If you’ve ever noticed, while chatting you generally have atleast 2 conversations going with the same person at the same time. You ask a question, and then all of a sudden, as you sit staring at ‘so-and-so is typing’, your thoughts have jumped to something else so you ask another, and as the second person receives your second question he/ she has already started replying so he/she says ‘what the hell, that took some effort to type out’ and goes on and hits ‘enter’. so you get a reply to the first Q but your thoughts are on the second and then the other person starts replying to that one so you wait again as ‘so-and-so is typing.’ But now you have an answer to the first question you asked so it is a. polite b. human nature to ask a supplementary question. So you ask that one. And then you suddenly notice that in Tabbing and Alt+tabbing between multiple chat windows, you two-timer you, you missed a question directed at you back there in line 46 of this chat conversation.
So you start off typing an answer to that one and hit Enter again. And just as the person at the other end is marvelling at his/ her own wit and wisdom and admiring the snappy response to your last question one last time before hitting enter, weighing options that might pack a wittier punch, or atleast one that warrants a tongue-out smiley as a rider, you throw an answer at the poor so-and-so’s face. An answer?? When you should have been getting ready to comment on that unbelievably smart reply by saying something like ROTFLMFAO or some such cryptic abbreviated response… Selfish b******, you.
And so the story goes dee-da-dee dee-da-dee dee-da-dee-da-dee-da-dee like someone once sang, Maria Montell – wise old Google on the top of the hill tells me though don’t ask me why I remember this line. And so the story goes on and the conversation marches ahead, marching being a remarkably good metaphor I think since it is a little like watching footsteps left by wet feet on a cement floor; the lefts marking one thread of thoughts and the rights forming another…
But conversations don’t always have to go somewhere, do they?
I remember now how the sky once looked…
I want to go home, lie down on the terrace and watch the clouds move by. I want to look into the inviolably deep light-blueness of the evening sky and wonder about something. Anything. I remember the feel of the hard uneven cement under my back and legs. I remember the friction as I tried moving to a more comfortable place. I remember recognizing the patch of darker filler cement where the older cement had come loose by the shape of the pressure. I remember the warmth of the floor on my neck and hands as I lay there. I remember remembering to worry about having to answer for dirtied clothes much too late.
I remember all this suddenly as I read of a conversation a person had with the sea. And for some reason, I feel the quiver of excitement in my legs. This feeling will go too; by the time the weekend is here and I go home, I will forget to run up and try this again. Even if I did, I know I’m going to get stuck in a time warp again and obsess over everything that’s gone by. In a sense I’m glad for not remembering, for feelings from the past can’t be like recipes in a cook-book. Nostalgia (An elegant broth to fortify the soul). Take 2 measures depression, 1 measure satisfaction, 6 measures alcohol. Stir well, add rain to taste. Serves 1. For a lifetime. Always take with a pinch of salt.
Nevertheless, write it down today, I must…
Like footprints on the football ground from yesterday’s game…
“But why Master? Why must they hate me so?”, screeched the young initiate as he sat, impatient to finally know. Of course, not to be denied was the distinctly unpleasant fact that his legs were numb out of an unfamiliarity with sitting cross-legged on hard ground for more than 3 minutes, 32 seconds… “Harrumphh….” began the Master, as he cleared his throat to speak. It had been a while since he’d been asked a question. He’d almost begun to doubt his abilities as a con-man who actually believed his own words, but now the time was by. This was his momen… “Ummm, excuse me Master, could you look a little slippy about it, please? I have a coupla places to go to yet; get my a** kicked a couple more times this evening before I can curl up in misery for the night.”
Damn if Mr. Master was going to let the chance go by. To be forceful and have your say said was a part of the curriculum at the Messiah’s finishing school. It was what made the difference between the poor dumass hermit sitting below the tree in the town-square praying for enlightenment, discreetly squinting out of one barely-opened eye at the passers-by to see if he made any impression at all and the slick Guwrroo who spread the cheer all around…
“Listen kid”, he said firmly. “You think you got problems? I’m here, valedictorian of my class, sitting around twiddling my thumbs thanks to the recession, waiting for the next devotee to turn up and all I get is you. You. You understand devotee? Flowers, food, incense, respect – now we’re talking… Respect boy, respect…” Pause. “Ummm, right, I don’t exactly know where this soliloquy is going but hopefully we should know when I’m done yeah? You with me boy? Yeah? Good…” “Look Master, I’m really sorry to wield the pin and burst your bubble but the b2c section of the Yellow Pages does have an entire page on Masters, mebbe I could go take a walk while you marshal your thoughts? How does that sound to you?”
The veneer cracks… “You spotty little acne-ridden, larynx-half-developed, squeaky-voiced kid… Just how the heck do you tell me to conduct my business? You throw my competition in the b2c section at me? I’m gonna throw the whole darned directory at you, literally not figuratively… And lemme tell you what a great, frigging birdie hooted into my ear at a hundred damn dB yesterday night. With this dump of a system that passes for an education in this civilization, every second kid your age is as ill-adjusted as you are… Ergo, business as usual at the gold-mine… Ka-ching… Take that, you disgusting spotty moron…”
“Oh yeah, wise guy?”, yelled back the kid at what (embarrassingly enough) used to be the top of his voice before his voice had apparently cracked… Tingling numb leg, messed-up sense of balance, an inability to stand straight… Shame and anger and denial do a quick jig together while appearing to be at each other’s throats… “If you think you are so goddamn smart, just why the heck don’t you tell me what my problem is? Or would you like me to open the dictionary to the ‘capitalism’ page and throw that at you too? I happen to be on matey terms with a good solid hard-bound dictionary that could do with an airing, you know…”
“Beats me, I haven’t the slightest f***ing clue how to help you… “
Failure. You never ever ever ever admit you don’t know. Never.
I’m considering turning this into a part-time photography blog. I’m tired of trying to impress weird East-European chicks with lots of time on their hands and itchy trigger-fingers with my amateurish attempts at meaningful, thoughtful photography especially considering that, by definition, they are in East Europe and I’m still in nammooru…
So here goes… The pics are from the good old institute where my soul has been auctioned off to my research(!) advisor since the devil couldn’t meet his bid…
Run out of words, running out of time,
Tongue-tied or licked,
Fear for the self, fear the self,
Keyboard combatant, penman pugilist,
Yellow human after all…!