Sorry to have wasted your time, he said, and walked away without any ceremony, without a backward glance at her, without a loving word.
She stood there, where she has always been. Alone.
She stood there, where she has always been. Alone.
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
May 13, 2013
June 23, 2012
How To Make Love Stay...
Who knows how to make love stay?
1. Tell love you are going to Junior's Deli on Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn to pick up a cheesecake, and if loves stays, it can have half. It will stay.
2. Tell love you want a momento of it and obtain a lock of its hair. Burn the hair in a dime-store incense burner with yin/yang symbols on three sides. Face southwest. Talk fast over the burning hair in a convincingly exotic language. Remove the ashes of the burnt hair and use them to paint a moustache on your face. Find love. Tell it you are someone new. It will stay.
3. Wake love up in the middle of the night. Tell it the world is on fire. Dash to the bedroom window and pee out of it. Casually return to bed and assure love that everything is going to be all right. Fall asleep. Love will be there in the morning. ― Tom Robbins
1. Tell love you are going to Junior's Deli on Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn to pick up a cheesecake, and if loves stays, it can have half. It will stay.
2. Tell love you want a momento of it and obtain a lock of its hair. Burn the hair in a dime-store incense burner with yin/yang symbols on three sides. Face southwest. Talk fast over the burning hair in a convincingly exotic language. Remove the ashes of the burnt hair and use them to paint a moustache on your face. Find love. Tell it you are someone new. It will stay.
3. Wake love up in the middle of the night. Tell it the world is on fire. Dash to the bedroom window and pee out of it. Casually return to bed and assure love that everything is going to be all right. Fall asleep. Love will be there in the morning. ― Tom Robbins
I love this guy! :)
May 31, 2012
May 23, 2012
May 21, 2012
Locus Of Control...
“Good weather is like good women - it doesn’t always happen and when it does it doesn’t always last. Man is more stable: if he’s bad there’s more chance he’ll stay that way, or if he’s good he might hang on, but a woman is changed by children, age, diet, conversation, sex, the moon, the absence or presence of sun, or good times. A woman must be nursed into subsistence by love where a man can become stronger by being hated.” — Charles Bukowski
A woman gets her energy from knowing the man she loves, loves her back. And I have seen what loving someone day-in-day-out without getting that love back can do to her; at the end of it she'll become a hollow unit.
And at such a point, she should be filled up again, with love from family and friends and kisses from little kids***, hugs and sunshine and colours and warmth, flowers and music and laughter and the good bits of life, till such a time she's plump with joy for life again.
And then she must go out and love again.
***The kind that makes you feel accepted, what matters then if no one else is as crazy about you? This is enough.
A woman gets her energy from knowing the man she loves, loves her back. And I have seen what loving someone day-in-day-out without getting that love back can do to her; at the end of it she'll become a hollow unit.
And at such a point, she should be filled up again, with love from family and friends and kisses from little kids***, hugs and sunshine and colours and warmth, flowers and music and laughter and the good bits of life, till such a time she's plump with joy for life again.
And then she must go out and love again.
***The kind that makes you feel accepted, what matters then if no one else is as crazy about you? This is enough.
March 25, 2012
Like 70% Cocoa...
I love you
like dipping bread into salt and eating
Like waking up at night with high fever
and drinking water, with the tap in my mouth
Like unwrapping the heavy box from the postman
with no clue what it is
fluttering, happy, doubtful
I love you
like flying over the sea in a plane for the first time
Like something moves inside me
when it gets dark softly in Istanbul
I love you
Like thanking God that we live.
-Nazim Hikmet
March 07, 2012
The Tucked Away Home...
“Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won't either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself you tasted as many as you could.”
― Louise Erdrich, The Painted Drum
March 03, 2012
Your Mother...
I loved this story: Your Mother
*****
Your mother hated being photographed. She had romantic notions of how perfect her body looked at certain angles and to have them crushed by the awkward reality of a still life was simply unbearable. So I learned to capture moments using words and silences.
On this day, she sat perched on the first floor balcony’s platformed railing. Our room overlooked the magnificent Bay of Bengal – swollen & angry. We’d mistimed our vacation and landed up at Chinnakalpet in the middle of the Tamil Nadu monsoon. Swimming in the choppy sea was out of the question & even when it wasn’t raining, the weather was spectacularly wild. Earlier in the afternoon I’d run my hands through her hair and lightly kissed her neck as we looked at the stunning view afforded us by the balcony. When I’d asked her if she wanted to walk along the beach with me, she’d pushed me out of the room – “We don’t have to do everything together, do we?” And she was right. I took off with my camera.
With every step, my feet sank deeper into the golden sand. The effort it took to take the next step reminded me of how we were both getting older and how my body was beginning to express its tiredness. We had tried, your mother & I, to have children over the past two years but two miscarriages later she decided we needed to stop. “I have run out of tears, Arun,” she said. Instead, we decided to get into our tiny car and head off anywhere the wind would take us (her words, not mine).
The wind had led me here and if I wasn’t careful, it would sweep me further into the Bay. “Hold on to your hat, man!” cried a man coming at me from the opposite side. Considering he was the one wearing the hat and not me, I found him amusing.
“Nice weather we’re having, aren’t we?” I joked.
“Absolute perfection. I hope you’re bracing yourself for Cyclone Leela!”
“What? No! I mean, I haven’t even heard about it. My wife & I here on vacation.”
“Vacation?!! That’s rich, dear chap! I’d turn my ship right round and head back for shore. Nigel Forman, by the way.”
“Arun Desai.”
“Pleasure to bump into you, Arun. You will not be soon forgotten. Good bye & good tidings!”
And off he went, striding strongly, pushing back against the strong winds. I stood and watched the strange old man as he climbed the slippery rocks leading into the ocean. When he reached the farthest rock he opened his arms out wide, embracing the elements: the violent spray of the sea, the full force of the wind & the unending sky before him. You might say he had a few screws loose but in that moment I envied him his freedom.
I walked further, clicking photographs along the way. Perfect little seashells, fishing boats making their way back to the beach and the odd little picture that our resort’s quaint cottages made on that stormy evening. I began to miss your mother and so I turned back.
I took the cobbled stone path to our room. Along the way, I came upon the family that was staying across the hall from us. They were out on the lawn taking advantage of the few rainless hours. Two little girls played in the dirt as their parents relaxed over a cup of coffee. The younger of the two was an independent spirit. Barely 3 or 4, she wandered off repeatedly on her own, digging holes in the ground en route. Her mother would call out for her at regular intervals, but she wouldn’t listen. She would carry on on her quest; now a flower to be dissected, now a butterfly to be chased. And then there was the matter of jumping into that puddle. Eventually, the mother caught up with her little imp and hoisted her over the shoulder. Both mother & daughter, laughing, disappeared into the bushes and then out of sight.
I don’t know what made me do it, but I looked up at that very instant and caught your mother looking right at me. There she was, seated cross-legged on our balcony’s platformed railing. She had wrapped a dupatta around herself, one end of which was flying unrestrained in the wind like her uncombed hair. She had never looked more beautiful. I instinctively lifted my camera to capture her breathtaking image. But in the very next instant, I changed my mind and there I was, running up the stairs as quickly as I could. The door was open, I rushed right through it and scooped her up in my embrace. We held each other so tight that not even the cyclonic winds churning up outside could have torn us apart.
The next morning, we admitted defeat in the face of Cylcone Leela, packed our backs and returned home. Not long after that your mother announced that she was pregnant with you.
From, Aquatic Static. Do visit the blog, one of my favourites.
*****
Stories like these make it so hard to come back to the real life, no? Sigh.
*****
Your mother hated being photographed. She had romantic notions of how perfect her body looked at certain angles and to have them crushed by the awkward reality of a still life was simply unbearable. So I learned to capture moments using words and silences.
On this day, she sat perched on the first floor balcony’s platformed railing. Our room overlooked the magnificent Bay of Bengal – swollen & angry. We’d mistimed our vacation and landed up at Chinnakalpet in the middle of the Tamil Nadu monsoon. Swimming in the choppy sea was out of the question & even when it wasn’t raining, the weather was spectacularly wild. Earlier in the afternoon I’d run my hands through her hair and lightly kissed her neck as we looked at the stunning view afforded us by the balcony. When I’d asked her if she wanted to walk along the beach with me, she’d pushed me out of the room – “We don’t have to do everything together, do we?” And she was right. I took off with my camera.
With every step, my feet sank deeper into the golden sand. The effort it took to take the next step reminded me of how we were both getting older and how my body was beginning to express its tiredness. We had tried, your mother & I, to have children over the past two years but two miscarriages later she decided we needed to stop. “I have run out of tears, Arun,” she said. Instead, we decided to get into our tiny car and head off anywhere the wind would take us (her words, not mine).
The wind had led me here and if I wasn’t careful, it would sweep me further into the Bay. “Hold on to your hat, man!” cried a man coming at me from the opposite side. Considering he was the one wearing the hat and not me, I found him amusing.
“Nice weather we’re having, aren’t we?” I joked.
“Absolute perfection. I hope you’re bracing yourself for Cyclone Leela!”
“What? No! I mean, I haven’t even heard about it. My wife & I here on vacation.”
“Vacation?!! That’s rich, dear chap! I’d turn my ship right round and head back for shore. Nigel Forman, by the way.”
“Arun Desai.”
“Pleasure to bump into you, Arun. You will not be soon forgotten. Good bye & good tidings!”
And off he went, striding strongly, pushing back against the strong winds. I stood and watched the strange old man as he climbed the slippery rocks leading into the ocean. When he reached the farthest rock he opened his arms out wide, embracing the elements: the violent spray of the sea, the full force of the wind & the unending sky before him. You might say he had a few screws loose but in that moment I envied him his freedom.
I walked further, clicking photographs along the way. Perfect little seashells, fishing boats making their way back to the beach and the odd little picture that our resort’s quaint cottages made on that stormy evening. I began to miss your mother and so I turned back.
I took the cobbled stone path to our room. Along the way, I came upon the family that was staying across the hall from us. They were out on the lawn taking advantage of the few rainless hours. Two little girls played in the dirt as their parents relaxed over a cup of coffee. The younger of the two was an independent spirit. Barely 3 or 4, she wandered off repeatedly on her own, digging holes in the ground en route. Her mother would call out for her at regular intervals, but she wouldn’t listen. She would carry on on her quest; now a flower to be dissected, now a butterfly to be chased. And then there was the matter of jumping into that puddle. Eventually, the mother caught up with her little imp and hoisted her over the shoulder. Both mother & daughter, laughing, disappeared into the bushes and then out of sight.
I don’t know what made me do it, but I looked up at that very instant and caught your mother looking right at me. There she was, seated cross-legged on our balcony’s platformed railing. She had wrapped a dupatta around herself, one end of which was flying unrestrained in the wind like her uncombed hair. She had never looked more beautiful. I instinctively lifted my camera to capture her breathtaking image. But in the very next instant, I changed my mind and there I was, running up the stairs as quickly as I could. The door was open, I rushed right through it and scooped her up in my embrace. We held each other so tight that not even the cyclonic winds churning up outside could have torn us apart.
The next morning, we admitted defeat in the face of Cylcone Leela, packed our backs and returned home. Not long after that your mother announced that she was pregnant with you.
From, Aquatic Static. Do visit the blog, one of my favourites.
*****
Stories like these make it so hard to come back to the real life, no? Sigh.
February 14, 2012
Someone's Preferred Ending...
The things about you I appreciate may seem indelicate:
I’d like to find you in the shower
And chase the soap for half an hour.
I’d like to have you in my power and see you eyes dilate.
I’d like to have your back to scour
And other parts to lubricate.
Sometimes I feel it is my fate
To chase you screaming up a tower or make you cower
By asking you to differentiate Nietzsche from Schopenhauer.
I’d like to successfully guess your weight and win you at a fte.
I’d like to offer you a flower.
I like the hair upon your shoulders,
Falling like water over boulders.
I like the shoulders, too: they are essential.
Your collar-bones have great potential
(I’d like all your particulars in folders marked Confidential).
I like your cheeks, I like your nose,
I like the way your lips disclose
The neat arrangement of your teeth
(Half above and half beneath) in rows.
I like your eyes, I like their fringes.
The way they focus on me gives me twinges.
Your upper arms drive me berserk.
I like the way your elbows work, on hinges.
I like your wrists, I like your glands,
I like the fingers on your hands.
I’d like to teach them how to count,
And certain things we might exchange,
Something familiar for something strange.
I’d like to give you just the right amount and get some change.
I like it when you tilt your cheek up.
I like the way you nod and hold a teacup. I like your legs when you unwind
them.
Even in trousers I don’t mind them.
I like each softly-moulded kneecap.
I like the little crease behind them.
I’d always know, without a recap, where to find them.
I like the sculpture of your ears.
I like the way your profile disappears
Whenever you decide to turn and face me.
I’d like to cross two hemispheres and have you chase me.
I’d like to smuggle you across frontiers
Or sail with you at night into Tangiers.
I’d like you to embrace me.
I’d like to see you ironing your skirt and cancelling other dates.
I’d like to button up your shirt.
I like the way your chest inflates.
I’d like to soothe you when you’re hurt
Or frightened senseless by invertebrates.
I’d like you even if you were malign
And had a yen for sudden homicide.
I’d let you put insecticide into my wine.
I’d even like you if you were the Bride of Frankenstein
Or something ghoulish out of Mamoulian’s Jekyll and Hyde.
I’d even like you as my Julian of Norwich or Cathleen ni Houlihan
How melodramatic
If you were something muttering in attics
Like Mrs Rochester or a student of boolean mathematics.
You are the end of self-abuse.
You are the eternal feminine.
I’d like to find a good excuse
To call on you and find you in.
I’d like to put my hand beneath your chin. And see you grin.
I’d like to taste your Charlotte Russe,
I’d like to feel my lips upon your skin,
I’d like to make you reproduce.
I’d like you in my confidence.
I’d like to be your second look.
I’d like to let you try the French Defence and mate you with my rook.
I’d like to be your preference and hence
I’d like to be around when you unhook.
I’d like to be your only audience,
The final name in your appointment book, your future tense.
-John Fuller
January 05, 2012
Date A Guy...
Advice from a friend:
*****
Date A Guy......who is one hundred per cent a man.
Razor sharp, funny, adventurous.
Needn’t be an MBA but an encyclopaedia on two feet. Then let him be a college dropout, even.
Date a guy who likes comics, glass bottles, tool kits and old furniture.
Date a guy who loves books, music and outdoors. In any order.
Date a guy who’d be the first to wake up to a trek, a match or your 5 am flight with the same attention.
Date a guy who has male friends worth a fight for and doting girl friends who have loved him at some point in time.
Date a guy who is not afraid to hitchhike or eat by the roadside. One who is physically fit and restless, mentally.
Date a guy with warm big hands that can cup your whole face. Who holds a degree beyond eggs in the kitchen and can cook up stories, on short notice, well, better than eggs.
Date a guy who will write, at least to you, without hesitation or an occasion.
Date a guy who will use humour, even in a fight. Who loves his parents and some bike. And who would then convince you to stand in the queue with him to book the classic edition of that bike. Just so you're there to see the grin on his face when he’s signed the cheque.
Date a guy who always has a plan. Someone who is forever game for a bet and a trip out of town. Someone who’d either break loose on the floor or continue hating it secretly, because you love to dance.
Date a guy who will fool you into believing that he has an interesting profession. Secret Agent, Vampire Slayer, Movie Maker, Star Gazer, even better.
Date a guy who is hard working, you might mistake him for being a workaholic but he has dreams beyond one lifetime. Date a guy who is ambitious, fierce, but not obvious.
Date a guy who’d treat a stranger well, even if your patience fails to.
Someone with steely convictions and self-imposed discipline on why bills must be paid before time.
Date a guy who can’t sing, but sounds like the best thing on phone after you’ve switched off the mid night radio.
Date a guy who has a heart and often thinks with it. Date a guy who’s not afraid to splurge even if it’s a strange antique mask that no one else bought at the flea market or a dusty old record at a garage sale. It may seem like a tad waste but he’d like you to like them and tell you how he wanted it, always.
Date a guy who is cute enough to lie about hating super models because they’re anorexic. And thinks you need to eat more even if you’re 10 pounds overweight and can’t fit into that skirt you wore on your first date. Date a guy who knows how to spoil you and when to scold you. One who is good at Math, loves History and can bug you all day with conspiracy theories.
Date a guy who will never have to fight with you for the remote because it’s easier for him to trick you into watching a documentary on something you couldn’t pronounce earlier. And you will.
Date a guy who is caring. One who never lets your friends’ glasses be empty or thinks they live too far to be dropped home.
Date a guy who loves dogs and never smells like one. One who has a bath in Aqua Di Gio. Most days when he can afford it or has the time. That’s his way of staying with you, long after he’s gone.
Date a guy who has MPD, preferably. Why should you wish for the same day, every day?
Date a guy who knows his medium rare from well done. And can tell Rock salt from Black salt. Date someone who knows his single malt and even though he doesn’t like wine, will at least fake it in good taste. Be sure, he’d tell you later anyway.
Date a guy who is flirtatious. Till late 50s. Who knows when to hand a towel and knows that sex can actually, cure headaches. Date a guy with a touch that wraps you like lamb wool in wet Augusts and tastes like a loaf of freshly baked whole wheat bread. Date a guy who always complains that you never kiss enough and one who loves PDA. Even if it wasn’t meant to freak out the 4 year old and her mother, at the airport lounge the other day.
Date a guy who is honest about his feelings. Let him make fun of your relatives, soon enough you’ll find yourself laughing, because that’s exactly he was at.
Date a guy who grows every year but refuses to age.
Date a guy who knows how to invest money and pick a nice movie for an afternoon of nothing. Date a guy who likes clothes and surprises. Someone who keeps words like effort and imperfections outside his closet.
Date a guy who is 100% himself, before he’s into you.
Date a guy who knows how to make a random game out of tissues in a café or a lasting memory out of some dull terrace light.
Date a guy who is worth picking up after a party, every single night.
*****
Date A Guy......who is one hundred per cent a man.
Razor sharp, funny, adventurous.
Needn’t be an MBA but an encyclopaedia on two feet. Then let him be a college dropout, even.
Date a guy who likes comics, glass bottles, tool kits and old furniture.
Date a guy who loves books, music and outdoors. In any order.
Date a guy who’d be the first to wake up to a trek, a match or your 5 am flight with the same attention.
Date a guy who has male friends worth a fight for and doting girl friends who have loved him at some point in time.
Date a guy who is not afraid to hitchhike or eat by the roadside. One who is physically fit and restless, mentally.
Date a guy with warm big hands that can cup your whole face. Who holds a degree beyond eggs in the kitchen and can cook up stories, on short notice, well, better than eggs.
Date a guy who will write, at least to you, without hesitation or an occasion.
Date a guy who will use humour, even in a fight. Who loves his parents and some bike. And who would then convince you to stand in the queue with him to book the classic edition of that bike. Just so you're there to see the grin on his face when he’s signed the cheque.
Date a guy who always has a plan. Someone who is forever game for a bet and a trip out of town. Someone who’d either break loose on the floor or continue hating it secretly, because you love to dance.
Date a guy who will fool you into believing that he has an interesting profession. Secret Agent, Vampire Slayer, Movie Maker, Star Gazer, even better.
Date a guy who is hard working, you might mistake him for being a workaholic but he has dreams beyond one lifetime. Date a guy who is ambitious, fierce, but not obvious.
Date a guy who’d treat a stranger well, even if your patience fails to.
Someone with steely convictions and self-imposed discipline on why bills must be paid before time.
Date a guy who can’t sing, but sounds like the best thing on phone after you’ve switched off the mid night radio.
Date a guy who has a heart and often thinks with it. Date a guy who’s not afraid to splurge even if it’s a strange antique mask that no one else bought at the flea market or a dusty old record at a garage sale. It may seem like a tad waste but he’d like you to like them and tell you how he wanted it, always.
Date a guy who is cute enough to lie about hating super models because they’re anorexic. And thinks you need to eat more even if you’re 10 pounds overweight and can’t fit into that skirt you wore on your first date. Date a guy who knows how to spoil you and when to scold you. One who is good at Math, loves History and can bug you all day with conspiracy theories.
Date a guy who will never have to fight with you for the remote because it’s easier for him to trick you into watching a documentary on something you couldn’t pronounce earlier. And you will.
Date a guy who is caring. One who never lets your friends’ glasses be empty or thinks they live too far to be dropped home.
Date a guy who loves dogs and never smells like one. One who has a bath in Aqua Di Gio. Most days when he can afford it or has the time. That’s his way of staying with you, long after he’s gone.
Date a guy who has MPD, preferably. Why should you wish for the same day, every day?
Date a guy who knows his medium rare from well done. And can tell Rock salt from Black salt. Date someone who knows his single malt and even though he doesn’t like wine, will at least fake it in good taste. Be sure, he’d tell you later anyway.
Date a guy who is flirtatious. Till late 50s. Who knows when to hand a towel and knows that sex can actually, cure headaches. Date a guy with a touch that wraps you like lamb wool in wet Augusts and tastes like a loaf of freshly baked whole wheat bread. Date a guy who always complains that you never kiss enough and one who loves PDA. Even if it wasn’t meant to freak out the 4 year old and her mother, at the airport lounge the other day.
Date a guy who is honest about his feelings. Let him make fun of your relatives, soon enough you’ll find yourself laughing, because that’s exactly he was at.
Date a guy who grows every year but refuses to age.
Date a guy who knows how to invest money and pick a nice movie for an afternoon of nothing. Date a guy who likes clothes and surprises. Someone who keeps words like effort and imperfections outside his closet.
Date a guy who is 100% himself, before he’s into you.
Date a guy who knows how to make a random game out of tissues in a café or a lasting memory out of some dull terrace light.
Date a guy who is worth picking up after a party, every single night.
November 23, 2011
November 08, 2011
November 02, 2011
The Promise Of More...
If it was not words, it had to be touch.
You can not love and do nothing about it.
*****
Love, I have realised, can not be packaged into neat little word containers. It makes you want to spill inside the other person.
*****
One day you're afraid and then the next you see love driving you on the unsteady bridge, the broken road, through the dark tunnel and you, for the first time, don't panic. You seem to accept the horror of it all. You know you'll be suffering, but you seem okay suffering. You even welcome it.
*****
She didn't want wild things from it. She wanted, for the first time, simple, ordinary. She wanted to sit in a pub with him and drink beer. Be in the same room without the need to say anything to each other. Sit on the grass and eat sandwiches with him. She wanted to wake up in the mornings and not feel apologetic for being grouchy. Listen to music while doing your own thing. Share a library. Cook a simple meal together. Peaceful domesticity. It looked less scary, even desirable for the first time.
You can not love and do nothing about it.
*****
Love, I have realised, can not be packaged into neat little word containers. It makes you want to spill inside the other person.
*****
One day you're afraid and then the next you see love driving you on the unsteady bridge, the broken road, through the dark tunnel and you, for the first time, don't panic. You seem to accept the horror of it all. You know you'll be suffering, but you seem okay suffering. You even welcome it.
*****
She didn't want wild things from it. She wanted, for the first time, simple, ordinary. She wanted to sit in a pub with him and drink beer. Be in the same room without the need to say anything to each other. Sit on the grass and eat sandwiches with him. She wanted to wake up in the mornings and not feel apologetic for being grouchy. Listen to music while doing your own thing. Share a library. Cook a simple meal together. Peaceful domesticity. It looked less scary, even desirable for the first time.
October 21, 2011
Safe Distances...
If there was someone who had to be shown what lay beneath, I always knew it had to be you. I don't know why I chose you, I have tried to reason with myself. You don't even care any more, and if I told you this, you'd expect me to come up with a brilliantly convincing answer. But I can not. I am not clever, I have no sense of occasion and specially to you, I say the most stupid things. I wonder if this is one of those stupid things I am better off not saying. But even as I try to articulate everything I want to say, I feel you already know. You already know me, don't you? Your knowing scares me, but I know if I don't get out now, I'll choke.
October 18, 2011
A Thousand Kisses Deep...
Don't matter if the road is longDon't matter if it's steepDon't matter if the moon is goneAnd the darkness is completeDon't matter if we lose our wayIt's written that we'll meetAt least, that's what I heard you sayA thousand kisses deep
I loved you when you openedLike a lily to the heatYou see, I'm just another snowmanStanding in the rain and sleetWho loved you with his frozen loveHis second hand physiqueWith all he is and all he wasA thousand kisses deep
I know you had to lie to meI know you had to cheatYou learned it on your father's kneeAnd at your mother's feetBut did you have to fight your wayAcross the burning streetWhen all our vital interests layA thousand kisses deep
I'm turning tricksI'm getting fixedI'm back on boogie streetI'd like to quit the businessBut I'm in it, so to speakThe thought of you is peacefulAnd the file on you completeExcept what I forgot to doA thousand kisses deep
Don't matter if you're rich and strongDon't matter if you're weakDon't matter if you write a songThe nightingales repeatDon't matter if it's nine to fiveOr timeless and uniqueYou ditch your life to stay aliveA thousand kisses deep
The ponies runThe girls are youngThe odds are there to beatYou win a while, and then it's doneYour little winning streakAnd summon now to deal with your invincible defeatYou live your life as if it's realA thousand kisses deep
I hear their voices in the wineThat sometimes did me seekThe band is playing Auld Lang SyneBut the heart will not retreatThere's no forsaking what you loveNo existential leapAs witnessed here in time and bloodA thousand kisses deep- Leonard Cohen
October 14, 2011
Broken Glass And Light...
Ask not "when will I find love?". Ask, instead, "when will I find someone who forgives me?" --Via Twitter
I think that's all you need to know about love. Ever.
October 11, 2011
Curl Under My Hairy Toes...
I know there is a heart inside me.This is a love poem I sent to Hallmark. I said Fill mewith your papered mush. I was so excited to talkto you, I put on the wrong lips. I said My other lipsmean business. I said Did you see the sky get angrythis morning? I was trying to impress youwith my ability to look up. I said Polka Dots, get offthe floor when you sneeze. I never want you to catcha cold. There is a snow globe at the endof this poem. Inside the snow globe: fake snow,my skin I have rolled up for you, hello.-Gregory Sherl
October 06, 2011
The Deprived Goat...
And as I sat alone in my empty flat, away from home on a festive day, more to punish myself than anything else, I realised a couple of things about myself that I never knew. Sometimes I wonder if people, normal folks, go through this too. Discovering new things, new facets of their personality, as often as I do.
But anyway, coming back to the topic at hand, I grew up on a healthy dose of romance novels. I saw more romance movies than action movies (though I love action movies too). Come to think of it, I was always lost in the beautiful locales to notice what the heroine was saying to the hero in an oh-so whisper-y voice. And when M, exasperated, said, how can you not know? I was forced to take a good hard look at myself and accept that maybe, I am just not a romantic. That came as a shock to me. All my life I believed myself to be a romantic. Somewhere, I still think I am, but maybe I am a closet(whatever that means) romantic you know? Does that make me sad? It does. (No the closet bit, but not being able to weave poetry all the time and not knowing what to say and more importantly, how to say it).
Women are supposed to be romantic, you know? They are supposed to be born with all tricks of the trade. Getting men to do their bidding is a cake walk for most women and I am always left with my jaw on the floor. How do they know what to say and how to say it? Like is there some class I missed as a teenager? I can flirt all right, but when it comes to the real thing, I am always left fumbling. I'll either say something entirely stupid and spoil the moment or just not know what to say and keep quiet.
So when someone says you have such beautiful eyes, I'll stare blankly at him and say okay. (I still don't what the correct response should be).
And although it does make me feel less like a woman, that's who I am. I am artless. I am stupid. And I am, most of the time, scared.
So, I give up. Maybe I really should go up in the Himalayas and learn how to chant and stuff.
P.S: Next time you want to get all romantic with me, get a list of responses you'd like in return. I am good at reading.
But anyway, coming back to the topic at hand, I grew up on a healthy dose of romance novels. I saw more romance movies than action movies (though I love action movies too). Come to think of it, I was always lost in the beautiful locales to notice what the heroine was saying to the hero in an oh-so whisper-y voice. And when M, exasperated, said, how can you not know? I was forced to take a good hard look at myself and accept that maybe, I am just not a romantic. That came as a shock to me. All my life I believed myself to be a romantic. Somewhere, I still think I am, but maybe I am a closet(whatever that means) romantic you know? Does that make me sad? It does. (No the closet bit, but not being able to weave poetry all the time and not knowing what to say and more importantly, how to say it).
Women are supposed to be romantic, you know? They are supposed to be born with all tricks of the trade. Getting men to do their bidding is a cake walk for most women and I am always left with my jaw on the floor. How do they know what to say and how to say it? Like is there some class I missed as a teenager? I can flirt all right, but when it comes to the real thing, I am always left fumbling. I'll either say something entirely stupid and spoil the moment or just not know what to say and keep quiet.
So when someone says you have such beautiful eyes, I'll stare blankly at him and say okay. (I still don't what the correct response should be).
And although it does make me feel less like a woman, that's who I am. I am artless. I am stupid. And I am, most of the time, scared.
So, I give up. Maybe I really should go up in the Himalayas and learn how to chant and stuff.
P.S: Next time you want to get all romantic with me, get a list of responses you'd like in return. I am good at reading.
October 04, 2011
Love, Again...
The single most cause of unhappiness in my life has been fear.
I don't know how and when I'll get over my fears.
But till such time, happiness is going to be a choice.
I don't know how and when I'll get over my fears.
But till such time, happiness is going to be a choice.
October 02, 2011
The World Itself Is A Bad Dream...
You take something really good and screw it up. Royally.
There's no one to blame but yourself. What do you do with such things?
You could spend your entire life in self-blame games.
Or then, you could promise yourself.
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