Wednesday, March 31, 2010

endless rain inside a paper cup- fiona apple style

The first time she stole something(a watermelon-flavored lollipop), she hid it in the drawer. The drawer was one of two bedside tables, and it was her everything. It served as a bookshelf, a desk, a safe, a mantle. The versatility of her spirit was thus apparent from an early age. She would sit there, reading, drawing, over and over again. Once, her older sister had a friend over, and while they danced to Ace of Base, she tried her best not to look and laugh, drawing circles that pointed to nowhere. Her sister had asked her to leave, to save them both from embarrassment. And that one dreadful winter, when she was too sick to go out and play in the snow. She stood by her desk in a fuzzy bathrobe, looking out her window on the second floor. Her baby brother caught her attention, and made a snow angel for her in earnest. Couldn't have been more than 5 years old, and he loved her so much.

She picked up habits like they were memory stones (ones that remind you of places you've been) and pretty soon, she was sleeping like her mother and smoking like her daddy. Her fingers scraped crumbly-textured walls as she watched herself do things like drink sour milk and be a lover to people who slept with their backs to her. The future promised floral prints and sinking toe nails into wet, squishy mud.
'I'm not scared of forever'
'And I don't think there is such a thing'
She often overlooked his short-sighted pessimism and logic because she knew happier times were just around the corner. They just had to get there. And she didn't care where she was going or what was going to happen, or if they ever got there in the end at all. As long as he was riding shotgun.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

this taste..all i ever needed, all i ever wanted.

'Quaint little big city', she thought. she was standing at the pavement of a four-way street. she would switch from being perpendicular to the main road to parallel, depending on which way the wind was blowing. she leaned against a pole. leaned off. looked this way, then that. three men stopped, pretending to be lost. 2 crackers and a nigger. they looked at her inquisitively, but she had no answers. 'is she homeless or a hooker?'. her coolly unconcerned face said they'd never be able to tell. 'she has nice hair though'. they exit, stage left. it's cold tonight, and she forgets why she wore shorts. her socks are too small and her pea-coat won't button the right way. oh well.she is listening to relatively 'new' rock in her head, but rock all the same. she looks up, star light, star bright. the clouds are moving at a wild speed. 'always late, those clouds', he had said. he doesn't say anything any more. this time a china man stops. 'she must know where this is'.
but she never has any answers.

what i'll tell them about you

...

Friday, March 12, 2010

angry rant

my poor city, my poor poor country.
i write this sitting in a London flat, Zone 1, listening to relatively amazing music, as boys do my chores and the weather outside flutters. i scroll down my twitter, a sinking feeling that news of anything that happens in my country has become too old to post by reporters. they're bored, they're confused, they have no idea what to talk about. suicide attack, people dead, same shit, different day. i watch as other news pop up, stuff about...stuff. other things. unconcerned individuals going about their day, like i do for most of the weeks and weekends. i'm biting my lip, i want to be back there, amongst the rubble, in a tattered shalwar kameez, pulling people out from underneath concrete and metal. let the dust collect in my hair, i want to be there. but i know it's never possible. i know i say these things, like so many of us do, yet we watch with horror and humiliation as we let the barbarians do what they do best, again and again. more scrolling on twitter, something about Harry Reid's wife in an accident, says npr. what about the rest of the accidents, you fucking morons? will you stop your tomfoolery so people can get on with having a life and actually being able to live it? is it so easy for you to sleep at night because it's really all about how it's important to save black boys and make sure China gives you the money you need to keep doing what you're doing and not have to worry about stuff like honest foreign policy or anything that Plato or Chomsky spoke about. Like peace, and interdependence, and integrity to the human race. Chuck the UDEC out the 30th floor window, theek? Aur woh kya religious fundos, how the fuck are you letting them get away with this shit, again? Again and again? Unn idiots ko bhi tou samajh nahin aani. Kisi ko bhi kuch nahin samajh aani. maar dalo saron ko, buss. Fuck MAD, just blow everything up.

everyone cries in the kitchen


The red lips stain her cigarette, as the sun makes her smile shine. She waits for the smoke to clear, among the noise of heavy engines, crying babies in plastic prams, electro-pop music. She glances up, the seasons have changed. It was January forever, then it'll be June too soon. Men with shaved chests speaking in foreign tongues. How does God expect her to focus on troubles when the weather makes her want to belt out in song?

Wednesday, March 03, 2010

Gain the Wolf

I let the monsters come out to play, wretched me. I know a problem when I see it, but this is getting out of hand. I'm a lot less depressed than people think I am, but I'm a lot more depressed than I let on. I know it's wrong, but I have a great many sides to me. There's a side that lies to my parents, a side that lies to my friends, a side that lies to my lover, and I of course like to myself all the time. That, to me, is not the problem. To me, the problem comes when all those different sides accidentally bump into each other in crowded places or isolated rooms. And we try to get out of each others' way, but we get anxious and flustered and then the panic comes and we're paralyzed. Regret, sadness, anger, sleep.
Wake up swollen and repeat.
I get cornered, my vocabulary commits suicide, and I lash out. Playing the victim is the best part. Losing all sense of time and place is the next. Being incoherent follows, and wallowing in self-pity closes the show. I pass out often, thankfully I'm always in my room or near a bed when this happens. I sedate myself with the overwhelming feelings I have, preventing me to dream at all. I know that too much has happened when my eyes were open, and if I have to go through it again, this time with my eyes shut, I surely might die simply because of emotional exhaustion.
I mean seriously, what do I do? Just be comfortable with myself? I'm trying really hard to be good after a solid year of being anything but. However, there are some things that I just cannot afford to admit to, even to myself. I remember looking into mirrors from time to time, wanting to smash them, hating my fucking face, wishing it would burn off so I couldn't bat my eyelashes at anyone ever again. I remember not being able to figure out which punishment was greater, a physical one or an emotional one?
Nobody knows the truth, my love. What makes you think you're so special? I'd rather keep you than be honest with you. I'd rather love you than have to hate you. I'd rather see you than any seven wonders of the world. I'd rather compromise my self than compromise you. I'd rather lie in the cold with you than sleep in the warmth alone.

Monday, March 01, 2010

new massive attack

In the sheer regality of the awesomeness of her gloom, England forgets that she sometimes has what are called beautiful days. Today, my irresponsible and tragically jaded self feels particularly delighted at the thought of noisy imagination. It could be the presence of smoke making a temporary but suitable replacement for food in my stomach. It could be because I've been haphazardly put together. It could be because I have a black marker so I can now leave my mark in places I've never actually been. Of course, it could also be the obvious; the sun is out so us flower children can make merry.