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|Friday, February 3rd, 2012|
Looking back, it amazes me that I once spent so much time on this blog. Where did I find the energy?
Anyway, I thought that the first piece of writing I managed in two years deserves to be commemorated by a blog entry.
So. Here I am.
this, here, is my corner.
here I would hang my hat, if I had one.
here I hum to myself
as my idle, drifting mind
encounters half-remembered songs,
and bounces lazily off them.
here I sing, loud,
when I want to fly and biology thwarts me.
here I drop, weary, released at last by a long day
to stretch, and sprawl,
and luxuriate in the soreness of my body
until tomorrow claims me.
here my eyes close, at last,
and here dreams come,
easily, without sense or portent,
and leave me gently
when I awake.
here I brace myself
for cold and coldness,
and bitter faces.
here I leave my best self
to await my weary steps
at the end of the day.
here I return, always--
though I may pack it up
and take it with me,
here I return, always.
|Monday, April 12th, 2010|
two hours yet to daybreak
an angry hum that's taken the place of silence.
a blanket that's
a plastic chair
that was not meant
to be slept in.
too many busy people
in white coats
at three in the morning.
that everyone knows
one last breath
tubes are pulled
a white sheet
over a grey face.
|Tuesday, February 3rd, 2009|
|When I started typing I didn't know I was going to write this.
Clear your throat --butterflies in your stomach
twisting writhing snakes
scaly clammy snakes
green and brown
one is called sam
i want to throw up
i should have written this down
the sarus crane mates for life
no that was last week
oh no i've said too much
my hands are shaking
to be or not to be
is that the question
the question is when do i begin
let's start at the very beginning a very good place to start
I SAID NO SINGING
wow this is going to be such a disaster it's not even funny
i am not afraid of speaking in public
audience in their underwear
winston churchill won a nobel prize for literature
winston churchill wasn't a vulcan
v for vulcan
v for victory
v for vendetta
what's his name? mr smith
hugo weaving is australian
yes but he played douglas jardine in bodyline
yes but douglas jardine was english
yes but bodyline was australian
yes but i digress
boy, do i ever digress
scream scream scream
STOP INTRODUCING ME CAN I TALK NOW
breathe breathe breathe
i'm going to begin with the quote after all
it's a good thing i didn't write this down
i should end with the quote
let's be all dramatic about it
excuse me, miss mc, i do not play the piano
i am not a pianist ha ha
i should tell a bawdy joke
THANK YOU FOR SHUTTING UP CAN I GET ON WITH MY SPEECH FINALLY
damn it, get the mic working
does mic rhyme with sic
yes but sic is latin
-- clear your throat.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen."
|Tuesday, January 20th, 2009|
When there's nothing to say what do you say?
So. My life is supercalifragalisticexpiallidocious. *wry grin* Yes, yes. I am a musical-mad nerd. (Or am I a geek? I haven't got that sorted out to my satisfaction yet.)
What have I discovered about myself in the last year? Apart from a propensity to put my right leg in gutters, that is. Seriously: the International Sewage Systems Association has it in for my right leg. (Or rather, my right leg is in the International Sewage System a lot. I'm so funny sometimes I can't think for laughing.) It happened, famously and without injury to my leg, my shoes and my favourite jeans (phew!) in Kochi; it happened AGAIN in Dadar, with slightly more injury to my leg but thankfully still no injury to my jeans, apart from some blood smears on the inside that I can't see now. I hope they washed off -- though, since the jeans are black, would I be able to tell if they haven't?
I have lost the ability to write intelligibly. *g*
But then when has that ever stopped me?
I have no way of knowing when I'll be here again; if anyone still reads this thing, I would advise that you await my return without the customary baited breath: you might turn blue in the face if I continue to follow this trend.
How liberating it is to talk absolute and utter nonsense.
|Sunday, November 16th, 2008|
|Thursday, August 21st, 2008|
I want you to think I'm
I flaunt myself
twirl my skirts
let my hair
you look for a moment
and then, bored
you move on.
The truth about loneliness: you can live through it -- at least some kinds.
No doubt any friends who have flown or will shortly fly the family coop will snort derisively and tell me I don't actually know what it's like to be lonely. Well, to them I say pah. (I am comforted by the fact that none of the people I really give a damn about will snort derisively.)
Anyway, as I was saying. The truth about loneliness. It doesn't kill you slowly from the inside, or make your life unliveable. I wish it did.
At least the drama would be some comfort. The only thing that loneliness does is make life flat and colourless and boring.
It makes you plod through every day with NOTHING TO LOOK FORWARD TO. It makes the automatic response to every suggestion an apathetic 'meh'. (If you still read my LJ, Chintu, I admit I stole that from you.)
Also? A brave new world is worth nothing if you can't share it with anyone you care about. And I can't
In passing, I've remembered how much I used to like Kipling's If.
For anyone who wants to refresh their memory, not under a cut because I don't think anyone actually cares:If -- Rudyard Kipling
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!
I'll leave you on that note. More soon!
|Saturday, August 16th, 2008|
Coming back home from Malhar this evening, Sanica, Tushna and I were talking about how Sanica and Tushna first met.
Sanica: It was in twelfth.
Me: During the exams? (I actually said, "In the exams, na?". I'm polishing the English to make it easier to read.)
Tushna: *grins* Yeah,
Sanica: I still remember you, with your blue eyeshadow and braces.
Tushna: They weren't braces. They were, uh...
*wobbly smile because I MISS EVERYONE SO GODDAMN MUCH*
|Monday, May 5th, 2008|
The National Brain Research Centre. Integrated Ph.D. programme. Interview. Tomorrow. Me.
Wish me luck. I really, really want this.
|Thursday, March 20th, 2008|
A little background first: my grandfather was very fond of this very wise, very sweet, very wonderful gentleman who used to work with him. Mr Dinshaw and his wife spent many, many, many mornings and evenings with my grandparents, and when my grandfather died they came home to offer their condolences. Mr Dinshaw spoke maybe ten words that whole hour.
That was five years ago. Today I met Mrs Dinshaw on my way home, and went over to say hello. It was plainly obvious that she couldn't place me, so I tried to help. "Mr... Mrs Venkatramani's granddaughter," I said.
Did I cease to belong to him when he died?
|Monday, March 10th, 2008|
|Made me cry
Here Dead We Lie
Here dead we lie
Because we did not choose
To live and shame the land
From which we sprung.
Life, to be sure,
Is nothing much to lose,
But young men think it is,
And we were young.
--A E Houseman
No matter my opinion of war, war poetry touches something inside me that nothing else does. Naught broken save this body, lost but breath...
--Rupert Brooke, Peace Current Mood: In tears
I finished the crossword today, for the first time in a long time. It felt good. "...but I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams."
-- W B Yeats, He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven
While I was sitting looking at my blinking (literally) cursor and wondering what to say next, a voice said those lines in my head and it sounded like music. *sighs*
I shall attempt to make some repairs for all the time I've wasted in the last three days, and try to get a handle on my studies. It's my last chance to conquer myself. If I don't do it now I don't think I ever will.
Wish me luck.
|Tuesday, March 4th, 2008|
|Redundancy and necessity
I have five notebooks strewn about my house: one small lined notebook wherein go thoughts and somewhat-poetry and disjointed, impersonal musings; one large, expensive notebook that I bought in an indulgent mood and used to call my diary, which has more personal and less disjointed musings; one notebook that I covered at age fourteen in random words and wrote poetry in; one teeny tiny notebook wherein I record expenses, debts and day-to-day things like 'buy red pen' and 'make notes on electrophoresis'; one that I carry in my bag all the time, that for lack of a better word I call an organiser, although it's the most disorganised document I've ever seen.
Then I feel the need to say
things, and think I have nothing to say them to. *thunks self on the head*
What I think I'm trying to say is that I tried to negate the need for this blog, and came back, somewhat sheepishly, because I love love love typing. *grins*
I want to be a pleasant memory. I want the thought of me to make people smile. I want to make people smile. I want the time that people spend with me to be good times -- they might not take much more from that than a warm feeling, but really a warm feeling is a good thing to want for people, isn't it? -- good times that will make them happy when they look at photographs. I want them to forget the times I was a pain, or I was immature, or just generally demonstrating how to thoroughly ruin a great day.
But really? What I want most is not to be forgotten -- and I want to be remembered not for being fun or warm or smart, but just... just for how important you were to me when you knew me. I want to pull people into my little world, make them important to me, make their happiness and love and kindness and warmth and character quirks necessary
to me, and then tell them every day how much they can mean to one person.
I want to make people feel better about themselves just from knowing how much I love them.
|Sunday, January 6th, 2008|
*sobs* The spirit is willing, but the flesh belongs to a student with a journal to finish.
This is not a post. This is not an apology. This is a promise to be back inside of twenty-four hours.
|Thursday, December 6th, 2007|
I'd rather forgotten about this place, and was reminded of it today by an email notification of a comment. (Thank you, aimlesswanderer.)
Anyway, it made me wonder why. Less than three months ago I loved updating my blog, and deplored the fact that my workload didn't let me do it more often. What changed?
Back when I was fifteen and weepy and diffident (even I was diffident once) I'd just have tucked the diary away in some cobwebby corner of my bookcase and never thought about it again; when I'd got over whatever it was, I'd probably have gone and bought another one. I think I have some four diaries from my ninth and tenth standards...
Anyway, I'm no longer fifteen and weepy (well, not very) and diffident, I shall try to do a little soul-searching and find out why. Actually, I know why. Writing about things is all very well, but writing about myself
-- which I tend to do, you know, a lot of the time -- means I have to take whatever it is out of myself, and I don't like myself very much anymore.
There are times when I barely recognise myself. Somewhere beyond the weepiness and the suspected homosexuality I turned into a person who was determined and brave and honest
and kind and considerate. I don't see a lot of that anymore. I'm not very brave. I'm not very honest. And as recent events have proved I have no self-discipline whatever.
It will pass. I still have whatever it was that I had when I was fifteen and decided that enough was enough.
|Tuesday, October 23rd, 2007|
It's just been so long since I came here -- so long since I even thought about my blog. It's a fairly sorry excuse for a blog now -- half the things on it are bits of melodrama that only I can fully
appreciate understand. And the other half is me being happy, and I can't see why anyone would care about that either.
My fannish pursuits have dwindled to almost nothing; I can't even drum up the enthusiasm to search for new Gibbs/Tony, which, all things considered, is strange. Not unexpected, perhaps, but strange nevertheless. *shrugs* I'm seeing it as healthy: at least if I don't care about fanfic (as much) I won't lose as much time to it.
Some days I feel a leadenness in my limbs, and my breath feels heavy in my chest, and I wonder, what's the point, anyway? Who would care? It takes a while for me to snap out of these fugues. Not that anyone cares.
I don't think I'll go on. There doesn't seem to be much point.
|Friday, August 31st, 2007|
My whole body aches, with that pleasant ache that says work was done, and the bed will be cool and welcome. *stretches*Today's Words:
Tired, accomplised, happy, not-stressed, and productive.
|Thursday, August 30th, 2007|
Dude. It's too bright to be peach.
Um. Okay... peach with a light behind.
*rolls eyes* Peach with a light behind. Uh huh.
It's the sky. It always has a light behind it. And what kind of lame-ass colour is peach-with-a-light-behind, anyway?
It's not a colour. *spreads hands* It's a... feeling. An experience. It's like poetry. *pauses* Or something. *flails arms*
Uh huh. Sure.
*long sigh* Okay, yeah, whatever. Peach with a light behind. Poetry. Experience. Got it. *snorts*
*encouragingly* That's it.
|Wednesday, August 29th, 2007|
So the other day our prof leans against her desk, and says, almost casually, "What is life?"
At least, in effect that's what she was saying. She started out asking what viability was, as in viable cells. After the first few usual stuttering replies about reproduction and colony formation, she asked almost happily about cell cultures, which don't reproduce or form colonies but are most blissedly alive. There was more verbal fumbling, after which I think she took pity on us and told us what life really is.
All living cells have a membrane potential. Every living cell continuously maintains that potential by pumping out sodium ions and pumping in potassium ions, by means of ATP-driven pumps. And that's what life really is.
For some reason that blows me away.