packard and Bob Noyce and tried to apologize for screwing up so badly. I was a very public failure, and I even thought about running away from the valley. But something slowly began to dawn on me — I still loved what I did. The turn of events at Apple had not changed that one bit. I had been rejected, but I was still in love. And so I decided to start over.
I didn't see it then, but it turned out that getting fired from Apple was the best thing that could have ever happened to me. The heaviness of being successful was replaced by the lightness of being a beginner again, less sure about everything. It freed me to enter one of the most creative periods of my life.
During the next five years, I started a company named NeXT, another company named Pixar, and fell in love with an amazing woman who would become my wife. Pixar went on to create the worlds first computer animated feature film, Toy Story, and is now the most successful animation studio in the world. In a remarkable turn of events, Apple bought NeXT, I retuned to Apple, and the technology we developed at NeXT is at the heart of Apple's current renaissance. And Laurene and I have a wonderful family together.
I'm pretty sure none of this would have happened if I hadn't been fired from Apple. It was awful tasting medicine, but I guess the patient needed it. Sometimes life hits you in the head with a brick. Don't lose faith. I'm convinced that the only thing that kept me going was that I loved what I did. You've got to find what you love. And that is as true for your work as it is for your lovers. Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven't found it yet, keep looking. Don't settle. As with all matters of the heart, you'll know when you find it. And, like any great relationship, it just gets better and better as the years roll on. So keep looking until you find it. Don't settle.
My third story is about death.
When I was 17, I read a quote that went something like: "If you live each day as if it was your last, someday you'll most certainly be right." It made an impression on me, and since then, for the past 33 years, I have looked in the mirror every morning and asked myself: "If today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do today?" And whenever the answer has been "No" for too many days in a row, I know I need to change something.
Remembering that I'll be dead soon is the most important tool I've ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life. Because almost everything ? all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure - these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart.
About a year ago I was diagnosed with cancer. I had a scan at 7:30 in the morning, and it clearly showed a tumor on my pancreas. I didn't even know what a pancreas was. The doctors told me this was almost certainly a type of cancer that is incurable, and that I should expect to live no longer than three to six months. My doctor advised me to go home and get my affairs in order, which is doctor's code for prepare to die. It means to try to tell your kids everything you thought you'd have the next 10 years to tell them in just a few months. It means to make sure everything is buttoned up so that it will be as easy as possible for your family. It means to say your goodbyes.
I lived with that diagnosis all day. Later that evening I had a biopsy, where they stuck an endoscope down my throat, through my stomach and into my intestines, put a needle into my pancreas and got a few cells from the tumor. I was sedated, but my wife, who was there, told me that when they viewed the cells under a microscope the doctors started crying because it turned out to be a very rare form of pancreatic cancer that is curable with surgery. I had the surgery and I'm fine now.
This was the closest I've been to facing death, and I hope its the closest I get for a few more decades. Having lived through it, I can now say this to you with a bit more certainty than when death was a useful but purely intellectual concept:
No one wants to die. Even people who want to go to heaven don't want to die to get there. And yet death is the destination we all share. No one has ever escaped it. And that is as it should be, because Death is very likely the single best invention of Life. It is Life's change agent. It clears out the old to make way for the new. Right now the new is you, but someday not too long from now, you will gradually become the old and be cleared away. Sorry to be so dramatic, but it is quite true.
Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life. Don't be trapped by dogma - which is living with the results of other people's thinking. Don't let the noise of others' opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.
When I was young, there was an amazing publication called The Whole Earth Catalog, which was one of the bibles of my generation. It was created by a fellow named Stewart Brand not far from here in Menlo Park, and he brought it to life with his poetic touch. This was in the late 1960's, before personal computers and desktop publishing, so it was all made with typewriters, scissors, and polaroid cameras. It was sort of like Google in paperback form, 35 years before Google came along: it was idealistic, and overflowing with neat tools and great notions.
Stewart and his team put out several issues of The Whole Earth Catalog, and then when it had run its course, they put out a final issue. It was the mid-1970s, and I was your age. On the back cover of their final issue was a photograph of an early morning country road, the kind you might find yourself hitchhiking on if you were so adventurous. Beneath it were the words: "Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish." It was their farewell message as they signed off. Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish. And I have always wished that for myself. And now, as you graduate to begin anew, I wish that for you.
Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish.
Thank you all very much.

D-GRADATION

I haven't been this affected by grades since I got a 45% in an English test in class 9. For all the post-modernism, all the dismantling of hierarchy, you suddenly crash into set standards and realize that they matter. The thing is, I know i worked much better than what the results show. There was a time when passing would have been enough, simply because I'd been told that that was the best I could do anyhow. All the 'supposes' and 'maybe's' are rushing down like locusts.
Suppose the gp's were right in their assessment of me? Maybe I really am a 'weak' student. Maybe I'm not upto A2 level standard. Maybe I'm not even upto the college-level here. As Dr Nandan explained in the labelling theory in crime...it is not the action that matters, but the reactions of others which subsequently leads to labels. So, if D and E got positive reactions I'd be happy receiving them?? Dr Nandan was very nice about it as was Mum. But Ahana being Ahana, she cannot help wondering if they will start to falter in their faith. Maybe she is not so intelligent, not....Ok now that is severe lack of faith on my part. I don't think the GP's have received the news yet. I've been burrowing into my bed with all their strident, hyper reactions screaming around me. Now everybody will say 'never mind, look forward', with slightly pinched expressions and will begin to monitor me with greater care.
All right, my history and sociology papers were on the same day and I had a fever and was locked into the rotary Sadan AC for 7 hours. But honestly, both papers went better than this!

Now that all that is out and I have had a good cry and consequentially a horrible headache, I shall shut down and go for my driving class very calmly and slowly.

Driving lessons have finally started. I am clueless about gear-shifting. Also, have realised the extent of my laziness. One cannot take off on flights of fancy while behind the wheel. And yet there are people who find driving relaxing!! press clutch, release accelerator...no NO gently madam gently. Why are you racing...? Unfortunately it's not about owning a fancy car(a 2nd-hand maruti 800!!) or the thrill of having your own mode of transport. It's simple need and independence. I was so disheartened after my class today that I didn't even argue with the auto-driver who conscientiously raised the fare by 15 rupees...which I just as conscientiously handed over :/

Here's what I wrote for my creative writing workshop yesterday:


The Journal.

What a mistake! What a cold, artful , mistake. I shifted and I was lost. Gave out and learnt to recoil. All of this for freedom. Freedom to kiss, to intimidate. To be late and to learn. I know to write. Not how to write, but to write.

I can almost taste salt and spice…I want it so badly. I suddenly see myself whirling. There are walls all around with iridescent, flamboyant spikes and I am whirling. I feel the spikes with mellow pleasure….hear my screaming flesh. From my wounds drop a flow of words. No blood, just words.

I am wet. Tears and semen stain my incomplete purity. White and clear liquid. I touch my self. Just where my neck joins my shoulder. Downy hair, much-scrubbed , needy skin.
My collar lies quietly against it. Fragranced with oriental-smelling chemicals.

Smells!! Calcutta stirs. Perspiration, incense, jasmine, slowness….how they oozed and rose and fled. Why do my shirts no longer stick to me? Where are the anaemic, spidery fingers that moistened and plundered?

There was unanimous positive feedback from the others. So...unknowingly, I have conformed to an alien standard.

I visited someone at the hospital today. Those places hurt. The smell, the sterility, there's pain in every goddamn ion. I become a different person as soon s i walk in. I'm suddenly terrified of seeing a bloodstain somewhere, pregnant bellies nauseate me...for some reason I've always considered lying on one's back to be the most vulnerable position, and hospitals are full of it.
There was a woman expecting premature twins. She was lying on her side, a saline bottle attached to her hand, a look of....i suppose it was patience....on her face.

All I could think was that she was waiting. Simply waiting for it to start. Muscles tearing, excessive bleeding, sweat, panic ending in....what? How violent is the 'Initiation'. I couldn't wait to leave. Even the muddy footsteps on the stairs were frighteningly repellent.

Another thing that happens is that I become achingly aware of my body. The slightest pressure, the smallest discomfort is magnified and super-imposed on the screen of my heightened senses. Today my stomach started to cramp, the incessant nerve problem I have on my left side sprang up rather ferociously....evidently I absorb my environment with great keenness.

I had a chat with Scratches and 100% CPU usage yesterday. What a relief!! I miss the talk. The nonsense and the supersense and the other-sense....all of it. In sociology class the other day, we were discussing the functions of polygamy, polyandry etc. The reaction of most of the class was ..'eww' and 'sick'! I don't hold their personal opinions against them. It's just that I think it's easier to examine a concept thoroughly if you see it with 'impersonal emotion'. I mean 'eww' basically translates to shutting it out of your mind completely because it 'injures' your value-structure.
I've used the phrase 'impersonal emotion'. It's taken from 'In Praise of Idleness' by Bertrand Russell. To be honest I'm not very sure what it means. I just used t because it sounded apt. It's like being involved without being attached.
Any thoughts on this?

whine whine whiny whine...listen na...i'm trying to tell you something.

Current facial expression: extreme pout
Cause: Nobody to talk nonsense with/mrinalini not replying to msg
Solution: Sit and make up list of nonsensical abusive words to use on her

yay yay yay happy happy happy :) :) :)

oohhh mrinalini, am sorry. 'If on a winter's blah blah'...am just not being able to get into into it. Am reading it in snatches and flashes and swirls etc etc. But I promise to work on my patience level and review it for you. Muaah!!

Making hats out of blue play-dough...

'I grow a bit tired of the terrestrial stuff
And the celestial nonsense
Swill and guzzle and copulate and copulate and
guzzle and swill until you break up like a jigsaw puzzle
Shattered with smiling.'
George Barker

I'm reading 'Hockney's Alphabet'. It's got all the letters of the alphabet drawn by David Hockney, and there is a text for each letter by a different writer. Here's an instance:

S by Ted Hughes

Started an eel
Of strangest flesh
Nor snake nor fish
So sheer to feel
So live, so lithe
As when she slid
Out of her hole
In purest soul

On a spiral. Corkscrewed into a shock of nostril, the sneeze of glair. Squirmed flex and reflex into saliva. The slug of speech, she lubricates the shapes of air. L'onde s'enfle dessous. Sashays across the surges of perspective. Swan of vision, she shakes light bare. Singular sex of plural and the supplest of strange tails. Thirsts for her ghost keenest, the ice's wound. Sound-waves abandoned the Lusitania. Depth-charged, a sea-wprm, struggling, surfaced, stares and there

In a lens of ocean
Where happiness doubles
Opening the purse
Of lips for a kiss
With a human sigh
The wordless eye
Of end and beginning
Rears its hiss.

This is my favourite. There's 'Y by Douglas Adams' and 'An elegy for X by Anthony Burgess'.....but I love this one for its floaty feel.

And now...a confession. The reason I've hidden behind the words of others is because I had none of my own. Thanks to R.Raj Rao, I now inhabit a free-prison for writers. Every line I write brings uncertainty. And discovery.
I like paper burnt around the edges. And paper that is artfully torn but still looks carelessly ripped.

I love you

Latched onto Obscurity Cloud and now am unable to get off! Need to speared and pinned onto Focus Wheel. Maybe the technical writing will help. Talked to Jivraj after a long time :)

Communicating has become a drag. There's so much I could write or say but I don't feel like making the effort. The result ...no blogging, no making phonecalls, no writing...I'm not even answering my cell at times. The only relief in this blockage was the letter I wrote to Dr Nandan. And since I forsee that I shall be writing more letters, I went and got myself some beautiful, handmade notepaper with matching envelopes.
My college has a sprawling campus. It's possible to get lost...and I'm in favour of that. It's a lush, green place with old-world British architecture. Philosophy is the most interesting subject I have. The professor is a smart man, with touches of sexism and smears of sarcasm and bigger smears of ego. He knows his subject and is convinced that he fathered Socrates. The first day I attended, I indirectly told him to shut up. I also told my English professor that our democratic status is strongly debatable and that my ambition is to be a recluse and live in a library. After that first day, I've clammed up. Sociology is boring. We're doing the differences between sociology and other social sciences in great detail. Similarities and differences. In discussing the similarities between psychology and sociology, we were told that 'both are sciences'. I assume that means that both use scientific methods in their studies but there weren't any questions as to what 'scientific' means, why it is considered the most 'reasonable' etc. The professor (I love that word; so college-ish) is a flexible, understanding guy. Dr Nandan would like him. But the teacher-student relationship remains impersonal and restricted to the classroom...at least so far. I have my first test in French on Saturday and am very excited. Our English course is...ok. We have Auden and Burns and Keats etc for poetry and short stories by Katherine Mansfield and others. We have 'Animal Farm' in S.Y, I think. Our English teacher is a nice guy.

I have had bouts of terrible homesickness. I miss hearing Bangla, speaking it in college. In desperation, I've started listening to modern Bangla music. I called Shaunak a few days ago and whined for a good 20 minutes! I wish I could be easy and playful and hug someone. I miss Cal.

I land heavily on people I want to be close to. At least I used to. Now I am careful to restrain myself. What a relief it would be to be naive and not struggle to hold some part back. Terrified that the Other will get bogged down and start to pull away. Which is why I hold people at arm's length. My need to lean is as great as my paradoxical desire for isolation. Not independence, but isolation. Emotionally, carrying myself alone is tiring. I exalt in the tiredness; I convince myself it is a test of limits. If another touches me, I am liable to throw myself at them completely. I cannot give in to that. I am not convinced that any O ther can handle it. There must always be part of me that remains with me alone. The moods, the masochism, the incomplete disregard for public opinion... I can only give out what the Other will find attractive. I am bad at games...that is the root of the problem.

In Literature class, most of the students can't get past Shakespeare. One guy likes Edgar Allen Poe and Dylan Thomas. But since he has a strong Marathi accent I, the Great Intellectual Snob do hereby grudge him even knowing them by name. What a blow to my ideal of flexibility!! Things are more structured here. However, the structures are explorable. I've been listening to Peter Gabriel and Sarah McLachlan.

We got back from Cal this morning after a hectic five days. I start college tomorrow. I start college tomorrow! Cal was good. Strange pangs of nostalgia. This is cliched but...the city has touched me. The bars on the windows, faded curtains, televison flickering...tuned to Doordarshan. The slowness, the rickshaw horns. I believe I'm identifying with Rabindra :)

I gave Mrinalini the book on photography. I was flipping through it. Very interesting. It links up photography with history and art and social structure. Hope you enjoy it, honeybee. I also slipped Dr Seuss into Jivraj's bag. haven't received any feedback on that yet. I've bought a book by Hanif Kureishi which contains a novel called 'Intimacy' and a collection of short stories. I've also bought 'Less Than Zero' by Bret Easton Ellis. I watched 'Bad Education' with Roshni. I don't think I've ever viewed homosexuality with so much...tenderness. I have to watch it again and let it seep in. I'm going to start aerobics and driving lessons. I am going to college tomorrow with two Navneet hardcover exercise books and two pens. I went and ordered myself a pair of very sexy glasses today. I miss people. I miss people who have become strangers. Who else will drift off? And how much more indifferent will I be?

Finally set up my link list! I've been taking flying leaps in and out of several books. Sophie's world, The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Bronte, Erma Bombeck, William Carries on and a historical novel called Aztec Blood. Dad's been recommending 'William ' books to me for years. I enjoyed 'William Carries On.' Richmal Crompton strikes me as a tougher, more realistic Enid Blyton. As for 'The tenant...', I've always enjoyed a Bronte novel. There's something in the quaint language that appeals. Though this one is somewhat more coarse. And the heroine is always passionately repressed. Hmm....no wonder.
I've almost finished cataloguing Dad's cd's. We're up to a thousand-fifty-eight, people!!! And that's not counting compilations and OST'S. I've been listening to Metallica, CCR and The Goo Goo Dolls. And Jim Reeves. None of them mattered much.
Went for the premiere of 'War of the Worlds.' Walked out half-way!! I like sci-fi....and can definitely appreciate special effects, but there was nothing in the movie. I also watched 'Ray'. Finally!! Liked it. It doesn't dwell too much. Missed Shaunak big-time for some reason. :)
I had a chat with Mounik on saturday via msn. He seems different. More up-front, less mocking.
Just spoke to Roshni...breaking the spell of my a-communication.

My neutrality and impending indifference is endangering....
Loneliness strikes down and is driven back.
I'm sending out....please do respond.

Love.

Am back in Pune. Feels good to be back. I'm rather proud that I adapted to conditions in Mumbai...at least the material ones. I have muscle strains in both my legs, first from my tumble on the stairs and then from dancing in stilettoes (have I spelled that right?)

BodoMa died on Monday. I was never close to her, but I've heard stories of her snap and sparkle. And before she went into unofficial coma, I have certain memories of her. How she used to love me in dangly earrings. How she wouldn't allow anyone to help her down the stairs. People are saying it's a good thing she died since she's been a 'vegetable' for years anyway. And it was painless too. I don't know what to think. It depends on how one defines 'living'. Breathing, knowledge, activity...

Wedding's over. No thrills for me, no gushing...nothing as I thought it would be. Am I a failed romantic? Is there any such thing? Why do things matter so little? Ever since January! Even writing. I wish with all my heart that there was familiarity again. Warmth. The cozy feeling of knowing I matter. Talk! God how I miss the conversations? It goes full circle. All the way back to him.

Giving wholly has passed me. With the exception of fatigue and pain, nothing comes to me complete. I'm not a complete slave to my moods yet...but I'm getting there.

Lazy, comfortable days. Drifting into the void of no-routine. There are recurring stabs of the same dagger. Sexually, emotionally, intellectually, intimately. I'm so glad I wrote to Shakun. She never worries me with regard to myself, only with regard to her. Roshni was here for a week. A hectic, peaceful week. We binged. On food, conversation, shopping, sleep, taking photographs, Gael Garcia Bernal, drives and watching the hill. I think we learnt stuff about each other this week.
Love you Rosh :)

Am reading 'Sophie's World' by Jostein Gaarder. The writing is rather amateurish but it's chockfull of ideas. Kind of a very, very simplified 'Intro to Philosophy' course. Movies I've watched include 'Mr and Mrs Smith', 'Parineeta', 'Batman Begins', 'The Motorcycle Diaries', 'Thirteen', 'Finding Neverland', and 'Pay it Forward'. Planning on picking up 'Malena' and 'Loves me, loves me not'.

My 'last' night here. Or is it? I shall remember.
The telephone I called him from...
The breeze through the kitchen window as I washed the dinner dishes...
My room which I permeated so terribly that it carries my stench rather than my essence.
So much has been hurled, so little touched.
I've grown hard and painfully these four years.

A married couple...the wife's a writer. In her own reality. She's writing about an errant husband. Unknowingly she's writing about her own husband's affair, his complexities. In some way, she gets to know her husband intimately through her writing while remaining distant from him in real life...

Peeling charred pieces of skin from my hand.
I felt no revulsion.
Perhaps I'll save them.
Wrap them in virgin paper.

There's need. To be honest, to be soft. I don't understand. I have intelligent, understanding, intimate friends. They would lend an ear if I asked. Why don't I? Am I meant to be a loner? By choice, by circumstance, by socialization?
I wonder if people have conflict regarding what they want to be...and what they want to be known as.

Totally tired. Went to Bansdrani to see Debika. Talked about marriage and women and responsibility and companionship. I don't get radical with her, but it's a sane, sweet thing to have discussions with her. It's like talking to Vidushi. People who believe in God and duty and that love is essentially 'good.' I don't belong to either side neither am I a neutral. I can choose to look at both sides academically. I'm passionate about people...I'd pray for certain people even if i didn't believe in God, but God in the abstract is again a matter of choice. When I did belive, it was because I liked thinking that I had a Higher Power to listen to my whining, and to yell at when things went wrong. I'm using capital 'G's' for God. Not sure what that means.
Just spoke to Mom. She's trying to think of a covertly sexual way to describe breast of chicken in puffed pastry.
Any suggestions? I want to see her so badly. I need comfort. god's not there any more.

Lack of appetite and constant feeling of nausea is getting on my nerves. While I look at emotional sickness as a test of endurance, physical sickness irks me and makes me feel weak.

Had first meeting of Umbra today. Not much to say except it was far more comfortable than I expected. We've yet to decide on the terms and conditions. We'll be doing our first production in July. I'm probably not here, but it's nice being a part of it. I'll be in touch with theatre and with the group.
I'm having sudden, horrible urges to squelch somebody.

Blood warmly staining pure whiteness. Who says white is pure anyway?
Sniffle sniffle cough blow sniffle cough cough...that's my language today. I can be anything I want. It's choice. It's need.
What if I never get bored? What if I don't need constant physical motion? What if I'm always vague and 'crabbity' as Jivraj used to say? Mmmm...used to say. USED to.
If I write a bestseller real quick and get rich I know just where to invest.
The sight of food is making me nauseous. Everything else is making me irritable.
I've been asked to drink plenty of warm fluids. So naturally I went out and bought an ice-cold pepsi and poured it down my throat at one go. Big deal. I've drunk baygon spray.
The fan's whirring. It's too close. The modem's watching me with red, slit-like eyes.

I just said 'no' to applying for a BBA and MBA blah blah from IIPM. dadu looked very disappointed but I can't humour him right now. I hate business stuff..why don't people get that? I think I shall re-name my blog Pain Pamper. Or Whine...something.
Exactly where is all this getting me? Ok, a lot of writing material but at the cost of? I choose my reactions right? I've never believed people who think themselves to be helpless in the wave of their emotions or whatever. But choosing pain is getting to be a habit. I thought I could handle anything. I've pushed my endurance limits, daring my system to let me down. And it crashed.
Let's forget what people have said or might say. I care very deeply. And this is important to me. There is huge regret. I hate regrets. A yearning to get close, warmth, affection. To be allowed to know him again. To hear him mimic Yogi Bear once more. It's scary at times. Or used to be. Now I accept it casually. I'm in the role of giver. I cast myself in it. I'm not a martyr and I don't aspire to be one. It's the only way I can be linked. And I've made a conscious choice to be linked somehow. I'm not sure if I believe in a Higher Power, but I'll pray for him.

DAMMIT!..I will not make myself vulnerable. Out of all the people I know all the people who matter all the people to whom I have given power ONE PERSON has this much of a hold on me. One person makes me lonely and makes me afraid of it. I destroyed nearly all the tangible evidence. But visions can't be destroyed. Links which have nothing to do with me hurt me terribly.
So many times I think I'v adapted so well to being alone. But I have one unfinished intimacy. Was it even there? If it wasnt, what is it that hurts me? And makes me want to be tender? Everytime I feel far away from you I hurt terribly.
You're a stranger I used to know. I haven't given you all I want..

PHEW!!....history and sociology over. 7 hours in Rotary Sadan, even my blisters went red with cold. Doesn't seem so bad now that it's over. I've missed blogging. And now I can look forward to reading and music and Pune. YEE-HA!!

In the words of Truman Capote I have a major case of the mean reds. An impending sense of terror. Claustrophobhia. A certainty that I'm being closed in on. Drumbeats. Louder, deeper. Visions that cause strings in my chest to vibrate. Lumpy heaviness...
Learning is rushing past me.

I've been burning paper.
I lit a pink peony candle and held pages to the flame.
Sometimes the burning paper took on a greenish tinge.
The flame reached my fingers once.
The middle finger and the thumb of my left hand.
I saved one page.
I got nauseous and dizzy.
I cut up and crumpled the rest of the pages.
I gloried in destroying wholeness.
I was a voyeur today and I relished destroying intimacy.
I did it for attention.
I'm writing it here for attention.
For drama.
I got torn between hysterics and histrionics.
There's a skeleton inside me.
It's not my own.

Just enjoyed a leisurely lunch with Dadu, listening to stories of the Freedom Movement. It's moments like these that make me feel that perhaps the last four years haven't been a complete waste. I mean, hearing about my Great-grandfather who disguised himself as a sanyasi and helped a young boy who had shot one of the District Magistrates to escape and Colonel Maitra who shot an ailing Japanese officer and saw his image in a photograph of himself and a friend that was taken some months later...there's enrichment in that.

I took up paintbrush and palette yesterday after years and made a birthday card for Dad. Quite enjoyed it. Maybe I'll take up the piano again too.
The only thing that soothes me these days is drumbeats.

My oldest and patient-est friend and i have decided that when we finally melt with the heat, we are going to flow all the way to the Niagara or Angel Falls and join them. And we'll chat on our way down :)
I do NOT understand the stock market. And if the expression on my grandmother's face everytime she watches the market news is anything to go by, I'm better off not knowing.

Arrgh!!! I'm doing it again!! Wanting to be like a certain person. I'm re-reading everything I've written to see if that person would approve. Goodbye.

Today's studying consisted of staring at my books and debating whether or not to open them. I'm not too worried about history. There's no conflict between what we've been taught and what CIE expects. Sociology...that's another story. When Dr. Nandan looks at sociology, he sees infinite possibility, knowledge, understanding. When CIE looks at it, they see...their textbook which is meant to be studied at Montessori level!!

It's easier..and safer to love a memory. To be devoted to it. I don't want fear to be the only thing standing between me and a new experience. I'm cutting myself off before I say too much.....

Ok, there's the USA and the USSR. Both are screaming 'Yea baby look at me..I got more weapons to blow up the world..more ICBM's and MIRV's to screw people's lives.' And THAT made history!!?! A whole 11 pages of history according to Vadney. YEESH!!
I finished 'Ignorance' today. Actually, I never really 'finish' Kundera on the first read. That would be gross disrespect:p Seriously, the only reason I read him is that he stretches me.

I'd like to give a little to a certain person. But that someone can't accept it. And the non-acceptance of that someone has flowed into me in the form of sadness and an alarming resignation.

I need to be held. Just feel. Feel connection, touch...feel wanted. I'm not sure if this is platonic need. I need softness and quiet talk.

I am in mushy, silly and slightly whiny mood. Sitting with a Cheshire Cat grin and rocking to and fro and nodding my head. Three guesses why!?!
Went to Landmark today. God I could swallow that place whole. One really can't be unhappy or bored for long when there are such things as books and bookshops in the world. The only thing I'm really single-minded about is my writing. Everything else I do, a tiny part of me separates itself to analyse. I criticise and analyse what I write, but I give myself to it wholly and naturally. Theatre comes close. It's such a kick-ass feeling getting into someone else's skin.

It's weird how a nice word or term of endearment from certain people affect me :)
oops Gestapo on the prowl.

Highly annoying day. What with the heat and the Gestapo going into hyper-action...PHEW!! I cried a little. Not nice dissolving that way. But holding back doesn't make me stronger. This is very hurried..anytime now the Gestapo might gas me. I can't be completely frank dammit. I want people to read my blog. So..there's stuff i can't publish. Sad sad sad. I think I'll throw stuff out the window and then go hire me a matador van and driver and go for a ride! I've kept looking at my cell expecting..no HOPING for a call or message. I think I'll pretend I never wrote that last line. never thought of it. That's my doppelganger who wrote it. Who's in such a rotten mood. Let's pretend this is a conversation. I wish..oh nothing..just..forget it. No tell me. It's nothing really. Did you know I'm mad at you and you make me cry? Silence. Must we bring it up? Yes we must. There's no other bond. Whatever. Get over it. What? You know there's a cure. The cure is...sort of taken. Anyway.........

A special person turned 18 today.Our relationship is somewhat uncategorized. Traditionally speaking, we should circle each other like suspicious vultures. We're linked by blogs, sms,theatre,one conversation that took place on January 12th,her present and my past...

She grabbed my mind when she defined love as 'economic independence coupled with compromise'. Then again when she spoke of 'The Silk Route'. When she said that maturity didn't mean control. I think of her as a frenzy. She draws stick-figures in the margins of her exercise books. She drew one of me.
I often felt insignificant around her. When all I knew of her were sharp edges and dazzling light. She's an arrogant realist who gets hyper because she knows her history syllabus and is taking it in calmly. And she feels she probably shouldn't be. She's easy with her body and her biggest addiction is learning.
She needs to touch people and to know she has.
I still wonder if I've touched her. Really touched her.
She's a link to another special person. Is that why I'm so protective of her? She says 'true' and 'that's true'a lot when we're on the phone.
Her constant demand for attention wearies me. I know I'd trust her with all my vulnerability and rawness.
She matters...
Happy Birthday Mrin.

I was asked if i would ever smoke up and when I replied in the negative, I was asked why.
Why?
I don't care much for public opinion. It's not about morality.
It's not something I could tell Mum.
I'm addicted to addictions.

I have a sudden wish to blush and drop my lids again. I've given up that feeling. Why?
I've wanted to be like Someone. A confident, humorous, rebellious Someone who is passionate and full of contradictions.
I want to sink deep into Nat King Cole and Jim Reeves and Alanis Morrissette.
Why the conflict?
I need to be torn apart and comforted.
Originality is a comparision. If I wiped out everyone from my life, would I be original?
There's a dividing line between what I can write and what others can read. The quotient, once again is conflict..

I went to Landmark today. Idon't feel that way about any other bookshop. I love just walking around, enjoying the space, the music and the shelves of books. I was restless today and wanted something hard-hitting and disjointed. It wasn't one book I wanted, but dips and flashes of as many as possible.

Being a role model is tough. My whole life I've been seen as the sober, steady older sister who could take anything in her stride. It's another reason I strive to crash softly. Dr Nandan said that it's not the act that matters, it's the reactions of others. He was referring to crime and labelling but..I think it goes for everything.

I'm tired of barriers. There are lines I CANNOT cross with people I genuinely care about. Either I'm invading their private space, or there's been too much between us or.......something. Touch is evading me. I slept with a familiar scent the night before last. I'm completely out of touch with who I was a little over a year ago. She wasn't so restless. She could look into people's eyes and feel. She was virulently anti-smoking. She wasn't sarcastic or cynical...nor did she try to be. She didn't know a lot of things, but was pretty clear about the things she did know. She was mushy and everything mattered and it showed. I think she's still around. She's watching me with pensive, wondering eyes. She doesn't judge me, but she's hoping I don't forget her. Me too...

I bought the OST of 'Mr Holland's Opus' today. I love the movie and identify completely with Richard Dreyfuss's character(kerrecter)!
Everytime I write in here, I panic. People will read this...they'll judge me..oh my god let me sound a little more mature..yeesh no one will understand THAT...
I wish I didn't get so lonely whenever a certain person's name comes up. Images of black and white linoleum..the squeak of sandals...someone waiting at the bottom of a staircase with outstretched arms, the hands beckoning..

Funny how one dot symbolizes stop and more than that symbolize incompleteness and the possibility of continuity.

High

My room wore nothing but darkness. The occasional flash of lightning cut through. I didn't have to think about the heavy shapes or what they entailed. There are words hidden in there. Books,old letters and notes,song-lyrics,diaries...
Tonight there's a black bag. It has words too, but they aren't important. It's the scent.
It smells of comfort and confusion. Of eye-contact and touch.
Of ruthless hands.