Chiffonesque

Unslept sleep Back that aches Dusty blooms On a lane that wakes Light that is almost On the way here With the groan and promise Of a morning

There is a part in Ayn Rand's 'Atlas Shrugged' or 'Fountainhead' that I have been thinking about. I think it is 'Atlas Shrugged'. This character goes off in search of a big scientist or engineer. She (or he) can't him. All addresses are checked out, referrals interviewed, traces backtracked and follwed, but the scientist cannot be found. The character gets tired and decides to walk into a diner for lunch. She orders a sandwich thinking about her future course of action. The chef starts making the sandwich and the character is amazed at the way he works. His method is precise, clean, and uncluttered with confusion. There is certainty in how he shakes the salt-shaker or dices the tomatoes. The sandwich arrives. It is the best sandwich she has ever eaten. Bread is soft and properly buttered. Ham is sliced thin and tasty. The right amount of pepper and dill flavours the stuffing. It is superb. She knows she has found her man. The scientist (or e

·          endless panels of plain white, silky drapes – nothing embossed, nothing self-printed…just moonlight on a weave. ·          rooms filled with pretty, fresh, new stationery. lots of handmade notebooks and thick spiraled diaries and leather-bound jot-pads and post-its in pop-colors and beautiful parchments in jewel-tones of raw silk. they must be everywhere; piled up on study-tables and by the magazine holder and post-its stuck aplenty on the fridge and whiteboards and sheaves of spotless-white bond paper wedged right inside, to the back of drawers. ·          chilled bowls of cherry-flavored jelly, fruits and thick, creamy, sweet custard. ·          music. soft, lilting, music. maybe flute or piano. ·          lots of plants in full bloom – some with wild, purple leaves. ·          candles, especially candles that are the colour of butter so that when wicks are lit, the yellow and orange conjugate into some kind of molten dance. ·          satin bedsheets. ·  

I'd spotted a new deli, The Habitats, outside my house and called up a friend, Gigi, to see if she wanted to try it out. It was late evening and a thin strip of fairy lights twinkled around the deli. There are a few tables laid outside but we wanted the cool air conditioning. The menu looks inventive enough even if the dishes are not actually so. The vegetarian section lists several options but they are mainly assortments of tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, and mayo. I tried the Mediterranean sandwich with a teeny falafel and some hummus. It was okay, even though they served it to me on white bread when I'd asked for wholewheat. Suddenly, the lights went out and so did my hope of having a good cup of cappuccino. (Machines were out.) They were sweet enough to make me a frappe instead. It was good. Cool, not too sweet, with the right amount of foam. (I don't like it when the foam starts looking and feeling spongy.)  Gigi had to leave soon after because she was doing some fun s

One Not having a T.V. means that I do not see promos of films. This is why I was not prepared for the new film poster that I spotted. Who the hell in Wadala ever looked like that? And John Abraham looks like he will bring all the histrionics of a gold biscuit to the movie. Anyway, the item song looks nice. Priyanka Chopra's outfit looks like it has been sourced from Lokhandwala's finest. Two I have lots of reading and writing to do plus an assignment for work. I wonder if I will get around to doing it today or maybe I should reserve that for the bright sunshine that Sunday mornings are for. I think I should do what Robin Sharma suggests. He talks about making a giant plan for the month and then the week. Then you wake up every day at 5 in the morning and go over your plan and basically have a roadmap for the day ready. It makes sense to have some kind of an idea of what you want accomplished. At least for people like me, who can sit by the window with a cup of tea and l

River dream with red night sky Which drowns a hundred moons and the simple sun River dream that throbs with liquid heart With stars chipped like ice from a block of one River dream where pebbles rest Hurled to their end, as pebbles must River dream that flows on over Sinking hope and sunken trust.  

Behind every freelancer, is some staid soul with a job who listens to tales of how the freelancing world is different and dangerous, how great despair must be endured for supreme creativity, how they fight the lonely battle of clinging to principles and personality when you sorry EMI-ridden creature have sold your soul to be a corporate cog in the wheel that itself is stuck in the rut. Having a job somehow ensures that you will never bring a worthy enough problem to the conversation. But having a job makes you a necessary evil to reach out to for contacts or funding or cleaning up some mess that the freewheeling world of working on your own gets you into. Behind every freelancer is some person in the house willing to make do with less attention, more mood-swings, extensive participation in 'I-me-myself-my woes-my creative dogma-i am alone but will make it - you will never understand because your life is so much easier' soliloquy. Behind every freelancer is possibly someone who

It is my birthday tomorrow and tonight feels like it's so shitty. It will be a horrible birthday. Away from family, away from every person I like...it is shitty and horrible and so painful. Anyway, Universe, still some time until midnight. Please make it beautiful. Tonight, tomorrow, and forever after. Update on how it turned out: It was nice. There was some relief from the choked up agitation that I was feeling all evening. It's how one would feel if one has been wearing pants too tight and for some reason, the top button popped out. So, it was like that yesterday. Some metaphorical button popped out. So, I suppose there was some sort of a break but also some sort of freedom that allows one to live free, breathe deep...which, in no measure is a small thing. It's interesting how bad, screeching arguments turn out. The worst in you can bring out the worst in someone else also. And when all that happens, the moral highground that generally exists like some pretty, e

This afternoon, I got back from a short trip to Panchgani. It was nice, sort of. I don't get the deal with short getaways and brief stints anyway. I had planned this one because I was really eroded by work and some other goings-on at home and hearth. So when A visited, I thought it would be nice to venture somewhere briefly. Frankly, I like long holidays. In fact, more than holidays, I like sabbaticals. Smaller holidays seem like such a dash of desperate escapism. What can you sort out in 2 days away from routine that you can't by switching off your phone for 4 hours on a Monday evening? In fact, with this trip I realized that when I am frazzled, I need to be in my familiar surroundings to be soothed. Being agitated and taking short trips just really wears me out. Because here's the thing. I like being treated with tenderness when I am stressed. More than compassion or kindness, I need tenderness. Soft voices, soft footfalls that are mindful that I am trying to sleep, s