Tuesday, February 28, 2006

Must the world be given up?

We the non-agents,
We the cynics,
We the bystanders, the viewers and the sometime-doers,

May we take your leave?

The world that does not bend,
I who do not believe,
And you who do not care.

Round and round, never knowing,
thinking we will...

Pretty picture we all make

Wednesday, February 22, 2006

Maybe this is where D&G are supposed to make sense. I leave filaments of myself wherever I go. On the fingerprints sullying my keyboard, on the last bit of saliva that drooped off the edge of my last cup of coffee, in the memory of the last person who I had a conversation with, in the last breath I left behind in the chilly Austin air even as I entered the warmth of my office building. In my blogs, on my Amazon wish-list, in my last comment...

But what if I were to shift attention from a singular 'I' that lets go of individual filaments like so many bits of shedded hair - to the hair that floats around breaking the fiction of that singular 'I'.

Saturday, February 18, 2006

The practiced deceit of good cheer and bonhomie. Lifelong conspiracy, year long fatigue.

Some like it hot, Some like it cold.
Some like it in the pot nine days old.

Monday, February 13, 2006

Drawing out emotion, filling in details.
Time of day.
Make of vehicle.
Co-ordinates of the road.
Is this what sense-making has been reduced to? An architectural plot.

Sunday, February 12, 2006

I don't even have a photograph. And the mind is a fickle chronicle. It's all I have. Sights and sounds. Of the road in Coimbatore and the front of his scooter. Of the palm on which I stood when I was tiny. As have counteless others after me. Of ice-creams and juices and cold things that are bad for the throat. Of him dropping me off at the station in Chennai. He called me later. When I was back here. To say that he was tired of all the work. That he would retire. And come visit.

Freeze frame.

Somebody please please please...keep him well. Keep us well. Save us from the miseries of our own fears. Somebody please please please fucking stop.

Thursday, February 02, 2006

Once upon a very long time back, for a course called 'Unconventional Communication', I offered myself up at the altar. For an exercise called the elevator pitch, I woke up at 6 and walked to Shela to await Prof.R as he drove in to morning class. And I dealt my hand. In cool, measured, controlled pitch, I objectified myself. I was my business plan. I was, in my head, the first reality show star, when none around me had heard of reality television. I broke myself into saleable parts and un-inhabited my own fetishized self. I was my sandwich board, placard and front page. For sale. A blank slate. It worked.

Today, I just came back from a class on India. In cool, measured, silence, I heard about the essential culture, nature of people and terms of engagement for young business graduates wanting to bet on an idea, a geography and an imaginary.

It's going to work again.Tch.