1566

Secret and private are hopelessly mixed up in the IP address world.

Damn all the privacy freaks and leaks, they’ve made pointless security a big business today. Everywhere is a cornucopia of outrage about the country and all that it knows about you, that it shouldnt and how it manipulates your life to suit its convenience. I have no idea what these countries and their peoples know about me, or what they can possibly use.

My identity? Its not in a piece of paperplasticrock, take all of em away, I’ll make more.

My life? I am human, I am woman. I love, I understand, I write, I drink. How is it unique?

My privacy? I have a stalker, had one for a few years now, not sure why, but sure means my life’s had meaning. Hey, it pissed off some random dude/babe enough to stalk me, thank you darling, kiss kiss bang bang.

I pay taxes, all of ’em, no cuts, no attempts. I also rage, fight, I am a street urchin with a purse.

Um think I have not a damn thing to hide, or maybe yes, ask again when im sober. On my own, just private, my deepest feelings are mine, guarded, not for sale, not for any price, but not particularly afraid,

If some cunning con did get hold of them. so be it, so be life. Their loss, of the marvel of life, not mine. I tend to view threats to my freedom very seriously, but privacy seems hyped in the average life, mine.

These rumorers and theorists, these tend to be Sheep with an accumulation past tolerance, a graveyard of secrets that burned civilizations and cut hearts, these are real weird growths.

We all like to own our souls, not turn them into marketplace muffins, but some baffle logic, and they persist, and they perpetuate.

For me, its crazy to try to kill someone to hold a secret, what the hell can be so precious? Think about it, yes, no?

Are the regular Sheep so gullible that a state secret in plain sight, revealed on website, television, someday, can convince billions and billions to change direction?

Hah. You must be fucking kidding me, a friend of mine likes to say.

Maybe not, I am no statistician, just one of the derelicts of time, a backwards double jointed crab-pelican creature, one of those wretched soldiers with a powerful will and no innate wisdom.

Damn, I want to be a star wars hero, why are my fingers making me a fucking bunny rabbit with man parts and a god complex?

My laptop is quite cranky today,

sunrise

There used to be a compass in my handbag for a few years. It was free with something, and very nice looking, black and gold and plastic. I liked knowing which was north and the novelty of a compass in my handbag. And I don’t throw stuff away, even the most useless piece of junk from 1992 that I will never look at again is buried carefully somewhere in my home in India

A few days back, early morning, I checked my handbag and the compass was gone. I dunno when I lost it, where I put it, I haven’t needed a compass for 8 years now. That day, I wanted to know where east lay. I was up early and I wanted to see a sunrise. Sunrises are rare for me, I tend to sleep between 2-4 am.

Back home, if I was up early or up all night, I went to the terrace and looked around. It would be silent but for the occasional vehicle, there would be birds chattering excitedly.

Here, I pulled snow boots on my onesie, a giant furry down jacket, yak hair scarf, woollen gloves, and my keys. Then I went sojourning.

The deck, is locked, points the wrong way anyways. The tennis court, is locked. I rode up the elevator to the 24th floor. The roof, is locked. The windows point wrong. I went down to the skyway, walked about for half a mile, then from the angle of elongated rays, I figured out which way lay east.

The only way east for me, on foot and muffled to the gills, was through a parking lot. I went, it was empty but for one dirty white sedan. But the sun was rising. I climbed up four flights so I could see above the skyway.

And I saw it bright and clear and beautiful and timeless. Somewhere above me, birds chirped. I had the absurd urge to cry.

The regret cut deep, that there was no one beside me to share this moment. I’m working on it.

There are very very few people in this world I want to share a sunrise with. I don’t want someone beside me who’ll have to be dragged against their will and sleep, to stand beside me going – dude, its just a sunrise, get over it.

And of course you’re not supposed to look directly at the sun. And of course I looked anyway. Turns out, I am ok with the news item, she went blind staring at a sunrise

curses and curses

Statutory Warning – Explicit Content and Language

I had a weird day today. Two wrong numbers during the day (I have been in this country over a year now, but I only got about 3 wrong numbers in 12 months). Then I was asked out by some guy on my way to somewhere. Ok man, I admire his cojones, I might have been some strange psycho bitch (in fact I was) but he came right up and asked me out, Thank you no thank you and I moved on. Didnt ruffle me too much. Decent chap, I was alone, but he didnt try any funny stuff.

And what disturbed me was, in the night, some genius sends me a video of his dick. I assume it was an entire mood piece of him masturbating, but didn’t check, home made porn tends to be dull with bad lighting and poor actors

I replied saying wrong number, and pretended I was a dude. And the guy writes right back asking if I liked it, so in fact, he knows damn well im not. So of course, I called him. Voice Mail. Called again, Voice Mail. And he has put in his name in the voice message, I get a clear shot of his name and accent. Indian dude. Of course.

And now I am PISSED. I thought I had left behind this particular class of human being when I landed in this country. Morons with the “Oo check out my stunning penis” fixation.

And theyre crawling out of the woodwork again. Ok to be fair, one is, so far this place has been good to me.

But I never understand the motivation. Am I supposed to be scared? Humiliated? Flattered? Turned on? Fall in love? (yeah this ought to be classy)

WHAT goddammit? WTF is the reaction these men expect? Will SOMEONE please explain the psyche of Moron Man to me? Did this genius just have so much blood loss from an erection that he couldnt use his single cellular brain?

Is this another brand of psycho stalker? The guy is naked, anonymous and cowardly. And I am supposed to be scared of him? Bring it bitch.

Bah, idiots!

Nanowrimo 2010

51394, I did it this November, under pathetic odds no less, yay and whew.

The writers life is a sad solitary one-person path, It invites madness, you often find the path only to unleash the madness that lives inside.

I usually don’t know if I want to walk this path today, someday, forever, at all. I like bright shiny lights and people. A lot.

And while its been forced upon me by a vast body of literature that a choice must be made, you cannot have everything, I havent decided if it be true.

Balancing a compulsive compulsory madness with sanity may yet be done, I think its possible. Still figuring out how, I no longer ask why, some questions have no answer, some choices deserve never to be questioned.

The thing itself is a frightening ugly unsolvable hole, I avoid looking directly at it. All I accept are the symptoms and the effects. I go afraid down the path, I emerge happier, I cannot tell if I have slipped a little more into insanity, or pulled a little closer to “normal”, but its a happy transition, so its got to be my destiny.

And if it be the meaning of my destiny to someday sit in an asylum wearing a hat and talking about how terrible and beautiful life is, all the time, instead of scaling walls and living it, I hope it comes to me in degrees of movement and not a single avalanche of acceptance.

I hope I get some pretty damn powerful drugs and bells every Sunday to signify the passage of time through ether, and my own numbness through it all.

The reason I like this fantasy is that I can be alone all the time, without being questioned or badgered or annoyed, the reason I dont is, its going to take away my freedom of movement, I have a great big urge to travel around the world, not to see places, no, ive seen enough places, some are beautiful, some ugly, the people are all the same, and all different too.

I want to travel simply to feel distance and change beneath my feet, the urge to keep moving is very very powerful in me, I cannot sit still.

And this month I realized there are a few more myths about writers and writing. The keyboard vs hand one, for instance. A lot of self-help books on writing (yes I read self-help books, no shame, remember) say that writing by hand is more connected than typing, somehow it comes directly from the heart.

Bull. My heart is just as connected to my fingertips as to the hollow of my hand, and I type much faster than I write anyway,

I found that writing is very easily broken, I dont like fountain pens (good for your handwriting) or ball point pens that stutter, when my stream of thought is underway, any and all interruptions are unwelcome and plain annoying, which is why I rarely write in company.

Typing captures my stream of thought faster and more efficiently, I prefer it. Have given up handwriting. The only way hand scores is in making mind maps and drawing word associations, and someday im going to get a fancy tablet and take that away too.

And while all this talk is grand and vast and pompous, you may discount it heavily with facts. I havent actually written a book or anything, all im doing is getting my arms around this thing I have grown these many years, and enjoying myself, so, just another puny human talking, not really a sage or even qualified to spout wisdom (who is?).

which brings me to another myth about writing, that you gotta make money out of it to validate it/yourself. No you dont gotta, unless you have a competitive streak and need it to believe in yourself or your writing. I have neither need for the most part, I may actually someday make money off of it, but it will be coincidental, this is a bitter truth that emerged, but hey, at least I wont quit my day job and wait for inspiration to make me rich 😛

Myth 3 is not really a writing myth, just a generic dose of stupidity floating around the interwebs, calling itself a “cornerstone” and applying itself to all human activity.

“The medium is the message”

This one makes me really angry. This is only true for the lazy and the manipulative. The medium is the medium. The message is the message. You may choose any medium if you have something timeless to say, it will come through. You may be irresistibly drawn to a medium for its quality of affinity or relaxation or joy, there IS no message here, nor is there a need for one, just enjoy it, and try not to hurt anyone else in the process.

If we choose to substitute the medium for the message or vice versa, twist one into the other, or accept one instead of the other, it reflects far more on our own values than it does on either the medium or the message. This is just a transparent piece of marketing crap designed to make money and disguise true value, two birds one stone, bah!

And heres my test of a writer – If a ray of light hits your feet, and you’re just sitting there minding your own business, and you start wondering, did you choose this spot deliberately so you could feel some sunlight, if the ray of light is some kind of metaphor for your life, and is it better brighter or duller, is THAT another metaphor for the ebb and flow of your day, if you need a pedicure, if the light had a purpose to reveal to you, if you should move your feet closer or further, if you are feeling warmer or colder because of it, SHOULD you be feeling warmer or colder because of it, what do you need right now, warmth, coolness, light, shadow, if you wonder if it is fate that the angle of the light hits your feet exactly, THEN my friend, you have to try writing, you’re going around the bend anyway, might as well enjoy the ride 😀

Shady afterword – I realized, almost immediately that I’d made a grand mistake in the word count, ok so im not a math whiz, only had 46000 odd words in (dont ask), so in a frenzy I have written out new and frightening angles on breakfast and shopping non stop for two days, and made the count at 11:54 pm tonight at 50016, as is usually my style of finishing things, so my first Nanowrimo when I didnt limp home lame, YAYYY!

closer

I am the burned child of a broken door and squeaking steps. Some times last forever, some times are an instant, some times are frozen and ready when they come, they bring in a vast ether of inertia, and stand around looking like perfection in dry ice.

I never had a hand to hold in any of these times, not for more than a minute, and now that its offered, I dunno what to do. I stared at it suspiciously for a year, it didn’t go away. I shook it like a leaf in a tornado, until its fingers trembled, and curled and withered. But the hand stayed.

No one knows the lessons that teach us how to hold hands right when we dance. All we know is that it takes two to tango. Sometime, long long ago, I was simple, continuous and demanding, no frozen time to live quietly in, no stillness, no fear, no need. Now after life lobbed me a few bombs, no matter what I do, I have the escape route figured, down to money, a map, a torch, food and my favorite books.

The scoffers in my head told me to stop walking backwards and just take the hand. They don’t understand, I don’t need a hand. I want it too much. The storm is nothing, I love the storm, I am good at screaming and dancing in the storm, did it all my life, but now that the frozen picture postcard is held out, carefully at the corners by an irritatingly persistent hand, I want to rest.

To stop creating storms to dance in, to curl up behind the broken door and die peacefully. But I know new storms will keep coming. In great waves dragged around by the moon. I know it is my destiny to stand in the frontlines and fight, that I can never truly rest until I die. I know that it doesn’t change with a hand, sometimes drowning, sometimes strong.

Trick is to stop escaping just because I can. To weather imaginary storms and dry ice. To recognize where lies freedom, which bars of this song are prison, those two change, interchange every minute. To accept the dance is worth everything