As long as you breathe deep..

I remember wanting to do a film on the secret life of stray dogs, a subtitled film about territories and relations and love and life. The cockroaches in this hospital are the same, they seem to flit purposefully, and in synchronicity occupy the little tables beside the beds, across the ward.

Returning to thinking of wine and enormous beds, while in them.

I see this sentimental movie trailer and am terrified with the simplicity with which it turns heterosexuality and love inside out. Its a cliche, that things fall apart is also a cliche. Love is never enough, is that a cliche? Do you and I have anything else, other than a reaching for each other? Without that reaching would we know or even want each other.

You are the lover I am likely to perhaps even forget, like the sudden amnesiac patient of Dr. House who doesn't quite understand her life, or how she chose her husband after she loses her memory(why does American pop culture give more interesting paradoxes for love than all serious art films..heh). Would the woman in 'The Beauty of The Husband' not know the man she loved so furiously if she simply forgot him?

I'm drowned in a book about a woman and her words, Chris Kraus and how she loves Dick. She bitches, whines, quotes Hannah Wilke and other artists, reads furiously and rails against a world seemingly made of only men. A conference with Felix Guttari and three other pale European men and their new and much younger girlfriends is one of the hilarious signposts in the book. She is panic ridden in her longing for men, perhaps a bit like me. She reminds me of my bitterness a few years ago, with you I skirt the edges of that bitterness finding that the sweetness of what we have keeps me sometimes from falling in. You are what I wanted all along, always, every moment since I was a genderless child, before I was even a little girl. You are perhaps what I cannot live with.

Doubt is a messiah in a desert carrying a can of water that he has forgotten or doesn't know about. The thirst makes you see things, forget what you have, makes you warble, makes you eloquent and makes you die with what you need by your side.

crushed

© Mary Ellen Mark/Marianne Boesky Gallery. Falkland Road

Untitled 1
The weirdest things seduce me.. the most innocuous conversations, the revelations of slung on the shoulder sweetness, the stance of the outsider casually and fatally filled.. and after that nothing else is required... I seduce myself with the right song, the remembered and made-up gesture, hair that catches leftover sunlight and the right movie to tie it all up and to unravel myself..

Untitled 2
We cannot flatten our cities, lives, habits, inclinations, desires for the purpose of study quite so easily, though this is not without trying. We often have - offered up organizations, project, research thesis that seek to unpack and reveal and wryly wonder how it is that what we talk about, words we travel with and by, stand up for and stack up on shelves do not seem all that real to our lives. But perhaps it is after having done that jaded detour, that the sheet crumples up and we have no scope but to read only the fragments that are visible. The flattenned city is crushed.

Untitled 3
I am curious
what are the limits of allowance
how much do I hop in and out
and how much tits and ass
is permissible here

I am bored.
this used to intrigue me..

Fake, plastic love for Radiohead

Plastic Mutations The ElectronicTribute to Radiohead @ ARTISTdirect.com - Shop, Listen, Download

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Plastic Mutations The ElectronicTribute to Radiohead @ ARTISTdirect.com - Shop, Listen, Download

The Wire: on google maps

View The Wire: A Tour of Baltimore in a larger map

stringer bell you motherfucka

you cannot and should not have made me choose between omar and you!!

how to fall in love with a bridge

Rama IV bridge, Bangkok


see it as a racing blur
from an unpronouncable other bridge
and ask for its number from a common friend
who might have it,
but might tell you that they were seeing each other
..once
which you could choose to ignore

move closer for that brief tumult of falling down
eyes still aching from the hurt of
watching someone you desire
move so much, so often
how can you possibly see everything..

and then see the stillness somewhere
closer, clearer, the starker lines
the fixed lights staring back at you
and even there you will fall
a vertigo between straight lines

some day when it leaves you
or you leave it, as things must be eventually
from afar you will see it standing, extended
maybe seemingly gaining weight

but still a fixed beautiful centre that extends
its slim welcome..

Bisexuale

Women are softer, men are harder
women are harder, men are easier
Women are easier with stir fried caucasians
across the table to make fun off
Men are easier, when they have arrogant
women they can forget
Women are harder when slighted
forgotten, or just for a second turned off
Men are harder when reminded you
too can bite, find crevices and fingers to suck
on them

Both forget easily and don't cum fast
Both stay unmistakably serious about sex
Both don't laugh easily, unless gay
and with someone they don't want
You don't need to dress up for both,
only women need off shoulder surprises
couture revelations, stockings and cut nails
Men need you, lights on or neon-lit
where their friends could have seen you, naked

Both would leak videos of you online,
would be impersonal in strange cities
- like someone else's better lover
and your second best consolation
And both in a controlled experiment
would be exhaled only in muffled laughs
in sterile airports..

i was hoping for more, from everything...

paro..do you touch yourself?

Repression brings with it sex. Foucault hit the nail on the head so hard that it hit his thumb nonetheless and it’s still bleeding - all over us. Women with morchas are raging around the city and the country, putting up banners and insidiously a truth is acknowledged - there are a thousand Paros sending their nude pictures across borders, for every DPS mms clip and for every Chanda caught.
While Chanda has her New Friends Colony Market momos, desire has snaked up. The film almost made heterosexuality cool again. Its pain, its tribulations, its necessary humiliations, its fervent mixed up desire for/of misrecognition. Its flippant offerings of your desires to someone else’s lesser consumption. Its silent sufferings, blank eyes, its awful, corrupting secrets. Its tangential lives to everything else.

But my heart also stopped for the most sensual look I’ve ever seen -- from an older, wiser Dylan for Helena, for all the emosanal atyachar gone and to be..

White out

Very few things can survive a white out. A fade to black, yes ofcourse.. all movies end there..sighing heavily into their own ending. Their onerous responsibility to entertain is now over. Apparently when films were first shown in Africa, the audiences were not disturbed by the fading to black at the end, because thats what happens at sunset, but could not understand editing cuts and were troubled by those strange jumps. In India, maybe no one was freaked by anything.

A white out is however fascinating. Fading each piece of solidness - furniture, people, trees, boxes, hopes, feelings - of different colours - black, brown, greys and blues - into pure nothingness is a certain kind of skill that any editor would envy. Skylines of a city yield graciously to black, especially at night but how would they yield to white.

I've been watching episodes of six feet under. From when it came on television, all I had was a vague memory of an achingly smart woman who didn't have anything she could do with herself and an underlying acknowledgement that only certain kind of people yield to cohesive wholes of relationships and most stand outside, constantly watching, aware and alone.

But my main obsession is each time how they achieve the fade to white. And each time the episode ends and solid things that you can see, the peculiar weather that only the west experiences - with its non-intrusive sun rays that have no heat but spread colour, the constant nip in the air no matter what the season, that specific smell that seems to emnate from their airport lounges and planes onto the entire continent (though thats because of how I probably only reach the west through a plane ticket). How all that detail slowly starts burning out like an incandescent heat is licking the screen and gives us white...white..wiped

erotics: been there, done that..

It is often said that you shouldn't work on something that you like too much. So lesbians should possibly steer clear of sexuality (and they never do, in fact that’s what they are best at and how most of them get laid, bitchiness excused). And gay men should probably never do work on internet dating cultures, which is why they would do fashion or atleast dream of being an assistant to a diva or starring in Devil wears Prada. So I should probably avoid working on pornography, except I’m not a committed daily junkie. It’s a weird confluence of sex, horniness and loneliness – a peculiar exact mix that brings me to pornography, and at any other time it is either uninspiring or too depressing.

My immediate reaction to pornography is to twist away from it to see if anyone is watching me. The head twist has a history, from the time of writing stories and poems when I was much younger that I didn't want parents to read, to downloading music and watching movies in offices that I didn't want the head honchos to see. Till I found actual pornography - the neck twister extraordinaire. Or actually I first found cyber sex. The guilty thrill of forming actual sentences, grammatically correct and penned erotically, in your head before typing them out. Deliberately corset-ed and trussed up thoughts about what you would do, if only, if only, if only...

If only you were beautiful enough to be the centre of attention, strong enough to do the throw-down with someone else’s frailer body, wealthy enough to wine, dine, fly off to another city and then do it again and powerful enough to be none of the rest, but just to do it anyway. Erotics in pajamas. And sensual, thrilling erotics at that.

But when it slips away, it just does. Somehow the sight of the keyboard, an IM client that bounces and the thrill of removing underwear under the table at your office desk when instructed across oceans to do so, suddenly becomes not so hot anymore. Now I understand all those geeks who are nostalgic for older IRC clients, yahoo messenger smileys and non-ergonomic noisy keyboards. Like in the privacy of a new life I miss the head twist, without which this can be kind of pointless.

So pointless that I look for educational sexual videos on female ejaculation. But then polymorphous perverse porno has its slippery wet way with me and you're suddenly sucked into horror, fascination, intense hot dislike for what you are seeing which to me has always been what porno is about. If you don't actually hate it, then you're never going to be surprised when you check yourself and slip a finger into an unsuspecting pussy.

how do you blog when you have convenient amnesia

Wolverine, Gabriel Dell'otto, The art of marvel comics

Say hello to an unbidden future. I've lost all my music painstakingly collected since 2003. Not all, some random songs have surfaced on a frantic search. Each one had a specific memory embedded in it. And in the careful, and I swear it was very careful, transfer of files from temporary computer to new, it has slipped between the byte and the drive. I wonder if those straggling lonely songs that remain are significant, though now burdened with the memory of eras rather than moments.

There are fortunate losses like Natalie Merchant’s My skin, which was a favourite that descended to a whine, that only was bearable in the piano riff. Or was it the feeling that it always gave of the guilty desire and shockingly good feel of a new lover, while the old one still lives and breathes under your skin. There’s a strange once-again remanant of I’m on fire, cover version by Tori Amos. The only Tori Amos I could live with after the obsession with her through college. (And ofcourse simultaneously the woman who was Tori Amos for me in college, says hello across continents on the networking monster aka facebook). All of Rahman is lost except Fanaa from Yuva, which is the last-few-hours-for-an-article-deadline song. There is no explanation for how an entire Bonobo album, unheard and untested, emerges from nowhere. And all versions of any kind of tainted love, metallic or soft, sorry or twisted have been washed away.

Somehow I don’t feel much about this, there was a time when I would have wept about it and thrown phones around, like over a scratched DVD of Buffy. Is this ennui or numbness or belated adulthood of the 30s. Almost anything is funny, almost anyone is ultimately laughable.

It seems I hide too much these days, all those feelings that used to hang out especially here, are sitting in this room. Embedded in slippery lost songs. In too easily written over fantasies. In slight slight hopes.


All those obsessed with memory:
Wolverine whose healing power is in the fact that he forgets
Memento
Goldfish and elephants
Irreversible
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind
Androids in Bladerunner
Mulholland Drive
Jenny in L word
Ralph Fiennes in Strange Days - unforgettable line by angela basset - memories were meant to fade, they were built that way for a reason
Karz (Ghai) - or is memory of reincarnation not counted

the butch mystique

once upon a time, many years ago (the second larzish film festival in mumbai).. this film made me like some butch women, but still be most intrigued when they describe what/who is femme..

self-pity

Erotic Ballad, Jean Pierre Ceytaire

i like the way you sink next to me
heavy, like a stone falling
through rustling watery worlds
and then...
weightlessly, drifting across continents of sand
your hand pushing hard against my cheek
to shape my face into that
of the lover you see in your dreams

ode to annoying poem written by classmate in std 8th titled with/in;with-out

i used to be a different person
there are traces of that everywhere
in songs, in clothes, in furniture..
there are some who would hold
me ransom to that person
but its all so transient
that even sometimes i can't
feel that person i used to be..

where did you go? i go?
when did we get delivered
get over, get beyond..
when did it get over?
if all those who hold traces
in their eyes also disappear
will i not remember anymore...

how often is this allowed to
happen? nine times, twenty?
how many times has it?
unnoticed, miraculously
huge swaths of something
swept away. is there some
kind of treatise on how we
imagine ourselves as a coherent whole
that has a kernel, a soul that passes unchanged
through life. we remain basically the same.
we feel ourselves basically the same way
and centuries then dissipate this notion,
(and there is post doctoral research on how it can be challenged on the basis of some practices of hacking communities in amsterdam living in squats, or tribes in africa, or those using guerilla tactics in mexico .. )

on a passing breeze of the same weather
in the same place, i suddenly remembered who i was
feel the drop in my stomach for what is lost
very little of what i have now
is felt when its not there
very little spreads it stains and shadows

what is funny is that
i thought i used to not know before..

welcome.. :-)

there will be updates here

when your favourite webcomic seems dull...

everythang you see in your dreams..

You would think after reading Tipping the Velvet in two days, seeing Bound immediately after, sometime around 2 at night, even a die-hard-dyke/dye-hard-dike would give up and settle for some ordinary television. Oh no, but then this found me. What I took for an old song is sung from the curving lips of the hot new artist of 2008, that somehow sneer the words "I'll be there to love you each and every night and all through the day", till ofcourse the song reaches the climax.

If Whitney took your juvenile soul to heights, try my diet for the last few days.. ;-)



Dream- Alice Smith

Completely invalid reasons for finding someone attractive: installment one

because they don't wash their hair often enough, and it smells like old books

because they look extremely lazy and like they would be bad in bed, barely able to lift a finger and say - suck my cock...aaaah, puuurfect...

because they mail you neatly and make sure that all conversations around a particular period of time, on a similar topic, are in one thread (positively orgasmic behaviour by the way). No scattered emails especially ones saying - yeah, lets meet up, completely isolated from your carefully worded email (what the fuck, hit reply button, do not snoop on facebook and then randomly hit on send a message!)

because inspite of boring conversation, so-so choice in food, you hug at the end of the meal and your nose is buried in what you only remember as a jacket, even though it was a t-shirt ... the smell is home, you are suddenly a girl, and this is Daddy. Daddy who was never home enough and always on trips, daddy who was always twinkling, daddy who could swing you up into his arms, over his shoulders and above a household of crabby petty women, like your mother and sister.

What is surprising though is that I never called daddy, Daddy.. so Daddy is definitely a sexual category for me. And I challenge anyone to write a porn story with the line - fuck me, appa (gross projectile-style vomiting in office dustbin). Or fuck me, bapu as I called my father because I wanted to make him feel old (god, what a horrible child, I was) though that has a certain gandhian and androgynous sex appeal