Hand

Its been some ages of many shades. A lot of walking, multiple points of distress and now a jammed vein on my right hand from the handle of a bad bike. Will also wait a little longer before winging - maybe a little planning this time will be nicer. The knowledge has done help, in triangular heaps. Trying to find more about the Indian male's fetish for the white woman pointed well in the analysis of Rushdie's East,West. The stabilizing plain is that i have for all purposes put in mes papiers which is mighty and magnanimi. One thing i'm very certain about is that i'm tired of the increasing number of snootsasses in the city who cant have a conversation, too often pretending they havent the time for it; and so any person faced with that says why the hell pursue it if they arent interested? Rightly so, but that means we're turning into the dreaded other. What then ? -be selectively sunshiney? Dont know at all cept that i prefer the company of bus-stinkies like me and the great fringe majority who if u pursue have their own path of distressing narowness. But some marginalized groups with little money are naturally more permissive and wide-thinking that the buck-beholden cream held in elected trappings.
That reminds me of HANDS. I'm a voyeur of hands - the history in them of mankind and truth. I've been coming across too many passages of men celebrating the bird hands of their lady love. How would a construction worker put it? The hands of the female worker that built the swanking studio-apartment now gwaced by a lady of the same age with skin that gloes and hands a match for marble and yes finely turned. And now one of these women will be serenaded as a standard for beauty in films watched even by the labourer nobody remembers. Sure, the construction's going to last longer than the feted palm. But what about the worker's hands? What about it? Will they become the object of popular poetry in some age? Make it our own.

ofcourse i'm out to find and none of the other daylight crap. sitting stark naked on my chair and tapping at the keybaord is something one cannot do at work. but its too clammy and everyone is shining from little effort at home - all very dayglo. going to check out the suspected hairline fracture. think its going to be another malayalee doctor. Somehow -
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So it was. Turns out also i spew 220 to find theres nothing wrong with the left foot. more buses to make up for this.

Match vibrations

It's unclear who was the heavier fool - but the heaviest of the panellists would have to be somoene i'd need to make phenomenal concessions for on counts of age and stage. The masculine among the panelists - Jagadish Raja, someone else and Dattani made directed arguments. Teresa Bhattacharya made an invaluable point no one would have least of all the frontbenching Strand woman wiling and guiling to assert easy importance via cultured mudras with white hands and pert expressions with a pale face. Other knowns in the packed aisle: Balan with a daughter, Athreya, CK Meena, some related proteges. Mary Mathew and Annie Mathews as resplendant and cliched as stock lecturers. And the roll-call of winners, some entrances spectacular but noone coming in as dramatically as drunk or stripping. The audience scored nicely - incisive, unsettling - unrepentant analysts of the panellists. One of the esteemed said: write without fear. So now i shall tell u how to masturbate > if your under 18 you already know and if youre over, youre done.

loose pivot, loose hinge

Specialists tell I should have crossed my present chart 7 years back. but i'm right here with the filament lume on my shoulders in the devastation of a room this evening, recovering from yesterdays spoilt dinner and typing with heavy hands without a smile. Theres no difference if my view out the window was a void or a crush, but maybe we need spaces for patterns or plain agreement. Then there are the books and clotted memories. Yesterday I saw an old watchman cross the road by commercials. He was living his dream of being a policeman with the uniform and the charge - he looked at noone. He was returning home with flair. The couple on infantry road for whom it was clearly all over; moving away as they walked together, corroding and killing with every step - they should have left right away. The dogs I wished wouldnt break out into frantic instructive copulation as they usually do when I'm watching and passing by. They dont. The forlon dog. The sexy policeman. The pyt he watched a second longer. My aggravating hairlline fracture. Sweat compacting in the airpits. Watching, wanting faces.
Bus 119. Standing till home and a hollow.

A friends come out with his second book who cares. Its called 'Nowhere' and the nom he's taken is ved. links are there but not putting it here cos i'm with gore vidal's:
'Whenever a friend succeeds, a little something in me dies." so there.
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In other news: a hot new short coming up here at midnight on how jerking off at home cost a bangalore boy his job. catch it.
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(Written sometime before midnight)

Yesterday I had the pleasure of having upon my lap curled up a cat. Her name was lady and she walked into the friend's reading room straight beside the settee i was on and placed once significant paw on my lap for starters; it soon took two ritual circles of the lap before settling down in a curl. Now to observe decorum in the friends place had crossed my legs which meant not the greatest room for the curled persian so had to support one orphaned paw with the pads of one hand while using the fingers of both hands to hold and read the book 'French for cats'. One she had the fill of the lap she disembarked and theres nothing you can or with any dignity should do to get it back. I can assure you theres isnt anything softer than the fur of a persian cat and best on a live persian if u were thinkig anything else.