Funny thing. Here I go on about the lack of men and opportunities, but when they're right there, I don't know what to do with them.

Please. Don’t. Leave. Me. Lonely. Dear. City.

Like a bunch of silverfish caught in a net, the city shimmers busily beneath me. I want to take a giant hand and catch all these uneven lights and crush them. I want to be God.

I watch numbly as the milk boils over. It sounds like sudden rain when it does that. I quickly shut off the gas when I see it spilling on to the counter. I wish it would rain. I wish it would rain like crazy.

I search for stories in the newspapers. In the city section. In the technology section. I make up a story of a lonely man in Japan who invents a talking robot and programmes it to be his friend. Then I don’t know what really happens. Something about almost falling in love with a girl from another country. All my stories are essentially unrequited love stories.

The house is completely empty. The curtains look dirty and need washing. The laundry basket’s overflowing. There are these strange flat worm-like creatures camouflaged within flakes of peeling paint on the walls. I don’t like them one bit. They look like flattened lizard shit. I don’t like them because they pretend not to be there and no-one knows exactly what they do. They are sly and ugly.

When I take a bath, I notice a pigeon staring at me with its red unblinking eyes from the window. Do I fascinate you mister Pigeon? You’re about the only one. I shoo it away.

Work is strangely empty as well. The dog has come inside to enjoy the air conditioning. She lies curled up in a corner by the stairs like a Danish pastry, dreaming and twitching intermittently.

I don’t want to think today. I want to go home by six and watch Grey’s Anatomy with Maggi and mustard. I want to revel in the drama of other people I don’t know and will hopefully never know.

It’s hot, so I’m wearing shorts and a T-shirt. The T-shirt is weird, because it has these weird air bumps in strange places. Like I have a huge wart there. I remember in school, this girl who used to sit in front of me had these air bubbles at the back of her uniform and I would be fascinated by them. I’d wonder if she had a warty back, or whether it was just air. But I was too afraid to touch it. What if it really was a wart? Maybe people are thinking the same about me now. But I’m pretty sure they haven’t noticed. I’m contemplating my second cup of coffee. I smoke too much and I drink too much these days. It’s beginning to show on my face. I should quit.

There is a Murakami book I just don’t seem to be getting over with. I’ve read three quarters of it and just can’t do the rest. My life seems more and more like that book. A string of useless everyday trivia strung together by surreal imagery and verse. But it really is just trivia at the end of it. At least initially.

The past few weeks, so many things have happened. But when I try to recollect these thoughts, they don’t seem like much. When I repeat these stories, I feel myself drowning in the drone of my own voice. It’s so bland. It’s like trying to sell a rabbit in the hat trick in Vegas. I hear other people’s stories instead. And I forget I ever had one in the first place.

Right now I’m bored of writing this.

I am bushed, but semi happy. Semi because the drill's not over yet. But so far, so good. Can't jinx what has already happened right?

I want to eat some ice cream. Some lovely vanilla with chocolate sauce.

Big ad coming up. Extremely superstitious, so not going to blabber about it.

Happily, I have a fair amount of responsibility this time, but man, it is SO easy to fuck up. Fingers crossed.

I have to pay rent this month, and I'm looking at my account now and it's quite abysmal. I need to do a little something on the side. Money, or the lack thereof is my little drama.

Also, there's no fun cooking just for yourself. I haven't replenished my grocery for more than a week now. There was some bread lying in the fridge for a while, and I decided to make something with it, but wait, what's that blue stuff around the edges? Whatever it was - it was enough to kill my appetite completely.

And remember how when you were in school and sometimes forgot to take out your tiffin box? You know, inevitably the days you had some bits left over? Yeah. So I did that a lot. And some things haven't changed. I decided to be healthy etc, and took some fruit in a little tiffin box, but decided not to eat a few stray grapes. And a week later - voila! I have my own little vineyard in there.

Sigh. I hate spoiled food.

Anyway. What's this news about Keanu Reeves hooking up with Charlize Theron? I love Keanu Reeves. I want to smoke him up.

I am SUCH a homebody.

Dogs are amazing. One little lick and your world is suddenly a better place.

Yesterday was fun. B came over, later we went out for wine and spoke and spoke and spoke. Then D and friends got a projector and we all watched the match on it in our own house. My house is a source of constant joy and happiness. I don't wish to speak too soon, but it makes up for a lot of shit that happens most of the time.

I have a new haircut, and post it, I feel happier and lighter.

This Angst must End

I'm sorry. Do I whine too much? Here's something positive.

At the brink of maybe losing my job (ignore me, it's probably my persecution complex), I feel wonderfully good about a few things (okay, I'm lying, but I'm also trying).

I want to travel once more. Give up worrying about money, recognition and all that bullshit, and do what I really love. Travel. Take pictures. Write. Draw. Re-learn my guitar.

Well, it's stupid and everything, now that I am in Bombay, with job, with possible prospects, a nice house - but maybe there are no possible prospects. Maybe there isn't that perfect job. Everywhere you go, you're bound to find fake people, bound to find a group you just can't fit into, bound to find people who are more talented, more precious. Everything you cannot cope with, is your problem alone. Your personality deficit.

Like now. I'm in a room full of perfectly wonderful people. Interesting, talented, friendly, well travelled - and yet. Here I am. Nose buried in my laptop, typing contrived bull. Before this, I was reading an e-comic. Sigh, there's no room for temperamental artists, and I am, unfortunately no artist either. My artistic inclinations, if any, are pedestrian. I'm not original, not hardworking and not particularly sharp. I say I'm a wallflower. That's because I let myself be one. Oh wait. Whine territory. I will stop right here.

So tell me, what if you left something important, for what you feel is a better life, a better way, and find yourself winding up in a terrible terrible place? What if all the chances you took were stupid and frivolous and not worth it? What if you were just being complacent and arrogant? What if you spend loads and loads of money only to find you've not only ruined yourself but also others? When you take a chance, do you ever, entirely take it alone?

I could leave it all. I could quit. I could sink into fleeting pleasures and temporary loves.

But for what?

Oh, do not ask, "What is it"?
Let us go and make our visit.

I feel fat with discontent. It’s like, when I breathe, I get fatter, sadder and more and more annoyed. I’m walking a plank sweetheart. Did you not notice my chin quiver, when I told you it wasn’t poetry? I’m not a poet. I don’t get turned on by the squalour and madness. I need a nice room, a job that pays well, good food, good skin, great hair, a pretty boy with a hot bike – you know. I’m not your mother. I can’t love you unconditionally and make you hot rotis every time you’re hungry. I’m not your keeper. I’m not. I’m not.
I’m a girl, who is not a clown, not always. I’m not the one you turn to when you falter. Not all the time. I’m not funny. I’m not wise. I’m a stupid girl in a stupid novel written by another stupid girl. I need to be taken care of every once in a while. I need to be looked at appreciatively. I need to be important to you or to someone else, sometimes.

Yes, it’s all about the attention, the pat on the back, the perfect ad moments, the tadas and the glowing hums. It’s fleeting, it’s superficial it’s vain, but it’s IMPORTANT. Indulge me. Sometimes. I need it.

Maybe it’s the drugs. My moods are as fickle as a house of cards. I love you I hate you I’m leaving I can’t live without you. I don’t know. I don’t know anymore.

I didn’t come to you to crib. I didn’t come to cry. I didn’t come for anything.

I don’t feel comfortable in my body anymore. Even when I was very fat, I never felt as though I was not in my own body. It was my doing. My tub of lard. Mine. I could fix it. I could mend it. But now, I can’t control it. I don’t connect with it. I can’t run it the way I want to. Every pore has a mind of its own, and I just sit and observe it making one mistake after another. I’m full of self loathing, self denial. I’ve never felt so physically disconnected from myself. If you meet me, understand that it’s only a fourth of me. I don’t like my sluggish, weepy mind much either.

I wish I could be that clown girl for a bit. The bright eyed, happy but wise clown with rose tinted glasses.

“Why are you so angry with the world?” remember you asked once? I’m angry with me, fish. I’m very angry with me. And I miss your voice. I miss your nearness. Only you are not you. And you are definitely not mine.

I hate that. There must be one that's mine. Why must they all be like my body?

HELLO. ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING? ARE YOU WATCHING? WATCH CLOSELY BECAUSE IT'S JUST GOING TO GET TRICKIER FROM NOW ON. I hope the caps help.

Yesterday was such a group shag thing. :-S

So Gwyneth Paltrow has this blog called Goop, which everyone apparently hates and finds very annoying, because she bitches too much, is too skinny and believes in meditation. God, America can never stop being a high school. Neither can we apparently. Anyway, so a few things:
A) I have a feeling my blog is becoming very morose and Goopy, so I should probably do something about it.
B) I have found some pretty awesome detox recipes in it, but I don’t think I’ll ever get all those cool ingredients she talks about (like Miso paste)
C) I also feel Goopy, because nobody loves me, everybody hates me, I think I’ll just go and eat some worms. Hehe.

Yesterday I accidentally stumbled upon something I shouldn't have. And now words keep ringing inside my head making me feel like shit. But it's okay. I wrote myself a cheer up letter and told myself I'm wonderful. It didn't really work, but at least I didn't cry like a baby in front of all those editors. Sometimes you need to do things for yourself. Like order flowers and chocolate cake. I should be getting to work, but I feel like smoking a sunshine joint and chilling about in my shorts and tees. It's hot and stupid outside. Blech.

So I was going through these old word documents, which if RAM could gather dust, would be gathering dust. And they are stupid and funny and sad all at once, but at that time it seemed very profound and significant. It was my Mr. Big phase I suppose. So here's what I wrote when I was 22, and it made me smile somewhat today, because it seemed kind of prophetic. Here -

Suddenly, when you’re twenty-one, full of urban angst and an overdose of Beat lit and empty idealism, you run into a wise-eyed, weathered, cynical face – out of a Steinbeck novel or something. Peeping out of those weary, almost extinguished eyes are the smouldering remains of a Jimmy Dean and you think… this is it – your fairy tale romance. A year of random conversations, tea, cigarette butts and a couple of dusty rides together you realise your time is up, you’re no longer twenty one, and he has never really been yours. You curse time, fate, an empty tin on the street – anything you can find. Then you reason, you pacify, you console yourself. It was a wild thing you wanted. What would you do with it anyway? Plant it in a tiny ceramic pot – nourish it, weed it, clip it, prune it – what? So you understand and try to fill up the blank, empty spaces of your life with meaningless things. With work insincere and devoid of profundity. There’s no truth in anything you say or do. You are just a paper doll.
You think, while bathing, while pretending to listen to a mundane lecture – I’ll join the Peace Corps. I’ll travel, I’ll take pictures, I’ll meet people. I’ll put myself in difficult situations. I’m too comfortable, I’m too lethargic. I need a goal, a motivation, a raison d’etre. I need to make a difference. Then, after all that talk with yourself, you wind up making the same mistakes you made before and say the same damn things over and over again.
You’re going nowhere with your life. And on warm, sultry afternoons – a cigarette dangling from your lips – nauseating you slightly, you wish for your fairy tale romance once again. You reproach yourself. Sentimental fool. Naïve. So naïve. But it’s a comfort nonetheless. It’s a bittersweet thought you like to play with. Your Jimmy Dean is no longer the same, but a glorious celebrity in your head. The motor-biker, the idealist, the underdog, the champion of truth and justice. You forget all his silliness, all his manipulations, all his wayward ways. You only remember the best parts – and you just don’t care.
Maybe, you wonder, half romantic, half practical – maybe, there’ll be someone else. Maybe there’ll be a better distraction, a replacement for this overcooked fantasy. You never once consider yourself – your beauty – your strengths – your powers. You don’t believe in yourself – just phantom fairy tale romances.
Suddenly you’re almost twenty three. And you’re still not done, going in circles and being foolish and juvenile.
Ah well. You’ll live.

---
Oh wait. I think I posted this one before somewhere else. Nevermind.
Anyway, so I just got over with this horrid shoot and I'm so happy it's over. Now I just want to sit at post and download movies. Hehe.
Oh and FYI, there's this somewhat cute guy I have come to know, who's done all these cool things, which I would drool over had I been younger, but now it's just not happening. I mean, on paper, he's yum enough - but then, where are all those effing fireworks? Sigh. I HAVE grown old.

I'm a resilient chick. I've always thought so. But then again, maybe I'm not. I cannot cope with this. I am, as you said, naive and stupid, although those weren't exactly your words. I should be able to deal with mistakes, with little spurts of hostile behaviour, but I am finding that exceedingly hard. I feel like I'm back in class 3, with the smarty pant bitches looking down their noses at me and complaining to the teacher. The teacher is also a bitch, and listens only to the smarty pant bitches. And then there's me, glowing with stupidity and embarrassment, standing there with my pants down, and averting everybody's gaze.
I don't fit. I just don't fit. And I don't even love it anymore.
Maybe I am Daddy's spoilt little Princess who should stay in her giant Ivory tower and gaze upon the blithering mess below. Why did I even think of being a part of it? I should be a part of the Mad Men era, a Stepford Wife, a part of the decoration.
I am inept at handling this. I can't fight anymore.

I have Into the Woods on loop, which may not be good because it is morbid as hell.
LSD was very trippy and I came out feeling very involved, and it's been a while.
My thoughts are either bullet points or a tangled mesh of rubber bands.
Now, as you can see, they are bullet points, only I wouldn't actually put the points because it's just too science examish.
I am not innocent, just so that you know. Even I am fakepoetjaded and cynical and miserable and listen to electronica and funk and write very tortured verse. Maybe not entirely, but I am very not inncocent and definitely fakepoet.
Don't ask me if I like my job, because I don't know.
Two people made me laugh without really realising how profoundly funny they were when they said what they said. Like, I'm still smiling about it.
Nouvelle Vague is one of my favouritest discoveries. I love.
I'm hoping you know by now where to place the bullets.
My Coreldraw just expired, and I feel terrible. I practically stole it from my previous office - and Corel was one of the few reasons why that old job was useful. I need to make a wedding card for my brother. And I need Coreldraw.
I have also lost my favourite red bandana and my prevention of screw ups diary. I lose things a lot, but these losses leave me pretty devastated. Like if I ever lost my purple jacket, I might just throw myself off a building.
I am sssssick of auditioning people.
They beat the dog at work because he bit some people. :(

And of course Henry the horse dances the waltz

Remember that awesome tumbling music that follows? Yeah, that's the awesome music that's my background score now - and honestly? It's not so awesome. What a circus, WHAT A BLOODY CIRCUS.

Beautiful, as always

I was trying to make my fingers bleed while playing the guitar. Because that shows dedication. Obviously.
What I was doing unconsciously though, was keeping my poor little heart locked up very tight in its cage of ribs.
I was looking for my kicks in those mad eyes. The only eyes I liked to stare at because they were so beautiful. Eyes I denied loving, because it seemed at that time, such a bourgeois thing to do. Falling in love. I never fell in love.
The only time I felt alive or in love was when wheels moved beneath me. I’d forget which city, which life, which lie I was leading. I’d dream freely. I could be anywhere. And I always hoped you’d be there too. Always. Someone I could share my report card and fake gold medals with. You’d laugh. You’d be dismissive. You’d be jealous. But you’d be there. Pervasive. Difficult to ignore. You’d be there. And you strangely, are.
And you're beautiful, as always. I hope you know that.

Tear out those doodled pages and horrid poetry

Sometimes, wouldn't that be wonderful? There'd be absolutely no bad blood, no bad memories, no muckiness. If you erased me, I'd erase you too. I'm certain you'd erase me first. I'm more Joel than Clementine just so that you know.
"Why aren't you anywhere?". Because you erased me fish.

So, wassup

I have lost all my bills. I think. I don't know, it sucks. My money disappears like magic.
My shoot was unexpectedly fun. You'll see it soon. Although, it isn't really that wonderful. It's just about okay.
I have my place now, but I haven't really moved out yet. Eventually, eventually.
The Oscars came and went. I kept remembering how cool it was last year, with the loadshedding et al. And not even a peep from T. Thank god for S.
My computer is full of little bugs. I need to clean it up damn soon.

I'm so ANNOYED. I'm full of nicotine and bad blood. I wish I wasn't such a small fry.

I had the worst trip ever this Holi. There were two of me and I knew another language. Then I had to come to office, mid-high and work all night. It was a very long trip.
I go out of town tomorrow for a shoot. I am excited, but sigh, it’s a veritable minefield.
Come let’s all get hot.

BH

Today I got to meet a director I always kind of wanted to meet. I wasn’t superbly excited or disappointed as such – but it felt a bit surreal, just being there in his room, jotting down notes and looking at all the cool posters on his wall.
For some weird reason I remembered this day my grandfather and I were in his Toyota - he was driving, I was in the front seat, and I said quite petulantly that, it was AmitA Bachchan, not AmitaBH Bachchan. Somehow the BH felt kind of unnecessary. Like a nose seemed unnecessary when you were drawing a face, because it would make it look ugly.
I found it strange and sweet and funny and sad that I should be sitting there, writing notes with a poker face, when all I wanted to do was be crazy happy and do a jig and tell my grandfather, D, look where I am, look where I am – look where I’m sitting and trying to keep a straight face. But I am not awestruck. I’m as petulant and snobbish and sceptical as I was as a 4 year old. But still, D, I wish I could tell you – you’d get it.

Barter

I'll give you brownie points and pinking shears if you can teach me how to whistle with my fingers and find the guy in the white car, I promise.

I'll bake bread and cakes and cookies for you every Monday if you teach me how to play chess, do advanced calculus and help me park a car.
I'll give you a deep tissue massage every day if you play guitar with me every day during the evening and not get bored of my lame efforts at the end of it.

I'll knit you a sweater if you promise to fold the laundered clothes and keep them in the cupboard.

I'll let you play any card of your choice if you can make me quit smoking without being judgmental.

I'll be nice if you are nice.

I'll be kind if you are kind.

I'll play if you play.

Let's bury the ghosts, next to the graves of our goldfish and childhood memorabilia. Don't ever come back. Don't call out in the dark, don't talk, don't watch as I ruin my life with every cigarette ashing.

My books are ordinary, my music ordinary, my films, my things, my clothes are all ordinary. Generic. Populist. Un-quirky. I'm staid, boring, domestic. I won't tell you brilliant things. I will butter your toast and flick television channels, wearing my cucumber face pack and floral dressing gowns.

I won't storm and brood and break things, I will decay like a dead rat. I will browse the internet for grandma's tales, because I won't remember any.

I will be lazy and negative, while you'll be fiery and brilliant. I will watch you light up minds, lives, thrill, charm, hypnotize. I will dig my nails into old leather couches and blink at ugly tubelights. I'll be jealous, proud and happy all at once. But I'll leave you like I've left every fascination.

I'm a sloppy leaver. I'm not as clean and efficient as I'd like to be. I'm sorry.

As long as the wheels are rolling, I'm happy.
So today, I woke at 4 and went to Poona. Not Poona really, but about 40 kms off Poona, in a little village. We had to check out some fort. It was a beautiful abandoned fort, nestled as always amidst dead grass, crumbly pebbles and crazy heat. It felt right, being there.

When I'm trekking, I'm usually very slow - but I'm also very alert. It's like my brain is doing some very serious math - which stone to step on, which path not to take, are there snakes here (FYI, there was one today, about half arm's length)...so it's good. I like it when my brain's working for a change. I was however, thoroughly unprepared for the trek - wearing of all things, a bright red patiala and floaters. It get's crazier. While coming down (shamefully holding on to my location guy because I was slipping all over the place), the two other guys up ahead start waving frantically at us. "Laal rang! Laal rang!" they exclaim. We take a closer look, and there are a horde of bulls standing right at the base of the hill, staring at my red patiala'd (and also red bandana'd) existence. I slip off my bandana, but what to do about the pjs man? So yeah, we take a rockier route and avoid being tragically impaled by the bull gang and finally reach our scorching hot Innova. It was kind of fun :)

On our way back, we chanced upon another abandoned fort, which was not on a hill or anything, but in the middle of a bustling village, it's old grey walls on the outside bearing a garish little Lux Cozy ad. From the outside it looked like a smaller neglected cousin of Shanivar Wada. Inside, there were broken walls and berry trees and tumbleweed and overgrown shrubs - and a house. The most gorgeous house ever. Broken, dilapidated, vandalized, but utterly beautiful - lit by sudden shafts of sunlight. The empty rooms bore a tragic yet resilient look - the same kind of quality that would attract a man to a woman, or a woman to a man. Kind of sad-hot. I fell in love.

But soon enough, we were heading back to Bombay. Needless to say, the wheels stopped rolling.

Something freaky happened as well. The old rusty radar suddenly came to life. Long distance heartache? Nope. Not anymore. Just a faint little beep in the distance.

Apple Pie

When something goes away, all that you can hold on to are the sentiments. The tastes and smells which you know will never come back. The feeling of once belonging, the once excitement, the once let's go. My comfort zone from first and second sem. My happy place to go to whenever. My old, quirky little hippie with tattooed peace signs and Buddha heads. You have totally broken my heart by going away.
Can you ever get your groove back, German Bakery?

I prefer the vampires to the poker faces at work.
I pass by this banyan tree near work and touch its dangling roots and really believe that they transfer some kind of one second magic in my fingers. If I keep touching the roots everyday for a while, I'll have enough magic in my fingers to make a leaf quiver.
I now know why 'Luck by Chance' was made - because casting people is tragicomic. The film industry is tragicomic.
My engeesenses are working over time - detecting strange vibes at work. You think I'm going to get fired? Gulp.
I got my meagre wages today. I always extract my pound of flesh by downloading stuff from office. I do it without regret. Haha.
I hate fucking technology on days like this.