Wherein the author sees his friend's college's streaking team 'practicing' on snapchat
..and is quite traumatized by it, jeez.
Portrayal of the author as a sad and hopelessly romantic person
Captions for images from the author's life.
In this photo(circa 2014) taken by the author's college friend, the author looks thoughtful and hard at work. The original caption (written by the photographer) implied that the photo showed that author was a smart and hardworking man. In reality, the author is thinking about why no woman not related to him by blood or marriage won't love him, and trying to figure out ways to put the blame of his issues on his parents.
Taken by the author on halloween, this photo shows the author in the middle of a group made of happy and attractive men and women, some all many of whom the author considers 'beyond his league'. Notice that the author appears to be popular. The reason the author is included in photo is because the camera with which it was taken belonged to him. In his eyes, you can see the author thinking how the 'investment' in the expensive camera finally paid off.
This photo, from the author's time in the United States, shows the author with his friends, who are all 'together' with their partners, and look extremely happy. Notice how single women of the group are trying to avoid eye contact with the author, as he tries in desperation to find some fossil of love in this cold, heartless, and desolate world devoid of human caring. Records show that by this point, the author has given up all pretenses of 'standards' and would be together with anyone willing to hug him.
At a party during his first year in college, the author stands awkwardly-- cross-armed and holding a red party cup with unidentified liquid in it -- while the rest of the room is in various stages of unclothing. The author will later insist to his friends that Americans don't know how to have fun, and that he had expected much exciting things to happen at parties than a bunch of freshmen making out with each other. Notice the four-feet empty 'buffer zone' formed around the author in the crowded room.
The author is caught in the background of a police dash-cam as local law enforcement breaks up a party. The author was going to the party to report on it, after receiving an unsubstantiated tip by someone the author now knows is untrustworthy, that orgiastic activities were being held inside the premises of the building. The departing party-goers (foreground) look heavily dressed for the cold of Boston winter.
In this photo, the author is in a state what he later describes as 'closest near-death experience'. The author had previously agreed to go on a run with a younger female classmate, not realizing she was a marathon runner with two full marathons with reasonable timings under her belt.
Here, the author is pretending to read 'The Female Eunuch' to impress the ladies. He will be unsuccessful.
In this photo(circa 2014) taken by the author's college friend, the author looks thoughtful and hard at work. The original caption (written by the photographer) implied that the photo showed that author was a smart and hardworking man. In reality, the author is thinking about why no woman not related to him by blood or marriage won't love him, and trying to figure out ways to put the blame of his issues on his parents.
Taken by the author on halloween, this photo shows the author in the middle of a group made of happy and attractive men and women
This photo, from the author's time in the United States, shows the author with his friends, who are all 'together' with their partners, and look extremely happy. Notice how single women of the group are trying to avoid eye contact with the author, as he tries in desperation to find some fossil of love in this cold, heartless, and desolate world devoid of human caring. Records show that by this point, the author has given up all pretenses of 'standards' and would be together with anyone willing to hug him.
At a party during his first year in college, the author stands awkwardly-- cross-armed and holding a red party cup with unidentified liquid in it -- while the rest of the room is in various stages of unclothing. The author will later insist to his friends that Americans don't know how to have fun, and that he had expected much exciting things to happen at parties than a bunch of freshmen making out with each other. Notice the four-feet empty 'buffer zone' formed around the author in the crowded room.
The author is caught in the background of a police dash-cam as local law enforcement breaks up a party. The author was going to the party to report on it, after receiving an unsubstantiated tip by someone the author now knows is untrustworthy, that orgiastic activities were being held inside the premises of the building. The departing party-goers (foreground) look heavily dressed for the cold of Boston winter.
In this photo, the author is in a state what he later describes as 'closest near-death experience'. The author had previously agreed to go on a run with a younger female classmate, not realizing she was a marathon runner with two full marathons with reasonable timings under her belt.
Here, the author is pretending to read 'The Female Eunuch' to impress the ladies. He will be unsuccessful.
Stumble stumble
Why do we get hopeful,
When the only
Pretty girl
In a college
Of five fucking thousand
Drunk snapchats us?
And then radio silence.
Forever.
Such is life,
Sisyphean, sad, pathetic,
That we live.
And love.
Dear person or interest,
Let's Snapchat!
Man of age
Get a job now,
they say to me,
a 'man of age',
kulli of expectations,
unmarried to not-a-wife,
and father of unborn child.
Head held high,
I
trudge along,
in the minefields
of relationships
and the trench-fields of
those marriage talks.
Little do they know.
I am a deserter.
Head held high,
A man of age,
I,
will get a job now.
they say to me,
a 'man of age',
kulli of expectations,
unmarried to not-a-wife,
and father of unborn child.
Head held high,
I
trudge along,
in the minefields
of relationships
and the trench-fields of
those marriage talks.
Little do they know.
I am a deserter.
Head held high,
A man of age,
I,
will get a job now.
Missed connections
Yearning for the nerdy bespeckled knight
We were both in the green line, and you smiled at me. I looked at the hot friend behind me and smirked at her, but you were smiling at me. By the time my hot friend told me that, you had already gotten of in Hynes. You are pale, tall and wear nerdy glasses. You were carrying a heavy bag awkwardly. When I went home that knight, I told my friend Kaley about you, and she told I had met my soulmate. She says that we will meet again my handsome hero but I want to meet you sooner than that!
-SmittenKoala3223
The Indian chick in hot salwar kameez
When you heard me talk in Hindi to my friend at State house, you got closer and tried to hear our conversation. Unfortunately my friend moved the conversation into his conference room right then. By the time we had come out, you were gone. I looked for your details in the visitor book, but you weren't there! Oh dream girl, are you even real? All I ask for is a coffee date, with some extra donuts if you are okay with that. I am beginning to love you already.
-SalmanK22
Did you see what I did here?
You remember me. We were both drunk and the river was right there. You insisted you only wanted to talk, and we talked, our feet dipping in the Charles till six in the morning. That summer night has been my most memorable night yet. I had to get back to college and you had to leave. We promised we would keep in touch. We agreed we shouldn't share contacts, because we would meet again anyway. I take that back, I want to talk to you through the night on the banks of Charles again. Lets finish a twelve pack like we did again yaar.
-Mistikt
Salman, hasn't this been such a long time?
I fear sometimes of the day I run out of things to say to you, all those random things to get your attention. What happens the day I run out of all the random okra-related facts and jokes only God can tell but today I have important things to talk about.
Spread
First, there's one face, and a trait -- something small and unnoticeable. The face then morphs, and spreads into one's psyche in a multitude of forms, like a virus, commandeering once consciousness and thoughts. The face becomes a class of faces, and then a type, and finally, the general look. The trait-- almost imperceptible to begin with-- looms larger, turning into a personality. And then you die. Not exactly, but that is how love works.
Time heals wounds, and time also erases the neural marks on your CNS. After a point, they become ancient artifacts, and you're surprised when you stumble across one unexpectedly. That was me, you think. Wow, what a romantic. The selfish gene manipulates our psyche, and we as its most devoted slaves --robots, rather -- obey every command. It convinces us what is good for it is good for us. The CNS, developed to work for the gene does have certain degree of independence and tries to logic its way out of certain situations, but is often short circuited. In the presence of alcohol, it has not the slightest of chance.
Some rebel. It's in the genes, we're told. The rebels create, they transpose and combine. They fight. They work not for the selfish gene, but for the CNS. Not even-- they work under the influence of random firings of neurons. In that sense, they're more in control of their fate than any of us. Modern medicine attempts to convince us that there is something wrong inside them that needs to be medicated. Regular neural patterns are not observed, the heads tell us. Of course, your fkers. They are the imaginors and the creators -- if they had regular neural patterns, the world would be a much sadder place.
Sometimes, the creators are subsumed. Their madness is constrained, their thought patterns trained. They are not the wild shrubs that they once were -- they are neatly trimmed garden grass that dare not sway an inch on either side. The shell is of the robot, there's a wild heart inside. If it will ever make its presence felt-- who knows. The writers' workshops and math and bio classes fill their heads with so much useful drivel they have no spare mental energies to create. They are taught to analyze and organize and recognize (sigh) but not to think. Thinking is implicitly discouraged. It's a sad situation for humankind.
The robots don't need to think. They shouldn't waste their time trying to do it anyway. Teach them to organize and analyze and make. Identify the creators, and save them from the same fate. Or perhaps, is this all a test of strength?
Time heals wounds, and time also erases the neural marks on your CNS. After a point, they become ancient artifacts, and you're surprised when you stumble across one unexpectedly. That was me, you think. Wow, what a romantic. The selfish gene manipulates our psyche, and we as its most devoted slaves --robots, rather -- obey every command. It convinces us what is good for it is good for us. The CNS, developed to work for the gene does have certain degree of independence and tries to logic its way out of certain situations, but is often short circuited. In the presence of alcohol, it has not the slightest of chance.
Some rebel. It's in the genes, we're told. The rebels create, they transpose and combine. They fight. They work not for the selfish gene, but for the CNS. Not even-- they work under the influence of random firings of neurons. In that sense, they're more in control of their fate than any of us. Modern medicine attempts to convince us that there is something wrong inside them that needs to be medicated. Regular neural patterns are not observed, the heads tell us. Of course, your fkers. They are the imaginors and the creators -- if they had regular neural patterns, the world would be a much sadder place.
Sometimes, the creators are subsumed. Their madness is constrained, their thought patterns trained. They are not the wild shrubs that they once were -- they are neatly trimmed garden grass that dare not sway an inch on either side. The shell is of the robot, there's a wild heart inside. If it will ever make its presence felt-- who knows. The writers' workshops and math and bio classes fill their heads with so much useful drivel they have no spare mental energies to create. They are taught to analyze and organize and recognize (sigh) but not to think. Thinking is implicitly discouraged. It's a sad situation for humankind.
The robots don't need to think. They shouldn't waste their time trying to do it anyway. Teach them to organize and analyze and make. Identify the creators, and save them from the same fate. Or perhaps, is this all a test of strength?
Poems of the smitten
Radiocarbon dating
Argon dating
Dating
Sci-fi: Attention passengers, the next red line train to alewife does not take customers, please stand back from yellow line.
Oh but you're so fine
Not at all like brine
More like a good sine
Good for a dine
With some wine
So I opine
Goes the vine
Works of Scientific fiction:
Surgery
Vaccination
Theory of Relativity
Le' Hopital's Theory
Mendel's Theory of Mutation
The three basic theories of thermodynamics
Radiocarbon dating
Argon dating
Dating
Gravity
Genetics
Evolution
Linguistics
Archeology
String theory
Gas Theories
Paleontology
Climate change
Right hand theory
Cantor's Postulations
Works of Unscientific Fiction
Mort
Beowulf
Harry Potter
The Notebook
The Small Gods
Lord of the Flies
Shirin and Husrev
Devil Wears Prada
The Satanic Verses
You don't know me
Argon dating
Dating
Sci-fi: Attention passengers, the next red line train to alewife does not take customers, please stand back from yellow line.
Oh but you're so fine
Not at all like brine
More like a good sine
Good for a dine
With some wine
So I opine
Goes the vine
Works of Scientific fiction:
Surgery
Vaccination
Theory of Relativity
Le' Hopital's Theory
Mendel's Theory of Mutation
The three basic theories of thermodynamics
Radiocarbon dating
Argon dating
Dating
Gravity
Genetics
Evolution
Linguistics
Archeology
String theory
Gas Theories
Paleontology
Climate change
Right hand theory
Cantor's Postulations
Works of Unscientific Fiction
Mort
Beowulf
Harry Potter
The Notebook
The Small Gods
Lord of the Flies
Shirin and Husrev
Devil Wears Prada
The Satanic Verses
You don't know me
Lord of the Rings
Game, Set, Match
His Dark Materials
The End Of Eternity
Rendezvous with Rama
The number one ladies detective agency
Game, Set, Match
His Dark Materials
The End Of Eternity
Rendezvous with Rama
The number one ladies detective agency
Death of the adverb
Marquez (dead now, long live Marquez) never used the Spanish equivalent of an adverb ending in -ly, and asked his translators not to do so either. That's a great act coming from a great man. I should do that with great gutso myself.
Also decided to avoid using the word 'troll' and instead go with 'to provoke' or 'provocateur'. Reading Adrian Mole series -- the last time I read a book from the series was in the seventh grade. The ease time flies with -- sigh.
Also decided to avoid using the word 'troll' and instead go with 'to provoke' or 'provocateur'. Reading Adrian Mole series -- the last time I read a book from the series was in the seventh grade. The ease time flies with -- sigh.
Bloo
You.
Are.
Bloo.
Lulu, Lulu, Lulu,
You. Are. Bloo.
Blu Blue, Blu Blu, Blu Blu
You. Are. Bloo.
So Blue.
Like the Denim jacket Bloo
That's so you,
Like the BB King Bloo
You know who.
That is you,
So Bloo.
Mountains are not
as Bloo
As you.
The foggy mornings
of Illam aren't
Bloo enough
to you.
Have you got a clue
Of how Bloo
is your hue?
[At this point I run out of rhyming words, so I leave the 'poem' as it is]
Are.
Bloo.
Lulu, Lulu, Lulu,
You. Are. Bloo.
Blu Blue, Blu Blu, Blu Blu
You. Are. Bloo.
So Blue.
Like the Denim jacket Bloo
That's so you,
Like the BB King Bloo
You know who.
That is you,
So Bloo.
Mountains are not
as Bloo
As you.
The foggy mornings
of Illam aren't
Bloo enough
to you.
Have you got a clue
Of how Bloo
is your hue?
[At this point I run out of rhyming words, so I leave the 'poem' as it is]
Shush
fic.
Sthani says the new guy she's been talking to, who bytheway-because-you-care-about-such-things is Nepali, is nice.
"That's awesummm. Ask him out no. We're getting older," I say.
"You misunderstand. 'Nice' meaning he's probably gay," she says.
Of course. That's her. After all this time, after all the gap, after everything she has been through, she's still herself. Goodtoknow.
"I am not gay, so shutup," I say. This conversation has happened at least a dozen times since I've known her.
"And you are sure about that? Hundredpercent? No confusion, yeah?" she says, because she has nothing better to do.
I ask her about the guy.
"He's fine -- kinda' cute, and soo nice. He's cool too. Kinda' sad that he may be gay. k garne. No sindoor in my maag," she says taking the back of her to her forehead, in the bharatiya nari pose that she loves to ridicule so much.
I ask her what happened.
"Umm so we went on a dinner. I was worried it'd be weird, and then got really scared that it might have been a date. Soo yeah. Ramro thaaum ma gaera khayo, he told funny jokes and I laughed, and all that omg letshangout stuff. Tei ho."
"Tetii matra? " I'm curious. Suspicious. "You guys didn't drink? "
"Ma tipsy bhaye ni. Ani malai dorm puryaidiyo. Malai pachi k bhayo ramrari yad pani chhaina. He was apologizing for everything the next day jhan."
The last time Sthani had been on anything remotely resembling a date had been at school, with me. It is still talked about in the school, bhai tells me, as mythology. Like Prometheus stealing fire from the gods, if he were really selfish and it involved a girl who he liked and if it had ended in really bizarre circumstances which had saved him and his girl because no one had quite figured out how things had ended up as they had. And if the girl had dared the authorities by spreading salacious and untrue rumors about herself. Real dates are rare for Sthani. They are often dangerous for all the parties involved, and parties in general vicinity who are not involved with anything.
"That's it?" I'm disappointed -- by her, by the story. We're talking after a very long time and I want more.
"Um so I asked him to hang out...in the common room. And we did."
Wait, what?
"Ann, common room ma mero sathi haru thiyau, they were playing Cards against humanity. They figured we were not interested because... We played byaan ko four bajey samma. And then he went back."
Revelations, revelations. "Ohh, and thus you think he's gay."
"Haina, you misunderstand! That was real boyfriend stuff yaar. Aru kura."
Haha, right! "So you seriously think he's gay?"
"Khai yaar. Keiii thaaa chhaina. I need to go back to Nepal soon. Miss bhayo people. "
"I'm losing the conversation, have to get back. So you haven't met since?"
"Mmmgg. You went home over the winter hai? How's everything?" She's looking at the ceiling, her hair on the shiny while floor, her hands propping her up.
"You know, all's same. I met the old gang but... you know. Everyone is trying to be anywhere else but Kathmandu. Same old. I won't go soon again. 30 months was too soon for me." Why am I sad? Why do I feel so lost all so sudden? This story is Sthani's not mine. I'm the objective observer. I have to gain composure.
Her eyes are shut now. She's resting against the wall, her right cheek resting against her dotted PJ's at her knees. "I don't know what I miss. I miss everything, but then I don't really miss anything. It doesn't feel right. I used to say I feel empty, but that's not right. There's stuff inside me that hurts like shit -- literally-- when you have to take a dump, and it's always there. Is this what the rest of the way is going to be like?" She's not looking at me. Her eyes are shut tighter now, as if she's trying to shut the reality off herself, and cover herself up with her eyelids. Or am I seeing a reflection of my thoughts and emotions on her?
"If I ask him out and he comes out to me, atti bore huncha," she says.
"Ohho, you're really considering asking him out?" The sadness that had suddenly pervaded the room is dissipating.
"I would be the biggest fool ever. Remember that school ko thing? Hahaha, it would almost be as weird as that." It wasn't weird, Sthani, just strange. And confusing. And maybe a little bit weird. And this is not going to be anywhere as weird or strange as confusing as that, no matter what happens ok.
"It won't be, it won't be. You shouldn't be afraid of asking him out. You're not really going to lose anything right-- You guys will still be friends, and nothing will have changed. Ask him out!" I say, surprised by my own conviction.
Sthani says the new guy she's been talking to, who bytheway-because-you-care-about-such-things is Nepali, is nice.
"That's awesummm. Ask him out no. We're getting older," I say.
"You misunderstand. 'Nice' meaning he's probably gay," she says.
Of course. That's her. After all this time, after all the gap, after everything she has been through, she's still herself. Goodtoknow.
"I am not gay, so shutup," I say. This conversation has happened at least a dozen times since I've known her.
"And you are sure about that? Hundredpercent? No confusion, yeah?" she says, because she has nothing better to do.
I ask her about the guy.
"He's fine -- kinda' cute, and soo nice. He's cool too. Kinda' sad that he may be gay. k garne. No sindoor in my maag," she says taking the back of her to her forehead, in the bharatiya nari pose that she loves to ridicule so much.
I ask her what happened.
"Umm so we went on a dinner. I was worried it'd be weird, and then got really scared that it might have been a date. Soo yeah. Ramro thaaum ma gaera khayo, he told funny jokes and I laughed, and all that omg letshangout stuff. Tei ho."
"Tetii matra? " I'm curious. Suspicious. "You guys didn't drink? "
"Ma tipsy bhaye ni. Ani malai dorm puryaidiyo. Malai pachi k bhayo ramrari yad pani chhaina. He was apologizing for everything the next day jhan."
The last time Sthani had been on anything remotely resembling a date had been at school, with me. It is still talked about in the school, bhai tells me, as mythology. Like Prometheus stealing fire from the gods, if he were really selfish and it involved a girl who he liked and if it had ended in really bizarre circumstances which had saved him and his girl because no one had quite figured out how things had ended up as they had. And if the girl had dared the authorities by spreading salacious and untrue rumors about herself. Real dates are rare for Sthani. They are often dangerous for all the parties involved, and parties in general vicinity who are not involved with anything.
"That's it?" I'm disappointed -- by her, by the story. We're talking after a very long time and I want more.
"Um so I asked him to hang out...in the common room. And we did."
Wait, what?
"Ann, common room ma mero sathi haru thiyau, they were playing Cards against humanity. They figured we were not interested because... We played byaan ko four bajey samma. And then he went back."
Revelations, revelations. "Ohh, and thus you think he's gay."
"Haina, you misunderstand! That was real boyfriend stuff yaar. Aru kura."
Haha, right! "So you seriously think he's gay?"
"Khai yaar. Keiii thaaa chhaina. I need to go back to Nepal soon. Miss bhayo people. "
"I'm losing the conversation, have to get back. So you haven't met since?"
"Mmmgg. You went home over the winter hai? How's everything?" She's looking at the ceiling, her hair on the shiny while floor, her hands propping her up.
"You know, all's same. I met the old gang but... you know. Everyone is trying to be anywhere else but Kathmandu. Same old. I won't go soon again. 30 months was too soon for me." Why am I sad? Why do I feel so lost all so sudden? This story is Sthani's not mine. I'm the objective observer. I have to gain composure.
Her eyes are shut now. She's resting against the wall, her right cheek resting against her dotted PJ's at her knees. "I don't know what I miss. I miss everything, but then I don't really miss anything. It doesn't feel right. I used to say I feel empty, but that's not right. There's stuff inside me that hurts like shit -- literally-- when you have to take a dump, and it's always there. Is this what the rest of the way is going to be like?" She's not looking at me. Her eyes are shut tighter now, as if she's trying to shut the reality off herself, and cover herself up with her eyelids. Or am I seeing a reflection of my thoughts and emotions on her?
"If I ask him out and he comes out to me, atti bore huncha," she says.
"Ohho, you're really considering asking him out?" The sadness that had suddenly pervaded the room is dissipating.
"I would be the biggest fool ever. Remember that school ko thing? Hahaha, it would almost be as weird as that." It wasn't weird, Sthani, just strange. And confusing. And maybe a little bit weird. And this is not going to be anywhere as weird or strange as confusing as that, no matter what happens ok.
"It won't be, it won't be. You shouldn't be afraid of asking him out. You're not really going to lose anything right-- You guys will still be friends, and nothing will have changed. Ask him out!" I say, surprised by my own conviction.
Up, up and ahead
Person or persons one has crushlet(s?) on write, with conviction and effort, paying attention to the quality of the output. And therein one has found a new direction: elements of shame will come into play (dear gawwwd I'm a terrible poet) and so will the desire to impress, and to prove oneself. Which means there will be more editing, more thinking (lolz), actual commitment to quality, and attention to subtext. Since products are not particularly good by themselves, even more experiemental stuff might be produced, so there's nothing similar to compare against? We will see.
For now, it's up, up and ahead.
PS:
This is going to be a long PS.
During a conversation with AyD that happened a long time ago, she mentioned a coworker who liked her, and I later referred to it as a 'crush'. To which she said 'Crush re. Hah, what are we, 19?'. I mention this because while crushes may be a thing for hormonal high schoolers, we adults(!) do retain the rights to secret (ish?) crushlet(s?).
For now, it's up, up and ahead.
PS:
This is going to be a long PS.
During a conversation with AyD that happened a long time ago, she mentioned a coworker who liked her, and I later referred to it as a 'crush'. To which she said 'Crush re. Hah, what are we, 19?'. I mention this because while crushes may be a thing for hormonal high schoolers, we adults(!) do retain the rights to secret (ish?) crushlet(s?).
Angels in America
This is an interpretation of a photo taken by a friend. Credit to the original photographer.
The millennium is over, man.
The millennium is over.
Perestroika!
Perestroika!
We are free,
the millennium of subjugation is over
as we stare at these angels
these bright points of lights of the city
the grand metropolis of the cities
buildings and the cars and all, bright stars
they're angels
and this is America.
These are angels in America, man.
Angels in America.
We have struck
The goldmines of reality
Of liquid gold
And Lapis Lazuli
Do you see it, like i do,
the city of lights
Not buildings with lights
Buildings of light
Whose glow is eternal
Like all ours?
Do you?
The rock of West
Shines
Confuses
Befuddles
Threatens to derail our reality
To a much more everyday
(albeit slightly exciting and happening, they say)
What is it?
A ship that crashed
Unfortunately,
Or a landmark,
an unfortunate one
would you say?
In it we see
the grand bazaars of the imperial worlds
Not bygone but those on the forthcome
Electric buzz buzzes by
Seduces -- really-- seduces
And with all this
we watch
mouths open, gaping
staring
incapable of coherent thought
we see, we just see
and blank.
Technology,
you say -- this is technology
We know, you and I and all of us
It's magic.
The Thaums mingle around with their pals
As they joyfully run around.
So they glow, bright, brighter, even brighter
Red, orange yellow and white
And then as things are well done
A cool blue.
Blue, man, blue.
Our futures ahead may be red and white
But they have always been
Blue.
The millennium is over, man.
The millennium is over.
Perestroika!
Perestroika!
We are free,
the millennium of subjugation is over
as we stare at these angels
these bright points of lights of the city
the grand metropolis of the cities
buildings and the cars and all, bright stars
they're angels
and this is America.
These are angels in America, man.
Angels in America.
We have struck
The goldmines of reality
Of liquid gold
And Lapis Lazuli
Do you see it, like i do,
the city of lights
Not buildings with lights
Buildings of light
Whose glow is eternal
Like all ours?
Do you?
The rock of West
Shines
Confuses
Befuddles
Threatens to derail our reality
To a much more everyday
(albeit slightly exciting and happening, they say)
What is it?
A ship that crashed
Unfortunately,
Or a landmark,
an unfortunate one
would you say?
In it we see
the grand bazaars of the imperial worlds
Not bygone but those on the forthcome
Electric buzz buzzes by
Seduces -- really-- seduces
And with all this
we watch
mouths open, gaping
staring
incapable of coherent thought
we see, we just see
and blank.
Technology,
you say -- this is technology
We know, you and I and all of us
It's magic.
The Thaums mingle around with their pals
As they joyfully run around.
So they glow, bright, brighter, even brighter
Red, orange yellow and white
And then as things are well done
A cool blue.
Blue, man, blue.
Our futures ahead may be red and white
But they have always been
Blue.
Again, and again and again
And again and again
Stupid stupid stupid
Damn emotional component of human psyche
Stupid stupid stupid
Damn emotional component of human psyche
Things that worry
That my punctuations may carry unintended meaning worries me so much I have stopped putting punctuation in my text messages
Does period mean curtness.
Do two periods mean confusion..
And does the ellipse really mean there's more...
I don't know
I dont care, really
Does period mean curtness.
Do two periods mean confusion..
And does the ellipse really mean there's more...
I don't know
I dont care, really
Recommended Books
The Hindus by Wendy Doniger
Bossypants by Tina Fey
Other books.
Why don't I write anymore?
Bossypants by Tina Fey
Other books.
Why don't I write anymore?
Archival Notice
This blog is being renamed and archived. It will stay in this url, but content won't be added to it. Everything goes to the new blog.
PS: I posted a similar version of this post earlier, so I'm merging the two. The earlier version is below.
PS: I posted a similar version of this post earlier, so I'm merging the two. The earlier version is below.
This blog has outlived itself.
P said it first. It was then A, P, and then Z. Not in exactly as many words, but one has to figure.That doesn't mean the posts are going to be deleted on a rampage, but rather this is going to be an archive of what-was. It doesn't mean that I have 'grown disillusioned' with 'blogging' either [what a ridiculous concept, that]. I need more space, and one url is not enough for everything I want to show and tell. Jokes, amirite.The problem, as I see it, is that the two very different interests and aspirations of mine clash here, and they wont consolidate. No matter – more blogs will be created.For those still interested, I'll have couple of new specialty blogs around. You'll find them. This will be polished, shined, sharpened whenever I feel like. It will be a historical collection. All the self-referential posts will be removed, and this will be the final one to go. Sort of likeI'm not important enough to be heard – yet – but I am around on twitter [you know it!] and G+. Facebook is for grandparents.This is the last post here... until it's deleted.See you at the other side of the pond.
Notice
To the readers of my previous blog: The old blog has moved to a new url, and this is a new blog.
Soap of Choice
Guys are a-guying,
Men are a-manning,
Dorks are a-doring,
Fish are fishy,
Maya is mushy,
Hookups are hasty
Newthings are nasty
Pretzels are salty
Beer is malty
Fear is paltry
Guys are a-hooking
Men are a-doring
Fish are a-salting
Men are un-knowing
Fear is fishy
Maya are hasty
You are pretty
Which soap do you
wash your face
with?
No,
Seriously,
I kid you not
I actually want
to know the soap.
Men are a-manning,
Dorks are a-doring,
Fish are fishy,
Maya is mushy,
Hookups are hasty
Newthings are nasty
Pretzels are salty
Beer is malty
Fear is paltry
Guys are a-hooking
Men are a-doring
Fish are a-salting
Men are un-knowing
Fear is fishy
Maya are hasty
You are pretty
Which soap do you
wash your face
with?
No,
Seriously,
I kid you not
I actually want
to know the soap.
Man wo Man
Fiction, obvs.
So one day he says out of nowhere, I think I want to be a woman yaar.
Sorry, what? Ke re? As in, gender reassignment?
One imagines that after 18 years of living, you would know what gender you are and the people you are attracted to. He tells me he always wanted to be a woman -- a butch woman, which complicates things, but still... he does not want the male body. I'm trying to be supportive, but I ask what the difference between a manly woman and the man he is now be anyway.
It's like. Chittai bujhdaina yaar. Ainaa ma heryo, daaari aauna khojccha. I want to be.. I want to have more fat padding everywhere, I want to wear fancy makeup once in a while, ani shoes, the variety of options on what you can cover your legs with. It's so much better. Ani I'm a guy right now, so I have the defenses of a dude, so I consider myself better prepared to be a girl. Huuh. He does know himself in detail.
I tell him, to be a Nepali and trans would be... complicated. Santosh Pant's son barring, the only transgenders are the Blue Diamond's eunuchs. No, no, they are not eunuchs, he says. They are trans people, like everyone else. Thing is, most are not very wealthy, so they don't undergo the surgeries or the expensive therapies. Injecting women's hormones is going to you only so far into womanhood. Besides, you are absolutely killing your social life with the choice. Again, maybe Ms. Pant barring. It's going to be an uphill battle, even if you're rich.
I tell him to imagine. Imagine going to your parents as a 19-yearold man -- not the girly type -- and telling them, parents, I hate hate hate being a man, I want to be a woman. You cry. They cry too, out of shock and confusion. Maybe fear. Disappointment? Possibly for the fact that you might not get married now so no dowry. They tell you to reconsider. Your parents are open-minded, liberal. Take you to a doctor. You restate your case. Ma keta ko jiuu ma keti ho. Malaai physically doctor bannu chha doctor saab. Ann, Santosh Panta ko chhori jastai.
Now what? What do you tell the whole fucking extended family? It's either your life, or your communal bonds. If you're the 'it's me, it's me and my life', you're the man. What if you like your cousins and uncles and unties, hang out with your bros, and life would be incomplete without them? What now? There are whispers everywhere. Oii, sunyo? Tellai hijara banna mann chha re. Haina haina, aile hijara haina, hijara banna man re. Ann aafno laado kaatdina man re. Despite the liberal parents and close friends and family and American education, life still sucks.
I want to be supportive and open minded for him, but you have to be realistic. You really don't want your only friends and family to be the Blue Diamond people. You want a normal life -- meaty dashain, crazy new years, pokhara, chitwan, holidays, summer ma sab keta keti ako bela moj, thamel, jhamel, you know, the usual Kathmandu elite life. They are idiots. Specially the ones that have been abroad. 'Ohho, Nepal ma ni esto huna thaalisakyo,' they ask, every fking time they're in the country. Chakka parne ni hadd hunchha ni. Yes, Nepal ma ni trans manche huncha, gay manche ni huncha, and people like each other. You shrunken-brain. Many people get a lot stupider and even more conceited after the four years of the supposedly liberal education in the US. You know them.
Paul Collier says the diaspora is often more conservative than homeland. Shudder. I shudder at the implications for Nepal. This, I'm going out of context. I stop. I tell him he should reconsider, but we are his friends and we will always be with him, regardless of his identity. K huna sakchha soch, tara garr yaar, fully support ho.
Two years later.
He's blaming his ex, that bitchy slut who cheated on him for some taxidriver (that's his version anyway), for spreading rumors that he is a chakka re. It's a drunken new years, and the he says, Ma chakka re. Ma hijra re. Muji laai chikaai na pugyaa ho, tesaile ta tyo taxidriver sanga gaii. That's his version anyway. The new and updated version of the story. Him, 3.0.
So one day he says out of nowhere, I think I want to be a woman yaar.
Sorry, what? Ke re? As in, gender reassignment?
One imagines that after 18 years of living, you would know what gender you are and the people you are attracted to. He tells me he always wanted to be a woman -- a butch woman, which complicates things, but still... he does not want the male body. I'm trying to be supportive, but I ask what the difference between a manly woman and the man he is now be anyway.
It's like. Chittai bujhdaina yaar. Ainaa ma heryo, daaari aauna khojccha. I want to be.. I want to have more fat padding everywhere, I want to wear fancy makeup once in a while, ani shoes, the variety of options on what you can cover your legs with. It's so much better. Ani I'm a guy right now, so I have the defenses of a dude, so I consider myself better prepared to be a girl. Huuh. He does know himself in detail.
I tell him, to be a Nepali and trans would be... complicated. Santosh Pant's son barring, the only transgenders are the Blue Diamond's eunuchs. No, no, they are not eunuchs, he says. They are trans people, like everyone else. Thing is, most are not very wealthy, so they don't undergo the surgeries or the expensive therapies. Injecting women's hormones is going to you only so far into womanhood. Besides, you are absolutely killing your social life with the choice. Again, maybe Ms. Pant barring. It's going to be an uphill battle, even if you're rich.
I tell him to imagine. Imagine going to your parents as a 19-yearold man -- not the girly type -- and telling them, parents, I hate hate hate being a man, I want to be a woman. You cry. They cry too, out of shock and confusion. Maybe fear. Disappointment? Possibly for the fact that you might not get married now so no dowry. They tell you to reconsider. Your parents are open-minded, liberal. Take you to a doctor. You restate your case. Ma keta ko jiuu ma keti ho. Malaai physically doctor bannu chha doctor saab. Ann, Santosh Panta ko chhori jastai.
Now what? What do you tell the whole fucking extended family? It's either your life, or your communal bonds. If you're the 'it's me, it's me and my life', you're the man. What if you like your cousins and uncles and unties, hang out with your bros, and life would be incomplete without them? What now? There are whispers everywhere. Oii, sunyo? Tellai hijara banna mann chha re. Haina haina, aile hijara haina, hijara banna man re. Ann aafno laado kaatdina man re. Despite the liberal parents and close friends and family and American education, life still sucks.
I want to be supportive and open minded for him, but you have to be realistic. You really don't want your only friends and family to be the Blue Diamond people. You want a normal life -- meaty dashain, crazy new years, pokhara, chitwan, holidays, summer ma sab keta keti ako bela moj, thamel, jhamel, you know, the usual Kathmandu elite life. They are idiots. Specially the ones that have been abroad. 'Ohho, Nepal ma ni esto huna thaalisakyo,' they ask, every fking time they're in the country. Chakka parne ni hadd hunchha ni. Yes, Nepal ma ni trans manche huncha, gay manche ni huncha, and people like each other. You shrunken-brain. Many people get a lot stupider and even more conceited after the four years of the supposedly liberal education in the US. You know them.
Paul Collier says the diaspora is often more conservative than homeland. Shudder. I shudder at the implications for Nepal. This, I'm going out of context. I stop. I tell him he should reconsider, but we are his friends and we will always be with him, regardless of his identity. K huna sakchha soch, tara garr yaar, fully support ho.
Two years later.
He's blaming his ex, that bitchy slut who cheated on him for some taxidriver (that's his version anyway), for spreading rumors that he is a chakka re. It's a drunken new years, and the he says, Ma chakka re. Ma hijra re. Muji laai chikaai na pugyaa ho, tesaile ta tyo taxidriver sanga gaii. That's his version anyway. The new and updated version of the story. Him, 3.0.
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