I start to think of life after.
Monday, April 14, 2014
Friday, April 4, 2014
a quiet day at home
A beautiful phrase I read somewhere - 'introspection is slipping away from me.'
Perhaps there are phases where my subconscious doesn't want me to look into it. Perhaps, it knows in its subconsciousy wisdom, that in order to hold it together, Harshita has to keep looking away, distracting herself, going to sleep as soon as she can.
Perhaps it was reading Foucault in class, how confession is a text shot through with power. I was thinking of my first diary in that class. One that came with a lock. I was in class 8 and I wrote things in it that were worthy of being kept under lock and key, or so I thought. Crushes and little feuds and insecurities and bitching about my mother and wishing life was like a movie. Then I was thinking of 'journaling' as a way to reduce stress. How we give so much power to the written words, to the mess of ink and pixels and an intensity of belief that it will alter the brain's chemistry and life's circumstances. Yeah right.
Oh Foucault, what have you done to me. (said many many college students.) (Butler's next.)
Besides, there isn't much time to introspect these days. It seems I spend my life travelling in the metro. I have stopped squeezing my bum into the small spaces in between women who will ALWAYS make more space than they have, crossing legs and shrinking spines, bless their bodies socialised into accepting, and hearts inured to discomfort. I press my nose to the kindle, and prepare for classes on the one hour towards the university, and gobble novels on the way back. I am reading so many novels these days, stealing time from my Legit Reading. I don't care. Women be legit villainesses and grey heroines yo. Thank you Atwood and Flynn and Hardinge.
I get gaspy sometimes, hearing that I've hitched the next few years to something that's not mine to control (like anything is), to something whose nature is fundamentally uncertain. But I flip it around, and assure him, this is just a way for my adventure to begin, you were just a catalyst. And then I breathe again, careful deceit insulating the inside of my lungs.
Perhaps there are phases where my subconscious doesn't want me to look into it. Perhaps, it knows in its subconsciousy wisdom, that in order to hold it together, Harshita has to keep looking away, distracting herself, going to sleep as soon as she can.
Perhaps it was reading Foucault in class, how confession is a text shot through with power. I was thinking of my first diary in that class. One that came with a lock. I was in class 8 and I wrote things in it that were worthy of being kept under lock and key, or so I thought. Crushes and little feuds and insecurities and bitching about my mother and wishing life was like a movie. Then I was thinking of 'journaling' as a way to reduce stress. How we give so much power to the written words, to the mess of ink and pixels and an intensity of belief that it will alter the brain's chemistry and life's circumstances. Yeah right.
Oh Foucault, what have you done to me. (said many many college students.) (Butler's next.)
Besides, there isn't much time to introspect these days. It seems I spend my life travelling in the metro. I have stopped squeezing my bum into the small spaces in between women who will ALWAYS make more space than they have, crossing legs and shrinking spines, bless their bodies socialised into accepting, and hearts inured to discomfort. I press my nose to the kindle, and prepare for classes on the one hour towards the university, and gobble novels on the way back. I am reading so many novels these days, stealing time from my Legit Reading. I don't care. Women be legit villainesses and grey heroines yo. Thank you Atwood and Flynn and Hardinge.
I get gaspy sometimes, hearing that I've hitched the next few years to something that's not mine to control (like anything is), to something whose nature is fundamentally uncertain. But I flip it around, and assure him, this is just a way for my adventure to begin, you were just a catalyst. And then I breathe again, careful deceit insulating the inside of my lungs.
Saturday, January 25, 2014
commitment issues
There's always been this problem. I've consoled myself by saying it's what comes of being a multi-talented person, good at many things. I should have committed to dance, I love it and I could have gotten better at it. I should have committed to English, I love literature and thinking analytically about media and theory. But there's always something tapping at my shoulder - you could sing/you could act/you could become an IAS officer/you're never going to be able to write a novel anyway/you'll have to come home by 8 anyway/you will fail. Result - I've ended up pursuing nothing, feeling like I've ended up doing nothing. I'm just going to be another bleh academic sitting in a corner occasionally thinking she's important in that corner.
I've tried my hand at most things. I've enjoyed them and liked them enough to want to go further, not stay casual. But it's never been feasible, too many things in my head and home holding me back. It's taken awhile in my head to break out of the idea of the straight and narrow life, progressing through officejob and savings and house and marriage and settlingdown and reproducing and dying.
It's not too late, I'm under no ageist illusions of that sort. And I have a chance now - to give my heart and word to something that I never anticipated or dreamed would come to me, and I could take it, but there's a tapping on my shoulder. Maybe there's something better, something easier still waiting; maybe committing will only lead to nothing.
I've tried my hand at most things. I've enjoyed them and liked them enough to want to go further, not stay casual. But it's never been feasible, too many things in my head and home holding me back. It's taken awhile in my head to break out of the idea of the straight and narrow life, progressing through officejob and savings and house and marriage and settlingdown and reproducing and dying.
It's not too late, I'm under no ageist illusions of that sort. And I have a chance now - to give my heart and word to something that I never anticipated or dreamed would come to me, and I could take it, but there's a tapping on my shoulder. Maybe there's something better, something easier still waiting; maybe committing will only lead to nothing.
Wednesday, December 25, 2013
Thursday, November 28, 2013
Post travel blues
In my head, I was never going to be one of 'those' travellers who come back from a trip gushing and starry-eyed, "it changed my life!". But I think I came back with a little piece of my heart still in Saigon, unironically, in the sense that I still daydream about living there. And it won't be a stretch to say that I was really swept up in the magic that was night time Hoi An. I haven't looked at the pictures since because... just because.
I don't know what more to write. I've told the stories over and over, and while Saigon and Hanoi I've shared with people openly, Hoi An and Ha Long Bay I've kept to myself.
*
What happened to the girl who couldn't get through the day without breaking down? She's been replaced by the girl who screams inside the car and runs around sounding manic on the phone. Healthier probably.
I don't know what more to write. I've told the stories over and over, and while Saigon and Hanoi I've shared with people openly, Hoi An and Ha Long Bay I've kept to myself.
*
What happened to the girl who couldn't get through the day without breaking down? She's been replaced by the girl who screams inside the car and runs around sounding manic on the phone. Healthier probably.
Friday, November 8, 2013
posting this from kl airport
because i can. now waiting to go to ho chi Minh city.
sleepy and crampy and grumpus. thank god i am not on Facebook and obligated to !!!!
there are white women here wearing skimpy tank tops that say NAM in hot pink. this has got to be interesting.
sleepy and crampy and grumpus. thank god i am not on Facebook and obligated to !!!!
there are white women here wearing skimpy tank tops that say NAM in hot pink. this has got to be interesting.
Saturday, November 2, 2013
Skin
For a few hours after being waxed, skin feels like what it really is - rubber stretched over and folded up to make your body, keep all your organs inside. There's a weird detachment in touching and poking smooth, hairless skin, and for a moment you're aware - this is not how it should be.
I've been unselfconscious enough for the past few months to walk around hairy. I can say this time it was a choice, to put my skin through trauma and myself through an hour of silent self-beration.
A year or so ago, I didn't see the same person when I stood naked in front of the mirror. Funny how things change. Funny what love does. People jump continents and people burn villages for it. Funny what love is.
I've been unselfconscious enough for the past few months to walk around hairy. I can say this time it was a choice, to put my skin through trauma and myself through an hour of silent self-beration.
A year or so ago, I didn't see the same person when I stood naked in front of the mirror. Funny how things change. Funny what love does. People jump continents and people burn villages for it. Funny what love is.
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