I had the strangest dream last night.
I dreamt that I was a child of the soil, smelling of wet sand, broken flower petals and sprouting kernels, embedded deep within the rich soils of the earth. My hair was knotted in clay and my cloths....well, I barely had any on. My parents were the earth, they took every blow that was dealt to them, took all the insults, the attacks but still stood solid and supporting beneath my feet. My ancestors were the trees. They spread their branches over my head, kept me well rooted and nourished me with their fruits. My friends and relations were the wind. They brought the sun and the rain, they made the flowers bloom, they made the trees pregnant with fruit, they brought pleasant fragrances and along with that, happiness, a happiness that is pure and raw in its very form. The open skies spread out above me, the clouds were reflected in a nearby lake and it looked as if they had come down for a leisurely swim. The grounds were open for me to run free, I was elated, I was light, both in body and mind. It felt peaceful. I felt free.
Maybe it had something to do with my recent urge to break free and flee from all this, leave everything behind, liberate myself from all that is keeping me weighed down and unhappy. Yes, this impending sense of doom, a disintegration that is very painful and unexpected had been quite an issue lately as it just saddens me to see something so beautiful go to the gutter because of absolute indifference. My constant need to salvage this integration has wrought me miserable I suppose and I think in a way, that the dream was symbolic of me letting go finally, letting go of this weighty responsibility of salvaging what is left. It must be a reflection of me finally accepting the fickle ways of life and realizing that I alone must not bear this weight and my intense desire to reconnect with nature which I had been feeling quite strongly since of late. Nevertheless, I had been having quite a lot of strange dreams lately. Some very pleasant, some not so pleasant.
Maybe I should start a dream blog.....................Hmmmm.............
Friday, May 25, 2012
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Horrors at the post office
Lady Grouchalot had the misfortune of going to the post office twice for the past two weeks. The first time she suffered through the incident, she put it down to mere coincidence and her luck. However, it was during the second time that things were confirmed.
Its official, post offices are run by evil, evil people. With eternally constipated looks upon their faces, these individuals are forever armed with the necessary bile and venom to spit at anybody who would disturb their indifferent slumbers in the corners of these dingy offices. Its true, these tiny, almost invisible, untidy places that are called post offices are located in extremely hard to reach corners of the earth (these places are probably off the maps too) where parking is nonexistent and individuals are required to wage through forests and swim through puddles of muddy, muddy water (literary) in order to get to one.
The first time (in a long time) that the Lady had to confront a post office troll wearing a human skin was last week when the university results finally arrived (oh btw, First Class Honors baby! Woot Woot! Oh yeah, this girl had braved violent, humongous storms, went to exams after spending whole days and nights crying in excruciating emotional pain, suffered through the dire lack of lecturers, ridiculous antiques of university officials, wrote a whole thesis without any guidance OR a supervisor and still, here she is, holding her head high as she emerges alive, battle scars and all). Anyways with the gloating aside, the convocation letters needed to be sent to the university by registered post and when finally at the post office (at Wattala) suffering through an incredible amount of indifference from a male individual at the counter who was gossiping over the phone about some Jayawardena's son's niece having an illicit affair with a married man, this man finally managed to majorly eff up writing the receipt (while the receiver remained embedded between the chin and the ear while the mouth still jabbered away) and claimed that the Rs 100/= that I have placed on the counter as his own as I argued with him that it was me who had put it there on the counter. After much convincing, the man (still on the phone) screwed up a second receipt and finally managed to tag the registered post stamp on the letter and hand over a barely readable receipt to me. He was still on the phone when we left. I do not know whether the university received my letter or not.
The second time was at the Kiribathgoda post office to which I went with Mother Dearest to do some more registered posting. The woman behind the counter (a veritable troll in a saree that looked almost human but not quite) had her nose deep in a newspaper, hardly taking any notice of us while we stood there at the counter right in front of her frowning mug, making VERY loud sounds. It was a good ten minutes after my mother had made her requirement known (loudly) that the woman put down the paper with a frown that scrunched up her nose so much that she looked like she had just bitten in to an extra sour lime, grabbed the envelop out of my mother's hand (I'm surprised that it did not tear in two) and barked out something about the address being wrong. My mother being overtly familiar with the address said so to her while this saree clad heap of fury gave a smoldering look to both of us and ordered us to look it up in the directory. Defeated, mother took up the directory and shoved it under her over sized nose as proof of our verity after which she accepted the letter with a grunt (I SWEAR she grunted) hastily wrote the receipt which she flung to us from under the counter without even giving us a glance. Lady Grouchalot was furious. So was Mother Dearest who usually does not get ruffled by the rudeness of people in government services as much as the Lady does. That was wayyy too much. Even Mother Dearest agreed.
I don't get it. Maybe these untidy, foul smelling post offices are stowed away in the furthest corners of the earth so that no human being shall never set foot upon them to witness the horrors that take place within those glue smeared, dust encrusted walls? Maybe those cage-like barriers made of glass are set up between the public and the officials behind the counters because they jump at us and bite off our necks? I don't know. Maybe. Its a very high probability.
Anyways with the horrors at the post office well behind her, it seems like the Lady's humble poetry collection is finally going to see the light of the day. This is of course, thanks to a very generous individual that the Lady has gotten to know of late who is very kindly assisting her through the intricate labyrinth of publishing step by tiny little step. The Lady is excited and overjoyed as a long awaited dream is finally seeing the light. Her babies are finally going to see the world! What is more, there will be well experienced, veteran writers and poets who will offer her guidance, suggestions and will hold her hand throughout the whole painful procedure. Sigh.....I cannot ask for more.
All said and done, currently swamped with work and several articles whose deadlines hang above me like ominous guillotines await, sharpening their glistening edges. Better get them done as soon as possible. Sigh.......... Its 1.15 AM, coffee flows free but words seem constipated. What a life!
Its official, post offices are run by evil, evil people. With eternally constipated looks upon their faces, these individuals are forever armed with the necessary bile and venom to spit at anybody who would disturb their indifferent slumbers in the corners of these dingy offices. Its true, these tiny, almost invisible, untidy places that are called post offices are located in extremely hard to reach corners of the earth (these places are probably off the maps too) where parking is nonexistent and individuals are required to wage through forests and swim through puddles of muddy, muddy water (literary) in order to get to one.
The first time (in a long time) that the Lady had to confront a post office troll wearing a human skin was last week when the university results finally arrived (oh btw, First Class Honors baby! Woot Woot! Oh yeah, this girl had braved violent, humongous storms, went to exams after spending whole days and nights crying in excruciating emotional pain, suffered through the dire lack of lecturers, ridiculous antiques of university officials, wrote a whole thesis without any guidance OR a supervisor and still, here she is, holding her head high as she emerges alive, battle scars and all). Anyways with the gloating aside, the convocation letters needed to be sent to the university by registered post and when finally at the post office (at Wattala) suffering through an incredible amount of indifference from a male individual at the counter who was gossiping over the phone about some Jayawardena's son's niece having an illicit affair with a married man, this man finally managed to majorly eff up writing the receipt (while the receiver remained embedded between the chin and the ear while the mouth still jabbered away) and claimed that the Rs 100/= that I have placed on the counter as his own as I argued with him that it was me who had put it there on the counter. After much convincing, the man (still on the phone) screwed up a second receipt and finally managed to tag the registered post stamp on the letter and hand over a barely readable receipt to me. He was still on the phone when we left. I do not know whether the university received my letter or not.
The second time was at the Kiribathgoda post office to which I went with Mother Dearest to do some more registered posting. The woman behind the counter (a veritable troll in a saree that looked almost human but not quite) had her nose deep in a newspaper, hardly taking any notice of us while we stood there at the counter right in front of her frowning mug, making VERY loud sounds. It was a good ten minutes after my mother had made her requirement known (loudly) that the woman put down the paper with a frown that scrunched up her nose so much that she looked like she had just bitten in to an extra sour lime, grabbed the envelop out of my mother's hand (I'm surprised that it did not tear in two) and barked out something about the address being wrong. My mother being overtly familiar with the address said so to her while this saree clad heap of fury gave a smoldering look to both of us and ordered us to look it up in the directory. Defeated, mother took up the directory and shoved it under her over sized nose as proof of our verity after which she accepted the letter with a grunt (I SWEAR she grunted) hastily wrote the receipt which she flung to us from under the counter without even giving us a glance. Lady Grouchalot was furious. So was Mother Dearest who usually does not get ruffled by the rudeness of people in government services as much as the Lady does. That was wayyy too much. Even Mother Dearest agreed.
I don't get it. Maybe these untidy, foul smelling post offices are stowed away in the furthest corners of the earth so that no human being shall never set foot upon them to witness the horrors that take place within those glue smeared, dust encrusted walls? Maybe those cage-like barriers made of glass are set up between the public and the officials behind the counters because they jump at us and bite off our necks? I don't know. Maybe. Its a very high probability.
Anyways with the horrors at the post office well behind her, it seems like the Lady's humble poetry collection is finally going to see the light of the day. This is of course, thanks to a very generous individual that the Lady has gotten to know of late who is very kindly assisting her through the intricate labyrinth of publishing step by tiny little step. The Lady is excited and overjoyed as a long awaited dream is finally seeing the light. Her babies are finally going to see the world! What is more, there will be well experienced, veteran writers and poets who will offer her guidance, suggestions and will hold her hand throughout the whole painful procedure. Sigh.....I cannot ask for more.
All said and done, currently swamped with work and several articles whose deadlines hang above me like ominous guillotines await, sharpening their glistening edges. Better get them done as soon as possible. Sigh.......... Its 1.15 AM, coffee flows free but words seem constipated. What a life!
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