Friday, December 31, 2004

'tis the last day of the year! Await 2005 and other tales...

Tuesday, December 21, 2004

In vacuous ignorance and empty boredom I write of things that do not seem real except in the capricious self-centered hole of my soul. That even rhymes.

Of photographs and memories held tight in a closed fist, ready to punch any thought that dares defy the hallowed notion of past time. K is my father and M is a Goddess; what then remains of I? If there is any concept like that in the first place. After all, my father is also the idol of God. If God is the only reality there is, after who we are all named and soldered, then why do we float unanchored and broken up? Why can we not be bound as spokes to the hub and balloons to the thread? Why must we fly in vertigo and fear?

I cannot pretend to like this life any longer. It’s too much effort. Red is boring and I hate roller coaster rides. I have seen too many sunsets and cannot gape in wonder at the moon or the twilight or earthquakes or sandstorms. Flowers wither and fruits rot and after a while, even hunger is consumptive. I do not want to be eaten up by myself. It is all a gaping mistake and an accident of probability and I do not like it.

Wednesday, December 15, 2004

Things are generally good and I doubt I'll have anything to say before the end of the year. Anything significant that is. Except of course that I am so glad my friends are around for the winter. With all their idiosyncrasies, whimsies, problems, neuroses and wonderful world-views. And I mean that.

Sunday, December 05, 2004

Are there any real turning points or are there just imagined markers created for ourselves that we go on to immortalise as 'there where we turned' ? I'd like to think that yesterday was a turning point but I know with the surety of practice and the wisdom of statistical trend analysis that those are just random epiphanies, perfectly reversable and absolutely unreliable. On such disclaimers are safety nets built. Blow the horn, run the fire drill and wear your helmet. The world is such a dangerous place I tell you...

Wednesday, December 01, 2004

Home...my imagination refuses to succumb to any material understanding of home. Or understanding even. It's all up in the air. People, places, memories and markers. My sight will not confirm and my mind will not let go. I am struggling to make sense and sense is not common anymore.

Is this why I study anthropology? In a desperate attempt to objectify that which I can neither fathom nor reject? Objectification they say is blasphemy, but blasphemous we are who seek distance. Distance that glints but cannot glare. Arm's length, that which is within touching distance and yet must not be touched. A ban in the service of sanity.

Five future papers -

1. The dance bars of Bombay
2. My grandfather (pls. note, grandfather not grandmother)
3. Industrial townships and their structures of governmentality
4. Tourism and Branding
5. Silences of the Self

It's all for sale...elusive as the prices may be...it's all debatable, despicable and discardable. The products of individual and collective voyeurism and the montage of bored vision.
Cannot sleep and cannot stop the bloody dreams! Groan, moan, damn bloody hell!!!