Chiffonesque

by Iscribblehere ( http://iscribblehere.blogspot.com/ ). Thanks! 1. I don’t like repeating my clothes. I think clothes have memories and one shouldn’t inundate them with a whole lot of stuff. 2. I am a sucker for words and intelligent puns, witticisms, quotes, etc..anything to do with words: names, slogans and good tag lines. Here are a few I really like - “Just do it – it’s not a slogan, it’s a conscience.” (NIKE); HSBC – the world’s local bank; Phoonk – it’s superstition until it happens to you; Mrs. Doubtfire – She was a blessing in ‘disguise’; An ad for Gap that had a little girl, a teen, and a mature lady dressed in similar print – the little girl wore a dress, the teen wore a pair of capris in the same print, and the woman wore a dress..there was a line at the end that said – For every generation, there’s a gap. An interview on Koffee with Karan with Sushmita Sen. KJo teasingly asks her, “So, what’s Sushmita Sen’s most beautiful asset?” She gives her dazzling smile and replies, “

Just before my holiday, I had this thought –maybe it’s time for me to start from scratch. At least, when it comes to making friends. I think my association with some friends has run its course. There are a few exceptions; there are some people who I’d like to stay in touch with, off and on…because they are interesting people. They do stuff, they make mistakes, win, stumble, laugh, lose badly..whatever…but they live. They’re interesting. The others, a sadly growing number, seem to be stuck in this whiny hell-hole they call existential angst. I used to be the president of the club at one time. But then, at some point, one discovers sunshine and cable T.V. and fast-food and then, an empty life doesn’t seem so bad any more. Sometimes I think about things and I wonder who I could talk to. And of late, I’m drawing a blank. Now, I feel as if I know exactly what my friends are going to say, how they are going to react, etc. etc. It’s so predictable. I wonder if any of them are thinking of me t

I am back...and I love Phuket. It's sort of like a beautiful dream that stays with you long after you've woken up...it's not exactly like watching a thousand birds fly away in the sunset. It's a lot like finding a beautiful shell when you're eight years old and holding it like its the most precious thing in the world. It's quite similar to swimming in a pool of dark during the storm. It's not exactly like that...but...as the Thai put it..'it's same same, but different.' Phuket...I love you.

It’s been gorgeous since the last couple of days…impromptu late night drives to Mount Mary definitely have something to do with it. As does ambling around the kitchen at dawn and having hot milk and jaggery. The warm bed and a cozy book with hard, cold rain beating outside is nice. Smooth traffic unexpected on Monday mornings is glorious as well. The best of all, right at this moment, is thinking of the trip I’ll be taking shortly. I keep dreaming of the yummy drinks I’ll be sipping after splashing about in the pool; or the yummy drinks I’ll be sipping after a long, hard day at flea markets; or the yummy drinks I’ll be sipping with friends at a bar overlooking a beautiful, busy city. Sipping yummy drinks is pretty much what I’ve been thinking about. Not that I have done much more than just dream of what swimming costume I’ll be wearing once I get there…. The costume reminds me…I got a very dramatic, snazzy one in fire engine red with black swirls on it. I thought it looked really chic.

to be serenaded by this song: She May be the face I can't forget The trace of pleasure or regret May be my treasure or the price I have to pay She May be the song that summer sings May be the chill that autumn brings May be a hundred different things Within the measure of a day She May be the beauty or the beast May be the famine or the feast May turn each day into a heaven or a hell She may be the mirror of my dreams The smile reflected in a stream She may not be what she may seem Inside her shell She Who always seems so happy in a crowd Whose eyes can be so private and so proud No one's allowed to see them when they cry She May be the love that cannot hope to last May come to me from shadows of the past That I'll remember till the day I die She May be the reason I survive The why and wherefore I'm alive The one I'll care for through the rough in ready years Me I'll take her laughter and her tears And make them all my souvenirs For where she goes I've got t

It's a very rainy Friday night. Most of us will be working pretty late - some to avoid coming over the weekend and some others to avoid the traffic. A colleague and I are fortifying ourselves with coffee for the long night ahead. We listlessly go through the newspaper, and I happen to point out one article that says: "50 cent reunites with son." My colleague quips, "Does that make him a full dollar now?" Sigh. That's why no-one should work overtime. It's hazardous to (for?) humour.

This was a colleague's tag-line. Are not the trees gree, The earth as green? Does not the wind blow, Fire leap and the rivers flow? ..Man, too hurries, Eats, couples, buries, He is an animal also ...Man aspires To good To love Sighs Beaten, corrupted, dying To his own blood lying Yet heaves an eye above Cries, Love, Love. It is his viryue that needs explaining Not his failing Away, melancholy Away with it, let it go. - Stevie Smith

I wonder if it’s an affliction – the fact that I like most things. Most things that I see, most things that I read, most places I go to, most people I meet, most food that I eat, – okay, that would be almost all that I eat (of course, there can be no such thing as almost all ; if it’s almost all , it’s most.) Most Most Most. I think ‘most’ is a funny word. But perhaps it would be a good title for a book on also-rans; or maybe a shop that sold collections –but collections that were incomplete. Like maybe a trilogy with one part missing; or a really fine cutlery set that’s short of two bowls. ‘Is it a full set? Does it have it everything?’ ‘No, but it’s got most of them.’ As I have already missed the point of what I was writing about, I shall move on to other sundry things. There’s a book by Michael Connelly – I believe it was ‘The Last Coyote’ – that has a very beautiful description of a sunrise in Los Angeles. The protagonist, who a police detective called Harry Bosch, is a brittle,