What will cometh, in after a turn-play of eight days and nights, is not the end we sought with such perseverance and love but a promise of its realization (given a continuity of breaths and heartbeats for the years to come). We’ve come afar, over the years, of times when we clogged our consciences with imaginary dirt and realized that in that hypothesized descent we found the elevation of our souls. I prepare for the day with hopes and longings, taking hours to decide what to wear and how to smell, and reservations that this is day I’d be judged by people who loved you and claimed you till now.
When of glory, our story lacks it. No lengthy blogs can be written about a happy ending for it’s the flagellation (or the pretension of it) that is deemed glorious. We couldn’t have a fetish for sadness and hence the muse that draws admiration from similar imbeciles. Remember, right from the first day, we knew we’d make it work. Right from the first day, we laughed at the heart-wrenching tales of those seekers of sadness who remain totally oblivious that their tales of tears were not the mourning for a lost love but a celebration of the love they found—that funny trail of clichés and blood.
Of sacrifices again, we don’t have the scars to prove anything. We did whatever had to be done without a vestige of regret, so then again no ‘real sacrifice’ and no glory. I am so fortunate to have found you love, for you sought togetherness for togetherness, not for the pain that resides in its shattered debris
Of memories, we made some—rich, aromatic and blissful. Memories that’ll stay with us not for the things we did, for all that will be nothing new in coming years of growing old, but for the inexplicable dilemmas we faced in their making, the tremble and uncertainty of approaching each other and sensations that has never left us since. Such grownup children we were then.
Looking afar still, instead of weaving fantasies of perfect day, we care more about the things that can go wrong. And perhaps that feeling will never let us be free, but then again, better being together then being free. I’ve lost my eloquence over the years, and patience to find a line that fits; some otherday maybe, when I’ll have a day for myself I’d search for it. Till then, in these incoherent lines and such unimpressive narrative, I wanted to say, Happy Engagement. We've come through :)
P.S.
I remember what to throw at whom-literature at your dad, movies at your brother and jokes at your friends and all. In all that, I hope I get a moment alone to say something to you, something that is not so carefully pre-thought.
Friday, April 6, 2007
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Wish you were here.
Anyone noticed the gloom in the air of Lahore today?
From the dark sky and seething susurration of cold winds through the tress, from the lifeless brouhaha on the roads to midgets pretending to be in love, everything is fading as a smoke ring would do.
Wish you were here. Not because it is Valentine's day, which I never believed in, but because today only you could rid me of the sadness of this city.
From the dark sky and seething susurration of cold winds through the tress, from the lifeless brouhaha on the roads to midgets pretending to be in love, everything is fading as a smoke ring would do.
Wish you were here. Not because it is Valentine's day, which I never believed in, but because today only you could rid me of the sadness of this city.
Monday, January 15, 2007
A Passage from Eco's Foucault's Pendulum.
I’ve seen your files, Pow, Lia said to me, because I have to keep them in order. Whatever your Diabolicals have discovered is already here: take a good look. And she patted her belly, her thighs, her forehead; with her spread legs drawing her skirt tight, she sat like a wet nurse, solid and healthy she so slim and supple with a serene wisdom that illuminated her and gave her a matriarchal authority.
Pow, archetypes don’t exist; the body exists. The belly inside is beautiful, because the baby grows there, because your sweet cock, all bright and jolly, thrusts there, and good, tasty food descends there, and for this reason the cavern, the grotto, the tunnel are beautiful and important, and the labyrinth, too, which is made in the image of our wonderful intestines. When somebody wants to invent something beautiful and important, it has to come from there, because you also came from there the day you were born, because fertility always comes from inside a cavity, where first something rots and then, lo and behold, there is a little man, a date, a baobab.
And high is better than low, because if you have your head down, the blood goes to your brain, because feet stink and hair doesn’t stink as much, because it’s better to climb a tree and pick fruit than end up underground, food for worms, and because you rarely hurt yourself hitting something above you really have to be in an attic, while you often hurt yourself falling. That’s why up is angelic and down devilish.
But because what I said before, about my belly, is also true, both things are true, down and inside are beautiful, and up and outside are beautiful, and the spirit of Mercury and Manichean-ism have nothing to do with it. Fire keeps you warm and cold gives you bronchial pneumonia, especially if you’re a scholar four thousand years ago, and therefore fire has mysterious virtues besides its ability to cook your chicken. But cold preserves that same chicken, and fire, if you touch it, gives you a blister this big; therefore, if you think of something preserved for millennia, like wisdom, you have to think of it on a mountain, up, high (and high is good), but also in a cavern (which is good, too) and in the eternal cold of the Tibetan snows (best of all). And if you then want to know why wisdom comes from the Orient and not from the Swiss Alps, it’s because the body of your ancestors in the morning, when it woke and there was still darkness, looked to the east hoping the sun would rise and there wouldn’t be rain.
Yes, Mama.
Yes indeed, my child. The sun is good because it does the body good, and because it has the sense to reappear every day; therefore, whatever returns is good, not what passes and is done with. The easiest way to return from where you’ve been without retracing your steps is to walk in a circle. The animal that coils in a circle is the serpent; that’s why so many cults and myths of the serpent exist, because it’s hard to represent the return of the sun by the coiling of a hippopotamus. Furthermore, if you have to make a ceremony to invoke the sun, it’s best to move in a circle, because if you go in a straight line, you move away from home, which means the ceremony will have to be kept short. The circle is the most convenient arrangement for any rite, even the fire-eaters in the marketplace know this, because in a circle everybody can see the one who’s in the center, whereas if a whole tribe formed a straight line, like a squad of soldiers, the people at the ends wouldn’t see. And that’s why the circle and rotary motion and cyclic return are fundamental to every cult and every rite?
Yes, Mama?
We move on to the magic numbers your authors are so fond of. You are one and not two, your cock is one and my cunt is one, and we have one nose and one heart; so you see how many important things come in ones. But we have two eyes, two ears, two nostrils, my breasts, your balls, legs, arms, buttocks. Three is the most magical of all, because our body doesn’t know that number; we don’t have three of anything, and it should be a very mysterious number that we attribute to God, wherever we live. But if you think about it, I have one cunt and you have one cock, shut up and don’t joke and if we put these two together, a new thing is made, and we become three. So you don’t have to be a university professor or use a computer to discover that all cultures on earth have ternary structures, trinities.
But two arms and two legs make four, and four is a beautiful -number when you consider that animals have four legs and little children go on all fours, as the Sphinx knew. We hardly have to discuss five, the fingers of the hand and then with both hands you get that other sacred number, ten. There have to be ten commandments because, if there were twelve, when the priest counts one, two, three, holding up his fingers, and comes to the last two, he’d have to borrow a hand from the sacristan.
Now, if you take the body and count all the things that grow from the trunk, arms, legs, head, and cock, you get six; but for women it’s seven. For this reason, it seems to me that among your authors six is never taken seriously, except as the double of three, because it’s familiar to the males, who don’t have any seven. So when the males rule, they prefer to see seven as the mysterious sacred number, forgetting about women’s tits, but what the hell.
Eight....eight....give me a minute...If arms and legs don’t count as one apiece but two, because of elbows and knees, you have eight parts that move; add the torso and you have nine, add the head and you have ten. Just sticking with the body, you can get all the numbers you want. The orifices, for example.
The orifices?
Yes. How many holes does the body have?
I counted. Eyes, nostrils, ears, mouth, ass: eight.
You see? Another reason eight is a beautiful number. But I have nine! And with that ninth I bring you into the world, therefore nine is holier than eight! Or, if you like, take the anatomy of your menhir, which your authors are always talking about. Standing up during the day, lying down at night your thing, too. No, don’t tell me what it does at night. The fact is that erect it works and prone it rests. So the vertical position is life, pointing sunward, and obelisks stand as trees stand, while the horizontal position and night are sleep, death. All cultures worship menhirs, monoliths, pyramids, columns, but nobody bows down to balconies and railings. Did you ever hear of an archaic cult of the sacred banister? You see? And another point: if you worship a vertical stone, even if there are a lot of you, you can all see it; but if you worship, instead, a horizontal stone, only those in the front row can see it, and the others start pushing, me too, me too, which is not a fitting sight for a magical ceremony...
But rivers...
Rivers are worshiped not because they’re horizontal, but because there is water in them, and you don’t need me to explain to you the relation between water and the body...Anyway, that’s how we’re put together, all of us, and that’s why we work out the same symbols millions of kilometers apart, and naturally they all resemble one another. Thus you see that people with a brain in their head, if they’re shown an alchemist’s oven, all shut up and warm inside, think of the belly of the mama making a baby, and only your Diabolicals think that the Madonna about to have the Child is a reference to the alchemist’s oven. They spent thousands of years looking for a message, and it was there all the time: they just had to look at themselves in the mirror.
Pow, archetypes don’t exist; the body exists. The belly inside is beautiful, because the baby grows there, because your sweet cock, all bright and jolly, thrusts there, and good, tasty food descends there, and for this reason the cavern, the grotto, the tunnel are beautiful and important, and the labyrinth, too, which is made in the image of our wonderful intestines. When somebody wants to invent something beautiful and important, it has to come from there, because you also came from there the day you were born, because fertility always comes from inside a cavity, where first something rots and then, lo and behold, there is a little man, a date, a baobab.
And high is better than low, because if you have your head down, the blood goes to your brain, because feet stink and hair doesn’t stink as much, because it’s better to climb a tree and pick fruit than end up underground, food for worms, and because you rarely hurt yourself hitting something above you really have to be in an attic, while you often hurt yourself falling. That’s why up is angelic and down devilish.
But because what I said before, about my belly, is also true, both things are true, down and inside are beautiful, and up and outside are beautiful, and the spirit of Mercury and Manichean-ism have nothing to do with it. Fire keeps you warm and cold gives you bronchial pneumonia, especially if you’re a scholar four thousand years ago, and therefore fire has mysterious virtues besides its ability to cook your chicken. But cold preserves that same chicken, and fire, if you touch it, gives you a blister this big; therefore, if you think of something preserved for millennia, like wisdom, you have to think of it on a mountain, up, high (and high is good), but also in a cavern (which is good, too) and in the eternal cold of the Tibetan snows (best of all). And if you then want to know why wisdom comes from the Orient and not from the Swiss Alps, it’s because the body of your ancestors in the morning, when it woke and there was still darkness, looked to the east hoping the sun would rise and there wouldn’t be rain.
Yes, Mama.
Yes indeed, my child. The sun is good because it does the body good, and because it has the sense to reappear every day; therefore, whatever returns is good, not what passes and is done with. The easiest way to return from where you’ve been without retracing your steps is to walk in a circle. The animal that coils in a circle is the serpent; that’s why so many cults and myths of the serpent exist, because it’s hard to represent the return of the sun by the coiling of a hippopotamus. Furthermore, if you have to make a ceremony to invoke the sun, it’s best to move in a circle, because if you go in a straight line, you move away from home, which means the ceremony will have to be kept short. The circle is the most convenient arrangement for any rite, even the fire-eaters in the marketplace know this, because in a circle everybody can see the one who’s in the center, whereas if a whole tribe formed a straight line, like a squad of soldiers, the people at the ends wouldn’t see. And that’s why the circle and rotary motion and cyclic return are fundamental to every cult and every rite?
Yes, Mama?
We move on to the magic numbers your authors are so fond of. You are one and not two, your cock is one and my cunt is one, and we have one nose and one heart; so you see how many important things come in ones. But we have two eyes, two ears, two nostrils, my breasts, your balls, legs, arms, buttocks. Three is the most magical of all, because our body doesn’t know that number; we don’t have three of anything, and it should be a very mysterious number that we attribute to God, wherever we live. But if you think about it, I have one cunt and you have one cock, shut up and don’t joke and if we put these two together, a new thing is made, and we become three. So you don’t have to be a university professor or use a computer to discover that all cultures on earth have ternary structures, trinities.
But two arms and two legs make four, and four is a beautiful -number when you consider that animals have four legs and little children go on all fours, as the Sphinx knew. We hardly have to discuss five, the fingers of the hand and then with both hands you get that other sacred number, ten. There have to be ten commandments because, if there were twelve, when the priest counts one, two, three, holding up his fingers, and comes to the last two, he’d have to borrow a hand from the sacristan.
Now, if you take the body and count all the things that grow from the trunk, arms, legs, head, and cock, you get six; but for women it’s seven. For this reason, it seems to me that among your authors six is never taken seriously, except as the double of three, because it’s familiar to the males, who don’t have any seven. So when the males rule, they prefer to see seven as the mysterious sacred number, forgetting about women’s tits, but what the hell.
Eight....eight....give me a minute...If arms and legs don’t count as one apiece but two, because of elbows and knees, you have eight parts that move; add the torso and you have nine, add the head and you have ten. Just sticking with the body, you can get all the numbers you want. The orifices, for example.
The orifices?
Yes. How many holes does the body have?
I counted. Eyes, nostrils, ears, mouth, ass: eight.
You see? Another reason eight is a beautiful number. But I have nine! And with that ninth I bring you into the world, therefore nine is holier than eight! Or, if you like, take the anatomy of your menhir, which your authors are always talking about. Standing up during the day, lying down at night your thing, too. No, don’t tell me what it does at night. The fact is that erect it works and prone it rests. So the vertical position is life, pointing sunward, and obelisks stand as trees stand, while the horizontal position and night are sleep, death. All cultures worship menhirs, monoliths, pyramids, columns, but nobody bows down to balconies and railings. Did you ever hear of an archaic cult of the sacred banister? You see? And another point: if you worship a vertical stone, even if there are a lot of you, you can all see it; but if you worship, instead, a horizontal stone, only those in the front row can see it, and the others start pushing, me too, me too, which is not a fitting sight for a magical ceremony...
But rivers...
Rivers are worshiped not because they’re horizontal, but because there is water in them, and you don’t need me to explain to you the relation between water and the body...Anyway, that’s how we’re put together, all of us, and that’s why we work out the same symbols millions of kilometers apart, and naturally they all resemble one another. Thus you see that people with a brain in their head, if they’re shown an alchemist’s oven, all shut up and warm inside, think of the belly of the mama making a baby, and only your Diabolicals think that the Madonna about to have the Child is a reference to the alchemist’s oven. They spent thousands of years looking for a message, and it was there all the time: they just had to look at themselves in the mirror.
Friday, December 22, 2006
Dangerous Liaisons and John Malkovich
Its been a while since Daniel Day Lewis' masterful portrayal of Bill the Butcher (The finest acting I've even seen) and I didn't expect to be blown away again by an acting performance.
But I was and wow, what a delightful experience that was. John Malkovich in 'Dangerous Liaisons ' is awesome. That is to say, a new entry in my top 10 list after quite some time. And irony is, like most of the others in that list, he didn't get an oscar for that. Hell he wasn't even nominated.
Anyway for all cinemaphiles, the movie should be a treat to watch.
But I was and wow, what a delightful experience that was. John Malkovich in 'Dangerous Liaisons ' is awesome. That is to say, a new entry in my top 10 list after quite some time. And irony is, like most of the others in that list, he didn't get an oscar for that. Hell he wasn't even nominated.
Anyway for all cinemaphiles, the movie should be a treat to watch.
Monday, December 11, 2006
J: I dont understand why our music doesn't sound as good as the westerns
B: What do you mean?
J: Well there are so many rock bands right? All know how to play guitar. Sometimes they talk about the same themes. But something is missing. Passion or ...hmmm ... say a sense of truth. Don't yo have a theory about that ?
B: I do. Rich kids can't rock.
J: mmmmmmmmmmmmm. Right. Assholes.
B: What do you mean?
J: Well there are so many rock bands right? All know how to play guitar. Sometimes they talk about the same themes. But something is missing. Passion or ...hmmm ... say a sense of truth. Don't yo have a theory about that ?
B: I do. Rich kids can't rock.
J: mmmmmmmmmmmmm. Right. Assholes.
Friday, November 24, 2006
Monday, November 13, 2006
Pantomime
Sound of a distant trumpet exudes a soporific sensation. Let the fuck begin.
At overture, from the seeds of my reed, weeds of my discomfort burgeon.
What is more frightening—the lurking vestige of incredulity in theists or residue of faith in atheists? Or maybe faith and denial are crafts that need time for perfection.
And Time is never enough Rabbi.
You remember when I first entered Gevurah on the wings of desires and you abacinated me –the moment, the anagnorisis? For in darkness shall I find that light is a recursive illusion, only the absence of dark. And what doors you put me through, the Scourge of darkness and unbearable absurdity of existence. And there was this world dissected before me confessing its being as inconsistent chaos of haphazard instances, connected to each other by mere coincidences. And history, the wonderful piece of fiction, cried over its emptiness. Theology, a subterfuge bedizened by rhythmic rhetoric and glorious fables, shed off its clothes and stood in its grotesque nakedness.
You know Rabbi, the darkness of the blind is a misty haze, coloured in innumerable shades, changing every instance with the random permutations of seven colours mixing in infinite proportions.
But then arrived my first peripeteia—those insomniac nights spent with the recurring apparitions of demons and fires of hell, when you held my hands and reassured the rational me. But I couldn’t be solaced Rabbi, until you disappeared and I hymnhummed some prayers whispered in my ear a long time ago.
I don’t remember when I lost your hand and how long I wandered alone until HE came along.
‘And then there was light.’
And in ‘our’ two act play, I bathed in my second awakening.
Darkness became my avowed nemesis. And yes there was an ephemeral peace, eyeing harmony in dissonance and a pattern in chaos. Those strolls in the garden of hesed when love shined in on me and white light illuminated my naïve soul. He disappeared too Rabbi, as you did, just when my eyes were becoming his eyes.
I finally realize it Rabbi, the con-sequence of flawed longing.
In my exacerbation, I am tirelessly fluctuating between ‘what’ and ‘what if; for a perfect faith; for a perfect denouncement. To describe my plight, there is only fright, again, and this time, I have no daedalian wings.
Its grand finale, Rabbi, it is the catastrophe, because I know now. In the sterile soil of my longing, from the seeds of my reed, weeds of order/disorder burgeon.
Now I know Rabbi, Gevurah runs in my veins.
Now I know Rabbi, I am your amaranthine protagonist, destined to be un-destined.
Now I know Rabbi, He was you.
What would you write now, but a repetition of these two acts?
Hell… lay it all to rest.
At overture, from the seeds of my reed, weeds of my discomfort burgeon.
What is more frightening—the lurking vestige of incredulity in theists or residue of faith in atheists? Or maybe faith and denial are crafts that need time for perfection.
And Time is never enough Rabbi.
You remember when I first entered Gevurah on the wings of desires and you abacinated me –the moment, the anagnorisis? For in darkness shall I find that light is a recursive illusion, only the absence of dark. And what doors you put me through, the Scourge of darkness and unbearable absurdity of existence. And there was this world dissected before me confessing its being as inconsistent chaos of haphazard instances, connected to each other by mere coincidences. And history, the wonderful piece of fiction, cried over its emptiness. Theology, a subterfuge bedizened by rhythmic rhetoric and glorious fables, shed off its clothes and stood in its grotesque nakedness.
You know Rabbi, the darkness of the blind is a misty haze, coloured in innumerable shades, changing every instance with the random permutations of seven colours mixing in infinite proportions.
But then arrived my first peripeteia—those insomniac nights spent with the recurring apparitions of demons and fires of hell, when you held my hands and reassured the rational me. But I couldn’t be solaced Rabbi, until you disappeared and I hymnhummed some prayers whispered in my ear a long time ago.
I don’t remember when I lost your hand and how long I wandered alone until HE came along.
‘And then there was light.’
And in ‘our’ two act play, I bathed in my second awakening.
Darkness became my avowed nemesis. And yes there was an ephemeral peace, eyeing harmony in dissonance and a pattern in chaos. Those strolls in the garden of hesed when love shined in on me and white light illuminated my naïve soul. He disappeared too Rabbi, as you did, just when my eyes were becoming his eyes.
I finally realize it Rabbi, the con-sequence of flawed longing.
In my exacerbation, I am tirelessly fluctuating between ‘what’ and ‘what if; for a perfect faith; for a perfect denouncement. To describe my plight, there is only fright, again, and this time, I have no daedalian wings.
Its grand finale, Rabbi, it is the catastrophe, because I know now. In the sterile soil of my longing, from the seeds of my reed, weeds of order/disorder burgeon.
Now I know Rabbi, Gevurah runs in my veins.
Now I know Rabbi, I am your amaranthine protagonist, destined to be un-destined.
Now I know Rabbi, He was you.
What would you write now, but a repetition of these two acts?
Hell… lay it all to rest.
Wednesday, November 8, 2006
Derrida On L'mour
Since I find myself incapable of writing anything lately, I am thinking of returning to the basics-to do what I was good at. Quoting people, questioning everything and talking about books and movies. That is to say, I am thinking of starting a movie/book review blog. An ode to the pieces that i adored over the years.
Well, for now, I have seen Derrida talking for the first time. Ifinally got my hands on Derrida The Movie, and yes it only fuels my fascination with the grey haired dead jew.
Here is what he says when asked about l'mour. (Reminds me of my long diatribe I had once. Someone somewhere must remember that :) )
Love is a question of who and what. Is love the love of someone or the love of some thing?
Supposing I loved someone; Do I love someone for the absolute singularity of who they are? i.e. I love you because you are you. Or do I love your qualities, your beauty, your intelligence?
Does one love someone, or does one love something about someone? The difference between the who and the what at the heart of love, seperates the heart. It is often said that love is the movement of the heart. Does my heart move because I love someone who is an absolute singularity, or because I love the way that someone is?
Often love begins with a type of seduction. One is attracted because the other is like this or like that. Inversely, love is disappointed and dies when one comes to realise the other person doesn't merit our love. The other person isn't like this or that. So at the death of love, it appears that one stops loving another not because of who they are but because they are such and such .
That is to say, the history of love, the heart of love, is divided between the who and the what. The question of Being, to return to philosophy- because the first question of philosophy is: what is it 'to Be'? What is 'Being'? The question of 'Being' is itself always already divided between who and what. Is 'Being' someone or some thing? I speak of it abstractly, but I think that whoever starts to love, is in love, or stops loving, is caught between this division of the who and the what. One wants to be true to someone - singularly, irreplaceably - and one perceives that this someone isn't x or y. They didn't have the qualities, properties, the images, that I thought I'd loved. So fidelity is threatened by the difference between the who and the what.
Well, for now, I have seen Derrida talking for the first time. Ifinally got my hands on Derrida The Movie, and yes it only fuels my fascination with the grey haired dead jew.
Here is what he says when asked about l'mour. (Reminds me of my long diatribe I had once. Someone somewhere must remember that :) )
Love is a question of who and what. Is love the love of someone or the love of some thing?
Supposing I loved someone; Do I love someone for the absolute singularity of who they are? i.e. I love you because you are you. Or do I love your qualities, your beauty, your intelligence?
Does one love someone, or does one love something about someone? The difference between the who and the what at the heart of love, seperates the heart. It is often said that love is the movement of the heart. Does my heart move because I love someone who is an absolute singularity, or because I love the way that someone is?
Often love begins with a type of seduction. One is attracted because the other is like this or like that. Inversely, love is disappointed and dies when one comes to realise the other person doesn't merit our love. The other person isn't like this or that. So at the death of love, it appears that one stops loving another not because of who they are but because they are such and such .
That is to say, the history of love, the heart of love, is divided between the who and the what. The question of Being, to return to philosophy- because the first question of philosophy is: what is it 'to Be'? What is 'Being'? The question of 'Being' is itself always already divided between who and what. Is 'Being' someone or some thing? I speak of it abstractly, but I think that whoever starts to love, is in love, or stops loving, is caught between this division of the who and the what. One wants to be true to someone - singularly, irreplaceably - and one perceives that this someone isn't x or y. They didn't have the qualities, properties, the images, that I thought I'd loved. So fidelity is threatened by the difference between the who and the what.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Tagged
Tagged by 0rdered-chaos a.k.a Fairy Godmother.
Today...
Height: 6'2''
Color: brown with a fairish bias :D
Piercing: None
Tattoos: None But someday maybe
Right Now
Time: 0327 hours.
Mood: Bored
Taste: closeup
Weather: Well in transition. A hint of cool breeze in the moonlit night. The night has matured and its beautiful. Just that my skin is not evaporating
Bad habit: None
Current crush: A younger Madeline Stove
Biggest regret: There never was glory
Perfume(s): Jean Paul Gaultier, Eternity
Thing I want to do: At the moment? Hmmm… apart from sex eat something.
Favourite TV show: Goodness Gracious Me ( Yes its not on anymore)
Book: Currently Borges. Again.
Non alcoholic drink: Espresso
Milk drink: Espresso with a milkdrop :D
Brand: none
Color: Currently black
Emblem: none
Designer: None
Chocolate: None
Have I Ever...
Broken the law: Yes
Misused credit card: No
Fell asleep in the shower/bath: Of course I did. What else can you do on winter morns?
Had children: I hope not :D
Been in love: Yes. AM IN LOVE
Been hurt: Oh yes. Broke my nose thrice :P
Random
Have a job: Yes
My CD player has what in it right now: Media Player is playing Moonlight Sonata
If I were a crayon, the color: Someone else shall have a say
What makes me happy: Fantasizing about a lot of sex lately. That’s a typical Ramadan Syndrome btw.
When/What...
Was the LastI got a real letter: Lately …
Got an email: 3 hours ago. Junk
Thing I purchased: today. A pack of smokes
TV program I watched: Man Utd Vs Liverpool . Yes a soccer match.
Hugged: Aali…
Place I was: my room
Song heard: Before Sonata ….Beethoven’s 9th and show must go on (Queen)
Phone call: today / Appa
Was depressed: don’t remember. Must’ve been one such time waisey.
What Comes to Mind When I Hear
Car: An alto I am saving to lease right after EID
Murder: Hannibal Lecter
Cape: Martin Scorsese
Cell: Nokia 1100
Fun: Sex
Shoe: Her naked feet
Crush: Someone who had a crush that lasted too long: Omer
Music: Crying/Sex
Love: Apart from Sex ? Yea there is she....sigh
Chalk: 6th grade politics.
Alright...who do I tag? Don’t know :S
Today...
Height: 6'2''
Color: brown with a fairish bias :D
Piercing: None
Tattoos: None But someday maybe
Right Now
Time: 0327 hours.
Mood: Bored
Taste: closeup
Weather: Well in transition. A hint of cool breeze in the moonlit night. The night has matured and its beautiful. Just that my skin is not evaporating
Bad habit: None
Current crush: A younger Madeline Stove
Biggest regret: There never was glory
Perfume(s): Jean Paul Gaultier, Eternity
Thing I want to do: At the moment? Hmmm… apart from sex eat something.
Favourite TV show: Goodness Gracious Me ( Yes its not on anymore)
Book: Currently Borges. Again.
Non alcoholic drink: Espresso
Milk drink: Espresso with a milkdrop :D
Brand: none
Color: Currently black
Emblem: none
Designer: None
Chocolate: None
Have I Ever...
Broken the law: Yes
Misused credit card: No
Fell asleep in the shower/bath: Of course I did. What else can you do on winter morns?
Had children: I hope not :D
Been in love: Yes. AM IN LOVE
Been hurt: Oh yes. Broke my nose thrice :P
Random
Have a job: Yes
My CD player has what in it right now: Media Player is playing Moonlight Sonata
If I were a crayon, the color: Someone else shall have a say
What makes me happy: Fantasizing about a lot of sex lately. That’s a typical Ramadan Syndrome btw.
When/What...
Was the LastI got a real letter: Lately …
Got an email: 3 hours ago. Junk
Thing I purchased: today. A pack of smokes
TV program I watched: Man Utd Vs Liverpool . Yes a soccer match.
Hugged: Aali…
Place I was: my room
Song heard: Before Sonata ….Beethoven’s 9th and show must go on (Queen)
Phone call: today / Appa
Was depressed: don’t remember. Must’ve been one such time waisey.
What Comes to Mind When I Hear
Car: An alto I am saving to lease right after EID
Murder: Hannibal Lecter
Cape: Martin Scorsese
Cell: Nokia 1100
Fun: Sex
Shoe: Her naked feet
Crush: Someone who had a crush that lasted too long: Omer
Music: Crying/Sex
Love: Apart from Sex ? Yea there is she....sigh
Chalk: 6th grade politics.
Alright...who do I tag? Don’t know :S
Monday, October 16, 2006
Garbage--The Trick is to keep breathing (Lyrics)
Shes not the kind of girl
Who likes to tell the world
About the way she feels about herself
She takes a little time
In making up her mind
She doesn’t want to fight against the tide
Lately
I’m not the only one
I say
Never trust anyone
Always the one who has to drag her down
Maybe you’ll get what you want this time around
Can’t bear to face the truth
So sick he cannot move
And when it hurts he takes it out on you
Lately
I’m not the only one
I say
Never trust anyone
Always the one who has to drag her down
Maybe you’ll get what you want this time around
The trick is to keep breathing
The trick is to keep breathing
She knows the human heart
And how to read the stars
Now everything’s about to fall apart
I won’t be the one whos going to let you down
Maybe you’ll get what you want this time around ?
I won’t be the one whos going to let you down
Maybe youll get what you want this time around ?
The trick is to keep breathing
Who likes to tell the world
About the way she feels about herself
She takes a little time
In making up her mind
She doesn’t want to fight against the tide
Lately
I’m not the only one
I say
Never trust anyone
Always the one who has to drag her down
Maybe you’ll get what you want this time around
Can’t bear to face the truth
So sick he cannot move
And when it hurts he takes it out on you
Lately
I’m not the only one
I say
Never trust anyone
Always the one who has to drag her down
Maybe you’ll get what you want this time around
The trick is to keep breathing
The trick is to keep breathing
She knows the human heart
And how to read the stars
Now everything’s about to fall apart
I won’t be the one whos going to let you down
Maybe you’ll get what you want this time around ?
I won’t be the one whos going to let you down
Maybe youll get what you want this time around ?
The trick is to keep breathing
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Time changes.
Maybe you are right, people change too.
Certainly you are right, I have changed. You knew me, you do not know me.
I remember the delicious acquaintance that instigated out of a heated debate, when you stepped in as the peacemaker, and the yummy camaraderie we developed over conversazione about theory and reality and sea and to keep breathing. We debated God then, we bitched about free will and Spinoza and death and rock and roll and yes… your poetry.
Those gods that didn’t stand a chance and migraine attacks at 5 in the morning. I actually remember your nervousness about speaking in public when I couldn’t help laughing at your nasal accent.
Was there anything we didn’t bitch about? It’s hard to remember things you donot do. Aint it?
We shared what… Dead mothers, our tumultuous pasts shrouded in the mist of hearsay and fright, the limbos of our algophilia from the past that we so feared, some shattered pieces of body and soul that we gathered over the years. (Yes I remember you scarred forehead you incorrigible bitch) and a common addiction to sadness. From you nasal behanchoods and my textual batterings we established a connection, an unsaid vow to try to hurt ourselves in hurting each other. Didn’t us. But in all time I never hated you. I could never love you the way I loved her. And how could I? Could you grab love in your hand and shake it yourway? But I never hated you. I didn’t hate you when you hated me, I didn’t hate you when you ran away. Yeah and I was hurt too because you were. For not being able to give one thing that you wanted.
But now I hate you.
Not because you are on a spree of fucking every asshole that you can; not because you cant ask some miserable little piece of shit to mind her own goddamn business; not because you let ‘people’ between us and judge us. I don’t hate you because you can be a massive whore.
I hate you now because you are too fucking ugly. Gosh you are too fucking ugly now.
Maybe you are right, people change too.
Certainly you are right, I have changed. You knew me, you do not know me.
I remember the delicious acquaintance that instigated out of a heated debate, when you stepped in as the peacemaker, and the yummy camaraderie we developed over conversazione about theory and reality and sea and to keep breathing. We debated God then, we bitched about free will and Spinoza and death and rock and roll and yes… your poetry.
Those gods that didn’t stand a chance and migraine attacks at 5 in the morning. I actually remember your nervousness about speaking in public when I couldn’t help laughing at your nasal accent.
Was there anything we didn’t bitch about? It’s hard to remember things you donot do. Aint it?
We shared what… Dead mothers, our tumultuous pasts shrouded in the mist of hearsay and fright, the limbos of our algophilia from the past that we so feared, some shattered pieces of body and soul that we gathered over the years. (Yes I remember you scarred forehead you incorrigible bitch) and a common addiction to sadness. From you nasal behanchoods and my textual batterings we established a connection, an unsaid vow to try to hurt ourselves in hurting each other. Didn’t us. But in all time I never hated you. I could never love you the way I loved her. And how could I? Could you grab love in your hand and shake it yourway? But I never hated you. I didn’t hate you when you hated me, I didn’t hate you when you ran away. Yeah and I was hurt too because you were. For not being able to give one thing that you wanted.
But now I hate you.
Not because you are on a spree of fucking every asshole that you can; not because you cant ask some miserable little piece of shit to mind her own goddamn business; not because you let ‘people’ between us and judge us. I don’t hate you because you can be a massive whore.
I hate you now because you are too fucking ugly. Gosh you are too fucking ugly now.
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