Tears taste like coconut water.
 
- Written on 8th September, 2013. Thought it should go up. This is just precious. I don't even remember what the coconutty tears were for. Or who. Or maybe I do and I don't.

Being in one.

Like a clapboard noises out, a guillotine blade falls, flash goes off, shutter comes down, sun comes up and in sometime it makes your head spin and it's hot and dreary.

As if one willfully surrenders to be in a room perpetually in the moment. Makes it their own and then every other day bang on walls, break things, write profanities, talk to oneself. One made it for two. Is left singularly solo. One doesn't realise it's made for one. Was for one. Meant to be for one.

The food will run out, and they'll eat the other's time. Crunch up words and wave sleepily to ideas that go to a distant unnamed place. The farm. Where the parents put your rabbits when you were 7.

Shot up to black, occasionally sparkly space which could be either what they tell you or someone just punched a few holes in your paperbag which you wear on your head as a necessary precaution. Not to offend.

Paint walls with a childish landscape only to realise its wallness.

Lick on a cardboard ice cream.

Step over to avoid a dry puddle.

Feel a stair where there wasn't any. You haven't reached.

Mistakenly dip a paintbrush in chocolate milk.

Write this because you want to write this.

It's thoughtmurder. Thoughtdeath. Inward terrorism. Cornsyrup utopia. Autotune. Autopilot.

Make a gash. Sing. Dry up.

Unapproved Guest Post

What Anonymous said about the previous post 'Sleep Gum' and because Anonymous doesn't write as much as I want them to - which is pretty much never. Because Anonymous is really only the one person who well, reads this blog. And because Anonymous didn't know this was going to happen. And because this need to be better preserved. 
And because it's beautiful. For the love of words, the mind and the poetry of it.

You know what, I don't like your blog.
I don't like it when you write a post.
But I just have to read it.
And after reading it, I dislike it.
The reason for it is that, your writing scares me.
Its almost repulsive.
It's like my thoughts.
It's like I am telling myself about myself, if you catch my drift.
It's like you invaded my mind and extracted my thoughts and put them on paper, and not the casual thoughts, but those thoughts which make me feel very strongly about something.
And that scares me, that someone can know what I know and feel about something.
Then I find solace in the fact that it is just coincidence.
And that the things you write about are not the things which are as important to me as other issues.
I hope you never write about those things.
I might not be able to take it.
Your writing scares me.
It's like walking into a mirror show in the circus.
And the mirrors don't distort the reality here, they amplify with.
With vague familiar feelings.
Your writing comforts me.
Because I will never be able to reach into my mind and bring these thoughts out.
Ignore this message.
Thank you, Anonymous. I hear you. And I understand.

Sleep gum.

Nightmares stick to you. To the farthest reaches of the mind. The unfamiliar, shaky, scary, fall of a ladder, tremble of the ground beneath your feet, metalclanging feeling of dread bringing you down to your side. Unfeelingly because eyes wide awake, it's only a dull pain in the strangest parts of the mind, a stretched throat phantomy and real while the imaginary slivers of scare stick to your lovely smooth surface. Hitting on nightly peace with a shrill, convoluted behaviour which runs away shouting silently while the thought of it hasn't formed yet.

And you lie there wondering what realness caused disabling self harming shit scaring, dull paining strangeness. Which sticks to you like gum and you need something to wipe off the residue, after pulling it off, squeezing it off, trying not to pay attention to a sticky blob. Someone's words might stick to it. Some might just make the surface smooth again. But which are which and where are they. Look. Try. Talk. Desperately. And get nothing back because it's gum. It dries off. It's gum. Sometimes it hardens up into ugliness. But it's gum. It's on your mind.

Not anyone else's. It is your mind. Only yours. However much you wish it wasn't. Didn't have to be. That cannot be. Because it's only yours. Unlike other things you're in love with. Leaving permanent indelible marks on places which feel familiar but they shake you up like a ghost under your bed or a bad dream's end.

Dinner Tables

Something about dinners and tables and the things between them. Electric, crisp, heavy, dollopy, dangerous things. Thoughts and tinkerings. And shifting silences.

Off handed things and deliberate things. Good natured. Angry. Slamming, seering, selfish things. And mildly masterful things. Thinly veiled things and out in the open, opening out things.

Three serial killers with different first and last names and a psychologist with dinner around a table. So it must be that kind of a dinner.

Or the fact that I haven't been part of a regular dinner around the dinner table for years. It's a different habitat. Occasional ones are occasionally nice. There's a different dinner time family on a little screen on the bed mostly.

And some when asked where they live will exclaim the internet is their home and an orange traffic cone their dinnertime bell. Which leads to a room majorly disconnected from other rooms. And rooms with other people in them eating dinner with dinnertime families disconnected and it goes on and on.

Debra is mostly left stalking people who are allowed to love. However, for the non specialist.. I do not care.

In a flash moment of feedback I've been told I write and then it's over without me telling the reader what I'm writing about. Yes, I'll take a side of fries, thank you. And mustard. Mustard.

Florp.

I like staring for vulgarly long durations at the background in pictures. Tiny slivers of stories behind people. Textures and colours, leaves and lonely people. Inspirations lies in pixels. And grass is greener in the rains.

I saw a madman with his mouth open, staring at a treetop, sitting in a temple yard. Not in a picture.

I saw three birds. Triplets. Run amock, fly around, nest on a branch and disappear.

I heard tiny yellow leaves stuck on a car windowpane, talking to the grey. They said they'll be swept away.

Photographs at right angles, white on glass, sharp, delectable.

I felt eyes shoot through souls and then get tired because they were unseeing. Lifted up where a murmur from seven decades ago trembles across murky streams. Chiaroscuro of windswept dreams.

There are wonderful shocks at button presses now. Uneven pillows are soft.

There's a dull ache in the thigh. Simple pleasures in the sky. The bigger drops find the barest of spots.

Cold and blue and shriekingly true. Quietly dripping down, endless prickling. Things are quiet.

Old songs play by the dozen, machines get warmer while I disappear and then there's black on white pixels and there's inspiration, in a dark window, staring in.

Angus, Thongs, Full Frontal Snogging and The Girl at 15.

The book is by Louise Rennison which is memory serves me well, I read about two years before they released the film. I never knew that a film existed. I stumbled upon it fishing for torrents. Just like I stumbled upon it fishing for young adult fiction in the library. Probably an extension of the Enid Blyton's dormitorious books to the Princess Diaries (and singing a little too much of the Genovia anthem), Louise Rennison came somewhere between that and The Flour Babies, Goggle-Eyes Anne Fine awesomeness and the bit of offbeat Red Sky in The Morning and Emotionally Weird (Elizabeth Laird, Kate Atkinson) and the slew of Michael Murpurgo's Zanzibars and Shangri Las and the kind. Topped off with Dancing On My Grave and Waving, Not Drowning (Gelsey Kirkland, Greg Lawrence and Rosie Rushton). And there definitely were some about bullying, there was definite bullying and scenes of secret smoking in sidealleys.

I remember most of them because there are somewhere on one of the blog, probably. But not all. It can be surprising how these things stick. I think I should reread all of these. Imbibing all those characters could have been easier than imagined. With a sprinkling of other real celebrities/ imagined people folk to stir it up a bit. And about half a century worth of lyrics and the number of pages that came before and after that. Endless endless.

From pages to pixels. Just watched Powder yesterday. After a very long time of it been lying shelved in one corner. I have no idea now where I got the idea to download it. Granted, the guy has superpowers and is electric, etc.. having been living 15 years isolated with books and his grandparents, his IQ is off the charts. But then he is electric and freaks out the TV and every modern day relic, his smartness ain't nothing human either. So that was that. Another "homeschool jungle freak" on another part of the spectrum is Lindsay Lohan's good days character Cady Heron. The bird name always seems so whoa. Just like the Lena Dunham created alliterations with all Girls names.

Rennison's book was unputdownable. I remember having read not just one.And now I (re)discover via wiki that it was a part of a ten part series. Well, of course it was. There was lots of boy chasing and worrying about eyebrows and post-menstrual bathing robe, the cat eating socks and collars. A hot teacher who went out with the mom. Or I could be mixing up things. Now I mostly remember the movies and they don't have it all. Granted, the movie versions are nice. I mean, who wouldn't like to see Julie Andrews as Queen of Genovia. Also, Héctor Elizondo (Pretty Woman, Raising Helen, Runaway Bride) and being introduced to Robert Coppola Schwartzman (Virgin Suicides).

Just web out into all directions like a wikipedia pandemic tabfest.

Some parts were left out, some swallowed whole and you ARE what you READ.

Pre-15 isn't even a half, it's pretty much 3/4ths. Most of my life, is what it is. I think more thought has to be put towards the making. The world fucks you up in such painfully tiny ways to make one big uncontrollable mess of it. Or probably I see the last 6 magnified beyond proportion.

Or maybe the last 6 have been dull. Or maybe I don't remember anything as perfectly as I should. Documentation is underrated. At least in this world in my head. Diaries would serve good purpose if only all of us were meant to be as disciplined as to keep one always. But petty things like emotions meddle with the grand plan of it all. I think I'll just start afresh with the 9 day old 21 year old. I always digress. But that's just me.

Them Birthdays. Monuments of Mehness.

I think I deserve a farout ramble for turning 21. In 48 hours or so.

Big. It is big. Big, I tell you! Big.

I have a slight tendency to shout textily lately. It's very satisfying without breaking things and such and in a way very Phoebeesque. Which I love. Uncontrollably. Love, love, I tell you!

Growing up is a pain. You get wrinkles and your knees give away. Oh, such monstrous grief and sadness. Oh.

I can feel my heart croaking under the pressure. Then they fix in those pacifier things which shut down because of magnets. I once read a book, or saw a movie or a show or something where the guy fixes a magnet in a chairback to kill the villain/hero or the other guy. *everything goes quiet*

It was interesting. He just sat there and well, there was no sound. The stupid machine just stopped helping out the stupid heart. There it goes. This is all well done murdering with ice picks and lambs to crush skulls, of course. Thanks, Roald Dahl. I love you. I'll join you here or there.

So lately it has been quiet on the creative front except popcorny Instagram and fb statusi rolling by.

Roll, roll, roll your boat. Throat. Gently down the knife. Higgledy piggledy out came the spider and they lived happily ever after again. All right.

So darken your clothes and strike a violent pose, 'cause they'll leave you alone but not me.

I hope I seriously do that I'm not illegally picking up from memory things that aren't mine but are mine because I'm thinking them. Mark Twain tells Helen Keller originality does not exist. Who am I to counter?

Row row row your boat.

It is the days or mushy broody hindi songs blaring out from everywhere and happy songs and swoony songs. A time like all else time. So what else is new. The fingers feels good on the keys and the keys feel good in the locks when they go one two three and open sesame.

Last time, I remember posting post after post of music that matters. I pretty much covered all because those don't repeat year after year. They just come and never go. Except a few new things do come which just make themselves comfortable in the seat of the mind and lie there snoring for all time to come.

And drooling along, dreaming on. Staying forever and ever and ever..

Things. Not people. People just pray and poop.

Birthdays this was meant to be about. But when is anything ever anything that it was meant to be? That would be boring. There is enough to be bored about around here. Like.. every thing.

There is a lot of examination going around. I've heard it's bad. It catches on in a very regular manner and attacks the very core of you. Specially those ones, the ones on which your entire life story depends upon. So screw them. Don't hate me. Well, do.

Facebook pages now asks for money to automatically publish posts and  I don't really care and I don't know who's reading this but whoever you are, drop in a word down here somewhere so I can know which kind of embarrassed to be. Aloha. I'll write another one or two soon enough.

No, wait. Birthdays.. birthdays.. this is the most fucked up one yet. Because everything is teetering on the edge and nothing is in the centre. I could stand up and it could tip over into nothingness. Except it's only a half a mud stair with grooves in it.

Rainy Day Rain Monologue

Dil Se asking for maachis rain, garam chai rain, everything is okay in the end, kiss-happy ending Four Weddings and a Funeral rain, Little April Showers Bambi rain, Murakami Yojimbo ink rain, watch the terrace be filled slowly with leaves as boats 7 year old Bhopal rain, 14 year old drenched can't feel anything rain, 14 and a half I can feel everything rain, 18 and a half wading through flooded street want momos rain, dead silent listening to patter on the roof rain - rustling pages, breath music, furred paws scuffling on the tiles rain, earphoned music, bookspot without the book, patterned windowside, stare outside rain, 9 year old getting birthday cake looking at front screen wipers, frogs on the road rain, green rain, 20 year old alone on the third floor, listening to traffic restart, writing with a purple pen rain. Thunder, drifting clouds, waiting for a text rain, rumbling tummy, gotta make my own breakfast rain. Always there rain. Never there rain.

The sky's the colour of ink bleeding into wet paper. Now it's just dead wet grey paper.

I wrote this on paper but it's not plastered on the sky.

Globulous.

What is wrong with you?

It was silent.

The water doesn't drip, the trees don't fall and create minuscule shavings to be blown away.

Buildings don't crop up like warts on the smooth plastic surface.

You're hollow.

You globular piece of educational mishmash.

Nothing on you.

The papers overlap. Some cities go off the map.

Ridges on watery distances.

Things don't matter.

What is right with you?

Faff.

The act carried this undeniable feeling of unescapable ugh-ness of sitting through an unskippable YouTube ad. The unavoidable unease of most things in life. Go through the motions and sit back to be exhausted and undone. 

She rubbed her eyebrow absetmindedly, scratched the raw skin of her bare neck, red and slightly sore. Then soothed it, scratched her head and coughing needlessly. As images passed before her eyes she thought of the subliminality.

Pondered upon the processes.

Riffs and tones bounced upon the drums of her ears. Ululations seeped inside her brain. Sleep was asleep.

Bass banged upon the doors of dreams. Festooning upon the faint familiarity of it all, all was forgotten.

From an unrelenting unsurmised version of events tap tapping away at the dustiness, relentlessly sweeping up cobwebs from the corners of the mind. Gathering the dust in the centre and transforming it into golden treasure.

To wrapping it up in plastic wrap and covering it up with spare cloth, bundled up, treasured in, stuffed in old boxes of worthless junk and forgotten. Till the day that was never. To beeps into a helmet designed to delegate into small boxes.

Uh.

Meh.

Beep.

Art as intrusion. The more I listen, see, stare, react and either meld into it or cringe away, the more obvious and evident it gets how violent art is. It stabs you or pushes you away, changing bits inside you for better or worse. What's seen can't be unseen and what's heard cannot be unheard. It can hated, loved but mostly everything in unignorable.

It is shocking, the degree of how much freedom one really has in living the life one wants to. Life cannot exist without designs. Of everything. And on everyone. And by everyone. Squiggles to buildings. Giant overbearing overpowering intrusions to the things one hears. Car horns, the clicks of one's heels, the way someone walks. A sarcastic laugh in the face of a passer by lingering in your ears, being reminded of it days later when something happens and you can't quite remember where that came from.

I hesitate and deliberate every time I have to post a title to one of these posts. And how it restricts what I write. Granted, I always so digress but it feels worse when it's from something that exists. In big letters. Above what I am writing. Leaving it blank saving some sanity.

I've been waiting for the sun since the morning. It gets freezing cold under my blanket. Although the idea of waiting for warmth even if it does go away eventually is better than being in a hot haze all day and all night. Which is soon to be true. The AC buzz does lend a kind of soporific contentedness which I miss. The sun can be helpful but it's a moody friend. The cloud games don't help either.

I was talking about art, though. I remember things best which were under a sunny spotlight. An unusual kind of a sun. The winter lovability of it all. Magic happens from 2 to 4 now. It used to be a lot earlier earlier, now time's just grown. Late summer afternoons which demand thousands of written pages. The texture of skin, crisscrossing lines of things that can't be seen until nothing has to be seen. Like little waves undulating on the surface.

How hard it is to come by someone whose eyes you cannot read. Who doesn't care about the people wanting to do things such as reading their eyes. Eyes are mostly just eager and awake and waiting. Happy and ready. Or busy. Never not wanting to be read. They scream out for attention to be understood. And foreheads are smooth, as they shall be. There is hardly disappointment in congregations. Coming together with hope in their eyes and faith on their lips, that they do this for a reason. And it is worthy.

None of them can say that it's just the way they see things because all of them see the same things the same way in the same direction. How else are congregations possible. How else is art possible, I think. How individualistic is it if it's so loved. Is it personal or groupthink on paper and canvas and sound waves which travel to the inner recesses of the mind already stamped and signed with a million different hands. Which were held in prayer towards gods of being. Which mean a million different things to million different people in a million different ways. Of only one world.

How do they exist. Without wanting to be rid of things that already exist. The things they did not make. Which are forced upon their being. The air is everyone's. Just as art is. Who created it. But it has to be breathed. To live. The cogwheels turn invisibly and silently inside brains oblivious to truths. Personal vendettas will remain unrealised forevermore.

King Jeremy, the Wicked. Ruled this world.

Jeremy spoke in class today

And he speaks

Sporadically

Around the world

Hidden in plain sight

With silences

And blood.

1st January 2013 shall not come again.

I feel bad for the dates. They exist for 24 hours. Then die. 

I try. To make things work. Make my brain work. Not be brilliant. But work brilliantly. India hasn't come up to post adolescent ADD yet. Aamir Khan brand dyslexia might still be news. TMI on disorders and hypochondria is ghastly and beautiful.

"I want that." "That's too much to ask from life." "Who the fuck answered that?" Kill the second voice in my head. New Year Resolution #1. - Early morning tweet sweetness. 

I remember resolving to write every day on my birthday six months ago and suffered a deja vu late last night.  Ideas to start a new blog abound but that'll be just foolish episodic optimism. I shall carry on with this one here and drag my ass to being me.