To air-castle

Blyton meets Warhol.
Extra strong coffee, white cups,
Gleaming steel spoons,
Sepia. And air-castles.
For silent smiles and delectable introversion,
Lamp-lights and ink pens.

Oscar Wilde in Louis Armstrong,
Borubon touches purple....
...And swirls.

For post millenium kids with 1980s childhoods,
Infant eyelids half open to soft whisper,
And crisp white cotton,
Comfortably crumbling around supple brown
And morphing into muslin.
Black definition, around curious and sparkle,
Dilated to tales of pirates
And little men under mushrooms,
Of golden yellows and pickled reds,
And joyful splash and clutter.

And beside is nut-brown,
Corrupt and dimpling,
Impatiently patient
For tussle will follow this calm
Excusing lack of purpose.

And now,
Nut-browned brown,
Not swirl. But crush,
And tauten.
Again sparkle,
To shadows and lamp-light,
To laugh. Then quietly
Tuck away into soft.
Brown. Dimple.

Of cluttered vacuum and Warhol

Jyenagar Jalajamba is back.. without a bang, but then who cares... grand entries are over rated.

Today she bought bags. Just out of the blue. And its kitsch.. kitschhhhh... kitt-shhhhh... kishhhhh... such a pretty word. A failed attempt at edgy curtness. Like you're sliding out of control. I wonder how the word came about. I'm sure it happened in a new york penthouse... in a late night house party.. with anorexic pretentious women.. russian ones.. with harsh flat pronunciation... in a minimalist setting with synthetic electricity and long cigarillos stuck onto silver pipes.. only they weren't breakfastattiffany's. they were ceramic vaccuum.

Anyway, one must not stray so much from the topic at hand... no... wait... i have more to say.... just remembered that I never took to the word 'bling'. I'm sure it was invented so it can be the new 'with it' word. Convenient tickets to acceptance. But something about the word is so bland. So 'tchain'... like a bunch of useless keys falling onto a plate. But then I digress.

So yea, Jyenagar Jalajamba spent a bomb on poor quality over sized embarassingly loud kitsch. How comforting a feeling. Almost like you're wild enough to be cool. Mind you, where I come from... big fat over priced kitsch bags ARE wild.. especially if the most unpredictability in a tambram's life is the consistency of their daily cups of curd. And even THAT we know how to tame.

Right so the bags are basically big and have huge prints on them. But I love them. My bags are rexine meets Andy Warhol in asymmetric poor stitching. And the fabric is not tweed coarse... its rexine coarse... not natural coarse.

And it can hold my entire world in it. All the comfort goods that a woman needs. Her own portable weaponry - face wash, tissue, comb, deo, chap stick, kajal, another comb with thinner teeth, another wad of tissue, old bills, dirty wallet, pens, pencils, pretentious reading, random keys, lacto calamine, everything. It hangs right under her shoulder and hangs pretty... and loud.

To measure one's days by the coffee cups. Such prettiness. Such vacuum.