How can you kill me? I don't have a life. It's been a lot of tv all these days. A lot of work, a lot of hanging around and a lot of fixing up. My role in coexisting with freaks, friends and fools is famously fitting. I miss writing -- writing scripts is different. Not being very good in keeping in touch, my phone has about 20 bucks, and Big Surd's landlady is creating possible trouble for me.
But as of now: life in GK-1 is not that terrible -- I'm learning to get around. Meanwhile work's been tough. Which is a good thing. But as I said: how can you kill me?
----------------------------------------------------------------------
I don't know about you but I've been waking up in a terrible way. This is about35 seconds before my alarm starts ringing. The dream is hazy with a lot cigarette smoke, the flooring is very wooden, the drinks are very gold, the lips are very red, and there's a fire and a hint of madness being feasted about. I'm on a bar stool, in front of a fancy fantasy bar from The Shining -- when some woman calls, someone beautiful, someone lost in the corridor between heaven and hell, someone that makes you tun around... when the alarm rings.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Nobody fucks with Jesus."

Bummer. It's a Monday. A very ordinary one. But it's a Monday. Waking up is a hangover. The first bits of winter are frozen against the balcony window door and there's a morbid sense of existence on my way to work in an auto.
The good thing here is that I can write whatever the shit I want to. I'm terrible with writing structured plot. To help myself I create a faint outline, but no plots. Right now I'm wasting your time as well as mine. Lately writing has dipped and I don't think it's going to get better. I feel like Barton Fink a bit in front of the keyboard.
So what about hope? Hope in writing or in existence? Is there any point to it. I see futility. But there is hope, isn't there? Waiting to bless you as you kneel against your very own Pandora's box. Oh darkness and it's bitter dreams. But can one live in hope? Maybe there is life somewhere else just like Earth. If our very own existence was an accident, a big bang that took place some million years ago -- the probability of another one? Sure. Sure. Dreamers.
I see futility on a Monday. And just like everyone else I need a coffee.

A week's done at the new place. The profile seems very fancy. Trying to find my way to get used to it. Second job's aren't easy. More importantly if it the work's different from the previous work. But I shall not talk about work.
So I've shifted with the Big Surd -- and that's in order. Work from there is not too far, and if I leave at dot 8.30 then I hit office at dot 9. But if there's a difference of about 5 minutes, I get caught in a violent jam outside office for about 20 minutes. It's one of the worst, and time specific, routes in Delhi. Worst of all -- I don't know if you saw the flash on telly -- but it's one place where the Blueline buses are killing everyday. Today one of those buses crashed into a point and killed about a dozen of people.
In the mornings I see the grinning face of death, as the Blueline does its tricks in front of my auto. Man, living isn't easy. On the weekends I'm back home, mum's ruled that out. And I guess it ain't that bad, since a 9 to 7 job is taxing as opposed to the earlier 12 to 21 sort of work. Plus living alone can be a bit boring, sometimes.
Picked up Stephen King's On Writing, and it's absolutely brilliant, as well as watched Kubrick's The Killing. On Writing is mostly autobiographical, where King is honest about rubbing poison ivy after taking a crap and his cocaine, but more importantly it tells you a few tips for writers.
The Killing is a brilliant -- a noir that sets Tarantino in Reservoir Dogs and Pulp fiction. Cold, heartless and cutting edge.
Yet to watch Bergman's Seventh Seal and Godard's Breathless.
Apart from all that personal life is a mess with a quarter life hangover knocking on my temples impatiently. Cigarettes, coffees, broken songs, bent back, puffy eyes, and politics -- everything falls into a bookshelf. Evening's coming...time to head back...