Showing posts with label Glamorous Indie Rock and Roll.. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Glamorous Indie Rock and Roll.. Show all posts
Two successive Gary posts in a day. Somewhere in the world, something wonderful must be happening. Maybe HotBody Lightbody is googling his own name and he finally found this blog. Hallelujah, 'tis been a long time coming.
I reviewed the album. You saw that coming, didn't you? I spent an hour on it, and listened to it twice. And even wrote half an essay on Chekhov, so I feel quite empowered right now. I tried not to sound like a know-it-all, but I can't help the comparisons and the references, its not my fault I've heard all their songs. Being a GL stalker is hard work.
One thing is for certain. Snow Patrol has certainly cheered up.While Eyes Open was a heart-wrenching word description of the trajectory of a failed relationship, filled with sensitivity (Chasing Cars), frustration (It's Beginning to Get to Me), penitence (Make This Go On Forever), separation (Set the Fire to the Third Bar), desolation, and acceptance (The Finish Line). Eyes Open brought with itself a set of fourteen masterpieces that merged into one to give the world Snow Patrol's best album. It was an album that defined poignancy, and each track stood out as favourite, and the album as a whole made one surrender, made one float, and made one soar.A Hundred Million Suns comes two years after Eyes Open, conceived in Germany, and partly in Ireland, in a house that was located on a cliff that overlooked the sea. The band firmly maintains that this is their best album yet, while most fans tend to believe that with AHMS, they've succumbed to the pressures of chartbuster-music, brought on because of Chasing Cars. Their opinion is that SP's best album is still a toss between Final Straw and Eyes Open. That's what the general mass of them thinks.And quite obviously, I disagree.Yes, AHMS is not Eyes Open. It's cheerful, it's happy, and it's reflective, but in an optimistic way. Both albums make you feel nostalgic, but while Eyes Open will make you think of the days when you felt your worst, and of the days that you wanted to curl up and die just at the thought of another day in your dreary existence, AHMS will bring to your mind the colours of an amusement park flashing past your eyes, the smell of buttered popcorn, the feel of your favourite blanket on a cold night, the taste of your favourite food on the day that you feel the sickest. I wouldn't exactly call it upbeat, but it's definitely one of those albums that will make you smile. Eyes Open reopened wounds and made you cry inside, and AHMS is a phantom kiss on your forehead, it is a reassuring hug, it is a wonderful band-aid.Snow Patrol goes all out in this album, reverting back to their more gutsy songs, reminiscent of Final Straw's Spitting Games and Tiny Little Fractures. Although their lead guitar has definitely mellowed down, and yes, their bass guitar is not that discernable anymore, Snow Patrol has definitely mastered the art of combining all the standard band instruments, mellowing them down to their style, and throwing in a few piano chords in the mix to make it unique. The chorus of each of their songs is more crowd-friendly, with simple background vocal effects that exude the aura of a large stadium without compromising on the homeliness of the band. Snow Patrol has always maintained that they are not one of the bands that will be remembered for on-stage theatrics - their music and their entire persona is based upon their approachability and their easy going attitude. AHMS amplifies this very maxim.Eyes Open was an album which when played in the order of listing, started off with the atmosphere-creating "You Are All I Have", became softer with Chasing Cars, reached a crescendo with Make This Go On Forever, employing martial drum beats, church-choruses and the persistent piano, then quietened again with Set the Fire.., and died down with The Finish Line.AHMS is not an album that requires you to play in order, but if you do, then each song will make you wish you had heard it before, because the chorus is so infectious, you wish you knew how to sing along. There is the notable introduction of an acoustic guitar which lends a somewhat pleasantly jangly note, making you feel like you were at a live bar listening to them jam. Take Back the City, the first single from the album, is one of those very songs, bordering on an anthem-like sound, an acoustic bass-line and a tune that grows on you. I know someone who hated it at first listen, then went around humming it the rest of the week. It'll catch your attention, and it'll stay there. My favourite track as of now is Crack the Shutters, with a soundscape reminiscent of You Could Be Happy (high, isolating piano tinklings!), but this song is just so uplifting, it's amazing. A first listen will get you hooked, but by the time you read the lyrics, you wish this song had been written for you. Lifeboats is another one that is racing up my most-played list; I think it's because of the pitch - it just sounds a little different, like half-an-octave off the regular. Of course, I might be wrong, but I think that's why. The Golden Floor is slightly off the beaten track for Snow Patrol, with a very interesting beat that piqued my interest. However, the song that got me all curious was Snow Patrol's first 16-minute long song, called The Lightning Strike. The Lightning Strike has three parts, What if this Storm Ends?, The Sunlight Through the Glass, and Daybreak. All three parts are isolated songs on their own, bound by a common thread. While I would think it ambitious of Snow Patrol to infringe upon long songs that are normally the territory for more "hardcore" progressive rock bands, it's a brave try, and while I wouldn't say that the experiment entirely succeeded, it's nice to see that they're constantly try to reinvent and challenge themselves musically. It's not that I don't like it, but I just really don't see the point of having one long song, when clearly, it's just three songs. I'm assuming they know something I don't?Conclusively, I'd say that AHMS certainly does not deserve the criticism that it has been the receiving end of. Most people who listen to Snow Patrol are those lovers who've only heard Eyes Open, and a few famous old ones, like Run, Spitting Games, and Chocolate. Yes, Eyes Open got them attention, and yes, it made them very, VERY famous, but it's presumptious to claim that the generally radio-friendly nature of AHMS is a desperate, Billboard-hungry claim to fame. No, Snow Patrol is not trying to knock anyone off the charts with this album, but it's rather clear why they say it's their best album ever. It's subtly diverse, with different beats, different styles.But before I finish, I do have to lech over Gary Lightbody.This guy is just unbelievable. I have ABSOLUTELY no words for him. He is just hot. The dishevelled wild look of Chasing Cars, the clean, light-stubbly Chocolate, and then neurotically love-struck in Crack the Shutters, this man makes me melt. And as if his visual appeal wasn't enough, he has an Irish accent, an amazingly English sense of sarcastic, wordplay humour. And he has pretty eyes.And on top of that, he is about the most sensitive lyricist that I have heard of. He is one of those people who manages to write flattering and wonderful things about a girl, without being even a tiny bit corny, or cheesy or cliched. In When It's All Over, We Still Have to Clear Up, he makes being a stalker sexy with An Olive Grove Facing the Sea. He makes bonfires adventurous with Firelight.In Songs for Polarbears, he sang Velocity Girl, and we all know what that did to me. In Final Straw, he brought on the apocalypse with Chocolate, became a high-school stalker in Spitting Games, and showed the magic of plain and simple piano with Same and also, the violin in Grazed Knees. And then in Eyes Open, we all forgave him for his mistakes, and we all fell in love, even though the album was penned by Lightbody in the avatar of a repenting philanderer.And then in A Hundred Million Suns, he finally pushed me over the edge with Crack the Shutters.Thanks a lot, Gary. Because of you, my expectations is the opposite sex are soaring high. They need to be tall, they need to be songwriters, and they need to be friendly.Bonus points if their name is Gary.
Oh God, I need to get a life.
I hate this weekend, which is saying a lot, because school sucked this week too.
A fifteen page Physics project, Chem orals, a random debate, Rogue Badminton(!). There's only so much I can do running on sleep-deprivation. And then comes along glorious Saturday, and then in the morning I realised that the Math tutor was arriving at 3.30, and I hadn't done any of his homework, so I had to solve three hours worth of Math in four hours, then the mother ranted about stuff, so I couldn't slack off in the evening either. I spent my evening studying Alternating Currents Theory, and I just noticed that the set of numericals at the back has 76 sums, not counting short answers, multiple choices, and higher level questions. And that inventory is for one book, and I have two books on Physics, so there goes Sunday. Solving about 200 sums on currents that go up-and-down, periodically. Whee. Grr.
Screw weekends.
My jailer is being an absolute mother this week. And reports come out next Friday, so in essence, I need Cyanide. Or Happiness. Either will do, but I may require a lot.
Okay, just a teeny post-it sort of blogpost today. First off, Stropko, congratulations on the license, now you can sneak around the tempting hamlet of SJC on four wheels legally.
I noticed just now that this blog has three followers. We're getting popular, aren't we? Eight-odd readers and three followers, how perfectly peachy. (Yes, I said 'peachy'. Get over it.)
Not a lot has happened this week, aside from three days of school. And I haven't ditched yet, and I don't plan to. I feel very responsible. (*evil laugh*)
We've begun studying Quantum Physics in class, which is quite a trip. When your first lesson includes a Nobel-winning theory and something called Planck's Constant, you know you're in the major league. In the same vein, I must add here that I can now name all the major bones of the body, something that makes me feel very important. And I just have to, HAVE TO, add that my Bio teacher (M.Ali, not DrD) has the oddest sense of humour, ever.
Learning about bones, he remarked : "The femur is the most powerful bone in the body, I should know. Why? Because a medical student once hit me over the head with one."
And then, he told us the story of how he used to play cricket in college, and the med-students got annoyed over some faulty umpiring, so they came to beat the opposing team up, with ten hockey-sticks, and one THIGH-BONE. So much for dinner-table anecdotes.
OH! And I passed Chemistry. Sometimes, the big guy up there can't resist proving his presence to us non-believers.
I'm also indulging in a spot of artwork, which makes me feel at peace with myself. Ah, love.
Snow Patrol's album just leaked onto the Internet, and I am resisting temptation. I am NOT going to download it. I am NOT going to download 'A Hundred Million Suns'.
Two-Odd Months to Christmas.
Playlist - Blackest Eyes, Porcupine Tree;
House of the Rising Sun, Muse;
Who Wants to Live Forever, Queen.
P.S. - A slightly happier alter-ego post is in the works. Maybe this time I'll focus on the relationships instead of the breakdowns.
Listening to - All sorts of Country Music by Shania Twain and Carrie Underwood.Lot of random blogging to be done, so bear with me here.
The most important thing that happened this week would be that I returned to school. Now, if you can ignore Stropko's loud whoops of extreme joy and victory. One day of school made me more tired than two weeks of holidays. I went to school on Wednesday, and spent most of Thursday morning agonising over strained leg muscles, then I did school on Thursday (I would NEVER miss school on Thursday), then VOICE, then Chem. and then I collapsed. So much so, that I skipped Friday.
We've more or less entered the last term of school. Ever. And Winter terms are always the shortest, so by all standards of sentiment, I should have a countdown up somewhere. People have already started doing that, by the way. Every event that we have is greeted with the shout of "This is our last in school!", followed by some dopes who start bawling their guts out.
It happened on Teacher's Day, when we had that really amazing programme. While the majority of the student body was most fussed about the teachers leaving for lunch so we could feast on the leftover food, some dumbass yelled out this thing about this being "Last Teacher's Day EVER", and that-perfectionist-in-Humanities started crying, although I didn't really notice until after I was done stuffing my face with the cake.
In any case, my point is, it didn't really matter to me. Somehow, all this talk of leaving, and of farewells doesn't really bother me. It's a little scary to sound so indifferent, especially because I have absolutely NO idea where I'm going for higher studies, or whether I'm passing at all (which would make all farewells futile). I know it sounds callous. On numerous occassions, Anushka's asked me to stop being such a black-hearted-nutcase and show some feeling. Even over talks of the VOICE farewell. I don't get it. I really don't. Like I keep saying, I'll be happy to get out of here. It's not as if I'm not going to miss school, but quite frankly, 12 years is kind of an okay point to give it a rest. It's been a great 12 years, and I've loved all the three schools I've been in, and I've never regretted any of it, but I want to move forward now.
Maybe that makes me an "Stone-Queen", like my mum puts it.
Whatever. I'm just choosing to focus on the 'entering a new phase' more than the 'leaving of an old one'.
I don't even think it makes me emotionless in any way. People who know me well enough know that emotionless is not really my kind of label. I'm more of the throw-yourself-into-it-with-all-you-got-who-cares-what-happens sort of person. I'm just throwing myself into the other side.
At the start of 2008, I decided to keep a diary, because the conformist-sentimentalist in me wanted to record the events of my last year in school. It contains -
Some entries from that brief phase when I dotted my i's with hearts.
Entries from when I was completely pissed off because I wasn't made a prefect, when some other people were.
An entry cursing my Hindi teacher (Quote - "I hate you, you killer of English thoughts. I could curse you in a thousand vernaculars, but I'm afraid I'll spell them wrong. I hate you, Hag-ess.")
One page with the words of 'Hey There Delilah', a song that now annoys me.
Lots of scratched out doodles.
And finally, lines in multiple pages saying "I love bio. What would I do without bio? Bio should just marry me." etc. in a similar vein.
I don't know why I would choose to put up this on a blog. The six of you don't really need to read this if you don't want to!
<3,>
P.S. - Shania Twain and Mark McGrath's 'Party for Two' is stuck in my head. It's extremely nondescript, but oddly infectious. Don't listen to it.
On second thought, Do.
If VOICE members are reading this, please campaign for a larger cake. I guarantee we have funds.
Snow Patrol's new album releases in less than seven days. I need to conserve bandwidth for downloads, UNLESS..
Making Enemies (When It's All Over, We Still Have to Clear Up)
4 comment(s) Posted by VelocityGirl (tm) at 10:21:00 AM"I never knew the taste of blood till now,
It's clear I never should have known."
"If you shut your eyes very tight and you try to forget something with all you might, you might, End up eventually erasing the condemning memory, but all that effort will almost make you taste blood - make you feel the strangely intense power of the blood that flows within you,that makes you feel red, make you see red., and the realisation will make you feel giddy; it shall empower you, it shall frighten you, because it is in that fascinating moment that you realise what you truly are capable of doing in you anger"
She shut the book and flung it across the room, stunned and slightly pleased to hear a sorry 'thud' as it hit the wall and slumped to the floor with a crumble and crackle of pages. The blood, her blood, was rushing through, humming pleasantly in her ears, and she stared at her ink-stained hands all red and sweaty from the arguments and the subsequent writings.The clammy warmth was new - now she looked up, now she saw him.
He saw her writing furiously, her hands a blur as she struggled to pen the thoughts that raced in her head. He saw her fling the book across the room with a carelessly powerful flick of the wrist. She saw the glimmer in her eyes, and he watched transfixed as she stood against the window, staring incredulously at her own hands. She was wild, she was a silhouette as she stood, a black figure against the glaring sunlight pouring through the windows, her hair a mass of wispy flames that looked both incongruous and perfect against her face.
She saw him at the edge of the room, he was looking at her, as if he had never seen her before, in a way that he had never looked at her before. He cut a lean figure in the shadows, a face too childish, and an expression too serious. He had always been so secretive, and everytime he spoke to you, you felt special, because it felt like you were good enough to know what he was telling you. He had always been distant, she'd never understood it,
she had admired it, but never been envious. Today, she wanted nothing more to do with it.
No one ever understood why they had ever bought that house - the hallways sliced through the architecture, cordoning off parts of the house, relegating sections to permanent illumination and total darkness. They fell in love with it instantly, it was a house, they thought, built especially for them.
She was a creation of the Sun, she was born for the daytime, for all the spotlights, she was born to shine, she needed to glow, and the light was hers.
And the darkness was his, he revelled in the shade, he revelled in her shade. He loved to hide, to observe unnoticed, always the queer half-smile, always the slightly supercilious expression.
She was the fire, he was the darkness - he was that darkness in the heart of her flame, and they co-existed;
precariously,
dangerously,
wonderfully.
Everyone was slightly afraid of them - jealous of them - amazed at them. They were a whirlwind, chaotically impulsive, inexplicably destructive, one's presence sparking off the volatility in the other, at once it was calm, they were serene, silent, separate, and it was
just the calm before another storm.
But that was all in the past, the final storm had raged through, even they could not withstand it, and even now, the debris lay strewn.
She had smashed his favourite record against the wall - "I never really liked it anyway", she had whispered, with glittering eyes.
He had ripped her favourite book, the cover in one hand, torn pages flying out of the other - "I didn't like it either", he smiled back, with
cold, cold eyes.
He had pulled the curtains shut, closed all the windows - "Hurts my eyes". She had set his desk on fire, "Likewise."
They stood, he having cast darkness where she had shone, she having brought light into all his shadows.
They felt exultant, they felt feral - he could see how madly her eyes glinted, she could feel his cold wrath rising, and it was exciting. They realised then that it was all over, she had burnt it down, he had covered it, and there was nothing left.
He saw her now among the ashes, while the torn pages whistled around. She looked up at him defiant, and as he shifted his weight from one foot to another, she heard the faintly satisfying crunch of broken vinyl.
"I'm leaving tonight", she said, flatly.
He nodded, "Alright", then clicked the door open,
And walked out into the sunlight.
(Note: First off, this isn't really inspired by anything, if you must know. I just wrote it last afternoon because it was too hot and I didn't feel like doing Math. I don't like it anymore, but whatever. The opening paragraph on blood is something that I actually wrote a while ago. I promised you an Alter-Ego post, and here it is. And yes, it's in a story-format, not actually inspired by Anushka's story, just a startling coincidence. Much thanks to Snow Patrol's song 'Making Enemies' (Album - When it's All Over, We Still Have to Clear Up) for the title, and also the song 'Ways and Means' (Album - Final Straw), because the first two lines are lyric quotes. They're also very nice songs, in case you're looking for downloads.
Oh, and specifically, the argument didn't really happen, but I would, oddly, love to have such a ferociously enervating fight. Yeh, yeh. I'm done.)
Yes, yes, I know, and I apologise to all of the four people who read this blog. I haven't been updating for a while. First the holidays started, then my father came to visit and kept snatching the laptop so he could play Freecell *snarl*, and I do have ideas in my head for one of my Alter-Ego posts, but I haven't really formatted it out in my head, so bear with me. All in good time.
This week has been pretty good, seeing as I basically gave up on studying and the mother has been quite alright with it. I had a Lotus Buds Editors Meeting the other day, which was rather fun, except for the fact that the Junior Editors are lazy pain-in-the-asses. I also survived getting hurled to death, because I was supposed to go on the Deshpriya Park ferris wheel with SGpt and Sood the same afternoon, but we were too contented after lunch to walk, so we decided to stay indoors and stalk people on Facebook, which we didn't do, but the thing is, the next morning I read in the papers that the ferris wheel had catapulted three people to their death the evening that we were supposed to go. So, yeah, I thwarted Death.
I also attended the birthday party of a three-year-old. While the child is question is one that I am quite fond of, birthday parties for toddlers aren't exactly the hippest place to be, but to salvage that, there was a ball-pit (!) in the room, and although no one let me in (on account of me being completeyl capable of killing a few children while in the pit), it made for some good daydreaming. And there was Chinese food, which is always a treat.
Oh, and an ant got into my ear that same day. I know it doesn't sound like a big deal, and even if it is, in fact, a big deal, it is ordinarily something that people DON'T post about, but how many of the four people who read this blog have had an insect go into their ear? And FYI, it hurts like bloody murder. Slightly more painful than if you decided to saw your leg off and hopped one-legged around the world on a blood-stained stump of a footless leg. Ants that generally die because of my thumb's wrath finally got their revenge when one of their bravest ventured into my ear, and scrabbled all over my eardrum, causing me to writhe on the floor, having painful spasms. And my parents, (yes, both of them. My dad's visiting, remember?), well, both of them, for a good while, thought that I was being a whiner, and that I was throwing a tantrum because I didn't want to go to the party of the aforementioned Three-Year-Old. I think it was my repetitive cry of "MY EAR! DAMMIT MY EAR IS ON FIRE!!! *silently* FCKFCKFCK!! *loudly* MY EAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRR!!!"
At which point they probably realised, that me yelling about foreign objects in my ear is probably not the strongest argument that I had, and that maybe, just MAYBE, there was something in my ear?
I also went book-shopping today, and bought a wonderful new sketchbook for myself, because the old one that I had finished, besides, the pages were so big that it was becoming very hard to draw things that covered it entirely. The new sketchbook is so pretty that I'm actually a little afraid of drawing in it. And I went out and bought One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest by Ken Kesey, and The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar and Six More by Roald Dahl. The first out of curiosity, the second because I've been waiting a while to finally buy it.
On the way to the bookstore, I passed a cinema-hall which was promoting "Hello!", based on Chetan Bhagat's One Night at the Call Centre, or as rabid fans of the book/author say "ON@TTC". And at the store too, there was some shiny version of ON@TTC the book. Shiny book versions are only reserved for those books which are actually good, which essentially makes my blood boil, because Chetan Bhagat, quite frankly, is a SHIT author. His books read like the journal of a half-wit. The vocabulary is uninspiring, so uninspiring that in the course of reading, I am tempted to throw the book at the wall, because reading it is like working at an assembly line. You drag yourself through it because of no real reason, there is no brain activity involved, and each new thing you see is exactly the thing that was before.
My mother (who at least tries to be less opinionated, or maybe she just doesn't argue as vociferously as me) says that his books are meant for people who don't generally read, for people who aren't that naturally interestedin literature, and for people like these, it's an enjoyable read. Fine. Maybe. I'm not classifying his books are BAD literature, because (like this debate topic we once had), there really IS no such thing as bad literature. What I am APPALLED by is the singular fact that although someone as dimwitted as Bhagat pens his books, there are still people who read his drivel. Seriously, I know his writings are directed towards and centered around the common man, but all his three books deal with somewhat fat, loser-like Caricatures who, in the beginning, start off as highly useless and detrimental to general well-being, and then, somehow, normally unavailable Hot Girl becomes friends with them. Caricature will also have stereotypical friends - the Cool Dude (gets all the girls, is rich and is a poster boy for promiscuity and Brylcreem), the Total Loser (who is good at heart, and just like protagonist, only WAY lamer). Then, Caricature will sleep with Hot Girl, and no matter what the situation, things go downhill from here, everyone argues, screws up, cries blah-blah-blah, someone tries to kill themself/kill someone else, or some other life-altering change happens, Hot Girl and Caricature get back together, and the friends return too, and The End.
Once was enough. But if this guy tries to go all Bollywood of the 90s on readers and taints literature by mechanically selling us assembly-line drivel, SOMETHING'S got to give.
And all this, just because I saw a shiny edition of a shit book.
I just know it now. I'm going to become one of those short-haired spinsters with a cat, who lives in a sterile apartment, goes to bookstores to purposefully knock over stacks of crap books, and writes mean Letters to the Editor in the newspaper. I'm going to become one of those bitter old hags (who blogs).
Or, I'll become one of those women with more children than she can count, in a bookstore trying to buy good books while all the children slide across the store's floor - the woman who 'accidentally' knocks over a stack of crap books and blames it on the kid who happens to be running the fastest.
In either case, the thing is, stacks of books by Chetan Bhagat are never safe when I'm in the store.
For some reason, I am not studying Biology. The damned "b" key isn't working on my keyboard anymore, except when I jab it with extreme force.
I feel extremely useless, even more than on regular days. Sometimes, when I feel like this, I go to sleep, but yesterday, I slept for fifteen hours (yes, that long.) and now I feel like Superman. I want to DO something, only I feel rather incapacitated by my laziness.
I do not want to study Bio. I shall study it later.
I do not want to watch television. There is nothing interesting. I would like it if they aired an Ugly Betty rerun right about now. I love that show so much.
My mother has gone to some whole-sale cloth selling place. I don't even WANT to comment.
I do not want to call up anyone and talk on the phone. I do not like talking on the phone. It makes me feel very disembodied. And only people who don't know that ever call me up.
There is nothing on Facebook that I haven't already seen.
Even Stropko, the wonderfully-insomniac (Jesus-lovin'-White-Boy), seems to be either asleep, or otherwise incapable of instant-messaging services. Bah. Even Anushka isn't online. She's probably learning and re-learning her Psycho.
And I have an intense need to bite my fingernails, but I am trying to grow them (my fingernails), and the two needs are toying with my brain.
My Whole World Is Dead, I Tell You.
Agh. I wish the weather would stay like this forever. So comfortably icy. Also, I wish Snow Patrol would just hurry up and release their album. I want some new songs.
And I wish the Pujos would hurry up and come. I can't wait for the dhakis to begin playing, and the food, and the lighting, and the fact that no one really cares about how much you eat, not even your own digestive system.
PS - Because Anushka said so, I'm upping my font size from "smallest" to "small". Pff.
So basically, me and my mother were watching Rock On! together yesterday, on DVD because we're too cheap-ass and bored to go to a theater, and there is this one line in the film which Purab Kohli, aka K.D., says - "When you're twenty, twenty-two, you think you can rule the world."
So, that made my mum exclaim, "SO true, SO true!"
And then she said - "It's so cute how these boys think they are rockstars."
At which point I was beginning to wonder whether she really understood what the movie was about. So, I said, "But they ARE rockstars."
Mum: "No, they're little boys who play on their instruments and pretend to have a career."Me: "But being a rockstar is a real job. Like, with money, fame, and you know... stuff."Mum: *puppy-dog eyes* "You're just seventeen, you wouldn't know."Me: *obviously miffed with the age-related comment* "Mmpf."Mum: "When you're 30, you'll know."Me: *has thought of wonderfully witty comment* "Aww, you still remember what 30 feels like, Mum?Mum: *is sending out wave upon wave of death threats and curses.. silently*Me: *sidles away* "HAVE YOU NOTICED THIS BAND DOESN'T HAVE A BASS GUITARIST?"Mum: *squints at television* "But they HAVE two guitars, na?"Me: "Yes, but Joe is lead, and Aditya is a vocalist, and he's not bass, because he's not playing continuously."Mum: "Which one is Joe?"Me: "The one with the long hair."Mum: *squints again* "They ALL have long hair."Me: "The one who's playing a guitar, and has long hair."Mum: "Oh. His hair is awfully floaty, you think they filmed the movie with a spot boy lugging a blower fan under him whenever Joe was on screen?"Me: *is dumbfounded* *shudders slightly* "I don't know."
And so, now you know why I'm so dastardly random sometimes.
I do believe it's a little bit genetic.
The Grandparents are leaving tonight. Which is a good thing, for me, atleast. I know, yes, that I sound very callous, and yes, I do believe that there is some form of love for them at the bottom of dark, black shrivelled up heart. But still, they're leaving tonight, and that makes me happy. Call me evil if you will, but I'm still pretty happy about it.
It's not that I don't like THEM, I just don't like the fact that while they're here, there's always someone around in the house. I'm not a people-person. I don't like phone calls, and I don't like unnecessary talking, I don't like small talk with people I barely know. I actually derive a sort of composed pleasure from coming home to an empty house. I like the power of having to open that front door with a key and walk in with no one to smile at and no one to ask about my day, or how my test went, am I hungry, do I want to eat or take a shower first? I don't like concern, and I find my relaxation in the sterile glow of the television as it blares on and on, and I eat my cold food in front of it, with my socks still on, and the bag thrown across the floor.
I don't like having people around all the time, I think absence does make the heart grow fonder. And I WOULD be, definitely more tolerant towards people if they let me live in a bubble. Which is why, despite all her (glaring) flaws, I do not actually mind living with my mother. She lives in her bubble, and I live in mine, and we're both quite non-invasive (most of the time). I like solitude. I like the sound of silence, and I like when no one is around. It does not make me goth. Or emo. Because I am not depressed, neither do I want to kill myself. I just like non-invasiveness.
In other news, I've been listening to a lot of Damien Rice lately. The man, if I do say so myself, is the baap of Gary Lightbody. His music is gut-wrenchingly heart-rending, and its primarily because his songs are stark and stripped down, using just the basic piano, strings and simple drums. And then, there's Lisa Hannigan, who's haunting echoes in the background make the soung even more dreamscape-ish. His music is slow, and it's raw, and controlled enough so that each song stops short of a masterpiece, making you want to listen to the next one. And if you can get past the highly-publicised "The Blower's Daughter", have a go, plunge into "Accidental Babies", and "Unplayed Piano". You might even like it.
There are six year olds playing cricket downstairs. It's almost noon, but they're still in their pajamas, and they haven't brushed their teeth. And even they're still a bunch of stinky, immature children, I think I envy them.
I wish I was my iPod. On some days, when I plug it in to the laptop to synchronise, all of its own accord, it just self-destructs and mulishly refuses to respond to anything. I wish I could mulishly sit around and be stubborn. With reason. Because I do it for NO reason many times over.
I woke up this morning, completely optimistic about the fact that I was going to study Physics, and study it well, and that I would finish all of Section A today.
Bollocks. Here I am, and I've done nothing, except text Disha several times, whining about Electromagnetics, and then I came online. Stupid Physics.
I'm going to have to go back, eventually.
Last evening, blessed evening, we visited the great Ramesh Pandit. Ramesh Pandit is the world's most awesome puchka-man. I am aware that the title of Most Amazing Puchka-Man is a very disputed one, and there exist several Puchka-men who claim to have been bestowed with this title, but Ramesh Pandit is the best of all of them. His whole lineage is into the business of puchkas, and therefore, he's not just the best Puchka-man. He's the pioneer of the Best Puchka Dynasty. Let's the guy next to Harshita's Math tuition counter THAT!
Anyway, Ramesh Pandit's aloo dum is the finest. It makes your eyes water and your tongue cry out in protest, and yet you will be compelled to eat another one and feel completely psychedelic. This psychedelic feeling is actually just you walking around, and everything is blurry only because your eyes are watering. But still, the whole effect is rather trippy. The ice-cream man next to Ramesh Pandit keeps eyeing all the trippy people hopefully, hoping against hope that one of the trippers will succumb to the spice and buy an ice-cream to alleviate the pain. Never going to happen, that. Only snotty -nosed kids too wimpy to eat at Ramesh Pandit's buy the ice-cream.
I didn't eat any dinner yesterday.
Now you know why. Even though you probably didn't give a damn in the first place.
P.S. - If you don't know what a Puchka is (this means YOU), then googling it will not help. If you do know what a puchka is, give me a call, and we'll go to Ramesh Pandit's place.
P.P.S. - Ramesh Pandit's stall is at Lake Kalibari, at the edge of the road, opposite that building called Ashoka.
Stealing just a teeny bit from Anushka's blog, I shall, I shall!
My Happy Family Consists of -
Eddie Vedder as my father. If I promise not to go all Electra on him, can I have him as my daddy, er, father, please?
Marcia Cross, only as Bree Mason-VandeKamp-Hodge, from Desperate Housewives, as my Mother.
She's deliciously neurotic, fantastically interestic, and just the right amount of fastidious to meet my needs. It would also be pretty damn interesting, seeing Crazy-Perfectionist Bree with Grunge-Dude Eddie Vedder. I'd be a tormented kid, but I sure would love my home.
Jack Sparrow as my elder brother. Yes, I have a poster of him on my wall. Yes, he is hot. I'd like a hot elder brother. Even my friends would like my hot elder brother, Jack Sparrow, Captain Jack Sparrow. Bree would probably not let him into the house, but I'd willingly sneak the rum out for him. What are siblings for? And when he's not off sailing the high seas, he could teach me how to swordfight. Pretty darn bad-ass, if I do say so myself.
Gary Lightbody as that-friend-who's-your-best-friend-but-I'm-not-really-sure-if-I'd-date-him-but-if-I-did-we'd-be-perfect. Yeah, that guy. And he can write songs, talk in a sexy Irish accent, hang out,ride our bikes to the sunny isles of the Hebrides and take his shirt off or whatever, I'd love him. Welcome to the fold, Gary!
P.S - If you're reading this, I <3>
LOVE YOU. If you're not, I still love you, but a little part of me is sad. No, really.
Audrey Hepburn as the foxy aunt. Every fake family has a foxy aunt. Audrey would be mine. And I'd steal all her clothes, and enlarge them, and then wear them, and make sure she never died of Appendix cancer. And I'm quite sure Bree would like Audrey as a sister. They could be all 50's together. And I could have their clothes.
George Orwell as my grandfather. I'd think him to be odd when I was a kid, but then, as I would grow older, he'd be one hell of a guy to practise my debating and speaking skills with. Great conversation, and great man too. Not the typical grandfather. But then, this family is pretty screwed up anyway. I'm just addin' to the fray.
I'd also want a kid brother called Philip.Or Phoenix. Ooh, Phoenix it is. I don't care what he looks like, but he shall be called Phoenix. Phoenix is the sort of name that sounds just right. All I need to do now is figure out what he'd look like. I have a feeling he'd act somewhat like William Brown from the William Series by Richmal Crompton. I'd be his awesome elder sister. And he'd be my nutty kid brother. <3
There are a couple of 'real' people to be added to this list, but I'm not going to.
Maybe some other time.
"An Apple for Serenity, a Pendant for Balance"
2 comment(s) Posted by VelocityGirl (tm) at 12:26:00 PMI haven't posted in so long, and that makes me feel guilty. What also makes me feel guilty is that I haven't been studying. What cancels out this guilt is the fact that even when I do study for a test, it still goes just as badly as it would have had I not studied. In other news, I am sick of school. Even English classes, (which are about the only classes that were still bearable), have turned hellish. Who in their right minds would test students on Quote Completion from a Shakesperean play?
Example -
Question - Fill in the blanks using the appropriate quotation from Shakespeare's Macbeth.
"To be thus is nothing _____, 'tis much he dares:_______ guide_____. There is none ____ and under him ______upon me, and ____; then ____ succeeding. If't be so ____kings!"
And so I hate English. And school, also.
We all knew this was going to be hard. Who thought it would make me want to gouge my eyes out? The school says your tutorials have already taught you, and the tutorials say that the school will help you learn in greater detail, and somehow when you get the time to read it on your own, it doesn't make sense in any case.
And as if all of this wasn't enough, you know that you need to do well, and that you cannot fail, and no matter how much everyone around you laughs off the fact that they study -
"Did you study last night?"
"Do I ever study?"
You're a liar. We all know you stayed up half the night solving numericals; what makes you so sure that we're going to believe that you didn't study? And what sort of heroic feat do you display when you do well in something and then proclaim loudly to the world that "SHIIIIT! I DIDN'T study and I did so WELL!!!"
No one believes you, you pompous, lying braggart. You stayed up all night. You skipped school not to sleep but to revise. You're not fooling anyone, dumbass. Stupid dumbass. Stupid because you think we're so gullible, and dumbass, because dumbass. Don't dispute it.
There is only one subject that I can stand. Biology. Even botany pisses me off now. I am sick of studying. I still don't mind Bio that much. But still.
I'm a cantakerous, grim-faced, snappish sixteen-year-old. What I want to do, most of all, right now, is to eat large quantities of very greasy Chinese takeout, wear my rattiest T-shirt, and watch Mulan.
But I have to study Chemistry.
Cheer up, Mum, It's Better to be Over the Hill...
5 comment(s) Posted by VelocityGirl (tm) at 11:07:00 AMThan to be Under It.
My mother turned 40. Two days ago, my mother turned 40. Which officially makes her an old person. It isn't much of a difference, actually. She doesn't look different. However, she has taken to smelling different, somewhat like acrid plastic. See, the acrid plastic thing she brought upon herself. The morning she turned 40, she ransacked the dresser and extracted from its depths an anti-aging cream that my father had left behind a couple of years ago. The cosmetic thing, honestly, she doesn't need, but she doesn't believe me, and now, according to her, she is 40, and thus her own principles allow her to assault her face with things that smell like burning PVC. Good for her. Maybe?
I don't get the big deal about turning a certain age. Save for the fact that I desperately want to be 17. It's been a million years since I turned 16. But more importantly, I don't understand why my mother would be so miserable about turning 40. Yeah, SURE, now people can tell you to your face that you're old, but you know, aside from that. I'd love to be old, and yell at people for the simple reason "Because I'm Older than You, B****!"
My mum however, fails to grasp the simple concept of aging gracefully. I can only truly realise how potentially serial-killer she sometimes is when I objectively look at her antics, say for example this excerpt from an MSN conversation.
Sahana(11:03):
Oh, and my mum turned forty.
Sahana (11:04):
Which gives her more reason to be mad at the time (now she calls it cantankerous or menopausal instead of angry)
Sahana(11:04):
Not to mention, she's spending all her free-time buying anti-ageing beauty products, which not only smell like burning plastic, but do NOT WORK!
Sahana(11:14):
And in somewhat good news, I finally found a hairstyle where I don't look like an electrocuted dog.
Sahana (11:16):
My mum was throwing things around looking for her elixir of youth, and she nearly poked my eye out with this hairclip thing.
Yes, My mother is phobic of getting old. Happy belated fortieth birthday, Mummy.
*Evil Laugh*
P.S. - Any of you who comment back telling how angelic and humourous my mother is WILL be gravely injured.
I'm serious.
There is something wonderful about a debate that makes me all shivery, afraid, tense, anticipatory and joyful all at one go. It must the idea of verbal warfare, the idea of spoken skirmishes, the idea of vocal battle – the adrenaline in your system that makes you tense up, your mouth go dry and your limbs sluggish when the speaker just before you is finishing their speech and you know you’re next. The three-ish minutes of your speech that you will never remember once you’re done with, the three minutes on which everything depends, the three minutes where nothing makes sense, not even the words you say. In those minutes the audience becomes a sea of faces that all look the same – skin colored and unrecognizable. The cold in your fingertips, the numb toes. The flood of heat through your system when you’re done with your speech and the audience claps and snaps you out of the reverie that you were in while at the podium and instantly the world comes back into focus and you can process the faces again, remember the names and remember whether you hate them or like them, and whether they were better or worse than you.
Although, this whole debating thing is made even better because of my debate-buddy and general-buddy, Aanooshka Seyn. And as one of the advisors said – we’re very different, but we’re pretty much like peas in a pod. She is sober, I am not. She is sarcastic, I am over the top. She never forgets her speeches, and sometimes I do. She claps for me and I clap for her. Together we point and laugh at the people who flub up, and then she yells at me for being uncouth. She talks of poetry and calls me a macho science geek. I talk of almost everything nonsensical under the sun, and I call her Humanities. She makes references out of people and things I hate, and cock eyebrows at all the things I say, and register them for later blackmail. When a speaker talks of the audiences’ wives, all the girls in the audience go “Whaaa?”, but I turn to her and say – “Oh crap, they found out about us?” Yes, Tiny, thank you for being my debate partner. Your secrets are safe with me, although I don’t think that assurance is mutual, I still love you.
I’ve been missing classes and hanging around the LN Birla debates the last couple of days, and among other things, the debates made me realize how much I love debating (and missing school). Much thanks to the teams who sat behind us and had a tiny talking party – I think I might have died of boredom and/or eating my arm out of sheer ennui if it wasn’t for you. Thank you Girls One and Two, for not being vapid but pretty good conversation, and even though one of you kept talking poetry at a point in time, you were still pretty normal. (Shut up, Aanooshka Seyn. ) Both of you. Thank you also those other two in the back. One of you was pretty much err.. okay as always. The other was a <> as always. Which was expected. (Again, shut up, Aanooshka Seyn) Aaaand, we qualified for the next round. So, that went off pretty great for us, that first day.
The next day, me and Aanoshka Seyn acted like a couple of over-confident, underprepared b!t(#e$ and therefore we got pwned. Even so, she missed a test, and I missed Double Math, so all in all it was quite a fruitful day. Despite that odd girl who I still think does not look like me. Despite the fact that we didn’t win. Despite the fact that I was extremely bored on stage. Despite all the unnecessary sports and games. Despite all of that and more stuff, I still count my blessings.
During the Twilight between the Time that the Old Recedes and New Rings Itself In.
4 comment(s) Posted by VelocityGirl (tm) at 6:27:00 PM(There are painters in my house. They float around like pieces of furniture in the background because I have gotten used to their presence and their constant swearing.)
The constant, searing smell of freshly-stripped walls hangs about everything in this house; with every gust of the buffeting warm wind that strays through the windows, and like a constant mist suspended from the ceiling.
With every still, sultry hour that passes with the ominous ticking of the obnoxiously loud clock, the stench of sweat mingles with the sweetish, penetrating odour of paint.
The brushes grate against the wall mercilessly, and little defeated splinters of paint fall to the floor, vanquished.
New cans of (winner) paint huddle in a corner, smugly viewing the old,fallen (loser) paint with a victorious gleam in their limpid paint-eyes.
The furniture huddles forlornly in the middle of the room; sad spectators to a joust they were indifferent to, under a fan with no blades covered with newspaper like an origami chandelier gone horribly wrong.
The battlefield wall stands stoic and silent, variously blotched with the warpaint of the morning's struggle, and oblivious to the new cracks that blossom like fat (useless)bloodless veins.
The workers leave.
The (new) paint stays.
The (old) paint flecks the floor.
They switch off the lights.
Tomorrow is another day.
So, random thank-you-post-its, because SGpt tagged on Facebook, and I publicly announce them on this limited-readership blog. (Not a good thing.)
Thank You:
For the word Cabrao, which is very useful, and means two very conveniently useful things.
For Rui, who told me what Cabrao meant. And what Cabrao also meant.
For All Dat We Dun, Luk Watchu Dun!
For the Purging Power of Music.
For Western Music which has made me sick of Matthew Bellamy.
For SGpt, who writes tremendously incoherent, seventeen-ish syllable haikus.
For Saccharine, that makes Sugar-free lives so easy and accessible.
For the little thing that allows me to hide Offline even when I'm actually Online.
For Jet Jetski Jetschkei Gidlew Gupta, the most-unkiller ibbly-gibbly-pootie-dog that I am still not afraid of.
For Forrest Gump, a pwner of a movie.
For Female-Ireland, who let us review it.
And for Ireland, who gave us Mr. Lightbody.
Amen.
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