Hey there,
Glad you could make it. Gloomy day today, innit?
Where were we the last last time we met? Times Square, right. Oh yeah, Times Square on New Year's eve, hoping to catch Lady Gaga dropping the ball(s?), whatever that means.
Good times, man, good times. Those were the days. We would get up early in the morning, do a quick run, run to the shower, nude as a child's butt before entering the stalls, and stall in there for as long as we could. Stall in the stalls. Jokes. And then we would all have an all-out multiracial-multispecies orgy. All of this is false, duhh. Open your eyes, sheeple (sheep people are, confusingly enough, not people who fornicate with sheep or the unlikely products of the human-sheep amorous relations -- they are merely called so because of their nature as blind followers).
I have too many things I want to write about, but few that I will actually write about. Such is the human condition. And life goes maddeningly on.
Incomplete
A danky, poorly-lit room. Rays of light peep in from gaps between the sheets of tin that make the roof. There's no floor to speak of -- it's the dry and dusty ground, with small holes poked into it by little kids playing digging games. A lightbulb hangs precariously from naked wires at the center of the room, the wires snaking out of the cutout in the mud-walls that acts as a door. The walls are the color of Sayapatri when looked at early in the morning during the Summers. Looked from the inside, they are always the color of ripe shit.
The air smells vaguely of shit that has been rotting for years. On some evenings, it actually smells of well-cooked vegetable curry with an excess of turmeric and vegetable oil, and that's when you know a good day was had by the people living in those houses. The wind will often blow in dust in the evenings, and the holes that are windows will be hurriedly covered by newspaper and sheets of plastic. A mess of wood and tin will cover the door, with enough space left to observe the happenings outside.
The baby begins wailing. He wails as if he were on a marathon of hiccup-crying. The cries will stop for the baby to take a rest, and then they will hiccup back into existence. Somewhere far off a pressure cooker whistle goes off. The baby is still sobbing, while the mother is vigorously rocking him on her lap as she puts a kettle of cold water on the stove. She is trying to get the radio set perched on the window sill to work, but all she gets out of it are angry hisses of white noise, the Radio Nepal transmission that she wants garbled into nonsense. She can hear the neighborhood kids on their bicycles, tringing their fat horns at each other and giggling as they try to figure out whose horn is the loudest.
It is hot inside the room. The dust makes it prickly too. You can feel particles of sand and mud settling on your head. During Summer evenings, walking in the room feels like wading underneath a vat of thick soup of the most unappetizing beans. The sunlit patterns from the roof catch eye at unexpected times. Those gleams of outside light and irritatingly painful in a dull way.
The air smells vaguely of shit that has been rotting for years. On some evenings, it actually smells of well-cooked vegetable curry with an excess of turmeric and vegetable oil, and that's when you know a good day was had by the people living in those houses. The wind will often blow in dust in the evenings, and the holes that are windows will be hurriedly covered by newspaper and sheets of plastic. A mess of wood and tin will cover the door, with enough space left to observe the happenings outside.
The baby begins wailing. He wails as if he were on a marathon of hiccup-crying. The cries will stop for the baby to take a rest, and then they will hiccup back into existence. Somewhere far off a pressure cooker whistle goes off. The baby is still sobbing, while the mother is vigorously rocking him on her lap as she puts a kettle of cold water on the stove. She is trying to get the radio set perched on the window sill to work, but all she gets out of it are angry hisses of white noise, the Radio Nepal transmission that she wants garbled into nonsense. She can hear the neighborhood kids on their bicycles, tringing their fat horns at each other and giggling as they try to figure out whose horn is the loudest.
It is hot inside the room. The dust makes it prickly too. You can feel particles of sand and mud settling on your head. During Summer evenings, walking in the room feels like wading underneath a vat of thick soup of the most unappetizing beans. The sunlit patterns from the roof catch eye at unexpected times. Those gleams of outside light and irritatingly painful in a dull way.
Bumbling like a bee
I have had too many thoughts, theories, and ideas for movies lately. Way to many for my head to hold. They go over me, and here we are, left together awkwardly, without a thing for me to write. So awkward.
Hitch wrote. Ebert wrote. I am nowhere near either. But I can write. And write I will.
Randomness starts wearing out after a time. Xkcd has a recent comic about how randomness is the opposite of interesting. The revelation isn't but I was disappointed, because, that's what I do best -- spring surprises on people. And then the Mango flew away to its prickish family along with piglet and Prithviraj Chauhan. See? We're on the same page now.
Terry Pratchett is brilliant, brilliant, and not only for a smartass teenager -- the kind that relishes on the fact that most of his contemporaries are likely to miss the jokes in Pratchett's books, while he gets only half the jokes himself. Humor always involves some element of surprise, and ho boy, are his book's full of surprises. Some of the surprises are planned (contrived? but does contrive even have positive connotations?) as parts of stories but most of his stories are little more than equivalents of lame physical humor. But. They are well-woven into the story and rarely go overboard. When they do go out-and-over the reader still comes out of it smarter, not having been taken for a fool who is content with foolish jokes. Random...(some) humor. Effective.
What else is funny? Modern Family. Lily the newly-minted Miss Smartypants. Phil the... there's a scene in one of the latest episodes where Claire is counting off the four times she had disappointed Jay. She counts off three and leaves off abruptly. It takes him some time to realize it's him.
Funny can sometimes be really strange or unexpected. I was playing a multiplayer game with a cousin on android. I was losing (and then lost), mostly because I was laughing so hard at the fact that I was losing an easy game. Yeah, I ain't got no clue eitha', brotha'. Too much?
Hitch wrote. Ebert wrote. I am nowhere near either. But I can write. And write I will.
Randomness starts wearing out after a time. Xkcd has a recent comic about how randomness is the opposite of interesting. The revelation isn't but I was disappointed, because, that's what I do best -- spring surprises on people. And then the Mango flew away to its prickish family along with piglet and Prithviraj Chauhan. See? We're on the same page now.
Terry Pratchett is brilliant, brilliant, and not only for a smartass teenager -- the kind that relishes on the fact that most of his contemporaries are likely to miss the jokes in Pratchett's books, while he gets only half the jokes himself. Humor always involves some element of surprise, and ho boy, are his book's full of surprises. Some of the surprises are planned (contrived? but does contrive even have positive connotations?) as parts of stories but most of his stories are little more than equivalents of lame physical humor. But. They are well-woven into the story and rarely go overboard. When they do go out-and-over the reader still comes out of it smarter, not having been taken for a fool who is content with foolish jokes. Random...(some) humor. Effective.
What else is funny? Modern Family. Lily the newly-minted Miss Smartypants. Phil the... there's a scene in one of the latest episodes where Claire is counting off the four times she had disappointed Jay. She counts off three and leaves off abruptly. It takes him some time to realize it's him.
Funny can sometimes be really strange or unexpected. I was playing a multiplayer game with a cousin on android. I was losing (and then lost), mostly because I was laughing so hard at the fact that I was losing an easy game. Yeah, I ain't got no clue eitha', brotha'. Too much?
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