guess who's back (for a bit)

Virgo (Aug 23 - Sep 22)

Your irrational emotions are aroused today by a close friend or family member. Current activities stimulate memories that may make you nostalgic. This is a moving experience for you as you must leave your fantasies behind and fully engage with your feelings intact. Don't hide your desires. Although denial can take the edge off the day, it will also prevent you from breaking through to new ground.

I'm HOME!
I'm in Bombay! Its Bombay! Its not so much nostalgia how much it is the joy of familiarity. I know the streets, the people, and it feels like I never left it. I think my father really missed me, its all over his face. I hate to be going back because of how he feels and I really don't have any emotional attachment to Bangalore, it has changed significant people in my life. I've trusted a lot of people from that city and regretted that, and I know this is not the last time. Anyway... I'm HOME! My computer is here. My mother used alphabets from the calender and fixed the keyboard so its as funky as a ransom letter. Its my style also, I loved it instantly. I don't feel settled, half of me is in Bangalore, with K and BBB and whitey the car chasing dog. I'm a collector, I've collected these people and built them little shrines in my memory. I don't know where they keep me. BBB, I'm sure I'm out of his blinkered view there just about enough place for one person and camera. Whitey for sure remembers me. May be BBB's mommy does, because she doesn't have to force me to eat. May be the rickshawala who corned me does remember me and laugh about it. But I give everyone a pocket, and like this fact in a bittersweet sense. These pockets are accessible and you can be lost in one or more of them. I really don't know what I'm doing where I'm heading, but I'm walking.
yours truly,
walkway girl

just a thought.

I love how even the Internet gives up on me. Just when you want to post to your blog, it walks out on you. My last way of connecting to the world when I want to say things to people but to no one in particular for them to feel I’m latching on them. Isn’t this the safest way to communicate? Isn’t this why online dating picked up so soon? Why online social networking is the next big thing to Paris Hilton’s sex tape, and why we’re so comfortable with Gtalk?

Miss Dispensable’s dump site.

These words I want to leave here to save myself from thinking them, saying them and playing them in my head.

My house, my home, my hollow, my hole.
And I thought I was okay
but it takes just one song to make it all turn around.

Unknown Artist – Untitled Track

It’s a song of no significance actually, just that the last time I heard
it I was holding someone close to me. Singing.
These are moments that may not be very long or intense as the present
but as memories they are as potent as home made wine
from Noon wine, Church Street, Bangalore.

There are not too many memories of all of you.
There is no face that I picture when I think of you.

You , and you and then you.
There are no memories of your touch.
But there are
and it hurts to be alone again.

Is there something I do to be like this repeatedly?
I know good things happen to good people, I've said it
enough to believe it, but I don't know if I'm one of those people

Because at the end of it all, I’m alone in this city with very few people
I can call at 2am in the night.

Its not about a ear, or a shoulder, or company.
Its not about a particular man anymore. Or my parents. Or my friends.
Its just… everything, me, the time of the day,
The door, the music, the food, the climate, love, life, everything.

I don't know what I feel when I cry anymore.
I cry. Its an all absorbing activity, all senses surrendering to the sovereignty of the pain.
I cry missing someone to hold, sometimes thinking of happiness, sometimes thinking of nothing, sometimes listening to other people's stories, sometimes because everything is so beautiful and painful like a movie, like a walk in the park, like a lake.

I'm difficult to like me. I understand. But why?
Every time I look in the mirror, I see a girl, who doesn’t really look harmful, but there are
so many words that make me question that belief. What is it that I do?

What makes me so dispensable?

Each one to their own happiness…

Dream on. Dream on. Dream on. Dream on. Dream on. Dream on.
Dream on. Dream on. Dream on. Dream on. Dream on. Dream on.
d.r.e.a.m. u.n.t.i.l. y.o.u.r. d.r.e.a.m. c.o.m.e.s. t.r.u.e.

what about mine?

Dream on – Aerosmith.

Ok, I know I have been away for very long with no news of my adventures. I must say my adventures were as interesting as making Maggi (instant noodles) in a microwave. If my life was a song by Madonna it would begin something like this...

I don't have no Rudigore,

we love each other no more.

What rises, peaks falls to the floor,

is usually sealed by a slamming door.

I'm a little lost with blogging and hoping to find it soon... so lets begin with the updates. I have finally graduated. I got a first class with 65.33% which is good for the way I studied and the way I gave my exams. Note. I'm working or finding myself work to do gradually in this whole new city I have earlier seen as a hill station. Work is painting t-shirts for a sale we are planning to have and making digital collages for the walls of an IT food court. I have been away for home for a month and a half. The Rudigore I thought would support me has now given up on me. (look up an Irish dictionary called Healy J. for the meaning of Rudigore) Last night, I moved into my very own, but I really mean rented apartment. So, people from Bombay wanting to visit Bangalore for concerts can find themselves a place to stay. I'm being told by my Irish sources that I've been moving mountains here, but that's far from the truth. I have been lazy, almost on honeymoon since I arrived till a few2 days back when life turned around to give me a rude shock. I lost my wallet with a lot, A LOT of money , my debit card, my Nataraj pendant I bought from Nepal, my Bombay sim card, a photograph with my sister, a photograph of Arshad, Shaun and Mahima respectively, my railway id, a whole lot of bus tickets and bills. I wonder how all of this fits in that wallet! My wallet was a work of art, made in jute but street children and an NGO. Miss you.

Beyond that pile of gibberish, I must say that a new house is not easy to handle, a new house with a fridge and a computer with Internet connection, a kitchen where you can stand and cook! (if you are amazed, you haven't seen apartments in Bombay, they are famous as matchboxes.) I live near Ulsoor lake and right now I can hear the birds outside. At night I could hear the dogs, but lets be optimistic.

I'm kicked about this task by Mahima which is to make a friend and keep in touch with them everyday for a year. My Irish friend and me have been there but its not something that was intended, its one of the magical things that happened. So... If anyone is interested in me the mountainmover, feel free to email.

lotsa love,
yours truly,
miss unedited.

PS: blog changes coming up as soon as i finish downloading Firefox.

The photograph is and old turkish window which has travlled half the world to come here and an original print of an old Opera Posterfrom my new house. For more pictures visit my flickr account.

Its just heavenly to listen to Norah Jones echo in MY house at 9 in the morning. Its sad that I can't share this with anybody. Come! VISIT ME!

The walkway girl

Walking into the colours
walking one step at a time
walking away from the city
that never sleeps on time
walking a path ever changing
walking nevertheless
walking slow not steady
walking smiling
dreaming hoping
loving wanting
seeking showing
comforting oddly
seldom balancing
but walking nevertheless

the artist the lover the observer the keymaker the magician

inspiration trickles in when no one is watching,
when you are alone
and quiet inside

It jumps over drains
and stirs clothes on clothes lines
it hisses like passing cars
and shines like street lights

It soothes like a warm bath
and engulfs you
surrounds you.

Inspiration is so much like love.

Thats not how i meant to start writing today.
These days I have no time to think about what I want to write or plan. I've read the comments people have left on the mail and haven't been able to reply. I'm sorry. I feel busy just being these days.

Todays post is about a conversation I had more than a couple of years ago with a recurring figure called J. I was listening to John Mayer while doodling on the newspaper when I remembered what J and I once discussed on our way back from a film festival in the middle of crowded local train. I could only see his bright eyes and spikey hair between the distance of one arm and the other of men in the Virar fast.
He said, "Are you an artist?"
I said, "I don't know. These days anybody is an artist. Thats what I like to think but what I hear is that an artist is actually one who practices art, does it with skill."
He said, "Thats rubbish"

And I knew I didn't have anything to support my belief. It was something I had come to believe because of assuming and trusting people, the ever-important they. Even today when I'm looking for work in a city as a designer and showing people my sketches I hesitate to say I'm an artist. Its so easy to hide being the amateur, the student, the experimenting kid.

I want to be an Artist. I'm on my way.

Although one question still remains, who is an artist? Someone who enjoys art, the daily life, the beauty, the peculiarity of everything? The detailer, the one who is sensitive and patient enough to carefully observe every minute detail and relish it. The one who can reproduce these details in his/her own way, with his/her own associations? Is the artist an escapist or a dreamer? Does it matter? Is the artist a trickster like Plato would say? Is the artist a griever for no grief? like my shrink once said? Is the artist a lover? Is the artist a well of images, bits of paper and music? Is the artist a dust bin soaking everything others throw away? Is the artist a collector of slices of the cake of life, freezing and capturing moments and making them immortal?

yours truly,
miss unedited.
this post is unedited not re-read
to maintain a certain flavour
of honesty and spontaneity.