What's amazing isn't one's ability to go through something and survive. The truly stupendous thing is the fact that we forget. Maybe we spend time shutting it out, erasing the details, trying very, very hard to re-wallpaper that part of our minds. Or perhaps that is the way of human life. But forget we do.
Forget all the things that were supposed to keep you from this very place, this very time, this very dilemma. Forget the promises you made yourself (and others, but hey, you forgot.) Forget the assortment of things that have gone such a long way to making you who you are today.
So it is that only the worst parts of history are condemned to repeat themselves: in war, if you're looking at the larger picture; and in love, if you're not.
Friday, February 10, 2006
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Strange brew.
Weird things happen. A series of random events led me to discover (on the net, where else?) three pieces of poetry written about six years ago. Two prove that I've always been this angsted out. The third, that I always wanted to write.
Alkiegirl
Alkiegirl
Runs through a crystal clear vodka maze
Shots for energy
Screwdrivers for war
Bloody Marys for symbolism
Martinis for style
Alkiegirl
Sees life through a crystal clear vodka haze
Olives for nutrition
Tomato juice and tabasco for zing
Tonic for, well, tonic's sake
Ice for climate control
Alkiegirl
Props her eyelids open with celery sticks
Turns the volume down to a manageable din
Loosens her grip on reality
And the lid on the aspirin
Alkiegirl
(I'll have another, thanks)
Not
I'm tomorrow's child, I am
Today asked me to hold on for a bit
Yesterday claims to have never seen my face
I'm firmly put in my place
I'm an uneasy truce, I am
Trapped endlessly between here and there
I'm the pièce-de-résistance of too many cooks
I don't exist outside of books
I'm a contradiction, I am
I question answers, I flow with the go
I conspire with myself to foil the enemy
Then I give myself up, turn to the law, try me
I'm not, I am
Sometimes, at least, that's true
I'm not, I am, I'm not again
And how I wish that I were you
We all have our demons
Mine is a cranky, nagging voice much like my own
That reminds me I wanted to be
A writer.
Which I am.
Just not the kind
The Voice finds
Acceptable.
Copywriting fun, fashionable
Is never 17.65% as respectable
As its less-paying cousin.
The good sister.
Pure for its own sake
Writing.
In the dim, distant hope someday, somehow
Someone will see it for what it is
Its merit.
Dash off
A few million editions.
Announce to
The fickle, fickle world
That it had yet another one
A writer in its midst.
To be followed by cocktail parties, book signings, the occasional newspaper column
Happily ever after.
You always wanted to write the Great Indian
A novel.
28 years is too late, too late
A frightening old time to forfeit, forget
To remember.
Other writers have stolen marches Bookers, Bookers
Over you.
Old, it is.
Too late, maybe
Never.
She lent me the words that graceful goddess of language
To tell my stories, find my way, lose my religion
Sing my life.
The patience I had to buy 30% extra free
From the marketplace.
Alkiegirl
Alkiegirl
Runs through a crystal clear vodka maze
Shots for energy
Screwdrivers for war
Bloody Marys for symbolism
Martinis for style
Alkiegirl
Sees life through a crystal clear vodka haze
Olives for nutrition
Tomato juice and tabasco for zing
Tonic for, well, tonic's sake
Ice for climate control
Alkiegirl
Props her eyelids open with celery sticks
Turns the volume down to a manageable din
Loosens her grip on reality
And the lid on the aspirin
Alkiegirl
(I'll have another, thanks)
Not
I'm tomorrow's child, I am
Today asked me to hold on for a bit
Yesterday claims to have never seen my face
I'm firmly put in my place
I'm an uneasy truce, I am
Trapped endlessly between here and there
I'm the pièce-de-résistance of too many cooks
I don't exist outside of books
I'm a contradiction, I am
I question answers, I flow with the go
I conspire with myself to foil the enemy
Then I give myself up, turn to the law, try me
I'm not, I am
Sometimes, at least, that's true
I'm not, I am, I'm not again
And how I wish that I were you
We all have our demons
Mine is a cranky, nagging voice much like my own
That reminds me I wanted to be
A writer.
Which I am.
Just not the kind
The Voice finds
Acceptable.
Copywriting fun, fashionable
Is never 17.65% as respectable
As its less-paying cousin.
The good sister.
Pure for its own sake
Writing.
In the dim, distant hope someday, somehow
Someone will see it for what it is
Its merit.
Dash off
A few million editions.
Announce to
The fickle, fickle world
That it had yet another one
A writer in its midst.
To be followed by cocktail parties, book signings, the occasional newspaper column
Happily ever after.
You always wanted to write the Great Indian
A novel.
28 years is too late, too late
A frightening old time to forfeit, forget
To remember.
Other writers have stolen marches Bookers, Bookers
Over you.
Old, it is.
Too late, maybe
Never.
She lent me the words that graceful goddess of language
To tell my stories, find my way, lose my religion
Sing my life.
The patience I had to buy 30% extra free
From the marketplace.
Friday, November 11, 2005
Time/ Is on my side/ Yes, it is.
Notable sense of humour, mine. Especially since I've just realised the truckloads of things I haven't yet done. (And the thimbleful that I have.)
Stuff to do immediately.
1. Start a book. Writing, as opposed to reading, that is.
2. Get a dog.
3. Get a grip. (Hah!)
Stuff to do soonish.
1. Write for a travel magazine.
2. Do the film appreciation course at FTII.
3. Study something. Film, literature, anything.
4. Learn something unconnected with my life: a new language, a musical instrument, scuba diving, whatever. Just something irrelevant that I haven’t done yet in these 33 years.
Stuff to do before I pop it.
1. Work for Discovery/ NatGeo.
2. Assist on a feature film.
3. Teach literature in college.
4. Work backstage with a theatre group or a band.
5. Run a kennel.
6. Wait tables in a shack in Goa.
7. Do a month-long meditation camp in Dharamsala.
Stuff I've done and forgotten about, but shouldn't have.
1. Dogsitting.
2. Working with an animal welfare thingie.
Stuff to do immediately.
1. Start a book. Writing, as opposed to reading, that is.
2. Get a dog.
3. Get a grip. (Hah!)
Stuff to do soonish.
1. Write for a travel magazine.
2. Do the film appreciation course at FTII.
3. Study something. Film, literature, anything.
4. Learn something unconnected with my life: a new language, a musical instrument, scuba diving, whatever. Just something irrelevant that I haven’t done yet in these 33 years.
Stuff to do before I pop it.
1. Work for Discovery/ NatGeo.
2. Assist on a feature film.
3. Teach literature in college.
4. Work backstage with a theatre group or a band.
5. Run a kennel.
6. Wait tables in a shack in Goa.
7. Do a month-long meditation camp in Dharamsala.
Stuff I've done and forgotten about, but shouldn't have.
1. Dogsitting.
2. Working with an animal welfare thingie.
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