Thursday, January 20, 2011

Man. Machine. Madness.

When a book costs you less than 50 rupees, you better believe that it's a classic. And a portal through time missed by the bungee-jumping yahoos all around you, ironically.

The other day I picked up 3 beauties inside the campus:

1. "Feeling Good: The New Mood Therapy" by David D. Burns, M.D.
2. "The Perfect Vehicle: What is it about Motorcycles?" by Melissa Holbrook Pierson
3. "Theory Z: How American Business can meet The Japanese Challenge" by William G. Ouchi

Walking back home, three words cropped up in my consciousness as I trudged along, panting.
"Man. Machine. Madness."
I liked their rhythm. They compensated the lack of soundtrack music quite well. And for a moment I forgave Hans Zimmer for not winning a Golden Globe this year for Inception in the "original score" category, despite tracks like "Time".

But that's not the point. 3 books. 3 words. Which is which?

You'd think I wouldn't begin reading if this wasn't sorted out. :)
Strange how my fingers solved it for me. It doesn't get better than Motorcycles. Because, like the author says, if you're travelling at that speed on a Motorcycle, you want to be seen.

Saturday, January 15, 2011

Celebrating Darkness

A travelling womb. Hysteria. The fear that this thing between you and me is a mirror. Acquiring. Losing. Sending messages to a mobile phone that chooses to be switched off. Hiding when people aren't seeking you. Trying to find words that hack away at this silence all around us and within us. Two stories. Intertwined. Parallel. The snail and the bird. A patchwork. Tomorrow, the colours might change their names. Their significance. Turn on the lights. Turn off the lights. Over and over and over again. Let it burn out.

Thursday, January 6, 2011

Bum Buttery Flit Fluttery

Seriously. I mean there's apparently something known as "The Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain." I don't think the ukulele is a British instrument. Or maybe the name isn't British but the instrument is masquerading in Britain as something else.
Anyway, it's not bad when you play Greek stuff on it.
Youtube throws up a track called "Misirlou" when you run a search. Apparently it's good for a Jewish wedding as well as for belly dancing.
(Although I think my ears are hot mainly because of the untimely white rum. French Toast in white rum. Not a bad prescription when the mercury jammed at 3.7 and dipped no further. Uncomfortably, uncomfortably numb.)
You know I finally figured out why I don't like getting photographed.
I'd much rather be a bird in the "loverly spring" and fly away. Not a parachute that has to float down.
A photograph doesn't let you travel. Or scratch your itch.

Wednesday, January 5, 2011

Did I Hide Too Well?

The Nokia Xpressmusic Mobile Handset jars my senses. I am blocking friends on Facebook. I'm too scared to close my eyes. Feelings lurk behind the paintings in art galleries. They don't speak to me any more. I have been pretending that I have Writer's Block. Everytime my mobile stirs, I hold my breath. I don't want to walk. I don't want to climb. I don't want to shout. I can barely speak.
I don't want to go to a gym anymore. I got my hair straightened. I can cook you a meal. My hands are soft again.
I'm a girl. I'm a girl. I'm a girl.
I can learn.
I can try.
You can teach me.
I'll watch you play. I just asked the score. That's all.
I'll hold on. I'll work on the brakes. I'll smile, not just inside. I promise to bleed when you cut me. I lent you my silence. Please don't give it back.
We're neighbours. In my mind.
I'm sorry I closed the door.
I'm sorry.
We were like Mark and Callie, remember?

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

Hunting. Gathering.

Can I put that in my CV? "I hunt and I gather"? Doesn't it show androgyny at work or something? (My birthchart says I have equal masculine and feminine influences anyway).
Or should it be in my Facebook status...somewhere...someday...
The other thing is I tried incorporating "purr" into the words to make it sound like a feline fetish but I got nothing. Made a couple of sandwiches. A lazy lunch as the mercury continues to drop. A cup of "Lean Tea" went quite well with it.
Oh and you don't need a can opener.

Sunday, January 2, 2011

It Was The Song, Wasn't It?

It all started when I walked into the turkey being chopped. I managed to glide out without letting the emotion spill over, but when I returned, I saw birdfeet and birdnails - teeny tiny ones. Strewn on the kitchen floor - almost like my own nails - after one of my hasty encounters with the nailcutter.
I pushed it back.
But a couple of nights ago, when I was at this Winter Jazz Fest at the India Habitat Centre, listening to a Cinematic Jazz track named "Losing Control" from the movie named "Ratatouille", I kept thinking of a sickle or a kitchen knife, making sudden contact with my knuckles, my fingers, my skin. Hacking at me. Continuously. It didn't help when I dug my fingers deep into the recesses of my overcoat pockets.
Oh God I don't think I can continue this.