October 29, 2008

Six Things You Didn't Know About Me Meme

This works by me telling you six things you didn't know about me, and then I put up links of six people I know with interesting blogs. I also link back to the person who linked me. So thank you Grace. She is, btw, one of the nicest people whose blog I have been following. Pretty and witty.
Okay, here are the six things.
1. My dog Frooty died nearly eight years ago and I still sometimes cry about it.
2. I'm an ENFP according to the Myers-Briggs typology test. Check yours on the Humanmetrics site.
3. I give homeless people a LOT of my money
4. I am a happy person. (you'll be surprised. I really am. Even though I cry.)
5. I really believe that in Heaven, you can eat whatever you want for free
6. My toes need to be covered when I sleep :)

Joe Plork: I don't think he actively blogs anymore but his stuff is sooooooo funny.
DJ Arabia: Good friend of mine... writes about the stuff that happens in college mostly.
College Call Girl: Sometimes raunchy, sometimes hilarious, sometimes touching. I love this one.
Angry Fat Girls: Dealing with being plus size
Concosm of Creation: Sharath and his moody beautiful things.

October 27, 2008

Running on Empty

(I wrote this a while ago, but it's one of the pieces I like. I used to feel this way at one point.)

Some days you wake up wondering where you are. Time, space, alarm and music juggle your neurons, making you disoriented. At times like this you feel like you dropped from the sky, where you were soaring on diaphanous wings a minute back. Reality kills oh so slowly.

You stumble through the routine, mind wandering through endless mazes. Eat, brush, bathe, shit, it all goes on, ruthlessly, every single day. You are forced to do these things, all of them. If you don't want to, you are harassed and ostracized by the mere definition of normal in most minds. You wear your clothes, put on the smile and walk out into the deafening sunlight.

You meet those people who call you friend. Casually wonder what they think, how they really feel inside. Listen well, and you can hear the hurt and the pain, the yearning to be heard, the effect of years of indifference and misunderstanding. It doesn't affect you anymore. It used to, though. Everyone learns sooner or later. You care too much, and one day they will choke you. So become cold, at least that way you do it yourself.

Lunch, classes, teachers, just people, all the same, all the same. Even you, you are the same, just like them. We are the same, little ants running around in an anthill. Never knowing their lives are a mess, a futility, a defined period of time before being smashed under a toddler's foot.

Go meet the boyfriend. Make out. Ruminate on whether he really wants you. It's not like it used to be before. Does he still love you? Really? It's not for your body, is it? Is it? Does he know you? Atleast a little bit? You don't think so. You barely know yourself, with all your horrifying thoughts, how would he know what it would be to be you? To walk in your skin and face the shit. All the shit, every stinking little piece of it. You are sure he wants to leave. Who wouldn't. You can't even stand yourself.

Back for dinner. You see the same old faces, wiser by the passing of a few hours. This second that you will not get back, not this one, not the next. Each cell is older, weaker, more ready to give up. Why does everyone seem so blah and unreal. You hate their expressions. You just want to run away. Get away from the looks and the thousand little subtilities. The traditions, the robotic crap, the phoniness, everything. Even the pretending that empathy exists.

You lay awake, staring at the stains on the ceiling. No point to the day, not like there ever is. You will fade into unconsciousness soon. Dead, but not rotting just as yet. The brief hours you feel less animalistic and nearly alive. You feel one whole day closer to eternal rest. I'm running on empty. But life is beautiful...

October 24, 2008

The Hamadryad's Cry

I'm that girl you suddenly see
When you're looking at a sketch of some tree
My body is woven into the wood
Yet my soul is free

It runs in the veins of my shiny leaves
It flies in tandem with the greatest ease
Along-side the tender swallow

My limbs will not move to music
Arms raised in constant need
Forbidding sky, won't you embrace me
Snow, fall down and numb my night
Spring must winter follow

The woodcutter came one dreary day
He brought his trembling axe
Down it came, a bloody blow
I screamed in silent hate

Look, look, the tree is crying
He said to his little brave boy
There's really no reason to be this sad
Shook their heads and together moved on
They will never know sorrow

My unruly curls are raked by the wind
My trunk stands tall and proud
I have no place to hang my head
I am the weeping willow

October 18, 2008


I stand in this unexpected place, submerged to my chest in the chlorinated water. All outside noise dies away. I can hear only the roar of the small waterfall I'm under, and the sound of my quietly beating heart, pumping liquid through my inert body. Water above. Water below. Water within.

It falls in sheets over my mass of curls. My hair stands in two thick black ropes over my cheeks, covering all my face, except my nose that sticks out like the mast of a drowning ship. My vision is in parts. I can only see through chinks in the natural weave the hair forms over my eyes.

A song plays over and over in my head. Underwater, a favorite by Everclear.
It's not so bad down here, underwater
Once you get past the fear, underwater
Sense you through the haze, it's like a memory
I've been down here for days, have you seen me?

I wake from the slumber. My eyelashes stick to my eyelids in an uneasy heaviness. A small unquiet that is the alive part of me stirs. The beat quickens. I see. I see that it's a sunny day, almost blindingly hot. I see that I am burnt and unappealing to look at. I see that I am unmoved. My neck, wherever untouched by the flow, sweats profoundly. Water without.

I see two people sititng and sharing dark secrets, unaware of a world other than their own. Unhappiness will draw him to you like a drug and it will disperse its molecules throughout your bodies. You will share utmost misery and hence share utmost joy. Your energies will combine and equality will be restored. Water flows from a higher concentration to a lower concentration. Emotions work on physics laws too. A sigh arises from deep within. The unquiet is at work.

Shadows shift. It is noon. My eyes catch a sparkle. There it is again. It's my nose-ring, the white stone on it aflame. It lights up the center of my brain. There are countless sparkles in the brilliant sunlight now, a mini chain-reaction. The water above hits the water below, causing magnificent reflections all around me. Diamonds everywhere. My diamonds. Only I see them. Ephemeral they are, lasting a millisecond. Created for my eyes alone.
They are formed for my pleasure.
Brought into being by my raging desires.
I did nothing to deserve them.
But they are here, dancing a frenzy over my being.
And quelling my unquiet.
These are my jewels.
Mine, mine, mine.

You can never take them because they do not exist later. Only now. And I can keep the memories for free. They sing me a thousand lullabies and giggle with my deepest untouched soul. Matter is exchanged. Sparkles and darkness mix. The flow is harmonious, upward and onward. I am slowly lifted beyond feeling and sink into sweet sedation once more. Seconds are so dear, underwater.

Time to get out of the pool before people start thinking I'm a freak.

Case History of an Old Sick Man

Let me see now
Born in '32 on a farm in a village near the city
Eldest of seven strapping sons
Father died when I was eleven
Raised the others good I did

Oh, you mean why I came here?
I've been feeling down lately you know
I used to run over the hills
Smoke my pipe on top of the tree
Now my legs shake
With every step I take
My hands tremble
I cannot hold my cigarette
The sky is less blue
And my wife's face old and ugly
I think I'm losing my mind
Why, I coughed out so much blood last night
The floor looked like modern art
My joke, sorry

What do you mean do I drink?
The good Lord made the liquor
To ease the hard work of a decent man
I couldn't stop if I tried to and I won't
You'll find me dead with a bottle in my hand
Pouring it down in the funeral pyre

Ah, the children, we had four
They live far away in fancy places
The youngest visits once a year or so
But her swarmy husband makes me sick
I have no use for these computer jobs
Give me a shovel and some land I say
And I'll make a corn-field in the desert

It kind of gets lonely alone in the apartment
I wish they were here
I'm not really sick, am I

I feel all these aches and pains
But I can take them, been through worse
I don't sleep like I used to I agree
Lying awake till the wee hours
The scenes outside th window are strange
It's too fast, this world now
It's not really waiting for us The Old

I've coughed like this for years

No, can't walk without puffing like a fat hen
Even the missus has to wait for me
For that matter, both can't see much either
I'm like a car battery dying, only slower

Why do you keep asking about where exactly it hurts?
The real pain I feel is humiliation
No reward for experience, the wisdom of years
And no one to talk to
Except you
My wife has Alzheimer's for seven years now
You're a very thorough student, aren't you?

My memories are so confused
I get depressed from remembering
Just where I left the key last night
This old machine wants just to be sent home
In a bright, shiny coffin made to fit

Do I really have to pee into this bottle
Why am I so useless
I despise the indignity
But I don't feel so strongly about things anymore
Just letting it be

Give me something for the pain and go
You're young and unquenchable
Burn the world with your fire
Before all you are is smouldering ash

But I'm just a case to you
What would I know?

October 06, 2008

The Tale of Lesser Cinderella

(If you're looking for something inspiring, this is not it.)

For Aureen, the original Cinderella. I love you, you fat little pudding. :-P

Lesser Cinderella was walking down the road dejectedly after class when "POOF", a hideous old witch appeared. Her faded, tattered once-black dress hung about her large frame like a maternity gown doesn't fit on a child of two. She had seven protruding teeth and all the signs and symptoms of a chronic drug addict.
Aaaahh, I'm very scared, said Lesser Cinderella rolling her eyes. Who are you, some homeless person on coke?
Yeah, right. I'm your fairy godmother, in a manner of speaking, said the witch. Though the bloodlines got a little mixed over the centuries.
Eww, gross, said Lesser Cinderella. Do you ever read Vogue? Or, assuming your manner of clothing parallels your education, have you flipped through the pictures? Seriously, woman, take some pride in your appearance.
Darling, have you looked in the mirror lately? You don't look so unlike Dave Chappelle either, said Fairy Godmother smirking in a singularly unpleasant way.
What the hell are you doing appearing at five in the evening? Where were you when my misfortunes befell me? Anyhow, how many wishes and shit do i get?, asked Lesser Cinderella with a sense of urgency.
Oh please, do I look like my great-great-great-great grandmother to you? We have laws against magic these days. Too much trouble, said Fairy Godmother with a sigh.
Just my luck. Then why are you here? Do you at least reduce cellulite?, asked Lesser Cinderella very hopefully. You could almost see the cellulite quivering.
Nope. I don't break professional rules. I'm struggling through menopause and a triple mortgage. My husband left me to live in the Zoo with a particularly masculine giraffe and my teenage son listens to Britney. I keep thinking my vibrator is a magic broomstick and the goldfish looks like a black cat but that could just be the LSD talking. I'm a mess. She paused for breath.
Hmmm, I can see that. Do you know Vogue says NEVER to pair bare feet with torn skirts? Soooo not cool. Anyway, what do you want me to do about your problems?, asked Lesser Cinderella coldly.
There's nothing you can do, said Fairy Godmother. Except pray. Eat healthy, live right. Exercise some. Play good basketball. Life's a bitch. She vanished.
Lesser Cinderella walked back to her room, ate spoonfuls of Nutella, wondered about the Universe and fell asleep. She woke up the next morning, and the cellulite was still there. She felt completely herself again.

Lesser Cinderella was going to class one morning. She had forgotten to brush her teeth and hair and she was wearing her loud leopard-print bedroom slippers by accident but she was feeling happy. Something good was going to happen today. She might even, if extremely lucky, get through the day without ANYTHING happening. Those were the best days. Suddenly, "POOF", and there appeared Prince Charming. Oh no, she thought. I thought my Fairy Godmother was the only one who did this ridiculous dramatic entrance-exit thing.
Hello, she said. What can I do for you?
He was dressed in a green suit with too many buttons. He looked like a button salesman. He was short, almost midget-like. His hair was almost absent, and he stuttered when he spoke. He was also devastatingly handsome. So devastating in fact, that he wore a mask made to look like Queen Latifah's face.
I am Prince Charming, said he. But you can call me Lil P for short.
All right then, Lil Weird Prince Person, why are you looking at me like that?, asked Lesser Cinderella irritably. She had a migraine.
I am looking for your hand in marriage, Lesser Cinderella, he said imperiously. I am the Lesser Prince you see. It's a cruel pun, because it refers to my height. But that was what the Prophet called me before he died.
Which prophet?, asked curious Lesser Cinderella. She always seemed to be asking the questions. Never mind, actually. I don't care. So, what's the plan?
To fit the shoes on your feet of course. Don't you know the freaking story? What did you read when you were young...Penthouse? Okay, here is the shoe. Now put your foot in it (literally), and we can be married in the morning.
Oh, Lil Prince Lesser Whatever, said Lesser Cinderella sighing. Her cynicism disappeared. I never thought I would meet you. I already met First Love and Three-Week Guy but I guess you are the real deal. I haven't kissed anyone in more than a year. Please remove me from this dry spell, pun intended.
I will, dear Lesser Cinderella. Our kiss at the altar tomorrow will break your spell. If the shoes fit, said Lil P kindly.
The shoes fit.
They went back to wherever they came from, because the marriage would be the next morning, and there was no point having sex when they could just wait a day. He went to a fictitious land and she to her room. They slept soundly. All was well.
The next morning, as they were about to be wed, Lil P looked up and his jaw dropped.
Who IS that stunning girl in the front row? She looks like a lingerie model. DAMN, he exclaimed.
Oh, Paris? She's my step-sister. She agreed to come for the wedding despite having to cancel shooting an ad for Victoria's Secret. Why?, asked Cinderella. But she already knew why. Her inferior complex came up like the rising tide and turned her tiara green and blue, tie-n-dye style.
Lil P wasn't listening. He was already approaching Paris as if in a dream.
Nooooooo, come back, shouted Lesser Cinderella. You're going to be mine to cherish and to hold.
Never, shouted Lil P. I will marry your step-sister and make her happy. I will love her and keep her in sickness and health. If you stop me, I'll make you give those shoes back, I swear it.
Lesser Cinderella stopped dead in her tracks. Those shoes were Manolo Blahniks, the kind they kept talking about in the Sex and the City.
All right, you win, she said. We live in a materialistic world, and her budget graph currently pointed firmly at no shoes.
Paris took her place.
Lesser Cinderella hugged her and said, everything works out for good.
Paris laughed her practiced model laugh and said yes, I'm sure he's the One you know. I feel it in my gorgeous body.
Lesser Cinderella shrugged. One was as good as the other, probably. She wouldn't know. The ceremony went on. They looked comical, what with the height difference and all, but what does that matter in the matters of the heart?
The only remarkable incident was when Paris said "I do" to Lil P in such a seductive voice that the minister had a breakdown and had to be replaced.
The food was good. The wine was okay. The dancing was so-so. Lesser Cinderella drank a lot and thought that either Pimply Guy or Pink Shoe Guy or even Too-Metro-Has-to-be-Gay Guy might be the One. She gave them all her number. They all misplaced it. It was a delightful evening.
That night, cradling her shoes, Lesser Cinderella ate many spoonfuls of Nutella, wondered about the Universe and went to sleep. The next morning, the shoes were still there. And Lesser Cinderella felt completely herself again.

Lesser Cinderella was having a beer at the pub when Normal Funny Guy bumped into her. Hey, do you want to marry me?, he asked. It was a casual question, just in case rejection got too hard to bear. It deserved a casual answer. No, she replied, gathered the money she was going to leave as a tip and left in a hurry. That night, Lesser Cinderella thought about the Universe and tried to eat spoonfuls of Nutella. But it was over and the shops were closed. She sat brooding morosely on the economy of the country, and the vital role chocolate spread played in it. She started to think about the Universe some more. It was then that it dawned on her. Normal Funny Guy might just be worth a try. She lived in the real world, and she knew that fairy tales are make-believe, just like Snoop Dogg says. Unless you're Paris of course. Except... Paris was now fat, smoked too much and had three dwarf kids that looked just like Lil P. Hmmm. She started turning the Yellow Pages.
Five years later, Lesser Cinderella married Normal Funny Guy who suddenly discovered that it was love that made the world go round, broke it down into lovetrons and sold it in strange-looking bottles at exorbitant prices. He became a billionaire overnight and bought Lesser Cinderella many shoes. Except Manolo Blahniks. He couldn't stand those. And they lived happily ever after. Honest. They did. The moral of the story really is, these things happen.

Breathing Now

Rain falls
Mommy calls
I don't feel like going in

Body hurts
Fatigue flirts
I don't feel like stopping yet

Wind blows
Grass grows
I don't feel like trampling it

Movie stops
Credits drop
I don't feel like leaving here

Time crawls
Baby bawls
I don't feel like feeding her

Road bumps
Heart thumps
I don't feel like slowing down

Man lies
Love dies
I don't feel like breathing now

October 03, 2008

Moments in Mary Jane's Mind

(Written on an idle day, my mind in a place I cannot define, or maybe it was several places.
For Daffy, who thinks I'm “weird as hell”.)

It was you, it was you, who made my black eyes red.

I'm poetic, absolutely dramatic
I'm emotional, artistically erratic
I have to hold my breath to be
It all clears up then and suddenly I see

The kitten stayed down
The crowd always pressing in
Waiting to snatch her
And carry out all sorts of cruel experiments
Pet her, stroke her
Their way of showing affection
It was terrifying
She crouched real low

The kitten stayed a kitten
Because she was too scared to grow up
She waited with a close eye on the world
She froze, couldn't move
But wouldn't tell why
She had no friends to hold her hand
They all learned new cultures and wandered away
They all knew they had nothing to say.

The kitten became existentialist
And on her own she cried
The key to freedom is sorrow
The loss will be hers alone
She sprang from the chains that held her
Broke free and tore away
She'll reach somewhere faraway and quiet
And teach herself her own story
Maybe sharpen her own claws

She'll grow into a fat old kitten
But never be a youngish cat

Time was going slow ten minutes ago. Now, it's going really fast. Time is an illusion. Everything is an illusion. So is this knife. I plunge it into me. Again and again. Die. Die. Die. But...I'm alive. I know it in my soul. Life then, is an illusion.

Imagine, the airport tax is like five thousand bucks. Imagine again, the amount of money it takes to maintain these aircraft, smiling air-hostessess, moody ground-staff, etc, etc. Just so humans can get to another place really quickly, go back, and do the same thing next day. Why can't we make life slower so that there won't be any airport tax?... This is not the moral or ending I wanted but I forgot what is.
But it was bad, I tell you.
Airport tax, LOL.
Wait, I remember. The ending and moral were the same. And that is, that these humans are incredibly stupid. Especially those girls who wear stilettos to clinics.

They like me. They want me to go with them. They like that I clown around and tell jokes. They can laugh at me instead of with me. They can feel that much better about themselves. They can say, “See, I'm nowhere close to as weird and psychotic as her. I'm a much better person. She is so messed up and obsessive, with absolutely no goals in life. What a waste of space. I'm so glad I'm me and not her.” Then there is finally hope and peace and light in their world again. I have made them happy through my sorry existiness, just being these raggedy bits that don't fit. It is because of my endless sarcastic jokes, and the one massive comedy I feel I have become sometimes. My clown hat is my bittersweet solace. They like me very much.

There must have really been people who looked like that whenever I saw them. Even though I might have been really too young then, right? I mean, why would my brain make them up? I might have been too small to remember details except to store their faces in a snapshot cache, sort of like the way Google does with deleted websites. You can't remember the place or date, but you do remember stupid things that seem meaningless, like the bright sunlight and the sweat on his face. Sometimes, you can remember their expressions. Most of them just look sad. Tired. Faded. Angry, even. Something so hopeless about them. I probably look like that too, to them, with tears always glittering in these swollen eyes. I'm talking about those people you suddenly see in your head and you go, “WHOA, who are YOU, big guy?”

Imagine a lecture. The eminent professor is taking you for a walk.
Picture for a minute, the primitive man. The pre-superhuman. These simple humans thought that burying nuclear waste was eco-friendly. Of course they realized their follies but only as they were suddenly destroyed and nature kindly molded them into these casts that are preserved even today. The casts, as you know, were retrieved using xenon analyzers at exorbitant expense. The early humans were unanimalistic as they could be. They wore ugly things called “clothes”, cooked their foods, and held weird rituals like “football games” and “beer-pong” to pass the time of their dull lives. Some were even atheists and all. Can you even contemplate such simple minds? Delightfully immature, as it were. We on the other hand, are so superior we leave them billion light years behind. We run around naked, eat raw meat from the rabbits, and fruits from the trees. Why, we even have quaint postal addresses. What is ours now? Hard to remember.. let's see.. yes.. No.1, Tree of Knowledge Road, Extreme Temptation Zone, You are Nearly There Sector, Garden of Eden. Nice ain't it. A very fashionable part of town we live in.. Thank God for that. Now, where were we...
Look, what is this big, inviting tree? Let's eat those shiny apples, shall we?
No, no. This is a lie. The xenon analyzer was just an old nut-case pretending to be a diviner, holding an old stick that was pretending to be a magic rod. He charges way too much per go, that tricky jackass.
Stop now, you are going back in time instead of forward.
Don't touch the damn tree. Come away before it's too late.
No, don't eat that apple.
Oh no. Oh no.
Oh no.
Time hitchhiking can be a drag. You see the weirdest things.

Drinker 1: This is Method 1. You should get really drunk. Then you'll get really happy. Go out into the world and help the poor people. They'll be crying about their hard lives. Listen to them, encourage them. You'll make them happy. You'll return home, tire, bored and extremely cynical. So you'll go and drink some more. You'll get happy again. It's a drunken cycle but it's proven to work.
Drinker 2: This is Method 2, a more recently discovered one that the majority of people follow. You can drink and become happy. Then, just stay indoors, drink some more, and become happy some more. That's all you have to do. This way, if you don't distract the unlucky (pun intended) poor by offering to listen, they can use the free time doing better things. Like winning a lottery or less romantically, filling out applications for government aid. They can take care of themselves and you can talk to them when they buy the house next to you. You can discuss common things, like the price of tuition in private schools and the marks your smart children get. Then we'll all be happy at the same time, instead of at different times, as against the suggestion in Method 1. The cost of traveling visiting the poor where they live in far-off places is avoided too.
Drinker 1: Your way is cool too
Drinker 2: Thanks. I thought of it myself.

I was there before this great indignity was done to you
I was there before you bound me to you like a shadow
I was there when you saw the soldier take a bullet to his chest
I was there when you carefully never gave your best
I was there when you saw Daddy hitting Mom
I was there when you drank and beat your own son
I was there when they raped your body as you shook
I was there when the brute with the whip made you choke
I was there when you raced sweat-drenched through the rain
I was there when you tried to stop her putting the gun to her brain
I was there when you rented your first dirty movie
I was there when he touched your face and you gasped
I was there when you found out she hated you for surviving
I was there when she took your money and left
I was there when you were betrayed by your shameless offspring
I was there when you remembered even when I forgot

I was there before it all
I was there through it all
And I know it all
I let you suffer in silence
I really had nothing to say

Boys become men
Only when they see