Sunday.

It was a warm Sunday afternoon. Not average in any possible way, it was a most remarkable afternoon. I did not know that yet. I was still under the assumption that this was an ordinary Sunday afternoon. Sunny and lazy just as it should be.
At noon time I decided it was time to commence the shit dump brush bathe process of mundaness. I executed this thought after one hour of deliberation or as you would like to call it sheer vegetative laziness. I awoke and reached for the half smoked cigarette lying on the bedside table. I placed it between my lips only to realise I had nothing to cause a nicotine fire with. I searched around for a matchbox or lighter or anything that was warm enough to get the tobacco revealing end of my cigarette to turn orange and emit smoke. My brain indicated that it was time for motor activity in search for a light that will light my fire. Come on.
I made it to the bathroom, found a matchbox on the sink. I sat atop the container that would make my shit vanish into thin water. Lit my half smoked cigarette. Coughed a few times at my Jewish ancestry that wasn’t Jewish at all. I pondered over the day ahead of me. A few moments later my body started the process of excretion. Next Please.
As I washed by freakishly large palms I stole a glimpse of my face in the mirror. Today was definitely not a day of beauty. I looked absolutely unremarkable. And not in a the quiet girl in school who topped class kind of way but more in a mother in her early fifties forgotten by her only son never to return as the prodigal son kind of way. Inner beauty Darling. My system is beautiful, the benefits of number two. Good number two is number one. Deep shit.
I walked down the 40 odd stairs that led me down to level one. At level one I was attacked by the weather. It was as hot as the eggs at a restaurant with good, neigh, great service. I had a split second reflex to revert back to my earlier state of being. The split second passed by in a split second and I proceeded to seize the day. Carpe Diem.
My walking had no motive. I walked, just walked. There was no definite decision as to what could be done on this Sunday of Sundays. I say how about we shop. I say you are a synonym for penniless. I say we watch a movie. Why watch big screen when you can watch small screen for free, thanks to the download revolution and your lack of conscience. I say we go sit by the sea.
We’ll slowly
solve everything:
we’ll force you, sea,
we’ll force you, earth
perform miracles,
because in our very selves,
in the struggle,
is fish, is bread,
is the miracle.
I rattled my way to the sea in a cab that came close to breaking down in the middle of the road a total of 15 times in a short 10 minute journey. If you are secretly questioning my confidence at stating an exact number that depicts the exact number of times an almost breakdown occurred, then I say you are a fool. The cab strangely reminded me of myself. It chugs down the road, swerving from left to right and right to left, almost hitting, almost missing, hitting, missing. For causes unknown it tends to almost come to a standstill possibly due to some malfunctioning of a part whose exact specification is yet to see the light of the dawn. And then out of nowhere it taps into some energy source and continues rattling through the streets of chaos. It finally makes it to the destination it was directed in. It drops off the baggage and then resumes its journey to find more luggage. The cab was a representation of my life and I pay very close attention to anything that comes close to imitating the pattern of my life.
Pay very close attention.
I finally stand before a large expanse of saline water. I can feel it move ever so gently, just the way my grandmothers hands did. Just swaying as if it were at a Miles Davis performance enjoying the music ever so much.
I am at peace at last. Not one with the Sea but one with myself. In some mysterious absolutely remarkable way the Sea knows me, inside, outside. I have a connection with it that has no labels much like the relationship between at step father and his step son.
A remarkable Sunday. It was indeed.
In my ears of wisdom I had never heard such a blatant lie. But I played along anyway.

The rubbishness of it all

Belief is a dangerous thing. Faith is fatal. And hope...If you remotely care for the existence of your skeletal apparatus containing several life supporting agencies (and life creating agencies as well) engulfed by a brown coating with hair growth sometimes an inch long; I would suggest a detour from faith and belief. Green says go. I say go. The other way, where they can’t find you and make you feel a hundred percent sure of something that never was and never will be. You will be safe only in a land far far away. You will not build castles in the air only to watch the wind blow, and see them collapse like Hiroshima did. Once, when someone believed that it was a good idea...
I haven’t lost. Yet.
The words of the Cynic scare me. They send me straight to the arms of my mother where I feel safe, from the world and the universe it is part of. I am afraid to believe in a day that is somewhere in the future where I will be happy, the forever imbalance in my life shall be brought to a peaceful equilibrium and the smell of sweet strawberries shall linger even after the party is over. I paint this image over and over again in my mind, in every minute miniscule part of it .Conscious. Subconscious. Unconscious. I am afraid because somewhere I know that belief will only result in sadness. I am a prevention is better than cure kind of person and I would much rather be sad now so I don’t know the difference later. And faith is when after a couple of alcoholic beverages you willingly blindfold yourself and walk into a crowded street. You will feel elated the first few times you come close to breathing your last quota of air. And then before you know it, the show is over...
I am the rope in the game played at family picnics and other gay occasions called tug of war. I oscillate back and forth, side to side between faith and belief and the absolute lack of it. If it were a matter of just one game that would decide the victor once and for all my life would be simpler for it. However, that is not the case and it is certainly not the case from seven hundred miles away. This is a game that repeats itself repeatedly causing a sick kind of torture beyond the imagination of even a prisoner of war.
Agree to disagree.
Disagree to agree.

Port. Wine. Pot. Whine

She was failing miserably the criteria for leading the good life, the happy life, the right life. Everything and everything that was a distant relative of happiness and joy was very convincingly playing the male lead in the movie that was her life. She, on the contrary was playing the part of the ultimate loser, in the same movie ofcourse.
We can't all be stars in shining armor.
Men. Women. Male leads. Extra.

The number of things that were going great for her was a sum of negative one plus one. For those individuals that are unable to solve the previously stated mathematical problem the simple answer to the simple truth is zero. A circular piece of plastic tube walking about in an orderly fashion and being united with its other end to give birth to a lanky circle that looks like the number that preludes the number one spot,Nullpunkt.

In a land without fear. Where the Head is held.
She would like to walk around with her head held high in a land without fear. However, her head was attached to a face that was better held low. It was not her fault, it was a simple simple matter of genetics and heredity.
Thy is ugly. Thy offspring shallst be ugly too.
Too bad.

She was sharp, sharper than the butchers knife that slain the lamb that would feed the hungry easter guests. If the earth was the average intelligent than she was in a galaxy a billion light years away from the milky way, she was a planet that even the most promising space scientist with a completely unpronounceable name would never discover, in his lifetime or the life time of his great great great grandsons great great grandson. However, the smartest social animals are lacking in verbal communication skills that prevent them from conveying the most brilliant happenings that are ongoing in their brain thus leading them to be potatoesque.

Words. Brain. Match found.
Words. Mouth. Error.
Unsuccess.
Such is life.

Destined to a life of a ogre. I shall not stand for it Mr. Robinson.

Some stories end in happiness. But this happiness is a stereotyped sort of Happiness. What about the happiness that lies in fucking a man for a dollar.
What about that kind of happiness that you will try and protect your younger girl child against?
I was unloved then. I am not as unloved now.
They come. They see. They conquer.
They pay.

I am happy. One of them will eventually discover the subtext, the thing that you read between the lines and they will discover me.
I am not India Mr. Columbus. I am America.

Then love shall be the cup of cutting Chai I drink every evening before I go to work me love.

They were right.
All you need is love.

The Sound Of Zohan...

Sound...

A walkie-talkie, or handie talkie is a hand-held, portable, two-way radio transceiver...Where a phone's earpiece is only loud enough to be heard by the user,a walkie-talkie's built-in speaker can be heard by the user and those in the user's immediate vicinity... Sadly the Zohan did not possess a brain that would help him contain the information that has previously been transposed.The Zohan believed that not only must you raise the volume of your speech and words by a mere fujjilionmillion but you must also ensure that you channel all that ultrasonic gaga through the speaker of your handheld transceiver so that it explodes in the hearing faculties of the inconsequential mortals that run around like mad barking dogs and magically make everything the derivative of Awesome.
Let their brains rot.
Let their ears lose the ability to hear.
Drink the drink.
Eat the eat.
And after that shit and feel like it too.

Then Chechi screams Rolling and I picture a garden of happiness wrapped in beautiful pearl colored paper and I know, in my heart and deep within my heart that the tunnel will end in light.

Fool! This is a million tunnel road.
hahahaha.

Ramble Bamble Bee

I sit here. Trying to write. Wanting to write. But not a single story crosses my head and all my thoughts seem irrelevant and completely pointless. My life at this point seems completely pointless. And I’m in search of a point, some point, that I can move towards.
No such luck. Luck is something I haven’t been lucky with.
And then the phone rings.
And then I ignore it.
I ignore it not because I am a recluse and don’t believe in telephones and people and what they stand for; I ignore it simply because I couldn’t be bothered to move my fat ass. And it is funny because they call it a mobile, but it is the last thing it is. I have to move to pick it up. It moves because I move, without me it is but a dead inanimate thing that is anything but mobile.
Press me, on. Press me, off. Its a funny world isn’t it.
Maybe I should listen to some music, fatass just doesn’t want to move today. Fatass is content sitting on fatass and typing alphabets from the English language in ways that could never be imagined by Pedro, the illegal Mexican immigrant who lives in California and works the night shift at Burgerking. But then again he can type in a language I can’t type in but then again he probably doesn’t own anything to type on but then again I could be wrong.
The world is changing.
The real reason I don’t move is because I cannot. I cannot because last year I was reckless. And recklessness leads to immobility, not always but in my case it did.
Sometimes the things you don’t want to remember are the things that you cannot forget. They play out in your head over and over again like someone pressed the repeat button on the playlist of your memories. You want to stop these memories, pause them, delete them, cancel them. But you can’t because you think you control your head but you don’t. Your head controls your head and you don’t control anything.
The sad thing is you control everything.
I didn’t have to go to that party that night. I didn’t have to mix my drinks. I didn’t have to steal someone’s car keys and take off.
But I did. I wish I didn’t. But I did. I wish someone invented a time machine and requested me to test it out. I wish alcohol didn’t make you foolish. And I wish could walk. But I can’t.
I am fatass. Pointless. Legless. But not wordless.

Fly.

Silent night. Holy Night.
All is calm.
You walked into a bar.
The stool was too high.You sat on it anyway. You reached for the stars and they gave you beer with a fly in it. Crawling for life at the bottom, of a glass, of your glass. What a life. The life of a fly. The life of someone who has wings. Wings that make you fly, and make you stupid enough to explore the depths of a glass full of beer.
Beer is sour . Stay away from it be you person or be you fly.Because my friend, Rules are rules. Broken to be broken, meant to be meant.

Writers Blocked Arteries

I’m stuck. I’ve been stuck. For 5 weeks now, or it could be much more than that. But when you’re stuck your sense of time and space get altered. You’re aware that time has gone by, and is going by as you speak, as you talk, as you breathe and your aware that the earth has made its share of rotations around its axis as well but alas your stuck, on your axis or on that part of your body that describes you more than anything else in the world.
Bum. Extreme bum mode.
I want to write . So much, my mind is like one of those old grandfather clocks, it needs to be wound to tick again. For the time being its been ticked out.
But will someone come and wind me up or this time will i have to find a way to wind myself up in order to get ticking again.
I indulge in indulgence.
I am surrounded by this chemically induced illusion.
This chemically imbalanced equation.
This lack of motivation.
This fight for ideation.
All I seek is freedom. All I seek is perfection.
But I can’t seem to move.
Friends, people come and fill these empty spaces in my head and make me forget. Make me purposeless.
The alcohol is entering my system right now, soon I will be passed out or fucking in the bedroom with the lights out.
The drugs make their way through my passages uplifting every molecule and making it free. And thus, making me free.
How can i take advantage of this upliftment. By lying around motionless like a coral in the coral reef?
Movement seems hard especially when you’re stuck.
But I promise you one thing, I was meant for great things and great things were meant for me. Its my soul mate as I am its. And we will find each other, maybe not today or maybe not day after but soon. Soon enough. Enough is Enough.
I shall unblock these arteries.