IM SO BORED AND I HAVE SO MUCH MORE BORING WORK THAT I KNOW IT'S TIME.

To watch Midnight in Paris again. 

My friend is going to America for the first time and his joy knows no bounds. The Big Apple awaits him and he is very very excited.

New York City is my generation's Mecca. It is after you make that trip that everyone else in Delhi will look at you differently.

My friend's name was spelt wrong on his ticket so they moved him ahead to an earlier date and elevated him to business class. When we heard this we hooted and hi-fived about how lucky he was. But but I knew I didn't feel genuine in my celebration. I now realize that not getting a name as simple as his right should not be excused.
Till of course, they buy you a couple of whiskeys and give you a reclining chair.

One of the best people in the Indian Music scene.
Definitely the best looking.

I don't ever care for electronic music but this is quite good. 

I've decided to post almost everything that I ever write. 
This is a blog I wrote for my publishers's blog as part of a request to write about How To Write. Which of course, requires me to me much cooler than right now. 
.....

Since I do not think that I have the credibility to write a blog telling people how to write and I anxiously await the hour when what I ate for lunch will become a trend, for now, this will have to do.

When I was growing up, I had a friend named Jaikumar. Jaikumar was the coolest person I knew. He was yellowish, with grey whiskers, and a purple velvet suit, something along the lines I have given my character in the book. He was also very clever and always talked in puns. Which I didn’t like one bit because I don’t like puns. For example, when we would walk around and collect bugs he would say say “Wow, this gives me quite a buzz!”, and I would nod in exasperation. But Jaikumar was full of jokes and theories about life. He looked at the trees and said “The leaves make the trees green don’t they. Suppose I decided to call green yellow, then they would have to start saying— Make the world a yellow place.” He didn’t like how colors were made out to be in specific names. He thought that they should be called things like “sky”, or “blood”, not blue or red. He was full of such fuzzy notions, at times it made me curious and at others just impatient. Jai and I had a lot of arguments. He was always telling me to go off to funny places and collect weird plants, which we had to do because he did an annoying dance everytime we didn’t do something he wanted to. It was a sort of tap dance with both hands waving madly above his head. One day, I think when I was around eight, Jaikumar and I went to the mountains with my parents. We ran about the trees and looked for mushrooms as the grown ups sat around our house and talked and listened to the radio. We sat on a cliff near the hill-house, imagining that we were sailing through the clouds. We debated about what they were made of, cotton, paper, feathers. My mother tells me that she was positively worried when I asked for two plates to be laid down for dinner. Jaikumar was a vegetarian and loved tomatoes. She says she remembers being annoyed to death. I remember her yelling “What kind of name is Jaikumar for your demanding imaginary friend!”. I never understood the problem. One of those days in the mountains, when jaikumar and I were sitting near the cliff and assembling our mushrooms and other weird plants, I remember him walking to the edge of the cliff. And then I watched him as he tipped his newly acquired purple hat to match his clothes, and walked off the cliff. One one foot, just like that.

As an adult(somewhat) today, I know Jaikumar came out of my mind. I know is is psychological and I know that kids do this all the time. As you grow older, you are forced out of imagination. You are told boundaries between real and fiction and nothing is as much fun anymore. If you exaggerate and create, you are told not to be delusional and to get a grip. You are told that you must always tell the truth. Things are googled, and facts are presented and a big balloon in your mind full of fanciful beautiful things is burst.

When I was in school, I was sent to a counsellor because I told my classmates that there was crow that moon-walked across the room door in third period. I saw him one day, thought I was seeing things, but the day after that, he was there again! I jumped off my seat and ran to my friends and yelled “MAN! Did you guys see the crow that just moonwalked across the door!”. They looked at me strangely, and I was rushed off to a small room where I was told that I must not tell lies. Their loss, I thought. Few have as much panache as moon-walk crow. I never saw him again, but I can see him in my head right now, gliding across the door as we chanted Sanskrit shlokas.

I am still figuring out how to write, be a morning person and a productive human being. But I haven’t stopped imagining. I haven’t stopped seeing what isn’t there. I see cheekoos where there are apples, because I like them more. I see two-foot tall squirrels climbing up trees because I always wished squirrels were bigger. I imagine sometimes that people smile at me from a distance. I sit on my bed and for hours and imagine being friends with my favorite band. I fall in love in a second, or for a second and count it as real. I tell stories of people I’ve met and make them more wonderful than they are.

All the story making makes me confused. I am hazy as to things that have really happened and things that haven’t. But it doesn’t matter. History is not made up of scientific fact, but myth and storytelling. Where there are wars, there are tales magical cleansing rivers. Where there are records, there are traditions that have no basis in logic.

On the road of still trying to write and being dramatic about it, I know that my “lying” has assisted me. It has helped me see different from what everyone else sees, and I can finally be unapologetic about it. So I urge you to invent occurrences, to see irregular sized animals, and dancing birds. To see the good that may not be there in people and not be suspicious. To forget about being practical, and just be excited, overwhelmed, sad, angry whatever it is you want to be at that moment.

The world becomes a better place with each story that is made, and each moment that is exaggerated. And there's nothing exciting about having your feet on the ground.

This blog is under construction.

God only knows that it needs it.

Also, I just read through my entire blog past and now I feel sheepish. Why did I spend so much time here and why were so many people commenting and why did I post The Muddy Waters just to be cool?
What can I say except Having an empty space and a nineteen year old brain is formula for lethal idiocy.

I feel old. 

Happy World Poetry day!

Neruda:

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

Kerouac:

In Vain:

The stars in the sky
In vain
The tragedy of Hamlet
In vain
The key in the lock
In vain
The sleeping mother
In vain
The lamp in the corner
In vain
The lamp in the corner unlit
In vain
Abraham Lincoln
In vain
The Aztec empire
In vain
The writing hand: in vain
(The shoetrees in the shoes
In vain
The windowshade string upon
the hand bible
In vain—
The glitter of the greenglass
ashtray
In vain
The bear in the woods
In vain
The Life of Buddha
In vain) 

Margaret Atwood:

This is a photograph of me:

It was taken some time ago
At first it seems to be
a smeared
print: blurred lines and grey flecks
blended with the paper;

then, as you scan
it, you can see something in the left-hand corner
a thing that is like a branch: part of a tree
(balsam or spruce) emerging
and, to the right, halfway up
what ought to be a gentle
slope, a small frame house.

In the background there is a lake,
and beyond that, some low hills.

(The photograph was taken
the day after I drowned.

I am in the lake, in the center
of the picture, just under the surface.

It is difficult to say where
precisely, or to say
how large or how small I am:
the effect of water
on light is a distortion.

but if you look long enough
eventually
you will see me.) 

Sir Ogden Nash ji:

Celery, raw
Develops the jaw,
But celery, stewed,
Is more quietly chewed. 

The world would be a sad place without rhyme. 

I need to listen to flowing water outside my window. I feel my throat turning dry in the city.

 IN TWENTY DAYS TO MY BELOVEDS THE MOUNTAINS. I don't understand why I'm delaying going to them forever with useless things like college and wanting to go to Europe. 

If less is more how are you keeping score?

Around 20 days ago I descended to underwater for the first time. I tried to creep into a coral and swam with sardines and I remember looking through my goggles and wondering how anything could be this beautiful.

I know with every passing moment that the city I used to once love and which I called mine is pushing me out of it. I cannot stay here any longer but I do not know what to do, where to go, if I can go somewhere else, what I will do there. I do not know anything and it's exhausting. All I have is bouts of elongated confused panic with a sort of determination to figure it out that surfaces at the end.

It's really nice to agree with other women on something. Usually, with most of the women I know or meet, we all like different things. We like different boys, girls, food, TV, music, and general life aims vary. But it's nice to have something in common with all women in the world to love. This thing, is Ryan Gosling.

A shorter version of another poem for kids (the new one has a changed and cooler rhyme scheme). Inspired by one of my favorite people in the world. The fear of fruit is a real thing, or so he claims. 

Once upon a peaceful time

In a place rather cold

There lived a happy young chap

Who was not very old

He was twenty, I think

No wait, twenty-four

Or maybe it was twenty-two

Maybe less, maybe more

The lad was tall and strapping

With a mop of silver hair

His socks were always blue and red

And his face was very fair

He wasn’t afraid of anything

Not guns or thugs or brutes

Only one little thing frightened him,

This thing, it was fruits!

He loved the smell of flowers

And wearing fancy suits

He didn’t so much like his hair 

But he hated, HATED- fruits!

Whenever he saw an apple

An orange, or a grape

He ran afar, fast as the wind

Every time, he did escape!

“Take them away!” he cried

“I cannot stand this smell!”

Of mangoes, melons, pears and figs

“Away! I don’t feel well!”

“Oh Oranges, so round and scaly

And grapes of which a whiff

And berries like little evil pebbles

Oh god! It scares me stiff!”

Aside from this little strange trait

The boy was quite unique

Strong and handsome, smart and kind

With a honorable streak

 It was a very funny sight

Of a man so young and brave

Every time he saw a fruit

He ran into a cave!

But then we all have funny fears

That cannot be clarified

Of dolls and slime and fire-trucks

Of things that might have died

Some people fright from chopsticks

And from babies without hair

The only thing that chills me, however

Is naked cold despair.

DEAR UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, 

STOP BEING EVERYWHERE. IN T.V, ON YOUTUBE, IN POSTERS IN MY ROOM, STOP GIVING BIRTH TO MUSICAL GENIUS AND EDDIE VEDDER AND GENERAL CALIFORNIANS BECAUSE THEN I WANT TO MOVE IMMEDIATELY TO FALL IN LOVE WITH THE ENTIRE STATE. I KNOW YOU AREN'T AS COOL IN REALITY. I KNOW IT. BUT STOP. STOP TAKING CONTROL OF ALL THE MEDIA THAT WE EXIST IN. IT MAKES EVERYTHING VERY CONFUSING. 

I just wrote a children's book that is about to be published. It's around 80 pages long. I don't really think its that big of a deal and I'm being honest here because why would I have to be otherwise on my anonymous blog.
But I don't like to tell people because then they get this funny look on their face which is full of forced awe and they say something random like 'wow writing a book is really cool'. When I say I hate this my friend insists I'm being pretentious but I actually really do hate it. I hate that someone is ready to shake your hand for something they haven't seen, or send you friend requests as appreciation. I don't like that people don't look forward to reading it and telling me if its any good, but exhaust all their congratulations by being excited that someone was ready to buy it. It makes me embarrassed and annoyed and the next time anyone says 'But you've written a book, look at that' I want to tell them that I still struggle to make good sentences (As you can see), to spell without auto correct, and to move my brain out of my bed.  I also want to tell them I'm still transcribing for money and being published is no big deal. The amount of bad writing that gets published is unbelievable. Bad writing could sit on good writing with one butt cheek.

I don't know how I'll deal if I ever become truly famous :D

Also,

I cried almost through this entire film. Not a sad crying but just overwhelmed crying that happens when anything sweeps you off your feet. There are these parts of Eddie and Kurt and they're both so young and scared and honest and real that it made me happy. I remember being seventeen and beating myself up and remembering that it was 'hard to be a young person nowadays'.
It really is.



Best.Band.Ever. (Among others)

What really fucking sucks is that all we ever have to watch are the likes of Swedish House Mafia.