Well, my laptop was down for many a days and finally, its up, set and running again. Nope, not gonna bore you with all the la-di-da of how it broke, how it got fixed and the whole shit load (mainly because it is still a mystery to me and is known only to the dude who fixes our computers. Didn't bother to ask either. I just asked him if he could fix it and he said he could. And he did. Shrug....)
Because of which I was doomed to use the household computer for a while and which also is almost always hogged down by Mother Dearest whose correspondence with her complicated cobweb of diasporic friends from every corner of the world has become an integral part of her life right now. As Skype beats out its annoying, semi-comical hip hop ringing tune, Mother Dearest sails (and I do mean sail) through the air and lands on the computer chair, reminiscent of a cat pouncing on a mouse ( and nearly with the same excited expression ). And that's the last time that any of us gets to go near the PC again for the next half of the day or so.
So yes, I have been wrestling it out with my parents, trying to lodge my claws on to the keyboard of this "registered to Mother Dearest" PC of ours for a descent half an hour straight. Parents! Sigh....They make you wanna run around the house screaming, pulling your hair out, move in to an apartment of your own and wash dishes in a local masala wadei joint to pay the rent, cluttering along to the beat of that oh-so-delightful kottu roti music. Sigh............
In a world of confusion and turmoil, I'm happy that at least The Darling is trying his best to make some kind of progress in the current situation. I know that I shall always be the queen of his heart, regardless of all the nitty-gritties, the topsy-turvies and the petty nuisances that come up every once in a while. I'm greatly humbled not to mention, truly grateful of this boundless, abysmal love of ours that keeps us loving, nurturing each other no matter what. God has indeed been kind. It truly is a wondrous thing, to be able to look in to his eyes and see nothing, but pure, untainted, uninhibited love streaming forth, all for me, and me only, to lap up and to revel in. We are two of the lucky ones indeed.
Ok, enough of the soppy stuff :D
I happened to notice Mother Dearest's hands today at close range. What used to be so full, slender and plump are now a little bit prune-ish at the tips. I felt sad. She used to have long, beautiful fingers that I so very much admired and wished mine to be just like hers. It struck me for the very first time that we do not even bother taking a minute to even look at them properly anymore. How did they get so old without me even noticing? Looking at her slightly shriveled fingers on the steering wheel, I wanted to cry. It wasn't fair.
I remember as a child how I used to shut myself in the bathroom and bawl my eyes out, thinking of how my parents were going to grow old, get sick and die one day (yes, even as a child I thought wayyyyyyy too much than necessary) I remember praying to God not to make them old, at least make the aging process a bit slower and to let me die with them too because I knew it in my little heart that I wouldn't be able to bear up such a thing all alone. And when I came out of the bathroom all teary eyed, Daddy Dearest would scoop me up in his arms, puzzled as to why I had been crying, take out a chocolate from the treasure trove ( I used to call it "the treasure trove" because Mother Dearest used to lock up all the sweet stuff in that cupboard, not letting us anywhere near it. And yes, she still is such a control freak :D ) and give it to me at which I would start crying again at which he would get alarmed. Yes well luckily, my parents had always thought me to be queer. And I had maintained that prestigious title right to this very day :D
They both have grey hairs sprouting up ( and I'm very sure that me and my Brother Dearest had been responsible for the greater part of those, being the brats that we are) and always complain of pains and aches, much more so now. Its heartbreaking to know that they have spent their whole life times on us, cooking and cleaning for us, earning, fixing this and that, listening and sorting out our problems (as if they hadn't enough of their own) finding schools, tuition classes, battling it out with the domestic, etc... But do we even bother so much as to look at them properly from time to time? We have grown so selfish, we have our own things to take care of, while all that they had done is waste away their youth, shed their sweat and blood for our materialistic comforts. Shame on us, really. I learnt unconditional love from them. For me, they are the very epitomes of unselfish, unflinching pillars of unconditional love. Everything else is just so ephemeral and uncertain. That's just how the world is.
Daddy Dearest had both his eyes operated for cataract this year and I, at twenty three years old, bawled my eyes out a whole night, over the phone to The Darling who was very much the sweetheart to listen to my frenzied ramblings, the night before the operation. Yes, yes, I know that it wan't that much of a big deal, but me being me, had to think and think and hence, the water work. Guess I'm not so different from the toddler who shut herself and bawled her eyes out in the bathroom, many years ago for her aging parents now huh?
Anyhow, now that the laptop is fixed, I no longer have a reason to procrastinate, sitting on my butt all day. Better get my precious rear end to work now. Have a good day everyone! Me, over and out! :)
Monday, May 30, 2011
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Journal memories-The journey of a young girl
Came across an ancient journal of mine today. It was endearing, leafing through it, the happiness smeared, tear-stained pages, the anger marked, gloomy and depressed letters, bits and pieces of poems that I've started writing but never finished slanting through pages and pages in red, blue, green and black carbon. Those were my footsteps, my naive and innocent journey through life into the known, the unknown and the never to be understood.
I realized that I had always been a romantic, its just not some incurable sickness that I had developed in my pre-adult years under the influence of too much of literature as I had imagined, I had been born with it. Well, like they say, you can take the girl out of the romantic, but you can't take the romantic out of the girl. Even at such a tender age I had believed in the sort of spiritual, all-consuming love that takes over your soul, I had believed in soul mates, I had believed that I was half a soul wandering the earth, searching for that other half that would complete, refill and radiate my existence (yup, something like a scene from an adventure movie where someone finds the missing piece of a broken magic tablet and fits the two pieces together and wham! There is light!) I had so much of hopes, so many dreams, gotten them shattered, some of them were realized, suffered heart breaks, glued it all back together again and still managed to be myself, untainted, unblemished(Well, perhaps a liiiitle bit) I had cried a thousand nights, cursed, hated and sworn never agains, but yet, I had loved, again and again, for I had never given up hope. Hope had always been there, hope and belief that I deserved the kind of unfathomable love that I yearned for, and the belief that I was capable of giving the same back.
I had been a fighter. I had never given up, not even once. I had suffered perhaps a little too much and been loaded upon far too much weight for such a young heart to carry but I had braved through it all with my head held high and nose stuck in the air. I had been strong, I had not always been smart but I had accepted my mistakes, my faults and other idiosyncrasies with open arms and I had come to terms with them, always forgiving myself. I had been strong. I had always emerged out of it all, perhaps a little teary eyed and worn around the edges, but I had never killed hope, not for a single moment.
But I I had killed my feelings at times, I had braved heartaches single handedly by doing so. I had strangled, starved and beaten those culprit feelings to a pulp. Killing feelings does seem a little too cruel, but I did it because I could not bear it anymore. My all too sensitive nature was breaking under the weight, the heart was threatening to burst and there were times that I had thought that I was dying. I guess I've always known the power of my emotions, had always been afraid of what they could do. I had been afraid of letting the intensity of those feelings and emotions engulf me, drag me to the bottom of a dark, morbid well where I knew that I would suffer forever and whither away, slowly and painfully. Killing my feelings had always been the best option, though not the easiest. It took time, it took effort, it took boxes and boxes of tissues, a whole load of movies, ice cream, chocolate and hours and hours of slobbering all over my girlfriends and torturing them with minute details of my suffering existence but I had done it somehow. I am proud of myself. Not to mention, eternally grateful to those amazingly patient sisters that I call friends.
I found a letter that I had written to my would-be lover, (obviously this had been the age when every little girl dreams of her first kiss, her knight in shining armor, etc) telling him to take care of my heart, to not hurt me because once in love I will love him with my heart, body and soul, more than I had ever loved myself, ever loved anyone or anything else in the entire world and that I wouldn't be able to bear it if he deceived me, for I would lay my life in his hands (believe me, those were my very words). To my dismay, I find that I haven't changed much in this supposedly sage age of twenty-something wisdom. Well, to be fair, I did expect some sort of improvement to the years passed by but I find that even today, I love completely, naively and self-sacrificially, putting everything I've ever had in the hands of that one person that I love. Because I believe that nothing should be held back in love. Even if you know that it will kill you afterwards, it is worth every bit of blood you shed while you slowly bleed yourself to death.
Yes, love is pain. It is pleasure and it is, by all means, not always easy. It is a gamble with the devil where you put it all on the table and risk your soul. If you win, you win everything; its pure magical, heavenly bliss from there onwards. But if you lose, you lose it all; your happiness, your sanity and ultimately, your soul too shall be devil's property. Falling in and out of love is hard business. Feelings are still there more or less, only thing is, the pain is not there anymore. Only memories remain, the memories I ran away from, afraid of confronting them, afraid of letting them engulf my soul. I do not need to run away anymore. I am no longer afraid.
My journal tells me that I am, indeed, a survivor. I had survived through tough times, through pain, burn and heartache, I had never flinched at the face of a challenge, rather looked them in the face and carried on, head held high and made it right through. I had been human. I had felt, experienced, seen and done a lot of things. I had made numerous mistakes and I had learnt from them. In every sense of the word, I had been human. An unbelievably stupid one at times, but nevertheless, one that takes pride in who she is and revels in the simplest joys of life. I have and will always be, a voluptuary.
And I had never given up on love and hope. Those had been the very essence of my survival, through good times, the bad, not to mention, the ugly. Love and hope are the very elements that still continue to carry me through. This girl is strong. She is strong because she has a big, big heart, a heart full of love, joy and the simplicity of a child. She will always make it through. That's what my journal told, and that's what I had believed in all along :)
I realized that I had always been a romantic, its just not some incurable sickness that I had developed in my pre-adult years under the influence of too much of literature as I had imagined, I had been born with it. Well, like they say, you can take the girl out of the romantic, but you can't take the romantic out of the girl. Even at such a tender age I had believed in the sort of spiritual, all-consuming love that takes over your soul, I had believed in soul mates, I had believed that I was half a soul wandering the earth, searching for that other half that would complete, refill and radiate my existence (yup, something like a scene from an adventure movie where someone finds the missing piece of a broken magic tablet and fits the two pieces together and wham! There is light!) I had so much of hopes, so many dreams, gotten them shattered, some of them were realized, suffered heart breaks, glued it all back together again and still managed to be myself, untainted, unblemished(Well, perhaps a liiiitle bit) I had cried a thousand nights, cursed, hated and sworn never agains, but yet, I had loved, again and again, for I had never given up hope. Hope had always been there, hope and belief that I deserved the kind of unfathomable love that I yearned for, and the belief that I was capable of giving the same back.
I had been a fighter. I had never given up, not even once. I had suffered perhaps a little too much and been loaded upon far too much weight for such a young heart to carry but I had braved through it all with my head held high and nose stuck in the air. I had been strong, I had not always been smart but I had accepted my mistakes, my faults and other idiosyncrasies with open arms and I had come to terms with them, always forgiving myself. I had been strong. I had always emerged out of it all, perhaps a little teary eyed and worn around the edges, but I had never killed hope, not for a single moment.
But I I had killed my feelings at times, I had braved heartaches single handedly by doing so. I had strangled, starved and beaten those culprit feelings to a pulp. Killing feelings does seem a little too cruel, but I did it because I could not bear it anymore. My all too sensitive nature was breaking under the weight, the heart was threatening to burst and there were times that I had thought that I was dying. I guess I've always known the power of my emotions, had always been afraid of what they could do. I had been afraid of letting the intensity of those feelings and emotions engulf me, drag me to the bottom of a dark, morbid well where I knew that I would suffer forever and whither away, slowly and painfully. Killing my feelings had always been the best option, though not the easiest. It took time, it took effort, it took boxes and boxes of tissues, a whole load of movies, ice cream, chocolate and hours and hours of slobbering all over my girlfriends and torturing them with minute details of my suffering existence but I had done it somehow. I am proud of myself. Not to mention, eternally grateful to those amazingly patient sisters that I call friends.
I found a letter that I had written to my would-be lover, (obviously this had been the age when every little girl dreams of her first kiss, her knight in shining armor, etc) telling him to take care of my heart, to not hurt me because once in love I will love him with my heart, body and soul, more than I had ever loved myself, ever loved anyone or anything else in the entire world and that I wouldn't be able to bear it if he deceived me, for I would lay my life in his hands (believe me, those were my very words). To my dismay, I find that I haven't changed much in this supposedly sage age of twenty-something wisdom. Well, to be fair, I did expect some sort of improvement to the years passed by but I find that even today, I love completely, naively and self-sacrificially, putting everything I've ever had in the hands of that one person that I love. Because I believe that nothing should be held back in love. Even if you know that it will kill you afterwards, it is worth every bit of blood you shed while you slowly bleed yourself to death.
Yes, love is pain. It is pleasure and it is, by all means, not always easy. It is a gamble with the devil where you put it all on the table and risk your soul. If you win, you win everything; its pure magical, heavenly bliss from there onwards. But if you lose, you lose it all; your happiness, your sanity and ultimately, your soul too shall be devil's property. Falling in and out of love is hard business. Feelings are still there more or less, only thing is, the pain is not there anymore. Only memories remain, the memories I ran away from, afraid of confronting them, afraid of letting them engulf my soul. I do not need to run away anymore. I am no longer afraid.
My journal tells me that I am, indeed, a survivor. I had survived through tough times, through pain, burn and heartache, I had never flinched at the face of a challenge, rather looked them in the face and carried on, head held high and made it right through. I had been human. I had felt, experienced, seen and done a lot of things. I had made numerous mistakes and I had learnt from them. In every sense of the word, I had been human. An unbelievably stupid one at times, but nevertheless, one that takes pride in who she is and revels in the simplest joys of life. I have and will always be, a voluptuary.
And I had never given up on love and hope. Those had been the very essence of my survival, through good times, the bad, not to mention, the ugly. Love and hope are the very elements that still continue to carry me through. This girl is strong. She is strong because she has a big, big heart, a heart full of love, joy and the simplicity of a child. She will always make it through. That's what my journal told, and that's what I had believed in all along :)
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Life of a dummy
I wonder what it would be like to be a dummy, a display doll, a mannequin (fashionably speaking of course) who stands there at a shop window and stares at the streets, the passers by, smiling, never flinching, starring, with their big hollow eyes, empty carved lips gleaming red. I wonder how it feels to not feel at all, to just stare blankly at the passing vehicles, letting themselves be dressed and undressed by complete strangers frequently, at unexpected times.
I wish I was a dummy without emotions, without moods, without feelings that get hurt by the slightest things. Nobody would ask me why I sound so emotionless then, nobody will ask what I feel, I would not have to analyse, think or worry. I would like to be a dummy for a few days, not forever though, just for a little while. Since I do feel numb and emotionless like a dummy these days, why not actually be a dummy for a couple more days?
Well, all I would have to do is dress up, smile and look pretty all the time. No assignments, no thesis, no translations, no internal conflicts or exams will bother me, ever. I shall be called the occasional dummy of course, once in a while. But then I would tell them to call me a "mannequin", much more sophisticated and posh-sounding, don't you think?
No wolf whistles or crude remarks by those who call themselves "male" on the roads, nobody would try to grab what they can and they would just fling a glance at my direction and distract themselves again with something female, warm and moving, not bothering to glance back again at an unfeeling doll. I would even be able to flaunt myself in sexy, smothering, smoking hot, sinfully seductive lingerie in a shop window and no one would even bother glancing back a second time. Because plastic is cold. Cold and hard, not soft, supple and sensitive like human flesh. Plastic is so much more less appealing and essentially an anti-pervert material than human skin any day.
Plus, I would always be in shape. That maybe due to the fact that I will not have to eat, but then, I wouldn't shrivel up and die either due to malnutrition if I were a mannequin either. If I get dusty and discolored, a good brush down and a thorough suck of the vacuum cleaner should do the trick. No need for hours and hours in the shower, washing off all that dust, muck and grit off the hair. And all that is required of me will be to put on that smiley/ pouty/ happy/ mysterious/ open-mouthed/ deranged and creepy laughing look of mine and stand/ sit there in a hip-breaking pose, smile/ pout/ frown/ laugh/ scowl and look pretty. I would even change my pose every now and then as an added bonus if I felt generous. And that's coz I'm thoughtful like that! Hmpf!
I wonder how it would feel like to be numb, inside and out. And hollow. Must feel quite light and floaty inside, there is no real weight, there is this huge, empty void inside that can never be filled. And one will always be hungry, yearning and longing, desperate to fill that space with something, anything. Plastic skin does not disintegrate, it does not feel, as far as I know. And it does not care. Oh how good it would feel not to care for once in my life! I do deserve several days of not caring you know. All the caring for everything and everyone else but myself has left me quite drained.
I would not be able to dance though. Oh, I would not be able to be as pliable as I am, to feel the thigh muscles, the abs, the waist line stretch and bend so effortlessly as I would like to. I would miss the feeling of supple body flow, liquid-like movements that make me believe that I, indeed am flying. I would miss that wonderful feeling of freedom in my bones, my limbs and the folding of my skin at every bend, at every stretch and at every twist.
I would not lose that for the world. Oh no. Dancing makes me feel alive. Even in the most darkest hours. I'm quite addicted to the bend and stretch of everyday life :)
I have often associated dummies, or mannequins (in the true glory of the word) with vanity, conceit and selfishness for reasons still quite unknown to myself. As a child I had believed that people get reborn as dummies for the sin of vanity and selfishness in their previous lives, a fact that I (now that I'm older and much, much wiser, ahem) know is not true. Well, now that I think about it, I do know quite a few specimen of the female species that I had often thought of as dummies (pardon me) "mannequins" in my head over and over again. I picture them just standing there, never smiling, not a drop of blood on their faces, not feeling, full of hatred for those who could feel, selfish, conceited, insensitive and hollow, true "mannequin" style. They think of no one else but themselves at any given time and are sly enough to hide it in the depth of their hollow, plastic, emotionless existence, leading people to believe otherwise. Well, mannequins are intended to fool the eyes, lure unsuspecting idiots into buying things that they do not need. They are however, not smart enough to figure out that a lie can only last so long.
There is a reason that they are called "dummies" after all.
I just changed my mind. I do not want to be a dummy. I would miss my human state, the hugs and kisses, the joys and the banes all too much. I would miss my dancing, the supple swerve of muscles and limbs. I would miss the love, the hate, the care, the longing and even the petty fights and the beautiful making up sessions afterwards. I would hate to miss out on all that. Although being a numb and senseless dummy does seem very much appealing sometimes.
I wish I was a dummy without emotions, without moods, without feelings that get hurt by the slightest things. Nobody would ask me why I sound so emotionless then, nobody will ask what I feel, I would not have to analyse, think or worry. I would like to be a dummy for a few days, not forever though, just for a little while. Since I do feel numb and emotionless like a dummy these days, why not actually be a dummy for a couple more days?
Well, all I would have to do is dress up, smile and look pretty all the time. No assignments, no thesis, no translations, no internal conflicts or exams will bother me, ever. I shall be called the occasional dummy of course, once in a while. But then I would tell them to call me a "mannequin", much more sophisticated and posh-sounding, don't you think?
No wolf whistles or crude remarks by those who call themselves "male" on the roads, nobody would try to grab what they can and they would just fling a glance at my direction and distract themselves again with something female, warm and moving, not bothering to glance back again at an unfeeling doll. I would even be able to flaunt myself in sexy, smothering, smoking hot, sinfully seductive lingerie in a shop window and no one would even bother glancing back a second time. Because plastic is cold. Cold and hard, not soft, supple and sensitive like human flesh. Plastic is so much more less appealing and essentially an anti-pervert material than human skin any day.
Plus, I would always be in shape. That maybe due to the fact that I will not have to eat, but then, I wouldn't shrivel up and die either due to malnutrition if I were a mannequin either. If I get dusty and discolored, a good brush down and a thorough suck of the vacuum cleaner should do the trick. No need for hours and hours in the shower, washing off all that dust, muck and grit off the hair. And all that is required of me will be to put on that smiley/ pouty/ happy/ mysterious/ open-mouthed/ deranged and creepy laughing look of mine and stand/ sit there in a hip-breaking pose, smile/ pout/ frown/ laugh/ scowl and look pretty. I would even change my pose every now and then as an added bonus if I felt generous. And that's coz I'm thoughtful like that! Hmpf!
I wonder how it would feel like to be numb, inside and out. And hollow. Must feel quite light and floaty inside, there is no real weight, there is this huge, empty void inside that can never be filled. And one will always be hungry, yearning and longing, desperate to fill that space with something, anything. Plastic skin does not disintegrate, it does not feel, as far as I know. And it does not care. Oh how good it would feel not to care for once in my life! I do deserve several days of not caring you know. All the caring for everything and everyone else but myself has left me quite drained.
I would not be able to dance though. Oh, I would not be able to be as pliable as I am, to feel the thigh muscles, the abs, the waist line stretch and bend so effortlessly as I would like to. I would miss the feeling of supple body flow, liquid-like movements that make me believe that I, indeed am flying. I would miss that wonderful feeling of freedom in my bones, my limbs and the folding of my skin at every bend, at every stretch and at every twist.
I would not lose that for the world. Oh no. Dancing makes me feel alive. Even in the most darkest hours. I'm quite addicted to the bend and stretch of everyday life :)
I have often associated dummies, or mannequins (in the true glory of the word) with vanity, conceit and selfishness for reasons still quite unknown to myself. As a child I had believed that people get reborn as dummies for the sin of vanity and selfishness in their previous lives, a fact that I (now that I'm older and much, much wiser, ahem) know is not true. Well, now that I think about it, I do know quite a few specimen of the female species that I had often thought of as dummies (pardon me) "mannequins" in my head over and over again. I picture them just standing there, never smiling, not a drop of blood on their faces, not feeling, full of hatred for those who could feel, selfish, conceited, insensitive and hollow, true "mannequin" style. They think of no one else but themselves at any given time and are sly enough to hide it in the depth of their hollow, plastic, emotionless existence, leading people to believe otherwise. Well, mannequins are intended to fool the eyes, lure unsuspecting idiots into buying things that they do not need. They are however, not smart enough to figure out that a lie can only last so long.
There is a reason that they are called "dummies" after all.
I just changed my mind. I do not want to be a dummy. I would miss my human state, the hugs and kisses, the joys and the banes all too much. I would miss my dancing, the supple swerve of muscles and limbs. I would miss the love, the hate, the care, the longing and even the petty fights and the beautiful making up sessions afterwards. I would hate to miss out on all that. Although being a numb and senseless dummy does seem very much appealing sometimes.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
What lies dormant
This is a post of self-realization, a whole new personal dawn that left me enlightened, thanks to a particular incident that has been boiling for a while which decided to break loose today. This is a post that is an outlet of fears, doubts and revelations (or remainders) that had been dormant within and I had quite forgotten about it.
I'm so very afraid of myself right now, I'm afraid of what I'm capable of in my volcanic anger. The serial killer in me has been nudged awake after so many years of quiet passivity and I remembered why it was that I trained myself rigid and extremely stern self discipline from a very young age. It demands blood and gore the moment it wakes. It demands that its thirst be appeased and it never hesitates to take necessary action to fulfill its horrendous desires. I guess I've always known its potential, the potential of this serial killer within me, even as a child.
I felt it stir today. I felt it yawn and stretch but not fully awaken. And I became afraid.
I'm afraid of what it might do if I lose control. I'm afraid of doing something that I might regret afterwards. Or worse yet, of NOT regretting what I've done.
The last time it was let loose, a person left bleeding, with a couple of broken teeth and badly crushed testicles. And that was several years ago while I was still schooling. After that I learnt to control myself, nobody has seen me at the peak of my anger yet. And I pray that nobody will see me there either.
I'm not used to petty, sneaky, vile tricks, I am just not that kind of person. I do not waste my energy on petty, insignificant stuff. Instead I store it. This is what the killer within me feeds on. It grows strong. I have taught myself to be patient like that.
But then, even my patience has its limits. I have set my patience levels way beyond that of an average person's because I know myself all too well. But that limit too can exceed at times.
I have a sadist in me. And a masochist. I enjoy pain. I enjoy giving and receiving pain. Bitter-sweet and highly addictive, pain is what the killer thrives on.
It seems that I am learning about myself every day. Every discovery or a reminder of what lies dormant amazes me. It scares me sometimes. I have so much yet to learn about myself. I have so many things to remember, so many personalities within me that it's hard to keep track. Why is the human psyche so complex? Why can't we be the one and the same person all our lives? I know that these are questions that shall never be answered.
At least now I can look at this post and remind myself what lies dormant every now and then. At least now when I look at myself in the mirror I could really see and remind myself what lies beneath this skin, the seemingly harmless face that betrays nothing of the sort. I should not forget. I should never, ever forget that I should not take myself easy and that I should remember this fear that I'm feeling for myself right now. I am afraid. I am so very afraid. I'm afraid of doing something that I might regret.
Or worse yet, NEVER regret what I've done.
I'm so very afraid of myself right now, I'm afraid of what I'm capable of in my volcanic anger. The serial killer in me has been nudged awake after so many years of quiet passivity and I remembered why it was that I trained myself rigid and extremely stern self discipline from a very young age. It demands blood and gore the moment it wakes. It demands that its thirst be appeased and it never hesitates to take necessary action to fulfill its horrendous desires. I guess I've always known its potential, the potential of this serial killer within me, even as a child.
I felt it stir today. I felt it yawn and stretch but not fully awaken. And I became afraid.
I'm afraid of what it might do if I lose control. I'm afraid of doing something that I might regret afterwards. Or worse yet, of NOT regretting what I've done.
The last time it was let loose, a person left bleeding, with a couple of broken teeth and badly crushed testicles. And that was several years ago while I was still schooling. After that I learnt to control myself, nobody has seen me at the peak of my anger yet. And I pray that nobody will see me there either.
I'm not used to petty, sneaky, vile tricks, I am just not that kind of person. I do not waste my energy on petty, insignificant stuff. Instead I store it. This is what the killer within me feeds on. It grows strong. I have taught myself to be patient like that.
But then, even my patience has its limits. I have set my patience levels way beyond that of an average person's because I know myself all too well. But that limit too can exceed at times.
I have a sadist in me. And a masochist. I enjoy pain. I enjoy giving and receiving pain. Bitter-sweet and highly addictive, pain is what the killer thrives on.
It seems that I am learning about myself every day. Every discovery or a reminder of what lies dormant amazes me. It scares me sometimes. I have so much yet to learn about myself. I have so many things to remember, so many personalities within me that it's hard to keep track. Why is the human psyche so complex? Why can't we be the one and the same person all our lives? I know that these are questions that shall never be answered.
At least now I can look at this post and remind myself what lies dormant every now and then. At least now when I look at myself in the mirror I could really see and remind myself what lies beneath this skin, the seemingly harmless face that betrays nothing of the sort. I should not forget. I should never, ever forget that I should not take myself easy and that I should remember this fear that I'm feeling for myself right now. I am afraid. I am so very afraid. I'm afraid of doing something that I might regret.
Or worse yet, NEVER regret what I've done.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Wesak 2011
Well, it's Wesak already. Before you know it, we are all running around, searching for lanterns, strings of bulbs, dodging the Wesak-going traffic, the Wesak-crazed crowd, the boob-butt grabbers, the pick-pockets and the thieves. While men in masks parade about in the streets making faces and pouncing on unsuspecting individuals ( all in a true festive sense of course), others just wet themselves in slanderous glee throwing water balloons , aiming water pistols and grabbing boobs, buttocks and everything grab-able of unsuspecting pandol-watchers and the innocent temple-hogging crowd. Well, ain't life a perpetually silly little carnival of our own?
Trust me when I say that we STILL haven't gone to the temple for Wesak. Although both my parents are devout Buddhists ( regardless of the fact that we practically have to bind, gag and lock Father Dearest in the trunk of the car to get him to a temple), nobody had actually brought out the temple-going factor this time. I guess the scandalous amount of traffic on the roads had everything to do with it.
Went out with The Darling yesterday on a mission of our own and kicked ourselves over and over again that we decided to do so on a Wesak day. The pedestrians seemed to own the roads, ate, drank, marveled, stood starring in the middle of the road, crossed streets like cattle and strayed all over the place while others fought over Dansals (the places where they give out free food on Wesak days) like cats, dogs and mongoose-bitten rabid monkeys who are just having a bad day at banana land. Funny how good-will always ends in blood spills, isn't it?
Despite the havoc, the mayhem, the misbehaving noodles and the general banana-going of the public, the streets looked particularly smashing with colors and the flickering, sparkling, winking lights. Funny how we never really quite grow up. We are still somewhat enthralled, enticed and attracted by glistening, flickering, colorful things. Well, who could blame us?
What I do NOT like about Wesak are the Wesak songs (is that what you call them?) that keep playing, over and over again (something like sansara, the lfe cycle that never ends which eventually becomes disguting and what we, as Buddhists, try to rid ourselves of) on the radio, the TV, in the streets and in every nook and corner that you dare to stray in to during this particular period of light and festivity. They sound so.....sad. And whiny. As if someone just died. Well yes, technically somebody DID die, but then, Wesak also celebrates the birth and the attaining of Buddhahood of our Lord Gautama Buddha some 2600 years ago. I'd say that it's plenty reason to celebrate and not indulge in whiny, sad, churlish, moaning, groaning , sulky and fretful sort of songs that makes you want to swallow a loud speaker and die. In that sense I think whoever it was that invented these boorishly melancholic songs have succeeded in making the individuals want to attain nibbana JUST because they couldn't BEAR listening to these odiously painful melodies. Yes, I hear one in the distance now.
Despite the bleak and dismal tunes resonating through the air, the atmosphere is rather festive. Energy flows free and brimming as crowds get together on open trucks and set off on their journey of blinking lights, colorful pandols, gigantic lanterns and free food. What better way to celebrate than a two day road trip, free food and drinks included eh?
It's rather amazing how it still manages to be so very serene amidst all the festive hullabaloo of blaring loudspeakers and loud, screaming lights. Out here in my balcony I see the soft and mellow light blobs of lanterns that we lit in the evening swaying and dancing in the wind. The wind smells like frangipani and blooming kadupul. Guess Mother Dearest's Kadupul plant is finally blossoming.
http://carefreewanderer.wordpress.com/2011/05/18/lanterns/
Letting go of all fears, attachments and desires brings you the ultimate peace. It is not easy to let go, but once you let go, one shall experience the ultimate bliss of complete freedom of mind, body and spirit. That is what the Buddha has preached and it remains true right to this very day. This alone is the very reason to celebrate Wesak in a grandiose manner sans indulgence, sans inhibitions and sans the obsessions that plague the mind.
And I am at peace. At least for the moment, perfectly and beautifully at peace for I shall not worry about things which I cannot control. I am at peace. Yet, I have a long, long way to go :)
Trust me when I say that we STILL haven't gone to the temple for Wesak. Although both my parents are devout Buddhists ( regardless of the fact that we practically have to bind, gag and lock Father Dearest in the trunk of the car to get him to a temple), nobody had actually brought out the temple-going factor this time. I guess the scandalous amount of traffic on the roads had everything to do with it.
Went out with The Darling yesterday on a mission of our own and kicked ourselves over and over again that we decided to do so on a Wesak day. The pedestrians seemed to own the roads, ate, drank, marveled, stood starring in the middle of the road, crossed streets like cattle and strayed all over the place while others fought over Dansals (the places where they give out free food on Wesak days) like cats, dogs and mongoose-bitten rabid monkeys who are just having a bad day at banana land. Funny how good-will always ends in blood spills, isn't it?
Despite the havoc, the mayhem, the misbehaving noodles and the general banana-going of the public, the streets looked particularly smashing with colors and the flickering, sparkling, winking lights. Funny how we never really quite grow up. We are still somewhat enthralled, enticed and attracted by glistening, flickering, colorful things. Well, who could blame us?
What I do NOT like about Wesak are the Wesak songs (is that what you call them?) that keep playing, over and over again (something like sansara, the lfe cycle that never ends which eventually becomes disguting and what we, as Buddhists, try to rid ourselves of) on the radio, the TV, in the streets and in every nook and corner that you dare to stray in to during this particular period of light and festivity. They sound so.....sad. And whiny. As if someone just died. Well yes, technically somebody DID die, but then, Wesak also celebrates the birth and the attaining of Buddhahood of our Lord Gautama Buddha some 2600 years ago. I'd say that it's plenty reason to celebrate and not indulge in whiny, sad, churlish, moaning, groaning , sulky and fretful sort of songs that makes you want to swallow a loud speaker and die. In that sense I think whoever it was that invented these boorishly melancholic songs have succeeded in making the individuals want to attain nibbana JUST because they couldn't BEAR listening to these odiously painful melodies. Yes, I hear one in the distance now.
Despite the bleak and dismal tunes resonating through the air, the atmosphere is rather festive. Energy flows free and brimming as crowds get together on open trucks and set off on their journey of blinking lights, colorful pandols, gigantic lanterns and free food. What better way to celebrate than a two day road trip, free food and drinks included eh?
It's rather amazing how it still manages to be so very serene amidst all the festive hullabaloo of blaring loudspeakers and loud, screaming lights. Out here in my balcony I see the soft and mellow light blobs of lanterns that we lit in the evening swaying and dancing in the wind. The wind smells like frangipani and blooming kadupul. Guess Mother Dearest's Kadupul plant is finally blossoming.
http://carefreewanderer.wordpress.com/2011/05/18/lanterns/
Letting go of all fears, attachments and desires brings you the ultimate peace. It is not easy to let go, but once you let go, one shall experience the ultimate bliss of complete freedom of mind, body and spirit. That is what the Buddha has preached and it remains true right to this very day. This alone is the very reason to celebrate Wesak in a grandiose manner sans indulgence, sans inhibitions and sans the obsessions that plague the mind.
And I am at peace. At least for the moment, perfectly and beautifully at peace for I shall not worry about things which I cannot control. I am at peace. Yet, I have a long, long way to go :)
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Acceptance and the no no lands of la la nothingness
Why is it that mother's are so extremely fond of the word "no"? They start replying a question with the word "no" even if it could be something as harmless as taking a lid off a jar, etc. I noticed a little boy in the super market today who eagerly picked off a bag of cookies from a shelf and ran swiftly to his mother. Then he asked the weirdest question. "Mom we DON'T want this noh?" As expected I saw the mother shake her head. The little boy's head drooped, but he continued bravely towards the cookie isle, kept the bag on the rack, looked at it wistfully and sighed. I felt sorry for the little guy. I mean, it's just a packet of cookies right? Rs 50-60 max. Why couldn't she buy it for him? Besides the boy looked as skinny as a malnourished bean stalk. He should eat more.
It has come to the point that even little kids are convinced of getting rejected that they ask questions in the negative anyway from their mothers. Oh well, at least it doesn't destroy their egos and self-respect at such a tender age.
But some of us more nitty-gritty, headstrong creatures eventually get used to this vicious cycle of no-no's and get used to doing things their way despite the usual avalanche of chiding, reprimanding and chewing off of heads that follows. Mother Dearest being the queen of all "no-no"s, I am one of those frequent avalanche victims who has developed with time the incredible ability to block out all apocalyptic consequences, banshee screams and all. The system includes a built-in pair of super tight ear plugs. If Mother Dearest had her way, I would still be in my fluffy pink culottes munching on a carrot stick, buried away in an ancient book cupboard and sprouting books from arms and legs. Or worse, married and cooking for half a dozen kids! :O
Ah! Stopped mid-post and went to FB only to come across this interesting thread of comments on a pic. Two stoned dudes grin foolishly through half closed eyes in to a cam and one guy's fiancée has commented that she does not like the fact that he loses it like this. Then along comes this infuriated male individual (who is nowhere related to the pic btw) defending HIS "freedom" of getting drunk, incredibly serious and offended (why??) and attacking each and everyone who commented on that particular picture. And along comes this bunch of girls who were curious to know who drove a spiked spear up his ass and asked for a definition of freedom from this seeming-to-know-it-all individual (trust me, the curiosity and bafflement is justified) whom he continues to slander personally. It was rather amusing, in a twisted kind of way of course. I know as a fact that the above mentioned male individual is going through a rough patch in his life being dumped by a long term girlfriend, drinking himself to oblivion and losing his job because of that, etc. While it is ok to grieve, sob and sulk away, write poems, novels and even make movies venting out all that fury and that bowel-frying rage, why attack unsuspecting individuals on social networks or anywhere else for that matter? I have observed that the majority of males AND females who thus oh-so-passionately defend their "freedom" are either single and desperate or suffering in a dysfunctional relationship that emasculates them so that they are driven by a want to control the lives of all others around them. Or they are just dealing with low self esteem issues. Sad really.
Amusing how people will never learn to mind their own business and make complete fools of themselves in the process. Relationships are complicated enough. You don't really need someone else coming in and effing it up for you :D
As long as we are on the topic of alcohol and its "liberating" properties, perhaps it is my girly psychology that prevents me from seeing what this "freedom" is that our unlike-minded opposite sex gains from being stoned to the point of not being able to locate their own urinal organs. And the collective desire of these bizarre beings in wanting to poison the bodies of their so-called-buddies with the ultimate intention of male-bonding (just because they love each other so very much *smooch smooch*) is even more baffling. While it's a great feeling to feel buzzed beyond belief, why poison ourselves in the process? But then, not everybody can get high on fresh air like myself I suppose. Ah, let the poor souls have their fun and poison themselves once in a while. They deserve it.
It's true, I'm quite capable of finding my way to the la-la land with the aid of zero toxic substances at any given time. Don't get me wrong, I'm no alcohol prude because I've had my share of fun in getting piss drunk and surviving through hangovers that sucks gorilla balls. I made the conscious choice to abstain from hard liquor because I love myself too much to stuff toxins in my system and watch it slowly whither away. I love my loved ones too and would hate to see their systems being thus corrupted too because I consider them a part of my own being (maternal instinct?), but if it's their conscious decision to poison themselves, so be it. I cannot change the world. Nor am I willing to limit another human being's idea of "fun". It's just not me.
I guess that's the problem with us Asian ladies, in particular, Sri Lankan ladies. We are instinctively maternal when it comes to our loved ones and would fuss and cluck around them like Mother hens, making sure they ate right, slept right and were properly taken care of when they fell sick. Our conscience screams blue murder at ourselves if we neglect a loved one, making sure that he/she is righteously and properly looked after. No wonder us dark-skinned ladies are in high favor of the foreigner folk.
Enough typing I suppose. Blogger was down yesterday and today when it was finally up again, I couldn't remember what I wanted to write about. Never mind, found plenty to write about anyway. Going through a meditation phase these days and loving how it makes me feel. It's like slowly and gradually you are learning to accept life as it is, coming in to acceptance about things that one cannot change and making conscious decisions if those things affect one's life in a negative way and learning to let go however hard it may be. It's so calming and peaceful and it makes you sit quietly and watch, observe and take mental notes which will help making future decisions easier without getting your feather's ruffled up. I'm at peace. Finally. And strong enough to face whatever consequences throw at my face with my head held high. That is one thing that life has taught me. To be strong. Because when you fall, nobody will be there to catch you except your one of your own hands propped on the floor to keep your own precious head from hitting the floor :)
It has come to the point that even little kids are convinced of getting rejected that they ask questions in the negative anyway from their mothers. Oh well, at least it doesn't destroy their egos and self-respect at such a tender age.
But some of us more nitty-gritty, headstrong creatures eventually get used to this vicious cycle of no-no's and get used to doing things their way despite the usual avalanche of chiding, reprimanding and chewing off of heads that follows. Mother Dearest being the queen of all "no-no"s, I am one of those frequent avalanche victims who has developed with time the incredible ability to block out all apocalyptic consequences, banshee screams and all. The system includes a built-in pair of super tight ear plugs. If Mother Dearest had her way, I would still be in my fluffy pink culottes munching on a carrot stick, buried away in an ancient book cupboard and sprouting books from arms and legs. Or worse, married and cooking for half a dozen kids! :O
Ah! Stopped mid-post and went to FB only to come across this interesting thread of comments on a pic. Two stoned dudes grin foolishly through half closed eyes in to a cam and one guy's fiancée has commented that she does not like the fact that he loses it like this. Then along comes this infuriated male individual (who is nowhere related to the pic btw) defending HIS "freedom" of getting drunk, incredibly serious and offended (why??) and attacking each and everyone who commented on that particular picture. And along comes this bunch of girls who were curious to know who drove a spiked spear up his ass and asked for a definition of freedom from this seeming-to-know-it-all individual (trust me, the curiosity and bafflement is justified) whom he continues to slander personally. It was rather amusing, in a twisted kind of way of course. I know as a fact that the above mentioned male individual is going through a rough patch in his life being dumped by a long term girlfriend, drinking himself to oblivion and losing his job because of that, etc. While it is ok to grieve, sob and sulk away, write poems, novels and even make movies venting out all that fury and that bowel-frying rage, why attack unsuspecting individuals on social networks or anywhere else for that matter? I have observed that the majority of males AND females who thus oh-so-passionately defend their "freedom" are either single and desperate or suffering in a dysfunctional relationship that emasculates them so that they are driven by a want to control the lives of all others around them. Or they are just dealing with low self esteem issues. Sad really.
Amusing how people will never learn to mind their own business and make complete fools of themselves in the process. Relationships are complicated enough. You don't really need someone else coming in and effing it up for you :D
As long as we are on the topic of alcohol and its "liberating" properties, perhaps it is my girly psychology that prevents me from seeing what this "freedom" is that our unlike-minded opposite sex gains from being stoned to the point of not being able to locate their own urinal organs. And the collective desire of these bizarre beings in wanting to poison the bodies of their so-called-buddies with the ultimate intention of male-bonding (just because they love each other so very much *smooch smooch*) is even more baffling. While it's a great feeling to feel buzzed beyond belief, why poison ourselves in the process? But then, not everybody can get high on fresh air like myself I suppose. Ah, let the poor souls have their fun and poison themselves once in a while. They deserve it.
It's true, I'm quite capable of finding my way to the la-la land with the aid of zero toxic substances at any given time. Don't get me wrong, I'm no alcohol prude because I've had my share of fun in getting piss drunk and surviving through hangovers that sucks gorilla balls. I made the conscious choice to abstain from hard liquor because I love myself too much to stuff toxins in my system and watch it slowly whither away. I love my loved ones too and would hate to see their systems being thus corrupted too because I consider them a part of my own being (maternal instinct?), but if it's their conscious decision to poison themselves, so be it. I cannot change the world. Nor am I willing to limit another human being's idea of "fun". It's just not me.
I guess that's the problem with us Asian ladies, in particular, Sri Lankan ladies. We are instinctively maternal when it comes to our loved ones and would fuss and cluck around them like Mother hens, making sure they ate right, slept right and were properly taken care of when they fell sick. Our conscience screams blue murder at ourselves if we neglect a loved one, making sure that he/she is righteously and properly looked after. No wonder us dark-skinned ladies are in high favor of the foreigner folk.
Enough typing I suppose. Blogger was down yesterday and today when it was finally up again, I couldn't remember what I wanted to write about. Never mind, found plenty to write about anyway. Going through a meditation phase these days and loving how it makes me feel. It's like slowly and gradually you are learning to accept life as it is, coming in to acceptance about things that one cannot change and making conscious decisions if those things affect one's life in a negative way and learning to let go however hard it may be. It's so calming and peaceful and it makes you sit quietly and watch, observe and take mental notes which will help making future decisions easier without getting your feather's ruffled up. I'm at peace. Finally. And strong enough to face whatever consequences throw at my face with my head held high. That is one thing that life has taught me. To be strong. Because when you fall, nobody will be there to catch you except your one of your own hands propped on the floor to keep your own precious head from hitting the floor :)
Monday, May 9, 2011
Hands up for those who don't wanna grow up!
Lady Grouchalot is feeling a bit loony. Well, not that it's anything new anyway.
Came across Peter Pan today and couldn't help but think how very psychological, symbolic and adult this "supposed-to-be" fairy tale is. The story of the boy who absolutely refuses to grow up. Sounds familiar ladies?
Commonly known as the "Peter Pan syndrome"almost all of the male species suffer from this to a certain degree in my honest opinion. Running away from responsibilities, not being tolerant of criticism however constructive they may be, general disorder of living, afraid to confront their own feelings or emotions regarding something.....Well, being a child is fun and we all got to give in to that inner child in us sometimes, but being a child all your life is sort of really, intolerably lame. It's just sad. You are missing out on all the fun in the adult world in chase of an illusion. Bit like that old, shriveled-up lady with her snow-white hair and large owl spectacles, stuck in a wheel chair still seated at her door waiting for her Prince Charming. Who never comes of course.
Same goes for how these man-children analyze love. They have fun, they are happy, but Peter Pan is not willing to confront his real feelings towards Wendy. He asks "Why do you have to spoil everything? We have fun, don't we? I taught you to fly and to fight. What more could there be?" And Wendy (being a girl which makes her SO much more wiser of course) is hurt because she knows what is at stake here. THEN Captain Hook kidnaps her. She is tempted by the notion of being a pirate and of course, is easily attracted by the Hook (who is, in my opinion, wayyyy attractive in his grown up and mature state than Peter will ever be). Mistreated and rejected by her lover and caught at her most vulnerable moment, she is tempted. Explains the seduction and the desire to sin, doesn't it?
Well, it did take a Captain Hook for Peter Pan to realize his true feelings for Wendy of course. Almost like when a child realizes the toy they had thrown away is being used by another and then he wants it back. It's clear in the story that everybody is in need of a "Wendy". But Peter Pan gives up HIS Wendy for a lifetime of being a child. Sad or what!
And then the notion of thinking happy thoughts and being able to fly. Peter Pan is able to fly because he doesn't have unhappy thoughts. It's true. When you are happy, you are capable to doing anything in this entire world. You do feel like you're flying at times. But the moment unhappiness hits Peter Pan, he becomes utterly helpless. Suicidal feelings, depression anyone?
It's a fascinating story that runs quite deep and could easily be a thesis topic for some lucky beast. It would be a well-rewarding, satisfying and an interesting study indeed.
While a man-child is a fascinating thing to cuddle around and spoil, living with one can be exasperating business. Mature men have always been a favorite of many, due to the fact that they come in considerate, thoughtful, responsible and therefore, low-stress packages. You don't have to poke them around and tell them what needs to be done. They think for themselves and know what needs to be done. Men complain when women become nagging, but have they ever considered that they become so because the man does not bother to think for himself and just do whatever that needs to be done? So the next time YOU call somebody nagging, sit back and think to yourself if YOU have done the needful first. Nobody likes to nag. It just too much work.
Anyways, the Grouch wants some tea now. It's amazing how relaxing a hot beverage can be, even in this sort of heat. Also the lady wants to dance and have a pretty good feeling that the rest of the night shall pass away with some serious booty shaking and bone-crushing hip grinding. It just feels good. Dancing I mean.
And I do realize that all this Peter Pan nonsense has been really boring and insignificant and I'm sorry for boring y'all with my analytical thoughts on this(which were quite fascinating and I just HAD to share). However, I should like my own personal Peter Pan to come to me at night and teach me how to fly. Take me through the cosmos, lie among the clouds and off we go to Never Never land. It would be an adventure indeed. Cannot help but wonder if there is a sexual theme underlying the story. But then I would have to have somewhat of a dirty mind to find sexual connotations in a children's story. Forgive me if I'm wrong.
Ok, enough of Peter Pan for today. Good night everyone!
Came across Peter Pan today and couldn't help but think how very psychological, symbolic and adult this "supposed-to-be" fairy tale is. The story of the boy who absolutely refuses to grow up. Sounds familiar ladies?
Commonly known as the "Peter Pan syndrome"almost all of the male species suffer from this to a certain degree in my honest opinion. Running away from responsibilities, not being tolerant of criticism however constructive they may be, general disorder of living, afraid to confront their own feelings or emotions regarding something.....Well, being a child is fun and we all got to give in to that inner child in us sometimes, but being a child all your life is sort of really, intolerably lame. It's just sad. You are missing out on all the fun in the adult world in chase of an illusion. Bit like that old, shriveled-up lady with her snow-white hair and large owl spectacles, stuck in a wheel chair still seated at her door waiting for her Prince Charming. Who never comes of course.
Same goes for how these man-children analyze love. They have fun, they are happy, but Peter Pan is not willing to confront his real feelings towards Wendy. He asks "Why do you have to spoil everything? We have fun, don't we? I taught you to fly and to fight. What more could there be?" And Wendy (being a girl which makes her SO much more wiser of course) is hurt because she knows what is at stake here. THEN Captain Hook kidnaps her. She is tempted by the notion of being a pirate and of course, is easily attracted by the Hook (who is, in my opinion, wayyyy attractive in his grown up and mature state than Peter will ever be). Mistreated and rejected by her lover and caught at her most vulnerable moment, she is tempted. Explains the seduction and the desire to sin, doesn't it?
Well, it did take a Captain Hook for Peter Pan to realize his true feelings for Wendy of course. Almost like when a child realizes the toy they had thrown away is being used by another and then he wants it back. It's clear in the story that everybody is in need of a "Wendy". But Peter Pan gives up HIS Wendy for a lifetime of being a child. Sad or what!
And then the notion of thinking happy thoughts and being able to fly. Peter Pan is able to fly because he doesn't have unhappy thoughts. It's true. When you are happy, you are capable to doing anything in this entire world. You do feel like you're flying at times. But the moment unhappiness hits Peter Pan, he becomes utterly helpless. Suicidal feelings, depression anyone?
It's a fascinating story that runs quite deep and could easily be a thesis topic for some lucky beast. It would be a well-rewarding, satisfying and an interesting study indeed.
While a man-child is a fascinating thing to cuddle around and spoil, living with one can be exasperating business. Mature men have always been a favorite of many, due to the fact that they come in considerate, thoughtful, responsible and therefore, low-stress packages. You don't have to poke them around and tell them what needs to be done. They think for themselves and know what needs to be done. Men complain when women become nagging, but have they ever considered that they become so because the man does not bother to think for himself and just do whatever that needs to be done? So the next time YOU call somebody nagging, sit back and think to yourself if YOU have done the needful first. Nobody likes to nag. It just too much work.
Anyways, the Grouch wants some tea now. It's amazing how relaxing a hot beverage can be, even in this sort of heat. Also the lady wants to dance and have a pretty good feeling that the rest of the night shall pass away with some serious booty shaking and bone-crushing hip grinding. It just feels good. Dancing I mean.
And I do realize that all this Peter Pan nonsense has been really boring and insignificant and I'm sorry for boring y'all with my analytical thoughts on this(which were quite fascinating and I just HAD to share). However, I should like my own personal Peter Pan to come to me at night and teach me how to fly. Take me through the cosmos, lie among the clouds and off we go to Never Never land. It would be an adventure indeed. Cannot help but wonder if there is a sexual theme underlying the story. But then I would have to have somewhat of a dirty mind to find sexual connotations in a children's story. Forgive me if I'm wrong.
Ok, enough of Peter Pan for today. Good night everyone!
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
.............got me like OH MY GOD! :O
So I got the chance to listen to Usher's OMG closely while I was bored and stuck in traffic today. It went something like this.
"Never ever has a lady hit me on the first sight
this was something special ; this was just like dynamite"
And I went awwwwwwwww...................and felt somewhat warmish on the inside thinking to myself that this whole club music thing aint so bad after all. That's when I heard the next two lines :
"Honey got a booty like pow, pow, pow
Honey got some boobies like wow, oh wow"
And I went OH MY GOD! :O
I slammed on the breaks so hard that I felt my guts coming out of my mouth. Whether it was the brakes or the song I will never know.
This got me thinking. Call me old fashioned, but whatever happened to the good ol days when people wrote songs about everlasting, unconditional love, falling in love with somebody's eyes, the heart, the soul (basically anything other than their surgically enhanced bootays and boobays) wrote about wanting to love them forever or die trying. What happened to the good ol days when people wrote about love betrayal and how lost love made them want to die or kill the biatch in the most painful way possible and hang her guts outside her house for crows to peck at? (Please excuse the graphic content, I grew up on heavy metal and watch too much horror movies for my own good.)
Anyways, my point being, the world has horribly changed while I was away typing assignment after assignment it seems. The definition of the word "love" has changed too and it does seem like unconditional love is just a nip, tuck and a whole load of silicone away. This is the age where men fall in love with butts and boobs and swear lifelong commitment to these fleshy, bulbous assets. But who am I to complain? I'm too old fashioned and too much of a softy to live in the 21st century! Sigh............
Maybe its just that people have become more honest of late? Men have always been visual creatures and even ancient Sinhala artists drew intimidatingly colossal-breasted women on cave walls and poets did write about fist sized waist lines, swan-like boobs (??) and cart wheel sized rear ends, but I always imagined that it took much more, like the qualities, the personality, the soul, the understanding, etc (I'm trying to ignore the celestial harps in the background) than the physical aspect of it for somebody to fall in love. Or rather, the hopeless romantic in me wanted to believe so. I mean, physical attraction IS important, but it's not like you can build a whole relationship on it. Well, disillusionment hurts.....( bangs head against a wall for stupidity)
Maybe it's time for us women folk (who seem wayyyy behind our times) to write about sausage like biceps, surfboard abs, oxen-like shoulders, camel-like legs, pumpkin-like butts and fascinating crotch areas (testicles being a no-free-view zone) and falling in love. But then I have always wondered how anyone can be mesmerized by someone else's stinky old butt cheeks or frighteningly humongous mounds of flesh upon what are supposed to be their arms. Oh well.....Different people, different tastes........
I'm too green to be writing about these things. Too naive and too much of a romantic with my head in the clouds. I should probably stop. Stop and go on to discuss about the post-colonial aspects of Duras's and Jean Rhy's writings......Which is what I really SHOULD be doing right now. Sigh.........
As to news back at home, me being stung by a wasp (don't ask) has a humongous bicep of my own on my forearm ( funny place to have a bicep but something is better than nothing I guess ) which itches constantly and hurts like the place has been trampled by an elephant being chased by a swarm of vicious wasps. It's been two days and the swelling hasn't gone down yet. Our neighbor has finally cut down the jungle that he called his garden and now you can actually see that there is a house in there. I have always imagined it to be a cave and had vivid visions of cavemen and women in wadha outfits (complete with clubs, untidy dreadlocks, yellow pointed teeth, unwashed faces and all) emerging out of the cave and doing the ritualistic dances around bonfires, hooting and waving their clubs in the air, to the beat of a sacrificial drum. But then he always plays Tamil and Hindi songs ( not so quietly too) older than time itself. Maybe he does his ritualistic dance around his sound system. But then I've always imagined him owning a dusty, cob webby gramophone. There is talk that he is going to move. No more ear-carving Tamil /Hindi song bonanzas during exam seasons I suppose after he moves. Yeeeeey!! (does the cool dance)
That being said, I really must be writing an assignment right now. I'm heaped with work and I'm badly feeling the necessity in making a time table ( yeah right! ) and organizing my work ( As if I'l ever stick to that! Pfft! ) Had our writers' meeting today and was forced upon ( they called it awarded ) a box full of accounts, receipts and what-not for balancing and keeping track of. Well, being a writer is hard work. Especially when it comes to balancing account books............or rather account BOXES........... :S
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