Burning Out

Looking through the archives of this blog, I have recently realized that 2010 was my least productive year on the blog. This isn't because I was suddenly the busiest I have ever been, although this is the busiest I have ever been in my life. I work a full time job, I live alone, so I cook, I clean, I buy groceries, I pay bills, I do laundry and I wash my own vessels. I also work 2 separate part time jobs from home. I have a few friends who I am close with in this city, so I usually make at least one outing per weekend. I have taken on extra work in order to save up for an enormously expensive trip that my best friend, Gooseberrie and I are planning to take. And of course there are all the phone calls home to my mum, my brother, all of the grandparents, with at least one set of aunt + uncle thrown in each week. Honestly, I have no time for absolutely anything else in my life right now. And yet, this is not the reason I write only sparingly on my blog of late.

The reason is that I think I've started to burn out. Even just writing this blog post, I have no literary eloquence in me, no playful re-arrangement of the English language, no whimsy. Just plain boring text, words arranged in the same patterns as they have been for years. I write hundreds of pages of content every month. All of my jobs, full time and part time, are essentially writing jobs. I research, I analyze, and then I articulate or opine. That's the basic definition of all my work. At the end of all that, there seems to be no creative juice left in me to come onto my blog and rant.

A close friend called recently to bemoan the lack of activity on the blog, and more importantly to her, the lack of angry, inspired ranting, my supposed trademark. Looking back, that seems to be true. The only heartfelt, unfiltered blog post I have written recently was You, and that was born of a deep sorrow and pain. I don't want to have to feel that in order write well, or uninhibitedly.

The latter factor has also begun to worry me. As my jobs require me to be an educated analyst, I have stopped writing freestyle. Everything is constructed, planned, structured to deliver the point with supporting evidence. There's no room for bursts of inspiration and wit. I am now mentally exhausted even at the thought of writing.

So, here's the thing, I'm worried. And tired. And worried. And most of all, I'm burning out, fast.

My Homie From the Hood

I love food. In good times and in bad, food has never left my side. Which might explain my larger than genetically appropriate size at present. Which is why my close friends also tend to be foodies, people who enjoy food, cooking it, eating it, experimenting with it, the whole lot. I really quite dislike people, especially women, who delicately peck at green things on a plate. I don't mind working out extra, but I don't think I could completely cut out yummy food from my life.

The latest member of my inner circle, my 'homie from the hood', my fellow food geek is Flavours. She has started her own blog recently, chronicling her love of food, and it has been a joy to begin this journey with her. Here's to a hopefully long and food-filled journey ahead. Check out her blog here. Today's Flavour Is...

You

I have things to say to you. But you are not here. So I've just been left to think them, and not say them. You know me, I can't keep quiet. I have to say, not just think, it's almost compulsive.

There's a You-shaped hole in my life that I can't quite seem to fill. I have tried. I have also never been so hurt in my life before.

I let you in. That was my fault. And I let you become important. That's on me as well.

It galls me.

Almost every other day, I miss you. I think of something, I want to call you and tell you about. I eat a piece of food I think you will just love. I read a book that I want to recommend to you.

How is it possible you don't miss me at all? Why is there no Me-shaped hole in your life? Was I so dispensable? So easily replaced or forgotten or discarded?

She seems hurt as well, I don't know that she has the space in her head to be as hurt as I am. She's always been better at cutting off than I am. But she is hurt, this much I know.

Maybe at the back of my head I'm thinking, you will read this. And then at least you will know how I feel. But then at the back of my head I also know that you've stopped reading, stopped caring. So you won't ever know.

It's been nearly two years since things went rocky. And if I'm being honest, they were bad for quite a while before that. We never came back from the time that you abandoned me when she did. She and I came back. You and I never did.

Somewhere I think, I was just a convenience. I loved her, you loved her, so you took me on because I came with the package. Now that I think about it, there was never anything special about you and me, no timeless bond, not according to you at least.

I don't do this, I'm not this girl. I dislike this vulnerability, this flowery, precious writing in whimsical verses. I am coarse and angry, and always protected by my own paranoia, bulwarked against all manner of emotional pain.

And yet this has pierced through all of that. I can not believe I have allowed this to happen. How could I?

I just told someone that this is my attempt to unburden, this touchy feely letter to the internet, so I that I am not some bitter, jaded shrew somewhere down the line.

I am already that, aren't I?

I felt indifferent before, but now I am a mixture of angry and upset. Deeply angry and deeply upset.

I should be used to people going away by now, 'Life sucks and then you die', right? Everybody else left, why should you be any different.

You are different, you were one of very very few, one of my own, my people.

When I left you, for a little while, I told you why, I let you know how much I loved you. You just stopped responding, stopped calling. Do you even know how long it's been since we've spoken?

You just disappeared as if I wasn't even worthy or deserving of a goodbye and a reason.

I don't know what else to say. I know these feelings will subside, will abate, all in given time. And the You-shaped hole will be papered over with other things, with scabs and daily routine. I know that this will one day just be another fact of my life, like my giant feet and my brown eyes. That in itself is a painful fact.

Honestly, I really did not think that it would all end this way. Or end at all.

Udaipur

NOTE: THIS POST WAS WRITTEN MOSTLY IN DECEMBER AND IS ONLY BEING PUT UP NOW DUE TO REASONS OF IDIOCY. I APOLOGIZE PROFUSELY FOR THE QUALITY OF WRITING.

Normally, I do not enjoy travelling. My idea of a vacation involves room service and a flat screen television. The larger the pool of humanity I have to encounter, the lesser the amount of fun I can be expected to have. For this reason, I avoid tourist destinations, I avoid holidays in which I have to have a detailed itinerary, with lists of things to do and places to go. When out of town, I like to take a relaxed tour of sights and sounds. My must travel places do not include night life and large monuments. The entire time I spent in London, I did not visit the London Eye once, despite living right across the Thames from it. When I went to Geneva, I did not go to a cheese factory or a ski lodge, I visited the UNHCR and ICRC headquarters. In Edinburgh, I spent most of my time in the National Portrait Gallery and the pub right next to my hostel, and maybe 2 hours at the Edinburgh castle.

For the last 2 months, I have waited for December the 8th to arrive, so my friend AV and I could leave town for the wedding of our colleague and close personal friend,....let's say ST. It was to be my first out of town wedding, my first full Hindu wedding experience, and my first time in Rajasthan. As the title suggests, the wedding took place in Udaipur, Rajasthan, widely considered one of the most beautiful tourist spots in the world. Which is also the reason I was filled with a tiny bit of apprehension. December in India is wedding season, particularly in North India. I was warned in advance that the city would be bursting at the seams with wedding revellers, as well as a surplus of the usual tourist crowd, December also being a holiday month.

By the time the 8th had arrived, my friend AV had fallen quite ill, and had to refrain from going on the trip. Which left me, my bags packed, standing at the Bandra Terminus in Mumbai city, ready to board a train that would deposit in Udaipur at the end of nearly 17 hours. I had been prepared for how cold it would be in Udaipur. So there I stood, at 11 AM on a Thursday at the tiny Udaipur station, waiting to be picked up while wrapped in a scarf and my ratty old pullover. From there, it was onto the festivities.

I'm not sure how many of you have been to a traditional Indian wedding, be it Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain, Sikh or Parsi. I'm sure weddings in every part of the world are elaborate. Indian weddings, however, are long (often lasting days or even weeks) and filled to the brim with rituals. I come from a non-traditional family and had, until this time, not been exposed to the full array of ceremonies that accompany a Hindu wedding. Let me tell you, it is quite the experience. Every single ceremony has hosts of aunts, uncles, neighbours and friends offering what they believe to be the absolute right advice about how things need to be done. In fact, random passers by, staff at the hall where the wedding is taking place, musicians who are being paid to play at the wedding and the cooks that are catering the event will all also feel absolutely free to jump in and lecture the parents of the bride on the right way to perform a ritual. It's a giant free-for-all.

ST's parents and sister spend the entire wedding weekend rushing from one spot to another, performing duty after duty, taking care of the most minute of details and generally doing their best to not resemble chickens with their heads cut off. Her poor sister had so much to do, in fact, that she looked like she hadn't slept in weeks, which to be fair, was probably true. The bride and the groom, in the meanwhile, spent most of their time smiling broadly at everything that was said to them, in a daze. Everyone felt the need to stop and make some bawdy remark or the other, or make at least one comment on babies.

I know I am making this sound like it's some terrible thing I am trying to describe, when it is actually the opposite. I am merely attempting to paint a picture of the chaos that weddings bring. In the midst of it, you also feel the warmth of family, the tears of not only the parents at their children's joy, but also of the assorted relatives, who all believe that happiness in the family is happiness for themselves. That's one thing that I missed while I lived abroad, the sense of extended family. The day I get married, my uncles and aunts will be as moved as my own mother. Family doesn't stop at Mom and Dad in India, cousins, uncles, grandaunts and nieces are all integral to weddings.

My friend, ST meanwhile, was shockingly calm, like an unwavering flame in a raging storm. She sat quietly through all the ceremonies, the heavy clothing and jewellery weighing her down. She smiled and laughed at the jokes and the slightly absurd rituals she had to perform. She strode confidently through the reception, greeting friends and introducing her husband to them. She played with babies and received blessings from all the elders present. She even took time to enjoy some food. If and when my time ever comes, you can fully expect me to lock myself in a room, refusing to leave it, and demanding that plates of food be pushed under the door.

After all the wedding stuff was done, I still had half a day to kill, which led me to doing a touristy thing, after all. I visited the Udaipur City Palace. The Palace belongs to the royal family of Udaipur, the Mewars, who run it as a museum. From the City Palace, the famed Lake Palace of Udaipur is also visible, although us mere mortals are no longer allowed to stroll through it.

I love museums. They are giant repositories of information. And if it weren't for the hundreds of shoving tourists, the dozens of screaming infants and toddlers being dragged places by their annoying parents and the smilingly aggressive tour guides, I would have enjoyed myself much, much more. I did get to learn a ton of interesting stuff about the city and the royal family, and the history that surrounds the utterly lovely Udaipur.

After that, my travelling companion chose to race off the some famous temple or the other, while I begged off to enjoy myself in my own way, strolling through the bazaars at my own leisure, not really buying anything. From then on, it was back to the train station, and another 17 hour journey. As Mumbai came into view from my window seat on the train, my heart jumped just a little bit at the realization that I had begun to consider the city home. The feeling lasted barely a second, as I jumped off the train and disappeared quickly into the beaming, bustling chaos.

Appy Noo Ear

I am currently in the process of writing another, much longer post about my trip to Udaipur, but since it is the end of the year, I felt I had to write down something quick about what kind of year it has been.

Frankly, I am almost always filled with melancholy at the end of things: movies, years, ages. Surprisingly, I am not sad to see this year go. I don't feel like I have just sat in one place with little movement this year. Which is not to say that it has been the stuff of legend. From afar, it has still been a remarkably quiet and lonely year. For everyone who knows me, I have been more active than many years past.

My passion for both reading and writing has returned in strong form this year. As has my ambition for work. I still loathe the company of human beings, but friends will attest to the fact that I have tried my best to be more social this year.

Change is meant to arrive in increments. Very few things in life change radically. Given that, I think this year has mostly been a step towards something. At least, I hope that it has. Beyond that, I am still unsure. Which is maybe not such a terrible thing for someone like me.

One Year Older, One Year Closer

The 'closer' in the title I am referring to is not 'closer to who I really want to be' or 'closer to who I really should be', but 'closer to death'. I know, I realize, I'm being glass-half-empty girl. I'm only almost 26, I'm somewhat healthy, I have a job. These are things that the majority of the world's population does not have. I know this.

And yet, I can not help but be depressed once more. A part of it is the natural trajectory that this day takes for me. I can never ever be joyful on this day. My birthday is not a happy day, this will never change. The other part of it is the annual reminder of just how old I am, and just how little of what I wanted I have achieved. And a grim admonition of how much closer I am to being a has-been.

No one seems to get it, of course. I just come off like an ungrateful curmudgeon, which I probably am. There is nothing to celebrate though. And I wish everyone would leave me alone to crawl into my bed and pretend just for a day that I do not exist.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, Happy Birthday, Me. Try not to fuck this one up.

Godless

Christopher Hitchens has cancer. He says he will be extremely lucky if he lives another 5 years. Christopher Hitchens, if you did not already know, is a world famous atheist. What about this is newsworthy? Well, for starters, he remains a committed atheist even after his diagnosis, and has resisted all pressure to 'convert', or to begin to 'believe'.

I am an atheist. I have been for more than a decade. In my opinion, there are two ways to argue the idea of a 'god', or for that matter, any other belief in the world. You can argue it logically, or emotionally. When a logical argument meets an emotional one, I don't believe that there is any scope for discussion or discovery. One is based on a dispassionate, rational premise, and the other based in the inexplicable realm of feeling. Really, that's like comparing an apple to an orangutan.

When it comes to logic, the atheists have the victory. Neither religion nor faith can really convince us that their side has any basis in logic, whatsoever. It is when people describe their faith emotionally, that we falter. In what possible way can we counter when someone explains to us, often eloquently, what they feel. How can we argue against a person who describes the joy they feel in prayer, or in the firm knowledge they possess that there is someone or something that is permanently on their side?

In this same way, when I find that people attempt to convince me of the existence of their 'god', I have both the logical and emotional explanation. Emotionally speaking, there is no god. When I am happy, or sad, or unspeakably alone, there is no one in the dark, holding my hand. I feel no presence, or light or joy that others describe. And I am completely and utterly happy with that status quo. My mistakes are my own, my conclusions are my own, my vision is my own and my success is my own. No one handed me anything, and no one guided me. No one, and nothing.

Which brings me back to the beginning of this little piece. Why would Hitchens suddenly start to believe once he has been told that he will die? It infuriates me that religious people consider our atheism merely a stance or a phase, one that will fade when truly terrible news, like impending death, is delivered to us. It's as if they do not believe that our belief system offers us a way to cope with the end of life. I believe, when I die, I will be dead. My mother will cry, my best friend will be lost and my brother will claim all my things for his own. And I will be dead. That will be that. That particular conclusion does not fill me with dread, it does not terrify me, and it will not, in the distant (or perhaps near) future, send me running to the church or the temple in search of 'meaning' when I am faced with my own mortality.

So, here's the thing, I am happy to be a passionate disbeliever, to call people out on the utter nonsense that is the idea of a god. And I really do wish you would let me be.

A Letter To The Editor

This morning, the cover of last month's Spectator magazine was pointed out to me. I found it so offensive that I immediately typed out a strongly worded email to the Editor of the publication. The following is the letter, and the image that provoked it.

Dear Editor,

I must admit, until 15 minutes ago, I had not heard very much about your publication. From my cursory research, which basically involved me checking out your website, you seem to be a respectable publication, with a wide area of coverage.

This is the reason I was appalled at the cover of last month's issue of Spectator. For an article written by Jo Johnson, your cover story, you had the picture of David Cameron as a snake charmer. It's not that we as Indians don't enjoy racist stereotyping by our former colonizers, it's that we think you could do so much better. Why go back to the old snake charmer bit when you can use the 'all Indians work in call centres' bit, or perhaps the 'all Indians are cowherds' bit or maybe even the 'all Indians are computer technicians' bit. Wouldn't your article have been much more attractive to the average buyer of your magazine if Cameron was playing cowherd to the stubborn brown native cow??

I haven't read your article. For all I know, Jo Johnson has cast all Indians as saints who have cracked the meaning to life in the article. What I do know is that hook that you have used to get a consumer to buy your publication is an offensive, racist and colonial stereotype. And you should really be ashamed of yourself for propagating the same views that the British believed entitled your country to enslave and exploit mine for several centuries.

Regards

Turn It Off

Some time back, I read a piece that really resonated with me. Oddly enough, it was on the Huffington Post, written by Josh Radnor. Now, you may know Radnor better as Ted Mosby on How I Met Your Mother, and may therefore be wondering about the odd source of inspiration. It wasn't how he wrote, as much as what he wrote about. He took on a challenge to rid himself of most modern gadgets for a week, and thus ended up cutting 24-7 internet news out of his life. He talks about a lot of other things, but the whole 'no news' aspect of it intrigued me.

I have a challenging and unusual job. As a political analyst, I am required to be constantly aware of the world around me. As a news junkie since age 13, I can not seem to help myself. To give you some perspective on the extent of the problem, I here present some statistics. On an average, I read the following sources of news 'cover-to-cover', every single day. The Hindu, The Washington Post, The New York Times, Time, The Times of India, The Hindustan Times, The NewYorker, The Huffington Post, NDTV 24-7, CNN, BBC and CNN-IBN. Apart from this, I have to check the headlines every half hour or so, lest I start to feel disconnected. I don't even feel that way when I haven't spoken to my mother or best friend in a couple of weeks, but I feel it when I go an hour without the news. I also have 2 separate news rolls that run on my personal computer 24 hours a day that collect news from literally every source in the world, from People magazine to Al-Jazeera.

This feeling of disconnectedness escalates to panic when there's a major news event occurring that I can not update myself on as it happens. Now, for an average person, a major news event is the World Cup Final, or the assassination of a major head of government. For a political analyst, every election, major or minor is a news event, every crisis is a news event, every joint press conference by Ministers of Foreign Affairs is a news event. If I don't know what is happening as it happens, then I feel like the world is rushing past me.

The final factor that contributes to my news addiction is the fact that I am a raging insomniac. This means that I spend many a sleepless night restlessly scouring the internet for editorials and opinion pieces. All in all, my addiction to political news coverage has reached a zenith.

This in itself, constitutes a problem. However, I have a larger worry. There's no such thing as good news or positive coverage. Hardly anybody writes about all the puppies and rainbows in the world. Almost everybody writes about death, destruction, climate change, drugs, prostitution, terrorism, hypocrisy, pettiness, malcontention, addiction, famewhoring, recession, child pornography, fanaticism, anger, misogyny, and other things that fit on that list, which seems to go on forever. In essence, I have surrounded myself with all the bad things in the world. I have seeped my brain in every single thing that can or has or will go wrong. 20 out of 24 hours in a day, I feel like the world is going to hell in a hand basket. Which, I think, leads back to the insomnia and panic.

So, here's the thing. Turn it off. It maybe too late for me, but for the love of your own sanity and ability to fall asleep, turn it off.

One Whole Decade

I have a longer piece planned, that is in a different vein from all that I have thus far written about him, but today, I had to write it down. Today has been terrible, because today, he has been gone ten years, two-fifths of my life, all of my adulthood, one whole decade.

James Taylor wrote:
Just yesterday morning they let me know you were gone
Susanne the plans they made put an end to you
I walked out this morning and I wrote down this song
I just can't remember who to send it to

I've seen fire and I've seen rain
I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end
I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that I'd see you again.

He would sing this to me, he had a fantastic voice, good enough to go pro. And I know he genuinely believed it, he called me Susanna, he always thought he would see me again. He never did. I wish I had more of him than pictures and genetics. Most of all, I wish I knew how to stop feeling like this. For the first time in a long time, I desperately wish he was here. I still can't believe it's been ten years, two-fifths of my life, one whole decade.

Anger

Most of the time these days, I firmly believe that I have a handle on my temper. For those of my readers that don't know me personally, I have a famous temper, quick to ignite, and violently explosive in its fury. In my dotage, I believe that I have gotten better at controlling it. In fact, it has been quite a while since I threw a chair at somebody in anger, or slammed a door repeatedly to rid myself of violent energy.

Today is different. I find myself to be so angry, that I'm actually sitting at my desk in quiet, seething, murderous rage. I'm not acting my anger out, and thus expunging it from my system. That can not be good news for anyone, least of all me.

Too many things seem to be slipping out of my control, and I so desperately need a break from my own life. So, here's the thing, I'm hoping I go the entire day without killing anyone, or myself. I really, fervently hope that. That would be a good end to this terrible, terrible, terrible day.

The Parting Glass

Of all the money e'er I had,
I spent it in good company.
And all the harm I've ever done,
Alas! it was to none but me.
And all I've done for want of wit
To mem'ry now I can't recall
So fill to me the parting glass
Good night and joy be with you all


But since it falls unto my lot,
That I should go and you should not,
I gently rise and softly call,
Good night and joy be with you all.

Victim's Rights

I watched a piece of news today (on the interwebs, I no longer own a television) about a young girl, 11, who was raped on a train in India. While reporting the news the channel, owned by a prominent Indian newspaper, repeatedly showed the young girl, her face covered with a piece of cloth, being led away by some adults while news cameras chased after her. Let me mention again that this girl was only 11 years old.

This isn't the first time I have witnessed this particular phenomenon. News channels in India, desperate for news to fill their wall-to-wall coverage of every single thing that goes on in India, have no qualms about hounding victims and showing their pictures on TV, or even giving out their name and personal details. Unfortunately, very often in this country, those victims happen to be minors.

How come there is no regulation on who gets to disclose the names of victims, or for that matter criminals, who are under the age of 18? In countries in the west, the US, the UK, France, etc. press services and legitimate news organizations do not, DO NOT, give out the names of any members of a story, if they are under the age of 18. This is done to protect the privacy of the minor child. What is more, in most places in the world, they are legally prohibited from revealing sensitive information about the minor, such as their name and location to prevent any further trouble from befalling them.

Does this not seem like a useful measure for the Indian government to implement to keep rabid journalists with little regard for the future of the child, at bay? It is not the duty of the media to protect the privacy of the child, it is the job of the government and the police. You can not expect the media to be judicious and take into account what is best for a child that has just been raped or assaulted, it is the job of the government to do so.

So, here's the thing, I am not very fond of children, I think that has been repeated ad nauseam on this blog, and as such, can now be counted as fact. However, I am unflinchingly right-wing on the matter of protection for minors. And this seems to me a big and glaring shortcoming on the part of news organizations and the Government of India, which no one seems in any particular hurry to fix.

Dancing Baby Visions

I wonder how you overcome neuroses. Not the kind of neuroses that you see in Ally McBeal or Grey's Anatomy, rich, entitled young people acting up because they believe themselves to be 'outsiders' or 'different'. No, when I say neuroses I'm not thinking about Calista Flockhart's dancing baby visions. When I say neuroses, I am thinking of the deeply entrenched quality of 'fucked-upness' that comes with never ever really having been a whole, happy human being.

Is it merely a condition that you overcome? A disease that you fight? Or is a simply an affect that you put on to make yourself feel more special than your neighbour, to make your pain have greater meaning, to make your sorrow out to have a reason above the sorrows of all others? Is it a mere luxury the wealthy and privileged have, a sense of melancholy that permeates your being, because you do not have to wake up every morning and worry about 'roti, kapda, aur makaan'?

How do you explain to all the people who call you weird and laugh at your "quaint little eccentricities", that you aren't putting on a show for their benefit or for their attention? How do you paint a picture of the world you live in, the people and places that inhabit your memories? And finally, most importantly, is it such a terrible thing to be so completely different from your peers? Not the kind of different that people celebrate, but the kind of different that invites confusion and bemusement from all others, is that kind of different such a terrible thing?

I find that I am so entrenched in my differentness, in my neuroses, that I can not even reach for the things that I seem to want despite myself. My motto has always been:life sucks, then you die. It is a motto that is born from deep consideration and 25 years of experience. It is my truth, life sucks, then you die. So how do I overcome all that baggage, to live comfortably in a world where people can not understand why I am still single, or why I don't drink, or why I can't sleep. Perhaps that is the crux of the matter, inhabiting this world, with its rules and norms on other people's terms. Why is that necessary to a secure life?

Mostly, it seems to me that conformity to other people's version of happiness is the key to 'fitting in', to being 'one with the world', to being 'a whole human being', to being all that malarkey that books and magazines and movies convince you is vital. You must want the husband and the 2.67 children and the house with the dogs and the servants and the cars. You must want all of those things. If it turns out that you don't want all of that, then you are merely adopting a pose to get attention, you are pretending to rebel for the benefit of theatrics. It can NOT possibly be that there is an entire person out there that does not believe these many items to be the key to the universe.

So, here's the thing, my neuroses has gotten in my way, and apparently the way of all the people who interact with me, only to walk away shaking their heads wondering, "Huh?" Maybe I am not the expert on what will make me happy, but maybe, just maybe, the world isn't either.

It's been a while

It has indeed been a while since I have written coherently about my life on this space. Instead, I have taken to posting lyrics as a way of expressing myself. While the lyrics themselves are beautiful, at least according to me, I can't help but feel that I have cheated by using someone else's words as opposed to my own.

The last week has found me bursting with nervous energy, for some wholly unfathomable reason. Music seems to have the power to calm me down, and extract the nervousness from my body.

That is all. I don't know what else. Also, this is post 100. Yay me, right?

Sonnet 116 - William Shakespeare

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds.
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be an error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

You Belong To Me - The 88

I treat it like a high school dance,
Waiting in the wings for my big chance.
But I would only stare at my shoes
You belong to me, I belong to you.

I could tell an antique lie,
Full of all the things I want to hide.
But that would only lead to the truth,
You belong to me, I belong to you

But I'm lazy and I'll pull you down
Where you won't want to be
And I'm tasting what's pouring out of you
What am I supposed to do?

I could play a trick so strange
Cover up my ears and pray for rain.
But that would only give you the blues
You belong to me, I belong to you

Happy New Year

Once again, the day is upon us all, the birth of a new year. I want to say that this year, I found myself. Or i want to say that this year, I lost myself so completely in something or someone that I simply can not account for the passage of time. Sadly, neither statement is true, I can not say either of those things about my 2009. It has been a filler year, the year I turned 25, but did not celebrate. The year i started out with so much promise that was ultimately not fulfilled. I sit here, alone in my room, far from the few people I love, the very very very few, and I pretend I am happy to be away from the hustle and bustle of real life being lived, I pretend I am content to just sit back and watch another year pass me by without having ever been truly joyful. I am not happy, nor am I content. And next year I must do better. I hope I will, for this is the truth, I am not getting any younger.

And as a postscript, this year I said goodbye to one of my true loves. He is gone, but shall never be forgotten.

Quae nocent, saepe docent.

Happy Birthday

You've been gone ten birthdays now. You are missed. And you are loved. Happy Birthday, Dadush.

Her Best Friend

If the movies and TV shows and books are to be believed, then everyone should have a best friend. Everyone should have a 'person'. What I am about to write is an ode to my best friend, my 'person'. Why? Well, because I want to, and because the world seems to be collapsing around us, and we are at least together as it happens, if only to cackle like mad witches at our own misfortune.

It is strange for me, because I don't remember a time before I met my best friend. Not because my life started the day I met her, (really?? who would that be true for?) but because my memory is terrible, absolutely so. So, by the time my memory does seem to start to become more focussed, I was already about 10 or 11, and she was already my best friend. I don't know how that happened. It is likely that I walked into my new school on my first day, and walked out with a best friend for life.

What most movies and TV shows and books do not tell you, is that having a 'person' is not a guarantee to a perfect life. What is sure to happen though, is that the bad times suck a little less and the good times are a little bit fuller, life is all the better for the company. So for 16 years now, we have kept each other, 16 birthdays and new years and Christmases. 16 years of boys who love us and boys who don't, of tree climbing clubs and shared crushes, of birdwatching trips and nature walks. For 16 years we have jumped in rain puddles and made fake margaritas, dancing around the table. For 16 years, we have sat side by side on the most desperate and dark days of our lives, quietly relaying stories of grief that would end most people. And for all these years, we have fought and screamed and made rude jokes about life.

I have no enduring wisdom about best friends, for she is the clever one of us, but I can only tell you one thing, a few things in life are better than making your own family, than choosing the person that you hope will be around forever. And I hope your life is enriched, as mine has been, by being her best friend.

She wrote the following for me, and in the middle of what is a difficult time, it made me smile and tear up just a bit.

Friday, December 04, 2009
her lovely garden


a few days ago, caught in myself, i stumbled into your garden. a year has gone by since i last went there. and i couldn't leave. bladder aching, sleep deprived, i moved backwards through you. caught in reverse. swing forward. re-read.

the cacti and the flowers.

i'm proud. sad. happy. proud still. who are you?

so many colors stain us. above all things you are beautiful.

on bewilderment and pain at the crookedness of life i will say to my girl these things:

from the infinite monkey theorem: " The probability of a monkey exactly typing a complete work such as Shakespeare's Hamlet is so tiny that the chance of it occurring during a period of time of the order of the age of the universe is minuscule, but not zero."

minuscule but not zero. our chances are better than that.

besides, we have our:

eyes (to see with and read!)
mouths (foooooddddd)
limbs (to walk and beat people with)
minds (well some semblance of)

at the end of the day, there's much to be done, a lot of which i know i don't much care for, but some of which i do, and plenty. then there are good times and bad times. there are times when they bleed into one another and you know the whole how feeble is man's power thingummabob... so dont join it to your strength or teach it art and length, my bean.

remember, every morning, we can sing with great abandon: here comes the sun.



i'm happy and grateful that i know you.

it's 2:34 PM

1 comments:

Chelsea Dagger said...

Perhaps it is not enough to just say that I love you, but it is true that I do. And just so I can, I will add that you mean the world to me. Thank you. What's the song, about you being my sunshine?
2:22 PM