Rat Stories

This morning there was a rat in my kitchen. Until last night s/he was free to roam and break my 'Thought For The Day' coffee cups with impunity but now s/he was occupying a well ventilated 1 BHK trap in a corner. We both waited for release.
But, wait, I'm getting ahead of myself.

The first time a rat visited a house I was solely in charge of, was in 2014. At the time, I was flush with the privileges of my birth and didn't want to engage with the rat issue (the way some people "just don't believe in politics"). But when there is no one else to prevent your home from becoming a cesspool of vermin, one grows up well before their time (or right on time, if you, like me, are in your mid to late thirties). The rat was in my house and so was I. We were alone together.

Back then, it seems like a lifetime ago, I opted for bars of sweet-smelling rat poison. "Ghar ke baahar martey hain" seemed like the ideal final situation. I didn't stop to think about the violence of it all (someone once told me, "You eat meat. Don't pretend to be against murder" so I shrugged in agreement and from that day on, became a dangerous assassin). The poison worked well that first year and I didn't stress about rats anymore.

In the second year, I found a rodent skeleton in the nether regions of a cabinet that I'd just removed from storage after 3 months. The skeleton and I stared back in horror at each other. I couldn't believe I had to deal it with myself. So I got myself a boyfriend (well, ok, the boyfriend already existed. He just happened to be in the house when the body was discovered). He came from a chaste upper-caste family and I could tell that extracting rat skeletons didn't jive with his vibe. So I wrapped a plastic bag around my hand and went in. And I mean all in. Because even though its little ratty soul had left its body, the body refused to unstick itself from the bottom of the drawer. Ladies and gentlemen, I tugged.

Have you ever tugged at the mortal remains of a once-alive-with-hopes-&-dreams thing? I don't recommend it one bit. It puts you off your grub forever (yet somehow your weight keeps increasing). Once the body was disposed of, the boyfriend decided to overcome his yukkies and helped me clean the cabinet. He received a medal of valour that day. Then we broke up. Despite this, the rodents kept visiting.

By now, social media had grown me a conscience and I decided that I could no longer kill rats, who bore no ill will towards me. I had to trap and release them like a compassionate Buddha (who ate meat by the way so shut up). This went against every ethic held by the entitled shit that lived inside me. She argued - why do I have to be brave all the time? Why do I have to be the one who cleans the toilet every single time? Why do I have to put all my hard earned money into house rent? The answer came swiftly from the annoyingly-smart-lady in my head - because you live alone and get to eat whole blocks of cheese without sharing.

2017 was a new dawn. The monsoons arrived and with it, a new rodent. This time it was caught not by the noise it made in the kitchen, but was felled by its unfortunate taste in pop music. One morning I was listening to whatever Apple Music tells me I like and Ed Sheeran came on. As he warbled about loving the shape of me (stay tuned for the remix version 'Shape Of You - Time To Go On A Diet') a tiny rat nose peeked from behind the speakers. I saw it but didn't scream. I mean, how can you get scared by a rat who's clearly gettin' its groove on (or, if it's like the ex, getting off on vibrating surfaces). We waited for Sheeran to fade out and then I yelled. It ran. I set a trap that very evening before I left for my walk.

One of the most under-reported benefits of cardio exercise is the courage it gives you to deal with vermin. When I returned from my jaunt I was practically reeking of irrational bravado. I opened the front door, saw the president of Sheeran's fan club trapped in my aluminium cage and right there decided that I was Sparta. I invoked the memory of my father (he's not dead, he just lives in a different house) as he'd set out on muggy evenings like this, trap in tow, off to look for shrubbery at a safe enough distance so the rat couldn't return.

The rat and I went for a walk. Along the way, we met folks from the building who cheered me on with "Oh. Rat?" and "Ohohoho." Many gave us wide berth as they saw us approach (was it the rat or was it my unmarried-at-38 status? We will never know). I made it to a barren spot of land outside the colony. I opened the cage door and waited. The rat refused to leave. It didn't trust me and I couldn't blame it. It sat in the trap as I made hrrummpphing noises. Then I begged "Please rat, please go. I'm trying to be nice." Never underestimate the power of good manners. The rat bid me adieu and scampered off.

Which brings me to this morning. I woke at 4.30 am knowing there was a rat in a cage in the kitchen, where my breakfast also lives. But I felt none of the bravado of last time. It must be PMS I thought, sorely disappointed with myself. Stop being an ass that rat is more terrified than you you've done this before imagine people who kill rats with their bare hands your privilege (or is it patriarchy?) has ruined you you can't even carry out the basic acts of survival. For some strange reason, I put on an oven mitt and changed from my shorts into a salwar. That didn't help. I still didn't want to engage. Meanwhile the rat was getting restless. It must have been tired and scared and was probably regretting taking that gap year to go see the world. I had to make a decision.

I decided to wait for the young man who collects the garbage. No, how could I? Wasn't that terribly exploitative? I will pay him. Yeah still doesn't make it better. I will request him nicely and if he refuses I will be okay with it. Acceptable, you phuddu. From 5am till 8.30 I hung by the door like never before (wondering when I will stop waiting for men like this and just get on with my life). At last, he appeared with his sunshiny happy face.
'Psst'
'Hello?'
'Hello hello. Kaise hain?'
'Good?'
'Accha aapse kucch kaam thha. Aap manaa kar sakte ho. Mai pehle bhi kar chuki hoon lekin aaj bahut darr lag raha hai. Matlab pataa nahi kyun wohi cheez jo pehle daraati nahi thhi aaj dara rahi hai. Kabhi aapke saath aisa hua hai?'

'...... kooda hai?'
'Hahn. Lekin, ek second andar aiye...?'

In an instant he went from sunshiny happy to 'am I going to be murdered by a dangerous assassin?' and I realised I needed to get to the point quickly. I confessed about the rat. I confessed my inadequacy. His face relaxed and the smile returned. Show me the rat, he said and strode into my kitchen. With a gallant sweep of un-mittened hand he scooped up the trap and exited the premises, my grateful cries of 'ghar se door chhodna....' trailing behind him.

I returned to the kitchen to sweep up the debris of nibbled bread and rat poop. There was an air of lingering rodent in the air (Not literally. Like relationships, rats don't stink until they're dead). There was this feeling of having shared this space with an unwelcome roommate, now gone. The relief was yet to set in, I knew it would take some time. I felt nauseous and defeated, most un-spartan. I was grateful for the young man who helped me but also ashamed of my cowardice.

Then the phone rang. It was the rat. Calling to tell me, in a hissing voice, "you can't get rid of me so easily...you know I'll be backkkk....sssss".
No it wasn't. It was my mother. When I told her this story she got impatient and said, "Shut up. You think too much. We used to get rid of rats all the time. Besides, rats don't hiss."

love letter

you will never know because you've always been plastic and planted to the bottom of the fish bowl as i swim around you in tight circles in a way that makes you believe that that is my only ability - swimming round and round and round. you won't notice as my circles get bigger and the water more turbulent. you will be busy trying to stay rooted in an ever swirling world. i will swim larger and larger. until one day we both realise there is no glass. this isn't even a bowl. you will find that there's no need for a little plastic castle in the fluid vastness of the ocean. you might even search for me because what's a plastic castle without a fish bowl-dwelling fish? but try as you might to retrace each memory you will never know how it happened and when i became gone.

http://harley-jay.tumblr.com/post/106865102476/facetiousfigment-little-plastic-castle-ani

Every Goddamned Morning

Moments from your past are picked up and thrown back at you, unsolicited, unwanted, unasked for. Moments that may or may not have been significant to your story but in their popping up, take you back.
When all you've been struggling to do...
In the books you read...
In the prayers you pray...
In the act of war you perform with your will power...
In the resigned surrender of your heart...
Is to return to the current, to stick your feet in the moment, to not look left or right or up or down or even straight ahead or directly behind - to be okay with the hysterical blindness it brings.

Your goal is to know that 'this-here-now' is not a trap, even if it feels like it. That it is the looking back, the sudden recurrence of a feeling, a look, a whispered breath on your neck that's the trap.

And so, every goddamned morning - would you please stop?

Challenge. Accepted.

When you troll people on Twitter you find amazing things.
I found an open invite to the Godawful Poetry Fortnight curated by @zigzackly.
I don't write or perform poetry and I just spent the evening listening to people who do.
Obviously these are two qualifications I needed to begin poeming.
 *****

Follow the trail of embroidered beards
and cultivated disinterest
Find yourself 
In the hipster capital of the Capital
Mind the jazz
It has
A beard of its own

Leaning rhymes
Against the bass, a double
A couple
Which you are no longer
Part of
This place of beards & poetry
You know it

You had one once
A beard
with a poem
With a text you've been missing lately
"Delhi seems extra rapey tonight,
Call me when you get home safely."

*****

The Cultural Imperative Song

You should get married.
You're 36 you should get married.
You're overweight you should get married.
You can barely make rent you should get married.
Your job is stressful you should get married.
You have subclinical hypothyroidism you should get married.
Kashmir, Palestine, Yemen, Syria you should get married.
You burned the dal you should get married.
Your parents are going to die one day you should get married.
Your friends' marriages are in trouble you should get married.
People will think you're a lesbian you should get married.
You won't be guaranteed happiness but you should get married.
The share market is falling you should get married.
That'll be Rs.500 you should get married.

You're married you should have babies.

Humiliation

There will be a lot of back & forth about the 'whys' of what went down.
There will be endless analysis of how you behaved and how the other responded. How the other behaved and how you responded.
You will think a lot about the other's context, history, subtext, station in life, morale and spiritual grounding. You will try to connect the dots with their actions.
You will attempt to do the same for yourself.
You will give all parties involved every conceivable benefit of doubt.
You will plan how to leave. You will cling to the idea of staying.
You will tie yourself up in knots. Then you will stop.

You will utter a word. Perhaps that word will be 'Humiliation'. Perhaps it will be 'Cruelty'. Or 'Disrespect'. Something that rings truer than any rationale you have tried to apply to the situation.
It will become untangled. And you will stop.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Intentionally_blank_page

I wake up with a shortness of breath and tightness of chest, the kind of panic some 20th century philosopher or analyst must have described in great detail, and it occurs to me more and more each day that the island of peace and calm I live on is growing smaller and smaller and that too many of my fellow inhabitants on this planet are living lives, where everything they thought was 'normal' is routinely destroyed. As the panic rises, I keep clicking 'Add To Cart' until I feel hopeful again but, of course, I don't. I wonder if this concern for my fellow inhabitants might have something to do with the fact that each day I find something 'normal' inside me getting routinely destroyed and no matter how many times I click 'Add To Wishlist' to feel hopeful, of course, I don't.


 

Frame

I often wonder what place I occupy in the lives of others.

I seem to get transplanted into these other worlds and placed exactly so, in a me-shaped hole that existed long before I came along. Each mindscape of intimates – friends, family and lovers – is like a painting that’s already complete but for that me-shaped hole in it.

Who I am to them depends on the painting they’ve made. If it’s a party scene then there I am holding a drink. If it’s an intimate nook then there I am suspended in a pre-ordained conversation. If it’s a port of departure then I stand with them, waiting in line for my boarding pass. It’s all as if they willed me into being there just so, regardless of my intent - like the mute apple-in-fruit bowl, forever trapped in still life.

It strikes me sometimes that my relationships might be more than that. That it’s not for me to occupy a hollowed-out silhouette; but instead, for me to change the scene just by being in it. Maybe, make it a moving picture, where characters inhale & exhale, where they evolve with the story and affect outcomes.

But of course, it’s difficult to ignore what would happen if I slowed the movie way down to its solitary frames. Then there I’d go again, slipping right back into my chalked outline in someone else’s still life.

http://tinyurl.com/muxdtjp

Changes

All through my childhood, I waited to grow up. I can't explain how or why, but I knew exactly what the taste of adulthood freedom would be. I knew exactly. This conviction only deepened in my teenage years, when the claustrophobia of inhabiting my current life made me more breathless than ever. I held on to the certainty that growing up would solve it all.

And it did. Through my twenties, I knew I had to spend my time becoming somebody. Not a famous or rich person but a person of definite character and values. Not necessarily someone who looked or spoke or thought like others but someone who would leave others in no doubt of what she was like, how far she would or wouldn't go for love, money, friends, family or herself. I read books, had experiences and very gravely followed the procedure for becoming this person.

At thirty, I knew what kind of professional I wanted to be. I was a diligent worker, who understood the value of work-life balance. When conflicted, I always leaned towards fulfilling personal obligations and pursuing personal passions. I tried to make my work an extension of those passions. I enjoyed my job and used it to travel and learn new things. I always stopped to be grateful and tried to be a good person. I tried to manage my anger. I tried to stay hopeful in the face of deep loneliness. I told myself that no matter what, I knew how to love another person selflessly. That it was like swimming - once you learned it you never quite forgot how to do it. I built myself a solid personality with which I proceeded to live in the world.

Today, at thirty five, I have decided to change again. I have decided that money is important and that it isn't evil to want material happiness for oneself or one's family. My parents are growing older and I am becoming a responsible adult - someone who needs to think not just about shaping her self but shaping her future (with it the realization that the two are not the same). I have decided to swing my work-life balance in the other direction - maybe spend more time developing myself as a professional, even if it means coming home later each evening and spending a little less time with those I love. Maybe I want to make investments that will carry me into old age, that will make my parents feel a little less afraid of retiring.

I see my friends from the old days of school and college and I observe their lives closely. There are those that, like me, used their twenties to become someone. They worked so very hard and built themselves from ground up. It was so difficult, this journey, that they were relieved to reach their thirties & forties. There, they stopped. 'I know how to make money. I will always make money'. 'I know how to do art. I will always do art'.

But I feel, once again, like I did as a child. Like I can't wait to be free again. I've enjoyed being the somebody I was for the last fifteen years. Now I want to be a different kind of somebody - a somebody I once made fun of for being boring. I want to see what it would be like to live that kind of life. I want to see if I am set in stone because 'now I am too old yaar' or if I am an ever-changing human, who is capable of surprising herself. 

It's the only way I know how to keep things interesting. It's the only way I can think of to enjoy being alive from here on out.

Many A Slip

That moment before you lose your shit.
That moment before you censor yourself.
That moment before you cast your vote.
That moment before you take that bite.
That moment before you lean forward.
That moment before you walk away.
That moment before you turn around.

Take that moment and stretch it ouuuuuuttttttt as if you control time, as if you are the queen of making clear choices. As if your mind has always had the right answer and your body has always been poised to make the perfect move.

To enjoy the delusion that everything you decided was right for you in that moment. To squash the idea that you made a mistake.
Or the opposite.
To know what's done is done is done and everything else is spin.

Happy Festivus

It isn't festival season in India until you've been kept awake by the amplified yodels of a Bengali man channeling Kishore Kumar (who, in turn, built his career channeling Julie Andrews channeling lonely goatherds), which - even though the singer is situated half a kilometer away from where you attempt to sleep - reach you through the turbo-charged surround sound system that's been expressly hired to simultaneously please the goddess Durga and drive you batshit insane.

The good news this festival season is that Orissa (Odisha, whatever the chick's name is) managed to survive yet another devastating cyclone, all thanks to tweets like this:

This is the greatness of India. With all our seeming chaos & drift, our disaster management is better than any nation including the US!
— Malini Parthasarathy (@MaliniP) October 13, 2013

Yes, why should we not take this moment to pat ourselves on the back for being the bestest country in the world with the bestest disaster management that allowed us to have the bestest disaster-free 24 hours of our----what? What, Barkha...Barkha...I can't hear you...115 deaths you say? In a...in a...Navami-related stampede and bridge collapse in Madhya Pradesh?...

Dang. We almost made it.

But if you ask me, the best thing about this season (besides the results of my dengue test being negative) is how non headline-making-gangrapey this month has been. Of course, rapes will happen and what's a little ass-grabbery in a pandal once in a way? But by and large October, though only halfway through, has managed to be refreshingly rape-free in the newsworthy world.

The world celebrated one year of Malala surviving the Taliban's idea of tough love. She inspired admiration in the most cynical of hearts, when she went on The Daily Show and spoke about wanting to retaliate by throwing a shoe at her attacker but then rising above.
You're a better man than me, Malala, because here is my shoe and here it is being launched as retribution (for crimes far less severe than those committed on you) towards the skull of a yodeling Bengali man, whose time has come.

the small print

some of us will learn that growing up means playing an endless game of tic tac toe, battling constant opponents engaged in ceaseless struggles to win the upper hand, always plotting, brains racing at a thousand kilometres an hour, never dropping the ball, keeping at least one eye open at all times. always fighting for trophies, always shielding from attack.

relationships are arrangements of convenience, strategic contracts between two lives - no matter how hard someone's beating heart echoes in our chests, no matter how easy it is to dissolve into their skin.

in spite of the exhaustion, the endless game is always to be played, new arrangements waiting to be negotiated, small victories to be won but never to be questioned: for what? 

some of us will learn that growing up means playing an endless game of treasure hunt, requiring immense energy for digging deep and hunting for clues in all the scary places - inside ourselves and others - with hearts open twenty four-seven, equally subject to gentle breezes as to harsh winds, always taking furious notes no matter which way the wind blows. always striving to be authentic, ever ready to confront the demons round the corner.

relationships are wild trails, bathed in fresh air and sunlight to illuminate unexplored parts of us - no matter how vulnerable it makes us to go off the beaten path, no matter how unfamiliar the road becomes.

in spite of the uncertainty, the endless game is always to be played, the fresh air & sunlight always available for renewal, small treasures to be found and never once doubted: for what? 

http://imgfave.com/view/1908076

Soap

Ask me again what I want to be when I grow up.

At age 34, I want to be someone who knows how to love and be loved. 

It is the simplest thing I can think of wanting to be. Certainly, also the hardest.

A magnificent thing happened to me while doing the dishes today. A fluff of dish washing foam fell into a vat of oily water and whoosh, like Moses parting the seas, the grease parted and a pristine moat of clear water emerged out of the mess.

Now, I know that soap is designed to make a hearty meal of grease. It’s what the label on the pack says. It’s what my chemistry teacher said in school. It can be proven with equations and formulae. There’s math to explain it. I've had a 25 year long career washing dishes so I’ve also come to place good faith in soap’s appetite for grease.

Yet, there was something about paying attention as it happened: a single droplet of lily-white decimating an entire army of oil & grease in one graceful swoop.

You really had to be there.

***************

(But of course soap doesn't really decimate anything at all. On the contrary, it builds a chemical bridge between natural foes - oil & water. Dang, science, you're awesome.) 

Pretty Sure It's The Meds

This post is all whine and some crackers.

I'm having such a bad hair day, I'd say my hair is having a bad me day. 

I've been working for what feels like Mandela's stint on Robin Island and my only entertainment in forever has been getting up to go pee.

I have not left the house in 7 days.

I've been sick - as in, body being attacked by germs kind of sick. Or so I tell myself as I pop another pill while searching for an excuse not to bathe - offered to one of the many disinterested parties that inhabit my life. It's the kind of cloying season-change illness that has your skull feeling like it's trapped in a Phantom of the Opera mask with his singing voice echoing in your ears, even though you never bought a ticket to the show and frankly think that Andrew Lloyd Webber's finest ouevre was Roop Ki Rani Choron Ka Raja.

I have seen the entire second season of Girls in a single sitting and am now riddled with dreams of disembodied boobs playing table tennis (Wilson's, not Dunham's.). It's not entirely unpleasant and it sure beats that recurring dream of P. Chidambaram in his Don't-Call-It-A-Lungi-Or-The-Tamilian-Mafia-Will-Come-After-You.

In other news the Anti-Rape bill was passed in the Parliament. The news was received amidst lamentations & recriminations that Rahul Gandhi was absent for the vote (along with a sizeable chunk of the legislature. I think the only people who stayed to vote were the folks who fell asleep in the previous session and woke up in the middle of this one).

I've been trying hard to decide my feelings about all of this and have been in hiding from the droves of reporters, banging on my door, anxious to know my special thoughts.

On one hand, I'm relieved that something got passed - like a kidney stone.

On the other hand, I wonder if this anorexic version of the Justice Verma Committee report will make it difficult for anyone pushing for anything better - like constipation.

Every single day I get closer to menopause.

I read an essay by Frederick Douglass and saw 'Gone With The Wind' in the same day, which is an adventure sport I would recommend to anyone serious about understanding the 'Dalit Sich'.

Meanwhile, Chetan Bhagat managed to con another group of earnest filmmakers into elevating his book from toilet paper to That Film Where That Hot Guy Shouldn't Have Died. 

These are the moments when I wonder why I'm putting any effort into this existence. Then I remember I haven't bathed again today and feel better about it all. 

Besides, as Scarlett O Hara said: "Tomorrow is another day (and if the DMK is still in the news you can laugh at Delhi-based news anchors trying to pronounce Alagiri and Kanimozhi)."

Eiiiiiii. I said - Eiiiiiiii

Innovation

Today at the mall, I saw a woman with her son and nanny. The son would've been around 8 or 9 years old. He was misbehaving and getting on his mother's nerves. His mother yelled at him. He started whining. She huffed off. 

The kid was left with Nanny, whom he started to punch. She tried to hug him. He stomped on her foot. She stroked his hair. He wailed. The mother came out of the store she was in and yelled at him some more.

Then she left again, vanishing into another store. The kid's squealing got louder. He charged at Nanny. She tried to fend off his tiny-fisted slugs, while reaching into her backpack for a juice to calm him. He threw the juice box on the floor. Nanny held him firmly, wiped his tears and said cooing things into his ear. He calmed down, only slightly sniffling now. His mother surfaced once more. All was peaceful. 

What an invention! The Tantrum Nanny.

The Tantrum Nanny reminded me of something I saw years ago on a road trip to Kedarnath. 

Some workers were digging a ditch along the highway. Two men were responsible for shoveling the loose earth to one side.  But there was only one shovel.

The shovel had a rope tied to its blade.

Guy 1 held the shovel firmly by the handle.

Guy 2 tugged at the rope so that the blade would sweep across the ground & scoop up gravel.

Guy 1 would pull back on the handle. Guy 2 would tug again. Guy 1 would pull back. Guy 2 would tug.

What an invention! The Two Man Shovel.

I now dream of a day when there will be a robot for tantrum management (and 2 robots for shoveling).

Loyalty - II

I'm set to be presented a Kindle in a couple of months and ever since I learned this, I've been devoting a few minutes of each day to stare at my cupboard full of books. I've decided to get rid of most of them, especially the ones I've only read once, even if they've been gifted. I'm pretty nifty like that, doesn't take much time for me to sift through objects and decide which ones are relevant, which ones aren't. My nostalgia is nuanced, ruthlessly honed to a fine-tipped craft. Most things will not make the cut.

(My generation has had to say a lot of goodbyes in quick succession to the things we built our lives around. I have a feeling the next lot will find it easier to use & throw.)

So anyway, I've been spending more time off the computer and reading books, hoping my fingers will remember their weight and crinkle long after I give them away, even though I know it won't matter a few months, years and decades from now. I'm disciplining myself to read with more care - my attention wanders disastrously nowadays. I'm preparing for loss and this preparation is bringing new joy into my life.

Everyday I will stare at my cupboard full of books, pick one and say goodbye. 

Maybe the books will be gone, but the cupboard - the one that used be in my grandfather's house - will remain.

Loyalty

Like the kind we feel for bands, which have had the big hits and are now churning out mediocre music that we can't stop listening to because the sound has gotten into our blood and we get it now. There's a sense of comfort we draw from this music, which no longer labours to be understood and comes from a more honest place. We wouldn't dare admit we miss the gimmickry and all the times they tried so hard to please us or that that was magic too.

Shellac Disc Changer

Sunday Morning: A Short & Miserable Story

Last evening I went on a bender, which in old lady speak means I went to a nearly empty pub at 4 in the afternoon and after saying a couple of 'No no no, I can't drink - I have to drive. I can't drink - I've given up alcohol. I shouldn't drink because I'm trying to maintain my weight loss...', I gave in and had 6-8 pints of Budweiser.

Then I was punished for my lack of coolth by the stupidest hangover ever.

Of all the Sundays of the year, this had to be when my boss emo-blackmail-bullied me into attending a seminar that had nothing to do with work, just to suck up to the seminar organizer (who happens to a guy of immense coolth).

I'd been up for most of the night nursing my hangover (when you start drinking at 4 and end by 12, the hangover begins at 3am) and the head poundage and generally gross state of booze-sweatiness had succeeded in eliminating all traces of joie de vivre from my usually buoyant personality.

I staggered out of bed - not my bed, a friend's bed...I hadn't made it home (see I can still summon up some coolth) - at 7.30am, hoping to make a quick getaway and promptly bumped into friend's parents, who were happy to meet me after many months. Postponing plans of peeling off my grotty skin, I had to instead be nice & polite and talk to them. Meanwhile the humidity rose in proportion to the headache.

Made it out. Strapped into my vehicle, plugged in my ipod and Norah's promise of 'Happy Pills' helped me make it home in one piece. A quick shower & Ibuprofen and off I went to attend the lecture. At least the roads would be empty on a Sunday morning.

I got caught in the worst traffic jam ever. What kind of old lady hangover hell was this? Cars crawling like millipedes, creepy taxi-driver in the adjacent car trying to lean across and look down my shirt (for reals!), and the ever-exploding temples. By the power of Cumberbatch, I prayed, let me get out of here intact and un-hurled.

Intact is a relative term so let me just say, I reached, checked my pulse and was relieved to discover I was still alive. Onwards, warrior, onwards. And into a seminar hall with only 6 people in it! There would be no skulking to the back of the room and gently drifting off to sleep, while great science was discussed in the front of the class. Some pretense of attention-payment would have to be made. 

Luckily the speaker was the most boring sod in all the land. Not even my land, as it turned out. Japanese, with a thick Japanese accent and even thicker Japanese ppt slides ("I aporogize, I cannot make Engrish sride."). 

I tried valiantly to keep up - but not just in the interest of science. My boss, seated next to me, kept nodding off & sliding down his chair. Turns out there were two hangovers in the house and every so often, I would revenge-poke him awake with my pen. We strove on. The talk was all over the place but to my credit I managed to figure out its central theme of how mankind had smartypanted itself into hastening its own extinction and that if we were going down, we'd be taking everything else down with us.

As the clock ticked and the talk approached the 2 hr mark, I suddenly snapped awake and realised the purpose of this entire ordeal. This sequence of seemingly disconnected & pointlessly tortuous events was in fact leading up to a single moment of enlightenment. At first I thought it was God trying to show me to be stronger-willed, to push past the pain and emerge on the other side, having smashed through personal limits of endurance.

Turns out God just wanted me to know that when a Japanese person enunciates English words, chances are the Earth suddenly becomes the Arse.

It's On Amazon, Yo

On Cynicism

I'm fascinated by cynicism. My own as much as that of others.
When I think about it I realise I'm most cynical about things that I've been upset about or suffered in a very real way (yes, you rapey people, I'm looking at you) but not actively participated in changing.

Then there are other projects of change I've actively participated in. For years and years I've pegged away at them, moving an inch when I 'should' have moved miles. I've been frutrated, exhausted and very dejected along the way. But now that I think about it - they've never made me cynical. I've never thought it was pointless just because I wasn't getting expected results.

Which makes me then think that being cynical has got to be the most boring thing on the planet.

Book Review

A friend suggested I might like a book so I googled it. Its review described the author's work by referencing another writer as inspiration. So I googled that writer. His profile brought up two other authors as influences. So I googled them. Their work was described through the styles of yet another army of writers.
If only I owned a library of cliff notes. I'd be reviewing all the time.