My mother and I

have been making up a poem in which she kills me and cooks me in a frying pan. In rhyming couplets. We're a weird family.

She's watching Veer-Zaara right now. During the whoa!holdit! taut!emotional!dramatic! scene where the kids hug in front of the girl's parents and fiance and there's DRENCHTASTIC RAIN and semi-ironic background music, it occurred to me that they could have turned this movie into a profoundly sickening cinematic gutpunch. But they had, of course, to go the easy way, with eye candy, song and dance et al. Oh well.

I'm sketching stuff. The rain here has stopped, but I have no reason to believe it won't start up again with a fury by the time I have to go to bed.

colourcoded collar coda coddle cooler
bluecollar colourcoded
whitecollar
yellowhat
yellow hat mellow hat mellow collar coded cossack cossack blue prussian blue navy blue navel blue
yellowbelly

white

The suspicious urge to fill notebooks

with meaningless minutiae. And then the (fortunate?) discovery that all my notebooks are pretty, so ineffably pretty, so pretty I feel ashamed to ink a scratch on a single pretty offwhite page. I need a dirty ratty writerly notebook. Only the ego behind the crabbed twists and turns of my handwriting.

I need to write something that's not about these wasted days, about me, or even about my parents.

Parents want a trip.

Haha, not that kind of trip.

For the whole family. Somewhere safe and boring. They're thinking of Digha. Three or four days right after the Pujos. I'm showing my lack of enthusiasm, but I don't know if they notice. And if they do notice there's bound to be disappointment and anger. The truth is I don't feel like going anywhere with my parents. Not because, as they think, as indeed the reason usually is, they're embarrassing, but because going anywhere with them makes me worry. I don't feel invincible on account of my youth but still, I doubt I can enjoy myself in such a situation. All the talk about safety makes me roll my eyes, do they think they can put up much of a fight?

Also the fact is I'm not in a mood to appreciate the beauty of Nature right now, I want to finish five books in two weeks, I don't want to miss swimming, I don't want silly fears of bus accidents, earthquakes and tsunamis creeping under the anonymity of hotel bedroom covers with me.

I don't even have a camera to take pictures with. At the very best I might be inspired to write, but it's been a while since I thought of my writing as something that required inspiration. No balmy sea breeze for me, tea on time by my greasy sad pillow and warm October sun is quite enough...

I'm bored.

Maybe if I had any interests beyond litt and music. But they turn out to be really the least expensive.

I hate earthquakes. I mean, I have something against them personally.

En noo ee.

Ge n e rat ion

Gott weiss ich will kein Engel sein

I believe there is a line between not being nice and being an arsehole. I also believe that this distinction is not as wildly arbitrary as one would think, that people who think treating other people like shite is somehow cool are ridiculous.

And I am quite certain that I stoop to downright arseholery very rarely.

Many wry congratulations to my parents for making me doubt even that.

My ears have always been into creative hearing.

When I was three I went to a place called Egg Cartons that turned out to have been Lake Gardens.

And right now I just misheard a song lyric as 'We were buried under cherry trees'. Still kinda romantic, but, eh, I guess I can live with the permanent earfungus colony. It amuses me, unlike a lot of people around me.

Must. Not. Get. Emo.

What in fucking hell, Blogger?

It's giving me the wrong timestamp AGAIN.

Good god, I think I'm wearing a

skirt.

Apparently JU has

A 'Department of Archaeological Dating'.

Wonder what they do there.

Oh, I know.

Ex-cavations.






I know, I know. Sigh.

My growing acquaintance

with the strange sensation of an empty belly rumbling.

Starving artist? Moi?

A little emo episode in the DL today...

But I recovered fast enough to get my grabby hands on the xerox copy of M.H. Abrams' Natural Supernaturalism for five rupees; plus a few other things.
I mean, someone in ugh-one bought a copy of this book for three hundred rupees. Ahahaha. Oh let not these ludicrous bargain sales end too soon.

I see they've already set up a megaphone right outside our flat. And if it's true that the Supreme Court is allowing pandals to blast forth their celebratory shite until midnight every day, I think it's time to buy some earplugs.

I wish I were in Berlin or something.

Hallogallo

But now I mustas go to college.

Look what my friend emailed me.
I have been staring at this picture all morning. Nothing like bug-eyed Deutsch musicians to make me avoid work...

FATHER EMMERICH,
I LOVE YOU.