My wired ribs

This comes after a long time, especially after watching four trashy movies in a row. I watched Terminator, Kambakht Ishq, Harry Potter and The Hangover. All four were supposed to be really entertaining for quite a few people. It was so depressing to pay for each of them and exclaim in disgust like a little child, to look at people around and protest with the "what's so funny" chant. This made me wonder if I am wired to be tickled in a different way or just not wired enough to be tickled. Loads of my friends keep saying that I don't laugh at their jokes or funny things in general because I have an impoverished sense of humor. There are things that really make me laugh, but they appear sadistic or 'beyond the ridiculous' funny to others. Things like the repetitive 'Bruce lee' jokes (if you don't know them, bruce lee's favorite breakfast= id lee)and other geek jokes or sexual puns and innuendos are funny. But something put out there obviously is not. I cannot tolerate American sense of humor, too demonstrative, too chomped on my face. I like Chris Crocker better :P
Its not like there aren't others with such deadpan wired ribs, its that there are just few of them and I like it that way!

Have you ever thought of it?

Have you ever thought of why some people make the lamest of jokes and get away with it? Have you ever wondered why some people just absolutely need to surround themselves with others? Why some people just end up getting all they want and it adds to their personal growth while others just endlessly crib like hopeless romantics? why some can sing so well and others are not so popular 'cos they can't? How is it that some are just content with relatively insignificant life and still manage to make friends, have lovers and live some semi-charmed life while some just get tangled in a metaphysical battle with their daily lives where they ought to fill in all 24 hours of the slot with their own consciousness? Have you ever wondered why some walk incredibly slowly and seem to have no qualms about the seconds and minutes wasted in transition itself that probably a quarter of their lives is spent in an inefficient method of working? Have you ever thought of running for the president, becoming a porn star with magical fingers, the world's smartest gamer and then, just yawned in the mirror looking at your miserable self because it is not good enough? Have you been to numerous counselors who keep pink and yellow labels with different disorder names and waited for hours for them to tell you why nobody wants to emotionally invest in you? Have you thought that after reading it, if you ever do, you may end up saying no to all of this and conclude that this is a zonked chick with a screwed life and free cyberspace who is boring me to death?
Do you ever think each exhalation out?
It is fatiguing.

And the sailing ships will pass you by

It is a creative writing piece written for a college competition. It tends to be dirtily ranty woman-ish somewhere. Excuse that.

I am still twisting that wet strand of hair like some rope dipped in tea. There's crumbs of walnut brownie on my lips. No, actually the corner of my mouth. It looks like the curve of the boat that we saw at the beach, I know. There is a salty sea inside the walls of my mouth, I can feel the watery slimy emotions brimming like a choker necklace up till my throat, the water exploding through my nose, my ears, all crevices, my mouth, the open ends of my globe like opulent eyes, my open freckled pores and those streams of saline flood cracking at the back of my neck. Stop, think about the death. Forget the funeral. Defense mechanism. Period.

Let's pick another one. I will rationalize my panic attacks and the irrational post traumatic stress of losing you. There is just enough time for the talk. After all, we are different people. I like beans and you, spinach. My eyes can't see, like rains on a plastic sheet. There is a storm brewing at the pit of my womb.

How were you? Now receding, ebb like, tissue by tissue, dripping in clots, aren't you petrified of the next storm in the sewage pipelines? That will be another storm, flushed. He is scrubbing my interiors clean, like cardboard. I can hear something like waxy paper. There is a mesh with big holes and it is filtering knuckled words and fist fights.

Just for four months' sake, I will write my own elegies to you.
"While I pack crates and move boulders from my choking throat, as I carefully uncork the ululating storm. I untie the cord. Snap! From Amneotic pool to murky suspicious oceans. You will sink, it will sink in you. Honks and gongs may sing to your sleepy mornings. After you gobble breakfast with Gillyweed and pebbles, wave through those layers of blue; huge red bottoms of sailing ships will pass you by.

The French connection

This is about the trip that is just over. A trip to Pondicherry (Puducherry). All those streets and those houses that were yellow and gray and blue. All streets named in French. So many people who spoke french. I was bummed. I cannot and am too exhausted to romanticize about the place but there is a beach between auroville and Pondy where I went at night. It was a fantasy, like some ancient African dance to beckon the moon hiding behind the clouds and the waves roaring, invading the land slight by slight. There are not many pictures of the place because it was birthday party scene and most pictures are of people. Still, I have just put some visual memory for color. It was a beautiful trip because I could still confidently speak french and connect to the french way of thinking and gasping about typical frivolities.
Je me disais que c'etait fini, que c'etait l'histoire. Mais les sentiments sont bien preserves, meme aujourd'hui. C'est comme un grand sac dans lequel il ya des mots pour la meme image mais dont la description la rend completement differente.