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...