fizzbee's Xanga

Tuesday, May 05, 2009

Tue, 05 May 2009 07:25:25 GMT

how much i want you'
if you can get no peace you can sleep repeating it
repeat it enough and it will stop making sense and in the senselessness you will find peace you will find
another night's absent minded sleep

whose sorrow is this i am carrying everywhere

whose sorrow is this i mull while the mad man of the poppy patch ambushes my path and laughs as i recoil and walk away fast
where does he go to when its dark and everybodys rushing home
where is his pillow his mum his toothbrush and comb who wtaches when he cries, sobs, is cold
who am i crying over in my small basement room hoping you see me, hoping you saw me as i looked away and yearned
who am i distraught for, lost at my own door

i secrtly wish i were a movie
at least i wouldnt be folding aranging my life unseen
burying my aches into a pillow
dancing through days made of grocery bags and nights alone

i watch you madman
i watch you scared and heartbroken in your three foot shopping cart
i watch you repeat. grin. repeat.
i watch me repeating too

how much i wnat how much i wnat howmuch i wnat

Friday, March 27, 2009

Fri, 27 Mar 2009 06:44:43 GMT

there is a yellow cloud outside. the sky is blue, light skyblue sky, only a little dark like winter skies usually are. windows are orange as if the rooms were burning fires. laughter spills from the window farthest right; a girl brushes her hair a man washes a pan a broken fan dances this way then that. a black cat standing twelve feet below laps up milk not caring if the world were damned.

it is 12 degrees celsius, the sun has dropped off the los angeles sky; the wind is creating a ruckus blowing inside out, night wrapping round chilly and loud. the noise my head plays is not a sound.
but everything is fine when the windows are orange and there's a yellow cloud in the sky.
if you thought of nothing and just stood here, stood for the whole night surrounded by the winter and warmth of other people's lives, and the cat who knew you just about, you,
you would be fine.

Sunday, November 09, 2008

Sun, 09 Nov 2008 09:03:29 GMT

why a jukebox is sadder than a coffin

TOPIC: late night cuddlingl, movie, ice cream, but not sex
http://groups.google.com/group/usc.forsale/browse_thread/thread/a99b54998bfb3104?hl=en

usc grad student here seeking a girl not for sex but to meet up and
have a late night cuddling, watch a movie together, ice cream, etc.

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

Tue, 13 May 2008 08:18:06 GMT

once the quiet entered him he could not talk. he awoke in nights battling wars, the clamor of speech not ebbing while he whispered into the dark.
there were knots of words he'd saved, he wonders where they got lost.
days of years spent rummaging through crowds, looking for that one face that would hear him out, and now in this pocket of land he's found - those small ears and restful arms - and forgotten how
to hollow his throat and let out
a caress a kiss a call.
she collects his words in her cupped palms, falling lightly on the blooming ground. like a shocked butterfly the night enters her mouth, flutters out without a sound.

Saturday, February 23, 2008

Sat, 23 Feb 2008 09:41:47 GMT

a fairy came-a dancing upon a summer's day.

everyone in class danced to this song when i was six years old. we practised on and on after school, and i'd put up a show for everyone every single boring day when i went home (with noone except my dad clapping all the way till i was done) and then on performance day, when the white fairy dresses arrived, mine turned out too long at the hem, so they couldnt take me in.
doesn't matter love, you hold the paper stars instead. dont look so hurt now, there there, you can always say tinkle tinkle in the end.

a fairy came-a dancing upon a summer's day.

yesterday i taught my drunk friend to dance to it, ten in the night freezing our asses off on an empty, drizzling road, singing aloud like madmen, while we waited for the cruiser home.
this blog has changed places across the globe, if the ten people reading this don't already know. and sometimes i might feel stranded here, but then i am the happiest stranded human on earth.
sometimes i don't believe it is possible to miss a piece of geography so much, and the press of crowds swirling round and round busy victoria terminus.
sometimes, sadness is a rising wave and i am only a girl standing endlessly at her window watching endless steel chimneys spin in the wind waiting for someone to arrive with laughter and feeling. most times though i am the luckiest bum in the universe, who has for no reason at all, won the super bumper lotto three times in a row.

my mom's voice has become my alter ego.

i will fold my clothes; i wont drink anything cold. on my way to school each morning, a voice will say i need a warm cardigan, and scold me if i've forgotten to brush my hair again.
don't doze off in the tub don't speak to strangers on roads stop throwing childish tantrums say you're sorry at once nd it's raining for godssake stop wandering alone like a homeless soul

for the record mom, i have picked too many fights, all petty and ungrateful and haven't apologized once. i lack the grace to admit it but i'm sorry all the same and i miss my bathtub and the music we played past midnights most. i should've bought that cardigan instead i got a fancy useless coat; i am more absent minded now than i was back home. i speak to all the strangers i can and i still forget which hand to write and chop onions with and in which to hold a fork
and eight thousand miles away the rains still wait for me to step out the door

Sunday, June 10, 2007

Sun, 10 Jun 2007 08:38:56 GMT

'and the days are not full enough
and the nights are not full enough
and life slips by like a field mouse
not shaking the grass.'

Thursday, March 15, 2007

Thu, 15 Mar 2007 18:28:25 GMT

on my way to primary school, i believed everyday that my papa's scooter would one day leave all scooters and buses behind and we would be FIRST! on the road, just like in the races at school. "papa, are we first yet!" i would shout against the traffic and wind, sitting behind him. and he would always answer, his patient head shaking, "no first here kanu, this road has no end."
i would hold his tummy tighter, perched primly on the little back seat and think he could be reeelly stupid sometimes, my smart papa.
i'd make grand plans then, of taking my battered bicycle and conquering the road race, 'one day when i was tall like him.' maybe i could borrow his scooter too, when he was asleep and my legs could reach the accelerator beneath.

i dont know when i stopped believing my own stories, cos i never took poor scooter for a formula one ride. i learnt what distances meant, i realised 'A THOUSAND METRES!' was way too little. i gave up chasing cars and public buses with my ancient bicycle, though i could never give up secretly hoping that there were roads with huge billboards announcing Start and Finish. i'd know for sure where i was headed then, and there'd be much clapping and applause when i reached the finish line FIRST! pedalling happily.

my dad drives his shiny car now, and laughs nostalgically at the tales i fed him from the scooter backseat every morning. "listen", he says, "listen to them before you forget how silly you can be".
we rush past the traffic and wind, the roads crowding endlessly. the scooter gathers rust in an old garage, my stories gather irony.

Monday, January 15, 2007

Mon, 15 Jan 2007 20:43:37 GMT

an elephant came under my window today! a r e a l l i v e e l e p h a n t!
when i was a kid i went to the zoo to see elephants. now i grew up and came to bombay and the elephant came to see me!

(i went to the zoo here long ago and there were no elephants)

Thursday, December 21, 2006

Thu, 21 Dec 2006 20:42:58 GMT

i dont know why i feel close to them, the old, stupid, and mad.

i read of actress parveen's taped conversations on adi's blog. i cannot get her out of my mind.
every few days she's here, the young parveen, screaming and pleading into a dictaphone. the old parveen looks on, sitting without a sound, then turns away to stare at a blank window, steadily gathering fog.

she is crying, and along with her is maasi, staring into space, with a vacant face at a vacant train station in asansol, long past midnight. behind her is the long repressed memory of mama, who never stops smiling to himself, who wanders close, wanders thick into his life of a homeless madman, the one he stumbled into when he left house, with not a rupee in his pocket, to never come back.

and they all sit, sit and sit and stare and stand. and go round and round at the same place, the same train station perhaps, not knowing they are so close, if only they could find each other, but they cannot.
they wander on, make for a good joke for the cosmos to chuckle at, and disperse, in search of where they came from.

parveen, tired, returns to the unattended milk bottles lying outside her house, then decides they are useless, and goes in to curl up in bed tighter against the evening chill and catcalling crowd.
day after, a neighbour will find her milk bottles curdled, and parveen, peaceful, gone.
maasi will slip and fall, in the bath. she will break her head and hemorrhage, and wander off to the last place she can.
mama is hopefully dead someplace, like an evening moth. dead with the first stroke of morning sun, without a trace or sound.
a girl will look for him everyday at the twenty train stations she is destined to pass, thousands of miles away from where he was lost. everyday she will pray he does not live, but the cosmos wont spare her the joke, so she will stand, stand alone, a hundred stations away from asansol, and stare blankly on; not knowing where she is headed, not knowing where they have gone.

Sunday, November 26, 2006

Sun, 26 Nov 2006 22:24:59 GMT

there is a road i pass by every evening, on my way to class. six streetlights, two vegetable vendors, one dance bar. and rows of one room chawls serenaded by roadside romeos and a dozen skinny bachchoos running about, surprising the occasional motor car.

an old lady sits outside a dark chawl room, two rows of candles burning small circles of light in the dim house behind. lighting not even its immediate walls.
and she sits there, thick framed eyes and loosely folded arms, under a directly overhead streetlight, staring at the grouchy rickshaws scuttle on.

much later into the night, on my way back, she is still there, where i left her four hours back. the candles have gone, leaving a deep black space behind her back, while she stares on. her face is the same resolute blank, her spectacles reflecting the sharp overhead lamp.

my rickshaw slows to a halt here, it is a small turn leading to the main road, which the corner's butcher has occupied, arranging cages outside while shutting shop. the rickshaw driver yells an abuse and the balding, baniyan clad butcher saunters out.
"kai ko bom marta hai, side mein gaadi jaane ko bhot jagaa hai."
the birds in the cages give supportive flutters and nods.

we painfully manoeuvre into the wide highway and leave behind the old woman and butcher man for the night, to everyone's respite.
my thoughts meander between the chicken and the woman, now a dot of stillness to my craning eyes. an old geography lesson comes to mind, which reminds me that some chicken must die.
the old woman hopefully retreats into the house, sleep engulfing her till she needs no candles, the sun rising above her, higher than her streetlight, sufficient and bright.