The only real problem about being me is that if you are me, you can't see my face when I'm talking and as a result miss out on half the fun.

hoho.

that's me right there.

Sleeping Pattern

like the albatross-
twenty five miles per hour,
wind slicing the lids.

Brain-dead.

Exactly that, and there's NOTHING I can blame it on except for the lack of the kind of interaction that I'd like with the kind of people that are capable of it, or maybe its just that I haven't done laundry in a while. Everything stinks. I do like just lying on a slanting terrace, its scales rubbing at the back of my being just enough to not let me get complacent,and there's enough sky too, for once. But that's all it becomes, lying down, there is no scope for extrapolating the way I like to, I'm not hunting for flying couches in my head anymore.

In other news,I touched a dog and I liked it.

Also, fixed my guitar with a little help from KC. The stings are rusting but there's music again. If I ever buy a car, it will be big and blue. I'll notice the children on the streets when I drive past, I'll notice the children on the streets.

Sitting at the end of the divider makes me want to sing Irish drinking songs, and- well who could've guessed- drink.

Im sick of dealing with the spineless, I wonder what they keep shoving up their flaccid assholes to keep themselves upright.Maybe all the pretentious self righteousness, but how do they even muster that?

Why the concept of transparency appears to be so RIDICULOUS to everyone is what I do not understand.
And why is it so difficult to come to terms with the fact that maybe it(whatever it is) is just what its like, and there is no undertone that you're missing.

Also, maybe I am just as regular and clichéd and dramatic and lame and pointless as anyone and its just not very well expressed (minus the drama), which is probably what works to my benefit.It may not be pretense at all, its just lack of expression. I cant rise above anything, ok. That's it, I'm the loser, and I'm really glad I realise it and I hope you too realise that maybe, just maybe there are facts like these about yourself that you're trying to escape.

Yawn.

I'm not doing rantblog anymore, nor facebook, nor girlfriends, and there's no boyfriend to do anyway so lets just make this the dumping ground again.

 I've realised that I suck balls at studio shoots (heh, everything I say has a way of sounding wrong). I'm probably just terrible at working in controlled conditions is all because its the same with anything I do, any form of framework given and you can trust me to be a ball of yarn gone loose around it. Spontaneous photography is probably the best I can do, and thats just sad yknow.

(Spontaneously shot when on pot)

Well, not too sad I guess, unless you take the professional aspect into account, but no wait there is no professional aspect to my existence anyway so HURRAY!
Anyway, so I'm whiny about everything now, but suicidal would be a more appropriate state of mind, given the circumstances.If only I was a clearer thinker. I could swear that just about a minute ago I'd thought of some issue I really need to address (could be anything from a shoelace fiasco to major highschool drama thing) but I can't, for the life of me, remember anything within 2450 nautical miles of it because its out in the sea of complete wipe-out. The only good thing to have happened to me in the recent past has been Adobe InDesign, it made me a little less distressed about graphic design and a future I don't really believe exists.Yes, a software.
And i don't have it.
:/

To TOP IT ALL,my Uncle is visiting India for a month, for the first time with all four of his pretty, pretty Portuguese kids and I'm stuck in PUNE and I've never met ANY of them save the eldest boy and its just really awful that the only time I've ever wanted to see anyone thats even close to being related to me, well, I cant.

Well if you feel like sending across a hug, a new phone instead would be nice.

Within myself, I'm better

So why dont you take a ride
















But I guess that too, only when I'm just a vagina.





























Just a hippie masturbating 
to your psychopathic cries.

My instincts called me for a drink and then abandoned me.

In my head I was reading a manual on

How to make Texas feel like a water-balloon, but

that's not where I live. Some days,

 you wake up feeling like red meat, the salt burning

down into you. You strip yourself bare of what remains 

of your skin to make it go away and it returns on

a sledge, down your chimney, into your socks. You 

know then- feet failing, spine dissolving, head in your hands

like the seashore you once tried to snatch at and

store for later- that everything leaks. In my head, this isn't it, red meat is
rot so lets switch to green. We can move to another city,freshly 

brewed,all the splashing and its still not Texas.My myths fail to

pull me down or even take me to the 8th floor terrace

again, my myths are starving and 

soon they will let up.My fingers, my nerves,my art,ditto.Some days

you are the last hospital wing, housing too many, the stench

of some poisoning the rest.You're a Saturday smile before 

the wasting away,that's when you break. Some days you

know your next move and then you switch positions, unaware

of still being in the same skin that crawled back on anyway.

Look who came to uproot.

It is as though I've taken up gardening full time. My art gone
out the window, it makes fine manure, works slow but
I give it a go. I sit for days under the window, shooting up
at every wink of the sun. The winds gossip and I join hands with
the hosepipe. Twice a day I dig up bones and appendices, twice a
day new ones must appear, dripping or stale,two days dead. I
miss the culinary activities, I miss my cat during his favourite part of
listlessness.I'm hunting but its still just bones, no organs showing up, no
marrow to build a beat.It is as though next, ill have them growing
out of the sound-hole, use the neck as a plough, fingers firm over
flying strings.We're making music, I tell you, but we still need
the red. You snap the fingers and nothing flows.You're still snapping
fingers, the sound of it calming you more than the birds ever helped,
and what else would we want the trees for anyway. Lets go to bed,
I say, and you're snapping fingers, too tired to dig the dead ones out.

Heavyweight

What other kind of sleep-walking do I need to practise, what embellishments do I add to my madness? Which is most appropriate to rub against the other, for my pride is eroding just a little slower each time. Punctuate and crosscheck. Wrap some more rags around the ticker, crosscheck, wash its feet and give it up, give up, put letting go on repeat and you can live without a care in the world.Several excuses have been used, but I'll give you the one that sells, diamond rimmed, pure platinum body, the whitest of baked lies.If only it spun a little smoother, two decades have been passed in these hitches,what are we even saying anymore, its been too long,we've come to far in to create or conquer sense now