I'm struggling to get through my critical reading of 1984. Reading is hectic being a literature student. Sentences erupt into different meanings and contradict themselves repeatedly. The strength of words amazes, but the lack amazes more. Must constantly read into what is not being said. Absence defines presence. We form meanings by the lack of, by negation of. Relative meaning must be examined. But all meaning is relative. And differential. They are not the same thing. Cannot think in binaries. Power isn't only oppressive, it is productive. Slash your own discourse. No discourse is legitimate. Sub cultures define structures more than oppose them. The author is dead. Do not take moral stand points. DO NOT take emotional ones. All reality is hyper. It is constantly changing. It is also subjective. It is also socially constructed. Do not define. Definition is a drawback. History is insufficient. So is Language. It is patriarchal, structured, passe. Think beyond dictionaries. Language excludes. Truth is a cultural myth. Fictional and fictitious are different things. Meta-anything is a myth. Correlation is not causation. Be evoked, but suspicious. A text may smell good, feel good, but don't let it dictate. Totality is a farce- contest it. Feminine, feminist, female are all different categories. A woman's account of a woman's life may be as insufficient as a man's, maybe more. Do not aim to integrate. DO NOT sympathize. 


This is why I haven't gotten past sixty pages in the last two days. Also because I am incredibly lazy and a total show off for doing that but I have NEVER, in my defence, written a lit-brat post. I would sprout some Sartre but I am afraid that everyone will hate me for being too smart or whatever :D You know what they say about people who study literature? One day they get a drink thrown in their face. 


Also, Happy birthday Bruda. I know you know everything I have to say, but thankyou once again for being my comrade in being stupid and contagious. Love ya 4E&4A. 

I don't understand how to play it cool when it comes to sex, or the forbidden four letter word. Today my friend told me that plunging into things completely was a 'dude thing'. Apparently I have to be distant and aloof and pretend like my life doesn't depend on it.

But you know what they say about the heart doing things for reason that reason cannot understand or comprehend or something like that. And also what they say about kambhaqt ishq. 

But what I really need to hear right now is what Honey has to say. 

Today is yaara nu chaska day. Rebecca Black had a point about Fridays being funfunfun.


But another friend told me today that 'dude, jis cheez ki humne baat ki thi, uska intezaam ho gaya hai'. You know what they say about friends with weed. 

Today I lost one of my best friends. Bono and I met when I was seventeen and he was five. With more wisdom than anyone his age or species, Bono first played hard to get. My extreme emotional and irrational approach wasn't suited to beings like him. Bono was cryptic, yet transparent. He was stern and loving at the same time. I spent a good deal of my time in his house heartbroken and often inebriated, of which Bono was accepting but not welcoming. As I grew up around Bono, I got signs of approval, enacted by letting me pick him up or take him for a walk. I felt like I had made headway in Bono's school of Zen. He was my Mr Miyagi, my Master Schifu. Nish fish, Bono's one and only love and co-resident, tells me that you carry people you have loved with you everywhere you go. Today when I sat around Bono's room I felt him settle into the world. He wasn't an absence, but a strong presence. Even when he was sick and dying, Bones managed to look nonchalant and solemn about the entire thing. After burying him, I felt lucid grief, but not severe helplessness. Bones taught me more than anyone on two legs and with the power of speech ever could. In silence he taught me to grow up and recognize myself as the only person I could ever be.


I love you forever Bones. you were my Confucius. And the coolest friend I ever had.

(on a different note)
Facebook kills chances of any real connection, but also any chances itself. I do wish I lived in a previous age. One in which sincerity wasn't dead.

I wish the 80s would return so I could dance with a random cute person at a party to this song.

Last week I traveled to a pind in Punjab and felt my soul come alive. But since life is unfair, I had to alas! return to my life of aimless ambition. I want to write but I have become lazy as fuck and my mediocre writing has begun to anger me. But I pledge to return. With a bang. In black. Like a warrior risen from the dead.
You know that feeling when there's words in your head but they're not really bursting out like an impetus but they're there and you have to make an effort to form them into coherent somewhat poetic sentences but you just CAN'T and you don't want to and it's a miserable suffocating disabling kind of itch that you just can't seem to scratch even though itis absolutely within your reach. 
I am restless but hopelessly marooned and like all those who are lackadaisical, I have chosen to dawdle in this pool that I dislike but do not hate enough to work against.
The previous sentence was constructed merely for the purpose of the presentation of a new word I learnt today. If I have used it wrongly and you want to correct me, don't. You'll ruin it. 

Hear hear,


if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.
 

I know this gets repetitive but today i got drunk with my friends and it was AWESOME.
I love the winters. I love the cold and the huddling and smoking through the mist and the absolute ecstasy while getting into bed. 

Tomorrow I have to figure out a way to convince my professors that I am not an absolute moron despite my disgraceful grades. At the risk of sounding juvenile, I would like to say that I have been beaten hollow by a classmate I spend days explaining concepts to. And it makes me a little furious. 

I can't write anymore. I am nearing the time when I realize that I never could. I sit at the keyboard for hours wondering what song to play and which word to type. All day I have sat online and witnessed people I used to know from school and life who I believed I was smarter than end up with huge pay packages and widely read blogs that they re-post again and again on facebook causing me to want to tear my newly cut hair off my head. According to remarks on my bleeding red Marxist theory paper I need to know how to frame shorter sentences. If I could draw, I know that life would sort itself out. 

Ma says I should keep my spirits high so maybe I should start arranging for that.