Monday, March 13, 2006
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 "
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, March 06, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Tis Tragic
It seems I am suffering from what is popularly known as writers block. Though I have to admit that the title of writer really is a bit of a delusion of grandeur. I think it’s mostly because I seem to be perpetually sleepy.....................................
Went for a wedding yesterday which I thought I would hate but one tiny vodka sprite later it seems I was the only one still doing the kajrare. The truth is finally out you can take a punjabi to water but you can’t take the punjabi out of me (or something like that anyway).
I do believe that my penchant to grind my hips in public and take almost perverse pleasure in the thumka defines me much more than all my rock and roller pretensions put together.
Nothing in the world is more fun than dancing to hindi music with all the nakhra and ankhon kea ishare thrown in.
At the cost of sounding a bit like a crazy desi eating aam ka achhar on a charpaii in a house stuffed with crystal ware in a forgotten suburb somewhere in the United States i haveto say that there really is something to theory of identifying with ones own language and idiom and such.
Infact lately i seem to have developed an unfamiliar nostalgia for dogri/punjabi (not sure if I am just through and through punjabi or part Kashmiri part Himachali punjabi or if i'm just a plain dilliwallah).
Perhaps I'm turning into a Bengali except Punjabi................................................
Went for a wedding yesterday which I thought I would hate but one tiny vodka sprite later it seems I was the only one still doing the kajrare. The truth is finally out you can take a punjabi to water but you can’t take the punjabi out of me (or something like that anyway).
I do believe that my penchant to grind my hips in public and take almost perverse pleasure in the thumka defines me much more than all my rock and roller pretensions put together.
Nothing in the world is more fun than dancing to hindi music with all the nakhra and ankhon kea ishare thrown in.
At the cost of sounding a bit like a crazy desi eating aam ka achhar on a charpaii in a house stuffed with crystal ware in a forgotten suburb somewhere in the United States i haveto say that there really is something to theory of identifying with ones own language and idiom and such.
Infact lately i seem to have developed an unfamiliar nostalgia for dogri/punjabi (not sure if I am just through and through punjabi or part Kashmiri part Himachali punjabi or if i'm just a plain dilliwallah).
Perhaps I'm turning into a Bengali except Punjabi................................................
Friday, February 24, 2006
still ooooooffffffffiiinnnggg.......
.........but its getting better and I owe it all to a little wolf snake that made it's way to my garden the other day (i think my mothers deranged gardning fetish might have disturbed her happy home).Dont be shocked by the "her" in the brackets, we managed to save it from the manaical beatings of the mali and hand it safely over to Jose from wildlife SOS who informed me that the snake was infact a her.
Was very pleased to find that Delhi is now well organised to deal with these situations. if you come accross a snake dont kill it throw a blanket or a bori on top of it. The snake will not attempt to leave the safety of the blanket. After that call wildlife SOS (check out their website for numbers in your city) at 9810355075 or 9810114563.
i would recommend visiting their website in anycase if only for the feel good factor.
Was very pleased to find that Delhi is now well organised to deal with these situations. if you come accross a snake dont kill it throw a blanket or a bori on top of it. The snake will not attempt to leave the safety of the blanket. After that call wildlife SOS (check out their website for numbers in your city) at 9810355075 or 9810114563.
i would recommend visiting their website in anycase if only for the feel good factor.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
I'm just a working man in my prime.......cleaning windows
with the amount of soul searching going on nowadays I might as well bleach my hair blond, start using emami fair and handsome, purchase radha krishna attire and join ISKON. I feel stragely like Harun from Rushdie's Harun and the Sea of Stories, the boy who couldn't keep his mind on anything for more than 10 min.
so anyway I rediscovered Van Morrison driving to work this morning. I think once you get passed the have I told you latelies the music really is delicious. (incidentally the reason I had first purchased this album was because I was convinced that Van Morrison was Jim Morrison's sister.) Now this would obviously be my cue to launch into an esoteric profound thesis on the beauty of the blues and their role in the political life of black America but again in my Harunesque way i think i'll just pass.............................basically all I want to say on this count is that Dominos, Warm love and here comes the night and one song that goes something like" stone me to my soul stone me just like jelly roles and stooooooaaaaaaaned me.............................. " are definitely worth a listen.
moving on i spent Saturday evening at the executive council meeting of the Miranda House alumni association. i went with stars in my eyes about how we would change the face of the world as we know it. nothing would be the same, the name Miranda House would be mentioned only in soft worshipy tones. Basically i got a slap and was told to go stand in the corner with my head to wall and wonder why i thought the alumni association would have anything to do with the college................................ooooooofffffff. Those who know me will understand the depth of feeling in that ooooofffffff...................................
i think this could qualify for the most boring thing ever written i must stop now..........
so anyway I rediscovered Van Morrison driving to work this morning. I think once you get passed the have I told you latelies the music really is delicious. (incidentally the reason I had first purchased this album was because I was convinced that Van Morrison was Jim Morrison's sister.) Now this would obviously be my cue to launch into an esoteric profound thesis on the beauty of the blues and their role in the political life of black America but again in my Harunesque way i think i'll just pass.............................basically all I want to say on this count is that Dominos, Warm love and here comes the night and one song that goes something like" stone me to my soul stone me just like jelly roles and stooooooaaaaaaaned me.............................. " are definitely worth a listen.
moving on i spent Saturday evening at the executive council meeting of the Miranda House alumni association. i went with stars in my eyes about how we would change the face of the world as we know it. nothing would be the same, the name Miranda House would be mentioned only in soft worshipy tones. Basically i got a slap and was told to go stand in the corner with my head to wall and wonder why i thought the alumni association would have anything to do with the college................................ooooooofffffff. Those who know me will understand the depth of feeling in that ooooofffffff...................................
i think this could qualify for the most boring thing ever written i must stop now..........
Thursday, February 16, 2006
TIS MY ASS
so i was meandering some more through the bylanes of bloggistan when i came upon a rather disturbing phenomena. there are blogs upon blogs upon blogs dedicated to the Christian Right. I am sure that blogging lends itself to all sorts of fascists pontification but i seemed to come across only madmen and women sitting in some forgotten corner of Texas training their guns on everything from abortion to coca-cola (because they sponsor sporting events in the Muslim world). The cartoon controversy has obviously added fuel to fire. What really annoys me about these writings though is that though they extol virtues like freedom of speech,expression and choice they leave very little space for freedom of intellectual or political choice. This attitude of "your either with us or against us" comes shining through in pretty much every blog. i cant for eg condemn the reactionary mindless violence by sections of Muslims across the world and still be extremely critical of the cartoon, its connotation and the reaction of the Western press. I HAVE TO CHOOSE..............
I had a teacher like that in collage according to her there were only three types of people
the good ie the leftists/socialist/academics, children of mixed marriages, malyalis,tamilians,VEGETARIANS etc etc
the bad ie the people with somewhat right of the centre economic ideologies as also businessmen and ofcourse punjabis, people who ate meat or wore leather, MEN all men are bad,
and finally the potatoes ie people who had made the mistake of have more or less non-aligned ideologies and did not fall into the aforementioned categories.
you will find that these are people who shout the loudest and protest the hardest always at any fora that doesnt require a debate on solutions.
well to you my hair brained friends i have only one thing to say
"Tis my centrist potato ass"
thats poetic license for kiss morons
I had a teacher like that in collage according to her there were only three types of people
the good ie the leftists/socialist/academics, children of mixed marriages, malyalis,tamilians,VEGETARIANS etc etc
the bad ie the people with somewhat right of the centre economic ideologies as also businessmen and ofcourse punjabis, people who ate meat or wore leather, MEN all men are bad,
and finally the potatoes ie people who had made the mistake of have more or less non-aligned ideologies and did not fall into the aforementioned categories.
you will find that these are people who shout the loudest and protest the hardest always at any fora that doesnt require a debate on solutions.
well to you my hair brained friends i have only one thing to say
"Tis my centrist potato ass"
thats poetic license for kiss morons
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Tis an intersting story really.......
This whole blogging business started one day when I was looking for the website of a Colombian company called Zorro Garcia and co and happened to chance upon "Zorro on Doughnuts". Yohan I might love you, marry me together we will take on those crazy headbanging engineers. What is this country coming to I say.......Shocking shocking.
so anyway much meandering through the virtual world of bloggers later I am very excited to find that these are wonderful fora for pontificators (i believe i am one such) to pontificate. So one epiphany later here i am having another one " it sounded so much better in my head"
In the famous words of Dave Mathews Band "i have no lid upon my head but if i did you could look inside and see whats on my mind........................." Sigh
unfortunately inspite of the miracles of modern science my head well............. tis a mystery really.
(do you think working tis into beginnings and ends might infact get a bit tiresome?)
So then the real question before us is this. why blogs? why in gods name do people read these bloody things? well I for one started for the love of Yohan but found later that some of these pontificators seem mighty talented. Some ofcourse (yours truly included) write like rubbish about their sisters best friends brother who cut his thumb and subsequently needed a band aid. Other's however have wonderful nuanced witty styles of writing that are really nothing short of inspiring. I find myself slowly morphing into an old victorian style lady so before i start saying knickers and giggling let me take your leave with one last question are there rules to blogging?
pray do tell.................
Tis the end then beautiful friend, tis is the end my only friend the end........lalalalallalalalalala
This whole blogging business started one day when I was looking for the website of a Colombian company called Zorro Garcia and co and happened to chance upon "Zorro on Doughnuts". Yohan I might love you, marry me together we will take on those crazy headbanging engineers. What is this country coming to I say.......Shocking shocking.
so anyway much meandering through the virtual world of bloggers later I am very excited to find that these are wonderful fora for pontificators (i believe i am one such) to pontificate. So one epiphany later here i am having another one " it sounded so much better in my head"
In the famous words of Dave Mathews Band "i have no lid upon my head but if i did you could look inside and see whats on my mind........................." Sigh
unfortunately inspite of the miracles of modern science my head well............. tis a mystery really.
(do you think working tis into beginnings and ends might infact get a bit tiresome?)
So then the real question before us is this. why blogs? why in gods name do people read these bloody things? well I for one started for the love of Yohan but found later that some of these pontificators seem mighty talented. Some ofcourse (yours truly included) write like rubbish about their sisters best friends brother who cut his thumb and subsequently needed a band aid. Other's however have wonderful nuanced witty styles of writing that are really nothing short of inspiring. I find myself slowly morphing into an old victorian style lady so before i start saying knickers and giggling let me take your leave with one last question are there rules to blogging?
pray do tell.................
Tis the end then beautiful friend, tis is the end my only friend the end........lalalalallalalalalala
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