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?