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.