[incomplete]

Written on December 19, 2012.

It's six in the a.m. and only hours before I board a flight westbound, but I am in a contemplative mood and running on coffee. For some reason my body (and mind) is under the misconception that humans sleep every 30 hours or so. My days blur into each other, and time feels longer in spite of the winter that casts everything into darkness all day anyway. I am tired, very, very tired and my words creep slowly onto the page, but my mind is a bit of a whirlpool.

First things first, I didn't do as well this semester as I would have liked to. "It's okay," a little voice in my head attempts to console me, but then there is this maddening scream that tells me that I am an idiot and that this is far, far from the best I can spew out. And I'm afraid that the demon under my bed, that keeps telling me that I didn't do all I could, is right. I didn't. What I feel worst about is letting people down. This one professor, who didn't know if Youtube was spelled with a "you", is one of the most awesome people I have ever met, and in return for an awesome semester I made a B-. Here Dr. W, this is how much fuck I give. I don't even know how I'm going to face her now.

Then there is the whole big deal about moving on, growing up, aiming high. Life, at times, feels like a series of random leaps of faith. Though I am convinced, most of the time at least, that this road less traveled I have chosen for my life is the right one, and that I will most likely get a share of good things for the hard work I put in, I can't help but feel jealousy. Jealous of freshmen, of housewives, whose lives seem so predictable, so easy to navigate, to live.

A friend told me today that I should not be afraid to love. It will hurt she said, but worth it. As much as I would like to believe her, I am not convinced.

The End That Never Came

It only seemed right that I traveled to the end of the world in anticipation of Doomsday. There I was, at the feet of the mighty Pacific Ocean waiting patiently for the world to burn. But alas, December the twenty-first came and went, uneventfully.

I am terribly sleepy right now. I haven't written in so very long, so I will try to keep my eyes open and spill out words as they come. My posts have been terrible, terrible, terrible lately. Mostly just nonsensical rants that I think killed my fan club of three readers. So here is my attempt at reconciliation.

Among the dozens of hilarious Armageddon memes on my Facebook news-feed on Friday were one or two philosophical, contemplative posts by people who were asking themselves the wrong questions at the wrong time. Hours before the end of the world is definitely the worst time to be thinking about life's should-have's and could-have's. That's when you want to be running around getting your last rations into the cellar and polishing up that shotgun. I even got myself a haircut the week before, just in case. These people, they had it all wrong, sitting in front of their computers wondering about the purpose of life and such.

But in all honesty, their words made me think. If the world had really ended on Friday, what would have been my last thoughts? Would I have died happily? I am thousands of miles away from my family and that sure would have been upsetting. But other than that?

One thing I've really regretted over the last few weeks is growing up. I have learned to play it safe, to be nice and law-abiding. I honestly hate being "nice", but the learning has sunk in so deep the pretense comes automatically. To smile at the right time, to say the right things- it's all so natural. The person I became to please those around me grew so real that even I couldn't tell her apart anymore, and she merged with the real me into something unrecognizable and sad and disgusting.

I want to tap back into the person I used to be. I scare myself sometimes, but that I think is where you find true beauty, when you really push your physical and mental limits.
My most memorable moments in life never came from sitting around being good. Last week I pushed myself to do something unspeakable, even unthinkable, and minutes before I was sitting on my bed shaking and shuddering from head to toe. I was afraid, very very afraid. I won't say it ended being one of the most memorable moments of my life (think plain tea and cigarettes), but feeling that fear, that soul shattering fear was absolutely revitalizing. Knowing that you were alive enough to lose something reminds you that it is all worth it. And that is what I miss about growing up, that euphoria, the blood-rush of facing your own madness.

I thought about it recently. If the sixteen-year-old me met the the twenty-some-old me they would hate each other. Each one would think the other a loser. The elder one would feel pity and the younger one anger and revulsion. If that is not a devastating personal conundrum, I don't know what is. I want the best of both worlds. I want, I want...

I think I wrote about how I think I may have been in love? It was real, it happened, it came and went like a crashing wave. Other than being a dizzying experience of oscillating between bliss, confusion, and anger, "falling in love" also reminded me that I am still alive, still capable of feeling.

That's it. I'm sleepy.

Those Dreaded Twenty-somes

When I turned 21, I thought I had finally got my shit figured out. But no. No one warned me that a second puberty hits you somewhere in your mid-twenties.

May be scientists don't know about it yet. I've definitely never read anything about this phenomenon in health science education textbooks. But that doesn't mean it isn't real. In fact, it's so real that it hits you in the face on a beautiful autumn afternoon when the sun is glistening gold, and keeps you awake eating half a pound of cherry tomatoes at 2am on a Monday morning.

This crisis is of an existential nature. Books and novels have been written on the theme (Most of which I do not have the time to read anymore, because that's what college is about- turning you into a scholarly article-digesting nutcase!) Scientists don't know about this yet. Psychologists do, but they pretend not to because the DSM-V is not out yet (Anyone care to share that shit on Piratebay?). Your parents forgot to warn you of it because they were too busy dealing with their own shit, which they happen to have a label for- midlife crisis.

[I use the word "shit" too much? Speaking of which, I promised to pinch myself every time I used to word "like" unnecessarily =) Yeay to me and to good language!]

The ugly L-word

Has anyone ever told you that you shouldn't fall in love when you are a teenager? They were right, but they didn't tell you the whole truth (Is a half-truth as bad as a lie?). The real truth is, falling in love is a bad idea. Period. If you're going to fall in love, you're going to have a bad time.

Oh but look, after taking research class after research class I still haven't learned the rules of my trade. How can I make a generalized statement about something without defining it first?

So, what does it mean to fall in love? Constant butterflies and giggles and blushing cheeks? Happiness? Good sex? What does it ultimately boil down to?

I am old enough to know what love is (at least I hope so). It's this unconditional bond you cannot wish away; this affection and commitment that does not change, except on a few bad days and a few good days. I love my mom. Like that. But falling in love? Dafuqs that, right??

Bills and shit

Of course love is not only shit that hits you in the face when you reach your mid-twenties. Suddenly you've got bills to pay. And groceries to buy. And an immigration status to protect. Yes, that shits as real as it gets.

Then there is the question of choosing a career path. And you thought picking subjects at Ordinary Levels was hard. Suddenly, you see the expanse of the rest of your life before your eyes, and you do not know which color to paint it in. Do you really wish to tread the path less traveled?

Disillusionment and Fear

And when this cloud settles over you, shit gets real. You wake up afraid. You watch work pile up, graduation draw nearer, and still have no idea what you are doing. And when a friend asks you if you want to throw your homework down and eat spicy garlic chicken wings and wander about Walmart, you say yes. Because you'd rather ignore that clutter and noise in your head and drown it out with means of instant gratification. 

You might also like:
http://fairytalesfor20somethings.tumblr.com/

Facebook is the new Cocaine

Here I am after a rather long absence. My brain has been all scrambled lately with the crazy amount of coursework, little side jobs, and this thing called a social life that I've somewhat reluctantly taken on this semester.

Shit hit the fan this last week or so when I realized that my old ways of living just won't do anymore. I was slacking behind in my classes, skipping a majority of them, letting homework and laundry and dirty dishes pile up. So from this week onward I've decided to start living a new life- a sort of a metamorphosis if you please.

I have a bedtime now, and I try to stick to it somewhat strictly. Right at midnight I slip my feet out of my acrylic woolen house slippers (that guard me from the ice cold floor- jeez I don't know how I will survive a winter in my shack of a new home) and tuck myself in.

My alarm goes off promptly at 7.15, but I've so far failed to break my habit of hitting the snooze button a dozen times. Then I shower before marching to the kitchen like a sleepwalking penguin (and roll down the stairs and hit my head and bruise my elbow on the worst days) to brew lovely Costa Rican coffee and breakfast (French toast/peanut butter/strawberry jam).

Better economics is also part of my self-improvement routine. I try not to eat out, and when I do, it's as a small gift to myself for having been good. I train myself like a puppy. That means Caribou is now a special occasion.

I also feel like I cook better now, and I seem to be able to run a functional mental inventory of all the groceries I have. And here's a tip for you- always shop with a grocery list, and never on an empty stomach. It prevents you from reaching for those yummy-looking things on sale that you don't really need. Then there are certain things that you should go ahead and buy in bulk if on sale, like Mac and Cheese and toilet paper. But before you do, pop out that calculator and do some math- Walmart works under the premise that half its customer base is half stupid.

That's pretty much it for today's How to be a Better Housewife. See you folks next week with more tips on better living... no, well fuck that. Here's what I came to write-

I kind of thought about the things that were getting me bogged down, and Facebook topped the list. I always rationalized, told myself that social networking is an important part of any modern human's life. It keeps us connected, informed, united ladida. But as of late, it has been getting me more depressed than happy. My newsfeed fills with all the problems of the world, and I share them and get everyone else into a bad mood. Then there are my "friends", few who are truly close to my heart, others like "How the fuck do I know you?" and "You so stupid you don't deserve to live!". Then there are the well-meaning people who share pictures of their dinner, or images about how their imaginary friend loves us all. "Share this if you love Jebus, keep scrolling if you love Stalin".

So yeah, that shit's mainstream. I deactivated my account approximately 2.5 days ago, and I'm still alive. But so many times I have had this mind-numbing involuntary reaction- opening a new tab and typing "f". Then I realize what I've done and heave a sigh. It was a little heartbreaking at first, losing my access to a constant stalking platform, but now I feel liberated. I already had a few concerned friends ask me why I've left. "Did something scandalous happen?" Yes, the Illuminati is out to get me! Facebook is the new cocaine!! And I'm saying no!! You should too because drugs are for losers!

"I've had enough and I want out!"
"You can't walk away now!"

Life without Braces

I just remembered that when I was still a baby-blogger, almost 3500 views ago, I used to write about my teeth. It's been more than a year since, and I now live without metal in my mouth, most of the time.

I say "most of the time" because I'm still required to wear what is called a retainer. Teeth have souls and minds of their own, and they are naturally inclined to return to their previous positions. That is why I have to wear a removable metal wire to control their movement. I'm required to wear it 24/7, removing it only during meals and when I brush my teeth, but I have a nasty habit of not wearing them for so many hours everyday. It's bad, I know. You may already have guessed the reason behind my reluctance to obey my dentist's orders. Yes, it's uncomfortable. Perhaps even more annoying than braces themselves. The wires are attached to a pink plastic that adheres to the palate. Yes, it does look like grandma's fake teeth.

Another reason I hate wearing it is because it makes me sound funny. We generate certain syllables by bringing the tongue into contact with the roof of the mouth. And I can't do that anymore. The worst part is, people who don't know me assume it's natural, that that is just the way I speak, and heaven forbid, they may even think that it is the accent of the part of the world I come from.

So yes, my retainer makes me feel horribly awkward. I am already a socially awkward penguin. But I still need to wear them, because otherwise all the pain and suffering and money and awkwardness of the last one and a half years will flush down the drain.

In retrospect, I really do like my new teeth. I smile a little less awkwardly now, and in pictures I look less like a grinning camel. Yes, I like the new me.

I've also had people ask me about getting orthodontic treatment. Well, this is my advice to you:

I'm not a doctor, so I actually can't tell you shit.

But I can tell you about my experience. I grew bunny teeth when I was about seven. I avoided getting my teeth fixed for many years, first because my parents were worried about their daughter losing four perfectly healthy teeth (even though she argued that braces looked kinda cool), and later because I never really thought about it, and even when I did, I rationalized that it was unnecessary.

Today, I'm really glad I went ahead with the decision to get fixed. It cost my parents a substantial amount of money (even though window-shopping for a cheap dentist helped us settle for a lower cost). It cost a lot of things to me too. Time (I postponed college for a semester to continue treatment), pain and self esteem. But yes, it was all worth it.

If you are thinking about braces, then realize these things-

• It's a (sorta) cosmetic procedure. That means you most likely won't die if you don't get it done, even though misaligned teeth may go bad if they are positioned in a way that you can't reach them with a toothbrush. Unfortunately, this also means your dental insurance will most likely not pay for orthodontic treatment.
• The sooner, the better. I really regretted having to get braces at the age of 20. At that age you are supposed to be going to college or entering the job market or starting your own business or selling things in back alleys. That is not an age when you will have a lot of time for monthly dental appointments and aches and swollen gums, to say nothing of looking like a brat. Chances are you will be sexually active too (if you are not, email me and I'll send you flowers),  and the last thing you want to do is give your partner an embarrassing and painful injury. So if you are still in high school and are thinking of braces, go ahead do it. You might look like a dork now, but trust me, when you are my age the cost of looking like a dork rises exponentially. If English is your first language and you don't know what that word "exponentially" means, you are either old enough for braces or verbally challenged. I must add though, if you are a parent and are considering orthodontic treatment for your kid, the sooner may not be the better. I think they should be old enough to understand why they need to get braces and be able take care of their teeth alone. In other words, they should be old and mature enough to make their own decisions and stick to them. Braces are hell, so don't force it on them. They will hate you with a vengeance. Wait till they are older, preferably in their early to mid teens.
• It's a huge investment. It will cost you a lot. Be prepared for it. It will cost you a lot of money and also other things like dates. You might not get one for a year or two. And I'm afraid I must admit that I know what that feels like.
• It's painful. Yes, it hurts like a bitch. The mouth is one of the most sensitive parts of your body and the metal scrapes your lips and cheeks constantly. Having teeth pulled out for the first time in my life was painful and traumatizing. You might also have to give up food that your teeth are no longer strong enough to break off and chew. But you do get used to it. Our bodies and minds are awesome like that. I feel an almost nostalgic attachment to my braces now. And the food thing is not so bad either. I've blogged before about tips to get around to eating almost everything. Read here.
• Maintenance. Ideally, you need to brush after every meal. Having food stuck in your braces feels and looks disgusting so you will most likely end up making a habit of brushing. Also, this adds to your already tight schedule. You have to brush after breakfast, that means no munching on your way to school/work. You have to brush after lunch, which means you'll have to excuse yourself and sneak into a public restroom to brush, at school, at work and even when you are out at a pub with your friends. You have to brush after dinner, so no more eating in bed and cuddling up to sleep. The worst part for me, believe it or not, were the 3am hunger pangs. Imagine having to brush your teeth after eating chocolate chip cookies under your sheets.

Back to the question: Should you do it?
If you think your problem is serious enough to out weigh the above mentioned costs of the procedure, by all means do it asap. If you think those Dracula teeth are fine, or may be even a convenient pantie-dropper, forget orthodontics and move on. What ever you do, don't postpone the decision. Make one and stick to it. The longer you wait, the worse the inflation will be, and the more you will have to spend. You are also not going to get any younger. You don't want to be that balding man with braces and a mustache.

Having said all this, I'm going to leave you with this awesome song about fashion and photogenic-ness from a bygone decade. Enjoy!

The Day Obama Happened to Me

To a Better World

The greatest mistake we have made as a species is putting a price tag on knowledge. Someone once told me that the Library of Alexandria, the greatest tomb of knowledge of the Ancient World, had its volumes bound and locked in chains. Learning and science, "the pursuit of knowledge", was limited to men of the high born. More than 2000 years since, we continue to make the same mistake. Education, as we define it today, has become nothing but a sale of papers certifying that its holder is capable of this or that.

I remember learning that the Buddha described a good teacher as one who does not hold what is called a "guru mushti"- the denial of some vital knowledge to ensure that the disciple never becomes better than the guru. This foolish practice common at the time ensured that great things like the knowledge of herbal medicine and feats of ancient civil engineering were forever lost to humans.

We continue to do this, in a modernized form, by controlling access to information and education. Instead of guarding knowledge from slaves, women and other pestilences, today, we educate only those who can afford it. "Pay to continue", educators scream in bold, black fonts. The method may be different, but the result of these shackles we put on ourselves are the same as they were millennia ago- they hinder the advancement of mankind.

This is to the young man with sharp eyes who rolled my burrito because he couldn't afford to go to college anymore, this is to all my friends who had to settle for less because their dreams were too expensive, this is to me for smiling awkwardly and walking away empty-handedly because I did not have money to buy that over-priced education pack.

No, I don't want your charity. What I want is a world where humans' inborn curiosity is fed, where you can ask a question and get an answer without having to pay for it, where every child inherits all that is of value that his or her forefathers have reaped, a world where knowledge is free.

On Curiosity

I ran into my neighbors today. I was walking home, and the residues of a long hot day were smeared across the sky.

"Kite!" the little three-year-old screamed, pointing with his chubby finger. I had to squint my near-sighted eyes to see the little speck of red that he had discovered among the clouds.

"Oh! Big kite, baba! Look!", his mother and grandmother chimed in, trying hard to sound like toddlers themselves.

The child began trying to peddle his mini-bicycle again. It was covered with stickers and had the learning wheels still attached to the sides. He had not yet figured out that riding a bicycle involves pushing the peddles in a whole circle. Instead he pressed down on them with all his might, as his mother gave the jerking bike a gentle push. He is a considerate driver though, ringing the bell to make sure that I don't run into him. I politely crossed over to the other side of the lane. His grandmother tried to stuff a biscuit into his mouth, and when he refused, she began munching on it. She offered me one too, and social norms forced me to accept it. I mumbled a thank you and nibbled at the salty cracker hoping no one will notice my face contort in pain at every bite. (More on that later.)

As the adults exchange pleasantries, he tried to get his bike off the concrete road and onto the grassy dirt track that leads to their house. But it got stuck in between, in a little ditch of sharp pieces of rock aggregate the builders had lazily left behind to cover the imperfections of our little lane.

Suddenly, distracted by the black crystals, he left his bike and began poking the ground with his fingers.

"Cheee.... Poo!", his mother and grandmother began chiding in unison. "Dog poo!" The little one reluctantly threw away the rock he was holding with his dainty fingers.

He tried pushing his bike again. "Ah! Stop! You'll fall!" 

More adult blah-blah.

"If you don't eat, we are going to put you in the garbage dump and lock you!"

Still more adult blah-blah.

"Let him be", I wanted to say. "Just fuck off and let him be."

Of course I didn't say that. I continued nibbling my biscuit, talking bits of weather and politics before proceeding to make a polite exit. I even said I'll try to talk to them again before I leave. I won't.

~~~~~

This exchange, as brief and mundane as it was, made me realize something. I was a lucky kid.

I grew up playing with sand and mud and snow and grass. My mother let us pet any animal we saw.

(She can be a bit extreme sometimes. When I was about seven, she made me almost hug a camel for a photo. It was huge, and we later found out it bites. I almost lost my face that day. That was shortly before we got spat at by a llama. Long story.)

I'm a 90's kid. Yes, I wanted a Game Boy and never got one. I got a Tamagotchi though. We had a huge collection of hand-me-down audio cassettes and Disney movies copied on to VHS tapes. We still have those, covered in mold. We also still have boxes full of Lego. In my free time, I read books to teddies. On TV, I watched Sesame Street, but within a few short years, moved onto The Simpsons. In 1997, I spent my life's savings on a Sailor Moon audio CD.

Every other memory I have of my childhood is scattered about in the great outdoors. By the sea, in the gardens and parks, the streets, and every dirty and dusty corner. My grandmother's cat and dog were some of our first friends.

We climbed trees and fed cows, frolicked in the fields and rolled around in rabbit poop. My mother never stopped us. I was a happy child.

I've also learned many things the hard way:

• Pressing the front brakes of a bike while rushing down a steep hill at extreme speeds creates a psychological time-warp. You reach an ecstatic free-fall that probably lasts a fraction of a second, but feels like forever. And then you hit the ground.
• Wandering into a forest unattended by adults can lead to trouble. Bending twigs to mark the way back is a good idea in movies. In real life, your parents, armed with your friends' parents, start combing the forest, screaming your names. Later they scold you and say they almost called the firefighters.
• Not telling an adult about the thorn you got stuck in your finger is also a bad idea. It gets infested and hurts and hurts until you chop it out with a pin.
• Fire is an ethereal substance that leaps and spreads its flicking tongue much faster than you can ever imagine.

If I ever have children, I'll set them free. I'll nag and whine and chide and scream, but I will also let them see with their own eyes, and touch and feel with their own hearts. If there ever was a gift you could give a child, it is curiosity. My mother gave me that, and that is probably the best thing that ever happened to me.

On Being a Bum

I sometimes use words inappropriately, sometimes I swear, sometimes I make mistakes. But I will not hesitate to make words up, if English ever fails me. Like Lewis Carroll and Beyonce before me. What often happens though is vice versa, I fail English.

A concerned reader asked me what I meant when I referred to myself as a bum. Well, I don't know for sure. But your question reminded me of this poem I read a few years ago. For some reason, this talented poet and  eccentric character struck my young heart. May be what I meant by calling myself a bum was that I wanted to be more like him.

Ladies and Gentleman, I present to you, Charles Bukowski.

Bukowski with a cat.

my father

was a truly amazing man
he pretended to be
rich
even though we lived on beans and mush and weenies
when we sat down to eat, he said,
"not everybody can eat like this."

and because he wanted to be rich or because he actually
thought he was rich
he always voted Republican
and he voted for Hoover against Roosevelt
and he lost
and then he voted for Alf Landon against Roosevelt
and he lost again
saying, "I don't know what this world is coming to,
now we've got that god damned Red in there again
and the Russians will be in our backyard next!"

I think it was my father who made me decide to
become a bum.
I decided that if a man like that wants to be rich
then I want to be poor.

and I became a bum.
I lived on nickles and dimes and in cheap rooms and
on park benches.
I thought maybe the bums knew something.

but I found out that most of the bums wanted to be
rich too.
they had just failed at that.

so caught between my father and the bums
I had no place to go
and I went there fast and slow.
never voted Republican
never voted.

buried him
like an oddity of the earth
like a hundred thousand oddities
like millions of other oddities,
wasted.


Charles Bukowski

A Small Celebration

A while ago I realized that my blog had scored more than 3000 hits. So I celebrated. I gave myself pleasure-  a delicious chocolate cupcake and a mug of tea while listening to this:

I had a craving for chocolate, for cake, for tea and for this particular song. At that moment in time, it made little sense, but now my delusional mind is creating a link between my choice of music and a divine message delivered to me by the Great Cosmos.

(Nice name for a band- Great Cosmos.)

Anyway, I started this blog more than a year ago. Rereading my first post, dated November 4, 2010, gave me the feeling that this blog was intended to be a literary review place. I don't even remember what I envisioned this would become. I think I wanted to make money, but I don't know what motivated me to continue posting even after Google flat out refused my AdSense.

I started blogging around the time I quit my first job. I quit because the only other employee of this particular SEO company, who also happened to be its owner and my boss, got on my nerves.

Ironically, he was the only person outside of my close group of friends who had ever appreciated my writing, let alone offered me money for it. For the first time, I thought of myself as a writer. A literary whore, so to speak. A few months and a check from a local elite e-magazine (which I stopped working for because it was too mainstream) later, I had the chance to write for a paper. Like, a real paper, printed with ink on paper and distributed on lorries to many corners of the island. It was a tough job and I whined a lot. But I also liked it, a lot.

Around that time, something happened to me. Actually, many things happened, but one thing stands out in importance in this particular context- I turned into a robot. You know them CAPTCHA shit, right? I started failing those. I began spilling out well-structured, grammatically-correct sentences. They dropped one by one, like stones into a pond, sinking lifelessly to its bottom.

Rewind.

A bit about me- I was never trained to write. I'm mostly self-taught. I was actually that girl in specs who sat in the front row of math classes overrun by testosterone. But from the time I could form words, I had been writing. My first original piece was a poem about a Christmas tree. No, I didn't write it in school. I wrote it on Christmas eve, in a breeze of joy after my brother and I had finished decorating the tree in our living room.

Then came my angst-filled years of early teenage. I wrote passionately and prolifically, every single night. Even seeing those pages and pages of discolored exercise books filled with sprawling handwriting about how much I hate my parents gives me shudders. *shudder*

That's how passionate I used to be. But now, in comparison, I'm dead.

I don't write anymore.

Remember I told you I began to think of myself as a writer? That was one of the most embarrassing lies I have ever lived. I read somewhere that no one is ever a writer. We humans, we write. We write to communicate- to prescribe medicine, to instruct how to operate a food processor, to prosecute and kill another for killing. We also write to record history, to vent our frustrations, to change the world.
But no one is ever a writer. The minute you stop writing, you are a writer no more. And if being a writer was your sole identity, you drop dead the minute you lift your pen from paper, or raise your fingers from the keyboard.

Real writers are storytellers, and that is everything I'm not. I fantasize, like all the time. But somehow I have never had the discipline to harness these kinky fantasies of mine and make them cum alive on paper. (Pun intended.)

But I know I want to. Someday.

This post is already too damn long and sleep calls, so I'll finish off by saying that my dream is to someday have the power to make people, my minions the world over, jizz at my command. 

Pi... a Descend into Chaos

As recommended by a Stranger, I got my hands on Pi (1998), a brilliant work of cinematic art written and directed by Darren Aronofsky, who- as the stranger pointed out- also happens to be the director of Requiem for a Dream and Black Swan, two of my favorite movies of all time.

Interestingly, Stranger failed to mention (and perhaps even notice) that the friendly neighbor, Devi, in Pi and the not-so-friendly nurse in Requiem for a Dream are actually played by the same actress, Samia Shoaib.

Well, if you found that bit of trivia interesting, wait for this-

What is that makes these three movies truly brilliant? What is it that gives them the power to sink under your skin? Is it the cinematography, the brilliant acting, or the mind-fuckery? In my opinion, it is all that, and the music, the canvas on which all these elements are played out on.

Clint Mansell in Pi

It came as a very pleasant surprise to me that the music for all three movies was done by the same genius of a musician, Clint Mansell. This Golden Globe Award nominated composer has an unparalleled talent for recreating classical music,- by Mozart in Requiem for a Dream and by Tchaikovsky in Black Swan- and adding an edgy and dark taste of modernity to compliment the visual madness conceived by Aronofsky.

And here is more trivia for you- Mansell makes a surprise appearance in Pi, as the photographer in the subway.

What subway, you ask? Here, let me tell you more about Pi.

A nightmare in grainy black and white, Pi follows a young genius' gradual descend into insanity. Maximillian Cohen is a young number theorist, whose strong conviction that all things form a pattern discernible by mathematics leads him on a quest to find this same nature in the stock market.

"Restate my assumptions: One, Mathematics is the language of nature. Two, Everything around us can be represented and understood through numbers. Three: If you graph the numbers of any system, patterns emerge... So, what about the stock market? The universe of numbers that represents the global economy. Millions of hands at work, billions of minds. A vast network, screaming with life. An organism. A natural organism. My hypothesis: Within the stock market, there is a pattern as well... Right in front of me... hiding behind the numbers. Always has been."

But Cohen is not the only one interested in this discovery. His findings are of obvious monetary value to a Wallstreet firm. A cult of Jews are also on the hunt for this number that they believe will serve as the key to understanding the universe, and ultimately, finding God. The insanity unravels as Max comes closer and closer to what he calls "genius".

Stranger spoke of stylistic elements, and I definietly see what he meant there. The recurring theme in Aronofsky's work seems to concern itself with the maddening chase of desire and passion, and that is precisely what Pi is all about. This psychological thriller will leave you deeply disturbed, I promise. It will also prove that it is brilliant minds that create art, not big budgets.

The Road

There should be a word to describe the feeling you get when you finally read the book that has been tumbling around in your mind for more than a year, that story that has been torturing you, imploring to be put on to paper, but vanishing the minute you raise a pen in your fingers. A feeling concocted by the people you have met in your mind who suddenly come to life in the pages of a book written by someone else.

That is what I experienced when I read The Road by Cormac McCarthy. Except it wasn't the exact same feeling because his story wasn't exactly mine.

His Pulitzer Prize winning novel is grey and bleak, yet full of the color of emotion. Set in a post-apocalyptic hell, his story makes us witnesses to the ruin of civilization. The enigmatic quest of a father and his young son is filled with a desperate sadness and undying hope.

It was an easy but slow read. One that gave me the perception of tottering along a never-ending road myself. Through its simplicity, McCarthy has achieved in his story an acuteness akin to reality, and created characters live and heartfelt.

This fits into the cabinet of 'Modern Fiction'. To anyone unfamiliar with this style of writing, expect no story, no ghastly climaxes in plot development, no end. This is one of those books that is a mere experience. One that you will feel yourself- the cold, the hunger, the hopelessness.

But to be completely honest, I won't say The Road is one of my favorites. I enjoyed it, a lot, but not immensely. May be, just may be, it was because I lacked the discipline to read it in one go. Or perhaps the realization that my writing will never compare made me a bitter old lady.

The Art of French Love

I just finished watching Amelie (2001), and I am still somewhat dazzled. Whimsical and full of color, it was a French fairy tale played out on the neatly-paved streets of Paris.

Critics before me have pointed out that everything about it- the characters, the plot, the scenery- is unrealistic. The Paris of Amelie is portrayed as this haven of coffee-drinking White people, wandering about like teenagers preoccupied with thoughts of amor.

However, one cannot help but be charmed by the surreal world of love and all things good and beautiful the movie creates. A world of small details and happy endings. So I guess it is no wonder that Amelie became a big hit, especially in the French-speaking parts of the world. It also won a bunch of awards including a bagful of Academy Award nominations including those for the Best Art Director, Best Sound and Best Foreign Film.

But I decided I won't do review of this one. Instead, let me take you on a train of thought. Amelie was too full of "dafuq?" moments. In spite of the face-palms, I was a ball of giggles, clutching my pillow and rolling around on my mattress by the end of it. That is when I realized that this was a different kind of love story. It was a French love story. And that made all the difference.

I was born in the heart of European mainland (and perhaps the seeds of European-freedom are blooming somewhere inside me still- think nude beaches), but I was raised South Asian and educated British (note- Britain is not Europe. Know the difference.) And like everyone of my generation, I came of age infused with all things America.

I wonder sometimes if my fallings and failings in love would have been different if I hadn't been raised on Dawson's Creek and Sweet Valley Highs. (Full of stories of teenage love and other acts of hormone-induced sodomy, these books with pouty-lipped girls on glossy covers were absolutely forbidden on the premises of the ultra-Buddhist girls' school I attended. But of course we always found ways to sneak 'em in).

That is how we learnt of Love. How to find it, how to keep it and how to lose it- we learnt all that and more. I remember my amusement when I learned some nonsense in the Princess Diaries movie about your foot popping up when you kiss for the first time. All that happened to me the first time was the bits of pizza that were between his teeth were somehow not there after. And that is disgusting.

The scripts we follow in life we pick up from around us. I learn these things in the classes I take but let me try not to bore you with academic details.

Basically, we learn from around us, try these things out, and gather the reactions of the world. That is how we learn to behave, to conform, to function as humans. But this mechanism of learning changes when we start picking up from artificial worlds- movies, paperbacks and other things fake. We play out roles conceived in some balding scriptwriters fantasies and try to mold our lives into the shells we are made to believe we belong in. The I-love-yous we say, the gifts we give on mothers' day and sounds we make at orgasm we pick up from this Platonic idealistic world of Hollywood. (To speak nothing of the American porn industry that has become the world's Hitchhikers Guide to the Bedroom. Didn't we all, at some point, learn to do it like they do on the Discovery Channel?)

I imagine I would be a whole different person if those impressionable years of my life had been filled with more Bollywood. May be instead of writing I would have been singing, dancing and planning a big wedding now.

Allow me to take my imagination further. To me, the Art of French Love, at least judging from Amelie, revolves more around passion. Love at first sight instead of the detailed, derailed relationships everyone seems to have problems with. French love to me seems young- a free fall of emotions. May be that is why tongue-action is more appropriately referred to as French kissing? May be, just may be, I would be less cynical if I watched more of this cheesy stuff?

Requiem for a Dream

Requiem for a Dream (2000) is perfection, in every sense of the word.

I had already watched halfway through the movie when my brother suggested we watch it together, from the beginning. I did not throw a tantrum as a sister should, but gladly obliged. Why, you ask? Well only because this movie was so awesome. In fact, it was so awesome, I could watch it all over a dozen times without ever getting bored.

As most good movies, this one is also based on a book. It was published as a novel by Hubert Selby, Jr. in 1978 under the same title.

Set in New York. this gripping story is based around four interconnected characters, whose simple dreams are shattered by the substances they seek refuge in.

Harry (Jared Leto, vocalist of 30 Seconds to Mars) and Marion (Jennifer Connelly) are lovers. They play the naive and rebellious youths whose love and dreams seem to them invincible. Harry's mother (Ellen Burstyn) is a lonely widow. Living in a shabby apartment and troubled by her only son's behavior, she finds solace in television and food. But her world is filled with a hope and happiness akin to that of youthfulness when she receives an invitation to be on TV. She prepares eagerly, dyes her hair and goes on a diet. Following a neighbor's suggestion she sees a doctor who can help her shed pounds faster. She begins a regiment of diet pills that not only help suppress her appetite but also make her feel good.

Harry's friend Tyrone (Marlon Wayans) dreams of "making it" and escaping the oppression of the ghetto, and it is with his help that Harry gets into a business of working as a "sort of a distributor like for a big importer." With the quick money they make, Harry and Marion dream of starting a small business- a clothes boutique for which Marion excitedly starts designing.

But by the end of Summer, their lives begin to spiral out of control, as one by one, they begin to succumb to their own addictions.

I cannot tell you what I loved more about this movie- the perfect cast, the beautiful plot, the creative editing,  or the mind blowing theme music. In fact, I got so excited about the music- a minimal and edgy mix of electronic and classical- that I downloaded the entire album.

This movie is enticing. It calls you over to the dark side and gives you a taste of the forbidden fruit. But when the fall begins, and as the characters you watched grow with new-found hope, begin to crumble, trust me, you will be scared.

I was. I was suddenly very afraid.

I hope this movie takes you on an equally good trip. Here is some music to give you a foretaste.

Saying Good Bye to Summer

Summer is flying by faster than I ever imagined, and here dawns July. Chances are we might all die in a Big Blast (or worse, a Zombie Apocalypse- though I prefer the term White Walker Invasion) later this year, so may be it is time we start saying our goodbyes.

July also marks the birth of a very special person- me! I am currently plotting grand ways of saying goodbye to my childhood. The difficult thing with that of course is that I am still a child. Not in a bad way though.

Half of the vacation that I was so eagerly looking forward to has ended, and it seems, almost uneventfully. My plans of excursions have so far only stayed as plans. I did do a bunch of fun things and met up with a bunch of very fun people (contrary to what you may have heard, I do have friends). I have also been consuming copious amounts of tea, and other things.
Another thing I promised myself, and the gods, is that I would write. July is also a National Novel Writing month and I was supposed to join in on the fun. The difficult thing with that is that I am in another phase of brain freeze again. But with or without the blessings of Muse, I will write this month, even if that amounts to nothing but piles of bullshit.

A Guide to Successful Wedding Crashing

It's June, and that means it's "that time" of the year again, when unsuspecting virgins walk up the aisle and all the family gluttons gather to eat and drink to their happiness (or sadness). How can you, the otherwise ordinary nameless brick-in-the-wall, add some spice to your life and theirs? You show up at the wedding, uninvited.

This easy-to-comprehend, step-by-step, detailed, and tried-and-tested guide to Wedding Crashing will have you ahead of the game in no time.

WEDDING CRASHING 101

(Loosely based on last Saturday night's adventure)

WHAT YOU NEED:

1. A Suitable Outfit

Imagine, that could be you in the background!

If you identify as masculine, choosing an outfit should be easy. Pants, shirt, coat, tie and polished shoes. Cuff-links and tie-clasps are optional.

For the feminine, a formal dress and shoes, along with make up might do the trick. But on this island, a flashy saree is unfortunately the socially-accepted wedding attire. It may differ in other parts of the world- kimonos,  caftans, deer skin- whatever society deems is right, is right.

Choosing the wrong outfit could be fatal, specially if the bride's father is the shotgun-carrying alcoholic type of dad. The concept to understand here is 'camouflage'. Your objective here is to fit and blend into the crowd like a chameleon in a bush. (Wikipedia says "The primary purpose of color change in chameleons is social signalling, with camouflage secondary... males show lighter, multicolored patterns when courting females". If that tickles your fancy, go ahead adorn yourself in some wild color and see how the opposite sex reacts to your advances, but don't tell me I did not warn you.)

2. Mode of Transport

Now that you are all fancied up, you need to figure out how you will get to the venue. If you are oblivious to stares and finger pointing and groping (or may be you even get a kick from that sort of deviant behavior), then public transport should serve you just fine. If not, you might want to drive, hitch a tuk-tuk, or, if you can afford it, call a cab.

3. A gift (optional)

The decent thing to do is to take a special gift for the couple on the most expensive day of their lives. All you need is a little creativity, and you could throw in a dead cockroach or a condom for extra LOLs. If that sounds like too much work, you could just take an empty envelope with the words Congratulations! scrawled in an elaborate cursive hand.

HOW TO WEDDING CRASH- KABOOOOOM!

1. Get your ass to the Feast

They look so happy together!

If you live in a crazy city like Colombo, finding a wedding should be a piece of cake. All you have to do is go to a fancy hotel or reception hall on a weekend and you will find a few weddings going on simultaneously, and in typical Asian-style each will have a few hundred guests. If you live in a multicultural, fruit-salad city like Colombo, try to find a wedding you can easily blend into, specially if you feel language, dress code and cuisine will be problematic. You do not want to be the rude girl who says no to shark fin soup or the prudish guy who refuses to take his boxers off at a skyclad handfasting ceremony.

If you live in a less populated area, like Ames, Iowa, you might have to take your planning to the next level, and device a strategy that involves finding out when and where weddings will be held. How do you do that? I'm sorry, but I can't help you with that. If you have any suggestions on how to bomb a wedding in a rural church on the outskirts of civilization, go ahead comment.

When crashing a wedding, timing is crucial. Get there too early and you will walk into a serious ceremony and attract unnecessary attention. Walk in too late, and you will walk into a drunken sausage fest, and, again, attract unnecessary attention.

The Gurus of Wedding Crashing tell me the perfect time to walk in is when the food has just been served. This is when everyone is walking around making small talk, and their brains are too flooded with thoughts of gobbling down as much food as humanly possible to notice your unfamiliar face.

Remember that wedding receptions are normally focused around lunch or dinner. Plan accordingly, allowing for changes in different cultures. For example, a religious ceremony held separately in a church or temple, or auspicious times observed, may change the timing of the reception.

2. Walk in.... like a Boss!

This is probably the hardest part of the whole mission- having the balls to walk in. Remember, before you perform this bold act of bravery, take note of the couple's names, and come up with a small story to explain your relationship to them in case someone asks. "I am one of John's friends," my friend, and partner-in-crime mumbled to an acquaintance he met inside the hall, and it worked! Walk in without hesitating for too long, and try not to giggle or blush. Remember to smile and acknowledge anyone who meets your eyes.

3. Blend In... like a Chameleon?

Now is the time to have fun. Chat up the groom's grand aunt or break a leg on the dance floor. The most epic moment of my experience of wedding crashing to-date was when we walked up to the newly-wed couple on a little make-shift stage thing, gave them pecks on the cheeks, wished them good luck and posed for pictures by the official photographer. The groom was either too drunk, too tired or too caught up with fantasies of tearing those fold of white satin off his lovely bride to notice that we did not belong there. But the bride eyed us suspiciously and gave us a knowing smile. If the marvels of social networking somehow work in our favor and I get my hands on that photo, I will upload. I promise!

HAVE FUN KIDS!!

A Silver Lining

I don't understand why I keep filling this blog with pages and pages of miserable rants. I don't even know who reads this. The majority of views I get here are directed by Google, for pictures I have stolen. I know a few of my friends drop by occasionally, and sometimes drop a comment or two, which is very encouraging. Seriously, I mean it. Thank you!

Other than a few creepy lurkers and sadists who are probably getting a kick out of hearing me whine, who else would find the shit I write of interest? I often try to go down the path of confessionalism not only because it is a genre I personally love and am inspired by, but also because I hope someone out there somewhere might  find my words and feel a little less alone. I know I do when I read about how someone, a stranger on the other side of the world, goes through shit, as mundane as it might be, and chooses to write about it. It is almost like making a new invisible friend.

But recently my blog has been full of nothing but negativity, the tiny spark of creativity and inspiration it had has been washed away by bucket-fulls of nothing but morbid and dull rants.

Perhaps my writing style is to blame. I only pick up a pen, or reach for a keyboard for that matter, when I feel down and have absolutely nothing better to do. So it is no surprise that everything I write has a melancholic ring to it.

I intend to put an end to that, and bring you more interesting content. I am sure I can find more than enough random tidbits to keep you invisible readers, whoever jobless people you may be, interested, at least for a little while.

And may be, just may be, this will rekindle that fire in me again. That desire to write, just for the sake of writing. Not for money, not for grades and not for any fucking cause, but simply because I want to write.

When I was a teenager, I somehow assumed that writing was something everyone did. Of course anyone who is literate can write, but back then I was naive enough to think that everyone who could, does. By writing, I don't mean grocery bills and memos, but artistic and expressive stuff. You know, the good stuff. I thought everyone, everywhere in the world sat down with a pen at night to write everything that was in their heart.

Only when I was older did I begin to realize that not everyone was very fond of writing. In fact, many despised it. I figured that being able to construct a cohesive sentence was an excellent way to bluff your way through exams. A few years later, someone offered to pay me, and pay me well, for writing grammatically correct bullshit. Ever since, the love I had for writing has slowly vanished, and instead I have taught myself to speak in a robotic voice devoid of color.

This is why I want to be sixteen again. I want to sit on the roof, light a smoke and write, like I used to. May be this is what it feels like to grow old, to watch your bones grow stiff and your mind bleary.

But I am young at heart and often as scarred as I may be, I still have enough youthful energy in me to stay happy when I want to. So here goes, from today on I will bring you not the rainy clouds, but the silver lining. And if that doesn't work, I'll just hook you up with someone who sells happiness in a plastic bag.

And here is some happy music to go down with that:

Emotions and Other Monsters

So after half a dozen failed blog posts, here I am typing in words just for the sake of it. Because I'm dying to see something else appear on top of my blog. Because I'm desperate to shake myself out of the 'block' my muse has abandoned me in. Because I want to prove to myself that I am capable of something productive- something, anything.

I am stuck in one of those periods of brain freeze again. Idleness makes anyone stupid, but in my case it also has the power to make me depressed and angry.When I close my eyes I yearn to see swirls of color. Without music I would die, and it is the opiate of wonderful people that keeps me from killing myself. (Why, oh why, all these melodramatic metaphors?)

Recently, I have often spoken of my fears, but now I realize that the worst fear a human, or any other creature for that matter, can experience is the fear of emotion. Their acuteness, their power, their complexity scares me.

I have learned the hard way that emotions are monsters you must embrace. Hideous leeches. All my life I have fought to keep away, to shield myself from their evil tentacles, to keep myself from being strangled by the creatures of the deep sea that we call Emotion.

Sometimes I have failed, often succeeded. But I must admit, there is a sense of liberation to be found in defeat, in succumbing to emotion. Building sand castles against the advancing waves brewed by a passing storm. Laughing as the ocean, grey and brooding, attempts to drag you to its depths, before it cascades and kisses your feet. Those are moments I choose to remember.

But then there are others, moments when emotions have killed me, almost. And those are the ones I fear.

That aside, here is The Sadistic Motives Behind Bereavement Letters by Arsis, a band I would kill to see live!

The Mind Fuck that is Valhalla Rising...

There are a thousand and one important things that I should be doing right now, but I have something even more important to tell you.

I watched Valhalla Rising (2009) last night, with a friend and a Hot & Spicy Pineapple French Toast Sandwich. Yeah, that's right. Desperation and hunger sparks things in the right brain, I learned. And it was absolutely delicious! But I digress...

Valhalla Rising- it confused us, carried us far beyond our comfort zones, and took our minds on a twisted journey we were not at all prepared for. That was the thing. I normally read about whatever I am about to try, whether it is a movie or a book, and prepare myself for the sensory onslaught.

But the randomness of yesterday evening (which included a trip Downtown to a redneck pub, that- I learned later today- was visited by Newt Gingrich last year during his run up to a failed presidential campaign) left me no time to read reviews, and before I knew it, there we were, two oblivious children with their lukewarm pineapple sandwiches watching one of the most mind-frying pieces of visual art I have seen in a very long time.

And I do not wish to spoil the fun for you. I want you to feel just like I did- toenail-curling, teeth-clenching confusion. I will only tell you that Valhalla Rising is not going to be what you expect it to be.

Set in around 1000 AD, it is supposedly the story of a warrior, who escapes his captors and partakes on a mysterious journey in search of the Holy Land across the oceans that leads him to Hell. But I warn you, this is not what it sounds like.

Valhalla Rising is not an action or horror movie. It is not the story of a war hero. It just does not fit under any conventional label. It is bloody, gory and bleak with a bitter taste of history. It is not complex- quite on the contrary, it is a very simple, straight plot. No build ups, no climaxes or anticlimaxes as you would expect. No meaning. It just is. My friend despised it. "I wasted one and a half hours of my life," he said. So I reckon this is not for everyone.

And the music! According to the the director, Nicolas Refn, this is what "non-music" or "silence" would sound like. Eerie, dark and unsettling, yet strangely beautiful. It haunts the landscapes, the vast, breathtaking plains of Scotland, where this film was shot.

Everything that throws its audience off-balance in this movie is based on the element of surprise. There is no better mind-fuck than the confusion you create yourself, desperately trying to make sense of a world that has no meaning.

In the director's own words:

"It's almost like: How do you create a movie like a drug? If you take LSD, the way you do that is you consume it and then you wait for it to take over. Ant the waiting period is frustrating because you don't know when or how it's going to hit you. Valhalla is conceived like that." read more...

Enjoy the trip, folks!!

On Heartbreak

It has been  more than a year, and I wonder why I have never mentioned it in my confessional rants before. I am certain it must have reared its ugly head somewhere in between the lines of my prose, but I have never addressed the monster directly, looked into its eyes. May be I subconsciously avoided speaking of it, for ignorance is momentary escape.

I feel I am ready now, to speak of first degree murder that most of us are guilty or victim of at some point in our lives. Melodramatic, this sounds, now doesn't it? To speak of a broken heart as the end of life seems sadly realistic on the one hand, but immature and weak on the other. How can you let another human creep so deep under your skin, letting their poison seep into your blood to the point that you become addicted to that very psychosis of love?

I remember waking up that morning, my eyes groggy after hours of crying. In those days I had a habit of sleeping on the floor to escape the heat of the tropics, and lying there, I opened my eyes to the most beautiful paintings of light on my walls. Their radiance blinded my tired eyes. Checkered patterns of warm hues of red and gold covered my walls, and as I watched the sun slowly rise, the patterns descended upon me, ran up my feet, ignited the sheets and made me flinch a little.

I had died the night before. And with the rising sun, I was born again. Happens to all of us- not only Jesus. So when I say that heartbreak is death- nay, murder of the first degree- I say so with hope in my heart. There is an Afterlife. I tell you because I have been there, done that.

I am one of those doubly-unfortunate individuals whose "life closed twice before its close". In the dark wake of heartbreak come the ghosts of desperation. A time where you cling to every last shred of hope like a leech, sucking life out of Life itself. Every street you walk down has a story that reminds you of what was, and you become deeply conscious of the cold emptiness beside you and within you. You hold on to little tokens that, like tombstones of the past, remind you of what had been. Music, which ones soothed your sores, becomes like acid to your heart. The nights are long, restless and cold, and when sleep eventually comes, your dreams haunt you, your mind plays tricks on you, making you momentarily believe that all is fine again. The line between imagination and reality begins to fade. Was what you had a dream too good to be true? Or your loss merely a nightmare of absolute darkness? Had it been an imagination all along?

In this aftermath of broken consciousness, the past is series of photos with a sepia filter applied. Your mind brings you to the zenith of madness by selectively erasing your memory. You remember all the beautiful moments of romance- of watching fireworks across a lake, kissing in the rain. You forget the fighting, the distance, the pain. You begin to see the thousands and thousands of mistakes you made. You become a prisoner of your own guilt. You place yourself in shackles for your own murder, and call it suicide.

This is when the if-only's begin to trickle into your head. You recreate scenarios, rewrite imaginary histories, and fill them with color and fairy-tale endings. You begin a strange austere existence, finding happiness in frugal attempts to give life to a corpse.

In Lord Buddha's time, a wealthy woman named Kisagothami lost her child to disease. Struck with grief, she walked from house to house with the corpse, begging for some medicine to cure the child. The aftermath of heartbreak, though seemingly less painful than the loss of a child, does just that to you. You believe there is some way to rekindle what is gone. Everyone else knows there is no hope, but you fight on, feebly but stubbornly.

Kisagothami was advised by someone to see the Buddha, and that he might be able to bring the dead back to life. When she came to him, he understood that telling her that the child is dead, as so many had already tried to explain to her, would be futile. Instead he said, "I might be able to cure your child. But you must bring me some mustard seeds from someone whose family members or friends have never died."
Finding some mustard seeds seemed easy, and Kisagothami set off with her dead child in her arms. She knocked on doors and asked for mustard. Everyone was willing to offer her a few seeds, but when she asked them if anyone they knew or were related to had ever succumbed to death, the answer was always yes. Everyone had a story to tell- about a parent, a sibling, a friend, a child they had lost. Kisagothami slowly began to understand the nature of death. She realized she was not alone in her suffering. It is said that she laid her child to rest in a forest, and came back to the Buddha to become his disciple.

But I am no disciple, and the only solace I found was in the presence of friends, to whom I am forever grateful. (During all this drama did become more spiritual- something I will leave aside for another blog post.)

Thus the months rolled by, and we watched bubbles of hope rise and break again. The second death came upon more slowly, I watched it creep upon me. I lay in hospice, coming to terms with the inevitable. But it did not make things less painful when the moment eventually came. I was broken, but also relieved. Another two years had passed between the first and second death, and the time in between was a patchwork of good and bad, mostly bad and tedious attempts to keep living a lie that had left me drained. I was devastated, but had lost the resolve to wallow in pain.

Over the years, I had reduced myself to a shadow of what I thought was expected of me, of what I imagined would make him happy and want to stay. My perils had only helped wash away the little respect both he and I had for the person I used to be. I had become a doll, willing to please, demanding love in return for the sacrifices I made in giving up the essence of life I had had in me. I had become so insignificant, that even killing me with some dignity had become too much of a bother to him. A Facebook message was how he decided to end things.

Looking back, I can say that I am very fond of the life I have recreated for myself. I know I will never be the same again, but I am content being the person I am today. I have a little 5-year-plan jotted out in my head, which sometimes excites me and sometimes scares me. I walk the streets alone at night and don't feel lonely anymore.

I listen to music, even songs that remind me of him. I read love stories and weep, sometimes for the characters, sometimes for us. I often catch myself comparing the men who walk into my life to him, but I have taught myself to see in them the colors and music I may otherwise have never discovered. Every new friendship I make and every old bond I hold on to reminds me of the beauty that would have been lost to me if I had spent all my energy living with a corpse.

The key to resurrection, I have learned, is to form new memories on top of the old, to let the past be layered with a myriad of things new and exciting. A difficult thing to do at first, but trust me, with time it becomes an addiction.

Will I ever love again? That is a question I cannot answer, yet. I carry with me a shadow of distrust and bitterness that may be detrimental to "moving on", but to me it is only a healthy dose of realism that reminds me that pain is part of being alive. If there was no pain, how would we ever be able to experience joy? Even if we experienced happiness, would we embrace it the way we do if had not seen a darker time in life?

The reason that led me to write this, probably the longest and most detailed account of my life published publicly, is because I know I am not alone in this. And by no means am I intending to devalue anyone else's experiences of loss, perhaps even more severe than the ending of a relationship.

I am not here to tell you that there are more fish in the sea, or that there is light at the end of the tunnel. All I have to say is, Shit happens, and sometimes you've just got to deal with it.

On Bloodied Skies and Broken Children

There should be a special place in hell for people who want to write, but don't; want to read, but don't; want to learn music and art, but don't.

Forgive me, for I have sinned. I have a confession to make. This is where supplication begins.

Today I realized how much I have failed at things I should have done, could have done. The books I should have read- that list keeps growing. And the many reviews I promised to write, they linger at the back of my mind, threatening to abandon me. The beautiful moments I have experienced over the last few months, as mundane and as life-changing as they have been, deserve to be put down in...

I wanted to say "ink", but I stopped myself. My relationship with ink and paper has deteriorated. I find myself chopping thoughts onto a keyboard, mechanically, like a half-human. The many years of sitting at my table and bleeding ink all night long seem like distant memories.

That girl that used to be, her wild imagination that conceived many a story. They all ended in miscarriage, landed in a splatter of blood on a concrete floor where the setting sun had painted patterns.

In many years, almost five I should think, I feel like I have finally found a footpath through the wilderness I had lost myself in for so long. Love does that to you, they say, and growing up. I remember being only 12 years old, finding my own body under the sheets damp with the heat of the tropics, and glimpsing what it is to be in this skin, in this castle of flesh and bone.

Walking home across central campus this evening, I saw the sky copper red and bleeding. Swells of clouds covered the whole expanse, casting an ominous glare across the grass. The distant trees were black and their shadows even darker and foreboding. I felt the wind, cold like a thousand needles, and in spite of the menacing scenery before me, I felt it embrace me. The words of Thomas Gray's Elegy were fresh and reverberating in my head. I felt at whole with myself, with the blood-soaked skies and black trees.

On the pavement children had scratched pictures with chalk. Indistinguishable sketches, marks and crooked letters. What caught my eye was a bunch of flowers- their stalks perfect lines, their petals placed symmetrically and colored meticulously- white and pink on the grey concrete.

Reverie took me to a time when I had been that dreamer, etching images conceived in my mind on a wall, on a desk, on the back of a book. It has been years since I let myself fall, fall into the joyous realms of freedom. The looming of adulthood has zapped out of me the essence of life that, throughout all these years, had made me not want to kill myself every time the waves crashed on a desolate shore.

I have sinned. Killed the flame that burnt within. I see zombies around me everyday. Creatures living, breathing, feeding on life, simply because they were brought into existance by a mighty hand of Creation. I can still feel blood pumping under these ribs of mine, and I want to live.

Live not because I am living, but be alive because I choose to wake from the slumbers of mere existence. If there is Nirvana, if there is Eternal Life, I will find it within.