hello.
i just want to say
i just discovered
that
fear is the new cool
so if youre scared to be happy
or youre scared to be awesome
or youre scared to be in L.O.V.E (yeeeuh)
or youre scared to be out of it
or youre scared you'll be a shit
or youre scared you already are
or youre scared you will always be scared.
youre cool.
because.
being scared means being able to think,like think through the consequences and know that theres an equal chance for things to get reallly fucked up.
and able to think means being able to really live well you know?
therefore
being scared=being alive.
i say we just embrace it.
of course you don't have to.
there's no need to take it badly really.
i think i'm getting scared already.
ok
bye.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Thursday, July 29, 2010
what is new
the other day someone in college said something about something to do with something like being new.
NEW. my ears felt strange. how many times have i used that word. how many times has anything been new. can anything be new. besides babies. i dont know?
NEW.
NEW
NEW
the fourth time you type it you need to go back and check if that really is a word. doesnt feel like a word when you type it continuously like that. NEW NEW NEW NEW NEW. sheesh.
i have low attention span.
NEW.
yeah.so someone was saying something about writing about new things. like experiencing new stuff.
hmm. im sure every bugger wrote about their first day in college , school or inside some girl. i was really bored of that. except that girl bit.
so i was getting off the train minding my own business ,walking past old men and tired women , pretending not to be dying from seeing how sick of this life everyone looks. specially at the station. freud's death instinct comes alive there. hehe.
so this little half naked boy, this little 3 year old is sitting on an old torn up banyan , eyes closed with a bowl in front of him. i can't describe it but i felt like the smallest most useless organism that must have ever been allowed to be born.like the first thing i felt.the second thing was a cold terror and wanting to run as fast as my legs would let me.
i realised a minute later , that THAT was new. i'd never seen that kind of 'begging' before. he was begging me to drop a coin into his bowl and i was begging him to be invisible to me and let me go on with my life. the one where i could get sympathy from others for not being able to watch some band perform live or something like that. he was shaking the glass rooms of my brain where my thoughts lived unchallenged. he was doing all of this without even looking at me.
NEW
NEW
whats new ? is it me squinting and looking at that same spot where i'd once seen the child so as to avoid seeing him again or is it him,innovating and finding a way to make me feel old. i am old not because of what happens in my body but because things have stopped being new. its all the same - which is a bloody shame.no new left for me.
NEW. my ears felt strange. how many times have i used that word. how many times has anything been new. can anything be new. besides babies. i dont know?
NEW.
NEW
NEW
the fourth time you type it you need to go back and check if that really is a word. doesnt feel like a word when you type it continuously like that. NEW NEW NEW NEW NEW. sheesh.
i have low attention span.
NEW.
yeah.so someone was saying something about writing about new things. like experiencing new stuff.
hmm. im sure every bugger wrote about their first day in college , school or inside some girl. i was really bored of that. except that girl bit.
so i was getting off the train minding my own business ,walking past old men and tired women , pretending not to be dying from seeing how sick of this life everyone looks. specially at the station. freud's death instinct comes alive there. hehe.
so this little half naked boy, this little 3 year old is sitting on an old torn up banyan , eyes closed with a bowl in front of him. i can't describe it but i felt like the smallest most useless organism that must have ever been allowed to be born.like the first thing i felt.the second thing was a cold terror and wanting to run as fast as my legs would let me.
i realised a minute later , that THAT was new. i'd never seen that kind of 'begging' before. he was begging me to drop a coin into his bowl and i was begging him to be invisible to me and let me go on with my life. the one where i could get sympathy from others for not being able to watch some band perform live or something like that. he was shaking the glass rooms of my brain where my thoughts lived unchallenged. he was doing all of this without even looking at me.
NEW
NEW
whats new ? is it me squinting and looking at that same spot where i'd once seen the child so as to avoid seeing him again or is it him,innovating and finding a way to make me feel old. i am old not because of what happens in my body but because things have stopped being new. its all the same - which is a bloody shame.no new left for me.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Amma.
We were stupid , but they were happy times. If I was sad , there would always be someone who'd distract me and show me something shiny or show me the wild mushrooms that bred on the tree outside. It's easy being a child , you forget. My most vivid memories of childhood revolve around my grandmother, who liked us calling her "amma". Amma was awesome.Period. She had all the latest sarees and wore makeup as soon as she woke up. She always smelled like vanilla and her nails were always bright red. Amma loved me. very much . I would lie down on her tummy after she'd eaten and tell her i could hear a train in her stomach , all the loud rumbling digestion was very fascinating to me. When i became a Flinstones fan , I'd whack Amma with the telephone diary pretending it was my club and that i was Fred. I'd make blank calls to her friends from the phone book and then hang up. I'd do that several times a day. She never scolded me. Or atleast if she did , I chose not to remember it.
She chose to see all the good stuff and ignore all the creepy things i did. Yes, i was a creep and i had erected a secret shrine to some broken piece of stone which i would bathe in milk and water and cover with a hibiscus everyday.I would also take a paint brush and dip it in water and then paint over the dusty leaves of plants growing in the house. She encouraged it all.
My sister and I did some pretty retarded things too. We "rode" the poor neighbours bitch , Lily and went around pretending she was a mare...We adamantly refused to learn the right name of some poor woman , whose name i don't recall because we only ever called her aunty .pepsi. We lived in our friends' dingy portuguese style houses ,playing with the chickens they bred giving them names. Some houses in our village were deserted and no one knew what had happened to them. But we did. We made stories about witches and old creepy men , and we told these stories so often that they became our truths.
I moved out of Chuim when i was six and i didnt go back there for 12 years. then a few days ago ,I decided to go back ,just to see how much it had changed. It was only a shadow of its glorious self. All the little villas had been converted into giant buildings. People walked around minding their own business. worst of all ,i knew no one i saw and no one recognised me. As i was getting closer to the home where I'd spent my favorite years , I was getting cold and wanted to run away before i saw amma's house , my house. It was in ruins. Some people who lived there had really not bothered about it. The farm beside it , where pigs and ducks jumped around was now barren and seemed like a dumpyard for burnt trees and all sorts of rubbish. The house itself looked desolate . The neighbours all still lived there, but no one was sitting out on their porches singing songs or calling out to us.
I'd never felt a bigger lump in my throat since when I'd learned of Amma's death. I was so sad. Just that . Sadness. I missed my foolishness, my days of bata chappals and polka dotted frocks , Of showing off about knowing math tables and of going to bed at 9. I missed the days when i thought that the world was like Chuim, pretty and full of wonder and warmth and people who cared. But most of all , I missed Amma. I cried for Amma. I cried for me.
She chose to see all the good stuff and ignore all the creepy things i did. Yes, i was a creep and i had erected a secret shrine to some broken piece of stone which i would bathe in milk and water and cover with a hibiscus everyday.I would also take a paint brush and dip it in water and then paint over the dusty leaves of plants growing in the house. She encouraged it all.
My sister and I did some pretty retarded things too. We "rode" the poor neighbours bitch , Lily and went around pretending she was a mare...We adamantly refused to learn the right name of some poor woman , whose name i don't recall because we only ever called her aunty .pepsi. We lived in our friends' dingy portuguese style houses ,playing with the chickens they bred giving them names. Some houses in our village were deserted and no one knew what had happened to them. But we did. We made stories about witches and old creepy men , and we told these stories so often that they became our truths.
I moved out of Chuim when i was six and i didnt go back there for 12 years. then a few days ago ,I decided to go back ,just to see how much it had changed. It was only a shadow of its glorious self. All the little villas had been converted into giant buildings. People walked around minding their own business. worst of all ,i knew no one i saw and no one recognised me. As i was getting closer to the home where I'd spent my favorite years , I was getting cold and wanted to run away before i saw amma's house , my house. It was in ruins. Some people who lived there had really not bothered about it. The farm beside it , where pigs and ducks jumped around was now barren and seemed like a dumpyard for burnt trees and all sorts of rubbish. The house itself looked desolate . The neighbours all still lived there, but no one was sitting out on their porches singing songs or calling out to us.
I'd never felt a bigger lump in my throat since when I'd learned of Amma's death. I was so sad. Just that . Sadness. I missed my foolishness, my days of bata chappals and polka dotted frocks , Of showing off about knowing math tables and of going to bed at 9. I missed the days when i thought that the world was like Chuim, pretty and full of wonder and warmth and people who cared. But most of all , I missed Amma. I cried for Amma. I cried for me.
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