Vomit

I have to be somewhere else,
in the next 15 mins.
What I am doing right now
does not matter.
They are just the ramblings
of an unpaid, unproductive, childless housewife.
Where I have to be,
in the next fifteen minutes
is a place that matters to you.
Where they count, store, multiply and divide money.
Where you are treated rightfully
by the size of your account
or the colour of your card.
Yet I think I would rather be here right now.
I don't want to die without leaving this unsaid.
I want a gun.
Then I want a shooting instructor,
a female shooting instructor.
Then I want to felicitate hospitals where they practice female foeticide.
Why waste time giving birth to puny things which will be raped or killed later on anyway?
Then I want pills which can quell my nausea.
I am retching violently.
My Facebook page lists updates on reports of crimes against women in my country.
But what chills me, is the endorsement of the 'Girl Child Gift Basket' right next to it.
Some hateful bastards want to celebrate the birth of these little girls.
Maybe they want to rape them tomorrow? 

Time and Punishment

The entire country is outraged about the rape. Demanding death penalty, castration etc. for the rapists. Will that solve anything? Is fear enough? If Man just chose to do the right thing out of fear rather than out of choice, how is it a good system?

We are materialistic. Always have been. We grow the crops that bring us the most money. We would like to sow seeds in the womb that would  bring us the most benefits too. That's why the preference for the male child. We would like our sons to work towards the profession du jour, engineering, medicine, pimping whatever is the highest sought profession in that age. We will buy them certificates from excellent institutions that will qualify them as prospective engineers, doctors and pimps. Then we find them women who will adapt their lives to those of our sons.

Even after all this puppet-mastering, we don't stop. We constantly point out other friends' sons who are in the US or earning a billion dollars every year and whose child gifted them a world trip. Spurring on the blinkered horse.

Can an entire mass of men remain sane? They will snap. One way or another. Hatred for the mother which will manifest itself as a crime against women. Hatred for the father which will exhibit itself in incidents of domestic violence. There wont even be psychologists and psychiatrists to help these sick minds. Remember, you made engineers, doctors and pimps out of them?

In an age, where is art is neglected , beauty can cause extreme damage.

Imagine a grey, colourless bland world where everyone goes about their boring, insipid lives. One day, on a smoky morning in a grey street, there is a large canvas with a frighteningly beautiful painting on it. The art will evoke something in every one. However, never having known beauty, it will frighten them. They will be bewildered at first. Then a few bold ones will take up sharp knives, rush together at it and rent the beautiful painting to ribbons.

What we hold in our hand today are the shredded ribbons of our sanity.

The Undercover Philistine

Sometime music is very frustrating. It is like foreplay gone awry. Sometimes I discover little nuggets, some piano masterpieces that frustrate me no end. I stop everything I am doing to listen to it over and over again. I give in to the deceptively calm opening tinkle. Close my eyes and fall back hoping to sink into a cushioned place only to find myself falling. In shock, I realize the piece is not calming at all. It is stormy, it is is frenzied and evocative of something. What exactly? What is it trying to evoke in me? I can feel the composer's, the pianists, the arranger's, the video uploader's, everyone's desperation. They are all trying to tell me something What is it? I don't understand this emotion that they are trying to get across. I am feeling something, but I don't even know what it is. It is like clawing at a smooth glass wall.
Then begins the long process of playing it in the background while hunting around the internet  Searches on the composer's name, his life, the time in his life when he composed this piece etc. Then piecing together that long gone corpse's life and trying to understand what he is trying to communicate here. Listening to the piece again from that perspective, but again feeling frustrated since I don't understand.
Then panic sets in. What if I am unfeeling? What if art and music evoke nothing in me? Could it be that I am a Philistine? If I am, I must at least try and appear unlike one to all human observation. Then in a desperate attempt, I find reviews on the particular piece of music and try and form my opinion based on other clever people's opinions.
Here too I exercise cunning, read conflicting reviews to know every possible opinion about it and then I go with something the character called Myself would probably choose to go with.
Is it worth it? So what if I did not get this or all of this or even all of the music in the world? Would it be the end of me? Even if my mind were not developed at all, would my body still not appreciate the world of sensuous pleasure? Is that not enough?

Everything is 2D

Would you like to sketch me? How would you go about it? Would you represent my overweight body by swiftly drawn strokes that will give a sense of the fluidity of my flesh? Will you manage to capture how unusually small and screwed up my eyes are? And wondrous natural darkness of my eyelids that always make me look like I have a teensy bit of eye shadow on? And the stray hairs wildly fluttering? And my pimply cheek and darker chin? The tiny tiny hairs on my upper lip? The sandpapery texture of my nose? The softness of my ears, their easy foldable nature? the tiny teeth, except for the two buck teeth up front.
If I were to ask you to paint me in colour, would it make it all the more difficult for you?
And if I were to ask you to extract my essence and abstract me into a visual art form, what would you do?
I think I would forever like to me immortalized as a tiny mosquito just about to land in the thick  sweetness of a Tropicana Orange juice served in a cheap thick glass

This I know

When in doubt, write.
Write feverishly, like your life depended upon it.
No, that phrase doesn't quite cut it.
You know, when you have that asthma/ allergy attack.
Your nose is blocked completely and you are breathing through your mouth.
Shallow gasps of air that you drag through your mouth while making raspy throaty noises.
After 2 mins, a throbbing pain starts in your head, slowly radiating in concentric circles just below skull level.
Every time you open your mouth wider to gulp in more air, the pain shoots up in intensity, the circles of pain in your head are closing in on each other. At this point, death does not seem like a bad idea.And then you set your sights on your inhaler.
Write like this is that moment.

Epiphany

Why must we crave desperately what we cannot have?
A quiet moment in a bustling city
A night of decadent partying in a rustic hamlet
Love for the commitment-phobic
Skin tight, slim fit jeans for the fat man
Heavy bosom for the skinny chick
Fame for the unknown
Anonymity for a celebrity
Are dreams merely a dance of human stupidity?

Tattycoram

I want to reach out to you.
Across the ages
Across the fourth wall
Instead of it being the other way round.
That'd be predictable, wouldn't it?

A firm grasp and then dragging you with me.
Who knows - up or down?

I understand.
Let me put it this way.
I alone understand.

Not the Beadles
Not the Meagles
Not even she, Miss Wade.
Not like the way I do.

Good must not mean righteous
Well-meaning gone wrong is deeply hurtful.
You have nothing to regret.
Not all those afternoon delights shared with her.
Not the suppressed lesbianism in Mr. Dickens' world.
Not your rage or your spitefulness.
Not the damnation.
Nothing.

I wonder how you spent the rest of your life.
Did you really curb your anger?
Did you really succumb?
Did you just pretend all this while?
Are you waiting for me to reach out to you?

All the way upto the shrink's couch

Brown and lyrical, thats me
Hairy and hysterical, also me
Illogical, yet infallible, yup, me again
Hopeful pessimist, no points for guessing who that is.
Amoral and righteous, again points to self
Irreligious and superstitious, look no futher.
What a mess of the contrary!

I give in to the basest of my urges

Always wanted to be highbrow and never put in words the frustration at work. Now I give up on those sort of taking-the-high-road thoughts and principles.

It is 12:00AM. I am up. Rehashing a presentation which has already been sent to the client last week. It is an 180 slider, heavyweight presentation, made last week over 72 hyper-caffeinated hours by me. Sure, it has many flaws. It is probably an egg-net of flaws. However, my point is that it has been sent already. Why bother now?

However, my sado-masochistic boss wants me to "relook" at it and "tweak" it thus.

In his words, this is what I must do

"Look at each slide. Read what is written on it. And ask yourself 'So what?' An answer will come to you, write it down on the slide. Ask yourself this question 5 times and write down the answer each time. Once you have done that, ask yourself 'Now what?' "

So here I am. 180 slides, 900 so-whats and 180 now-whats. Whee!

Is there an honest, easy yet intellectually stimulating way to earn money?