Disclaimer: Stream of Consciousness written mainly to distract myself from tedious work that’s not even mine.
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn.
So you talk about having rheumatoid arthritis and living your life measured by coffee spoons, and then you have a near-death experience with herpes that turns into a bacterial infection and because your immunity is so low you get an oral thrush infection which only babies and HIV patients normally get. All in the same place. Your lips. So you can’t eat. You cannot speak. You survive on tender coconut juice and stray chaklis and skip work and give up on life.
And then you have people tell you, ‘Pain is in the head. Remember that. Do yoga. No time to begin like the present. Go forth and conquer.’
Under the brown fog of a winter noon.
In this wonderful world, when there is so much you can genuinely bitch about, so much that is wrong with it, they pick up on whom you shag. Again and again. Rinse. Lather. Repeat.
This game is so gay! If you play it, you are gayer than superman.
Gays are rampant in the streets of Hyderabad and in Castro in San Francisco. Such a shame, so terrible!
Pink? I’m not one of those!
You know… those?
No. What’s those?
I mean to say that I’m a real man.
Yes, and you have a fantastic way of proving it, honey.
Twilight grips you and soaks you in madness. There is a reason I hate twilight. It shows me that’s where I always am. In between an in between. In a crowded city, making my way, unable even to get any transport – all visions of grandeur collapse. There is no purpose in being, in existing, there is no purpose in creating anything because it’s all been done, in teaching English, in anything at all when the people you love are all far away in different cities.
Clean streets and scenic views.
And I want to go to San Francisco. Now I want to go there. Without cribbing about it. Without crying on the plane. Because I want to be alone. I want to travel by myself, discover my own roads, carry my own baggage and sort it all in my head. And then come home so I can feel the joy (may be then at least) of being in a place that is home. This is my home. This is what I come home to. But I’ve always come home to people. Home is a people. Home is not a place.
I try to roll my hair into a knot, but it won’t stay.
And I wonder what I will wear tomorrow
Would a sari be out-of-place?
Who is to judge anyway?
A Stetson. Let me wear my Stetson.
And think about the men and women who’ve left.
Feeling stuck. Claustrophobic.
Streets go by without evoking any nostalgia.
What have we given?
I fiddle with the i-pod and play an old song and regret that I ever said ‘bye, bye love’ with a smile when I didn’t mean it. At all.
And that’s all.