The truth hurts. No matter what angle you look at it from, when you finally wade through all the subterfuge your able mind has spun, and come face to face with it, naked, nothing left to hide behind, it shocks you. Makes you question your motives. Makes you look at your life and wonder at the choices you've made. Marginal fears that you thought were so far behind you as to be forgotten... but never having been laid to rest, they now come back to haunt you. Surely healed scar tissue cannot bleed?? How do I make it stop? Those feelings that overwhelmed me once before, rapaciously grabbing at me, insistent on dragging me into the void again. The recognition of the humiliation of reverting to type, of falling victim to the same pattern is scant consolation as the wound oozes with impunity.
Art imitates life..
9 draft posts... a number of which I've just deleted because I have absolutely no clue what the cryptic summons of the few hastily typed words were meant to have conveyed. It's just so easily to let things slide. Life will, and does go on in spite of you. But I've had enough... enough of letting it slide. Time to sit up straight again and pick up the reins. With the blog and with my life. A new year. A new partner to the team. A new flat. A new lover (or four). A visit to Cal after too long. Time to move on.
TV Terror
My aalo phulgobi chingri tastes shockingly good and I move my attention to my panchphoron beans. Obviously, my normally susceptible sensibilities were able to resist an utterly insincere Aishwariya Rai in Bride and Prejudice. A classic endorsement of why looks will always win over talent. I have yet to see anyone as artificial, wooden, pretentious and unidimensionally pretty as that woman, and I'm not even going to pretend to comprehend the origins of her strangely accented English. I will admit to never having liked her, but in this film... my God! She is beyond P-A-T-H-E-Y-T-I-C!
By the time I'm done with my culinary display, the beautiful one has given way to a couple of men sleeping.... with birds chirping in the early dawn. 17 past the witching hour and I settle myself down wondering what adventures their new day will bring. But they just continue to sleep.....
What on earth is this? I pay greater attention to the screen, my razor sharp mind registering twin beds, one with a hideous headboard that is a clown with an open mouth (Freud would've gone to town with this one!), white satin sheets... a rather bizarre bedroom, on E4. A stray synapse wonders if someone actually pay to have this produced? I'm dying to know if.. oh hang on - he shifted his leg... and continues to sleep. Is this just a program on some dude sleeping? My other synapses now join in the fray, and there's a lively debate on how much longer can I control my twitchy arm from reaching for the remote and making it go away? It's now been about four minutes .... no, five and a half... and they chirpy birds seem to have given way to crows, but I'm not sure if they're in the TV or in my head!!
I surrender... finger quivering over the remote.... maybe another minute.... a-ha! He turned... hand uplifted, pretending to be a bird?? Maybe this is just deeply sophisticated and existential. Uh oh, it's wavering... it falls. Fascinating. I think I'm going to eat my lovely phanchphorner aalo beanser torkari....Damn I'm good. Another synapse intervenes - could this be Big Brother? I seem to have vague recollections of someone say something about watching people sleep.... and I thought they had been kidding???? 23 past and even the panchphoron cannot save the situation.... my scientific efforts at elucidation crumbles and my fingers maul the remote. I think that sleep fest might be entitled Brothers and Sisters?? WFT?? Perhaps I shall remember to inquire around tomorrow for illumination... or perhaps not.... Hark! QI XL - all is not yet lost... Stephen and his intellgensia to the rescue!
By the time I'm done with my culinary display, the beautiful one has given way to a couple of men sleeping.... with birds chirping in the early dawn. 17 past the witching hour and I settle myself down wondering what adventures their new day will bring. But they just continue to sleep.....
What on earth is this? I pay greater attention to the screen, my razor sharp mind registering twin beds, one with a hideous headboard that is a clown with an open mouth (Freud would've gone to town with this one!), white satin sheets... a rather bizarre bedroom, on E4. A stray synapse wonders if someone actually pay to have this produced? I'm dying to know if.. oh hang on - he shifted his leg... and continues to sleep. Is this just a program on some dude sleeping? My other synapses now join in the fray, and there's a lively debate on how much longer can I control my twitchy arm from reaching for the remote and making it go away? It's now been about four minutes .... no, five and a half... and they chirpy birds seem to have given way to crows, but I'm not sure if they're in the TV or in my head!!
I surrender... finger quivering over the remote.... maybe another minute.... a-ha! He turned... hand uplifted, pretending to be a bird?? Maybe this is just deeply sophisticated and existential. Uh oh, it's wavering... it falls. Fascinating. I think I'm going to eat my lovely phanchphorner aalo beanser torkari....Damn I'm good. Another synapse intervenes - could this be Big Brother? I seem to have vague recollections of someone say something about watching people sleep.... and I thought they had been kidding???? 23 past and even the panchphoron cannot save the situation.... my scientific efforts at elucidation crumbles and my fingers maul the remote. I think that sleep fest might be entitled Brothers and Sisters?? WFT?? Perhaps I shall remember to inquire around tomorrow for illumination... or perhaps not.... Hark! QI XL - all is not yet lost... Stephen and his intellgensia to the rescue!
Winter Wonderland... NOT!
The dirty slush underfoot conceals the sly slivers of ice that make my walk home reminiscent of a penguin.... the secret of their locomotion finally revealed. The pristine white along the edge of the kerb, interrupted by little footprints, mocks my wary tread. The excitement at the sight of the swift flurry's outside the window melts into an ugly morass that is a city that seldom holds with settling snow.
The pretty newsreader's eyes widen as she informs us of the Arctic conditions with 18" of snow wracking havoc all over the UK :) (although my Dutch client believes the Anglo Saxons are just whiny wankers.... 'you don't hear the Russians complaining do you?!'). Winter wonderland London is most definitely not, and I can only be grateful for having seen the wonderland that snow can be up in the Alps (although, my gratitude was markedly absent at 7am as we precariously made our way through walls of snow to class!!)... or it could just be the thaw in my flat :).
Nothing like endless flights, lost luggage, daft deadlines and a cold front to slap away your holiday jollies...!! One can only hope this weekend's photo swap will be a fond wallow in memories of what was.....
The pretty newsreader's eyes widen as she informs us of the Arctic conditions with 18" of snow wracking havoc all over the UK :) (although my Dutch client believes the Anglo Saxons are just whiny wankers.... 'you don't hear the Russians complaining do you?!'). Winter wonderland London is most definitely not, and I can only be grateful for having seen the wonderland that snow can be up in the Alps (although, my gratitude was markedly absent at 7am as we precariously made our way through walls of snow to class!!)... or it could just be the thaw in my flat :).
Nothing like endless flights, lost luggage, daft deadlines and a cold front to slap away your holiday jollies...!! One can only hope this weekend's photo swap will be a fond wallow in memories of what was.....
In your head...
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.
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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