Thursday, 23 June 2011


I want to write like crazy, but I can't. For me, not being able to write is a disease. So almost five years ago, there was this one day I was very happily stoned, and I said Kamre debo, Kamre debo, my head is on fire. And then I remember how I actually then bit a friend during a bad trip. And I also bit my mother once when I was really angry. And I bit my long suffering boyfriend many times-but really hard and not pleasantly- until he called me Kamroo Debi out of sheer frustration. (You see why I will never have a husband? Who wants a wife who bites?) So well, I am a bitch. And my bite is worse than my bark. I am becoming a sleek greyhound. Not hot but dangerous. Uhhhh. This isn't my writing style, but I can't write like I usually do, as I was telling you it's like a disease. I don't even know why the fuck I write on this blog anymore, because nothing makes sense. I am kind of becoming a drifter against my will, and it's irritating the hell out of me, because it's not me, it's circumstances. I want to be a bohemian in Prague, and that's not possible, I don't want babies or love or Oxford or even NYC (in future). I want peace and Prague or peace and solitude and the sea. It doesn't even have to be a glamorous sea if it has nice waves.

I want to forget that I can cook, that I was once good at research and exegesis, and that I'm a literate person who loves literature and music and art. No marriage, no babies, no lovers, nothing. I want none of these. I could survive on cigarettes, coffee, jazz and peace. And chocolate cake. And please, please- I am NOT writing a novel. I cannot write a novel. Or maybe just one novel, like Sylvia Plath. True poets can never write novels. There was only one exception- Rabindranath Tagore-but I feel
1. He was a novelist who was a poet. That works.
2. He could do everything.
3. He had money to travel and he was astute. Not for him Plath-itudes.

What am I even talking about? I feel like Hans Castorp in his lonely sanatorium. Having taken refuge in my useless mind, space is contracting, time is expanding and everything has become a dialogue between opposing ideas. To write or not to write? To destroy or to create? To die or to live? To eat or to smoke? To smoke or to smoke? Hmph.