In Which We are a Tad Sappy in the Grand Old Tradition of the Thing

Sometimes,

I wish

there was something between us.

Something…anything…just so that I could look you in the eye

and smile;

just smile, damn it; but we aren’t even acquaintances.

And it hurts; at its corniest, it hurts,

that you don’t know me and I don’t know you

And yet that I wish -

sometimes,

I wish

that I knew you and you me;

just so that I could say hi

and have you say it, back to me.

On Writing…I think.

I found this little…something  in a forgotten word doc:

To write would be an awfully tiresome venture,

and yet to read and to know

that one has not written and has not even tried -

Slaughtered before utterance half thoughts of mine-

waiting forever for the other shoe to drop.

Perhaps it is the Cinderella tale all over again-

left with one shoe? What would you do?

For the other one, start a quest?

Or grumble at being an unlucky fool?

I think this was a result of reading a qoute by Henry Miller on writing  at the time and and hence the title of the post.

You Know You’ve Been Staring At MS Word For Too Long When…

…You start writing poetry for the Office Assistant!

Fake cat, sleeping away on my windows’ screen,

On MS Word as I work and toil and sniffle unseen,

What do you dream when you sleep?

You sad excuse, for help in case of electronic need

I search and you pretend to write,

The page is blank as I can plainly see,

Your little pink tongue is held out in concentration,

Your yellow tail held erect as if ready for confrontation.

Press enter and you sit up as smug as you please,

The way you swirl your tail, you’d think you’d written a treatise.

I try, I really do, to tell you this isn’t what I was asking,

But you look at me as if within you are laughing,

At me, saying, I am after all only a cat!

What were you thinking?

You give me unhelpful hints,

and You scratch for every little thing!

My grammar’s good enough,

So stop criticising!

And I don’t care what you think,

You’re fake and a cat,

So stop trying to change my spelling!

And yet there are times,

As I work and toil and sniffle unseen,

And there has been too much tea and too little sleep.

So that, when you purr and stretch and give me a grin,

I am glad,

For, though fake, you still are a companion.

I know you don’t care,

That I dedicate this to you,

You’re happy just being a Microsoft tool.

But then again it is to be expected,

You’re a cat and cupboard love is, after all, intrinsic.

Sociologically Speaking…

Sociologically Speaking…

We live outwardly projecting,

embellishing who we should be

over who we are

when

righteous protests against far off horror

raucous laughter for obscure humour

revulsion for the conservative opinion

and

painfully, politically correct expressions

slip out reflexively

coz it’s expected

coz it’s progressive

coz it’s of course right

we’re good mimics

you and me

At imitating who we should be.

__________________________

I probably stole the crown from Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings of Greenbridge, Essex England, eh?

Rambling on, mostly on Indira

I am reading Indira by Katherine Frank, and it is truly engrossing. And yet I feel strangely guilty. Why do I find it interesting? Is it because of the momentous stages in Indian history that it captures or because of the political intrigue and nice bit of family gossip of the first family of India that it dishes out? A lot of references are made to letters, supposedly authored by the various personalities that people the book, and parts of me find it kind of sad, that these letters so intimately personal are laid out there…to be cut copy pasted. I know it’s a stupid feeling, but there…it’s the same whenever I think of the mummified pharaohs of Egypt…an afterlife meant to be spend in splendour, instead they are nicely boxed up in special scientific glass boxes to be gawked at and to be tested periodically to ascertain the ‘true’ reason for their death. Yes, I know they’ve been dead too long to care, but still…glad my body is going to be burnt into fine ash to be scattered in some oil slicked ocean after my death…okay! why am I talking of morbid stuff anyway?

Right, back to the book. Intriguing to be sure at least as far as I have read, and perhaps as has already been alleged by others not completely sticking to the facts…yet it is a portrayal of Indira Gandhi not just as this Iron Lady or Epic Woman (God, history books in school made saccharine god figures of everyone) but as a human being. I confess my reading of history is too sketchy to appraise the book either as good or bad, but it is good reading so far.

I was making a list of all that I have been reading this semester and the numbers are quite impressive considering that last semester I was only able to manage perhaps two books in all. This semester, I am in double digits all ready! Yes, Yes, I know it’s superficial to count the number of books I’ve read and then feel proud of the number, but I can’t help it.

In other news, I continue to search for a place to intern. People keep pointing at human rights associations…Amnesty, National Human Rights Commission, but I think my heart’s in Environmental or Trade and Development organizations…CENTAD for e.g. (crosses fingers). There’s another personality quirk, waiting to be figured out.

Weirdly rambling post, isn’t it? I’ve never written something quite like this in here and I think I’ll weird it a little more. Presenting…what I think is a Haiku written by yours truly…

” Pit patters the roof,

I think it’s raining.

In response, the gutters overflow. “

 

Ciao

—————-

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