I have been asked to stop pretending to be an intellectual..

So I'm swinging to the other end of the spectrum...This is the point at which I regret telling nears and dears about blog as also the point at which this blog is finally deserted by all well meaning civilized visitors. I do believe however that this needs to be said.I think there is something profoundly sensual about sweat. Its true. Don't get me wrong not the sick badan pe sukha hua smelly nylon clothes vala sweat, nor the sitting in a DTC bus turning into a boiled egg smelling armpits kind of sweat no.More the sweat and blood,have just achieved something sort of sweat. One of the best things about going to the gym i think is the incredibly rewarding feeling you get when you come out with your Light blue t-shirt having turned a glossy, slimy black.The aforementioned Sensual nature of sweat then would explain why so many people spend their time in the gym with a glint in their eye staring at themselves in the mirror. Some gymers such as myself have realized that a natural pre-requisite to looking good is a most unnatural twist of the neck that gives the impression of really sharp jawline and a sharp but not crooked nose. If you therefore ever walk into a gym and find a twisted mangled body lying by the treadmill know that it is me......anyhow we digress..............The point being that being a person who goes through life without such vanities as sharp noses and jawlines why does the gym bring out the monster in me. I believe the answer lies in sweating.I have tried to explain why i think that sweat is so much more than just saline liquid being released by ones body but i haveto say that i have failed because each of my explanations sound either like lines that should be in a book titled the "delta of venus" (wink wink), or in a self help book geared to bettering ones self esteem. I have decided therefore to refrain from explaining any further. All that i can really say is SWEAT my friends sweat proudly. "JAI MA PASEENE VALEE "

The distance
We find to distance ourselves from ourselves
This frightened clawing existence
Superimposed with grey tubelit light
With language unable to explain and
Gesture unable to regurgitate
What stops these weeping, bloody words?
Hands that reach out in
Empty, hollow clichés of distress.
Explain my mornings
My nights
My middles
Explain then this script of distressed drivel
Even pain is no longer unique
Spell check my life
Fix the syntax
An extra “the” an “and” perhaps ?
Bracketed and boxed
Explain then to me these equations.

Life’s never-ending conversation with itself
Follow itself so tediously
We find ourselves meandering in melodrama
And drowning in our own defeats.
Between the games of love and lust
And the hands of hate
I want to find another word
Another language
I want a new skin.
Chocolate coloured?
All you retail messiahs
D’you think you could spare some curly hair.
New shoes and maybe a stronger sharper chin.

Yes I do believe salvation lies in a new chin.

Then how should.........

.......... I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

Irrespective of how many times I read this poem it never fails to surprises me how neatly and completely it says everything that I can never find words for.
It seems I am creature driven by rage and hurt and when both these feelings subside I am left only with a hollow unnerved feeling. Where there are infinite possibilities and options in one min of terrifying anger, there are only insurmountable obstacles and questions in the next.
and it is times such as this that have made me befriend J. Alfred Prufrock.


1. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock



S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.


LET us go then, you and I,
With the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be timenTo wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?
"Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair
[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,",
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]
Do I dareDisturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,W
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
is it perfume from a dress That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.

And should I then presume?
And how should I begin? . . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. . . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.


And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all."


And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all." . . . . .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.


I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.


We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.