HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA...... and then.... HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA..... what?!!! really?!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA... and it went on like that, a lazy sunday post-siesta afternoon. four women, doubled up with laughter, eyes scrunched, tears rolling down their eyes and just good hearty laughter. It rang out, on that quiet street, somewhere in the summer afternoon, the sun was just cooling its merciless beating down, a crow cawed. A mango tree was ravaged by some hungry squirrel for the best of the harvest. Summer was here, the dust was kicking up, pollution seemed to be at its annual best, as were the sweat stains and the smells.
Somewhere in the midst of such cheer, one girl looks on in observation. There was love here, in this room, she thought. A bond that money could not buy and Disney could not recreate no matter how much they tried. The idealism that everyone wrote books about, that everyone strove to portray on the telly couldn't come close to the real thing. Women everywhere were like this, when there were no men around, no pressure to be anything but nightie clad, disheveled, puffy eyed, slightly paunched laughing women.
There was such honesty in that laughter. It wasn't trilly, it didn't make you cringe and smile uncomfortably at its fakeness. This was laughter that made you clutch your stomach in sheer exasperation because you didn't quite know how else to laugh! This she thought, this frozen Sunday afternoon of laughs and anecdotes is what life is about. This babble, this need to just be, the state of just being was love, was life... It was these moments that made life as stable as it could be. Never mind that they laughed until they cried at the same stories; there was comfort in craning your neck at weird angles, and toggling your vision from the ceiling to your aunt lying next to you so you could listen in on the story. This was life, tomorrow when it was time to work and the perfectly pressed clothes came out and the make up was slathered on. Life became plastic and uglified by routine.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Slime
Slime runs down your back with a viscous slowness. You can't really place the sensation, your torn between thinking of it as jelly on a day that could be attributed to hallucinogenic slumber and as just slime on a day when reality hits you in the eye with a flourescent epiphanic slam! Slime runs down your back with a viscous slowness.
Being framed by white lights is not helpful when all you are trying to do is hide away from predatorial, lecherous looks. Looks that don't stop with being predatorial, looks that transcend the quiet private space of internal and become touches. They step out of their own darkness and stretch, grow at a scary pace and become touches. No one seems to notice them, but they are there always rearing their heads when you think your imagination was running wild.
You react to touch so differently. Sometimes you arch your back, but that touch is something you want; you invite that touch and direct it to where you want it most. Sometimes you lean into it and let it comfort you. Sometimes you shrink back and try not to scream, you hold back tears of revulsion as these touches invade your bubble of sanity and dirty you. Your left with a stain that you don't quite know how to erase. You wash it off, scald your skin, and yet it stays.
The stain grows inward, and burns into memory. Sometimes in the dark of dreamless sleep it bursts into existence, with the same starkness as the white lights. You learn to live with it. Somehow, you just learn to live with it
Being framed by white lights is not helpful when all you are trying to do is hide away from predatorial, lecherous looks. Looks that don't stop with being predatorial, looks that transcend the quiet private space of internal and become touches. They step out of their own darkness and stretch, grow at a scary pace and become touches. No one seems to notice them, but they are there always rearing their heads when you think your imagination was running wild.
You react to touch so differently. Sometimes you arch your back, but that touch is something you want; you invite that touch and direct it to where you want it most. Sometimes you lean into it and let it comfort you. Sometimes you shrink back and try not to scream, you hold back tears of revulsion as these touches invade your bubble of sanity and dirty you. Your left with a stain that you don't quite know how to erase. You wash it off, scald your skin, and yet it stays.
The stain grows inward, and burns into memory. Sometimes in the dark of dreamless sleep it bursts into existence, with the same starkness as the white lights. You learn to live with it. Somehow, you just learn to live with it
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
The beginning
Hello!
The name is Shruthi, it can be Chinku for those of you who know. I have another journal type blog, but then no one reads it, it is more of a vent space, this one, hoewver, I will turn into a more "creative writing" space type thingumabob!!! Now, why it is called "The Ghost of the Cliche"... because most of what I write is based on cliche's, most of what I write is a cliche and other such elliptical constructions conveying the same meaning. I shall use this space to write, not sit and spill my feelings, but more of an exercise in verbosity of the weird kind.
Welcome to a world of stories you've read before, heard before and probably written before too. Am I being self-deprecatory, yeah; more useful being that way.
This is just a beginner. Psychoanalysis, personality analysis and more in-depth study of my personality can be done @ www.lizzie-borden-2006.blogspot.com
much love to all who drop in here or don't... I shall write and thou shalt get dazzled... or so I WANT to think...
:)
The name is Shruthi, it can be Chinku for those of you who know. I have another journal type blog, but then no one reads it, it is more of a vent space, this one, hoewver, I will turn into a more "creative writing" space type thingumabob!!! Now, why it is called "The Ghost of the Cliche"... because most of what I write is based on cliche's, most of what I write is a cliche and other such elliptical constructions conveying the same meaning. I shall use this space to write, not sit and spill my feelings, but more of an exercise in verbosity of the weird kind.
Welcome to a world of stories you've read before, heard before and probably written before too. Am I being self-deprecatory, yeah; more useful being that way.
This is just a beginner. Psychoanalysis, personality analysis and more in-depth study of my personality can be done @ www.lizzie-borden-2006.blogspot.com
much love to all who drop in here or don't... I shall write and thou shalt get dazzled... or so I WANT to think...
:)
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