Friday, May 25, 2007

WIDE OPEN SPACES


would you always run away
to wide open spaces

the laughter you never found
keeps waiting for nothing to change

you don’t want to know tomorrow
now
slipping right away

to find wide open spaces
you would always run away

Wednesday, May 23, 2007

SPOILT BRAT'S SELF - PITY


My never-ending struggle against anything that runs on the principles espoused by my Physics book continues. I have made my peace with power cuts eversince the battery powered inverter died, leaving me with the option of purchasing a brand new battery worth 8 grands. Thank you very much, I prefer my pitch black existence and mosquito bites.

Then the PC decided, let’s eat up a compact disc – the mini kind which contains that one exclusive software you need to install to make the webcam work, given by daddy dearest at the airport terminal, hoping I will run my own live webcam service. Hmm… that Chinese girl did make a lot of money running her own Truman Show, but I think she was in the habit of taking her top off and it surely didn’t make her daddy or the communists happy. So, the PC was disembowelled and the CD-ROM was extracted but the tiny CD remained stuck somewhere between unidentified dark matter and the green ICs -- which by the way seem harmless but do a good job pricking your fingertips. Well, the CD has been safely extracted but the thingamajigs are acting like a 1001 piece puzzle and refuse to fit back in its place while the monitor continues to advertise the absence of a drive. To hell with the PC, I don’t need it! (except for the music … missing your summer love JT muaaah!)

I planned a quiet reading-and-movies weekend to overcome the absence of broadband internet and music. But alas, while pretending to read Murakami, I ended up picking up the damn Harry Potters again and got entangled in the obvious bloopers inherent to the whole owl story. I mean, if no one can find the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, how come all those owls were so easily reaching the Grimmauld Place carrying regular-ass mail like Hogwart’s booklist and even the Ministry of Magic’s summons for Potter boy? And, if Voldemort has been apparently intercepting the owls, he should have easily found out where the Order of the Phoenix was holding its meetings and hiding Sirius. But, no – the owls keep hooting and shitting and the wizards keep eating and cleaning. What shit, it’s about time I cut through the Potter propaganda and I think I am just about to break free from it. I think I prefer being a coke drinking muggle and pumpkin juice should be restricted to patients fighting hepatitis C.

Coming back to the anti-technology movement, I fell asleep debating the feasibility of owls replacing cellphones, when I was woken up by the most horrifying ghostly sound ever. Something, very evil and probably supernatural was perched outside my window and screeching its way to the Grammies. I ran – for my life - woke up my cousin and told him there is a ghost in my room. He ran towards what I presumed was Meatloaf trying to sing and there was nothing. It was the AC, letting out a last cry for help. It died, with a few shrieks and a loud hissing.

So many losses in a succession can be quite overwhelming and so I lay in the heat of my room all of Sunday afternoon, staring blankly at the fan which had not rotated in the last 3 hours – again thanks to Chacha Nehru’s skewed vision of Hydel-powered electricity generation and the lack of it. Now, when I think of it, there is no other consumer good left to die (except the TV and the home theater, but I don’t think they were ever alive to start with).

Suddenly, it hit me, I will have to start taking showers in the absence of air conditioning and that would be the end of world as I know it. Perhaps, there is a dead owl stuck in the AC and it won’t cost me too much to get it fixed. Unfortunately, the AC guys were ready to take the white angel away and replace its dead soul. They would have done precisely that, had my current bank balance proven itself worthy of paying for the revival of the Peltier effect. But, it was time to face the perils of modern consumerist existence and for luxury to prevail. So I just paid them to mercilessly remove my mom’s AC and fit it into my room and folks can deal with the dead AC if and when they visit. Life is a breeze once again.

Tuesday, May 15, 2007

GOD OF WINE


I just stopped. I don't move forward. I don't even try to evolve and willingly chose to be static. I am too comfortable just standing stoned to one spot in time.


And then she'd shout... down the line... tell me she's got no more time...

Procrastination has reached insane levels, wherein I sit and take online procrastination tests devised by ze University of Calgary, only so that I can procrastinate more by filling the long questionnaire meant to diagnose the severity of my condition and cure me of this ubiquitous curse. However, nothing can help me, for I have no idea why am I simply stuck. I have no complaints, no regrets, no tears and no sorrows. I am satisfied and discontent, continuing the streak of contradiction I was born to represent, but its not bad... everything is perfect.

And then she'd scream... in my face... tell me to leave... leave this place.

I am still procrastinating, and blogging instead of doing my office work and at the same time I am losing my freelance assignments faster than Bush is losing his approval ratings. I did not apply to any of the schools, I have been dreaming of since I was sixteen and watched the dates go by. I just don't see the point.

But, I did put on 1431 songs on my playlist to revisit some old forgotten tunes and I am happy.

We can't get back again
we can't get back again
she takes a drink and then she waits
the alcohol it permeates...

I can just sit here for the next 64 hours, 23 minutes and 5 more seconds, listening to it all. Even "We will rock you" by Five, just so that I can recount the years gone by, the people who came and left and mourn for the dead rebellious girl who sits in her cosy cold room lamenting everything she has.

And the God of wine is crouched down in my room
You let me down
I said it...
now I am going down
And you're not even around.

Thursday, May 10, 2007

EASTERN EUROPEAN RHAPSODY

"Would you risk talking to me or jump off the terrace?"
"Umm... you tell me..."
"Ouch... you chose to talk... you'll regret this."
"Hmm... jumping to my death wouldn't be less painful."
"You will change your mind some day."

Her flirtatious words flowed superfluously sweeping his mind away from the oppressive heat. The setting was like every other gathering where they all converged from nowhere, drinking away the summer nights. It was a convenient lie, concocted to forget their wasted days, months, years and sometimes complete lives. The radiator vents were yellow with grime and cobs, standing testimony to the winter gone by.

"Do you remember cherry blossom.... in the marketplace... I thought it was confetti in your hair."

Old progressive songs, with forgotten lyrics and warped melodies were still stupendously successful mating calls. Songs replaced imagination and encores would be hysterical giggles followed by intimacy of the desired kind. They were all there -- violinists with no violins, service managers with no bosses, art graduates with no inspiration, theater rejects with no dialogues , future rockstars with no cocaine, freckled models with no agents in Berlin, tequila-shooting plump girls with no sex and dark foreign kids studying medicine with no one to talk to.

The only one missing was a diplomat's daughter with dark eyes and no dreams. Infact, she did not even exist before tonight. Leftover communist agenda had vomited some homeless kids, as a reminder to the evil fangs of the bygone era. Sometimes, a hushed murmur could be heard, wishing for another revolution -- but it was often the vodka talking as these terrace creatures had never known what yellow walls and red words meant.

He had never cared for the politics of his state. He had only dreamt of drowning in the Thames, drunk on success and a new life with an old lover. Neither seemed too tempting anymore, so he laughed at his peers' crass jokes, read out scraps of poetry and strung beautiful melodies against the concrete floor of the chosen terrace. A young homeless girl, barely in her teens -- high on misery and low on hope snuggled up to him and bit his nipple. He heard his friends laugh as she tried to smuggle some money or better still, pills out of his pockets. He gave her a bottle of beer and she walked away winking back at him.

He stumbled his way to the dark staircase and found someone he shouldn't have met, sitting on the cold marble leaning against the banister, struggling with a shard of broken glass stuck in her toe. He lifted her foot and sucked the remaining drops of blood. Her gaze pierced right through the facade and his motives deserted him.

He followed her to the edge of the terrace.

"Would you risk talking to me or jump off the terrace?", she said.

And he really never had a choice except to get entangled in the worst nightmare of his conscious existence, crafted carefully by the boredom that belonged to the diplomat's daughter.