I'm at this point where I don't feel like blogging anymore. I have nothing interesting to share, and all I seem to do is whine. I'm bored of me.

I haven't taken out my camera in months. And whatever pictures are there, are all facebooky and lame. I have unfinished books, unread books, incomplete drawings, half written stories and so many of these little things that used to excite me - left alone just like that. It's not like work is that crazy. It's not like I have a whole lot to do. It's just that I don't do things anymore. I feel vapid and inarticulate.

"There is a marvelous peace in not publishing ... I like to write. I love to write. But I write just for myself and my own pleasure."

J.D. Salinger was 91, and has said his final fuck off to life.

Crazy Heart

The Weary Kind - Ryan Bingham

Your heart’s on the loose
You rolled them seven’s with nothing lose
And this ain’t no place for the weary kind
You called all your shots
Shooting 8 ball at the corner truck stop
Somehow this don’t feel like home anymore

And this ain’t no place for the weary kind
And this ain’t no place to lose your mind
And this ain’t no place to fall behind
Pick up your crazy heart and give it one more try

Your body aches…
Playing your guitar and sweating out the hate
The days and the nights all feel the same
Whiskey has been a thorn in your side
and it doesn’t forget
the highway that calls for your heart inside

And this ain’t no place for the weary kind
And this ain’t no place to lose your mind
And this ain’t no place to fall behind
Pick up your crazy heart and give it one more try

Your lovers won’t kiss…
It’s too damn far from your fingertips
You are the man that ruined her world
Your heart’s on the loose
You rolled them seven’s with nothing lose

And this ain’t no place for the weary kind

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zelvaxvTaUk&feature=related

Why did we have loadshedding?

When I was a kid, and everytime there was a loadshedding, I was told its Jyoti Babu's doing. To him then I suppose I owe all those haat pakha mombati evenings, where we'd sit in the north end of the house, Dada's room usually - and get whatever little bit of cool breeze we could. We'd wait all night for the lights to come back, so that we could sleep peacefully - but somedays, especially summer days, it just wouldn't happen, and we'd fall asleep listening to Ma's patient stories and the whoop whoop whoop of the haat pakha.
I wondered why the lights went everyday, systematically, for such a long time. Ma, Baba, or maybe it was Dadabulo who told me that, we lost power everyday for some time so that the poor people can get electricity. Our electricity? Our electricity. So it seemed like a very intricately wired process that Jyoti Babu had managed to organise. I considered it. So Shanti didi gets electricity when we don't? Y-yes, something like that. So it didn't seem that bad. Shanti didi barely ever had electricity in her house afterall.
Communism made easy. Jyoti Dadu - copybook, cult. We all knew him - whether we liked him or hated him. I stuck millions of pins into his Voodoo doll inside my head everytime there was a loadshedding. But I don't think it made much of a difference.

Excerpt from conversation with Bombay adfilmvallahs:
Me: Dude, Jyoti Basu died.
Ad guy 1: Who's Jyoti Basu?
Me: Uh...
(Ad guy 1 gets call - so fuck JB)
Ad guy 2: Oh yeah, he's that politican, na?
Me: Uh, yes.
Ad guy 2: Yeah, yeah - he was sick or something na...(fiddles with phone)
Me: Hmm. Yeah, so let's just edit, ya?

Sigh.

Haha

It's been more than a year since I've loved anybody to distraction.
Then I remember - N's little helping hand -
A woman and her boyfriend are out having a few drinks.
While they're sitting there having a good time together, she starts
talking about this really great new drink.
The more she talks about it, the more excited she gets, and starts
trying to talk her boyfriend into having one.
After a while he gives in and lets her order the drink for him.
The bartender brings the drink and puts the following items on the bar:
1 A salt shaker,
2 A shot of Baileys,
3 A shot of lime juice.
The boyfriend looks at the items quizzically and the woman explains.
‘First you put a bit of the salt on your tongue, next you drink the
shot of Baileys and hold it in your mouth, and finally you drink the
lime juice.’
So, the boyfriend, trying to go along and please her, goes for it.
He puts the salt on his tongue........salty but OK.
He drinks the shot of Baileys and holds it in his mouth........smooth,
rich, cool, very pleasant. He thinks........this is OK.
Finally he picks up the lime juice and drinks it.
1. In one second the sharp lime taste hits...
2. At two seconds the Baileys curdles.....
3. At three seconds the salty, curdled taste & mucous-like consistency hits.....
4. At four seconds it feels as if he has a mouth full of nasty snot.
This triggers his gag reflex, but being manly, and not wanting to
disappoint his girlfriend, he swallows the now foul tasting drink.
When he finally chokes it down he turns to his girlfriend, and says,
Jesus what do you call that drink?'
She smiles widely at him and says, 'Blow Job Revenge."

Thank you. :)

Mumble

So when you levitate to superstardom, drop me a line. Drop me a very long line from so, so high up. I promise to fling back something at you as well. Like a postcard with my drawings and ridiculous Haiku.
If you can cut through zombie talk, zombie smiles and zombie casual touch, then surely we'll manage.
There's this leather couch at work. It's yellow and half eaten by the dogs (there are two). The stuffing's out and flaps of leather stick out helplessly. I love sitting on it and I want to tear the stray flaps. And chew on them maybe - but that would be a little drastic so early into this job.
There's a tubelight which is always left on in office. Even during the day. I hate it. I hate tube lights. I hate waste of electricity.
Today there's an eclipse. I wish I could see it, but I don't have the necessary eye protection.
Yesterday I went to a restaurant. As always I had to fill out the feedback form. I wrote my name, my husband's name - or rather what I always imagine it to be - and what I do. I wrote another profession (junior copywriter, would you believe?) and it was nice. It was right.

I am listening to you, but I’m not really listening. I am there, but not really. Sorry. I wish I could be. I wish I could really mean what I am saying, because damn it, I say good things. I say the right things. But I don’t feel it anymore. I don’t feel anything anymore. I feel pain and humiliation and rejection. But I don’t feel acceptance and love and warmth. I support you uncompromisingly. Seemingly uncompromisingly. But I don’t invest any real emotions into my support. I’m not real. I’m so, so far from reality.
I wish I were making sense. Later perhaps.

I am good. I am fine. I am absolutely great. I'm that cockroach from Wall-E. Trust. Me.

Bombay is incorrigibly sexy. It isn't sensual like Cal. But it sure is sexy.
I am of course, a fish out of water here. I'm big and ungainly and awkward. I speak softly and slowly and stammer ridiculously at times (I have authority issues). I don't ask people for their numbers or "mingle" much. I do the usual bit. And I'm friendly within limits. But I can't do the sexy cool thing. I will of course have to work with my inadequacies. I can't be sexy cool overnight now, can I? And I'm not particularly keen on attempting this sexy cool thing either. I'll just have to figure something out I suppose.
I'm two shoots old, and it was nice enough I suppose. I should be more excited, but I'm not there yet. I constantly question my life choices. Maybe this wasn't it? Maybe it is too early to tell? I don't know.
I like to read. I like to write. I like to watch films. I like to travel. But why do I want to become a filmmaker? I used to know, I think - but I don't anymore.
The people at work are usually nice. But I can't help feeling that, I'm gate crashing.

Today my phone battery is low, balance tottering on zero, work uncertain and definitely a fat day. Fuckety fuck.

New

Hello New Year. How are you? Firstly, I would have to say, you look pretty neat. 2010. And you're nice to say. Twozeroonezero. Twenty ten. I ushered you in, in a pretty happy state of mind, not feeling inadequate or incomplete like I usually do. I missed seeing the blue moon because some boy got drunk and fell down the stairs. I think he's okay now and I'm not particularly upset. Beginning of the year, I am happy. I am the same weight as I was in the beginning of 2009, which was a lot, but then I had lost it by April-ish and put it all back post September. But it's okay. I'm not fussy.
I feel well rested. I have many books to read, films to watch and lots of work to do. Which is always good. My love life, twenty ten, is dismal as usual. But only on paper, only statistically. I am surprisingly happy at my present state of being. It's uncomplicated, and I don't feel piny or whiny. In the room the men come and go, talking of Michelangelo. It's all good.
I started the year with a Bergman movie - Winter Light. The one in the faith trilogy I hadn't seen. It was accompanied by left over pizza and bit of coke. I love junk food and intelligent cinema. I revel in it.
Anyway, so I was watching that extra indie film with the DVD, Intermezzo I think it was called - an interview with the then 83 year old Bergman. The man had in him more passion than a 17 year old. I am so smitten.
So 2010, I will pause here. My movie marathon continues and must go and get happy. I wish you all the best. I hope you are peaceful and tolerant. I hope you are exciting and warm. I hope you are lucky and fun. I will do my best to make you memorable and cool. See you tomorrow.
Love,
Engee.