Monday, July 16, 2007

Zembla, Zenda, Xanadu:
All our dream-worlds may come true.
Fairy lands are fearsome too.
As I wander far from view
Read, and bring me home to you.

Haroun and the Sea of Stories
- Sir Ahmed Salman Rushdie

Sunday, July 15, 2007

x$%: baby, can't understand your post
M: whats new?

x$%: Intellectually challenged x$%
M: no, more like uncontextual M
x$%: hain?
M: I didn't provide context and I don't make it easy to read
but its for me see?

x$%: aha, this is fair
but then why is it out in the open?
M: cause sometimes its fun to be out and not reveal everything, its how we all live right?

x$%: how very metaphorical
M: I could make a story out of it
x$%: oh yes ... i think you should, but don't tell the reader what's really happening
M: absolutely, my blog's a game bereft of rules see?
x$%: hain?
M: so you as reader and I as writer are playing a game, except that neither you nor I are sharing our rules
x$%: a little like calvinball
M: YUS!!! can I post this conversation?
x$%: oh no
M: I won't name you!
x$%: then ok, as long as you refer to me as "mysterious yet beautiful knight of the night"
I wrote the letter a million times over. It looked different in the morning and in the sun. Suddenly, the cloying words and the simpering sweetness eked visceral disgust from my clinging skin. Who was this that wrote this? I don’t know her anymore.

At least she had the good sense not to send it. For a moment, I felt camaraderie and a little empathy. For this other self that is so fragile and yet so discreet.

Saturday, July 14, 2007

Thanks to a night of revelry, I now know that:

Alcoholic proof is a measure of how much ethanol is in an alcoholic beverage, and is approximately twice the percentage of alcohol by volume (ABV, the unit that is commonly used at percent).
The European Union follows the recommendation of the International Organization of Legal Metrology (OIML) which measures percentage of alcohol by volume at 20 °C.
In the definition current in the United States of America, the proof number is twice the percentage of the alcohol content measured by volume at a temperature of 60 °F (15.5 °C).

Pimento or pimentão are Portuguese words for "bell pepper", while pimenta refers both to chili peppers and to black pepper.

And now, I cannot put it off any more. There are no more useless facts to look up and write my article I must. I tried explaining to a friend the relations of production that underwrite the 'publish or perish' paradigm, and how I need to write in order to build a resume that can then be surreptitiously (ah well, no I take that back), correction, blatantly pimped for research grants...and how I was so not motivated to...after all, grocery shopping on a full stomach is no fun right?

I shall now abandon this useless post to pontificate other uselessnesses...

On this Saturday, the fourteenth of July 2007, I hereby solemnly swear to make the effort to consider everything new and green and rain drenched. My blog has new clothes and unlike the emperor's sartorial sleight of hand (rather his courtier's? or was it his tailor? anybody know?), these can be seen.

Stay for a few, the ride isn't over yet.

Thursday, July 12, 2007

On capricious days that alternate between bright sunshine and sudden rain, I vacillate between endless optimism and definite annihilation (not that the latter option is all that cheerless).

And I indulge in my favorite pastime; mental rants against dying lovers, dishonest uncles, patriarchal ancestors, annoying aunts and bad friends. The things they didn't do, the faiths they bertrayed, the acts they ran from, the absences they didn't account for, the loves they didn't claim. An endless series of nots. Sometimes, at the end of this, I feel better. For laying to rest the pretence that I don't care. Most times, I wish I didn't. Care that is.

There is of course, a very clear knowledge that I have been my own set of nots to other people, a whole other set of failures to account for. And yet, I think, in my own petulantly certain stubbornness, that I try. Very hard. And I have this mental picture of myself, fists bunched and hair tousled, mouth set tight, trying so hard to try.

Catharsis, everyday.

Wednesday, July 04, 2007

There is no getting around the fact that it is time to grow up. And also, by the way, comfort is not available for the taking.
Over and out.

Monday, July 02, 2007

It is a truth universally acknowledged,
that I cannot wake up early.

I try and try and try and from the slow upward movement of the alarm clock to my indolent stirrings in sleep, every half conscious movement proclaims for the world and will to see,
I cannot wake up early!!!

So this morning, 5:31 became 6:30 and then 7:20 and finally at 7:46 I deigned to sit up from slumber and shake sloth from screaming limbs (which were incidentally yelling, "Go back to sleep!)...
Hopefully, the day will be a lesser struggle.

Happy Tuesday all you bums.
These are marginally exciting times.

Research is in full swing, I am collecting data much faster than I can process (which is how it’s meant to be I guess). I can also see how much remains to be written. There are multiple episodes that hit me as I am waking and walking, things that have happened, things that might have… and I try and record myself so I don’t lose the thought. It is all bricolage though, which is, somehow, all that I really expect of myself. The committee, however, might need more. So from all these bits of flotilla, a story I must make. One that makes sense and not only that, out of such sensibility teases something nonsensically paradoxically brilliant.

For example, you can say that “the corporation has taken over our lives” or you can say “it is interesting how we succumb to the banality of corporate life, and yet, expend so much effort to deny such”.

So does attrition occur when such denial is at its professional worst?

“Kya tumka batayein, arey kya samjhayein,
badi durghatna hai, mushkil bachna hai”

Radio Mirchi plays, my laptop rests snug and warm on my blue checked pajamas as I sit on my turquoise/ electric blue divan and stare out of the corner of my eye at the darkening clouds. The rug looks a little dirty, its splotchy patterns of purple and orange dull in the muddy monsoon light. Another rainy day looms. I plan to stay indoors, nurse rum and read. Also write and write some more.

On non-professional fronts,
(1) I have purged…happily (More often than not, I do purge happily)
(2) Things look interesting and exciting although we are still meeting the same people in the same cities
(3) And I am thinking I should probably blog more often
(4) Oh oh oh, and I have been reading up a storm -- Alice Munro and Tim Parks and Joyce Carol Oates...

If only, literature could make up for life...