Chiffonesque

I must say that if any kind of existence brings you really really close to invoking racial memories from the labyrinths of our most base, primordial self, it is staying alone in a metro. It’s true that no man can live as an island. But even if people did live like islands, some would be like the scenic, idyllic, calendar type isles, while others would be like the Galapagos –beautiful in a coarse, crude way but also host to profoundly grotesque creatures in the world. In any case, even if people are not islands, those living single (absolutely single – no roommates or pets) are veritable castaways. And in the tradition of castaways (of course I don’t know of any besides Tom Hanks), I too have figured out certain laws that govern my solitary urban existence. Here are a few tried and (de)tested ones: You develop a keen sense of smell and shelf life. You know, through good and bad experiences, how long anything will last. This includes the soy sauce that your friendly neighborhood Chinese

I was hoping to write about this later, much later - after a month of blogging or so; after I was comfortable with the medium, with the strain of unlimited potential, and with the possibility that these entries could possibly be no more than notes to myself. Now, thus far, I am not comfortable with any of the conditions. Yet, I think I must articulate this basic nagging thought. Why do people blog? Why am I blogging? Now, enumerative lists are boring so I won’t go into them. But from what I have observed, people blog because of this very strong, underlying sentiment best drawled out by Garfield, ‘Everyone is entitled to my opinion.’ Of course, when it comes to strong, underlying sentiments, we’d prefer to have them articulated by Nietzsche or Kant or other suitably tortured soul (a plump ginger cat not really fitting in here) – but I think it’s a very poignant truth. Why do I go through what I go through? Why do I live the way I do? What makes my different from yours? What makes me sam