Well, things get hectic. Pages have started rolling -- and I'm back to ol' Quark. Everything seems pretty decent for the time being. Sometimes a little boring. The net keeps slow -- an old print office problem. But gets you to do your basic work. I keep myself removed, from the usual shit and get over work.
My Old Man's got my laptop -- he needed to do some work -- has kept me away from writing at home. Soon I shall have it back.
An old friend of my Old Man dropped a tv series -- you see these are his different set of friends. Since he's been working in a bookstore for the last 20 years or so, he has a handful of people who have been coming in for years. Now that they know that he sits there, they walk in, find their book, sit next to him, drink coffee, listen to music and talk about everything under the sun.
These friends are mainly well to do people -- but when they first walked in, they come in as readers sniffing for a good collection. Some of them are senior beauracrats, senior journalists, writers, thinkers, students (JNU?), and sometimes riff-raffs -- but they all have to be welcomed by him.
If he likes you, he lets himself break the rules -- he smiles at you, would even talk to you and help you around. In return, and over years of knowing him, this lot offers him their music collection from their hard drives, rips movies for him, point's him out to some gizmos that they have bought and so on.
I don't venture there often. I used to when I worked for the rag earlier on and I would head back home. But ever since I shifted out of the rut, and got my own place in Def, my route's basically northward in the city.
So this tv series is pretty cool, it's called Californication. They haven't aired here in India. Perhaps because of its content (good sex on it). Basically it's the star of X-files; he's an been a bestselling writer who chills around. His ex girlfriend with which he has a little girl is a rocker is about to marry some dickweed. He wants to sort himself out and get back with her (meanwhile he sorts of fs around) while his literary agents tries to get him to write around. It's pretty cool, somewhat a bit better than Enterourage. If you can rip ot.

It's really strange but I never got the whole deal of messaging. At one level it seems to be one of the greatest inventions -- you can send a message to someone, cutting the opportunity of the bullshit of talking to that person. On the other hand, it can be quite corny as well. You can say the sweetest darn thing you like without slurring, coughing and pausing on it.
I don't wish to talk about the language. That's a seperate issue. I keep the dictionary on (which sometimes is of no help) -- but I let that work my spellings.
But I seem to have made several fuck-ups along the way. Well not serious fuck ups like sending a wrong message to someone else (that worries me sometimes, especially when it's derragatory). But fuck ups in the sense of letting people know that I'm fond of them. Maybe I don't do it right. I sometimes send random messages. Poetical messages. Messages for random talk, than anything else, that suggest nothing really. Talk about some song, poet, book, quote -- and then I suffer over why I sent it. And they're not like your drunk messages.
But they aren't sent to random people. They are sometimes attempts to be in touch, through poetical talk to someone you think you can relate to in some proverbial darkness. I don't know if it makes sense to you.
Some people don't reply. Now don't think I'm some lunatic who gets after you, that's not the case. Some people just don't reply. You know every once in a while even I get one of these random messages. Not that they have to be poetical or anything, but merely random for sure. They often don't even say a hi. They're from someone you know. Someone who you have come to realise is fond of you, and sending you that is a sudden show or a glimpse of their desperation. I hope you get what I mean.
Do you ever get random messages from people; those one's that you dismiss by wondering why someone would send you some garbled words, at an odd hour? Or have you sent someone a random message? Hoped for a reply?
I think there are people who use messaging to keep it as objective as possible. There are months when I don't send send random messages, I keep it as objective as possible. Sometimes I throw an extra line; a line more than the needed.
But you know, I don't know if you would, but I make it a point that I reply to random messages I get. Messages that perhaps have no question, no point but are attempting. I suppose sometimes it's some comfort you can give to people. After all, I've always been fascinated with words. And words do give comfort. Think about it. This is really random.

Maybe I'm an outsider. A misfit. Or maybe it's a strange dream. And maybe nothing is of any importance. You see there's either a Kurt Cobain way or there's a Virginia Woolf way, anything else is just a poster of Albert Camus with a cigarette.
There's differences and then are opinions. And there's you, a memory, more plastic than ever. More unreasonable and then I hardly know you, I hardly know myself. But wasn't this what he whispered was the fun bit?
There's a bit of everything. It's all really confused. There's absurdity. There can't be reason. We were all there (and we were laughing) when she was taken on a horseback facing us. Maybe all the pity on her face contorted into some beauty. But when the fire was burnt, when the witches were tied, the river was not up in flames she did let her complexion reflect it.
What trash. Utter crap. It never makes sense. But I should stop.

And every once in a while there are headaches. Headaches and mistakes. Suddenly your life's different. You wake up at 11 am. Your head's not spinning cause somewhere down the line you know how to avoid hangovers. You're sleepy but you know it's the same bed that once thanked five undisturbed hours of sleep as a blessing.
You make your own tea. You've come to live with that. You open the balcony door and find the newspapers rolled up in a rubber band. You're fortunate that despite last evening's rain the papers aren't wet by the damp balcony door.
You spend the next couples of hours reading about how the Left has been trying to fuck with the Centre -- and now has fucked everyone up. That politics is somehow the most unclear gamble -- and we coexist with the deception that we're removed from it.
The morning it self is far removed from reason. Reason apart from the fact that the maid would be coming to clean the rooms soon. That there's work today and that there's work to be done. It's not too much but then it depends.
And you wonder if you're unhappy. You miss those eyes. You also miss that old world. You miss being mistreated and you can't hurl cuss words accompanied by a long rant. You miss that old lot. You miss the stairs. You miss those mornings, afternoons and sometimes even those nights.
And then you don't. You forget the eyes. Or you try to by what you read now and what you have to write. You look for them in others. Desperately seeking comfort. When they get too close, you look away. You always look away. You blame everyone for losing the shine in their eyes. As I persist to be in the shadows.

And things change. It's been a week at the new place. And I'm back in the writing factory. At the moment, settling. Getting used to getting at 2 pm, leaving just a bit soon afterwards. I'll be working for the Sunday section of the tab, the section will be launched in a month's time.
Everything's pretty decent for the moment, apart from the fact that I have an irritating cold. Can't really write -- feel my head is stuck in a fish bowl. You shall follow soon.