To survive you
To survive me
I must stand at a great height
Stare down at the world
Mesmerised by the skull crushing distance
Try not to think about jumping
(This is about us,
Not me)
And find a point on the horizon
To measure up against
An absolute to decide
Amongst all that music playing inside my head
Which song I should be dancing to
Thursday, 7 April 2011
Nothing Good Happens After 2 AM (This is just before)
It's almost two in the morning, and I'm smoking cigarette butts from a nearly empty ashtray. The game, that should have been engrossing is fading away, and I am left to wonder, as I have so many times in the past, what I'm looking for.
It isn't that I'm alone here, I can do better than just handle aloneness, I love it. I am not awake and restless because there is no one to share my bed tonight, or even the house.
I think, in the dazed, fuzzy yet startlingly insightful way one can in the wee hours of the morning, that I don't know how to not be in love. So I am forcing the issue with Ekat, or rather forcing it with myself so I can obsess about him, of which I am now thoroughly bored. He is a truly amazing man, but just not twisted enough to give me the fodder I need for proper obsession. Too straightforward and uncomplicated (for which I am of course at some level incredibly grateful, having much experience with men who lap up my obsession and let me imprison myself in it).
Though I don't give up easily and have spent the last four hours quietly formulating the best way to be horrifically upset in the coming days. I have discovered, unfortunately, that I'm bored of this too, and it depresses me that I don't really care. Not about him, or us or where we are going or any of that.
So I'm awake. The match just finished (United won if anyone's wondering), I'm out of cigarette butts. And my thoughts have no one to caress.
It isn't that I'm alone here, I can do better than just handle aloneness, I love it. I am not awake and restless because there is no one to share my bed tonight, or even the house.
I think, in the dazed, fuzzy yet startlingly insightful way one can in the wee hours of the morning, that I don't know how to not be in love. So I am forcing the issue with Ekat, or rather forcing it with myself so I can obsess about him, of which I am now thoroughly bored. He is a truly amazing man, but just not twisted enough to give me the fodder I need for proper obsession. Too straightforward and uncomplicated (for which I am of course at some level incredibly grateful, having much experience with men who lap up my obsession and let me imprison myself in it).
Though I don't give up easily and have spent the last four hours quietly formulating the best way to be horrifically upset in the coming days. I have discovered, unfortunately, that I'm bored of this too, and it depresses me that I don't really care. Not about him, or us or where we are going or any of that.
So I'm awake. The match just finished (United won if anyone's wondering), I'm out of cigarette butts. And my thoughts have no one to caress.
Sunday, 20 March 2011
Agony/Ecstasy
And quiet is the thought of you,
The file on you complete,
Except what we forgot to do,
A thousand kisses deep.
And sometimes when the night is slow,
The wretched and the meek,
We gather up our hearts and go,
A thousand kisses deep.
The file on you complete,
Except what we forgot to do,
A thousand kisses deep.
And sometimes when the night is slow,
The wretched and the meek,
We gather up our hearts and go,
A thousand kisses deep.
Monday, 14 March 2011
Formal Complaint
Oh fuck off Universe.
And isn't it way too early in my cycle for PMS?
And, why am I like THIS?
And isn't it way too early in my cycle for PMS?
And, why am I like THIS?
Sunday, 21 November 2010
Sunday Afternoon Coffee, With You
I miss you my love
And all we were sure to be
I can't stop reliving
Rerelishing, redrowning
I stare at the strangers around me
Drinking their coffee
My eyes and my heart
Filled with anguish
Silently screaming
Until they edge away, puzzled
Unsettled by the nameless pain
That rips out of my skin
Writhing in the agony of maybe
Every time I think of you.
And all we were sure to be
I can't stop reliving
Rerelishing, redrowning
I stare at the strangers around me
Drinking their coffee
My eyes and my heart
Filled with anguish
Silently screaming
Until they edge away, puzzled
Unsettled by the nameless pain
That rips out of my skin
Writhing in the agony of maybe
Every time I think of you.
Wednesday, 8 September 2010
Footprints
I recently spent some time in the Ashram of a particularly popular Holy Man. I am not going to name him, because I genuinely mean no disrespect to him and have no desire to offend his followers, many of whom I have grown to become exceptionally fond of.
My reasons for visiting and staying at the Ashram had nothing to do with a need for spiritual guidance, or even a curiosity about it. It was a business trip for all practical purposes. Nevertheless I had heard a great deal about this guru, and was promised many times that the visit would change my life forever. Perhpas it will be a more gradual change.
For the moment at least I came away deeply unimpressed. Not with the guru himself, who I only saw once at a distance, but with the Ashram and the majority of the people there*. Can you spell petty? (I can it seems). It was ridiculous. The guru's right hand man, who was to help us with some of our arrangements, lied to us, to our faces and not very well, since we caught him in the lie a few hours later. This from the man who is the most devoted disciple of a guru who preaches truth and honesty above all. It was embarassing. The women who are in charge of seating within the hall where prayers are conducted are entirely power mad. For them, the ability to refuse a chair to a sixty year old woman who couldn't sit on the floor, was clearly exhilarating. Where is all that compassion now?
The other thing that bothered me, and actually bothers me about all religions, is the overwhelming belief of the guru's infallability and omnipotence. I was told many times that I had not come to the Ashram of own my free will, but because the guru had summoned me, a caim I found disturbing and rather demeaning too. It implies that the followers of this man have no free will, no ability to make decisions or chose the path they are on, even if the path is this particular branch of spirituality.
What perhaps bothered me most of all, was the money. The overwhelming mountains of it. I met people who have given up everything to live and work in the Ashram, and still had to pay rent. I saw electronic equipment that would make the Pentagon drool. I saw enough air conditioners in the offices of the higher officials to cool four football stadiums (Renunciation is also a tenet by the way). The purpose of this sect is to help the poor, but they spend crores of rupees on their guru's birthday celebrations.
What was missing, most prominently, was the feeling of peace I had expected. Having embraced the lifestyle preached, the people in the Ashram weren't above pettiness and politics. They were rude, they pushed, they cut in front of you in ques, they lied and fought and were the same human beings that they have alwasy been, except each and everyone of them was a hypocrite in the worst way. Having embraced the tenets of this guru, they seemed to believe that they are somehow better than the 'non-believer' (my word not theirs), whether they adhered to the beliefs of their faith or not. It felt more like a frat house, than an Ashram of a divine being.
I don't doubt the faith, I don't even doubt the man. I just think that his followers are destroying his reputation and need to practise some serious introspection, which is ironically, also a basic tenet of the faith.
*I did mention earlier that there were people I was fond of, and there were, but just a handful. And I may not understand their faith, but I do wish to respect it.
My reasons for visiting and staying at the Ashram had nothing to do with a need for spiritual guidance, or even a curiosity about it. It was a business trip for all practical purposes. Nevertheless I had heard a great deal about this guru, and was promised many times that the visit would change my life forever. Perhpas it will be a more gradual change.
For the moment at least I came away deeply unimpressed. Not with the guru himself, who I only saw once at a distance, but with the Ashram and the majority of the people there*. Can you spell petty? (I can it seems). It was ridiculous. The guru's right hand man, who was to help us with some of our arrangements, lied to us, to our faces and not very well, since we caught him in the lie a few hours later. This from the man who is the most devoted disciple of a guru who preaches truth and honesty above all. It was embarassing. The women who are in charge of seating within the hall where prayers are conducted are entirely power mad. For them, the ability to refuse a chair to a sixty year old woman who couldn't sit on the floor, was clearly exhilarating. Where is all that compassion now?
The other thing that bothered me, and actually bothers me about all religions, is the overwhelming belief of the guru's infallability and omnipotence. I was told many times that I had not come to the Ashram of own my free will, but because the guru had summoned me, a caim I found disturbing and rather demeaning too. It implies that the followers of this man have no free will, no ability to make decisions or chose the path they are on, even if the path is this particular branch of spirituality.
What perhaps bothered me most of all, was the money. The overwhelming mountains of it. I met people who have given up everything to live and work in the Ashram, and still had to pay rent. I saw electronic equipment that would make the Pentagon drool. I saw enough air conditioners in the offices of the higher officials to cool four football stadiums (Renunciation is also a tenet by the way). The purpose of this sect is to help the poor, but they spend crores of rupees on their guru's birthday celebrations.
What was missing, most prominently, was the feeling of peace I had expected. Having embraced the lifestyle preached, the people in the Ashram weren't above pettiness and politics. They were rude, they pushed, they cut in front of you in ques, they lied and fought and were the same human beings that they have alwasy been, except each and everyone of them was a hypocrite in the worst way. Having embraced the tenets of this guru, they seemed to believe that they are somehow better than the 'non-believer' (my word not theirs), whether they adhered to the beliefs of their faith or not. It felt more like a frat house, than an Ashram of a divine being.
I don't doubt the faith, I don't even doubt the man. I just think that his followers are destroying his reputation and need to practise some serious introspection, which is ironically, also a basic tenet of the faith.
*I did mention earlier that there were people I was fond of, and there were, but just a handful. And I may not understand their faith, but I do wish to respect it.
Thursday, 5 August 2010
At Home - Bill Bryson
I don't usually write book reviews, because I don't read books I don't love. So if I begin a book and I am not passionate within the first chapter or two, I simply stop reading, and thus reviews of books tend to be a bit pointless. However, there is an exception to this rule, as with all rules, and the one author to make it through the tiny loophole that presented itself, is Bill Bryson.
I love Bill. I don't just love him as an author, I tend to love him as a kindred spirit, as my kind of person, as someone with whom I could have a great and wholesome relationship because, based on my extensive and comprehensive reading of his work, I have come to the conclusion that we are in fact the same person (The only point of discernible difference between us I should like to point out, is that he doesn't like dogs. But that’s it). So I will read anything he writes, anything at all. I would read his grocery list if that were available for perusal.
Which brings me to the point. I recently acquired (and at only two thirds of the MRP, Heeheehee) his newest book, and have been in a tizzy of excitement ever since. Entitled 'At Home' it is a history of the humble abode, and all the other humble things that make up the bulk of everyday life and have done so for ever but never got the credit and recognition they deserved. Until now. Truly typical Bryson, the book is stuffed with bizarre and baffling trivia that awes and entertains all written in his wonderfully lighthearted, yet acidly irreverent style.
So why am I writing a review? Last night, circa 3:00 AM, I finished the chapter on Drawing Rooms and was struck with a rather unusual emotion. Well not unusual in itself, but certainly unusual in the context of reading a Bryson. I was... unsatisfied, and mildly irritated. So remarkable was this, that I spent many minutes trying to make sure that the source of my discomfort wasn't external. I checked the air conditioner and the mosquito repellent. I poked the dog awake to make sure she wasn't trying to make me let her out (mild irritation appears to be a ferociously infectious condition) and drank some water just to be sure I wasn't thirsty. It was no good though, I was mildly irritated by Bryson and I couldn't pretend I wasn't.
It isn't that book is bad, it is, as I said, typical Bryson, which is a good thing, but also allows me to confidently review the book before I have finished it. Though stuffed with interesting trivia narrated in his wonderfully lighthearted yet acidly irreverant style, his jokes have become, well, a little predictable. And I have never noticed before how deeply disorganised he is. Or perhaps it is only this book, but the chapter on the scullery, for example, takes you on a somewhat complicated journey through the life of the average servant in 18th century England. This is confusing enough to be honest, but he takes this a step further by including a story about a gentleman who wrote a history of the French Revolution and another who had an extremely complicated wig. And though I remember all this, and think it was rather funny, I have to admit I simply can't recall what purpose the Scullery actually served.
See what I mean? It’s wonderfully entertaining, but it doesn't make any sense. It’s like reading '1001 Jokes by Bill Bryson'.
Regardless, and in the words of Bryson himself, I will devour it (Yes I realise it’s an odd line to quote, but that's how Bryson quotes come to me. Odd one liners that I really shouldn't bother crediting to him). I will probably love it also, but for today, I am mourning a little. I'm sure it will pass.
I love Bill. I don't just love him as an author, I tend to love him as a kindred spirit, as my kind of person, as someone with whom I could have a great and wholesome relationship because, based on my extensive and comprehensive reading of his work, I have come to the conclusion that we are in fact the same person (The only point of discernible difference between us I should like to point out, is that he doesn't like dogs. But that’s it). So I will read anything he writes, anything at all. I would read his grocery list if that were available for perusal.
Which brings me to the point. I recently acquired (and at only two thirds of the MRP, Heeheehee) his newest book, and have been in a tizzy of excitement ever since. Entitled 'At Home' it is a history of the humble abode, and all the other humble things that make up the bulk of everyday life and have done so for ever but never got the credit and recognition they deserved. Until now. Truly typical Bryson, the book is stuffed with bizarre and baffling trivia that awes and entertains all written in his wonderfully lighthearted, yet acidly irreverent style.
So why am I writing a review? Last night, circa 3:00 AM, I finished the chapter on Drawing Rooms and was struck with a rather unusual emotion. Well not unusual in itself, but certainly unusual in the context of reading a Bryson. I was... unsatisfied, and mildly irritated. So remarkable was this, that I spent many minutes trying to make sure that the source of my discomfort wasn't external. I checked the air conditioner and the mosquito repellent. I poked the dog awake to make sure she wasn't trying to make me let her out (mild irritation appears to be a ferociously infectious condition) and drank some water just to be sure I wasn't thirsty. It was no good though, I was mildly irritated by Bryson and I couldn't pretend I wasn't.
It isn't that book is bad, it is, as I said, typical Bryson, which is a good thing, but also allows me to confidently review the book before I have finished it. Though stuffed with interesting trivia narrated in his wonderfully lighthearted yet acidly irreverant style, his jokes have become, well, a little predictable. And I have never noticed before how deeply disorganised he is. Or perhaps it is only this book, but the chapter on the scullery, for example, takes you on a somewhat complicated journey through the life of the average servant in 18th century England. This is confusing enough to be honest, but he takes this a step further by including a story about a gentleman who wrote a history of the French Revolution and another who had an extremely complicated wig. And though I remember all this, and think it was rather funny, I have to admit I simply can't recall what purpose the Scullery actually served.
See what I mean? It’s wonderfully entertaining, but it doesn't make any sense. It’s like reading '1001 Jokes by Bill Bryson'.
Regardless, and in the words of Bryson himself, I will devour it (Yes I realise it’s an odd line to quote, but that's how Bryson quotes come to me. Odd one liners that I really shouldn't bother crediting to him). I will probably love it also, but for today, I am mourning a little. I'm sure it will pass.
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