Directions, Driving and Math

I have realised something over time: If you don't understand directions, can't drive very well and do not know math, you career is probably going to suck big time, especially if you have one similar to mine. It starts with math of course. You know (or in all likelihood you don't) how in class everyone would have figured out that problem on the board, but you were still trying to get there - and they would just move on to the next sum? For a while you'd struggle; leave that sum, move onto the next one, but you were already too late, so you've fucked up this one as well. Eventually you just give up and pretend to scrawl, looking out of the window, making shapes with clouds.

Driving. Well, its a big one. Not knowing how to drive can really get in you in trouble. You're always depending on someone else for a ride, and during an emergency you are useless because even if you have a car, you wouldn't know how to use it.

And directions. You don't get left, right, baju, parallel, upar, niche - nothing. I personally, only know roads because of landmarks. Very Hansel and Gretel. If someone took away the breadcrumbs, I'd totally end up at the witch's house.

And yeah, having a boyfriend. That's another thing you should have. Good, bad, ugly doesn't matter. As long as you have one. It makes a world of a difference.

My career sucks. I need to do something about this.

Empty Rooms

I don’t think I’ll ever fully fathom how lonely an empty room feels. Not like the way my parents do. Maybe if you have kids you should have them ten years apart or something. Or ensure when they’re grown up you adopt a few more. I think being a parent is akin to having a job. Just like you don’t know what to do when you retire from your job, you don’t know what to do when your kids are all grown up and don’t need you like they once did. Could I live with something like that? I don’t know. It’s scary, having kids.
I no longer feel the same excitement about shifting homes like I did once upon a time. I don’t think I ever liked it much, but now I don’t even have the energy to protest. I just think of this horribly muddled up future and then zone out. I don’t want to think. It’s too goddamn heavy.
Leaving home this time, I feel a huge, huge void. Like something is changing forever. My brother’s not here, I’m not here, and there is this huge, lonely house with things accumulated for 30 years, maybe more, not knowing what to do with itself.
I also know when I leave this time, I’ll be leaving behind a tradition with a friend. I won’t meet him anymore. I won’t see him anymore. Not in this city. Not in such innocent dreaminess. It’s the end of something glorious, and I know it. Next time, we’ll all be expats, with noisy children and strange spouses. So weird, so weird.

I feel as blue as a whale. Heh.

One more time, for a few seconds

Sometimes I think we’ve got it again… when we lean against each other like uncared books in a dusty shelf. And when you tell me about your little quixotic plans. I love you like mad then. But then you look away, like you’ve made a mistake…or like you have more important things to do…or like you’ve said too much. I don’t know what I do then. Probably look at my hands or nod idiotically, laugh unexpectedly or something. What does one do, when they feel love slip so clumsily out of their hands? I am certain I look as silly as you do.

Aug 7, 2006


Tonight, today, at one o one am, I need to talk to you. And only you. On Gtalk. A year ago. I need to talk to you and make you read my old horrible writing and I need you to pay attention. I need to wake up to your hello and I need to go to sleep with your goodnight. But then I ran into you one day and you were a phantom shopping for groceries and listening to old cassettes.

I had no answer today when they asked. What have I been doing for the past 3 years? I don’t know, I’m stuck. Despite the superhuman overhauling. Despite the rude, loud moving on. I am stuck to a moment which was all a big, fat lie.

Crossfire

Okay, maybe its a little twisted, but 3 things -
1) what. a. song
2) Brandon Flowers (oh yes he does)
3) Every woman at some point of time or the other likes to rescue a man.

Okay, so maybe not every woman, but I'm sure many do. But most men don't like being rescued much, which is why this video kind of makes me smile.

I can't write now because I'm not writing very well. So later.

Marshall's Magazine and India's obsession with Death

Two completely unrelated stories, but my morning headlines nevertheless.

Remember that utterly wonderful episode of How I Met Your Mother where Marshall had to come home every time, ahem, he had to "read a magazine"? Yeah so I went home today to "read a magazine" in the middle of the day, simply because...I can. My house is like 5 minutes away, so I indulge in its nearness once in a while. Besides, I absolutely HATE using the office loo for magazine reading purposes, for reasons similar to Marshall's: They ALL know what you've been doing! I get squeamish about things like that :P

Note to self: Cut down on the drinking and fast food on weekdays. Phew.

Now for story number two (no puns intended). I don't get it with India's obsession with models committing suicide. How lonely life on the fast lane is, how young independent women with fading good looks are prone to depression et al et al. I get it. It's sad. But why and how is that your newspaper headline for the past fucking week? Even Bhopal didn't get that kind of coverage! Our obsession with glamour and death is sickening. Their excuse? It sells baby. We're all feeding off this meaty little sad love story. Wait, did I just see Madhur Bhandarkar sitting in a corner gloating?

Itchy feet. Need to do something new. Bored. Designing. Eating too much. Not good signs these. HAVE to travel. This is not school. Or college. Or University. There's no fixed time to leave. I can leave if I want to right? Right.

I miss...certain things. I miss Cal in bits and pieces. I miss being 19. I miss playing guitar. I miss FS classes in that big, dark, gloomy room. I miss being a student.

I think my shorts are too short. And I got splashed in the rain while walking to work today. There's no point bathing in Bombay.

I had a horrible dream where a lot of people died. Death is a leit motif in my dreams.

Maska Pao is my maska maroing blog. See it.

I am bored at work. Like seriously bored. And I do this every morning drama thing in the loo while showering - where I tackle with an imaginary situation - and now it's gone out of control. Like the drama's become too intense, and it's effecting my reality. Issues. Sigh.

There's a guy at work listening to Bryan Adams and Bon Jovi. Like intensely. And I know all the words. Sigh.

New project coming up. But I feel distracted.

Okbye.

I cannot do parties. I cannot. I get bored at them. And I can't make an effort to make them interesting. I'm a thrill freeloader, not a provider. I can only entertain if I really like you, and/or you may have seen in me in my underwear at some point of time in my life. So yeah.
I've been missing college of late, and so decided to call over some old friends from the old school. And I was happy, because we made excellent happy drunks and generally got along. But I think an hour into this intermingling of two very different crowds, I started getting angsty. There was this weird vibe and I just wanted them to leave so that everyone could relax. I like all of them. But you just shouldn't mix friends. No-one is a potato.
I miss the college fun. It was simpler. It was within a routine. It was speckled with exams and serious shit. Life now is like La Dolce Vita. Absofuckinglutely out of control. I am an old, serious woman of routine and method. Push me out of the line and I'm like Mrs. Thurlow. Don't disorient me if you can help it. I have a library personality.

I am so crazy bored right now. Of Bombay, of work, of the sameness. I need to travel somewhere. But work is like a leech. I can't let go, without them letting go of me. Dratz.

Today is a very wallflowery day. I am sitting in office, with no work, a bit of jazz, a lot of rain, feeling a little pretentious. My umbrella upturned twice while walking to work today so I'm a little damp. And no-one is talking to me at work, even if I ask a question. Okay, maybe I'm mumbling a little and talking to no-one in particular, but it's like I'm in an empty room or something.

Yesterday I watched Woody Allen's Sweet and Lowdown. Very La Strada. Very nice.

My dogs are going away. :(
It's sucky.
It's very, very sucky.

I was rude to K, and he probably deserved it a little, but I feel bad about it. You know, there's no point holding grudges and being a mean bitch, because what if he dies or something? Then I'll feel like a heel all my life.
What I wanted to tell him though was how life was suddenly topsy turvy for a bit, and I wanted a little perspective. But fuck that.

Anyway. My foot is fucked. I walk with a limp now. Like an old woman. This is so uncool.

I walked all the way home from work yesterday (it's not a big deal though - just 15 mins away it is) through the pouring rain, because no auto would stop. It was a good healthy downpour and I got thoroughly wet, but how wonderful. Yes, the wading through miserable muck bit isn't as exhilarating as it used to be when I was 10, and yes there were concerns about the clothes drying and the laptop getting wet...but hey. It's monsoon. I love monsoon.

I need my Glee fix, I'm going mad. I can't download anything in office anymore, because I keep getting caught. Life sucks without TV shows to go home to. I am aware of how sad that sounds, but it's my happy thing. So shut. Up.

Everyone "chills" in Bombay. So whaddya wanna do? Let's just chill. So what are you doing? Oh nothing, chilling. Stoppit ya. Jusstoppitwhatthefuck. Stop saying that all the fucken time! Let's not chill. Let's NOT.

Speaking of. I've been doing too much of this chilling thing. Eating, drinking, smoking/up. Bah. Humbug. Enough already. I'm bored of chilling. I'm bored of the Bombay culture. Work hard. Party harder. Fuck that. I want to not party hard. I want to read a book. I want to watch a movie. ON MY LAPTOP. I don't want people in my space. Is that so bad?

Good news. It's raining. Sometimes. There is some hope for this city.

My colleague N thinks that I am a lesbian. Others too. What is it? The short hair? The lack of a boyfriend? The amazing women around me all the time? Hmmm. So what about it?
A couple of months ago, I was at the edit studio and I met this woman. I was sitting on the steps of the cafeteria, smoking, when I noticed her. I couldn't stop looking, not because she was unduly attractive, but because she looked EXACTLY like me, maybe 15 years later.
She had short, not so nice hair, a pretty unshapely body, big glasses, and was wearing a black T-shirt and jeans (me too that day). She was carrying a jhola and had a nose pin. Hmm. She sees me smoking and asks, so you can smoke here? And I'm like, duh, obviously. Ok I didn't say that. But I just nodded my head.
So she sits by me, lights up and we're both smoking in silence, when I don't know why, I become morbidly curious about her. I do what I never do. I extend my hand and say, hi, I'm engee. And she jumps at the opportunity to befriend me (maybe she was thinking the same?). So we get talking, and she has this semi-breakdown where she rants about men, smoking and general mid-life crisis shit. And I'm like fuck, is it me? Why is she telling me all this? So after a while of listening to her, I decide to go back to work - but I can sense she wants this to continue. I shake hands again (!!) and walk off like a cowboy into the sunset. Like this total stud.
I think I have brilliant lesbian potential. I can be such a cocky chyut of a man.

I do not. Need. This.

My steady, staid life is happy. Happy with its manageable roller coaster-ness. I have been working for over a year now. And I’m finally at peace with it. I do not need you to mess this up with your whirlwind ways.

Over-reacting. Our new ad looks wonderful. I'm semi-proud of it. :)

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.