Wednesday, December 17, 2008

This is my five hundred and ninety-ninth post. This blog will soon receive a makeover.

For the last few weeks, my old college mates and I have been reminiscing ad nauseam about the old days in the old photographs. About how thin we were, how red our lips look (we all shared the same taste in Lakme; either that or the same shade of lipstick), and how lovely our parties were.

Ah youth, ah nostalgia!

My six hundredth post will be a many yearly round -up.

At six-oh-one, we will start anew...

2009 Resolution Number One: A new kind of blog.

Saturday, November 29, 2008

The mayhem in Bombay is said to have ended. The terror might have just begun. But like most parts of the subcontinent, I suffer from amnesia. While I see a list of everything that has exploded in the past decade, the past year and the last month, it does not register. As I did today, most days, I walk to the supermarket across the road and load my cart with organic carrots, avocados, cheese and bread. I lunch. I drink wine. I am told that the world must go on.

And go on it will.

But I am still left with a sinking lump and the added responsibility of pretending for the young ones around me that life is safe. That hope reigns. And that uncertainty must be combated by a few stray strands of knowledge. Of the numbers that I call my bank account. Of the miles my car has been driven. Of the temperature in Austin.

How does one selectively combat apathy? What is the right combination that will let me plod forward and yet hold my fists close to my body? My shoulders slouch and my eyes are shifty. I fear the future.

Thursday, November 06, 2008

The Quiet World

In an effort to get people to look
into each other's eyes more,
the government has decided to allot
each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.

When the phone rings, I put it
to my ear without saying hello.
In the restaurant I point
at chicken noodle soup. I am
adjusting well to the new way.

Late at night, I call my long
distance lover and proudly say
I only used fifty-nine today.
I saved the rest for you.

When she doesn't respond, I know
she's used up all her words
so I slowly whisper I love you,
thirty-two and a third times.
After that, we just sit on the line
and listen to each other breathe.

-- Jeffrey McDaniel

Tuesday, November 04, 2008

4 November 2008

Austin, TX; 10:32 p.m.

Barack Hussein Obama

Sunday, November 02, 2008

So many many years ago...

We played charades.
Mimed lives, acted meaning, laughed over signs.
We always got it all wrong.

And I feel bad for the little soul long ago that believed in the game. For the certainty that gave way to unknown terrain. For the anchors rendered unanchored. For that one belief of hers that unraveled over the length of the world.

memento mori

Tuesday, October 21, 2008

One is always conscious of being excessive. And of being indiscreet. Of taking one step more than necessary.
The contained always spilling out of the container.

How does one know? The words, the actions, the resolutions.

How does one moderate the uneasy balance between the enough said and never enough?

Saturday, October 18, 2008

Two contrary emotions are at play; the pleading, needy, refreshing and refueling ambition of a younger time and the calmer, sweeter, lower baritone of a time to come. They come at me at different times of the day, like different times of the day.

What will I be?

A minor soothsayer in a minor milieu or a minor money-maker in a minor mammon. Notice the proliferation of the "m" word? Ten years ago, I wouldn't have dreamt of saying it aloud.

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

Sharing a meal, I think to be an act of humanity that delves deep into the very factors that make society and the world around us tenable. I have grown up, knowing that my grandmother thought of her life as one filled with people coming to eat. Her family, her children, her grandchildren, my grandfather's friends. Never herself really, but that tale of female neglect I will leave for another melancholic day. My grandfather offered to feed everybody that came their way, in this was his benevolence and his humanity. My grandmother did all the work that supported his humanity. Between the two of them, they scraped and scringed, often denying themselves rest and resources in small measures to keep an open house.

Today, I was reading this...

And found it remarkably poignant, the peasant's simple act of hospitality.

Perhaps, history and the stories of people need to be told with different eyes, anecdotally, from kindnesses and considerations. Without erasing evidence of divisions and structures. But softly.

Sunday, October 12, 2008

The mechanics of the day are strangely comforting. The slow measured spoonfuls of coffee I feed into the pot, the neat sections I make on the peel of the orange, the steps I can take blindfolded from the kitchen to the computer, the light of the sun.

I have made endless conversation, spewed useless advice, looked at an empty mailbox, taken the trash out, and am now sitting down. Quietly.Finally, after a very long time, I have been blessed with a deliciously evocative, rich, distance.

Monday, October 06, 2008

All these bits of many incommensurable selves that we carry within us.
Like so many doppelgangers.
All just a little bit askew.

Sunday, October 05, 2008

I want to be...

silly, meaningless, flighty, moody and utterly above all this that we know to be the ground we walk on and the life we live.

I want to be arboreal.

Monday, September 29, 2008

Even after much has been said, more always remains. Words do not exhaust meaning. And yet we persevere and talk as if the explanation of the problem were enough to solve it. This is my ultimate frustration with what I do.

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

From the New York Times' review of Philip Roth's new book 'Indignation', an excerpt:

His father, a kosher butcher in Newark, Marcus recalls, had become “crazy with worry that his cherished only child was as unprepared for the hazards of life as anyone else entering manhood, crazy with the frightening discovery that a little boy grows up, grows tall, overshadows his parents, and that you can’t keep him then, that you have to relinquish him to the world.”

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

The day's been rather quiet. The weather's been soporific.

I read all morning, took a walk, read some more, made some lunch, went to a meeting, came back, watched the Daily Show and am now contemplating dinner.Perhaps some vegetables...Baby food makes for great chow on lazy days.

Also have to plan for tomorrow. Planning for a day, I have discovered, demands more effort than planning for a year. That much less margin for error. Or flexibility.

There is comfort in planning though. As there is in quiet.

Tuesday, September 09, 2008

I have a strange relationship with the corporation and with corporate life in general. I desire it and abhor it in turns. And today I was reminded of the worst parts of it that I can happily do without:

(a) The penchant for stating the obvious
(b) The penchant for stating the obvious again and again and again
(c) All of the above + the need to stay impeccably coiffure-d and kitty-licked; as if the appearance of control is but the symptom of a causal inner control

So we have verbiage and the debris of the mind. As if "to say" is not an action that merits thought or effort. Eeyugh!

One sees parts of it seeping into academia as well in that words seem to have no value. And I value words. If nothing else, I value them as a measure of meaning, as the only way to know and without which meaning would have no meaning. And yet, I find them strewn about like so much flotsam and jetsam. Double eeyugh!

(yes, yes, I see the irony of the endlessly verbose post!)

Between the corporation and academia; the former promising that it will manage that which the latter claims is inherently unmanageable -- I am undeniably torn.

For your viewing pleasure:

Monday, September 01, 2008

The details of the day I cannot encompass in a sentence. For fear they would corrupt my language.

The colors of the curtains I cannot describe with ink. For fear they would stain the page.

The steps I take that I cannot draw on parchment. For fear they would falter and flail.

Things I cannot do.

So many.

Before I do what I can.

Friday, August 29, 2008

I am discovering that life is short.

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

So much to say. So little by way of tools.

I seem to have lost an interlocutor. Of course, the jury is still out on if the interlocutor was real or a figment of my seriously demented imagination. Maybe what I have lost is interlocution.

I am slowly evaluating my priorities, my needs and my life. Frankly in this age of excess stimuli and mediated self, it's all rather difficult. Not a moment of quiet do I get. When I do, I feel awful.

I am a little embarrassed at the person I seem to have become in the interim. Today, I feel and sense how wrong I might have been. Except I have little knowledge on how to stand this tall all the time.

Sunday, August 17, 2008

In retrospect, this seems like the year to be wrong.
In every way.
It needs to end.

Tuesday, August 05, 2008

And she thought,

This day we inhabit. This day we strive to fill. This day of moments that will not end. This endless day. This day will end. It will round the corner and crouch into its position of almost sleepiness. Slowly, it will fold into the ground and melt into the sky. It will sleep and so will you.

Monday, July 28, 2008

Reading, reading and more reading. It is always a pleasure to discover how one pleasure does not desert me

In the face of all that is fleeting, ambiguous and wispy, as if a book is all there really is...and the world outside, à la Pessoa, only the symphony of a restless if...

For your viewing pleasure, Ghirardelli Square, San Francisco.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Via 3quarksdaily

We Should Talk About This Problem
- Hafiz

There is a Beautiful Creature
Living in a hole you have dug.

So at night
I set fruit and grains
And little pots of wine and milk
Beside your soft earthen mounds,

And I often sing.

But still, my dear,
You do not come out.

I have fallen in love with Someone
Who hides inside you.

We should talk about this problem---

I will never leave you alone.

Monday, July 21, 2008

There will be an answer, let it be...

Monday, July 14, 2008

As I fumble through my keyhole and glance to the patch of grass outside, I see a small ounce of light peeping out of the corner of my living room window. The grass and the concrete and the shrub and the skyline stand illuminated.

All in an ounce of light.

Saturday, July 12, 2008

My reasons for anxiety are manifold. Every little bit of a new day (a day anew?) hits me like a torpedo would a rotten pier. It chips away what is essentially falling apart anyway. Nothing holds. Until I can get used to the idea of being blown apart into little bits each of which will find its own little bit of sea, I will not be able to sleep.

Life will have to be re-invented. Insomniac-ally. Slowly.

Monday, July 07, 2008

When I was in India this past year, I was randomly surfing TV channels when my mother made me stop at this performance. My mother loves Hindi film music; I have inherited this love from her. When I was a kid, Radio Ceylon [yes Radio Ceylon, the oldest radio station in South Asia] would always play in the background of her morning and as a result, mine. Even today, I know the lyrics of songs far pre-dating my youth of music. As a result, I straddle a few different eras of Hindi film music. But I digress. My mother loves this program, but more importantly, the performance that she serendipitously made me hear had my stupefied.

Ladies and gentlemen, Amir Hafeez.

The song is lovely, but it is the quality of his voice. Listen for the slight nasality, the incredible power and the anomalous reach.

Remember when the phenomenon of train travel was ubiquitous? When we were internal expatriates? When air was out of reach and twenty four hours was the time duration one had to reckon with before getting to the nether regions of the ‘native place’? On such yearly (more often than not summer) journeys, one would stare out of the window and watch arid Deccan interiors whiz by. And singing beggars would pass through. And every once in a while, one would hear a voice so strong, so unwavering and so expansive that time would stand still and the heat, the smells and the colors coalesce in a moment of soaring wonder.

Tuesday, July 01, 2008

Why I am a PhD student and what happens when you become one:

a. My parents have no idea what it is that I do, neither will yours
b. Your cynicism will increase at the same rate as your poverty
c. If Keynes says that in the long term we are all dead, you will most certainly have to ignore him
d. You will talk to more books than people
e. You will be socially awkward and conversationally inept
f. You will be overqualified and underpaid
g. "I'm doing a PhD" is not a good pick up line for anyone; you women in PhD programs will additionally intimidate merely mortal men. You will all end up with other PhDs or other deranged souls (the difference is minimal!)

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

If a car were a metaphor for life:)...

Sunday, June 15, 2008

In life lies embodied the memory of death.

Friday, June 13, 2008

If you were to sit at the other edge of the couch that I sit on.
If you were to read while I read. If you were to stare as I stared.
If you were to survey the terrain of this room that encompasses my world.
If you were to lay your leg across mine as we traveled far from this land, these sounds and these sights.
If you stayed, I might stay.

Else I fear I will dissolve.

Monday, June 09, 2008

There are only alternate universes to be imagined. I can't name that which is. Unnamed, therefore unknown. Unknown, therefore deeply feared. Or at least minutely feared.

Summer has come to Texas and brought with a sense of ennui, a sense of foreboding that nothing that has ever been promised or asked for, or hinted at will ever happen. Wars will not end, the waters will not abate and my mind will not still. Dissertations will not be written.Much as I scurry to insert some order into existence and its haphazard-ities, things will peep out of place.

Today's shopping list:
(1) A filing cabinet
(2) A bedside table
(3) A television trolley
(4) Hanging files and file folders and coloured tabs
(5) Shoe-laces
(6) A water bottle

All I know are right angles and clean lines. Everything that defies order defies my poor imagination. It has already been stretched taut as it were.

Tomorrow, I will:
(1) Read
(2) Transcribe
(3) Run

On other fronts, I finished Hari Kunzru's "My Revolutions" over the last week. It's quite lovely. It's quite poignant. And uncomfortable. A lot of the themes struck home; the loss of faith, the madness of belief, the utter impossibility of reconciling self with the world.

Tomorrow, I will also find some new music.

Thursday, May 22, 2008

Today, I transcribed a storm.
And as I listened to snippets of voices from 2007, I was reminded of my year of bad Hindi music.
Every interview I conducted in my lovely studio apartment has loud Hindi music in the background.
Bad, repetititve, banal, Hindi music.
I wonder what I would have done without it. I wonder why I needed it. I wonder what to make of it.
In the manner of a bad academic, I am prone to bad thinking.
Incomplete, pointless, meandering thought.

Aasman ke paar shaayad, Aur koi aasman hoga

Tuesday, May 20, 2008

The summons have come. The roles are in place. I am tired.
Curtain call.

Monday, May 12, 2008

My finds of the day:



AND lastly,

(Watch Kitu Gidwani in the last; ah such fond Doordarshan memories this brings back!)

Thursday, May 08, 2008

It's one thirty. I tether between the sleepless and wakeful.
I type at the speed of sound and think nothing of not thinking.
Am quiet. The night is still.

Sunday, May 04, 2008

There are things I miss about home. There are things I miss about early, foolish youth.

It's four in the morning and I am back in my apartment.

I would like to be out on the streets. On a motorbike.
I would like to be cold with the promise of home when the sun rises.
I would like to be on my way to the top of the hill that holds the ruins of a myth.
I would like to climb the tree that sways towards the moon.
I would like to ride back with drunken comrades.
I would like to cruise lest the tank run dry.

I would like to line up on the patio of the cafe waiting and yearning for cheese omelettes.

I would like to get to bed at noon.

Saturday, May 03, 2008

All day today, all day yesterday...I was at a conference on gender and sexuality...

More information here.

(This semester has been greatly productive in seeing what is out there. How to talk about work. So many ways.)

Things I walked away with:
(1) Sex work and work
(2) Trafficking, prostitution and sex work: Why must they be differentiated? What are the axes along which they are conflated?
(3) Spaces of capital: Continuity/ Supplementarity/ Standing apart

Wondering if I am here to stay....damn! I'm not sure I want to get to that conclusion yet. Damnation and double hell!

Monday, April 28, 2008

Today, I listen to...

Things that keep me sane --

(1) Chores -- taking out the trash, mopping, washing the dishes, ironing, rubbing lime on the cutting board to take away the smell of garlic (Jhumpa Lahiri talks about this I think -- is it in the Namesake or the Interpreter of Maladies? And there it was about the smell of garlic on somebody's hands), wiping clean tomato paste off the stove, straightening the rug...the carefully ordered objects of my relentlessly disordered life.

(2) Text messages -- random words, orchestrated sentences, solitary thoughts, lives shared, distances travelled, careless touching, careful questions, words and more words.

(3) Playing -- racketball, frisbee, running, headstands, my pilates ball, swimming, dancing

(4) Reading -- just reading

(5) Dogs and cats (for all of those I have loved before; Y and S and M and B and L and V and my A)

(6) Nostalgia and melancholia and schizophrenia and madness.

"But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked.
"Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat. "We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad."
"How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice.
"You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn't have come here."

-- Lewis Carroll

Sunday, April 27, 2008

Ah to be flattered....
What does one do with what is obviously false, yet not quite?
With what has an agenda but is yet not entirely out of sync with yours?
With what is sly, yet articulate....

Flattery, falsity, frivolity.

Tonight, I will quietly get to bed.
Thanks for all the fish though.

Saturday, April 26, 2008

Monthly round-up --

In the month of April, I

(1) Was awarded a fellowship
(2) Wrote a dissertation chapter
(3) Played racketball (and beat N hollow)
(4) Played pool (and beat S hollow)
(5) Was propositioned by a UT bus driver
(6) Was not propositioned by the hot professor in sociology
(7) Was told I'd make a great stand up comic if not a stellar academician
(8) Re-discovered Bakhtin
(9) Found a new home
(10) Was invited to do a book review
(11) Was a terrible teacher
(12) Thought up a movie project
(13) Swam
(14) Ran
(15) Attempted in vain to find my centre of gravity

Also, (16) watched the rain....

Much as I realize that this blog post is what my friend 'Goliath and the bunny' would call preening, I am still re-asserting my right to preen. Selectively. And for a more nuanced understanding of my state of mind, refer numbers 11, 14 and 15.


Monday, April 21, 2008

Every day the urge grows stronger to get hold of an object at very close range by way of its likeness, its reproduction.

-- Walter Benjamin, 1936

Sunday, April 20, 2008

I will forget this day and then you will go away.
And I will forget this day.
Its minutiae. Its little pleasures. Its many discoveries.
Perhaps I will forget.
Perhaps I should remember that you might not want to know all this.
And forget all of it anyway.

Thursday, April 17, 2008

Lives are not works of fiction. Meetings full of promise do not always ripen into friendship, and ideas rich in potential sometimes lead nowhere. Important people and concerns enter our lives and thought early and late, for various lengths of time, and then depart, never to return. Although in retrospect we may trace causal lines between events and see direct linkages between thoughts, in doing so, we may misinterpret the connections between them. The work we do to make events cohere in a sequence is easily underestimated....Memory and biographies tend to be obsessive in excluding accident and insisting on patterns, but lives and intellectual careers, as Bakhtin maintained, are not. Rather, they are wasteful, producing not only diverse achievements, but also unrealized or only partially realized potential. (Morson and Emerson 1990: 3)

1990. Morson, Gary Saul and Emerson, Caryl. Mikhail Bakhtin. Stanford University Press: Stanford.

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

It is difficult to say something new.
Language marks identity; hence its ability to reveal and its proximity to the truth. Language is also used to mark what one wants to be and wants to be recognized as; hence its inherent tendency to duplicity. An atmosphere or site where language is taught, modified, changed and employed is thus rife with ambiguity.
It can go any way you see?

So here then lies the quandary of representation, of writing.
Do I classify this site as inauthentic and mimick-y? (The risk of seeking an originary truth, a discover-able facticity)
Do I celebrate all as constructed and do away with the question of the truth/ untruth? (The risk of rendering agency unneccessary and un-noteworthy)
Do I attempt to rage against the frame that is unimaginative and banal? (where is my alternative?)

Questions, questions, at one in the morning.

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

There are no signs to be seen.

Monday, April 14, 2008

I waited at the bus-stop this afternoon.
And was too restless to sit still.
So I went round and round the poles at the ends of the shelter.
And imagined they were the ends of the altar.
Spaces of divinity around which humanity prowls.
In endless wait.

Sunday, April 13, 2008

There will come a time when life will be apprehended purely as an accumulation of the senses, a coalescence of matter and the names of colors, learned when young and impressionable.

The colors on the rug. Orange, green, red and again orange.
I watch in the mirror as my hands move. Seemingly of my own accord.
I watch in amazement at the familarity of my own form. As I seem to be perched somewhere on the edges of the world.

The mirror slants.
I may fall off.

Saturday, April 12, 2008




Wednesday, April 09, 2008

Frameworks of the past are being prised apart.

In grateful memory of the person who taught me how to perform.

A figure. Now gone.

Monday, April 07, 2008

The senility of form, the vagaries of content.
Today, I have been unusually productive. Written a book review, advised students and cooked. Not particularly noteworthy, but it hints at the possibility of routine and for this, I am grateful. Routine is safe, albeit boring.

On an unrelated note, I also wasted an hour of this uber productive day attending a talk hosted by the Department of Comparative Literature. A talk which was too long, was about a book written on a series of books by somebody else (well, it is comp lit, so well) and used the words 'omnipotence', 'image' and 'explosion' far too many times for me to comprehend in what order they made sense. Or if they did.

I have a talk to do end of the month. Pray to God it's not as sleep-inducing. A woman walked with me to the elevator at the end of the talk and remarked that it was one of the most depressing talks she had attended. I agreed, perhaps for other reasons I must admit. Ah, how easy it is to escape the differences within sameness.

Sunday, April 06, 2008

Cleaning up my mailbox, I found this, courtesy the mad hatter of Mumbai:)

(On 9th April 2007, when I resigned from work, I wrote:)

A good emotional ploy is a good one because it nudges and canoodles around the truth. It makes one rethink what one has thought over and over again. As if one's words were but material to redeploy in the service of some other truth.
And larger truths there are. Depends on whose path one is beholden to.

Am I making the right decisions? Is this what my life wants? I wish I knew, I'm not sure I even know what country I want to live in.

Saturday, April 05, 2008

A new quiet day.
I moved. And I have new furniture. A couch, a table, a dinette and a futon. I feel quite content. Except it's a cold sort of content. A planned, pre-meditated, expected, called for content.

What I would like is to be surprised, to have to think beyond what I already know. To be completely, utterly, bewildered and stand rooted wondering at worlds I never knew existed. Hasn't happened in a while.

I am bewildered. But I am lost. And I am moving. Constantly.
But that's another story. And not quite happy at that.

Monday, March 31, 2008

Thought possesses. Leaps bridges. Runs across mountains. Swims beneath oceans. Flies across skies.

Roars. Pants. Stops.

Quietens down.

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

Can we talk?

How do we talk? You and I on opposite sides of the fence. Academic and practitioner.
You and I my friend; how do we resolve this inability to talk?
I did live on the other side you know. Your concerns are mine, your doubts are mine, your skepticism I carry as a reminder of the “real” world and as a reminder of my persevering structures that organize the world between real and unreal, between matter and mind. Often I wonder, what is it that I really do? I mean, how does it matter and what does it mean?

I suffer inexactitude, I admit it.

But it’s like this. Imagine A and B at the gym. A has been training for about a month now. The trainer told him that he needs to hydrate. He doesn’t know what the term means. So he absorbs the principle and translates it to include juice, water, lassi and rasam. After all hydration is a general term, isn’t it? It is B’s first day. B asks A for advice on things one must definitely know about while working out. A tells him “hydrate”. And B says, what does that mean? A says, “Ah well, you know, anything liquid? Seems to be the underlying principle and organizing factor that underwrites the practice of working out.” (Can you tell that A is an aspiring academic?). B shows skepticism (well deservedly) but unfortunately throws the baby out with the bathwater. "Ah, all of these gym mantras are hogwash – what does hydration have to do with anything?"

Three months from then, A will have been corrected and will understand what hydration is and what it means and why it is important. B however, no longer believes him. Or the principles he espouses.

The marginally educated talking to the differently educated.
Not an easy resolution this.

And lest I come across as sounding like an apologist for all the other marginally more educated wankers that parade under the banner of academia; let me clarify my stance. I am all for affairs of the head. Not all of them are of merit, not many of them can be translated and very few will come to fruition or make practical sense in the course of my lifetime leave alone forever. But there is something to be said for rigor, doubt and the process of thought. For imagining worlds beyond what we have in ways that have no existence in the world we know. For being of a time yet to come. And this is the only apology I have to offer.

And not that A’s mission in life is to convince B or that B must believe in what A does.
But A and B live in this world and need to talk.

Sunday, March 23, 2008

I am trying to make a complicated argument about language. The one difficulty here is that how is one to really know? What language means to one person, leave alone a whole population? What is the hierarchy of language in the head or in practice or in value systems?

For example, I
(1) Think in English
(2) Swear in Hindi, English, Tamil, Marathi and Punjabi
(3) Prefer metaphors in Hindi
(4) Love poetry in Urdu, Hindi and English
(5) Find war songs most appealing in Marathi
(6) Throw tantrums in Tamil
(7) Find it easiest to express myself in English

How then does one talk about language as cultural capital? What culture? And capital in what context?

So, am glued to the desk and downing coffee at the rate of a pod a minute and listening to loud Hindi music.

On the playlist
1) Baadal, Yuva
2) Ahista Ahista, Swades
3) Ek Nazar Mein Bhi, Taxi No.9211
4) Rut Aa Gayee Re, Earth 1947
5) Fanaa, Yuva
6) Baadalon Ke Paar Koi, Rockford
7) Khoya Khoya Chand

Breakthrough, epiphany, possibility...all round the next corner...

Thursday, March 13, 2008

Things fall apart. I fall apart.
Into miniscule pieces, none worthy of wonder or even second glance.
A hope here, a fear there, life writ small everywhere.

Friday, March 07, 2008

Sellotape, Superglue, Staples.

Some fine stitches, some gossamer thread.

Everything has been patched up.

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

The immediacy of the day fades. Things grow faint.

Sometimes, I fear the morning.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

Wars of the future will be fought by little brown girls refusing to eat.

-- Goliath and the Bunny, circa 2008

Tuesday, February 05, 2008

I work on questions of identity. Sometimes, I don't know what the word means. In which case, my work is precisely about the points of not knowing and then recovering ground to make something known. The process occupies my thoughts, rather than a truthful identity.

Increasingly, I find many more lessons in this ambiguous field of the unknown and the floating and the tenuously held down boundaries of our selves.

Am also (very slowly) coming to terms with my multiple, hate, anger, unfixed and so unexpected.

Sunday, February 03, 2008

Writing is hard.

All the accoutrements are in place.
My lamp shines bright, the clothes have been put away, the night is long.
And yet, no words come.

As if these were to be willed and would come, as it were, of their own accord.
As if.

I lull myself into non-existence and stare at the keys on the keyboard. And think slowly and softly of the past year. Of interviews and people and music and noise and the three lamps dangling from the ceiling in my old apartment. Of leaving this in the middle of the night to enunciate vowels and oversee calls.

The worlds will come. The words will come. They must.

Wednesday, January 30, 2008

Sadness comes, unwanted yet loved.
Quietness tiptoes in, I shush it.
Eyelids halfway closed, the picture of all that should be pensive.
No reason, no cause, just the desirability of form, the corollary of thought.

Cold. Silent. Inarticulate.

Sunday, January 27, 2008

Always more...more to life, to thought, to activity, to possibility. Always more.
And I write it down, lest I forget.

This week:
(1) Dissertation outline
(2) Yoga
(3) Run

(1) Talk less
(2) Run
(3) Wake up earlier

Most importantly:
(1) Sleep well
(2) Eat
(3) Feed the cat

Week by week, I build up the routine of my minutes, knowing fully well they will tear asunder and run amok at a moment's notice. This perhaps, is my biggest failing, my greatest strength.

Tuesday, January 22, 2008

It take so much effort to quieten down.
To whisper, to break out of a run, to walk slowly.
It takes so much time to sleep.