yaaaaaaaaah bleh

Oh, my god, there she goeth again, but also (thankfully) not Goethe again!

Why do I feel old? Why are people cold? Why is my life sad? What is in a rant? Why do you not have a polyester pant? bad, bad, bad, bad.

Things will become worse soon. The price of tobacco will increase. My asthma will become peenu-monia. Tonic will not be served with gin. Love will be banned from the frescoes of Florence. Or the fauna/flora of Ellora. Veronica will get Archie because a Yeti will get Betty.

OK, I think I must stop.

OK, just one more crucial point. Has anyone eaten a soup spiced with gloop? Or a pot of snot? Do parrots not eat carrots? Why not? Do they really eat chillies, the sillies? Do horses never lie down? I never want to be a horse. In my next life, I want to be an Egyptian God, but I do not want to be a naked Egyptian God. I don't want to be you. I don't want to be you either. I don't want to be a literary critic. I want to be Scheherazade. I want to be rich. Really rich.

I want to be meaningful and not at all funny. I want to burst with meaning. I want to help people. I want to bring about World Peace. Also greater multicultural understanding. I will never be depressed. No, I will, but only when I lose on the stock market. I want to play with bulls and bears and not with stupid hearts. I also want to play with the fates of many nations. I will only drink carrot juice and neem juice. I will eat neem begun and eat broccoli and ask "Who is Barbara Broccoli?"

I want to be overwhelmingly decent. Now give me the Nobel Prize. Quick!

P.S.- I can't believe that you are reading this post. Suckers! Losers! Yaaah! Yaaah!

P.P.S.- I am growing really old and am neither-here-nor-there. Abandoned and decrepit. I feel like Perry Como staring at the Beatles and the Rolling Stones. And also, not quite Mahler and uh Mendelssohn?

Customary November Post

She's such a hoax. She's the month of November.

Her smile is the bittersweet afternoon sun.

I think she's the most gingery chocolate

And when I see her I think she's not the one.

I am in love. She is my object.

Subject I cannot call her with due sorrow.

Her subjection may lead to my abjection

I want to see her now and forget tomorrow.

She is the last oblique rays falling through the leaves

When you see her once it is November that grieves

Her smile is so enchanting

That my love leaves me panting

And autumn seems to ask me; is it you who believes?

I stare at the fading sunshine. Cold twilight.

Where did it come from? Was it my light?

Is she mere distraction?

Or a terrible abstraction?

Will she never care? For my plight?

Then I think I know. I always knew!

Like Socrates said, we try remember

It's very very hard and we hate it so.

And then we call the month "Sweet November".

That many-splendoured thing.

Black rose, my most manly enemy, you terrify me. For you, I am condemned, I go to the gallows.

For you.

All my life, I bear your love as a cross. Your love crucifies me. Is it terror?

Or error?

A sudden gust of wind like hatred blows across. It falls evenly on the night.

And you, my black rose, my enemy.

I fade out of your sight.

Tell me, have I hurt you? Is love a wistful song no more?

How much poison in one night? How much lies in store?

You breathe my name. I am so tame.

Sport I'm not, but are you game?

Or is the joke a joke no more? Similar, but never same?

Go, my lost melody. Go into the night.

I don't think I can manage it. I am much fatigued.

(And yet the love returns, like Burton to Ms. Taylor.

I think I am no albatross, and you a crazy sailor.)

Come, black rose, I will water you and make you whole once more

How much poison in one night? How much lies in store?

There can only be a partial truth or a half-lie,

You, my eternal dream, my abstract enemy.

Then come, my diseased flower,

In abstraction must we try.

on books and stuff

These Sunday afternoon posts (sounds like the name of a newspaper in Anglonama) are deadly things. They reflect our general disillusionment with our weekly languages and the disintegrating nature of human bonding. Or do I mean bondage? No idea. Some of my friends are happy, some of my friends are unhappy, (and mostly) some are not my friends.

I share the sense of humour that Julian Barnes seems to have but I do like a good story. I mean I wouldn't write a novel like Talking It Over even though it's really funny and the characters are these really neurotic half-grown individuals (slightly cultured and well-read) that half the world seems to be now. The other half comprises people who are smart, incisive, boring, can do arithmetic in their head and have clear views on Maoists as the Enemy of the State.

I am slightly feverish and irritated with everything. Today I wanted to destroy my charger. I felt like a character out of Virginia Woolf's fiction. Or even Anita Brookner. I could feel my consciousness oozing out of the pores of my skin and destroying the charger. By gad, I wish I could be less the protagonist of a Booker-nominated novel and more a 21 year old with mere issues. Why do I say Booker-nominated? Because these novels don't win anymore. They're all boring, all, all- even the ones that win. It was really funny that Kiran Desai called that horribly boring novel what she did. I mean, so apt. Her mother didn't win so she did. I'd call it the The Inheritance of Loss As Gain. Thankfully not in two volumes.

So I see my charger creeping into my phone, violating it, ravaging it, making it throb with current electricity. Everyday they do it. Excuse the sexual metaphor. I hated the charger. I felt like crushing it. (Don't psychoanalyze me this once.) Making it powder and then going out for fancy coffee. Alone, with P.G. Wodehouse in my bag for company. Or Wendy Cope who writes exquisite poems on hehe. Haha. Mwahahahahahaha. Find out for yourself.

I don't know why I can't be a fatally interesting novelist. I really don't know. I must try too. I am sure I could write about The Tiger that Ate My Libido In a Sea of Marijuana in three volumes. It will be about the depraved, wasted, stressed out youth in some century. A grand trilogy in all earnest. Well developed characters and global concerns. Horrendously subtly beautiful language.

Ooooh. I know why I can't.

*yawn*

I'm lazy.

P.S.

When I win the Bookers

I hope- them awful lookers-

I'll tell them a rather nasty truth

Them bitchy, filthy hookers!

~addressed to men and women who have been "nasty" to me all my life. :D and there have been plenty, plenty, plenty. Comes from being snotty, potty, and spotty. Perhaps also haughty.

nostalgia.sniff.

When I was a little girl of ten

I knew my mind

I was unkind

How I loved me then.

When thirteen struck my life

I was fat and spotty

And did very good potty

There really was no strife.

When I was slimmer fourteen

I looked angelic nice

Girls would look at me twice

And the boys found me most sportin'.

Sixteen was sweet enough

I grew breasts and my voice grew deeper

On trains I'd never go sleeper

Only trigonometry was tough.

Eighteen I was in uni

I would rant and cope

Even do dope

Smoke and drink like loony.

But shit I am now more than twenty

Women hate me

Men berate me

Worries I have a plenty.

All my life I will be plagued then

By my face and my mind

And always try to be kind

Oh I wish I could be ten again.

The Purpose of Life is to be Happy.

One day, in bright sparkling sunlight, when the rest of the busy cosmopolis passed her by, a girl walked alone in Bombay. She had an important interview the next day. She must be smart and go to Oxford. Perhaps she wasn't ready. She had a little impersonal hotel room where no sunlight ever came. Then she switched the AC off and opened the door. Crystals of sunlight flooded the room- dancing, crying, singing. Epiphany. Why did she once think that the room was so dark? No room can ever be so dark. And the slice of sunlight had first filtered in through that hidden window. No room can ever be so dark even with the door closed. When she opened the door, the room was the sun's playground. It was beautiful. It was divine.

She didn't get what she had gone for. Instead she saw a poster. A little blue poster in the middle of a cruel cosmopolis. The Arabian Sea- strong, serene, silent. The city-impersonal, European, Jai Maharashtra.

The poster- The purpose of life is to be happy.

Don't ask me why. I cried then. I cry now.

Little Intellectual Droppings

There was a man called Happy

There really was a man called Happy

Whether he lived up to his name

Without an iota of shame

I don't know; I feel rather crappy.

There was a man called Witty

Whether he made people snigger

Without pulling the trigger

The fear! Oh it makes me feel shitty.

There was a man called Mr. Just

He drove people mad with lust

His sense of justice was sick

From four lines to limerick

Why? Oh because I must.

There was a cat called Rum Tum Tugger

Mr Eliot wrote about this bugger

Also Mac Cavity the candy store chain

That promised to give dentures pain

Oooh I feel the urgent need to mug 'er.

Go on, rebuke me, with your droppings of poo

The cat will always miaow, the cow forever moo.

But this beauty of a duty, I tell you true

Your snot I will recycle into excellent glue.

Hug Me. I Hug Goo.