Miminality

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020810111111 Miminality

I am a grinning fool. I’m twenty thousand leagues under the sea. I am a butler singing in the rain. (This evening, this evening) I’m happier than I thought I’d be.

I think houses are salvaged by windows thrown open and the sounds of laughter and good music ringing through the rooms. I’m impatient with my interest and awkward in prolonged company but complete isolation depresses me. I think I would be happiest left alone with a book in a room, balcony, staircase, windowsill, corner of the terrace with a party going on next door, content in the knowledge that people I know are having a good time but not quite requiring to circulate. I never really can decide if I am a people lover or a recluse. I enjoy people but sometimes I think I enjoy them only as a concept, in my own time and at my own pace, like people in the books. Sometimes, that’s not really a bad thing.

People in my house have always known how to leave each other alone while miraculously never quite losing track. (Sometimes, that’s not really a bad thing.) The miraculousness of it strikes me more and more with every day I spend in the ‘outside world’, with its elaborate rituals of calling-backs, returning visits, replying emails and the constant terrifying back-and-forth, back-and-forth of everything. I want to lie down in a field of long grass in the rain with my eyes tight shut to the world and my iPod plugged into my ears except that I’m sure that the rain will ruin the iPod and my maid will complain about mud on my clothes and Ma will chase me about for days with gentle reproach and cloying cough syrup and these nagging fears with never let me drown in peace. Why do we always have to come back to reality, why?

I also have to finish cleaning my room which has been only half cleaned which means everything from the shelves has been crashed down on the floor. *Sigh* and *sigh*.

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The plan to write a post for each day in July has foiled itself long ago. There isn’t much to write of except a few books read, little daily heartbreaks and a series of careless, clumsy accidents. Like a battered nose duly earned from running down college corridors without stopping to look. Being mildly electrocuted because you tried to pull a stubborn plug out of its socket without turning off the switch first, and then lying down curled on the floor shuddering shuddering shuddering and wondering when this will stop (if this will stop) and whether human beings can be earthed and if you haven’t discovered yet another not-so-disagreeable way to die. Sleeping pills were one. Not that I have any intention to die yet. But one plans, like one plans everything, for the sake of comfort and reassurance. One imagines life will be like this, although life nearly always turns out otherwise, but one must have means to fill the void in imagination.

Okay, don’t read the emo tripe. It’s just that I had to mention the electric shock because it happened right now.

Last night, I wrote this for D on my phone before I went to sleep:

I love you much, it matters not;
You’ve cast your die in with the lot
Of magic, men and mean machines.
You’ve torn your heart from verdant greens
And patched it up with bones and rags,
Cats in hats and tricks in bags;
You’ve lost it, tossed it like a toy,
And grieved it like a foolish boy.

I think he likes it a little or maybe he doesn’t. I miss D very much although I’ll never get the knack of saying things entirely warm or cheerful. I wonder if he minds that I put this up on the blog?

I’ve finished setting up the new sound system in my room and in a while (I’m hoping) the new printer will get crackling and when I go to bed tonight I’ll be technologically fulfilled and happy.

Thought of the Day

280710 Miminality7 Comments

If you keep trying to prove Murphy’s Law, will something inevitably go wrong?

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All morning there were alternating clouds and sunbursts and a little whimsical rain, and curled up in my bed with the light not lit I could sometimes see the page of the book in my hands and sometimes not. When it was too dark to decipher the words anymore I would roll over and lie on my back and think about the lines I’d just read and how fast my eyesight was going and ohmygodarghhowmuchthishurts and then the room would fill with sunshine again and I’d go back to reading some more of Flowers for Algernon which was finished late in the afternoon, just before the tubelight had to be decisively turned on and then I went to sleep. Flowers for Algernon is the first book borrowed from the DL with my new library card, which was issued yesterday. It makes me feel a little more grounded to this place though there is still time to fly away (and I’ll stare and stare at the days and watch them pass, tick-ticking away, I’ll stare hard and steady and faithful until it’s too late and then I’ll shake my head, look away and forget). The novel is creepy, well thought-out and absorbing, just the way I like all stories to be. (The beginning, though, reminded me that I never finished reading A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man which I began long ago: a small, rather familiar pang of guilt.)

Physical pain amuses me by the sheer tangibility of it unlike emotional pain. You can contain it, exclude it and forget all about it. These days are like 2004-05 all over again except that in 2004-05 I used to think the future would be different. But the “different” seems to have been just an interlude and now the waters are closing in again and I’m trying to remind myself that in 2004-05 I was not unhappy. Quite a few negatives but I was strong and independent and unafraid to love and infinitely curious about everything. I would love to have that curiosity back. Let’s see, let’s see.