Siddhartha and Sarongs

I feel like a loose balloon in a hospital. Not in a happy-shiny-people way happy but the dissociated kind of balloon buffeted and slipping around corridors filled with nurses who look like mean-old-lesbians. And constantly getting irritated by the newness of people. How having something inanimate to blame is so reassuring for one and how another can only show how much they care by trying to impose on you. Weed probably evolved as an answer to hospitals.

So I lappytoppy, go through Guardian and what not and I ignore all articles on Iraq Bush blather. Muslims and Americans seem to be the only people left on earth and I find both a wall blue boring. Or the way they are talked about boring. Bleh into the power of infinity. I’ve even stopped visiting Pakistani blogs (except for Sam, I like talking to Sam) and am liberally tap dancing around King and …well some other non-Muslim, non-Pakistani, non-American, un-boring people. Here’s a game, pick which 3 of the afore mentioned hyphenated words are lifestyles not adjectives. I forgot self-righteous Brits, who will sneer at Gunter Grass’s claim (on his association with Nazis that it was an ideological atmosphere that was easy to flow into if you were growing up in it) and then calmly swan past the moral climate on Muslims today. I mean I wish we were as monolithic a force as they would make us out to be. We’ve got too many micro-worries, like bandits barging in next to home at friggin eleven am and people getting electrocuted in rainwater because no one cleaned out the sewage. The atmosphere of fatalism is throttling me. If one more person lifelessly shrugs their shoulder and dribbles rhetoric “what else can we do?”; “people here are like this”; “we can only do sabar”, I’m going to stick their face in a commode. All the above-mentioned twerps are outlawed per me. Possession or adherence to any one of them will be seen as “denigrating Moizzaness” and will be punished by tweezing nose hairs. The law in place till I change my mind.

My temper has not been keeping well this week at all. Hesse’s Siddartha is my shrink. I will thank my boss for the gift by buying Sarte’s “What is Literature?” off him. Have vigorously underlined (in my defense with a pencil) book o’mine which is littered with encounters with self. Writing is completely underrated as a mode of experience and knowledge which is curious because most things become real for me once I write about them, which is why I usually (operative word being usually) hate writing about discontents now, writing it doesn’t make me feel relieved, just more pissed off. Which reminds me, why do writers still use the phrase ‘tender age’. I’m tender at all ages. So are most people I know. Very very impressionable. Tsk tsk.

Am also annoyed by new music video (since I’m going strong with the dragon droppings in my week). Everyone wants writers to play a socially responsible role but no one examines the burden of representations other artistes should carry. Lol. Okay this is going to be stretched beyond belief but I’m just annoyed that no one except a couple of people know how this goody-goody hunky looking singer was a terrible person/boyfriend. I want people to KNOW, lol. For my friend’s sake. Promise:P It’s like being annoyed at this suave, urbane picture Sunday Times drew of this other sod who I have only heard of in ludicrous situations and conversations.

I spend the weekend in sarongs. It turns out it’s very hard to shake the village girl out of me. I look the perfect picture of poise for the first one hour and by the next I drew one leg up on the chair under my chin and was calmly flashing the whole household.