And it’s skeleton.

I am closing this blog.

Lights out folks.

Ta Ta. Bye Bye.

And yet I won’t.

Good luck with getting that out of me.

.

 They dredged up a bunch of dino eggs in Chennai or somewhere around there. Technically dinosaurs would not count as our forefathers, not unless you are Iggy Pop or something. However, we all have evolved from apes and I am given to believe that apes evolved from these ginormous lizards, and if you couple this bit with the other bits from Zen Buddhism that denounces universal duality- we are were all dinosaurs once (and probably still are). My evidence to support this theory is fairly crummy and quite insufficient at the moment but once I have it examined by the University of Brunel, I will expound on it further.

In the meantime, we are inching towards Judgement Day.

 Last week, the Glass Eyed Bendy One bought a Scottish island and The Runaway bride renamed Phinnaeus, Ganesh – as though that child won’t suffer enough on the account of his original name. And now this. I am telling you, brothers and sisters, the Day of Reckoning is here and no, I haven’t been secretly tuning in to the Pat Robertson channel on Youtube. This is me - just me - and my very personal doomsday predictions. It will be Apocalypse. Soon. Tank up on your gin and lime till then because when the 3 headed, gargantuan Hydra emerges from the Red Sea to make a chew toy out of your kith and kin, you’d need all the alcohol in the world!

Ok, so that is slightly dramatic. Maybe the Hydra will only have 2 heads.

Back to the eggs bit.  I don’t much care about the hype and frenzy generated by this finding. So they found some eggs buried by the bank of a river. Go further up north and you will probably find some rivers buried by a bank of eggs. None of it makes any sense, of course. It’s like reading Hunter Thompson while watching a Judd Apatow movie and chewing hash. It’s positively ludicrous.

 I am given to understand what really got all these science magnets glued to the spot is the fact that these eggs are about 65 million years old. Unbelievable.That’s roughly the collective age of all the members of CPI(M) and BJP. Nobody has been writing front page articles about discovering eggs that belonged to those neolith monsters.
…that’s a disturbing train of thoughts.
Anywhoo, this unearthing has, unfortunately, inspired some kind of academic bacchanalia amidst a few of my friends; mostly those who are closet fossil lovers or are generally inclined towards anthropology/paleontology and as a direct result of that, my mailbox is sinking in a barrage of “They found EGGS!” mails. I am woman of some maturity and I find this egg-talk rather poor in taste and there should be some law about sending disdainful text messages at 4 am with the single line – “Eggs in Madras”. The context is pretty blurry, you will have to admit.

Aside from this oosphoric mania, I have been well and by that I mean away from work and reading Cicero in my spare time. Nothing good ever came out of reading Cicero, I’ll admit but sometimes we must do things without haggling about good and evil outcomes. Also, while reading Candide (“again”) – its fashionable to admit you read it before and are just “re-reading” it now- I frequently lost track of whether it was Voltaire or de Sade who penned it. The flogging quotient is fairly high even by Mitchell Brothers movie standards.
And now, I have finally come to the end of this completely aimless post and nothing constructive has made it’s presence felt on this page, yet.
We are all in good hands.
Shalom.

A newer more robust verison of the canonical model (Kripke Semantics) can be seen here.

If ever there was a stronger (stranger ?) argument for literacy, I haven’t had the opportunity to smite it with a giant, bristly mop.

UPDATE!: I am going here in December. If you would like come with me please write to me.
I am not precious about travel partners but would prefer it if you weren’t a latent cannibal with an affinity for axes, crack pipes and/or country music. Ardent followers of gangsta rap/satanism are also not encouraged though I might consider bending the rules if you can cook. (Preferably something other than me)

FURTHER UDPATES!!

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
madness, starving hysterical naked,

To which they said – “O Malu Malu Malu”

Looking out the window, I felt the crisp subterfuge of melancholy covering my senses. A dull calm had spread over the cityscape. Branches tittered in a bunch, the air laden with possibility of rains. Cuddling couples had resumed their late night strolls and I had resumed my pelting of cuddling couples on late night strolls with rotten pineapple slices.

In other words, the universe seemed to have regained its composure and seemed suitably behaved.

Suddenly the light on my cell phone flickered announcing the arrival of a text message. I halted the fruit-flinging to check the contents of this message.

“Want to talk to the hot blonde you were thinking about last night? Call at 52222. Rs 6 per minute. All types of hots and blondes. Also other types. CALL NOW!”

So, I typed – with acute vigor and diligence-  the first four lines of  Rilke’s Spaziergang and sent it to that number. No types of blondes or “other types” have called back but I haven’t yet let go of the train of Hope’s dusty gown.

Pablo Escobar started his criminal career by stealing tombstones from the local graveyard and selling it to local villages. Al Capone’s mother was a seamstress. Werner Herzog was a welder before he started his career as a target for “insignificant” bullets. Julia Child was possibly a government spy.

My grand dad was a suspected Marxist and a national level Malkhamb player. I am a renowned florticulturist with a penchant for glue-sniffing.

We all have these skeletons in the closet. Nothing is what it seems.

Sincerity can get him into trouble. “Pediatric Suicide,” invective and poem-as-witness to a girl’s death, is constructed of sentences like “Being who you are is not a disorder” and “Putting your head down and crying your way through elementary school is not a mental illness, on the contrary.” Energy is the poem’s best quality. Wright lambastes a “subdoormat psychiatrist” who prescribes the child too many drugs.
The poem ends, “She was unhappy just as I was only not as lucky” — almost glib in its bitterness. Is the tragedy, then, the poet-speaker’s or the child’s? Is she just another “fine human / hamster”?

Yeah, so like, I am alive. Sort of.
And my head feels like this.

God, what is the meaning of

this minute,
tell me, I ask you.
I have already been here
forever, he replies,
and think I’m going to stay

I am listening to Nouvelle Vague – Give me the words and Nitin Sawhney – Sunset. 

And the city is sucking my blood dry, so much so that I have pure vitriol and bile coursing in my veins now.

Your mouth once fashioned after the
softest, most supple Yakuti grapes is
now the very picture of a shrivelled

raisin stored for decades
in grandma’s secret jars You would steal from
for us.

Your purple lips quiver along the bends
of each river they course in the lores
and truths of your Taal. There is

a different country’s pulse in the spasming
network of your nerves. A different one
pushing it’s spears against the leathery folds
of your temple.

Electricity homes in clouds here. A voiceless
basin and it’s deepening gaze. Torches above
flicker and roar. I can faintly distinguish

your body crumpled like dark leaves
from the blanket of this bat like night.
I have come here

to watch you wither, JaJa.
Your untidy hands bore flowers
in an earth so effete, legends born from

their callused fingers blossomed gardens
along the tapering spines of these forgotten roads
They only grew graves before you came
here.
You would teach me

about Bicko and Bantu, of corruption
as intimate as love (black blood irrigates
the roses of Gauteng)

Of a love deeper
than hatred it didn’t
but
have a choice to confront. How

someone could forget of the months
that had settled on his skin as a graph
of cicatrix,

from beatings dealt to an upside down
body
And for what?
The right to wear his own skin.

Then, I taught you too.
About Mama Africa; to her tunes you cooked
for me stew and pudding. We gobbled it all

down in front of a rendered version of some
cheap American movie on rewind and play.
We lived in translations, unencumbered

by the violence outside.
You had small smiling palms, plucked
from a stalk of sweet basil. Curious

puppets hid in them
came to life on Sunday mornings
Even the blithe acres lend their impatient

ears to your serraphic tales.
Your labor of love bristled in colors
I didn’t even know names for.

Empty and dry, they droop now
just as a walking Iris in its penultimate
moments. Between breath and death.

Serpentine fate crawls out of those
threaded lines, steals across the length
of your old arms,

I now watch it climb
up the aging cliff of your nose,
way past the temperance of your august

jaws, unsteady it finds
its final resting place
                               between

the burning white orbs of (”oë” )

I see peace come to You and
Your face opens up like the million
petals of a black king Protea

I have bought more of  some truly  hideous erotica collections. Expect all my conversations to be peppered with euphemisms such as love milk, joyful instruments, petals of youth, saline sea creatures (what other kinds of seas have you known of?) and more ghastly ones that I can’t quite recall at the moment. Between these and the rorschach inkblot tests I am conducting for academic papers, I firmly believe that I have come full circle.

While on the subject of rorschach inkblots, why haven’t we found more sophisticated ways to drive people towards kookiness? To take your mind off of this, might I ask you to imagine me as a practising therapist in roughly 4 years from now. The chupacabra seems more believable a possibility, doesn’t it?

As you can gather, I have nothing remarkable to offer by way of  mindless commentary, at this point in time,  so I will render myself to Zen like silence again. You can, in the meanwhile, help me run my experimental group. Here is an inkblot. Have fun with it. (And do NOT tell me this looks like a chicken or I will damage your joyful instrument permanently.)

( Carl Jung)

Mine is 1st July. That, I believe, was yesterday. I got older and heavier what with 30 kgs of cake cream shoved down my throat. I cohabit with cheap rats who didn’t give me any presents except for a 5 year old kazoo. I am a sodding loser for all thats worth so there was no point celebrating anyway.

Off to travel more. Will be away from the internets for a while. Not that any of you out there would fookin care, still it is my job to update you.

Want to gift me stuff or send me belated b’day wishes? nihilistwaffles [at] gmail [dot] com. I prefer weaponry of all sorts, in case you are running short of gift ideas.

Also, I would like to apologize to all those amputee sex googling christians who arrive at this clearinghouse of peccadilloes expecting vespery hymns and are offended by the crap here.  I never intend to be offensive.

Wow! Who the fruitcakes am I kidding? Of course, I am offensive.  And intend to continue with this way of functioning. That’s the mainstay of my business. Remember it. Or, never forget. Whichever is easier for you.