Atom air into night;
Until when black dark.
Walk wire mortar tube;
Until when glint open.
Catch spark heartnet sweep;
Until when self hook.
...into lady
Monday, March 03, 2008
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Visceral Muliebrity and Philia Thereof
By the way, who’s Ann??? -- Bandwagon
It’s about two lives running parallel for a while. – MC Diaries
Maxine! Maxine! Maxine!-- Being John Malkovich
“The engulfing blow of contact isn’t enough, neither is the ensuing shudder. That something else works into her very indigenously. It is foolish than wisdom, ugly than beauty, slower than speed, worse than better… probably. But it is stronger than all of them. Everything you have doesn’t more than amuse her…. Cus, ‘It’ seeped into her long ago, she is used to ‘It’ and, ‘It’ has her…..”
He was thinking as he disconnectedly kept looking at her diagonally to his right. He was nodding his head to a slight hum and he wasn’t deliberate when only his eyes chose to radar her in occasional bouts. Because she wasn’t the her on his mind.
“It works her very early in life, when she is silly, slowly… ”
She had plump lips, no, succulent, and they weren’t closed. Her hair ran down her face in a couple of strands, the kind that are not combed so, but the kind that Rastafarians usually get out of undue care. Matted but not untidy. When she looked the iris touched the lashes, but intently. He saw she was on acid, but didn’t register the knowledge.
The fellow with the mike was putting on display his wormed brainmatter, singing unfigurative lyrics about Pity for orphans.
The rhythmic baritone hum was all was noddable of the song, and he nodded. “The sleeping beauty appreciated the prince’s charms after he seasons her; he didn’t charm her in initial contact…..”
***
Back at the bar, his friends suggested tripping on marijuana. “I don’t particularly feel like getting away” he protested. “One still exists, right?” she talked to herself without looking up. She was sitting on a nearby chair. That was all they said to each other in their entire lives and he threw a disinterested glance at her in the blue light; just as much as to recognize her outside afterwards.
“With some people, you theorize you are going to burn out. But everyone has lives they live, egos they hold fast; may be there would be a story…”
***
The event came to an end. There was still more than an hour of it to continue. Going home was as interesting an option as to sit through the show. She walked out into the darkness, away from the light and the people that wriggled into it. For him, the event ended when the first song started.
“How could life be so rare and yet cheap? How could courage, meaning and purpose be given away for a penny, to someone who doesn’t need it? Stillness haunts everyone. Pretty possible everything is made of void and waiting. But sometimes there are lives to be lived. Sometimes there are ripples. Marvelous ones that can stir stillness to fountains. And most times they sell cheap. Most times they don’t agree to be bought for more. And they go waste because they are bought by people with lucky lives.” He followed her.
It wasn’t a darkness where a blue sky was decorated with star dots and tree shades. Oh, well there was moonlight though. And there were cars scattered here and there, defunct ones. Mangled in synchronous perfection, as if God threw them there by design to rot away. And there was a smell of metal and sweet rust. And there was her. And he lost it from there.
“It wasn’t an issue of liking. There wasn’t anything in IT to be liked, and she was wise. It was a decision she carried, not made. There was a time she was silly, may be it stayed. But somehow it doesn’t seem the case.”
That was the last thought he thought. He didn’t mean to follow her. Exactly therefore, he did. Because it wouldn’t have been different otherwise. He didn’t think of why he had to get up and go, because he was thinking the final thought.
***
After that, he went blank, into white. After that there was no ‘her in the mind’, there was only her.
It lasted an undeterminable period of time. What it was was undeterminable too. “A dream dreamt as a succession of slides” was the closest he could call it afterwards. The means of perception and cognizance wasn’t visual though. It was plain data finding itself in the brain to perfect design, as if injected with a syringe in precise intervals.
He saw… and she was. He was, and she saw too.
The syringe was pierced at the same time into their skullbones, shots given in faultless tandem. But it wasn’t clear if every pair of shots had the same data. If they were living the same knowledge, or responsive knowledge… like, if his shot was a retort to her previous shot, vice versa.
She was…A shrill continuous shout; Fluid as feebly viscous as air.
If substance could exist in the basic sense of something being there, it was her. The only thing that can happen is it(she) be acted upon. Nevertheless that, not being its purpose.
The lack of intention, that it(she) is only acted upon, gives it unquestionable purity. It(she) can smear up infinite dirt and yet be unstained. Not even the greatest impurity, can keep it(her) from being the purest thing that can ever be.
She flutters among many consciousnesses. Because of her nature of absolute reactivity. The quality of it(she) being, utterly existing, gives it(her) the quality of being utterly vulnerable to impetus.
She also had her reputation stringed to her, as a tag to a prisoner, as a halo to a saint, a utility of immediate knowledge. People think about it(her), many things, and as what they think about it(her) are many, it is not technically called known.
And it is she.
And he is… irrelevant, insignificant. The onlooker.
He is the one that doesn’t know. And he admits it. Or rather doubts it. He doesn’t even know if he is admitting or doubting.
But, He exists too. Not like her though. He has qualities. Intrinsic qualities. It’s hard to say between his quality and his action.
He is the catcher, of unseen things. He has those tentacles, chain- like, and he knows which chain locks on which hinge.
That he has chains implies he has the knack for hinges. He also uses his chains for communication. He probably uses only them.
He is the actor. He acts. In the most native way that his acts are not actions but ‘being there’. That there is no intention to them, like how there is no intention to her ‘being there’.
People think about him, nothing, and as they think almost zero thoughts about him, he is not technically, ‘known’
He is not the only one of his kind. Spacecrafts didn’t bring him down. He genuinely and simply has nothing more than his mother’s egg and his father’s with a tail. He never found anyone of his ilk. Actually he never looked for them.
***
He and She have one thing in common: they are ‘organic beings’. Her kind, never were. His kind never were perceived.
And she troubled him. Sweet torments. The saccharine could cut. Of course kill too.
What was the trouble? What was the sweetness? Which were the tentacles? Which were the hinges? And what flowed? With green ethereal waves…traces?
This, was her saccharine: her fine crystalline poison that is tagged to her as was her reputation.
That she belonged to a microcosm. In her earlier days, her silly ones. That she smiled and was one with the sun, the trees, the tiled houses.
That it worked in her early, slowly. And she did it.
She did it… To the scent and weightlessness of her hair after her mother freshly washed them; as she romped around in countrified carelessness.
To the netted frocks she took out her closet to wear.
To the pastoral church she went to on Sundays. The ground she played in the evening.
When she smiled at the boy who was doing it to everything else too.
To her smile that bore the embryonic wetness and warmth of her blood and her emergent human viscera.
To the green smear of the grass on her noble gown, and brown stain of mud on her soap-smelling elbow, when she fell down purposefully with grace. Her hair spreading out in a circlic wave.
When she accomplished every human’s ultimate end—to take in completely everything that makes up ones world. When she felt her nerves on every tree, every home, every chair, every face, and everything. When she unfurled her libido and saw it on everything.
She did it when she held everything’s nerves in her hands, or brain, or heart, or sex and pulled at them at whim.
When everytime she slept, she woke up to a soft yellow sun and crisp bedcovers. When she lived in a continuous orgasm every waking hour, day after day, year after year until those days were over.
To those days when she fucked the world… and IT stayed. But IT fucked her too… and she was IT’s thereafter!
***
He saw… he saw that… that it has her… and everything else was passion, even if killing in its intensity, not permanent.
He moaned as each shot pressed his brain for space. As each knowledge burned his mind with pleasure. As she beautifully killed him with her interspersed saccharine.
He grieved that IT held her beyond his reach. And smiled that it was what gave her desirability.
All the time, she, in conformity to her nature, was perfectly and exactly reactive to him. She knew to hinge herself to his tentacles. She was in HIS consciousness.
It lasted an undeterminable period of time. And what it was was undeterminable too. But they knew, their lives could never reach the beauty of that state… of then… of now. Never before, never after. If they were silly lovers, they would hold hands and make promises of enduring espousal. Or if anything else, they would try to imprint the moment for eternity. But they weren’t that. So they lived.
They knew it was going to be shattered. But didn’t know it yet because they didn’t think it yet. So it happened, and they weren’t surprised.
The shudder shatterer was HIM.
***
He saw HIM. Not how he saw things till now, but as one knows an old acquaintance. Where HE knew HIM from, HE didn’t endeavor to dig into. He just knew he never thought much of HIM.
HIM is dirt.
HIM is substance, but has dirty intentions. They are dirty only because they didn’t belong.
HIM acts, with dirty intentions. They were also dirty only because they didn’t belong.
HIM is repulsive. Doesn’t induce hate, just is despicable. A sweet puny toddler with a dirty nose you
can smile genuinely at, but don’t relish the prospect of lifting it into your bosom. You like him though.
HIM smiles. When he does, he had disposed cars and twisted metal rusting his backdrop. And it felt
apt. HIM’s head was an egg, trunk shorter than the legs.
HIM’s eyes were empty and his mouth neither curved upwards nor down. But his stubble shines below it.
HIM was sad; it was his nature to be sad. Dirty sadness, the one you can’t show anybody, not even your solitude. HIM had weakness, had pain… had Her.
***
HIM smiled at HE and HE nodded a smile back.
She saw HIM walk to her. What it was was undeterminable, but it was determined, by both, that it was over. What was over, they didn’t know. And neither did they know who and what were in it.
As she walked away with HIM, her eyes chance on HE. As if someone looked at a stone on a gravel path. An object that gives you relative direction, an object you take care not to bump into.
HIM has a lot in common with IT. The IT she did it to early.slowly. The IT that has and keeps her, from HE.
But HIM was more likely the balancing antithesis of IT.
So, he looked at his watch and thought it was too late, even not to go to his empty, still apartment. And his hands went into his pockets as he walked.
It’s about two lives running parallel for a while. – MC Diaries
Maxine! Maxine! Maxine!-- Being John Malkovich
Ruby ruby ruby ruby!!! -- Kaiser Chiefs
ah, Girl! -- The Beatles
“The engulfing blow of contact isn’t enough, neither is the ensuing shudder. That something else works into her very indigenously. It is foolish than wisdom, ugly than beauty, slower than speed, worse than better… probably. But it is stronger than all of them. Everything you have doesn’t more than amuse her…. Cus, ‘It’ seeped into her long ago, she is used to ‘It’ and, ‘It’ has her…..”
He was thinking as he disconnectedly kept looking at her diagonally to his right. He was nodding his head to a slight hum and he wasn’t deliberate when only his eyes chose to radar her in occasional bouts. Because she wasn’t the her on his mind.
“It works her very early in life, when she is silly, slowly… ”
She had plump lips, no, succulent, and they weren’t closed. Her hair ran down her face in a couple of strands, the kind that are not combed so, but the kind that Rastafarians usually get out of undue care. Matted but not untidy. When she looked the iris touched the lashes, but intently. He saw she was on acid, but didn’t register the knowledge.
The fellow with the mike was putting on display his wormed brainmatter, singing unfigurative lyrics about Pity for orphans.
The rhythmic baritone hum was all was noddable of the song, and he nodded. “The sleeping beauty appreciated the prince’s charms after he seasons her; he didn’t charm her in initial contact…..”
***
Back at the bar, his friends suggested tripping on marijuana. “I don’t particularly feel like getting away” he protested. “One still exists, right?” she talked to herself without looking up. She was sitting on a nearby chair. That was all they said to each other in their entire lives and he threw a disinterested glance at her in the blue light; just as much as to recognize her outside afterwards.
“With some people, you theorize you are going to burn out. But everyone has lives they live, egos they hold fast; may be there would be a story…”
***
The event came to an end. There was still more than an hour of it to continue. Going home was as interesting an option as to sit through the show. She walked out into the darkness, away from the light and the people that wriggled into it. For him, the event ended when the first song started.
“How could life be so rare and yet cheap? How could courage, meaning and purpose be given away for a penny, to someone who doesn’t need it? Stillness haunts everyone. Pretty possible everything is made of void and waiting. But sometimes there are lives to be lived. Sometimes there are ripples. Marvelous ones that can stir stillness to fountains. And most times they sell cheap. Most times they don’t agree to be bought for more. And they go waste because they are bought by people with lucky lives.” He followed her.
It wasn’t a darkness where a blue sky was decorated with star dots and tree shades. Oh, well there was moonlight though. And there were cars scattered here and there, defunct ones. Mangled in synchronous perfection, as if God threw them there by design to rot away. And there was a smell of metal and sweet rust. And there was her. And he lost it from there.
“It wasn’t an issue of liking. There wasn’t anything in IT to be liked, and she was wise. It was a decision she carried, not made. There was a time she was silly, may be it stayed. But somehow it doesn’t seem the case.”
That was the last thought he thought. He didn’t mean to follow her. Exactly therefore, he did. Because it wouldn’t have been different otherwise. He didn’t think of why he had to get up and go, because he was thinking the final thought.
***
After that, he went blank, into white. After that there was no ‘her in the mind’, there was only her.
It lasted an undeterminable period of time. What it was was undeterminable too. “A dream dreamt as a succession of slides” was the closest he could call it afterwards. The means of perception and cognizance wasn’t visual though. It was plain data finding itself in the brain to perfect design, as if injected with a syringe in precise intervals.
He saw… and she was. He was, and she saw too.
The syringe was pierced at the same time into their skullbones, shots given in faultless tandem. But it wasn’t clear if every pair of shots had the same data. If they were living the same knowledge, or responsive knowledge… like, if his shot was a retort to her previous shot, vice versa.
She was…A shrill continuous shout; Fluid as feebly viscous as air.
If substance could exist in the basic sense of something being there, it was her. The only thing that can happen is it(she) be acted upon. Nevertheless that, not being its purpose.
The lack of intention, that it(she) is only acted upon, gives it unquestionable purity. It(she) can smear up infinite dirt and yet be unstained. Not even the greatest impurity, can keep it(her) from being the purest thing that can ever be.
She flutters among many consciousnesses. Because of her nature of absolute reactivity. The quality of it(she) being, utterly existing, gives it(her) the quality of being utterly vulnerable to impetus.
She also had her reputation stringed to her, as a tag to a prisoner, as a halo to a saint, a utility of immediate knowledge. People think about it(her), many things, and as what they think about it(her) are many, it is not technically called known.
And it is she.
And he is… irrelevant, insignificant. The onlooker.
He is the one that doesn’t know. And he admits it. Or rather doubts it. He doesn’t even know if he is admitting or doubting.
But, He exists too. Not like her though. He has qualities. Intrinsic qualities. It’s hard to say between his quality and his action.
He is the catcher, of unseen things. He has those tentacles, chain- like, and he knows which chain locks on which hinge.
That he has chains implies he has the knack for hinges. He also uses his chains for communication. He probably uses only them.
He is the actor. He acts. In the most native way that his acts are not actions but ‘being there’. That there is no intention to them, like how there is no intention to her ‘being there’.
People think about him, nothing, and as they think almost zero thoughts about him, he is not technically, ‘known’
He is not the only one of his kind. Spacecrafts didn’t bring him down. He genuinely and simply has nothing more than his mother’s egg and his father’s with a tail. He never found anyone of his ilk. Actually he never looked for them.
***
He and She have one thing in common: they are ‘organic beings’. Her kind, never were. His kind never were perceived.
And she troubled him. Sweet torments. The saccharine could cut. Of course kill too.
What was the trouble? What was the sweetness? Which were the tentacles? Which were the hinges? And what flowed? With green ethereal waves…traces?
This, was her saccharine: her fine crystalline poison that is tagged to her as was her reputation.
That she belonged to a microcosm. In her earlier days, her silly ones. That she smiled and was one with the sun, the trees, the tiled houses.
That it worked in her early, slowly. And she did it.
She did it… To the scent and weightlessness of her hair after her mother freshly washed them; as she romped around in countrified carelessness.
To the netted frocks she took out her closet to wear.
To the pastoral church she went to on Sundays. The ground she played in the evening.
When she smiled at the boy who was doing it to everything else too.
To her smile that bore the embryonic wetness and warmth of her blood and her emergent human viscera.
To the green smear of the grass on her noble gown, and brown stain of mud on her soap-smelling elbow, when she fell down purposefully with grace. Her hair spreading out in a circlic wave.
When she accomplished every human’s ultimate end—to take in completely everything that makes up ones world. When she felt her nerves on every tree, every home, every chair, every face, and everything. When she unfurled her libido and saw it on everything.
She did it when she held everything’s nerves in her hands, or brain, or heart, or sex and pulled at them at whim.
When everytime she slept, she woke up to a soft yellow sun and crisp bedcovers. When she lived in a continuous orgasm every waking hour, day after day, year after year until those days were over.
To those days when she fucked the world… and IT stayed. But IT fucked her too… and she was IT’s thereafter!
***
He saw… he saw that… that it has her… and everything else was passion, even if killing in its intensity, not permanent.
He moaned as each shot pressed his brain for space. As each knowledge burned his mind with pleasure. As she beautifully killed him with her interspersed saccharine.
He grieved that IT held her beyond his reach. And smiled that it was what gave her desirability.
All the time, she, in conformity to her nature, was perfectly and exactly reactive to him. She knew to hinge herself to his tentacles. She was in HIS consciousness.
It lasted an undeterminable period of time. And what it was was undeterminable too. But they knew, their lives could never reach the beauty of that state… of then… of now. Never before, never after. If they were silly lovers, they would hold hands and make promises of enduring espousal. Or if anything else, they would try to imprint the moment for eternity. But they weren’t that. So they lived.
They knew it was going to be shattered. But didn’t know it yet because they didn’t think it yet. So it happened, and they weren’t surprised.
The shudder shatterer was HIM.
***
He saw HIM. Not how he saw things till now, but as one knows an old acquaintance. Where HE knew HIM from, HE didn’t endeavor to dig into. He just knew he never thought much of HIM.
HIM is dirt.
HIM is substance, but has dirty intentions. They are dirty only because they didn’t belong.
HIM acts, with dirty intentions. They were also dirty only because they didn’t belong.
HIM is repulsive. Doesn’t induce hate, just is despicable. A sweet puny toddler with a dirty nose you
can smile genuinely at, but don’t relish the prospect of lifting it into your bosom. You like him though.
HIM smiles. When he does, he had disposed cars and twisted metal rusting his backdrop. And it felt
apt. HIM’s head was an egg, trunk shorter than the legs.
HIM’s eyes were empty and his mouth neither curved upwards nor down. But his stubble shines below it.
HIM was sad; it was his nature to be sad. Dirty sadness, the one you can’t show anybody, not even your solitude. HIM had weakness, had pain… had Her.
***
HIM smiled at HE and HE nodded a smile back.
She saw HIM walk to her. What it was was undeterminable, but it was determined, by both, that it was over. What was over, they didn’t know. And neither did they know who and what were in it.
As she walked away with HIM, her eyes chance on HE. As if someone looked at a stone on a gravel path. An object that gives you relative direction, an object you take care not to bump into.
HIM has a lot in common with IT. The IT she did it to early.slowly. The IT that has and keeps her, from HE.
But HIM was more likely the balancing antithesis of IT.
So, he looked at his watch and thought it was too late, even not to go to his empty, still apartment. And his hands went into his pockets as he walked.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
WHYZZZAGGG!!
(travel)
The car rode an abrupt bend and then a rise, and I saw twinkles in the sky; countless; each living only for a jiffy; and passing on the life to its neighbour which would glow to its highest potential taking that generous little... as a zillion more would do that instant; and die; And be followed by an infinity more. The road spanned and inclined only a few meters ahead, after which was a distinct visual end; as if the sky opened from there without a gate. The sun and its shine were glassy. The sky was a strongly spread immense steel blanket and took up more than my eyereach. And the stains still shined.
It was the sea... cleaving the sky with such knack that you just cant make it out. And it was so high adding to the illusion. And they were the tiny aquatic disturbances... spread over every available space in the expanse; and they wanted to be collectively bigger than the sea that held them. They were catching the sun and throwing it on to me in disparate packets. Did they know I was emaciated? But surely, they didn't care.
Next instant, everyone was singing inside the car. It was no more enough to just listen. I don't know if the driver wanted to flout his master's(our host) high standing, but the CD player was speaking English. Nobody was aware the other was singing too... and I sang along "tell me why aint nothing but a mistake...". After a second, a didactic cousin said, "brother, isn't that a chutia song???" and i said "brother, I can even sing 'Hallelujah Stuti Mahima(a tawdry hymn hackneyed to levels transcending discomfort )'... I'm riding beside the sea".
That was how I woke up to Vizag. I yearned for the beach when they told me a month ago. I wanted to count days. During a 15 min supper-break, I stared into the mindless traffic on a broken road, thought of my boss, my stinking job and thanked God for giving me a "beach" to think about. That was before I quit. After I quit, the yearning died down and finally I was just a corpse appending a travelling group with emotionless responsibility. And when the sea presented itself, I woke up and saw this new city Vizag.
I like the city or may be I should say I liked what I saw. It was just 2 days, 3 beaches, 2 childish amusement spots, 1 ropeway, 2 hotels, 1 house, and 1 ride on some hills. The landscape was uneven; roads winded; lanes clean and deserted; apartments spread along sea coasts (and reportedly cost 15-20 lakhs); corporate buildings called for celebration; views from hilltops were comprehensive pictures(one was a postcard) -- ships, docks, factories, metal, green, water, houses, schools, army etc.; a hilltop village raised silly questions; a light house took pride in antiquity; fresh moss on damp walls did nothing and a cousin wanted to join the navy. And the whole thing gave a feel of immense vacancy... of room, waiting to be occupied... of things to be bought, built, initiated, celebrated. Or may be all this was only inside my head.
There was a certain lean lane; which the coconut trees never ceased to flank. The houses sprinkled here and there were hidden under possessive greenery; and were dark and sullen. There were a few more such places... places of contagious purity. Sometimes the clean-ness seeps into you, or hits you with a whack, or gushes through your fabric. It loosens your heart; something which hardens over the years, over each passing tribulation; making you unresponsive to sin, given or taken... and you carry home a wee empathy for brothers... May be that's what they meant by the absolving effect of the Ganges.
The sea was a little un-swimmable. Water a tad too salty and the retreating currents too strong. The waves left behind black soot (presumably industrial) on the sand. But nothing could take away from the feel of standing right under a wave hooded at double your height and lurching forward to take the smack; to lose yourself in a battalion of salty bubbles charging at you; to get swept off the feet and lose sense of direction with the sun being the only confused compass... all u can see.
The mountains were an other thing. Your neck hurts from twisting, but you wont take your eyes off them. Big, Mighty, Solemn, Perennial. Most importantly, they drown you in insidious nostalgia; as if they were your friends, and only yours and were long lost; and they convey a re-affirmation; seem to say "Yes, we are still here... you just got a bit hazy; don't mind the fools, we know it happens". And you take strength in their being Big; that they have been there for numberless years now, and will be; that they sit so lazily and they don't care; and ofcourse, that they are your friends. Natural bodies, the Mammoth ones, are amazing.
I guess I made the best of all that came along, but I realise, I need to still learn the art of visiting places; of being a traveller. After the initial impact, you are sucked into a miry fugue; a certain state from where you cant relate to the past that was till yesterday and also to the immediate surroundings, ie the new place. A traveller knows to hold on tight his life before the travel and to superimpose it against each silly thing and experience of his travel. Not to get carried away, but to contrast his 'yesterday' and 'today' and 'now'. And even if he does get carried away, still do it !
Also this was the second time I was pissed off with my company. Choose your company or expect scum. They constrict and choke you. Eventually, that place becomes a terrible waste of space... wasted forever, unable to find a place in your perception and memory. I said it to myself again --- Next time I go anywhere, I gotta go alone.
Friday, November 17, 2006
To Us
We are not normal.
Its not easy. Its wrong, frightening.
There is nothing fashionable, elite or even distinctive about it.
Its rather an impediment. An underdevelopment. An incapacity. An underdog.
About not fitting in. About living in your own fucking world and your unctuous soliloquies.
About constantly impregnating, processing and indulging in notions that seem so grand and beautiful when you are to yourself, but are absurd in confederation with things and instances outside you… absurd even to you.
About hatching values that don’t hold good outside and don’t realize. And you wait, taking foolish pride in your martyrdom, your suffering, considering your pain exclusive and aristocratic, enjoying it.
About reveling in a cosm that you cant translate to the person next to you, to groups of people you meet, to things, to life.
About finding it incomprehensible and alien, what the rest of your species finds normal everyday things.
About not being atleast ‘the other kind’, but just ‘not of the kind’.
Don’t even think you are special. Gone are the days of ‘special people’. You can’t be special when there are a million more reprobates like you. ‘Specialty’ stands out. You are doomed to oblivion.
U see… u aren’t making a difference… not to the world, not to you.
Perennially, and ultimately being condemned to silent, strict loneliness.
Its not easy. Its wrong, frightening.
There is nothing fashionable, elite or even distinctive about it.
Its rather an impediment. An underdevelopment. An incapacity. An underdog.
About not fitting in. About living in your own fucking world and your unctuous soliloquies.
About constantly impregnating, processing and indulging in notions that seem so grand and beautiful when you are to yourself, but are absurd in confederation with things and instances outside you… absurd even to you.
About hatching values that don’t hold good outside and don’t realize. And you wait, taking foolish pride in your martyrdom, your suffering, considering your pain exclusive and aristocratic, enjoying it.
About reveling in a cosm that you cant translate to the person next to you, to groups of people you meet, to things, to life.
About finding it incomprehensible and alien, what the rest of your species finds normal everyday things.
About not being atleast ‘the other kind’, but just ‘not of the kind’.
Don’t even think you are special. Gone are the days of ‘special people’. You can’t be special when there are a million more reprobates like you. ‘Specialty’ stands out. You are doomed to oblivion.
U see… u aren’t making a difference… not to the world, not to you.
Perennially, and ultimately being condemned to silent, strict loneliness.
Sunday, October 29, 2006
Of Gall, God and Guilt
Of all the words in all the languages I knew, I could just come up with 'BORING'! I said that and continued watching television. For a moment I didn’t realize what a jitter I caused in one of those pleasant slumbersome sunday early morning tea times.
I had unconsciously wrinkled my eyes and strained my brow to align with the momentary discomfort, and said "No, I don’t want to go to church; its …(gap)…. boring". And I said that to my aunt, for whom the church is not just ‘everything in life’ but also kind of the ‘only thing’…. And then it dawned on me what a heretic thing I said; my aunt started something like "I absolutely don’t like your decision…etc,etc"… and my mind began to roll into the thick of things. Afterwards, to placate her, I told her I would ride her to church....
Meanwhile, I was suddenly flooded with all those times when the notion of ‘God’ gave me terrible discomfort. I still wake up at sudden dark hours of the morning, when the devils bring to me in utter clarity, unwanted regurgitation and nauseous remorse, certain pieces of elapsed time that make me want to die. Memories of times when a ‘drunk hulky goon bastard of a (previously) close friend’ was closing in on me after goring up another friend—blood everywhere—and all that was running in my mind was "should I pray? Now?"; Subsequently getting beaten up and testifying an untruth to inquiring neighbors under the dark horror of my oppressor; Of times when, after being whisked away to some far-flung godforsaken village, I literally shivered answering and standing before a police inspector; Of sounds of lathi strokes, banging tables and thudding chairs coming out of a police cell where a friend was being interrogated…. knowing that it was I next; Of times when I cringed like a mouse and made innumerable frantic calls (and got em made) to all constabulary that was accessible; Of times when I whored my pride and arrogance to every relative and acquaintance who had substantial ‘contacts’…people I never gave a damn to before; Of times when I was sick, in unbearable pain, with the world seeming like coming to an end and when I no longer could put up a brave front and secretly sought strength from beyond; Of times when people prayed for me and I was thankful to them for that; and all those times when I let myself down.
I feel a terrible sense of shame. Like standing naked on a busy road with my stomach cut and my innards spread in my palms. Those are terrible mornings when sleep mercilessly flies away, and neither television can salvage me, nor a chilly dead walk outside, nor chai in an irani café with ‘newspaper reading crispy people just out of a bath with hairs so nicely combed as if they expect a airplane landing’.
These are the things that cripple me, that have left scars so deep that they could bleed today’s deeds and dreams. I terribly wish these things were not a part of my past. That I could some how go back and change them. That I could somehow go back and stand tall. That I could somehow go back and get beaten up for being myself than shrinking myself and still getting beaten up. Damn!
I can imagine how Helen (of troy)’s lover felt, with a sword on his neck and a betrayed husband in his face; how he felt as death demanded either his pride or himself; how he felt seeking refuge for himself at his brother’s feet as everything that he every loved lay bare and unprotected on the battlefield.
The pertinent facet to all this is that I said a prayer almost in all of those situations. I was forced to. I prayed even if I didn’t mean to. (And most of the times it so happened that I escaped unhurt and ofcourse the eternal question persists: luck or lord?)
Now, these two things are entwined: my not being able to stand up to myself and, (consequentially) turning to God. (Whether turning to God is good or bad is an impertinent issue and can wait for another day). Thinking of the latter gives me the sting of the former…I scream.
It would be all-fine to find God boring and inapplicable on a lazy Sunday morning. But just as i tend to settle into such impudent comfort, the devils come back to me in malicious mockery; as if saying "You pretentious trifle, do you really think you can afford to be so cool??"...As Ernest Hemingway puts it, : " It is awfully easy to be hard-boiled about everything in the daytime, but at night it is another thing."
And I come back home after dropping my aunt at church, to an amused and smiling uncle (who shares my religious sentiment only for that particular church, and sneers at his wife’s improportionate allegiance to it) who was elated that I kind-of broke the law… and as I sit beside him, he hands over the TV remote to me, mocking, "ctrl+alt+del to the church eh??"(he recently learnt and is fascinated by the function of ctrlaltdel on a computer) :)
I had unconsciously wrinkled my eyes and strained my brow to align with the momentary discomfort, and said "No, I don’t want to go to church; its …(gap)…. boring". And I said that to my aunt, for whom the church is not just ‘everything in life’ but also kind of the ‘only thing’…. And then it dawned on me what a heretic thing I said; my aunt started something like "I absolutely don’t like your decision…etc,etc"… and my mind began to roll into the thick of things. Afterwards, to placate her, I told her I would ride her to church....
Meanwhile, I was suddenly flooded with all those times when the notion of ‘God’ gave me terrible discomfort. I still wake up at sudden dark hours of the morning, when the devils bring to me in utter clarity, unwanted regurgitation and nauseous remorse, certain pieces of elapsed time that make me want to die. Memories of times when a ‘drunk hulky goon bastard of a (previously) close friend’ was closing in on me after goring up another friend—blood everywhere—and all that was running in my mind was "should I pray? Now?"; Subsequently getting beaten up and testifying an untruth to inquiring neighbors under the dark horror of my oppressor; Of times when, after being whisked away to some far-flung godforsaken village, I literally shivered answering and standing before a police inspector; Of sounds of lathi strokes, banging tables and thudding chairs coming out of a police cell where a friend was being interrogated…. knowing that it was I next; Of times when I cringed like a mouse and made innumerable frantic calls (and got em made) to all constabulary that was accessible; Of times when I whored my pride and arrogance to every relative and acquaintance who had substantial ‘contacts’…people I never gave a damn to before; Of times when I was sick, in unbearable pain, with the world seeming like coming to an end and when I no longer could put up a brave front and secretly sought strength from beyond; Of times when people prayed for me and I was thankful to them for that; and all those times when I let myself down.
I feel a terrible sense of shame. Like standing naked on a busy road with my stomach cut and my innards spread in my palms. Those are terrible mornings when sleep mercilessly flies away, and neither television can salvage me, nor a chilly dead walk outside, nor chai in an irani café with ‘newspaper reading crispy people just out of a bath with hairs so nicely combed as if they expect a airplane landing’.
These are the things that cripple me, that have left scars so deep that they could bleed today’s deeds and dreams. I terribly wish these things were not a part of my past. That I could some how go back and change them. That I could somehow go back and stand tall. That I could somehow go back and get beaten up for being myself than shrinking myself and still getting beaten up. Damn!
I can imagine how Helen (of troy)’s lover felt, with a sword on his neck and a betrayed husband in his face; how he felt as death demanded either his pride or himself; how he felt seeking refuge for himself at his brother’s feet as everything that he every loved lay bare and unprotected on the battlefield.
The pertinent facet to all this is that I said a prayer almost in all of those situations. I was forced to. I prayed even if I didn’t mean to. (And most of the times it so happened that I escaped unhurt and ofcourse the eternal question persists: luck or lord?)
Now, these two things are entwined: my not being able to stand up to myself and, (consequentially) turning to God. (Whether turning to God is good or bad is an impertinent issue and can wait for another day). Thinking of the latter gives me the sting of the former…I scream.
It would be all-fine to find God boring and inapplicable on a lazy Sunday morning. But just as i tend to settle into such impudent comfort, the devils come back to me in malicious mockery; as if saying "You pretentious trifle, do you really think you can afford to be so cool??"...As Ernest Hemingway puts it, : " It is awfully easy to be hard-boiled about everything in the daytime, but at night it is another thing."
And I come back home after dropping my aunt at church, to an amused and smiling uncle (who shares my religious sentiment only for that particular church, and sneers at his wife’s improportionate allegiance to it) who was elated that I kind-of broke the law… and as I sit beside him, he hands over the TV remote to me, mocking, "ctrl+alt+del to the church eh??"(he recently learnt and is fascinated by the function of ctrlaltdel on a computer) :)
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
A Break From Living.
Or rather was it ‘For living’? whatever it was, I find it nice to be here this moment.
So much happened in the last few months. Much of it was not eventful though… just a lot of small things coming into me and spurting out, and the process was incessant and seemingly long.
I liked it, to be busy. Not to have time to think, not to have time to plan but to just react. Not to put a limit to existence and actions by analysis and hypothecation respectively. It was like coming out of yourself and watching you going about things and occasionally saying an ‘Oh’.
But the second time you do something, there is no way how you can do it without thinking about how you did it the first time; and I was reiterating chores like hell. Then, there were other things that sprang up; some related, others entirely new. And I just found myself taking everything processing it, discarding, taking the next that was thrown at me, and so on…
I lost myself; I gave an ‘Oh’ also to the errors I did occasionally, and they began to define me. I felt an obligation to err again, because (I felt) that was honestly what I am. I began losing myself…losing things…then I lost track. Completely indifferent, unaware, and numb to whatever went on. I didn’t know what was what; and I remember questioning myself if I was going mad.
Then I found a stop-gap... a few days with no obligation to work; and to thinking also (its kinda good when you don’t need to think). I had an impulse to read (probably, I wanted to tune myself newly to the feel of a new book before I confront the new job and its people again.) It didn’t materialize. I came home… I thought it would be nice to go home, but am nor sure if that’s why I came home.
This is like a break from living. When you can get into a comatose with your eyes open and a completely stilled brain. Just a meaningless pause before you play again-its nice. And it might also be a break ‘for living’. Cus, in a way, I don’t like that hum of incessant barren activity, and I might as well take a break, re-acknowledge and redefine priorities, come into grips with myself… But I like the first one and think its more true.
A few good things brushed me by…(good as not in the antonym of bad)
I met a grandmother today. My mom is goading me to a lot of places lately. She is not a direct granny anyway, and she was old. ‘Old’ as in really old when you are no longer yourself , and just a something that is ‘still living’. I was frightened of old age as long as I was there. When we first went in, my mom (as always) intruded into the granny’s room and came back telling me that she was peeing in a pan on her bed; she also told me she gave an empty look. We waited and she was brought in a wheelchair. I was never personally close to her, but felt obligation for love out of blood. I tried to express that and say something, but ended up with strange reactions. My mom kept on prodding her to remember me and speak something, but she never spoke a word. All she did was some ‘nods’ and stare at me with big eyes that were incapable of expressing what was being felt. She was kept clean but was very sick-dirty and there was dirt in her nails. I managed to press her wrist while saying a quick ‘Bye mammagaru’… she still stared as I came out.
My mom took me to my direct granny (her mom) yesterday. This is an altogether different story with she being with her son (my uncle), and all the family finicky-ly following their own weird interpretation of the Bible. They cut themselves from the world and rest of the family, and there is a certain sensitivity in the air when relatives get to meet them. This granny had also become very scrawny and old; but she was far too active and still alert. She was hyperactive a few years back, so much that it would get on to my dad’s nerves when she came visiting. She was very happy to see me; I could see that in her eyes and the way she smiled. But she was restrained, and didn’t speak much… I felt as if she really didn’t like being in that house. She gave me biscuits and cake, and came to the gate when we left… I didn’t touch her though.
And just an hour ago, when I went to drop my mom at her work, we came across a certain woman just outside the ‘Creche’ (that’s where my mom works). Her name was ‘puspakka’ a maid at the crèche when I was an infant. Back then, my mom took me to work with her, and pushpakka used to care for me, with all motherly duties as in bathing me, feeding me, washing me when I peed and cradling me to sleep. That went on for quite some years until I went to kindergarten; I anyway only have very faint memories. Pushpakka has retired, went blind, and reportedly been asking my mom after me. My mom made me stop the bike on the middle of the road, called her name, went and fetched her, holding her by the arm. As she came near, I saw that she could see the frame of my body as she stretched out her hands to find my shoulders. When she did, she clung on to me and hugged me real hard. I could not help but put my hand on her back and do something like a press-n-pat. It made me feel good that this woman had real feelings for me in the middle of a busy road. And then she groped away with her company.
Apart from unnecessarily holding an air of Einstein who had just returned after discovering e=mc2, these things gave me a sense of heritage; of being grounded; having a history and being wanted… but only for a second… real or unreal.
So much happened in the last few months. Much of it was not eventful though… just a lot of small things coming into me and spurting out, and the process was incessant and seemingly long.
I liked it, to be busy. Not to have time to think, not to have time to plan but to just react. Not to put a limit to existence and actions by analysis and hypothecation respectively. It was like coming out of yourself and watching you going about things and occasionally saying an ‘Oh’.
But the second time you do something, there is no way how you can do it without thinking about how you did it the first time; and I was reiterating chores like hell. Then, there were other things that sprang up; some related, others entirely new. And I just found myself taking everything processing it, discarding, taking the next that was thrown at me, and so on…
I lost myself; I gave an ‘Oh’ also to the errors I did occasionally, and they began to define me. I felt an obligation to err again, because (I felt) that was honestly what I am. I began losing myself…losing things…then I lost track. Completely indifferent, unaware, and numb to whatever went on. I didn’t know what was what; and I remember questioning myself if I was going mad.
Then I found a stop-gap... a few days with no obligation to work; and to thinking also (its kinda good when you don’t need to think). I had an impulse to read (probably, I wanted to tune myself newly to the feel of a new book before I confront the new job and its people again.) It didn’t materialize. I came home… I thought it would be nice to go home, but am nor sure if that’s why I came home.
This is like a break from living. When you can get into a comatose with your eyes open and a completely stilled brain. Just a meaningless pause before you play again-its nice. And it might also be a break ‘for living’. Cus, in a way, I don’t like that hum of incessant barren activity, and I might as well take a break, re-acknowledge and redefine priorities, come into grips with myself… But I like the first one and think its more true.
A few good things brushed me by…(good as not in the antonym of bad)
I met a grandmother today. My mom is goading me to a lot of places lately. She is not a direct granny anyway, and she was old. ‘Old’ as in really old when you are no longer yourself , and just a something that is ‘still living’. I was frightened of old age as long as I was there. When we first went in, my mom (as always) intruded into the granny’s room and came back telling me that she was peeing in a pan on her bed; she also told me she gave an empty look. We waited and she was brought in a wheelchair. I was never personally close to her, but felt obligation for love out of blood. I tried to express that and say something, but ended up with strange reactions. My mom kept on prodding her to remember me and speak something, but she never spoke a word. All she did was some ‘nods’ and stare at me with big eyes that were incapable of expressing what was being felt. She was kept clean but was very sick-dirty and there was dirt in her nails. I managed to press her wrist while saying a quick ‘Bye mammagaru’… she still stared as I came out.
My mom took me to my direct granny (her mom) yesterday. This is an altogether different story with she being with her son (my uncle), and all the family finicky-ly following their own weird interpretation of the Bible. They cut themselves from the world and rest of the family, and there is a certain sensitivity in the air when relatives get to meet them. This granny had also become very scrawny and old; but she was far too active and still alert. She was hyperactive a few years back, so much that it would get on to my dad’s nerves when she came visiting. She was very happy to see me; I could see that in her eyes and the way she smiled. But she was restrained, and didn’t speak much… I felt as if she really didn’t like being in that house. She gave me biscuits and cake, and came to the gate when we left… I didn’t touch her though.
And just an hour ago, when I went to drop my mom at her work, we came across a certain woman just outside the ‘Creche’ (that’s where my mom works). Her name was ‘puspakka’ a maid at the crèche when I was an infant. Back then, my mom took me to work with her, and pushpakka used to care for me, with all motherly duties as in bathing me, feeding me, washing me when I peed and cradling me to sleep. That went on for quite some years until I went to kindergarten; I anyway only have very faint memories. Pushpakka has retired, went blind, and reportedly been asking my mom after me. My mom made me stop the bike on the middle of the road, called her name, went and fetched her, holding her by the arm. As she came near, I saw that she could see the frame of my body as she stretched out her hands to find my shoulders. When she did, she clung on to me and hugged me real hard. I could not help but put my hand on her back and do something like a press-n-pat. It made me feel good that this woman had real feelings for me in the middle of a busy road. And then she groped away with her company.
Apart from unnecessarily holding an air of Einstein who had just returned after discovering e=mc2, these things gave me a sense of heritage; of being grounded; having a history and being wanted… but only for a second… real or unreal.
Monday, September 25, 2006
The End -- An Obituary
(Ill never look-in to your eyes... again)
When my call was disconnected after four rings, I knew…-- he was being burnt. ‘Burning’ suddenly seemed a wrong choice of word, a milder and covetable prospect than ‘Being heated to ashes’. It’s this thing with electric incinerators… they reek disrespect, vainness and a melancholy that Poe describes as ‘lacking the poetic element of sadness’; it’s terrible.
I would have had a chance to see him for the last time, even though dead, had I been lazy as usual. But today, I got up at 5 o clock to catch a train to my home town without further deferring. But it frightens me that I don’t regret it; I somehow don’t mind it either way.
So here I am, sitting in the moonless dusk on the ‘daba’ of my house - that I have come back to in eager anticipation of a miraculous reviving rest; the city sapped me again - between the tank and the parapet wall, trying to shoo the invisible mosquitoes feasting on my feet. And I’m trying, to visualize how my friend was feeling inside the ‘heater’ that very moment. Afterwards, someone said that it was terribly hot 10 feet away from the mouth of the heater!
Suresh and I were never great friends; we just spent a lot of time together. It is difficult to find any similarity in any aspects that make up the persons that we are. Things between us ranged from gigantically passive ‘difference of opinions’ to being pissed off. But the thing is, he features in most of the good times and eventful times I had over the recent years. He was a friend of a friend; but even though it was not obvious, I could discern that he had a certain corner for me; we shared a certain ‘understood’ proximity within the group of friends. The group always met because we had nothing much to do and the conversations were always superficial (unless terribly drunk, when they would get super-personal). The superficiality was probably because nobody wanted to create a sissy atmosphere; everybody sought relationships in complex processes that under-ran these superficial conversations.
Suresh was no ‘Great Hero’. He was just an other guy, trying to get on with his life. But there was definitely something in him that sets him apart, a distinctive trait. I wouldn’t go into trying to figure out what it is, but just suffice to say that he was 33, unmarried, not firmly employed, ex-president of state-wide fans association of his favorite filmstar, yielded cricketer-wannabe (friends say he had considerable wicket keeping skills), unsatisfied and had a history of alcohol rehabilitation apart from a prolonged estranged relationship with his father that ended recently.
As my moribund speakers now sing ‘Life goes on within you and without you’ in an elegiac tone, I find myself wondering what, if there is anything, is it that, which flows within you and without you. It’s bad, because there was no logic in the sequence of things that made up this person’s ‘Life’. He dared to experiment paying high prices at each step, and finally when it seemed like the experimental phase was over and he was beginning to build on the inferences, death cut him short. It is not fair when you are made to learn the rules of a game yourself and not allowed to play when the game starts. Therefore I fret if there is anything that really runs within us and without us and gives meaning to everything. He longed much for so much… I seriously think all that was his rightful due.
In all possibility, this is going to be a defining incident of my life of considerable impact. I lived in him substantially, and that part of me is dead now.
I haven’t cried a single tear all day; even when my friend told me on the phone that, apparently, one of the last things Suresh inquired after was a couple of us friends. I felt guilty about it and subsequently shunned it; anything guilt-induced would be dis-respectful. I know, it is going to come back to me…. In waves; one fine morning I’m gonna stop wiping my bike and think that this person is not going to start his scrupulous scooter today in Mettuguda and go all the way along Chilkalguda, Musheerabad, RTC X roads, Narayanguda and reach Malakpet right on time; some evening I would stop and think that those evenings when he would call me up and suggest a drink are infact over. It would gradually get into me that the fact that I don’t meet this guy much now-a-day is not because we might have gotten busy with our stuff, but cus he is dead.
Now that I’ve seen death at a certain close range, now that death doesn’t appear so far, now that death is much of a neighbor than a distant friend, now that death is a practical possibility and also a stupidity that can scoop out the meaning from my life in an insane jiffy, I run my mind through something I considered many times earlier also—to take a chance when it comes to you, do when you still can, and not to pack wonderful things in ‘tomorrow’ cus tomorrow is always death’s property. I know tomorrow is still going to be the same; in some future point, I'm going to again remember that I forgot such things . I’m still going to say to myself that I should have run to Her at the very first idea, knowing that I wouldn’t do it if it was ‘NOW’.
When my call was disconnected after four rings, I knew…-- he was being burnt. ‘Burning’ suddenly seemed a wrong choice of word, a milder and covetable prospect than ‘Being heated to ashes’. It’s this thing with electric incinerators… they reek disrespect, vainness and a melancholy that Poe describes as ‘lacking the poetic element of sadness’; it’s terrible.
I would have had a chance to see him for the last time, even though dead, had I been lazy as usual. But today, I got up at 5 o clock to catch a train to my home town without further deferring. But it frightens me that I don’t regret it; I somehow don’t mind it either way.
So here I am, sitting in the moonless dusk on the ‘daba’ of my house - that I have come back to in eager anticipation of a miraculous reviving rest; the city sapped me again - between the tank and the parapet wall, trying to shoo the invisible mosquitoes feasting on my feet. And I’m trying, to visualize how my friend was feeling inside the ‘heater’ that very moment. Afterwards, someone said that it was terribly hot 10 feet away from the mouth of the heater!
Suresh and I were never great friends; we just spent a lot of time together. It is difficult to find any similarity in any aspects that make up the persons that we are. Things between us ranged from gigantically passive ‘difference of opinions’ to being pissed off. But the thing is, he features in most of the good times and eventful times I had over the recent years. He was a friend of a friend; but even though it was not obvious, I could discern that he had a certain corner for me; we shared a certain ‘understood’ proximity within the group of friends. The group always met because we had nothing much to do and the conversations were always superficial (unless terribly drunk, when they would get super-personal). The superficiality was probably because nobody wanted to create a sissy atmosphere; everybody sought relationships in complex processes that under-ran these superficial conversations.
Suresh was no ‘Great Hero’. He was just an other guy, trying to get on with his life. But there was definitely something in him that sets him apart, a distinctive trait. I wouldn’t go into trying to figure out what it is, but just suffice to say that he was 33, unmarried, not firmly employed, ex-president of state-wide fans association of his favorite filmstar, yielded cricketer-wannabe (friends say he had considerable wicket keeping skills), unsatisfied and had a history of alcohol rehabilitation apart from a prolonged estranged relationship with his father that ended recently.
As my moribund speakers now sing ‘Life goes on within you and without you’ in an elegiac tone, I find myself wondering what, if there is anything, is it that, which flows within you and without you. It’s bad, because there was no logic in the sequence of things that made up this person’s ‘Life’. He dared to experiment paying high prices at each step, and finally when it seemed like the experimental phase was over and he was beginning to build on the inferences, death cut him short. It is not fair when you are made to learn the rules of a game yourself and not allowed to play when the game starts. Therefore I fret if there is anything that really runs within us and without us and gives meaning to everything. He longed much for so much… I seriously think all that was his rightful due.
In all possibility, this is going to be a defining incident of my life of considerable impact. I lived in him substantially, and that part of me is dead now.
I haven’t cried a single tear all day; even when my friend told me on the phone that, apparently, one of the last things Suresh inquired after was a couple of us friends. I felt guilty about it and subsequently shunned it; anything guilt-induced would be dis-respectful. I know, it is going to come back to me…. In waves; one fine morning I’m gonna stop wiping my bike and think that this person is not going to start his scrupulous scooter today in Mettuguda and go all the way along Chilkalguda, Musheerabad, RTC X roads, Narayanguda and reach Malakpet right on time; some evening I would stop and think that those evenings when he would call me up and suggest a drink are infact over. It would gradually get into me that the fact that I don’t meet this guy much now-a-day is not because we might have gotten busy with our stuff, but cus he is dead.
Now that I’ve seen death at a certain close range, now that death doesn’t appear so far, now that death is much of a neighbor than a distant friend, now that death is a practical possibility and also a stupidity that can scoop out the meaning from my life in an insane jiffy, I run my mind through something I considered many times earlier also—to take a chance when it comes to you, do when you still can, and not to pack wonderful things in ‘tomorrow’ cus tomorrow is always death’s property. I know tomorrow is still going to be the same; in some future point, I'm going to again remember that I forgot such things . I’m still going to say to myself that I should have run to Her at the very first idea, knowing that I wouldn’t do it if it was ‘NOW’.
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