Reflecting... while removed.

He was the best of the best, calm, cool, intelligent, witty. Sorted. That’s the word. Could see clearly through any storm. And was there during one of the toughest times in my life. Frightfully rational, and hence tough to relate to. Unabashed self centeredness is something I always found fascinating… but never quite got down to it myself. And he was one of those. Fascinating yet frightening.

I don’t know anymore. I don’t know how to deal with it. And yet, I’m not crying. Not yet atleast. And I don’t understand that either. Maybe that’s what it’s all been reduced to now. Maybe it’s the way most things will impact us.

Technology aided relationships probably leave their stain on its very fabric. People get reduced to a set of stimuli… its not whole anymore. We ‘hang’ with one bunch… but talk to a different set. Phone conversations are probably for general off loading, or a reach out for that elusive midnight shoulder cry. Chat windows for more introspective stuff. Facebook reduces to photos and links and blogs become our silent witnesses. Someone in a movie once said, ‘we get married cos throughout our various and fractured lives… we need that someone who will turn to you and say… I am here. I am your witness. I witness your life through mine and you do the same for me.’ Or something like that. Blogs are our witnesses of choice… filtered projections of the prettiness that we desperately want others to acknowledge; or our scrap books to turn to when thoughtful. Our partners witness the slightly more fleshy realities. And time suspended conversations with strangers probably witness us at our careless best, or worst. I don’t know.

But… it seems like a bit of a loss to me… that I associate such finite particulars to most of my friendships… that it is probably understandable that I don’t know how to react.

Then again, to me this reeks of euphemism for a greater loss - our individual societies as we have defined them.

Or maybe this is just me. Hopefully.

Making up for inarticulation...

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

250 sq. ft.

I vow to never ever live in a hole ever again. Once I move out of this place that is. Not that its bad. I pay through my nose for it. And frequent trips home only accentuate the smallness of my place. And the bitch is... that it doesn't let you forget how small it is.

Firstly, one can work, cook and use the loo.. in one straight and not so long line. Secondly, its like living inside the kitchen of every damn neighbour of mine. I can smell each and every thing they make... ALL the time. In fact, I suspect the wife of Mr. Enfield Rebello (or so I think he ought to be called) is Tamilian. Whenever she cooks, I get hungry. Thirdly, Enfield himself is a pain in the ass. Waking up to Akon every morning, coming home to Akon every evening... and sometimes Akon WITH the smell of curry leaves and 'kootu' is incredibly distressing. Appa and amma used to make fun of Hip Hop and Rap, and I laughed but never got why. Until yesterday. That guy literally sounds like is he standing outside my 3rd block house asking for alms!!

And lastly, new relationships can be strenuous. My neighbour brought in 4 goats for Id. Not 1 or 2... 4. And they all look the same. Actually... maybe it was just one. Anyway.... all of em tied outside their house... at different places at different points of time. And whenever I walk by, the goat(s) talk to me. Not kidding. They talk to me! They munch on their dust ridden food... and they talk to me. They follow me with their eyes whenever I walk past them. And there is something about the time lag between my movement and their eyes.... this weird staccato-ey following which just creeps me out. Not to mention their impending fate, their ignorance on the matter and well, my knowledge of the same.

Of course, my discomfort didn't last long. :(

Boring does as boring is

Log in to gmail. Log in to Net banking. Log in to each of the 3 accounts. Change password. Why? Cos its 'time'. Log in to Facebook. No one ever messages or scraps me. Neither do I have interesting status messages that invite comments. Pretend to have something to do there. Log out. Come to office. Log in to gmail. Chat offline. Decide to email songs for some reason. Patiently email an entire album. One after the other. Song after song. Its 1130 by now. Shit! Need to work. But.... after finishing sending the songs.

Log in to facebook. Log into netbanking... to check if the new password works. Open google documents.... just to check. Then close. Check out random people on facebook. Nothing interesting. Leave it open. Click on every bookmark saved. Nothing new. Log in to blog. Check for new posts. Nothing new. Read some of the old ones. Sign out. Sign in again. LEAVE IT OPEN. Why? Just. Just in case.

Just in case what? Nothing.. just, just in case.

Hmm..... maybe I should try twitter now....

Bang on...

The thing is...

See. Like he says,

The thing is…

The thing is. The thing is that,

It’s all done now. Almost.

To use a popular phrase,

It is but, a matter of when

And not if.

So, the rest doesn’t matter.

You went out,

Laughed a little, dimpled,

Even burned a few ends,

But, smile…

It’s all done now.

The social rituals,

They came in handy

When it was something you

Felt you lacked.

But then again, they

Were just that.

Aberrations on the particles

You actually contained.

Heady sways and, a penchant

For the unstable apart,

The familiar measuredness

Of everyday hard work,

Can now be smelt again,

On your fingertips,

And on the ones you hold.

I know you haven’t

Forgotten the claustrophobia.

Sandwiched between,

The then unknown,

Deluded giggles of others,

And your own stillness.

I know, even now,

A certain turn of phrase,

Air-lifts you backwards,

To a certain mood, you

Learned to hate, and

Wanted to fire, with

A palm-held flame,

But didn’t… and didn’t

Let go of the singed ends

For a while after.

I know, that somewhere

Despite your self-critical

Mistrust for words, you

Learnt that to live, is

To operate within

The confines of our

Shared vocabulary.

And that it was alright

To make the most of it,

And accept with a smile

Some of the salutations that

Came on their own.

Self created image, always

Tangented off that of

The Others. And sometimes,

Did too good a job of it.

But… the thing is…

The thing is, Suchitra,

It’s done. And now

There will be more reflected image,

Than ripple. More crisp

Fragrant brown, peppered

With the stubble of everydayness

Than smoke filled substitutes

For independence.

So the thing is, Suchitra,

The pages in the unwritten

Pocket diary are almost over.

Its now time, to arm yourself

With brown paper scrapbooks,

And to ensure that

None of the scraps henceforth

Will be missed.

While listening to 'Fuck You' by Lilly Allen..

Sometime, in the last week or so, shuffling between bumbling buffoondom and self-righteous indignation, I decided to go bald. And ended up getting as close to bald as possible without putting an end to my personal life.

Its probably a little too late, short haired rebellion at 26 IS..well.. ever so slightly, sad. But I couldn't help it. Besides, I told myself, I save a lot on conditioner... this, of course, after having spent a cool 2k on expensive herbal conditioner produced in the UK with Indian products like henna and shit. Anyway, it isn't like it has a shelf life... and so we move on. Apparently I almost made the day of the owner of Perfect Men's Hair Saloon... almost, cos I couldn't afford the head massage he so eagerly offered to give me. But that was only because he charged me 80 rupees while I'm sure he charges everyone else 40. Anyway, I walked out feeling atleast a couple if kilos lighter. Not to mention, for some inane reason, slimmer and taller.

Bombay doesn't ever let go. Always springs back onto you... like shadows on clockwork. And its within a couple of weeks sandwiched inside expensive weekends... that you might find the space to breathe.

I've started running recently. Its all forgiving.. except on your shins. The best part about it is no matter what the emotion welling up inside, it will wear your body down... till your mind is worn down... to singular thought.. breathe, gasp, stop, wince, breathe... continue. I love it. Doesn't cost a dime.

So, almost bald, almost light, almost thin and almost solvent it is. For a while to come.

Seriously...

Do your boring lives a favour... read THIS:

http://writebadlywell.blogspot.com/2009/10/use-as-many-adjectives-as-you-can.html

Up-ped. Or not.

Its been a while since I watched UP. But for some odd reason, I'm unable to get my mind off the movie. Not sure if its what the movie made me feel or the starkly contrasting views of others... but for some reason, the movie made me feel inadequate.

Up, I followed until a little over the middle of the story. I loved the imagination, the characters and everything about the movie. Starting off as a simple sweet story of 2 kids and their wild adventures, the story suddenly forces you to grow up somewhere in the middle. The house uprooting itself and taking off was one of the best moments in the movie, as expected of course. And the idea of taking all of his memories along with him to fulfil the ONE promise that was the basis of the life he created with his wife was fabulous. But the moment I realised it was also about fear of change and consequently exposing the hypocrisy of his supposed hunger for adventure… it just scared me. I think I slunk in under, somewhere between the shadow cast by the low flying house and the ground. The bright stark colours of the balloons, the talking dog and the fat Asian lonely kid… everything just seemed to curdle something inside me. And the metaphor became as weighty inside me as the animation suggested on screen. I actually took off the 3D glasses for a moment…. cos I couldn’t stomach it, but it just reminded me of life without glasses.

I’ve discussed this movie with others. I’ve heard them say that its about the struggle of change and accepting and learning to let go… and its about finding friendship in adversity, and human nature and re-growing roots, about re-discovering friendship and learning the true spirit of adventure. I get all of it. And maybe you are right. But for some reason, I got stuck at the weighty metaphor. and I cant get it out of my head. I don’t know if its because I see a part of myself in it. Or because it sounds frightfully similar to a loved one… but whatever the reason is, it depressed me.

All I know is that now, animation as a genre is something I will think before watching again. There is something unpalatable about animation now… possibly because I assumed it would be about simple happy light stories.. a lil bit of humour and excellent creativity. Getting enmeshed into the plot of the story was something I didn’t bargain for… and UP had me leave a part of me in it and come back. Cos I didn’t really see the ending… I just watched blindly.

I called the movie dark after watching it.. but that’s not it. It isn’t dark like Japanese animation dark… its… just… a little too grown up for me. It’s a sort of mature I don’t want to see. Somewhere between the old man’s angered vulnerability… and the obese innocence of the child… I found myself in a very uncomfortable place… like stuck between 2 people in an auto ride and constantly figuring out whether you want to sit back or in front… or like when you get elbowed throughout dinner.

Anyway… I’m done talking. Have you watched UP? What did you think of the movie?

Uh..

How does one prove,
That one is never really ready,
To change the only way they knew,
And did,
While reason pointed the other way,
Because one was fighting something else,
That is deceptively protective,
And in truth,
Defensively walled in.

Holding on to literal metaphors,
Was the only way,
To hold on to 'truant' thoughts,
Because who ever really knows,
When it began
And where she will end,
And it wasn't until
Unknowingly
She flicked out the lens,
To accomodate a new one,
And saw herself clarify,
Crystallise,
And feel
Contradictorily,
At home
Yet free.

This new layer
Is intriguing.
It asks for the entire
Paradigm to change
And yet is so poignantly
Easy, that one
Wants to slide in
In jerks and stops,
Just to ensure
That the slide is better
Remembered and better
Enjoyed for posterity.

Didn't know, that
"Take what is mine without
Asking",
Is unfamilarly
Familiarising,
Rather than
Uncomfortably invading.

Peeling off
Takes some asking,
But it happens
And lets your vision
Breathe.

Perhaps the only way to explain something as irrational as throwing your contact lenses out to accomodate another's is to elevate it to something more poetic. Pfft!

:(

Murphy struck. And I didn't quite achieve the state of nothingness I wanted. And I feel a little like Agnes right now...

Its been more than half a year, and until now, I have not waited for the weekend in the manner that I am waiting now. It isnt excitement or anticipation. Its every bone creaking desperately for 3 days of complete inactivity. I want nothing. No effort, no exertion mental or physical. To just soak into my 4 square foot bathroom floor, imagine it flooded in warm soapy water encircling my curves, so I can tell myself its soothing me. This probably wont happen. And so its more likely that I will be happily flushing down soap scuds from the expensive body shop strawberry scrub and feel good about myself.

This weekend I want to slowly flush out the sickly lethargy that courses through my veins. And see if I can sleep it away, taking breaks to dig into something soulful. Despite not having rough workdays. I have had time. But I need more. I need inactive time. Well timed inactivity. Just, nothing. No conversation, no catching up, no chershed moments, no new memories, no old ones.

Just. Nothing.

Don't know the script and I am ashamed about it.... but appa yesterday said something delightfully nasty :D So kindly excuse the poor spelling.

"Valakkumaarukku pattu kunjalam,a??"

man! :D :D

There are few things that come close to playing mindless internet games while a kitten is snuggled on ur belly... especially after a heavy lunch.

But, the evening beckons :) and promises to be as exciting as the last one.

090709

Thinking jobs suck ass.
Those who are currently thinking of what to do in the coming weekend, or what not to do, are privileged.
Those who are making up non existent depressions are even more privileged.
Unbridled non-thought is easiest when the reins are tugging.
But. One. Must. Desist.
Garlic butter with cheese cannot be put together easily.
Especially worse when someone charges you 150 and forces carbonated pot cleaners down your throat for minimum take away bill.
I. Shall. Stop. Now.

Grunt..

Its been 10 days now of non stop ridiculous slogging of ass and not doing things that bring people happiness like sleep and eat. But the bad times are scheduled to end. Sometime in the coming lifetime. And so one must look up and tell oneself stuff like this too shall pass.

And so with determined jaw and other body parts clenched tight... I set off to visit the capital. Having resolved to not delight my boss with a hatrick of innovative ways to miss flights.. i got there before time woke up for the day. And I was all geared up. Had everything in place. All my comfort material belongings. Or so I thought. Anyway. Boarding of flight happened and I proceeded to shamelessly chomp on my 'veg burger', giving the Jet Airways guys non-looks... utter indifference and lack of sensitivity to the other million office goers who were dying to dig into the cold breakfast that makes you instantly European and American at the same time - bread with cheese, a non-croissant and plastic cutlery for weapons. After the soul enriching gobbling of the worst things one can eat early in the morning, I felt sufficently deviant and hence, developed a slight teenage nonchalance. That was soon broken, when I realised that excel sheets were awaiting my sensual touch.

After reaching the age of 67, I landed in Delhi. It was a short and rather comfortable trip. Except for constant reminders of Mumbai fragrances 35000 feet high in the sky. Anyway, the real nasty and disgustingly bitchy part comes now.

Landed 2 hours too late, had my boss and other seniors WAITING for me to turn up. Entered the cab and began my ever so long journey to the head office. Work was rather interesting and fun because all I had to do was look like a zombie and people left me alone, except while they were pampering me with yummy homemade 17 varieties of The Roti, 2 varieties of The Bhindi, 4 varieties of The Aloo (inside, on the side, floating in oil, and just generally fried and lying around). And this goes FABULOUSLY with any vegetarian. Cos it largely is our entire menu laid out for us (minus the tamarind of course.. but then again, not everyone is perfect).

The ugly part of the evening happened from 4 until.. well, now. After multiple discussions on whether I needed the "Waingon R" now or later... I decided to go for it NOW. Obviously. I was rather dead and finding myself a comfortable little hole to die in was a good idea. So the NOW happened at around 530 pm along with 2 ladies who needed to be dropped. Fine. No problem. He said its a 15 minute deviation. And so I braced myself.. refused to breathe the dusty heat wave I was being inundated with.. and generally stay put.

There is no city or part of city I have disliked the moment I saw it. It isn't in me to dislike a place on such superficial terms. :D Or so I thought. Huge roads choc-a-bloc with traffic... and man! white Indicas and Ikons all around. White. Ugly. Indica. And. Ikon. Huge walls around. The metro is being built. Direct line to the airport. Wow. Wonderful planning. In fact everything is wonderfully planned. Lovely perfectly laid roads. Dust. No trees. Just mirages of them. And buildings. Tall and beige-d with accents of glass coated with purple metallic sun reflectors. Buildings like the drawings we made in class 3. Multiple rectangles with dark hollows. And hundreds of people living within. Looking out of those dark hollows. They can see us, but we cant see them. Each house reconstructed. One balcony closed up to extend the house. Another covered with potted plants. Another half closed, half open. One with clothes hanging. Another one with expesive hammock. A girl with red and white bangles all the way up to her elbows. Round, fair, hair middle parted.. red salwar kameez and blank stare. More buildings. And more Indicas. Then, houses. Swelling out into the very end of their 60 by 40 pieces of soil. Huge walls all around. Can't see nothing but concrete boundary walls. A peek into the massive thin iron gates with black floral designs. Cars. 3 of them parked one behind the other. Some houses didn't have cars parked. The people inside must be working. Huge beige brown doors. Chemically treated false balsa wood with Victorian carvings. And a brass dip knocker to boot. Every SINGLE house. No trees or even random weeds. But the door is there. Proud and shutting the world out, by mooning them at the same time. Look... and get disgusted. And rows and rows of them. Tall, well built, north Indian women in synthetic salwar kameez and henna-ed hair. And more cars. Dusty, scratched and pan stained. Fine whitish dust. All over. Rows of houses made of white marble tiles. Stuck together al around the edifice. Or a beige version of the same (to not let pollution take its toll).

An entire mega city of people displaying personalised mini taj mahals. Contemporarised too. Modern long lasting non wood. Smooth surfaces reflecting polished perfection via laminate. Laminated wood... with rings for design. Hey... it 'looks' like it came from a tree. And i reconstructed it... the right thickness for easy use. Fevicol-ing oakness on to our skin. The budget aristocrat. See. Me. Bigger. Whiter. Shinier. Deluded obsession with white outside. and only white. Huge white putty coated walls. And barbed wire on top. Guard the jewel. While showing it to everyone. White marble. White marble. White marble.

I'm sorry. I just couldn't take it. I know this isn't important to stuff like Life, The Universe and Everything, but I couldn't unstuck it from my mind.

I should focus on bigger things in life. Hmm...

More er...

I am ex-zeeba neighbaa..

Er...

Some parts of your childhood become visible only after they are over. And thank god for that It would be a terrible loss if you are always conscious of whats happening to you when it is happening to you.

And so I’m happy to say that I discovered I had always loved MJ… only when he was gone. When I spent the entire night working to videos of his greatest hits. And I realised I had not only caught most of em, I remembered every bit of the ones I had seen. The thing with MJ is that he was there before liberalisation brought us our daily diet of music. The idea of it was such a paradigm shift from what television was for us back then, it was almost a new philosophy to digest. And needless to say, it resulted in an immense feeling of satiation. Coming home from school… after the longest auto ride to the end of the city, punctuated with generous bumps on our backsides, my sis and I would get home, kick off our shoes (not too carelessly) and take our uncomfortable belts off. And suddenly the pinafore transformed into the most comfortable version of western clothing. And we’d sit waiting for my tired mum to freshen up and give us something fresh and hot to gorge on. And until then, we would gorge on MTV. The voluptuous Shefali would give us our daily dose of boy bands… telling us at the same time that it was not good music and it was for the under evolved. I would mentally brush off the hurtful remarks, cos who teh hell can come and tell me that the only outlet to a language I understood better than my mother tongue coming out from accented blonde pretty boys was bad and take it away from me??

And my sis and I would sit there crooning to them with our version of their lyrics, and ma would pop in and out telling us at which point of time they went off tune and which ones can sing and which ones cant. The idea of doctored songs and lyrics would hurt her. This isn’t music, she would say. How can you shamelessly sing when your voice has a smaller range than my husband’s snores!! (OK she didn’t say that, but I think I’m right.) Anyway, MTV became our daily unwind zone and suddenly without warning, the screen would burst open with a well facial-ed tiny nosed man who would sizzle across the scene and sing about things like colour and freedom and the environment. Man!! What all people think of?? And how do the faces keep changing like that? And what all he does!!! The man is a rubber band!!

And we’d watch spell bound.. a smile slowly growing on our faces.. ending with a glazed look once the song ended. Suddenly he would have a Kathak dancer that he would match steps with in Western style. Or there was an Egyptian queen with a familiar looking actor.. who was a bad guy!! Why did he agree to act like a loser?? And women wearing weird tribal clothes and dancing around like their bodies were no limitation to their minds.

Man, MJ was the first idea of a superstar that actually lived while we were there. Not like the selfish beatles who broke up before I came along. Who teased me with their voices.. and only later told me that a certain Mark Chapman had put an end to the voice I so loved. But the incessant playing of the tape on loop didn’t stop. My cousin had given us a 4 cassette album of the Beatles with radio interviews in teh middle. I knew every word uttered by every person, I matched faces to voices by listening over and over again. I picked favourites and dropped em… slowly graduating to the more introspective songs within the greatest htis album. I saw them progress from teenage heartthrobs to slightly more adult thinking men.. in that ONE album. I woke up every damn morning and played my favourite songs… jumping up adn down in bed EVERY morning… till I shook off the morning sleep and my body made peace with the unkind cold that was Bangalore. And the Beatles warmed my heart with every note in I wanna hold your hand. She love you I heard from a tape I filched from my friend. I was a lucky girl. I had 2 tape recorders.. and so i played it on one and recorded it on another.. buying an expensive 40 rupee tape and made the entire house shut up and breathe only in the loo. And i recorded and re-recorded lest I felt the sound seemed distant. I cursed the air that floated between the tape recorders… makingn them literally smooch each other during the transfer of the soul food.

And I wished every night that I would sleep and wake up in the 60s. A love that takes you without warning, never leaves you. And so the beatles never will. I never grew up to listen to Sgt. Pepper. I stuck to the dreamy happy Ringo Starr deep voice. I stuck to the giggly Mc Cartney, the slightly more reclusive Harrison and the intelligent cocky sounding Lennon. I LOVED each and every one of them. And I watched a movie on their escapades. And that night I cried. The men had become real. They had done all the things I thought I did with them in my dreams. They broke girls hearts… and more than one each. They told me that love and lust are two different things… and you might feel both at some point of time. They told me that you might hate what you love if it gets too much. That music actually changes over time. The tune you sing tells everyone who you are. And how you have changed. That music isnt only about nostalgia or pain or love emanating from the Archies greeting cards. Music can be intelligent. And they made me happy. They left me choked every night and made me feel an unusual longing for something I never understood.

But they were gone. Before I came. They will never know I existed. But then again, millions of people loved them. They were superstars. But look at MJ! He dances and sings and kicks ass at both. He smiles like a naughty child and has volume levels like “Are you Nuts??!” He romances a manly looking woman around dumpsters. he jumps up and down and stands very unlike a man. He croons and screams and gets to that kooky level that only teen girls might want to do. And he kicks ass!!

Many years later, a rock band did a cover of his song. Smooth criminal sang to quick guitar riffs. With a strong quick manly voice that kepy up. And Man!!! is music this open minded?? It lets you pimp it in any manner??? Whoa! I never liked ANY covers of the beatles. And I dare say I probably still wont. Despite knowing that my favourite tape had largely only covers themselves. Some Marvin gaye guy… who ever he was. But now, it actually sounded good. And slowly I learnt to allow people to do their stuff to original songs. Genuine labours of love actually elevated the original to a halo-ed space. And I slowly learnt to love them.

Music taught me about life. My version of life nonetheless. They did it to me within an enclosed locked space that was already gone. It sucked me in and let me goof around. Told me that cold weary boring mornings in class were just waiting time before I could run back in. Like the rough warmth of my brown sweater. They shaped my frail body and brought sensation to my spindly legs. Music penetrated my soul and never left.

I don’t understand arrogance about musical styles. Except when it is Bryan Adams. For some reason, I can’t stand him. Maybe its too easily unpoetic. And his voice is hardly worth crooning to. I don’t know. Maybe I was at the height of my teenage rebellion when I heard him. Whatever the reason, I don’t like him. But other artists, never insulted me so. Never ever. Its amazing that music can have so many faces and voices and personalities. And every piece is so powerful that it can steal my mind from me. Every damn time. Be it the thumpy Bhangra or Hip hop or pop ballads. I can’t stand rock ballads though. They straddle two worlds I can never see meeting.

Anyway, right now, I’m happy allowing the cloudy Mumbai skies to remind me of cold car rides in an old blue Maruti 800 with my dad playing MJ tunes thinking he was the Beatles. His inability to differentiate I never got. But I understand linking every piece of good sensation to the only band you knew you were listening to. BBC radio shows called Saturday night fever during the mid 60s I’m sure make a lasting impression.

Did I mention I love my job??

Thankfully, one matra is missing... :) But the next one takes the cake :D


P.S: Comments will be moderated :)

Hey!!

'Brecht' sounds like a dreary british morning cough... with phlegm. Doesn't he?

What should a girl do when her mirror tells her she has suddenly grown jowls? Or that her weak chin has suddenly become more butch. Maybe her fat cheeks just decided to give in to gravity. Maybe she should smile more. Or less. Should she get a a more fitting name? Like 'jowlie'.

Ugh, I hate my new found jowls.

this is called knowing oneself

Thursday 3pm, Bandra

Its a warm sunny afternoon in Mumbai. I'm about ten minutes from the sea if I were to do a lazy, see whats around, sort of saunter down the hillock. I'm in the room, lying on my belly and pretending to work. I have broken my long break from writing and everything I read seems to remind me of something I wanted to talk about but was always too lazy to. And then I read something and realise that it isn't realy that big a deal - writing to capture the mood as it is in your head. The greatest fear for me was always a fear that the reader wouldn't be able to appreciate the mood because my writing skills wouldn't do justice. But I realise that was discounting the imagination of the reader. Besides, most of us in this generation grew up with largely the same authors, writing sensibilities and story collections. Our mental bank of stories are frightfully similar and if you are one of thsoe ICSE school kid types, then I'm sure even our damn expressions would largely be the same. Anyway, I shall refrain from making further gross reductions about our 'unique individuals' and let their 'various' personalities remain as colourful and exciting as they should be.

Besides, that wasn't the point of this post. I was reading a blog post about a 13 year old girl and how she was abused by an 'older uncle'. Its rather frightful, how similar the story is, to what happened to me at the same age. I was 13. A 'math' teacher was brought home because I wasn't performing up to my tam bram family pride. And we would sit at the dining table and I would write into my long notebook, bought for this specific purpose from a shop that sold books made from recycled paper, with a fresh long natraj pencil, the eraser at arm's length. Amma would step into the kitchen to give the teacher a cup of filter coffee and that was when he would strike. Every damn time. And I didn't know what to do. How was I supposed to react? Why was I feeling that what my grandmum says about me wearing a salwar kameez with a dupatta was actually a good idea? Damn it! Its MY house... I will wear that pair of shorts at home.

And what I would end up doing is working out my sums faster and faster so that he can leave soon. Take on lots of homework, call out to my mum every 3 minutes under some excuse or the other and try to keep her beside me. I wish I could run away from that house like the girl in that blog post. But I couldn't. I even spoke to him rudely. Answered his moronic question before he finished it cos I knew what he would ask. And there was no way out. It kept getting worse. I was 13. I had never ever felt like a girl my entire life. Until I started bleeding one day. And even that pain I had made peace with. And all of a sudden here was someone who was probably looking at me as something else. Its an ugly feeling when an introvert, under confident, almost phlegmatic at times, scrawny little thing was made to become aware of body parts she didn't even know she had.

A year later, I looked at myself in the mirror for the first time. I looked at a shapely waist, widened hips and the curve of my back, the sudden appearance of my collar bone and my calf muscles tightened from obsessive cycling. But it wasn't a revelation. I had felt my waist even before I had one. And that is a sort of theft no one can replace.

There is something about 3pm on a sunny afternoon. You are living inside the yellowed pages of a hand me down book, even when you are not.

I like Billy Joel's lyrics:
The good ol' days weren't always good, and tomorrow ain't as bad as it seems...

Keeping it simple. Or atleast trying to.

A menu card in Singapore says:
"Thai fruit tastes like angel sitting on your tong and wi-wi"
... or so I've heard.

Those who are blessed with such clarity in their priorities, must be looked up to. Being tam bram means being genetically disadvantaged in such clarity of thought. And if that is a wrong statement, then being my mum's daughter most definitely means lacking such stark simplicity. For example, when I heard it I went in to a mental whirlwind, instead of laughing spontaneously along with the rest and hence ending up seeming slow/tubelight-ish/etc, as to the exact gender of a tong and of a wiwi. I mean at first tong sounds male and wiwi female. But then again, haven't we referred to pee-pees as kids? Plus the sound of 'wi-wi' seems politically incorrect and hence offensive if you think hard enough and so I don't want to accept it.

Maybe thats where the key lies. Do not think so hard. Like my new friend from Aurangabad says, "hardly koshish karo". Rather in this aspect, "hardly koshish mat karo."

On an another note, tong seems quite funnily apt.

Wonder what it means when you have nothing better to do, but relate to comic strips at an almost spiritual level.

:D

Teeheehee...

You know you are ridiculous when you ask for, fight and ensure you land into the one precise space that you always shied from - giving opinions for a living. They are fun as long as you don't need to expect a response.

Having to constantly stick your neck out and then wait for a judgement on it is uncomfortable and exasperating, especially while you're being told that it means you're thinking.

Assuming that most of you have winced by now I'm gonna say that I don't give a fig for poor punctuation, sentence construction and especially those that start with gerunds cos I doesn't know better but I admit it irritates me a wee bit so journalists linguists copy writers super smart risk managers and poets of the world may please to be excusing cos I am asking in all humbility.

Of funny things like 'nostalgia consciously sought after' and fond memories of morning colds

OK, so I don't know how to title my posts. But I don't know how to fix it. So I continue off like that only..

There is something to be said about middle class Indian homes. The 'showcase' in the living room for example. Every house has one. Usually, a scoop into the wall, with tiny shelves made by wooden platforms that have been painted in bright off white oil paint which has yellowed over time. Yellowed in all the areas where some item has not been placed.

And this lovely phenomenon called 'The Showcase' houses within itself all sorts of things. Cupids made from putty with pink painted faces and red lipstick, posing on a pedestal with cake icing decorations on it; toys from the Golu that was kept last year; plastic dollar store delights from the Am-ay-reek-ah; toys from the balloon wala's stall during the last oh-so-cool trip to Chowpatty beach in the 'Bambayee' where the pattis and mamis dealt with the wanton winds that were upsetting the perfect pleats on their kanjeevarams; a random decorative bottle opener because what other use could it be put to in a teetotaller household that did not even stock Thumsup in its fridge; an old transistor that all of us would have learnt to fawn upon lovingly despite having been born after the damn thing stopped working, because experiencing appa's nostalgia for purely nostalgia's sake is a good thing; old Barbie dolls with half the hair pulled out because your toddler sis wanted her own space in the grand show that we put up for everyone to see.

Except, my house didn't have a showcase. My father disliked the concept of it at frighteningly allergic levels. So amma, me and the thangai would find random window sills and corners on corner tables to put our stuff up.

I always wanted a showcase in my house. OK, maybe I didn't then, but now I do. I want one with proper fake mahogany painted wood with glass sliding door holding the treasures inside. Ones that we would have to battle with to open, put up with the un-oiled screeches and ensure that no truant child will stick one of her pickwick or big babool free stickers onto the glass.

I mean everything else about being middle class is hotch potch warmth. A product of double income parents who live in a secure box inside which they lovingly bring up two brown pigtailed ragamuffins with oversized spectacles. A space that welcomes the comforting joy of hoarding, for hoarding's sake. Hoarding for that one Sunday when we have the energy to turn everything upside down, throw away broken bits of random plastic that we can't recognise anymore, for dust ridden asthma attacks, back breaking cleaning and finding use for that old t-shirt we've rolled up and stashed away into a hole for this precise day.

Being middle class is being squirrels that pick up one grain at a time, bring it home and keep it all around you till you are coocooned. Except each grain we pick up carries with it the mark of the moment it was picked up, the mood for which it was picked up, the emotion that it was supposed to represent in our little straight edged hole in the ground. Each grain has its own size, its own colour, its own texture; all individual pieces made purely for their own individual value, standing in their own right and collectively offensive in their presence with the others - the furniture, upholstery, unmatched bed covers and pillow covers, the cutlery, crockery, every damn thing!! Its like their collective loudness and coarsely jumbled texture contribute to the warmth that only the dwellers inside share. And no one else will. So, why can't I put it all up on a bonsai version pedestal and say, "Looky, here's my jumbled assorment. Ain't it pwetty??"

I absolutely LOVE living like this. Which is why well orchestra-ed bedrooms and living rooms bore me.

Malleswaram Mallige Withdrawal Syndrome

I've been thinking... hehe :P bleh. So, what I'm trying to say is that I reckon I will finally be 'cool' when I achieve the title of 'vulgar loud mouthed irritable and permanently PMSing granny' at 56, post menopause of course. What an enchanting thought! I have images of a cigarette pipped Greta Garbo with bright sticky red lipstick for some reason. Inane. And/or if I manage to name my son something on the lines of Pashupathyraju and get away with it.

Sigh... for now, I shall be content with 'Pop! goes the blueness' and imagine myself musicandlyric-ing in a video with Hugh Grant in 80's hairdo and Ujala white trousers.

Under the influence of floopy floobadooniness

All other things remaining equal, this silly child is mentally doing a pirouette in a pink tutu.

Physically doing the same would be incredibly ungraceful. And most definitely un-tam-bram.

To each his own

Self-doubt is the only emotion that deserves constant nurturing.

Unimaginative minds need to know what they are.

I can't help judging creativity. Impoverished minds must know they are so, and stop taking themselves seriously. Let's just say I'm foolishly optimistic. I do think good work will find its space under the sun. The rest should be so kind as to stay away from the likes of me.

And everyone must stop taking themselves seriously. If they want to be able to look at themselves in the mirror that is. Life is just too boring otherwise.

Of course, to each his own and things like that. And so, I apologise.

Thankfully I'm too lazy to be thoroughly mental.

Learning to focus...

Holding hands with Garden State

Bright harsh smarting sunlight,

Dashing through slits under plywood.

Shadowed, smoky,

Claustrophobic cool cuboid.

Dead-pan dormancy, to

Familiar spinning fan sound.

Poetry traveling on mellow vocals.

Encircling and slowly padding down,

Softly settle, limp and stay.

Blank eyes doing injustice,

To time sandwiched,

Between parallel fast and slow,

Of thought and image.

Fast bending slow,

Into mood meander,

Until morpheus excuses…

Rant number 2

Why do people in movies chew on bread like its a hard piece of rubber that requires 40 up and down chewing motions before swallowing? Not to mention the bite size. It has always made me feel like a glutton.

Midnight chocolate cake sessions are fun though.

However, depressingly flaccid cellulite ridden body parts aren't.

Buuuuuuuuut, cake dripping chocolate sauce wins.

Thankgod for Agnes

I say

I say, sometimes I feel like I'm an old English school teacher called something like Mrs. Greene, in a small brown Indian frame.

I mean who says words like delicious, fabulous, gorgeous, marvellous, enchanting, 'man after my own heart' alongside sakkath, bombat and soooparr??

I wasn't even brought up by nuns.. I brought myself up in a school that can be best described as "Neither Nor". Come to think of it, that probably describes me vocabulary perfectly, neh?

Hmm... works must be done, breakfasts must be eaten and everyone must say... "Supercallafredgalisticespialidocious". Go on.... say it, I say!!

Dear strange trespasser,

Why have you come to watch the play? Is it to watch a story? Or because everyone says the guy who is acting is good? Or is it mere timepass?

Obviously I mustn’t judge you for it, but I still can't get myself to accept it. Did you merely trespass into the theatre? Past the traffic, the gates, the coffee shop, the ticket counter? And because you have gone through the trouble to do it, I ask of you, why were you there, if you didn't come to watch something?

Theatre is about bringing the tale alive. There is a bunch of people who bother to set aside time and effort to create something. Something that, if good, will transport you. Suck you in and hold your hand through it. They invest mental effort. And physical. And emotional. The least you can do is switch your bloody dog leashes off. And not turn them on. The lights are turned off, to prepare you for what’s coming. To tell you that for the next few moments of your life… you can leave everything else at the doorstep. All you need to do is watch. And listen. So then, why do you pollute the moment such? Why do you sit next to people who are there FOR the play? People who have been waiting to be transported, forget, be overwhelmed, cry.

I beseech you to respect the art. Or atleast the effort. Because you and I aren’t able to do what they do. Because we aren’t strong, versatile, imaginative, beautiful enough. And they do it for you. They excuse you your inabilities and perform for you. Respect that. Don’t walk all over the stage. It’s a sacred space. Don’t leave your phones on. Don’t email and sms while the play is on. It is tiring enough to tolerate the poor humour sensors you have in the upper compartment. I allow you that. But don’t intrude my space. Don’t bulldoze your loud, crass selves into it. I want to watch, listen, emote. I am there for this express purpose. Please allow me the chance to imagine that you don’t exist.

And if not me, please think of the man there who is pouring himself out all over the wooden platform. Who is telling himself you’re listening. Who becomes the person he is enacting. He falls in love and has his heart break with ever show. And walks out to bow crying. That means SOMEthing. Can you imagine doing that to yourself? Don’t giggle. And please keep your precious words inside your head. Don’t you dare let them out of your trap.

Beseechingly yours.

Dear Diary,

I yam the floopy floobadoony doorstoppo. And you?

The all senses Mardi Gras

Red oxide tiles alternating red and green. Teakwood doors, century old iron padlock, hand-made, crude and transports you in one touch. Sunlight streaming from Kerala windows, through India red curtains. Semi conscious, nostalgic about the present. And on the back of the teakwood, sits a cut out from a magazine. On Brando. Best Italian mafia don ever. Large forehead, hair combed back, horizontally striped Italian men’s cardigan. And the article talks about how Brando is black coffee. Smile.

And now, Indian psychedelia. If that is not enough to make you sit up, get this: peppered with rock meets underground, slick, jazz funk boogie, earthy rustic sexuality, firang waif prettiness and tall strapping undescribable. Pimps, bright satin shirts, huge rings, black lips, crassly emulated moghul architecture, noir, asbestos shutters, garbage, Indian decadence. Solitary, spoilt, rotten, spoilt rotten. Gorgeous. And all this worn simply.

The movie begins and sucks you into the real real world. The phone conversations you’ve had. Hopefully you’ve had them. The extravagantly flattering wastrel. Sans ego, fully delicious. Beige trousers, beret, 70s flower power on eyes, ankle socks and oh-those shoes! Cruising life chewing salted carbs.

Teach the nation how to wear denim. Unhealthy thin, wiry, lean, lazy. Indian trance to Underground. Psychedelic anger. Stumble, stop, move, stumble. Yet slick. Oh to walk through noir streets. Vodka carton, leaning saunter, unashamed. Crusted lips, stubble. Rock music.

Brilliant musical. Unabashedly Indian, touching UK underground with rusticity. I mean think about it. Think about music which actually uses slick underground baseline percussions with rustic Indian vocals, throws in a bit of the Beatles India Tour after effect, a little bit of a grown up Kurt Cobain vocal sensibility, with a Mojo Risin attitude. Brilliant! Our own foolishly brave, Indian, manic depressive, addictive, bipolar – in all the Indian grandeur possible. The music rises up pointedly and then lingers above in space, undulating and sinewing across and around. Topple, tumble, revolve, trip. And then guess what he does. He wham bams the Indian shaadi brass band in your face. And that too, because it is supposed to signify ‘his’ whole world crashing down and clankering apart. Stabbing you with the perfect ‘emosanal atyachar’. Ridiculously over done bollywood lyrics, modern swear words and qawaali bravado in tight elvis suits. I mean come on! Such musical incest and incredibly evolved humour directed at self cannot go unnoticed. It IS the Devdas, Indian Ishtyle. And this is the new psychedelia. Bright, garish, colourful and obsessed with the grand fall. It’s simply unfair. To get it so right.

Smearing turmeric on sleeve and chest. Active colour. Leave the stain. Smile. Dimple. Hurt.

Misunderstood love, misplaced arrogance. Smile. Poignant. Lose innocence fighting for it. Extravagant out there drag queen in waif. Bright. Red. Gold. Loud. Pornographised silence. Loud loneliness. How brilliant! Face paint to make him smile. I can’t write anymore.

Ode

Miss verbal slapstick. Post dyslexic phoenixicity. Mary Poppins meets african blues. Tom Jones Ain't no sunshine follows fatboyslim fucking in heaven follows Suddenly I See. Accent narcissism. Poetic gluttony. Gluttoned poetry. Over the top loving. Shattered glass. DU kajal but eating with the pinkie out. Colour drenched but experience parched. Life as stream of consciousness. Patchwork emotions. Earthy. Browning creases. Curled lips ending edgy. Baby feet all woman. Convented. Cow belt dancer. Muted colours, straight lines, a-line contrast to extravagance in mindspace. Insult to stereotype, cliche. Enviably enviable. Everyone's best friend. But my adopted mindfuckbuddy. Pocketsized, amplifier brained. Slurpy little pancake.

:)

I have the best playlist ever in the whole wide world. And I've been liking everything I've heard off late.

The entire world has collectively taken out the trash :D

Hmm

JJ is losing her religion. While she still remains the exalted floobadoon, now she has joined the Order of the Bagel.

But Java City won't be forgotten. Nor will the big fat lazy doggie outside... the only one who remembers Bangalore the way it was.

Or Koshy's. Gleaming white coffee cups, extra strong coffee and colonial hangover.

But thats what JJ does. She collects. So forgive her.

Ode to the tunes that spell home

JJ spent a lovely weekend with her 'bust friend' - the Mallige from Malleswaram. And as is wont to happen, conversation hovered around our eternal favourite - the kannada-ness of ourselves. So apart from repeating promises to each other about making movies and managing that mean HR firm we are going to start one day in New York, my good friend and I gave ourselves a topic to research. Do catch up with us using this.

Yes, so one day, sandalwood will meet MM and JJ in a joyous marriage of boredom and poor sense of humour. And we will make movies with titles as eloquent as this one kannada movie that was called: '?'. :D do you get how ridiculously delicious the nomenclature in kannada movies can be? They do have others, viz. 'A', 'Shh', '' , 'Z' (by a rival superstar to the actor of A) and of course 'Om'. And no, I'm not making these up.

:) Marvel at the eloquence and envy the millions of cups of filter coffee and idli swimming in sambhar we have shared. Harsh, wacky, shameless wannabe Bengloor Kannada is my adopted mother tongue. I hope she never leaves me.

Wykay childrens, yenauff naansense. Nav my hoffis demands that I do the works.

But, oh! the dovenuts!!!!!

Good things happen to good people

So where's the lean, brown, wiry laziness in my living space?

When did you get to be so big in my head? I will never know. Maybe the entire time when I was soaking myself with uncountable cups of sick sweet chai. Or when I pretended to be sweeter than I really am. Or while walking up that winding path along bright red and yellow bell pepper. Maybe it was the moment i read the words 'hazaar fucked'. Or when cooking tamarind and spice wafted through the empty walls.

I know it's pretty when your head is somewhere else. All the time. But when did i lose the ability to land softly back? I wish I could redo the auto ride from the airport.

It tires me. To constantly find ways to distract.

I want to sleep.

Surprise!

When you ‘get’ something – say a piece of music, art or a movie dialogue, doesn’t it delight you? And then you make your next conversation interesting with snippets of what happened, what you saw and why it was pretty, etc etc. Happiness! It genuinely delights you that there is something so right and so perfect and that you saw it. Wow!

And so over time you know what you will like, what you won’t, read up on it, find out, discuss, share, grow, learn. And you discover more people, artists, dialogues, movies, visuals that are like the ones you love. And so the familiarity and happiness spreads. Suddenly you have woken, you are a conscious person – alive with ideas, thoughts, memories.

And then you start becoming conscious of what you like, even if you haven’t seen it already. Like when you are going to look at the Mona Lisa and know that you are supposed to love it. When you look at a village setting and know that it links you to a past that isn’t yours, frozen in time and was and always will be the way it is. Exists with and without you, but you happen to see it and you know you are supposed to love it, feel relaxed, non-time bound and soak in the space; when you go to watch a comedy; when you are at a music concert. Sure it blows your mind away and it isn’t something you’ve ever heard before and all that jazz. But you know that you are being overwhelmed and you know why it is overwhelming and exactly what about it is overwhelming because that is precisely what is supposed to overwhelm the others as well.

And so you are pandering to the moment of suddenly recognized delight. You are preparing yourself for when you will be taken by surprise. What fun it is going to be! And how??!! Or you assume the convenient and tried and tested posture. You meet a new person. Or an old friend. Or someone you are not supposed to acknowledge something with. Or a bunch you shared something with once. And everyone is talking about what they do now and how they’ve changed. And what surprised them and what didn’t. And everyone collectively knows what to avoid talking about; exactly when to congratulate and when to lend a shoulder.

A massive colossal all encompassing pre-prepared déjà vu-ing of future moments.

And you play the part you know you have to play, want to play and you are genuinely only being yourself. But you already know you will be nostalgic, overwhelmed, surprised, happy, fat, thin, old, bitchy, furtive, ridiculous. And you will make that sudden glance at some spot that meant something to you, or does now because it didn’t mean anything to you then. And you will go everywhere you are supposed to go because you are supposed to be nostalgic and reliving the moments and you will think and remember the right jokes, the right embarrassments, the ‘silly fights’ and you will be grown up, put the past behind and condense the good into that little bubble of happy memories. And you also know how that bubble looks inside your head – the personal getty images log that you have of all the pretty images that were always going to signify ‘past, nostalgia, beautiful, lovely, happy, sad’.

And so you move along in life conscious of being conscious of being conscious.

I’m sorry, were you living in the moment right now? Awwwh!

Kersplat your hearts out

Extended Rant Number 1

This one is on the Importance of Being Original. So if you are one of the Original sort of peoples, kindly browse away from this silly webpage. It contains drivel. Other Lesser Mortals may stay.

I don't understand why I am still pre-occupied by a ridiculous obsession with originality. I confess, I still harbour furtive desires of creating something original someday - something unthought of, or un-done. Despite the multiple self-let-downs at such attempts, I still keep thinking it will happen. Some ox-headed, moronic (oxymoronic, eh, miss prometheus? ), ugly, silly form of optimism if I may dare to call it that. I wonder why, though.

Sigh.

I usually start my days watching the news on TV cos I havent managed to catch hold of the newspaper boy yet. Today there was a rather disturbing piece about a 6 yr old kid being harassed by UP policemen for allegedly stealing 280 rupees. From whom? Wheres the money? No one knows. But this man... this 'policeman'... took it as an opportunity to pull the poor lil street child by her hair.. and off the ground!!!

I was so stumped to watch it. And news channels nowadays seem to enjoy endless repetitive loops of the same scene. And so I watched the same little girl, crying and desperately hanging on to her head to get this nasty man's paws off her hair. And I saw the same clip around 15 times. And I'm sure it is playing on TV even now. The entire time I sat there thinking that maybe the pain of watching it 15 times or 20 times or even 400 times might make me understand what the child was going through. But then again, who am I kidding? I'm living on my own in a comfortable little space. What do I know about what the child was going through? All I can do is sit and cry about it.

And the worst part was not that. It was the 10-15 odd men who were standing around. Merely watching. With a look of impotent importance, like they were watching a just punishment. And the policemen himself... had the ugly glare of perpetrating, and consuming at the same time, a violence that he believed was his work right. A look of smug contentment at torturing the helpless child, at enforcing his frustrated sense of nothing-ness on someone who at worst was only answering her crying tummy. This wasn't Barthes' idea of the consumption of wrestling. This was the ugly underbelly of an anger that stems from being an inconspicuous dot amongst a billion and a half, but armed with a baton, lashing out at anything and everything.

This isn't lack of education, or deprivation of any sort. It is just a depraved mind and a depraved gathering that watches unashamed, things that they themselves in their 30 tall years cannot handle. This is angered haplessness that turns outwards and is blinded by its own self obsession.

I once discussed mob mentality with a friend who had seen a mob in action. And she was telling me about how there is some force that transforms a crowd of people once they were setting out to destruct. It was inexplicable and frightening to think that perfectly normal average men would suddenly drop everything to join in a chance to randomly beat, molest and maim others. Its like a collective rising... of desperation, misplaced anger and an extremely misplaced sense of power. It is sad to see that it reduces even the most normal of people into savage behaviour and if not, then into silent spectators eagerly consuming the spectacle of violence.

Barthes says that wrestling is the one arena where people can consume anger and justice in its most unabashed and dramatic face. I wonder what Indian mob mentality says about us. Why are our senses of self so vulnerable and un-thoguht out? Or maybe I don't get it.

Time for moony moody

Its is time again folks, for moony, moody and the suchlike(s). Seriously, being not -frustrated can only last a while. And after the brief misleading-ness of feeling light, things like your creator, cellulite and the sandras-from-bandra bring you back to earth. And so, one regresses to who they really are.

Aside: Jyenagar Jalajamba laft the pritty Bengloor to come to the Mumbai - that too to do something as silly as being independent. Highly overrated, romanticised, cloud-9-isised and other such expressions, I say. The experience is closer to being overwhelmed, then under-whelmed and then everydirectionpossible-whelmed.

Ya, so, like, I digressed. Aaanywayssss, its my blog and around 2.49 people read it, so what the hell. Hmm, so moving out is tough. (And thats the gist of the post, so you may excuse yourself and save your day). But, its been fun. For example, I have never been broke until now. I mean, I have never been nearly broke. Until now. I have never needed to know the physics of domestic plumbing requirements. Or called Just Dial for everything that goes wrong. Or obsess about house keys. Or check my bank account every 47 minutes. Or pay credit card bills for 23k. AND pay rent at the same time. AND do the dishes, wake myself up, drink my own chai, make my own food, eat it, clean it and then proceed to dump it the next morning (with the extra dash of excitement, viz, chilli powder, bark out of my orifice). OR for that matter, walk past a million little boutique shops with mean, nasty stuff like 'BLOW OUT SALE' written outside, and not walk back and enter the store. OR look at the price of a barista cappuccino for the first time. RIGHT. So I was a wee bit spoilt. :P But now, I have landed on my generous backside with a loud thud, and surprisingly enough, the cushioning didn't mask the impact.

So, now JJ has REAL problems in her life. Not stuff she made up cos she was bored, but genuine, real, tangible problems. Like a flooded house. Or not having a house. Or, well, other such stuff. Now, JJ has problems she can be proud of. And so many of them that gets bored talking about it! Yay! And it is so much better to be tired than bored. Excuse from thought, action and other such energy draining things. But, she does miss Nutini:

"Hey, I put some new shoes on,
And suddenly everything's right,
I said, hey, I put some new shoes on
and everybody's smiling,
An it's so inviting,

Oh, short on money,

But long on time,
Slowly strolling in the sweet sunshine,
And I'm running late,
And I dont need an excuse,
'Cause I'm wearing my brand new shoes."