Catione

Yesterday, I dreamt of this word ‘catione’. It doesn’t make sense to me, but a voice whispered it over and over and over again. It said, Kat-e-own. I tried reasoning with it that such a word does not exist. But as voices in dreams are, this one too possessed no body to call its own and therefore, presumably, no ears to listen. It was just a thin whisper that formed in my head in irritatingly short intervals.

I concluded, while still asleep, that it meant ‘Caution’, I am warning myself of some impending danger. Fascinating stuff I tell you. I can sense Freud turning over in his grave.

But then thefreedictionary.com gives me a rather insipid explanation (though the pronunciations do not match). Catione is merely ‘cation’ in French and other languages. A positively charged ion characteristically moving towards the negative electrode.

My plot for a box office hit turns out to be a really boring documentary. Sheesh!

Afraid

Afraid of what the future holds, I train myself to shed no tears. I have been training myself for quite some time now, I never thought I would succeed, but I’m afraid I have. Now I find that future tears have solidified and rain as hail into my present, and in future I forever shall be stuck in the past where it rains sharp pellets of frozen tears.

Afraid of letting go of the tenuous hold on sanity afraid to mourn to grieve a future loss that I know for sure will happen, afraid of losing you, I wander, I have nowhere to go, I wander scared and lonely and I start at the slightest sound, the smallest irritant draws ferociousness out of me, my temper is a red hot molten flower which vaporises anything in its vicinity.

I look in the mirror and draw out hatred for the tired sallowness of my skin, the stretch marks on my thighs and I shift the blame onto them, I must believe it is because of them that I cannot have you.

My sadness is a pot of raging fire that I carry in my heart, sealed in its secret chambers, I’m afraid to take it outside, if I do the heat will consume my entire universe and several lives will perish.

The water I drink is blood, I have been darkened by darkness, my sky is filled with locusts of torn memories and the fear of your power over my soul and the hate I have for the wailing anguish in my heart.

There is fire in my bones, I am desolate, I have no strength, I faint as I walk. I weep in the night, I have sinned, I have loved you with my mind, body and spirit, you possess all three, my skin is tattooed with your love your lust your touch, I shall sin again, for My Lord, you are my one true love.

My hands hurt maul helpless innocence, my hands have a life of their own, they are the hands of the devil I have locked up inside. Claw at my breastbone and let it free let me cry let me mourn let me grieve and move on.

Marcus can never be Ligeia

I cannot, upon my word, bring to mind how or when I first laid my eyes on Marcus. It has been a long time since, and my memory is not what it used to be. Perhaps, the fact is that the singular cast of Marcus’ beauty had crept upon me slowly, degree by pleasant degree and he had filled my heart without my realizing it. My recollections are not entirely accurate, but I suspect I met Marcus in a rather curious way. It was in the town centre, where I had gone to buy red bangles and bright yellow marigolds. Marcus was also there, I cannot bring to mind the exact details of our first encounter, but he quite definitely did not blend into the background. In fact I suspect he stuck out in a rather prominent fashion or else I would not have noticed him. Of his lineage, I had surmised before he told me; and that was one reason that even while Marcus consumed my thoughts with the intense heat of an inferno, I had kept a respectable distance from him, for as long as I could. Marcus! Marcus! The very appellation is indicative of all the majesty of his persona. He was an emperor. His pale skin was a fabric knitted of the sun’s rays and it set a definite contrast against my own swarthy one. By the whisper of his name alone I bring to my grey life a starburst of colour. The sibilance lives on my tongue long after the name is uttered, a whisper that lives for him who is no more, him who lay sleeping in the black coffin a few days ago, or was it months or years?

Sorry EAP. The title says it all.

IgnoRantus

Just as I reach the crescendo of fretting about gender play at work and the related dynamics I hear about the New Zealand bird called Kea. Keas are clever birds that bend rules and create their own to adapt to the constantly changing world. The strategy seems fair, but unless it is tried and tested in a particular work environment one can never tell. It’s tough being a woman at work. And an ambitious one at that. An ambitious woman is almost an oxymoron. How dare she be ambitious? Does she not care for her husband and children? Does she not know what is good for her? These are not openly proclaimed, but implied in every deed and word.

The very fact of being female closes political doors, I am completely at a loss as to decipher the hieroglyphics on the walls or to decode secret languages. I am rudely shoved into unfamiliar terrain, nobody sympathises because this is what is in store for ambitious women. A young male is equally a novice in office politics but is clued on earlier into the dynamics of male interrelationship because that is what, unfortunately for me, a present day workplace largely is.

I am picking up, though. And fast. In time I fear I will be so much an expert at playing slick smooth political games that I might end up hating myself. A large part of career progression is about histrionics. Men do that, women hesitate to do that - I think. Arse licking is something that men do discreetly, going out for a drink with the boss and doing small and big favours for him and generally getting to know him socially and collectively leching at other women, which form the cornerstone of male camaraderie and bonding. Women are denied that window of opportunity to interact thus. Those who do go out for a drink with the boys run the risk of being seen as easy and willing to sleep to the top. And though one may care two hoots about what others think, such an image is a sure fire way to career suicide. If one is serious about reaching the policy making levels, ie.

I do not know if I am ever going to reach the policy making levels. I am not happy with the trillion restrictions I place on myself, but when I try to think outside of those restrictions my mind screams at me to get a life. The very notion of being a servile, sycophantic hyena who gnaws on discarded bones to start with and just waits for an opportunity to ease into the charmed inner circle of the jungle king is anathema to my soul. Career is slavery. You are a slave to all the bosses, but you swallow your ego for the paycheque and for the sake of future opportunities, and take it out on your subordinates when it gets too much. And therefore the restrictions that cut blood flow to my normal real person life for the sake of a career seem meaningless and soul selling. I do not know if men feel this way at all. Or are men so conditioned as to ignore such things at work? Just as women are conditioned to compromise and adjust? And maybe such conditioning is good?

By the Sea (1)

The wind, with its salt precipitate, tangles tiny knots in my hair. You sit across me, no words are spoken, thoughts are lost amidst the ruckus of inebriated table mates. You are lost in polite conversation. I sit looking directly at you. Every so often you glance at me, your eyelids seem weighed down by those heavy, black lashes. When I am with you, I do not mind the taste of beer, I gulp it down and the aftertaste is like I have chewed on a mouthful of straw. Conversation drifts to your new mobile, you explain its features, all excited, your fingers fly over the keypad. “Look at the picture clarity”, you say, and pass the mobile around for inspection. At my turn I politely flick through the photographs till it stops at hers.

My face must have drained itself of blood, for you crane your neck to see what I am looking at and as your eyes meet mine I see a thousand words in them, but I am suddenly stripped of the ability to read. My hands tremble and the phone clatters down. Nobody notices. Except you. No one knows. Except you. I stay the required few moments to maintain the semblance of normalcy and then step out of the shack. The sea is black, the wind stings, there is salt on my lips.

My shoulders are slouched and my head is bent. I walk with hands in my jeans pocket to keep them from trembling. I reach the edge of the ocean and I stop, the surf dies at my feet. Tears stream down my face and my despair is absolute. I don’t wince, I don’t sob, I can’t even decide if I feel anything, yet grief wells out from my eyes as if from a spring. I don’t question why. I am just overcome by the impurity that another person’s shadow cast on us. Now, we will never be perfect, we have been sullied, we are not pure. Then my soul starts screaming your name and I picture myself running along the shore, wailing.

For a while, I do not realize you have followed me, mired deep as I am in what has transpired. You stand next to me, barefoot, arms folded across your chest, body weight balanced on your left leg. Even in the defensive stance, I notice how beautiful your profile is, and become aware of how magnetically drawn I am to the spiky bursts of energy around you, your maleness. And I have lost you, for we are no longer pure, we have been defiled by the name, the thought, the presence of another person.

That does not mean I do not love you. I do. I do love you, but I must leave. Because we have been sullied, we are no longer pure. And before I say goodbye I must ensure I cause you no misery or guilt. So I say, “I’m just being silly. It’s okay”, and stretch my mouth into a smile, taking care that it reflects in my eyes. I don’t know if I succeed. And you say, “I love you.”

I do smile a little now. My sadness is unbearable. “No, I understand. It really is okay”

“I love you”

“You don’t have to explain. It’s not meant to be anyway”

“I love you”

I giggle at that, “See! It’s okay. I am a big girl. I’m okay. Don’t worry”

“I love you”

I go on mumbling inanities and you punctuate each bit of in-between silence with an ‘I love you’. Then I stop, you take my name and say that you love me and god knows how much you want to be with me and that you love me some more.

My love, my love, my heart is a garden over which you love blows as a gentle breeze. I will come to no harm when you are with me. Every ‘I love you’ that rolls from your lips is carried by the wind. If I ever feel sad again a merciful breeze shall gently drape those words around me.

When we leave, the catamarans are motes of yellow that bob along the horizon.

Gah

At the start of his career, he was my favourite. I loved his dimples and his black eyes. I have grown out of the teenager crush, nonetheless I could still be biased when it comes to him. But I have a sneaky suspicion I could be right, for I think I saw immense compassion and understanding in his eyes. Those were the eyes of an honest man who respects and cherishes what he has, a man who can identify with and relate to the evolvement of the same spectrum of emotions in another.

Or am I still such a fool as to be taken in by the charms of a black eyed sorcerer? After all that life has taught me, after such vehement assertions as Ne humanus crede, am I still a patsy for liquid, black eyes? The thought is so depressing I might be driven to suicide. Gah!

Secret Admirer Club

I was once an active member of the said club. Though the thought of it makes me want to crawl into a ditch and never come out, I confess, yes yes, I did admire a guy once - secretly. The works. I was a bloody fool. He never knew I existed. To add insult to injury, during the course of my all consuming admiration, I had never set my eyes on him. To this day I do not know what he looks like.

I was 14 then, and driven by the need to belong to some sort of a clique, any clique, I found myself firmly entrenched in one. I must confess I was never any good at social networking. I was mostly in my own world, but painfully aware of the fact that people around me seemed to quite easily form tightly knit friend groups. I knew I was supposed to be part of one of those too, but lacked the necessary skills and sense of direction as to how to go about it. And so, when a random sisterhood evinced a keen desire to open its doors to let me in, I obliged gratefully.

They were a nice bunch of kids. Fun to be with, but not weird. So as soon as I learnt when and how to keep my mouth shut, we got along famously. We never christened our group, on hindsight I think we should have, after all how often would one have an opportunity to belong to a ‘Famous Five’ or a ‘Svelte Seven’?

S was an established member of the gang. She and I grew especially close to each other because of some special connections; both of us were from the same part of the world, we were both Christians and Catholics to boot. She was very artistic, I remember she made the most beautiful crepe paper roses. She was good with her needlework too, in the craft sessions.

There was a grotto in the school, with a huge tree providing a largish area of shade. We spent lunch breaks under the tree, playing silly hop scotch games and talking nonsense. Shared details about our family, the movies we saw, gossiped about the nuns and teachers and generally whiled away time. At the sacred grotto, one day S announced, “I’d like Ul Rt to marry you. That would make you part of my family, and we can be together forever”. Ul Rt was her cousin brother. Supposed to be quite a dude, from what she told us. Studying in St. John’s Medical College, Bangalore. Single and unattached. Quite a catch.

I was quite happy to acquiesce. Well, I had to get married someday, the sooner the better. And my parents wouldn’t have a problem getting me married to a Catholic doc, would they? How perfect it all was.

But there was one slight problem. I was only 14. And he had just joined St. Johns. We couldn’t possibly get married for another 5 years. S was too young to take a marriage proposal home for her brother. With much anguish, we all decided to stay put and wait for the required number of years to pass before any further steps were taken.

S always promised to bring snaps of Ul Rt, but she brought only one and it was a blurred image of a crowd. She pointed out a splotch of yellow and said, “That’s him. The one wearing the yellow shirt”.

Then we went our separate ways, joined our respective colleges, S and I went to different ones. She got into a place I badly wanted to be in, but I was sent to an all girls college, no undue influences from a co-ed ought to ruin a young impressionable mind as mine, non? I was this devoted almost-wife of Ul Rt, I imagined him to look like a handsome model who appeared in the cheeky Moods Condoms ad of yore. I cut out a picture of him from a magazine and stuck it inside my cupboard, lipstick mark on his cheek. Ironically the ad was of a shirt that portrayed a bohemian outlook and the caption read, “Marriage is an institution, but tell me, who in their right minds would ever want to live in an institution”.

I collected assorted junk in a shoe box, I put in the letters from S in which she proclaimed her interest in getting us married, flower petals, small handmade cards, every tiny little bit of memorabilia, which we were to nostalgically open during our romantic honeymoon. I also sent him secret admirer cards.

Ul Rt,
St. John’s College,
II year MBBS,
Bangalore.

I wonder if he ever got them. I wonder if he ever wondered who this crazy female was. But I know now that if he got those juvenile cards, he would have felt happy, he would have smiled. I know, for I have felt happy, I have also smiled when I got my share of SA cards.

I only wish I had seen him once, just once. Because I still do not know what he looks like.

Woman Pastors? Sacrilege!

This post is dedicated to you, asshole, for your very earnest attempts in cogitation. But, I’d advise, for your sake, STOP! Too much thinking and the agitation thereby might cause the few tiny, deformed grey cells to explode inside the hollow cavern propped on your neck.

Those who watch (or flick through) the GOD channel, would be familiar with Joyce Meyer, the firebrand lady, preaching the word of God towards the noble cause of proselytization. I am not in agreement with the banalities that she utters on TV, I am quite emphatically not on her side in the matters of religion and God. And according to an online article which puts forth extremely enlightened views on whether a woman should be allowed to preach the word of God, Joyce Meyer is blatantly disobeying 1 Timothy 2:12 specifically. Now look at my predicament, first of all she preaches and substantiates the pressing need for ghost worship to save my soul, and to compound that, she has encroached into the purely male territory of preaching bullshit!!! Wonly men are allowed to do that, you.. you woman!

The article in question (written by the asshole to whom the post is humbly dedicated) points out the sacred passage from 1 Timothy 2:12. “I do not permit a woman to teach or to exercise authority over a man”. Now what can I say to that, it being the holy word and all!

This is followed up by a woman believer who holds a direct pass to heaven.

She says “1 Timothy 2:11 Let a woman learn by listening quietly and being ready
to cooperate in everything. But I do not allow a woman to teach or to have
authority over a man, but to listen quietly, because Adam was formed first and
then eve. And Adam was not tricked, but the woman was tricked and became a
sinner. But she will be saved through having children if they continue in faith,
love and HOLINESS, with self control.

I am a woman..If God wanted woman
to preach i believe he would have made woman first to be the head of a man..but
instead we were created for mans pleasure...and men were created for GODS
pleasure...so we as women need to keep in mind GOD loves a virtuos
woman..knowing our reason we were created will not only allow us to step aside
and allow GODS work to be done, but will allow it to be done in order. God is
not the author of confusion...But gives us his wisdom”

I am truly appalled by such ignorance and lack of self worth. Even among prawn scum, guy prawn scum are better than girl prawn scum?

I have just three words to say to these losers. Shove it up!

Leash

I was brought up on a diet of all good things that contributed to the smooth running of society. Compromise. Sacrifice. Love. Faith. God. Rules. Marriage. Monogamy. Sanctity. Reputation. What will people say. Everything that a normal, middle class Indian female should ingest and digest.

I have ingested, digested and how. But those that I digested earlier, poisons me now. The others I simply cannot digest.

Isn’t there a limit to how society can fuck one up? Those attempting to get out of the fucked up mess are further drawn into it and badgered to conformity. Unfortunately, so long as establishing rules and boundaries remains the only way to ensure even a semblance of civility, badgering and torturing will also remain.

In a world that is run by Oog the caveman’s faithful descendants, what are women but prized possessions and symbols of Oog’s virility. Cattle. Women. Oil. Guns. Nuclear toys. Servile women pampered like pooches that are given manicures and salon treatments. They also wear visible symbols of ownership on them. Red on the forehead - proud display that she is a desirable woman who has been taken and fucked and since already fucked by one Oog not to be fucked by any other. Miniature handcuffs that masquerade as rings. Rings on fingers and toes and the nose. But the icing on the cake is the Leash that is worn around the neck. Just as faithful, domesticated pets sport collars around their necks – ranging from simple leather belts to diamond encrusted ones for the uber lucky – we women flaunt the symbols of our servitude. And what’s most horrifying is the sincere belief in its glory, purity and power.

Women I know worship the leash by anointing it with turmeric and vermillion. They never take it off their necks. Even educated (virtuous) women wear it proudly and get visibly nervous at the thought of not wearing it even for a day. It reminds them of their warm home, caring husband, family, children, purpose of existence and love. All it reminds me is of a dog. And I am not.

We don't need no Freedom of Expression

O Great Spotted Arses of Elected Representatives, Fart on us kindly, give us only what our tiny brains can process, for our heads are full of shit and we don’t think, receptacles for your bowel movements that we are. We are unable to distinguish between good and bad, unable to choose, so dole out all thoughts and feelings neatly packaged, and labelled in big bold letters. Then, without much ado, we may pry open a label named indignation and may bristle with it, without stooping to tax our precious few brain cells with the trivial matter of understanding the reason for it or analysing or accepting a view different from what you have benevolently labelled right, O Great Arse. Smack Smack.

Womb Poetry

Recently I came across a website called ‘Womb Poetry’ – it’s an online journal/zine (they’re not sure which), and it’s ‘poetry for everybody’, written by women (only). Why the name ‘Womb’? Because they like the word, the etymology and the figurative/connotative properties of the word.

A contributor says one such connotation is that womb is a birthing place. So it has a reference to creativity - create, nurture, which only women can do. A woman, I am made to understand, is born with the fierce and intense longing to find the right mate to create the most beautiful and meaningful thing in the universe – a life. Like the beautiful Natasha Henstridge she scours the streets for a mate who would be the ideal chromosome sharer. She fucks him merely to get his sperm firmly embedded in the womb (those who fuck just for pleasure are nymphomaniacs). I am told that women are driven by that desire (or are supposed to be) and self-actualisation for a woman is when she gives birth. She suffers the most terrible pain in the world to create a thing of beauty, a bundle of joy.

The woman has been revered through the ages as the goddess - patient, kind, benevolent goddess; she suffers in silence for the greater good of humanity. Take for example a typical household, which is run by two partners, the man – the provider, protector and the woman – the nurturer and sufferer. Without such a clear-cut distinction that so lucidly charts out boundaries and roles, the delicate equilibrium called ‘family’ would wobble precariously and plunge to sure destruction. It is the woman who holds the fort up - though the man is and forever will be the Lord and the Master – she is the one who sticks a finger in the axle of a chariot wheel, so it may not collapse. The Master exalts her for such benevolence, and even worships her (as long as she knows her place and remains there).

A woman unwilling to stick her finger in the axle and who does not attain Nirvana while giving birth is a harlot, no doubt.

I mean no disrespect to the eminently capable poets/writers who contribute to the online womb journal. But personally, it is not my cup of tea.

My point of view is that a woman calling herself a Womb or choosing to define her identity thus, is as uninspiring as a man calling himself Testicles.

Advice

"Distance, like darkness and disease, amplifies"

Some Are Too Intelligent! Really Envious

Sample 1
Frothing at the mouth like convulsing rabid dogs and neighing horses it was a race and thoughts unreined galloped and sped towards his open arms robes fluttering caught in a sudden tempest a sand storm clogged his mouth and her eyes the sand always a fine sheen of it over every surface yet in the desert troubled thoughts were tendrils of passion that sought his inert form he moved and each movement was a groan from the bowels of the desert the life that he shed like moulting skin far behind lifeless soulless sleepwalking her fervid thoughts that reached out to him in thick coils ignored one step and the next and the next yet he knew not the destination

Sample 2
Meditations - bigoted curs foaming in travail;
Vestment moulded by an impetuous khamsin;
Amative endeavours by ringlets of passion
to ingress an exanimate umbra, futile.

Sample 3
Spilttle glinted on her pearl-like teeth flanked by labial folds of cerise. She thought of his dark, sinuous movements above her prone self. Though the traction traced searing trails on her quivering tissues, the atramentous silhouette that rhythmically shifted above her would remain obdurate. Like a sumpter of moira, with no terminus.

Common comment on all of the above: Exquisite craftsmanship. Humbled by your command over the language/vocabulary. Adopt me, I am your fan, Wowowow.

GAHH!!!

:(

What's in a Name?

Online nicks say so much about a person. We start at the base of the pyramid. That is where the home_alone_with_cam's congregate. Run an eye up to see the cool_dudes and glam_chicks. Then we have the elegant versions, the queens and kings and knights, where the names are distinctly feminine or masculine, but not screaming blatant desperation. And what about the abstruse and the vague, whose only aim seem to be obfuscating the relatively simple concept of claiming an identity? Mysterious, magical, recondite, doubtful personae. Then there are the pretenders. Quite a daring bunch -- for unlike a child named Subbalakshmi who can’t carry a tune in a bucket, but who can conveniently blame her parents for inflicting the torture of having to lug around such an unlikely name on her unworthy shoulders, the pretenders have the self-imposed duty to live up to the name that they have chosen for themselves. Though the desire to be someone else is shamelessly evident in such an endeavour, admiration is due to those who are able to do justice to their nicks.

Those on top of the pyramid are those who choose to be known as who they really are. They are no night riders or street hawks or Paris Hiltons. They claim responsibility for their actions, opinions, creations. Brave enough to discard their masks and reveal themselves as they are, in this parallel universe of masquerades.

PS: Sola Vivit In Illo
because I believe that to be true, (hopeless case seems like)
and also because
Quidquid latine dictum sit, altum videtur

Unloved

She was cursed by Love once. Love, in the pale blue flaming chariot, rode up to her and jabbed his fiery fingertips into her eyes, blinding her. Love hated her. So he blinded her.

So, in her blind world, she felt her way around. At times she rested by the flowing brook. The brook flowed with blood, it lapped at her feet and tainted her dainty toes. The crimson in her soul slowly trickled down to join the brook.

Love chided her for being dark and brooding. He twisted his fingers into her hair, his fiery fingers singed her scalp. And her eyes bled with tears. Love was disgusted at this pitiable show of passion.

Her face was tilted towards the warmth of Love. Love shone as a sun in her sky. Then Love shone brighter and her skin burnt crisp, bones burnt to cinders. She did not cry out in pain, for she feared Love’s wrath, she feared Love’s derision.

Love knelt by her and spat on her. “My Love, My Love”, she cried, wretched woman that she was. Love paid no heed, he did not need to.

Then Love draped a dirty, purple rag about her and tied her hands to his chariot with a silky rope that held false promises of tenderness. Her head was bowed and she knelt beside the chariot, as it began to move, slowly at first then picking up speed. Her knees were bruised, she got to her feet and started running.

And then Love dragged her, along the slush of her discarded prayers and devoted offerings. The oil that she had meant to anoint his head mixed with dirt now, coating her skinned knees.

Then they reached the town square. Love paused, theatrically. His face showed contempt and triumph. He had triumphed once again, as he always does. The townsfolk cast their slippers at her and they spat in contempt. The women crossed themselves for finding themselves safe and sound, as far away from her as possible for they feared she’d taint their homes. The men jeered at her for they were angered by her devotion to Love. And for they never found such naked adoration in their wives’ eyes as they found in the blind woman’s. The eunuchs laughed at her, they berated her loudly for letting herself be humiliated thus.

Love then locked her up, in a dark dungeon. His prize catch – the unloved.

Young Thung Who Cares - I do, I think

“Ready to take serious action against wrinkles?”

I nod my head vigorously and look up from Vikram Seth’s ‘Collected Poems’, and Claudia Schiffer goes on to explain how L’oreal’s collagen bio-spheres (?) plump up skin from underneath to bring about ‘visible reduction in wrinkles’. It’s not that I am wrinkly and crinkly and am in dire need of a face lift. No. Yet, I am riveted by the wrinkle-reducing ads and I find myself wondering if they work or not and what would be the right age to have a laser face thingy that supposedly blasts off the surface layer of skin and brings out pink baby skin from underneath. Am I that shallow? Well, seems like it. Am I ashamed of being shallow? Well, not really.

But it sets me thinking: what marks the mental transition from young to not-so-young-anymore? I used to feel that I was an old hag when I was 25. I have grown half a decade older. I guess the moment I turned 30 I told myself that I am not young-young anymore. I have begun to really grow old. Does that bother me? A tad, I suppose, otherwise I wouldn’t be talking about it.

I once knew this person who went on and on and on and ………… on about his turning 40. He had churned out a heap of poems and blog posts about this very significant event and I remember being mildly irritated by it. Though, I hasten to add, I understood, as I do now, exactly where he was coming from. It’s his utmost concern about his bald spot and his fading youth that really opened my eyes to the fact that men are equally vain about their youth and good looks as most women are, if not more.

What is it about old age that we foolish mortals dread so? Perhaps, we are afraid of becoming less attractive. And why does it matter if we do become less attractive? Why attract? Instinctually speaking – to consummate that attraction. To procreate. Bleeeugggghh. So man lives just to create and tend to the progeny? Then what of the noble ‘purpose in life’ that us stupid lot so earnestly seek? Your purpose in life is to raise your child(ren)? Sounds very much like my mom.

Are we worried about losing our health? Being dependent on someone? But that is too far off, and what does that have to do with wrinkles anyway? Or does the (beginning of) loss of youth trigger some neurological, biological reaction in us? Are we wired to respond to it and recognize this so we can take preventive actions in time to safeguard our health, if we so desire?

Or is it just that we are so conditioned by the modern world that we live in, that there is this very real pressure to look good and be young with flawless skin and svelte body. If we did not have the media constantly bombarding us with lascivious tidbits of firm female bottoms in thongs and muscular male torsos, would we worry so much about one wrinkle that has not even made its appearance? Now, I am not berating the media for this unbearable torture. Give us more, I say, and for obvious reasons.

At the end of it all, the only person who would be concerned about my growing old is me. Those who love me would love me still; the indifferent and the haters would go on being indifferent and hateful.

And that goes for all of you as well. It doesn’t really matter if you grow old. If you want to have the wrinkles nuked, go ahead. If you want to proudly display them, do. A wrinkle or two on one’s face or the lack of it, ultimately makes no bloody difference. So, might as well NOT have any wrinkles, what? Heh!

The Team Leader

And then he swaggers in. His hair is gelled into spikes that gives his face a boyish charm. An unruly schoolboy wearing a man’s clothes. His niceness that I used to find so appealing now irritates me. He wears it like a mask; he wears it well.

His gait is confident, measured: tailored to emit silent messages of his capabilities, his 'leadership skills'. He walks like a man destined for higher things in life, who for the moment is doing his rounds on the training floor; with a resignation that comes from the knowledge that to get to the top of the ladder, one has to start from the lowest rung. The patience of a saint.

I am suddenly overcome by a strange urge to run to him, land a heavy one square on his jaw and scream that he is a loser, a goddamn fake article. It makes me nauseous.

But I see him flash his trademark fake smile, eyes all crinkly and creasing into two thin slits on his face. He croons, ‘Hello sweetheart, how are you?’, and I croon right back at him, ‘I am good, sweetie, how are you?’. I know now that he is fake. Does he know yet that I am too?

Midnight Binge

Working in a call centre does bring about certain less than desirable changes in the body clock. That is anybody’s guess. Well, I am no exception. When I started out on this job I grew progressively weaker, plagued by headaches and my naturally frail constitution did not help matters. I might be blessed with the tenacity of a bulldog, but not its stamina. The long and short of it all is that at the moment I do not eat, sleep or behave in a manner like normal humans do. Waking up at 12 o clock in the afternoon and groaning about the fact that there’s only 2 more hours left till I have to get dressed and climb into the van is not a pleasant thing to do. And I do that every single day, with no exception even on a Friday.

I have also come to believe that normal hunger patterns somehow wither away like a dried up mass of weeds, from us call center animals. Nobody is hungry at the right time. And we all work when we are supposed to eat, eat when we are supposed to sleep and sleep when we are supposed to be doing something constructive like the rest of the world does.

Like yesterday I came home famished. Normally I find a chicken-roll on the table, I warm it up in the microwave and that should be sufficient for a good night’s sleep. But yesterday, I had the usual chicken-roll and two musambis, I still wanted more. Well, it’s just the excitement of a weekend, I thought. But it was not so as I found out half an hour later. Sleep was not about to bless me kindly until I did something about my drooling tongue and mind. So I shuffled into the kitchen and set about making one of the most delicious meals ever. Yum. A huge, I mean huge heap of steamed, buttered vegetables, 10 cocktail sausages fried to perfection and two scrambled eggs. I ate it all. I mean, I am the kind of person who would consider one scrambled egg to be a satisfying meal, but I binged like there was no tomorrow. I was an animal. By the end of it, I couldn’t move. I could barely drag myself to bed and when I did I found myself unable to sleep again. But I ate. Somehow that made me happy. I ate well. I loved it. I yam luving it. I work in a call center. That my bahaana is.

Musings @ Work

Fraud Prevention has caught my fancy of late. Also Risk Management. I trawl the Net and procure tomes of material, print them out and set about reading. Premise being that the wealth of knowledge that I assimilate now, will be of use sometime in the future - when I chair a meeting or when I make strategic decisions that will have far reaching implications. Heh.

But come to think of it, I am not too sure about the wisdom of my choice. Fraud – if I knew how to suspect and uncover ‘deliberate actions with an intent to deceive’ I would have kept away from many a persons and watched my back. Risk – if I knew how to manage that, heck, I wouldn’t even be here reading fraud-risk crap and dreaming about something that might happen in the distant future if a lucky shooting star condescends to drop on my head. If only I knew how to assess the consequences and risks of a few actions of yore!

Sigh. Wisdom dawns only when senescence yawns.

Workspace

I don’t have a cabin. Not yet. But I have a great view from where I sit in the office. I can see the sea, machaa! Can it get any better?

I sit facing a huge glass window and the view is fabulous. When I look out through the window, beyond the greenery, beyond buildings that get progressively tinier, the sea is a blue ribbon in the horizon. Sometimes, on clear days, I can even see ships sailing by. In the night, the view is better, especially so out in the balcony. Catamarans light up the dark black sea in pinpricks of light. And when night falls, you are sandwiched by the starry sky above and the dark sea below. It feels as though you are enfolded by two layers of black starry night.