incarnadine

Smriti Daniel — Wed, 02 Dec 2009 17:07:05 +0000

Just what I needed to hear:

“You are not there. Somewhere in the future, suffering for something that hasn’t happened yet. You are not there, in a place where all your worries manifest.

You are not there. Somewhere in the past, reliving your old mistakes and regrets. You are not there, in a place where memories resurrect.

You are here. Right here.”

but of course, the same applies to joys both anticipated and remembered…and some of those I find it rather hard to do without.

Smriti Daniel — Wed, 02 Dec 2009 03:06:29 +0000

I got back from Trincomalee on Sunday, bearing dodol and buffalo curd from Kantale and musket from the kovil inside the fort. near Kantale reservoir: hilariously, a billboard features photographs of our dear president and his war cabinet lined up above the usual collage of steely eyed commandos and expensive looking equipment…except that where the ex-general should have been looking a picture of grim resolve, there was simply a neat square hole. Laughing A takes pictures, but since he is convinced that the army men staffing a nearby checkpoint are responsible, he doesn’t laugh too loud. me, I’d like to know how this is going to play out.

S has been a way for two nights and a day, and I’ve yet to spend more than an hour alone. But now, I’m sitting by the window, contemplating bumming off work, just so I can lounge around. Outside, the branches of a gnarled old mango tree end in clumps of new, nearly-neon green leaves. I glance at it frequently, feeling rather companionable, both of us basking in the warm morning sun, luxuriating in the light breeze skimming over skin and bark. Nina is on, and she’s singing about wild winds and sweet kisses.

sigh.

duty calls. at least its Wednesday and the weekend is just two days away.

Smriti Daniel — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 17:32:29 +0000

I look at the clock and feel the full weight of my weariness settle onto me.

Its something S makes much fun of, the physiological devastation wrecked by a single glance at my watch. But there’s a frisbee game on tomorrow in the park, and since C entrusted me with a frisbee to bring to games and since I spent a *ridiculous* amount on a new pair of running shoes, I feel absolutely compelled to get up and out.

(don’t let my nonchalance fool you. the frisbee has a glow in the dark pattern that warms the very cockles of my heart and the shoes are so sparkly and lovely that I feel as if there were tiny white fairy wings attached to the heels, lending me speed.)

butts aglow

Smriti Daniel — Sun, 12 Oct 2008 12:59:17 +0000

Right now, all the fireflies in the world have settled on the amberella tree outside my window.

Together, we wait for the rain to stop.

moon woman

Smriti Daniel — Sun, 12 Oct 2008 08:10:15 +0000

S is back tomorrow, or possibly very late tonight. In the 10 days he’s been gone, I’ve been drifting around the house, Ms. Havisham like, trailing smoke and enjoying the silence. A decided enough was enough on Friday, and I ended up spending the night at her house, where we watched planet earth (really, how cool is that set?) and hung out on her terrace. From our perch, up there on the 7th floor, we could see straight into the neighbouring houses. Apartment living really does encourage voyeurism; you watch, somewhat diverted, as inside each brightly lit box people get on with the arduous business of living . (Unfortunately, no one was having wild-monkey-sex.) Also, occassionally, you find someone looking right back at you.

Stayed up till 4 a.m last night with K, D and R. Despite none of us managing to get good and stinking drunk, E’s balcony was all we needed to unwind completely. Her house is out in the boondocks, and actually affords a view - paddy fields by night.

Sab is back in town, and she brought me the Graveyard Book. (I dig that Gaiman posted the entire book online for free and managed to top the best seller lists pretty much simultaneously.) What with all the wonderful downloads I’ve got going, the end of the week chaos, and the pizza that just arrived, I’m feeling optimistic.

Rumour has it that this week is going to be better than the last.

I may take a holiday in kenya

Smriti Daniel — Tue, 07 Oct 2008 14:12:00 +0000

J’s gift to me: bracelets made out of punching little cylinders through a pair rubber flipflops that, along with many hundreds of other pairs, washed up somewhere in Kenya. Comes with its own snazzy little certificate, fancy box with padding and a brochure. (by ten thousand villages)

welcome to the working week

Smriti Daniel — Mon, 29 Sep 2008 05:07:35 +0000

So a pizza in Regina Margherita’s wood fired brick oven takes 3 1/2 minutes to bake. Some idiot over at the sub desk decided this could not be possible…and switched minutes with hours. HOURS!

aargh.

death defying acts II

Smriti Daniel — Wed, 10 Sep 2008 11:29:23 +0000

so. I’m on my way home in a wheeler and my driver is twitching. uncontrollably. I can see him doing it in the rear-view mirror. the twitch starts at his hand when it closes convulsively around the accelerator, and then travels up his forearm to create the jerk that first got my attention. I watch in terrible fascination as first his eye and then the right side of his face contort. This happens every few seconds – I’m estimating once in five.

the light changes and we careen on homeward. nao, we’re speeding past the fancy new arts thingi they’re building on greenpath.

briefly, my wheeler driver exhibits a potentially fatal interest in the street art outside the park.

we hit serious traffic near the public library.

I shut my eyes as we zip in, out and around several inordinately large vehicles – balanced precariously all the while on what feels like only one of the back wheels.

we’re near the checkpoint. I manage to squeak out a “wammata,” and he turns to grin obligingly at me.

we stop outside the black gate. my knees wobble a little as I climb out and haul out my laptop.

I don’t quibble when he asks for 150, I just pay. “stuti” I say, sincerely. He smiles at me, and twitches.

my blood will thicken

Smriti Daniel — Tue, 26 Aug 2008 05:53:25 +0000

The Nescafe machine is two flights down. I kid myself that taking the stairs both ways is all the exercise I need every day.

…

Generally being in a maudlin sort of mood, I have been reading poetry, and looking out of windows pensively. I have been pouring over what Atwood I can find on the web. I particularly like this one, and this, this and this and both the variations on the words sleep and love.

“Unfortunately I don’t have leaves.
Instead I have eyes
and teeth and other non-green
things which rule out osmosis.”

This one makes me laugh, because it reminds me of all the times I’ve talked about unzipping a loved one and just slipping in. (You know, warmly cradled inside your rib cage, reading this page from behind your eyes, and listening to your thoughts and the steady thud of your heart.)

Which reminds me that Y has my Borges, and must be hunted down, cornered and forced to surrender it to me.

Broom People

Smriti Daniel — Wed, 20 Aug 2008 11:58:34 +0000

The Mountain Goats have a truly stupendous back catalogue. 41 albums! If even half turn out as good as The Sunset Tree, I will be a fulfilled woman.

There were supposed to be Drunken Revels this night, but I have cancelled. heartlessly. There is much in the way of work, and little in the way of inclination, which means it will take me twice as long to get anything accomplished. Consider: I could be well into my second paragraph on Barefoot’s latest by this point.

Also, the thought of tequila on a currently empty, unhappy stomach, is enough to make me want to vomit. (This is nearly inevitable anyway, you understand, its just that I normally make it to at least 8 shots before I embarrass myself, puke and pass out.) Though it turns out that it would be disrespecting a fine, fine beverage. anyway the house is a mess, and I have the urge to clean everything up (this being a lesser known side effect of PMS.)

I think I may just spend the rest of the evening being surly, anti-social and feeling sorry for myself.

…or perhaps I should finish S’s secret stash of Baileys.

Now, there’s an idea.