Intersting how the little men with hammers inside your head coexist with the demons... in equilibrium, neither jostling for space, but each content with its own time on centrestage, spotlight, manipulating the rest of you with a shockingly easy panache, till your world tilts. Maybe it is the thought of packing that brings on the panic attack. Wishful thinking. The knot in my stomach absorbs the dull thud of my heartbeat. The Red Dahlia deeply unsuitable reading for a mind not in equilibrium, as is the minging weather. My calm demeanour seems to harness my heartbeat in the hollow of my throat, amplifying it, the reverberations ringing in my ears. A part of me wants to curl up and never move again, while the other keeps an eye on the clock, urging me to discard the chocolate silk for a more practical tracks and t-shirt. An hour to establish a victor.
The numbers float in front my eyes as my fingers put them in their proper places, operating on autopilot. It offers to assistance in ordering my mind, and my thoughts continue to wreak havoc like shards of broken glass.
Masters
While I’ve always tremendously enjoyed the irreverence of the Aussies on court, I don’t think I’ve ever lusted after a single one of those boys…. The French, are another matter altogether. But last night, despite the coy towel draped over his nipples in response to the wolf whistling crowd, I felt my breath drawn to a standstill at the sight of the undulating muscles across his back and shoulders as Pat Cash changed out of his sweat tee. That Aussie has one of the most beautifully sculpted torsos I have ever seen, the kind that invokes the spirit of Michelangelo within you, and you can appreciate the compelling need he might have felt to try and capture the play of light against the exquisite musculature. Spellbound, I drink in the sight, unmindful of the poetry in motion cliché, as they bunch and ripple before disappearing under a clean shirt. I feel like a disappointed adolescent shooed away from the soft lines of a semi naked Athena by a crotchety museum guard. My fingers and palms itching to mould the contours, feel the shift and play of movement underneath, test it's strength and give. Just like that bronze at the Fric.
The black hole that is my memory swims into light…and I can see straining muscles, pulling and heaving against the yoke of a haathgaadi, thwarted by the unruly traffic in suburban Bombay. A lithe, dark body, interrupted by a grimy ganji and the sheen of sweat. A row of men, outside MTNL, chanting and grunting in unison as they manhandle the recalcitrant cable into submission. Shoulders bunched, muscles thrown into relief as they pull together, backs rippling with every heave. There is nothing more fascinating than the sight of a living torso. The primeval knowledge that it’s flesh and bone, muscle, tissue and blood, knitted together in just the right way. So fragile, yet so strong, so undeniably obvious. The potentcy and vibrancy of life conveyed through motion. The sheer beauty of it, breathtaking. My God. That man has such a beautiful body.
Emma’s sniggering makes me realise I didn't just say it in my head..... apparently, another body to behold is that of Roger Federer. I squint at her in disblief. As desparate as I am to see him move on court at least once in my life, he allegedly has the anatomy to drive Emma to ask in hushed tones if it was wrong for her to want to see him naked...... Damn! The vision of Roger naked serves only to crease my forehead with an unbecoming scowl. Somethings really shouldn't be messed with and the Federer backhand is one of them. My meanderings into the world of sculpture that I covet is reined in as we watch Cash annhilate Pioline in striaght sets. Another semi-Aussie victory in a superb doubles finale (McNamara/Pernfors vs Woodforde/Leconte) topped by TFL's incomptenence at Earl's Court while it's pouring outside drives the Renaissance back to the 15th century, as I trade Greek sculpture for Greek profanity......
The black hole that is my memory swims into light…and I can see straining muscles, pulling and heaving against the yoke of a haathgaadi, thwarted by the unruly traffic in suburban Bombay. A lithe, dark body, interrupted by a grimy ganji and the sheen of sweat. A row of men, outside MTNL, chanting and grunting in unison as they manhandle the recalcitrant cable into submission. Shoulders bunched, muscles thrown into relief as they pull together, backs rippling with every heave. There is nothing more fascinating than the sight of a living torso. The primeval knowledge that it’s flesh and bone, muscle, tissue and blood, knitted together in just the right way. So fragile, yet so strong, so undeniably obvious. The potentcy and vibrancy of life conveyed through motion. The sheer beauty of it, breathtaking. My God. That man has such a beautiful body.
Emma’s sniggering makes me realise I didn't just say it in my head..... apparently, another body to behold is that of Roger Federer. I squint at her in disblief. As desparate as I am to see him move on court at least once in my life, he allegedly has the anatomy to drive Emma to ask in hushed tones if it was wrong for her to want to see him naked...... Damn! The vision of Roger naked serves only to crease my forehead with an unbecoming scowl. Somethings really shouldn't be messed with and the Federer backhand is one of them. My meanderings into the world of sculpture that I covet is reined in as we watch Cash annhilate Pioline in striaght sets. Another semi-Aussie victory in a superb doubles finale (McNamara/Pernfors vs Woodforde/Leconte) topped by TFL's incomptenence at Earl's Court while it's pouring outside drives the Renaissance back to the 15th century, as I trade Greek sculpture for Greek profanity......
Good morning??
A decadent breakfast of strawberries with dark chocolate starts my day off well, and I contemplate the frosty cast to my window with a philosophical glint in my eye. The sky is clear and blue, and I feel benevolent. That is before I check the weather....
1˚ C (feels like 1˚C). Gak! It's freezing!!! The glint of philosophy is replaced by a shiver that rustles it way all the way down to my toes snugly encased in fluffy slippers. My mind darts around in panic as my arm reaches for the thermostat. Is there anyway I can avoid leaving the flat?? The traditional 'work from home' is always an option, but I have to pick up the Chilean visa and as if I wasn't being punished enough, I'm meeting Emma for the tennis tonight!
Wardrobe check. Time to delve for the polar costumes!! My preoccupation with the dire state of the weather is fragrantly interruped by the aroma of Thai herbs.... Fuck! Lunch! I rescue the rice from the fate of a mud pie, and save the prawn curry from premature evaporation... naturally, as Murphy and his ilk dictate, the rice is perfectly fluffy, each grain flaunting it's personality. The prawn curry however, has turned into a weapon of mass destruction, powered by 2 cunning red chillies that snuck past my viligant guard and are now on their way to a liaison with 24 virgins in heaven....
1˚ C (feels like 1˚C). Gak! It's freezing!!! The glint of philosophy is replaced by a shiver that rustles it way all the way down to my toes snugly encased in fluffy slippers. My mind darts around in panic as my arm reaches for the thermostat. Is there anyway I can avoid leaving the flat?? The traditional 'work from home' is always an option, but I have to pick up the Chilean visa and as if I wasn't being punished enough, I'm meeting Emma for the tennis tonight!
Wardrobe check. Time to delve for the polar costumes!! My preoccupation with the dire state of the weather is fragrantly interruped by the aroma of Thai herbs.... Fuck! Lunch! I rescue the rice from the fate of a mud pie, and save the prawn curry from premature evaporation... naturally, as Murphy and his ilk dictate, the rice is perfectly fluffy, each grain flaunting it's personality. The prawn curry however, has turned into a weapon of mass destruction, powered by 2 cunning red chillies that snuck past my viligant guard and are now on their way to a liaison with 24 virgins in heaven....
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