Purple socks is mine

Violence against women- 16 days of Activism Against Gender Based Violence

2011-11-30T14:04:00.003+05:30

Last year, someone known to me was flickering with ebullience and oomph that she was going to get married. She was gracious enough to let my eyes run through her gifts of velvet cased jewellery and other apple polished frilly elegance. She also told me the guy was 23, fluent in his English because she wasn’t and hadn’t asked anything in terms of dowry from her. I understood, she was happy at this prospect.

Then when she handed her invitation card, I took it. Read it. And splashed a smile in order to be nice. As I was holding the card, I shrunk in fear. Was she doing the right thing? Is she going to come through and get better without any sort of academic hand to surrogate if she fell? She was only 18 after all, stopped by 8^th grade but a brilliant student during those 7 years. She maybe in her magical thoughts, but what I knew was that she would only smile into her character and pat my back saying that I was thinking way too far like she had always done if I had brought these questions out to life.

A year later, something happened and her family had to move, save they ended up living at our vacant home downstairs for a few months until things had settled at their end. Dawn came and their final day to leave us breezed in. That day before, I heard a few rumpuses stewing through my room from the house below. I ran a silky thought in mind it must be her parents or some relative with a business collapse. In the mean time my mum was down attending to her plants and greenery when suddenly I heard loud sobs repine through pain. “Don’t hit me, please stop”, it moaned. I hurried closer to the window and it knocked me. The husband was beating her. What the heart of the drama saddened me was her own mother couldn’t stop him. Why being the question posed by my mum later after the man had gone, the girl had said because she has opinions and ‘a big mouth’. And then more spilled out, that his parents are encouraging his beastly seemliness that he never takes her out if she wanted or not and she has never been happy with him ever since she was sprayed off to slog as a maid in her new home. It shocked both my parents and me sharply. I wanted to run down, hold her hand and just lock her in a hug and allow a good cry on my shoulder never mind the dampness. But the same day, the family bid goodbye back to their home. I wasn’t in a position to even sit her down and ask her everything from scratch. The guilt stood by me on the nose. I thought I imagined it all.

When I had visited her months right after marriage all she did was shine with the same old zip of energy and liveliness just as she was known. She also revealed that she was trying for a baby to complete her ‘euphoria’. But coiled inside was a crestfallen, troubled, beaten soul limping her youth cast down. I was ashamed at myself for not trying to break through the mirror she was flashing at me. But what can I say? That everything will be alright if she keeps sticking tapes of patience to the wounds infused? How many women and young girls like her take this as their daily bread? How many are swept off with promises and pledge only to later doom them inflaming the fears and mediocrity? How many silence themselves even from their own parents because they wish not to trouble their gray heads. This, I believe is one of the worst fears young women are embroiled in. The ones tangled in marriage without any education or qualification to back them up are the ones dying and trying to get a grasp of what little liberation marriage they thought once would fix them. A dish of achievement and happiness from a man at least. But no, these girls and women remain beady in their eyes with a beast in their beds waking up to head to the kitchen to chop onions so that one’s mind would ‘clear’ trying to read of as what really, made them cry.

And the Dark Bournville melts

2011-10-17T11:08:00.000+05:30

Let me admit, that I’m growing into this real dough of the cookie than the dark Bournville toughie I used to be. Reeling back to the teens, I found an Uma Thurman in me ripped straight from the Kill Bill volumes. I was the girl who would laugh in the faces of those boys who asked me out. I was the kind who’d never let the waters sail as the canoe liked. Instead I loved thunderstorms, the sad rock getting hit by rude currents and everything destructive with a trail of tears soiling the cheeks, emitting assorted cries when I told myself why wait if there was no reason for me at all. There was always anger, fists of rebellion beetling around everywhere with rain of doubts descending upon me every single time it hit me like a kiss on bitten lips. Like eau de cologne on a fresh wound. Sometimes I was a cat snarled by thick fear that’ll end up softening and drowning into hours of sleep and dream, things I can never be. Never have. Never afford to. Other times I was this empty wine bottle placed against the wall righting itself while others pottered along, shaped by everything they had and I didn’t. Even though such things are still a tease to me, with my life travelling as it hasn’t reached the full potential and I can’t help wondering why, things don’t seem promising. Is something wrong with me? Or them and their dubious practices? But

these shoes are learning to kiss water’s softness like heat does to butter and the darkness cloaking my mind is being lifted slowly. I am hugging the word ‘patience’ like it’s the last tree I have found. I am tuning to Jem more often lately (if I was 16 right now I’d gag at this). I’m smiling against battle’s rhythm because its telling me it will eventually turn into relief soon and I will laugh some more. So much more. Like it’s the first thing I’d want to do when I was born.

I am an optimist at heart. I always have been even if I’ve figured out that I am that chocolate with mistakes. A fighter. An abortion survivor. I’ll think myself lucky, because after all what’s a snicker’s best without the nuts?

Day 20

2011-09-08T10:05:00.005+05:30

day 20- a poem you want to read when your angry

Sorry by Ntozake Shange. She is one of those voices that is rough, symphonic and fierce like a diamond.

one thing i don’t need
is any more apologies
i got sorry greeting me at my front door
you can keep yours
i don’t know what to do with them
they dont open doors
or bring the sun back
they dont make me happy
or get a morning paper
didnt nobody stop using my tears to wash cars
cause a sorry

i am simply tired
of collecting
i didnt know
i was so important to you
i’m gonna have to throw some away
i cant get to the clothes in my closet
for all the sorries
i’m gonna tack a sign to my door
leave a message by the phone
if you called
to say your sorry
call somebody
else
i dont use them anymore’
i let sorry/ didnt mean to/ & how could i know about that
take a walk down a dark & musty street in brooklyn
i’m gonna do exactly what i want to
& i wont be sorry for none of it
letta sorry soothe your soul/ i’m gonna soothe mine

you were always inconsistent
doing something & then being sorry
beating my heart to death
talkign bout your sorry
well
i will not call
i’m not going to be nice
i will raise my voice
& scream & holler
& break things & race the engine
& tell all your secrets about yourself to your face
& i will list in detail everyone of my wonderful lovers
& their ways
i will play oliver lake
loud
& i wont be sorry for none of it

i loved you on purpose
i was open on purpose
i still crave vulnerability & close talk
& i’m not even sorry about you being sorry
you can carry all the guilt & grime you wanna
just dont give it to me
i cant use another sorry
next time
you should admit
you’re mean/ low-down/ trifling/ & no count straight out
insteada being sorry alla the time
enjoy being yourself

I handled the heat

2011-09-03T13:02:00.034+05:30

Al Masjid Al Nabawi (mosque of Prophet pbuh)

It was 48 C and the sky was wearing a hot wind, the air with a soul of damascus rose, cardomon patchouli, Italian lemon or a harmony of tobacco running through the streets of Medina. Yours truly was away for a couple of two weeks and more to the middle east for Umrah pilgrimage. Medina was beautiful. It reminded me of New York city for a second. A tray of people from Morocco, Lebanan,Yemen, Dubai, Bangladesh, Istanbul, Egypt, Syria, Somalia keep serving the holiest place for prayer every blink of the eye. The flock was bigger than for Hajj. 4 million as estimated.

Sunshades and crocks. Men in daffah thobes and turbans munching miswak sticks, women black berry bold. Valourous though veiled. None of them sleep. Nor do the shops take a nap. They are just left as it is while the owners respond to the soft croon of azan. Fist of seeds thrown to the pigeons' crib. Black needy girls snake through begging without the police catching their eyes on them. Domes heavily arched like eyebrows. Cars purring their way through speed. Breaking fast at both places; Makkah and Medina was the most zestful. Chances of having it inside the mosques are low if you arrive late. Fingers singing with prayer beads for the sins are sharp. The sky stirring sherbet, dates descending on tongues, cheese, milk, naan bread, unsalted buns, fruit juice, lamb stuffed samosas, pepsi cans were distributed but getting them in your hands wasnt easy as buttercake. A lot of pushing, harsh words sprinkled here and there in the languages of their own like arms juggling for the goodies has to be done.

The 2 riyal shop .Thats 60 bucks in Lankan rupees

Bait al Haram. Kaaba in Makkah

Its no suprise to see these Indians clinching the deal. They go lay their eggs everywhere sigh. Jeddah is clogged with ones from Kerala. Shopping after dusk to 1 in the morning we arrived at a saiwar kade to have dinner I must say the food was legendary. The owner was a sahib fastened with a cap on his head and Mumbai born knew a little Sinhala , so felt a little close to home.

A painting spotted in the room at Sofaraa al Huda Hotel in Medina

All in all the tour was an art of calligraphy. Having walked numerous kilometers I ended up with leg fever. But once you arrive at the strand of leaving for home turning back for the last time to wave at Kaabah there's something refusing to do as you should however I bit back the temptation like everyone who goes there comes back saying in their hearts. I want to go there one more time

More pictures on my flickr page. Go see here

Trees of the Independence Avenue

2011-08-14T16:10:00.009+05:30

From the time I was a kid I have been a deep lover of Colombo's trees hugging them everytime I see them and loved travelling around Colombo on a daily basis. Galle face used to be my lullaby cot. Dad tells me when I used to be so rebellious about riding to Galle face everyday until I dosed off to bend back home. Sometimes it struck 12 and I wasnt yet yawning. I was laughing with the stars counting ships as if they were crickets in a black forest. The next used to be the Independent Square. So when I learnt the whole slashing those trees adorning the Independence Avenue hit me home. Hard. Its painful as I watch this visual. These trees have held dusk like pera toffee in my tongue. They have stood like horses. They bow shyly singing through the leaves with their manes touching the Avenue's forehead. I have licked popsicles, lollipops, and mangoes under these beauties. I have dwelled with the moon frozen like a nipple carving a beautiful breast of night. I have thrown my arms to the sky and felt the air thinning. Rain knew how to kiss their embroidery of leaves. I have watched them ripple tensely I know I cant beg back for these trees. Its okay I have the memories. They have now lost their sleep. But somehow let this be enough for now.

I have a long collector's streak me as a result my memory invites thses photos taken way back in the 90's . :B

Yours truly knows this change maybe good, but people like me, stung with memories put together cannot touch new things. We are old fashioned like that.

Little things I love

2011-07-27T11:04:00.015+05:30

I was at the beach last week. A beach thick with beauty and a long drive. There are things that are madly attractive. I love things. things that have a soft foot traipsing around the waist of the sea. I love when tiny teeth of waves munch through the shoreline. Like a fire on a candle. I love how the sea is still beautiful without having sliced bread of flowers buttered somewhere in fresh corners. There is the sun that is going down at its side kneeling down in prayer. I love her more when she wakes from her ageless bed oblivious about how many spirits would have stayed awake counting her eyelashes. And the way she wakes the world colourfully, noisely yet without her own. Clouds and their singing in priests' attire carrying pink candy in their pockets. Sometimes we want to tell the world what we saw but not with our tongues. then there are the people. like avocado seeds removed from their fruit of duties. leaving it for glasses to drink their pain away. There are the poorer ones less known who are fully human rather looking richer for death. Then are things that are difficult to think they are animals crossing you, bent with hunger and sometimes with no waiter. Waiting with complains draped in care. Which question that answers will be the wind with a message that never will feed or greet their faces. To learn that they are here for a different reason, that they are naked with a brain but are acceptable from a human eye because we are different with reasons and I love how I love, listen and learn so many but I live only once.

Day 19

2011-07-25T11:11:00.005+05:30

day 19- a poem from your favourite anthology/collection

is of an indian's. Kamala Das. As you know I mentioned before that a majority of my favourite poems cocoon from Kerala. Ensconced with her poems one evening, I was immensely snatched by the voice in her throat. The way it once said at an interview, ' I always wanted love and if you dont get it within your home you stray a little.' The voice of a female. Her tradition to being frank. Powerful. Lyrical. Honest. Dangerous. Like the roar of the ocean. Always honest excluding her autobiography where the words dance a little fictional dance, not appropriately that which should be saying about who she is. Unfortunately hasnt. Her poems mostly spin around red marks on skin, controversy, metal sky adventures and a captive life story that leads to something darkishly beautiful.

This is ' An Introduction' taken from her first collection of poetry, Summer in Calcutta.

I don’t know politics but I know the names
Of those in power, and can repeat them like
Days of week, or names of months, beginning with Nehru.
I am Indian, very brown, born in Malabar,
I speak three languages, write in
Two, dream in one.
Don’t write in English, they said, English is
Not your mother-tongue. Why not leave
Me alone, critics, friends, visiting cousins,
Every one of you? Why not let me speak in
Any language I like? The language I speak,
Becomes mine, its distortions, its queernesses
All mine, mine alone.
It is half English, halfIndian, funny perhaps, but it is honest,
It is as human as I am human, don’t
You see? It voices my joys, my longings, my
Hopes, and it is useful to me as cawing
Is to crows or roaring to the lions, it
Is human speech, the speech of the mind that is
Here and not there, a mind that sees and hears and
Is aware. Not the deaf, blind speech
Of trees in storm or of monsoon clouds or of rain or the
Incoherent mutterings of the blazing
Funeral pyre. I was child, and later they
Told me I grew, for I became tall, my limbs
Swelled and one or two places sprouted hair.
WhenI asked for love, not knowing what else to ask
For, he drew a youth of sixteen into the
Bedroom and closed the door, He did not beat me
But my sad woman-body felt so beaten.
The weight of my breasts and womb crushed me.
I shrank Pitifully.
Then … I wore a shirt and my
Brother’s trousers, cut my hair short and ignored
My womanliness. Dress in sarees, be girl
Be wife, they said. Be embroiderer, be cook,
Be a quarreller with servants. Fit in. Oh,
Belong, cried the categorizers. Don’t sit
On walls or peep in through our lace-draped windows.
Be Amy, or be Kamala. Or, better
Still, be Madhavikutty. It is time to
Choose a name, a role. Don’t play pretending games.
Don’t play at schizophrenia or be a
Nympho. Don’t cry embarrassingly loud when
Jilted in love … I met a man, loved him. Call
Him not by any name, he is every man
Who wants. a woman, just as I am every
Woman who seeks love. In him . . . the hungry haste
Of rivers, in me . . . the oceans’ tireless
Waiting. Who are you, I ask each and everyone,
The answer is, it is I. Anywhere and,
Everywhere, I see the one who calls himself I
In this world, he is tightly packed like the
Sword in its sheath. It is I who drink lonely
Drinks at twelve, midnight, in hotels of strange towns,
It is I who laugh, it is I who make love
And then, feel shame, it is I who lie dying
With a rattle in my throat. I am sinner,
I am saint. I am the beloved and the
Betrayed. I have no joys that are not yours, no
Aches which are not yours. I too call myself I.

Even though I wish to add Eunice de Souza's Advice to women, I want Das here in Day 19.

Day 18

2011-07-12T14:25:00.003+05:30

day 18 - a poem that you wish you heard being read by its poet

Roulade by Dilruba Ahamed

The rain’s roulade against the roof
will wake her, not the muezzin’s call
to prayer at dawn, though she was drawn
to it one night in our father’s village,

cousins arm in arm down a moonlit road,
filmi style, romantic. Earlier that day,
the boys shared one piece of paper
like it was a sheet of gold. There was no trash

there, she told me later. Back in the city
young uncles asked about the countryside,
laughing in her face as she answered ducks,
horses, when she should have said the rice paddies

quilted the fields by the river or the breeze
filled my lungs with song. Mute, monolingual,
she snapped photos of our grandmother
until she smiled, one white lash

at her eye like a snowflake

Day 17

2011-06-17T11:14:00.015+05:30

Day 17- a poem you would like to read out loud to the world

Maya Del Valle's poems are pretty good for this however, I also prefer Andrea Gibson's Say Yes. One of my favourite poets

Say Yes

when two violins are placed in a room
if a chord on one violin is struck
the other violin will sound the note
if this is your definition of hope
this is for you
the ones who know how powerful we are
who knew we can sound the music in the people around us
simply by playing our own strings
for the ones who sing life in broken wings
open their chest and offer their breath
as wind on a still day when nothing seems to be moving
spare those intent on proving god is dead
for you when your fingers are red
from clutching your heart
so it beat faster
for the time you mastered the art of giving yourself for the sake of someone
else
for the ones who have felt what it is crush the lies
and life truth so high the steepless bow to the sky

this is for you

this is also for the people who wake early to watch flowers bloom
who notice the moon at noon on a day when the world
has slapped them in the face with its lack of light
for the mothers who feed their children first
and this is for the nothing when theyre full

this is for women

and for the men who taught me only women bleed with the moon
but there are men who cry when women bleed
men who bleed from women's wounds
and this is for that moon
on the mights she seems hung by a noose
for the people who cut her loose
and for the people still waiting for the rope to burn
about to learn they have scissors in their hands

this is for the man who showed me
the hardest thing about having nothing
is having nothing to give
who said the only reason to live is to give ourselves away
so this is for the day we'll quit our jobs and work for something real
we'll feel for sunshine in the shadows
look for sunrays in the shade
this is for the people who rattle the cage that slave wage built
and for the ones who didnt know the filth until tonight
but right now are beginnings songs that sound something like
people turning their porch lights on and calling the homeless back home

this is for all the shit we own
and for the day we'll learn how much we have
when we learn to give that shit away
this is for doubt becoming faith
for falling from grace and climbing back up
for trading our silver platters for something that matters
like the gold that shines from our hands when we hold each other

this is for the grandmother who walked a thousand miles on broken glass
to find that single patch of grass to plant a family tree
where the fruit would grow to laugh
for the ones who know the math of war
has always been subtraction
so they live like an action of addition
for you when you give like every star is wishing on you
and for the people still wishing on stars
this is for you too

this is for the times you went through hell so someone else wouldnt have to
for the time you taught a 14 year old girl she was powerful
this is for the time you taught a 14 year old boy he was beautiful
for the radical anarchist asking a republican to dance
cause whats the chance of everyone moving from right to left
if the only moves they see are NBC and CBS
this is for the no becoming yes
for scars becoming breath
for saying i love you to people who will never sat it to us
for the dime you gave away when you didnt have a penny
for the many beautiful things we do
for every song we've ever sung
for refusing to believe in miracles
because miracles are the impossible coming true
and everything is possible

this is the possiblity that guides us
and for the possibilities still waiting to sing
and spread their wings inside us
cause tonight saturn is on his knees
proposing with all of his ten thousand rings
that whatever song we've been singing we wing even more
the world needs us right now more than it ever has before
pull all your strings
play every chord
if your writing letters to their prisoners
start tearing down the bars
if your handing our flashlights in the dark
start handing our stars
never go a second hushing the percussion of your heart
play loud
play like you know the clouds have left too many people cold and broken
play like there last chance for sun
play like there's no time for hoping brighter days will come
play like the apocalypse is only 4..3..2
but your have a drum in your chest that could save us
you have a song like a breath that could raise us
play like you know we wont survive if you dont
but we will if you do
play like saturn is on his knees
proposing with all of his ten thousand rings
that we give every single breath
this is for saying - yes

this is for saying yes

Check the video if you wish here

Day 16

2011-06-12T17:26:00.003+05:30

day 16 - a poem that you love seeing performed

None of other than William Shakespeare's Sigh no more.

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,
men were deceivers ever;
one foot in sea, and one on shore,
to one thing constant never.
Then sigh not so,
but let them go,
and be you blithe and bonny,
converting all your sounds of woe
into hey nonny nonny.

Sing no more ditties, sing no more
of dumps so dull and heavy;
the fraud of men was ever so,
since summer first was leafy.
Then sigh not so,
but let them go,
and be you blithe and bonny,
converting all your sounds of woe
into hey nonny nonny.

and also Anne Sexton's Her Kind. I feel it so powerful and would be lovely to hear the breath of it in a voice.

Her Kind

have gone out, a possessed with,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.

I have found the warm caves in the woods
filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,
closets, silks, innumerable goods;
fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:
whining, rearranging the disaligned.
A woman like that is misunderstood.
I have been her kind.

I have ridden in your cart, driver,
waved my nude arms at villages going by,
learning the last bright routes, survivor
where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
I have been her kind.

Day 14 and 15

2011-06-11T12:47:00.008+05:30

Day 14 - a poem that noone would expect you to love

Leonard Cohen has this way of bringing the small things to shine like God. This is his I wonder how many people in this city. Very thoughtful.

I wonder how many people in this city from 'The Spice Box of Earth'.

I wonder how many people in this city

live in furnished rooms

Late at night when I look out at the buildings

I swear I see a face in every window

looking back at me

and when I turn away

I wonder how many go back to their desks

and write this down

Day 15- a poem that describes you

Halina Poswiatowska's Untitled which is a polish poem translated by Sarah Luczaj. Polish poets are pretty good at writing my soul out.

I broke off the love branch
it died I buried it in the earth
and look
my garden blossomed

you cant kill love

if you bury it in earth
it grows out
if you throw it into the air
it becomes the wings of leaves
if you throw it into water
it flashes back in a fish's gills
if into the night
it shines

so I decided to bury it in my heart
but the heart opened its heart doors
and its heart walls rang out with singing
my heart danced on the tips of its toes

so I buried love in my head
and people asked
why my head was flower shaped
why my eyes shone like two stars
and why my lips were redder than dawn

I grasped love, to break it
but it was supple it wove my hands together
and now, my hands tied together with love
people ask whose prisoner I am.

Day 12 and 13

2011-06-10T10:04:00.004+05:30

Day 12- a poem you dont understand a word of

Blow, Bugle, Blow by Lord Alfred Tennyson

The splendour falls on castle walls
and snowy summits old in story:
the long light shakes across lakes
and the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying
Blow, bugle, blow, eachoes, dying dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thing and clea
and thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far fron cliff and scar
the horns of elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying

O love, they die in yon rich sky,
they faint on hill or field or river:
our echoes for ever and for ever.
Blow bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
and answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

Day 13- a poem that is a guilty pleasure

Raymond Carver's Woman bathing

Natches River. Just below the falls.

Twenty miles from any town. A day

of dense sunlight

heavy with odours of love.

How long have we?

Already your body, sharpness of Picasso,

is drying in this highland air.

I towel down your back your hips,

with my undershirt.

Time is a mountain lion.

We laugh at nothing

and as I touch your breasts

even the ground-

squirrels

are dazzeled.

Of tennis and other things

2011-06-06T09:26:00.008+05:30

Boo.

Yes and yet again Nadal gets to bite the side of another French Open trophy. I do not detest him like I detest Safina. Ive been fond of his cutting edged playing style and his numerous trophy collections at such an age. Wonder what Ill do at 24-25. However, I am dissappointed. Dissappointed for Federer and for Schiavone although Li na contributed a tough and very good game. Even with all those 'unbiased' French crowd Federer couldnt make it. He played like the way I dreamt he would minus the rain of unforced errors hitting the roof of his head. So gentle, clever and smooth tennis it fascinated Pseudorandom itself. But those unforced errors made me cringe and attack the scalp of my hair.
The Wimbledon is two weeks away I am hoping some excellent tennis coming from the players.

Apart from my sport muscles, life is life itself having a mind of its own. Its starving for more suitable productivity. But looking into the kind of orgasm books give you when you arrive at a fine line of words. I am having that too often these days. I am thankful for pay days. Oh and I havent dusted off the poetry challenge like the art project that has been suspended for reasons.

Kids these days

2011-06-01T16:13:00.009+05:30

My sister in the grade before one, came this weather juggling afternoon with these.

It left this twenty one year old system with a heavy brain. I mean she oh so normally comes with sweets tucked tight in her hand but since when did boys ever be gentle boys? I remember my days at kindergarten with whippersnappers who were either teasing you with booger coated fingers or runny noses with those impish snigger. There were such holy terrors you would refrain company with creatures like that until 5th grade or so. But today, I find a whole new twist when my five year old sister smiles with a bunch of white flowers and said, S gave it to me. Why? Because he loves me. Slickingly humane. Isnt it?

You know when the teachers and the adminstration blot out the cliched phrase of saying 'follow the 'aiyyas' ' to the junior ones, it makes me wonder for what really. I arrive at a station to say kids are really iPod smart and savvy these days.

Wallis Art

2011-05-17T15:35:00.004+05:30

This is none other than Eric Wallis's sketches and oil paintings which I am heavily falling in love with.

Day 11

2011-05-14T08:53:00.004+05:30

day 11-a poem from your favourite poet

Though there maybe a list of favourites from Malayalam to Sri Lankan, Singaporean to the world over, Meena Kandasamy's poetry takes a strong hold with feminisim and heavy myths flowing graciously impudent. I like that.
A favourite this is.

Amnesia, Selective

When memory decides
to no longer bear the burdens-
of pain, or even plain indifference
she had her winsome wicked ways

some day, years later,
life required you to unearth
some event long past and you
set about browsing your brain
life a desk full of office files and then-
come across a resounding emptiness

memories drizzle- fragile
are not to found. What
greets you instead, through
these yellowing sheets of typed matter is
the blank and ugly blotches of dried whitener
so carefully applied, then. It had a fading smell
of chalk and chlorine: a blend, ike memory, that works at
your throat. You try to scratch it and the faintest hopes are
betrayed as the caked pieces of the whitener crumble,
displaying nothing, but toe curling holes where crummy paper and ink once contained
you.

Day 10

2011-05-11T10:54:00.003+05:30

day 10- a poem you wished your mother/father read to you

Plenty by Isobel Dixon reminds me of my mother. I wish Mom would turn a little sweet from sour and slept this to me.

When I was young and there were five of us
all running riot to my mother's quiet despair,
our old enamel tub, age stained and pocked
upon its griffin claws, was never full.

Such plenty was too dear in our expanse of drought
where dams leaked dry and windmills stalled.
Like Mommy's smile. Her lips stretched back
and anchored down, in anger at some fault-

of mine, I though- not knowing then
it was a lasp to keep us all from chaos.
She saw it always, snapping locks and straps,
the spilling: sums and worries, shopping lists

for aspirin, porridge, petrol, bread.
Even the toilet paper counted,
and each month was weeks too long.
Her mouth a lid clamped hard on this.

We thought her mean. Skipped chores,
swiped biscuits- best of all
when she was out of earshot
stole another precious inch

upto our chests, such lovely sin,
lolling luxuriant in secret warmth
disgorged from fat brass taps,
our old compliant co-conspirators.

Now bubbles lap my chin. I am a sybarite.
The shower's a hot cascade
and water's plentiful, to excess, almost, here.
I leave the heating on.

And miss my scattered sisters,
all those bathroom squabbles and, at last,
my mother's smile, loosed from the bonds
of lean, dry times and our childhood.

Day 08 and 09

2011-05-10T09:30:00.013+05:30

day 08 a poem you know by heart

I was Mrs F's favourite for reciting poems at Elocution. There is nothing wrong in bragging about your childhood. Iam missing it. Everyday as life is shortening and you say you are only growing. However, though I may be growing 'wiser' I have failed to save a poetry piece in memory but childhood never turns a blind eye on me.
It may be a nursery song, but it still is a poem with rhymes. Heh.

Stop says the red light,
go says the green
change the amber one
blinking in between
thats what they say
and thats what they mean
all must obey them
even the Queen.

day 09 a poem that you want to read in bed to your lover
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair
silent and starving, I prowl through the streets
bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh
your hands the colour of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body
the soverign nose of your arrogant face
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes
and I pace around in hunger, sniffing the twilight
hunting for you, for your hot heart
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

Thank you Pablo Neruda for being more than love could provide. You take me on a vacation to the moon where I am balmed by the sun's muscle and watch your words like wild horses running in beds of fodder through your sonnets.

Day 07

2011-05-09T11:23:00.003+05:30

day 07- a poem that reminds me of a certain event

Just as I was reading this poem, the last day at math tuition struck me. It was somewhere around 02.00 in the morning when we were done with practising heavy past paper sums for the Math OL paper from 3 in the evening. After crunching ordered Pizzas, racing sums and throwing laughter with our hands to our bellies and mouths, it was hard to leave a group of us. A mixed bunch.
This is one of the late Sivaramani's poem translated by Lakshmi Holmstrom, written during her days at the Jaffna University

Untitled

Place: Jaffna University
Time: 4.30 pm

An evening,
Solitary
as a small deserted railway station
wall rising between us
with each smile

we talk desultorily,
my friends and I.
These moments are of no importance-
only a reaching out for cheerfulness
inspite of our wounds
There are no words to share

A friend's finger taps
admist the splashed tea
in time to a forgotten song.
Drunk on tea, flies
are trapped in cobwebs above.
Someone shakes her shoulders,
laughing quietly
Who made a joke?
I didnt hear.

Clouds move past
the glass window panes.
So does time
minute by minute
leaving no trace no scent.

The westering sun enters the door
to drive us from the tables,
the chairs, the empty cups.
We rise to our feet and leave-
not to change the world:
only to enter another night.

Day 06

2011-05-06T13:32:00.004+05:30

day 06- a poem that reminds you of somewhere

Certainly a tough choice nevertheless, I died trying when school and a fun packet of friends hit my night in a dream last night. I will not forget the O Levels where one Literature class peppered with roars of laughter from our boys and squirrel like giggles from the girls when the lit teacher recited each verse trapped in hidden chuckles. Each verse had its bud of humour.

To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell

Had we but world enough, and time,

this coyness, lady, were no crime

We would sit down and think which way

To walk, and pass our long love's day;

Thou by the Indian Ganges side

Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide

of Humber would complain. I would

love you ten years

before the flood; And you should,

if you please, refuse

Till the conversion of the Jews.

My vegetable love should grown

Vaster than empires, and more slow.

An hundred years should go to praise

Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;

Two hundred to adore each breast

But thirty thousand to the rest;

And the last age should show your heart,

For lady, you deserve this state,

Nor should I love at lower rate

But at my back I always hear

Time's winged chariot hurrying near;

And yonder all before us lie

Deserts of vast eternity.

Thy beauty shall no more be found,

Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound

My echoing song; them worms shall try

That long preserv'd virginity,

And your quaint honour turn to dust

And into ashes all my lust.

The grave's a fine and private place,

But none I think do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue

its on thy skin like morning dew,

And while thy willing soul transpires

At every pore with instant fires
Now let us sport us while we may;

And now, like am'rous birds of prey

Rather at once our time devour,

Than languish in his slow- chapp'd power.

Let us roll all our strength and all

Our sweetness, up into a ball

And tear our pleasure with rough strife

Thorough the iron gates of life.

Thus, though we cannot make our sun

Stand still, yet we will make him run.

Funny how a library card throws in to share a bit of Andrew Marvell's ideology in his poem as well.

Its a good thing,

I have my library card

Why?

Because I am totally checking you out.

Day 05

2011-05-03T17:38:00.001+05:30

day 05- a poem that reminds you of someone

and I have two of them that speaks in blaring volumes to me.

Some day is a place

a time

a dream

a blade of grass

dried out,

and reminiscent

of a day

with reality

filled with hope

some day

was a word

we used

to taut

each other,

a distant spot

we hungered for

but were anxious

not to find

too soon,

someday,

was a yearning,

a man I knew,

and loved

in a someday

sort of way

because today

was never quite

his style,

someday

was a child

we would have

had

but didn't,

a time I knew

would come

but never has.

Some day by Danielle Steel

I watched this right after Sarah Kay's Hands and I only wished Gemineye transformed into a woman before he read this lyrics out. It would have changed the entire atmosphere for thyself. Yeah go watch him here.

His Poetic bloodline is also another instant fave.

Gemineye's Penny for your thoughts

Can I have a penny, for your thoughts?
As a matter of fact how about three
One penny for you
One penny for me
And one penny for our minds engaged
Not so sexually
Getting intimately closer
As we approach the climatic altitude
Of nude mental sensational conversation
cuz I’m trying to get to know everything about you
from the neck... UP
So these are not your typical sexual poetical prose
I’m trying to close the door of an all too familiar freaky foreplay game
With which most people have chosen to approach you
While they’re trying to get deeply embedded in the fine fibers of your bed sheets
I’m trying to find and define the fibers with which your mind speaks
I want to engage you by putting a two carat solitaire diamond on your mind
and marrying your every thought
I want to lick every inch of every crevice so I can get an oral fix from each orifice
and taste your passionate imagination
I’d rather be naked and exposed holding you as we’re lying
And your crying while confiding and describing the tough times you had in life
And how you don’t know if you can keep a relationship
Long enough to be somebody’s wife
I want to feel the heartbeat of all your inner rhythms as they lead me towards your
warm wet waterfalls of feminine thoughts
And I’ll swim within ‘em from back strokes to breast strokes
I’m penetrating every entrance to your mind
Taking my time to find out everything about you
Did I ever tell you about how you fell asleep in my presence?
And your mere essence kept me up for hours
As I coward with this feel of a sexually unadulterated mental connection
And as you laid by my side I pushed my blinds aside
And took the time in the moonlight of that night
To count seventy-two eyelashes on the upper eyelid of your right eye
Because as you sleep
As you sleep they remain open slightly
And while we probably move too quickly into some sexual stuff
I’ve always cared more about the explicitly illicitness
that came from between your lips meaning your voice
so now I’m standing here ready to trade in all the sexual acts that we perform
for the chance to reform the very foundation and basis of our relationship
and I reiterate my opening statement
And I offer you another penny for your thoughts

Day 04

2011-05-01T09:13:00.001+05:30

Day 04- a poem that disturbs you

I completely agree with Delilah here considering Afdhel Aziz's poetry. Small and simple maybe the size, determinedly his words are like hardened candy. As you pop them in your mouth, the taste is slow and coming you only wish it never melted to end too soon. It starts pretty untroubled and jovial however this is Afdhel Aziz's dark and twisted poem as the terminal of a branch from his first collection of poetry. Here goes.

Untitled( carefree and sunburn)

carefree and sunburn, we were driving

from Galle back to Colombo

windows down, afternoon sun streaming in

when we slowed for a crush of vehicles

(accident)

broken glass on the hot asphalt

khaki policeman waving us through

a hushed crowd gathering by the roadside

watching the curious freak show

flashing lights, circus faces staring

and in that one moment, I saw right

in the middle of the road

a pair of shoes with no feet in them

like a fossil found in old limestone

scuffed, brown and polished

laces still neatly tied, tongues sticking out

but no feet, no toes wiggling in them

like a bouquet of old roses

half a mile away a woman with

flour on her hands

picks up a phone

that has just begun to ring

Day 03

2011-04-30T09:33:00.005+05:30

Day 03- a poem that comforts you

Nizar Qabbani's poems have always been a sort of balm. He never stops to calm me.

here is his ' I conquer the world with words'.

I conquer the world with words,
conquer the mother tongue,
verbs, nouns, syntax.
I sweep away the beginning of things
and with a new language
that has the music of water the message of fire
I light the coming age
and stop time in your eyes
and wipe away the line
that separates
time from this single moment.

Day 02

2011-04-29T11:13:00.001+05:30

Day 02 - your least favorite poem

is none other than Thom Gunn's The Man with night sweats. The day it was a lesson during my A Level Literature was suicidal. Sexual imagery with AIDS blotting in is quite painfully irksome but rather terribly sad. I didn't like the blend in this. Thats why.

I wake up cold, I who

prospered through dreams of heat

wake to their residue

sweat and a clinging sheet

my flesh was its own shield

where it was gashed, it healed

I grew as I explored

the body I could trust

even while I adored

the rish that amde robust

A world of wonders in

each challenge to the skinn

I cannot but be sorry

the given shield was created

my mind reduced to hurry

my flesh reduced and wrecked

I have to change the bed

but catch myself instead

stopped upright where i am

hugging my body to me

as if to shield it from

the pain that will go through me

as if hands were enough

to hold an avalanche off

The Poetic Challenge

2011-04-25T12:35:00.004+05:30

Am loving April Fool's idea. Thank you. Even with all the work load that Ive been put into, I'd try giving this a shot.

Day 01- the poem you last read

The Beach, Plus Pablo by Alfred. A Yuson

Small waves rippled
as large words
around his sandals

his sonnets slipped
on the wet stones
until the passion

of winds and love
of sun dried the page
of the poet's longing

The beach walked Pablo

on this island
this mutual desire
found a homeland

distant was his exile
from the first hearts
the poet touched

but now as an alien
calmly reaching out
to the postman

Pablo becomes the beach

became all the waves all winds
all sonnets all stones
all hearts all islands

and the beach became
all poems all passion
all longing all desire

together Pablo and the beach
reached out to sun and sheets
to poets and seas and postmen

together they walked homelands

The rules to follow:

day 01 - the poem you last read
day 02 - your least favorite poem
day 03 - a poem that comforts you
day 04 - a poem that disturbs you
day 05 - a poem that reminds you of someone
day 06 - a poem that reminds you of somewhere
day 07 - a poem that reminds you of a certain event
day 08 - a poem that you know by heart
day 09 - a poem that you want to read in bed to your lover
day 10 - a poem that you wished your mother/father read to you
day 11 - a poem from your favorite poet
day 12 - a poem you don't understand a word of
day 13 - a poem that is a guilty pleasure
day 14 - a poem that no one would expect you to love
day 15 - a poem that describes you
day 16 - a poem that you love seeing performed
day 17 - a poem that you would like to read out loud to the world
day 18 - a poem that you wish you heard being read by its poet

day 19 - a poem from your favorite anthology/collection
day 20 - a poem that you want to read when you’re angry
day 21 - a poem for a happy day
day 22 - a poem that you want to read when you’re having a bad day
day 23 - a poem that you would like to read at your wedding
day 24 - a poem that you want to be read at your funeral
day 25 - a poem that makes you laugh
day 26 - a poem that you wish someone would put into music
day 27 - a poem that you wish you'd written

day 28 - a poem that makes you feel guilty
day 29 - a poem from your childhood
day 30 - a poem you'd read to your children

For the D-day

2011-04-19T16:18:00.000+05:30

The countdown has began. I am not talking about Prince William and his royal wedding. I am talking about the day I was born 21 years back. Hey I deserve an inkling of care. So what was it like through those extraordinary battles for a baby who dared to overcome abortion? It was indeed an evening of moccasin feat and here I am trapped with a fridge food less all you can see are tiled floors and one growling monster of a stomach.

Anyhoo, I am not one of those hard core birthday party fan but the one who wakes up and finds numerous friendly wishes on Facebook and the phone, a sweaty after walk father releasing his arms for a hug, a mother preparing the best of foods and the siblings groping on the rest of my cake. This year I hope to have a bouquet of daises or lilies by the door or maybe a graphic tablet or some paint and brushes or a truck hooting to unload a tightened packs of gabjillion books. I wouldn't mind if you would sell me a room like this.

Who the hell am I to ask and who the hell would dare do anyway? I refrain to looking for ways to disappoint myself.

Still chances are more than expectations. Just saying

I will celebrate this birthday with Charles Cotton, Penelope Cruz and the National Day of Mourning observed in Canada. Hoo-wa!

15 things

2011-04-18T13:14:00.007+05:30

Cats. These satiny, finger nimbly, whiskered stuffed animals are things you'd like over sullen kids.

The whispered sins of cafes and Pastry lounges in those small winding streets where you could just sniff, stir and drink beverages, munch warm buns and just mooch around

Flowers make a woman like shoes do. My favourite being warm and white field of daisies.

Art. Paintings. Anything moving also like Charlie and Lola. Frieda Kahlo being my favourite painter who is lionized for her self portraits.

I love people who bring me this

Swing. Tyre swings specially. Tralala

Shoes. They are the perfume for legs. You will never come across a woman who does not squeal the moment she sees a clearance sale sign board at a shoe shop

Benches.

Sunset on the beach.

Pic courtesy flickr user Konabish

Hammer pants

Autumn. I am sucker for everything murdered red. A colourful shower of autumn leaves perhaps?

Lanterns. Save electricity?

Lightnings are the most erotic things ever . It can make the sky wet. Nuff said.

Trees. I feel that they are next best thing after a human's hug. The trees down Colombo University and the Guildford crescent is breath taking

Books. Those yellowed half bit, the fresh and dewy books. I will one day make them touch the ceiling of my house

Hands

2011-04-08T09:34:00.004+05:30

'The last line should strike like a lover's complaint. You should never see it coming. And you should never hear the end of it.'

Suzanne Buffam margined such lines of thought while 22 year old Sarah Kay proves it.

For the Colored girls

2011-04-06T12:37:00.000+05:30

'Sing her some life' but instead their silence is only too much to bear. This will make you cry sugar coated tears as this drama unfolds. Rich in Ntozake's element of steam powered poetry every angle a woman is led into. A darkness full of violence, sex peppered love, disrespect, partner abuse and chances miscarried. And by the end of the movie you tuck yourself ready for an emotional relief. Ntozake takes the cake and throws it to us the reality that is believed to bite us one way or the other. Every actress took the responsibility to deliver the written struggle incredibly in monologues.

Jump into this movie ocean of poetry where each word will rise up and twinkle in your head.

Like Joseph Conrad beautifully said, 'Being a woman is terribly difficult since it consists principally in dealing with men'.

For the love of Poetry Day

2011-03-22T11:07:00.007+05:30

I'd like to share James Wright's

Trying to pray

In its dark thorns.
Still,
There are good things in this world.
It is dusk.
It is the good darkness
Of women's hands that touch loaves.
The spirit of a tree begins to move.
I touch leaves.
I close my eyes and think of water.

To the pay Toilet by Marge Piercy

You strop my anger, especially
when I find you in restaurant or bar
and pay for the same liquid, coming and going.
In bus depots and airports and turnpike plazas
some woman is dragging in with three kids hung off her
shrieking their simple urgency like gulls.
She's supposed to pay for each of them
and the privilege of not dirtying the corporate floor.
Sometimes a woman in a uniform's on duty
black or whatever the prevailing bottom is
getting thirty cents an hour to make sure
no woman sneaks her full bladder under a door.
Most blatantly you shout that waste of resources
for the greatest good of the smallest number
where twenty pay toilets line up glinty clean
and at the end of the row one free toilet
oozes from under its crooked door,
while a row of weary women carrying packages and babies
wait and wait and wait to do

what only the dead find unnecessary.

Circle's Torment by Louise Gluck

I regret bitterly
The years of loving you in both
Your presence and absence, regret
The law, the vocation
That forbid me to keep you, the sea
A sheet of glass, the sun-bleached
Beauty of the Greek ships: how
Could I have power if
I had no wish
To transform you: as
You loved my body,
As you found there
Passion we held above
All other gifts, in that single moment
Over honor and hope, over
Loyalty, in the name of that bond
I refuse you
Such feeling for your wife
As will let you
Rest with her, I refuse you
Sleep again
If I cannot have you.

The one who stands at the top of my poet's list is the only and only soul Anne Sexton:

Buying the Whore

You are the roast beef I have purchased
and I stuff you with my very own onion.

You are a boat I have rented by the hour
and I steer you with my rage until you run aground.

You are a glass that I have paid to shatter
and I swallow the pieces down with my spit.

You are the grate I warm my trembling hands on,
searing the flesh until it's nice and juicy.

You stink like my Mama under your bra
and I vomit into your hand like a jackpot
its cold hard quarters

There is nothing other than poetry where a human speaks the truth. That is all what I say.

Puttalam expedition

2011-02-21T08:58:00.027+05:30

So the family got our way to Puttalam while Lanka was anointed with a week holiday. While massaging our way through the roads heading north west, I was shocked to find the roads throwing neat curves and straight lines without the common boob juggling pot holes we find infesting the Lankan roads. The Chilaw road was the smoothest.

We ended up reaching our dad’s friend’s home who were extremely well informed and well nourished with hospitability. There were a stretch of archaic houses with a splash of mystery laced into each. The houses are each more than a century old and left to rust with its ruins. The strangest part being none of the people are allowed to enter it. Sorry couldn't capture a snap shot of it, as everyone were looking at me like I was some tourist. A friend my tour guide actually told me the town rules are stitched very tight and every young grown up girl isn't allowed to wear trousers or jeans. Shalwars shouldn't have slits by the sides, if they do have more than short ones they are stapled. So every girl walking the streets there garb and cave themselves in abayah or are fully face covered in order to escape from insult and damage. Women are refrained from working. She is not given respect if she does so and her feminine charm thereby will be lost. A woman should come with a house tag and a man should own one before they marry. If either of them don't, bid goodbye to marriage. Every man there gets involved in one to many business and trade so never gets himself dipped into pickled misery. (meh meh meh meh).

We had breakfast traditional style; the string hoppers with pol sambol and a delicious Thora( Seer) fish curry to go with which absolutely tasted very different than the fresh fish we buy in Colombo. This was caught at sea and freshly cleaned and cooked and not left in crushed ice which actually melts off the genuine kick flavor of the fish.

We raced off to the new turf employed for a set of wind power plant seated neatly by the salt territory. Its really thoughtful to see, the upgrading in Sri lanka taking place with a steady gear post war.

the thambili spot

the wind power plantation

After gulping down sweet drink of thambili at the estate, we headed for the lunch and then set to the beach. Almost spent the entire afternoon and watched the dawn of twilight bidding goodbye. In between the afternoon the pack headed to a daring game of boating the sea. It felt like bungee jumping to me. I love challenges and this added with something spicy was double the fun. We were sardined into a fisherman boat and rode to the middle of the sea. The waves were rough and ridiculous and played no cuckoo game. Thoughts suddenly rushed into my head like lightning and felt how risky it is for a fisherman to make his living. At one point, I lost balance and fell on the boat landing with a huge thud and a cramp. I sensed a moment of utter shame thrown at me cause I felt like a Justin Beiber being the only woman girl on a boat bundled with men. Mamas and Aunties stayed away from heart attack. At the same time watching the fishes pop up from the fizzy sea and the sea gulls flying on top of your head was lovely.

found a dead fish strewn on the beach. poor guy

Us on the boat. yay!

Headed to Jesus aiyya's vege garden (the owner) munching a few juicy guava and rested down and had the best mayyok Ive ever crunched myself through. The level of chillies and salt was coordinated to a cracking beauty.

the mayyok goodness

Reached home at 1 in the morning. Couldn't visit the dolphins and the Wilpattu national park. Was sad and jumped to bed with a sorrow, cramp and burnt skin. A good-ish trip. More pics can be seen on my flickr account here.

Proposal hunting..

2011-02-14T10:18:00.002+05:30

..is a fucking waste of time and is never a good feel. Especially, when it comes to the chase for me. Its rather funny for the girl's family to go on harping to a mound of snow that she is 'available'. It sounds like the bride is participating on a contest as she has reached the entry level or something. Very few of the male lot actually come up to the family and ask for the hand of the daughter. Happened to a friend of mind recently who had no idea the guy was into her for 5 years and worked off his ass to ultimately win her. God she's one lucky fudge and I am really happy for her. After conversations with the family, most of them who have worked a room of mixed ethnic love marriages, its rather shocking to know Muslim males like this really survive. One of my aunts, shared a jaw opening story.

There is this guy who's done it and been there in terms of academy and women. He now stands on zero with a stethoscope from a good reputed Medical College looking for the ultimate prize to complete his life. So his mother has taken upon the duty to fish for. So when asked what kind of person the son wants, the mom said that he's looking for the absolutelyveryfairliketheskinofacaucasianprettyhighlyeducatedrich types and she stressed very much on the complexion feature. When asked why,

'No, my son is used to looking at women with bleached skins daily during his college days, so he wants himself buckled to something similar.'

Right. I was this close to throw a ball of spit at my poor aunt but my eyebrows only worked reaching the forehead. WTF

My aunt laughed and patted the lady good luck.

I don't think any woman can tolerate this kind of waving nonsense. I mean where IS his light of intellect? and added to all this the mother too has her set of expectations which includes a solid amount of requested dowry with a furnished house. Ugh. Most of the recent families these days cling to their sons for this sole reason. Doctors and Engineers are given a higher post in terms of status. It has become like some bloody trade. They buy and they sell. Especially Muslims from the roots of the Eastern side of the country, I heard hunt for someone in Colombo, expect the bride to 'gift' a house one in Colombo and one in their hometown and a car according to their forecast that is writing down the model number and what color the skin of the car should be like. I swear I am NOT agreeing any one from Batticoloa and Ampara. No wonder your area floods the moment the rain pours. My parents know so well too. Sorry. This shit aint for sale.

With all this mad juicy stories coming my way my sneaky fingers are hopefully crossed for a proposal landing from the heavenly gates of Galle. Oh you have no idea how much I adore the land of the Dutch.

She shared this link which I find hilarious. He says, 'men are blind when it comes to women's signals.'

Love happens on Fridays.

2011-02-12T16:25:00.005+05:30

There is always something mellifluous with a Friday sun dripping on your window pane. my mother's chicken preparation added to that. Prayers and hopes are never marooned.

I hope the upcoming elections in September bring about the impunity each Egyptian soul worked their way for it to ripe.

Its rather unfortunate to see Mubarak having ruled Egypt for 30 long years, reacting only unprofessionally and nothing was worked according to goals, I doubt he had any of that.

The pushing of Mubarak's PHD stubbornness led to nothing but damaged artifacts, 1000 injured and over 300 deaths including the martyred heroes here. 30 years is just way out of steam to be honest, the only thing that kept him going was his power itself which clearly shows its density that could be destroyed by the power of the people. I hope the transitional government be ruled by proper political independence according to what the people think is good for them, which am sure isn't the Egyptian military taking control.

Let Tahrir and the rest of Egypt now celebrate with 'freedom tea and revolution biscuits.' However according to a twitter mate from Egypt it isn't literary over there. There is still more to achieve. The blue collar workers at Sugar Factory and the Steel Mills in Cairo on strike to name a few.

This making of history deserves a freaking Nobel. That is all.

P.s The Algerian protests are now on. The world gets freakier by the minute.

What if.

2011-01-20T11:22:00.013+05:30

Every girl secretly plans it in her head though she detests the idea of marriage. And I have a nasty idea in my head.
What if I want to have my wedding here,

Yes the Vihara Maha Devi Park. and also it symbolizes the idea of love.

walk up the aisle

sit under this big tree with my bronze metallic wedding gown on accompanied by Thai sky lanterns like this

and distribute this as starters,

yes the traditional hoppers with katta sambol. nyeha. I just love love the peppered egg hoppers. I remember I got food poisoned by the hoppers sold down a boutique in Cameron Place.

decorate the tables with funky center pieces like:

Finally share the night with a room lit with Christmas lights

Okay, Ill shut up. These dreams are far fetched for a girl living with a family infested with traditional values. meh and my Twidiots just crashed each and every dream. Thanks.

Pix courtesy Flickr and Google

Act now.

2011-01-14T16:12:00.001+05:30

Give Give everything and whatever you can
cause right now care matters.

So far so good

2011-01-13T09:51:00.002+05:30

This week has been pretty good so to say, minus the extreme intolerable weather that Colombo is excreting and making me want to borrow Batman's costume for a while. My digital clock says its 76 F today. Its rain cold here and there is no rain. Just as cold beer. Gray clouds foaming over the town and the wind leaving crisp whispers on my hair. As I said, 2011 is not going to be so welcoming and warm. The world is just after the anniversary in Haiti. My strong and deep thoughts to everyone affected by the torrents of deadly floods and landslips in Austraila, Brazil and Sri Lanka. However leaving the climate matter aside, I got mail. By this awesome friend here . Look, so cool. What got me totally hooked was the overload of cuteness in the cup-caked stickers.

Got my brother to run down to the bookshop since I was lazy, and ended up with Sri lankan authors and loving each and every opening to a world of difference, Lankan style. Later a while, I got to the kitchen and made myself pop corn salad. The recipe is below for you to see.

Popcorn salad is probably pinned in the stack of Old Dutch recipe books. However I thought of pulling them up since I had popcorn and peanuts lying around in the pantry cupboards.

You will need:

1 bowl of popped corn
An onion
A tomato
Freshly hand pinched lettuce
1/2 cup peanuts
3 1/2 spoons full of cheese spread or mayonnaise or more.
A pinch of salt

Use your hands to toss in the vegetables once they are cut in any shape you desire. Then I chucked in the popped corn and gave it a gentle stir . I threw in the lettuce and added up the peanuts as well. I glazed the salad by chucking in dollops of cheese spread.
I headed to the couch with a spoonful of salad in my mouth and said Oh yum.
Veges, you should try this.

Happy Thursday all.

Her jumbo career

2011-01-07T12:56:00.000+05:30

My youngest sister has always been a fun riot. Looking at her grow up, I begin to realize she so resembles me. Unlike the other female sibling I have who is more organized and feminine. Ill call the 4 year old, M. All in the same breath being with M is somewhat like being with a twin. She is skinny. She bites people if things don't go her way. She delves into the extremes when it comes to food. Either it has to be too spicy or too sweet. She loves a toy gun's or a sword's company than dolls. She hates milk just as much as I do. She shouts into people's ears at random. But however,when I asked her what she wanted to be when she grows up she said elephant. Just to remind you folks, I definitely cant see myself as huge as an elephant. But this happens to be her cute elephant.

Boo.

The new Ceyliban gambit

2011-01-04T11:01:00.002+05:30

As the pressure gets intense with the standup comic about Government's new announcement over here by Minister TB Ekanayake, the Lankan news states "The Ministry of Arts and culture is seeking to introduce new laws regarding the dress code for young girls in public places. That is to stop them from wearing short frocks."

Okay first things first. I am one of them Muslims who does not harbor tickle pinky miniskirts as chattels. I have never owned one. Oh well. But I like them. However personal matters aside, I still felt a discomfort rippling through me when I read this. I soon found myself in a social culture that promotes self-interest, threatening someone's rules of attire is imperatively wrong. It’s not an essential concession to a deeply 'traditional' society because I still feel it’s rather pillage against a woman's prerogative.

And to a larger degree since when have the Lankan government started to 'follow' like religious extremists of Afghanistan and the Maoists of China? The problem with Lankans believing in a monolithic hegemony is that it denies agency to those entities that exist outside the hegemony. I mean if measures are taken to bring about a new era of 'moral purity', why set up operations for casinos and promote gambling to Sri Lanka by all means? If Sri Lanka wants to swamp away from its conservative manacle in order to lure the tourism industry then miniskirt censorship is just impractical and not a ‘high end tourist attraction’ at all. Its seems like Lanka is breaking its own bubble.

On other news, in the 2008 Uganda mulled over banning miniskirts because according to Mr. Buturo, These days you hardly know who is a mother from a daughter, they are all naked." What kind of compressional threat is that? Which begs the question, why is nudity so popular in East Germany? And the practice of nudity in the rest of Europe? At least the mothers or the daughters in Uganda wear something.

And I certainly don't think by imposing a dress code will help keep up a woman's dignity anywhere in the world. Chances of the number of rape cases here will not diminish if that's what they want to achieve. Boys will always be boys. That spark will never fade. (meh) Its not like women here do not know what to dress where. It all boils down to that. A woman living here would not be feeble minded to wear mini skirts in places where decency is concerned and she would know what is germane and what is improper.

Change is possible if it is fueled by anti blasphemous governments of Sri lanka.

Dear 2010,

2010-12-31T14:04:00.004+05:30

I have loved you with hate prior to the tape. I won’t say no. The end of this calendar is a multitude of mixed feelings. Like concrete and honey. Skimming through events of the most beloved grandfather’s death, an aunt diagnosed with Cancer, meeting new friends drowned in caramel, completing an art project challenging myself with only 180 days, a grand uncle in his deathbed juggling between malady and moment. What will it take to get through this crisis? How much time does it take to mend a faded heart? How much time is needed? I will say wait for the coffee to be poured into your cup. I’ve sucked metaphors, buttered the flaky biscuits, saved struggles and protested much least at the end of this one I know there is a Summer in 69 for me.

Amazingly you, have given me the trump and opportunity to fail and fail just when I am as strong as I think I can possibly be, a light opens up and the awakening happens.

If I hop onto things beyond my borders, the future to me smells like cigarette butts which is sadly bad. Watching too many death and destruction was simply unbearable. January sends earthquake to Haiti, BP oils charring the sea of life, a volcano havoc in Indonesia and Iceland, harsh waters that turn to floods in Pakistan, South warning the North in Korea, Southern Miners rescue, the sounds of African vuvuzela, Burmese democracy shooting hope, watching a child lose a limb in Palestine, rose colored shades of journalism in the light of a ballsy Assange, a silent homage for the Gaza victims’ and it doesn’t stop here. There is more to come because every day is not Christmas.

Am certain to the extreme that 2011 by far personally is going to be a bunch of berries in a porcelain vase, as I have grown to love the kitchen gadgets more. Thanks to the fantastic MasterChef. Its like a big mental slap on the face. Having LOVED food and restaurants that picks good service so much, I used to detest being in the kitchen. Its how every Asian girl's mindset tends to twist. With the sugar in the rain, I hope you will let me love fish, brown benches and Chinese food on Sundays more rather than demote myself holding onto promises to always disappear and reappear like the clichéd trains traveling in opposite directions around midnight. Let the world make sense to live as war is just bad policy.

May you count the number of crimes you’ve committed and make up in 2011. Since we live in a culture where there are spammers I know you just won’t give in too easily. So I’ll watch for your road bumps.

Love, Geegee.

P.s All my fellow bloggers, readers, commenters, Thank you for an amazing year and may the next year bring you joy. Happy 2011.

Mary and Max

2010-12-27T13:29:00.002+05:30

Having clinched 5 wins and 2 nominations, I collected the time to sit with sweet popcorn and watch this refreshing oddball in peace. What fascinates me is the entire story being based on something that really happened to a person. Am pretty much impressed at the line of story out of all animation that is being watched at a constant these days . The depth of the script really digs into you bringing out the insecurities and heartache the common man faces and you quiver to chuckle a laugh or two. I really enjoyed the homemade feel about the element of writing letters and sharing a charmed friendship among two people from two different continents suffering the same blemish in life. The characters are entirely out of plasticine and much adorably cute touching that thin line of perfection in capturing a good finish, having the themes dark and bittersweet. Just like chocolate.

Above all I developed a crush on the soundtrack . :B

Recreation

2010-12-20T14:30:00.003+05:30

Audre Lorde once said 'Our feelings are our most genuine paths to knowledge'. Am sure its all said in her poem, Recreation.

Coming together
it is easier to work
after our bodies
meet
paper and pen
neither care nor profit
whether we write or not
but as your body moves
under my hands
charged and waiting
we cut the leash
you create me against your thighs
hilly with images
moving through our word countries
my body
writes into your flesh
the poem
you make of me.

Touching you I catch midnight
as moon fires set in my throat
I love you flesh into blossom
I made you
and take you made
into me.

Pure bliss.

Pictures that move

2010-12-15T16:35:00.003+05:30

A SHORT LOVE STORY IN STOP MOTION from Carlos Lascano on Vimeo.

I found these two awesome little stopmotion and I wanted to create my little own. I just love Kirsten Lepore's ideas with sugary dough goodies. So deliciously cute. I had a story in my head and wanted to bring it out and I did. Having shot more than 450 times. It is added to my project1A8T linked on my flickr here. Go check Go check. Its not that all perfect like the ones you see above, as I didn't have a tripod stand to chuck on my camera for support. But it will bring a whole load of sweat, frustration, hiring your sister for help, numb hands and a lot of fun. Never ever start clicking when your bored or sleepy.

Musical straw that stirs the liqour.

2010-12-08T17:21:00.001+05:30

As off late I thought since your truly is an old fashioned girl living in a modern world she should do a post dedicated for legends of the 40's and 50's who stole hearts of them folks and hers. A time when music was good and catchy without Katy Perry's cleavage, sex, drugs and extreme explicits.

* Perez Prado
A Cuban musician who possessed pianist's fingers.

* Paul Anka
A heart throb and a teen idol for all those doll faced ladies. I always knew Canadians produce very very good music. 'Diana' was the second best selling hit and a song played very very close to my heart for a particular reason.

* The Ventures
Gem of instrumentals I should say.

* Chubby Checker
Popular for his energetic dance styles on the dance floor.

* Beach Boys
A pack of youth coming from sun drenched southern California who had crisp and craft rock power.

* Jan and Dean
A very good looking duo.

* Ricky Nelson
A beautiful man. Nuff said

Did any one of you notice all these men when performed were decently dressed unlike these what today produces?

Header stolen from Reader's digest

Fonderland

2010-12-04T16:40:00.000+05:30

December demands Christmas and then only one additional: sugar plums of happiness. Soft chill whisper of Autumn humming fade. December is there spoiling shoppers taste buds, wrecking flavors, dizzying the senses never does the spirit fade. Angles of bargain venturing the streets. Soft breezes nudge the damp trees. Weather, muggy. Immense fog to envelope the city. Re growth of Christmas tree sale row among streets of Colombo 7 roundabouts. Bubble lights. Jarring jumble of books, records, old time festive movie equipment, half of an old coffee, soiled jeans. Brittle, and warm hugs make me itch for the month. Too much you sometimes think far too happily.

I love Snow. But Ive never felt it, played or ate it. However I'd love to toss a boot or a gingerbread to relish on:

Road ice skating or on frozen river banks

Window lit with unopened presents

Snow fall surprise at doorstep

Red, Green with a bit of hue blue on the way

German sweets

Inner joy brought out of homes

Gentle flakes reserve a spot

Pink homes

May the holidays be merry. Happy all.

Pix courtesy: deviantart & flickr

Speaking loud

2010-11-23T14:56:00.013+05:30

Sitting on cold tiles on the floor, igniting the bud that hangs thick tingling the dull tray of mistakes in the head.. Divorced with infectious smiles and the casual crassness I trace every sheet of mess with long drags, desperately wanting the black scars left on my lungs extinguished.

Don’t hold memories in suitcases under stairs and behind doors cause the weight of it will only mock at you in front of you. Spending all that time rehashing every stupid thing you think you said, or swearing at the suit case you don’t deserve to carry having your hands balled into fists. Dreams that are half true wait to be tipped but frowns of reality remain thick in the face of every day. Once your bread is crumbled and your heart no longer breaks because the heart only breaks once, for love's sake, and for that reason alone flaws make us human. You wake up every morning to open up all the windows with the messes you work your way into; letting the bleach white light in but the sour part stifled in the edges feel like a ghost stealing your soul and never returned. On the verge of crying, please don’t but walk through parking lots where pigeons start flying in a pack around you like a beggar’s best dream. The river of life kill or be killed, just adjust and adapt.

From Björk's Human Behaviour. I love her style of musical experimentism with nature and politics. A twist to music culture.

If you ever get close to a human
and human behaviour
be ready to get confused

there's definitely no logic
to human behaviour
but yet so irresistible

there is no map
to human behaviour

they're terribly moody
then all of a sudden turn happy
but, oh, to get involved in the exchange
of human emotions is ever so satisfying

there's no map and
a compass
wouldn't help at all

human behaviour

November so far

2010-11-18T13:03:00.006+05:30

I happened to get more pictures from a Bestie on the Ceylon Motor show. Its hard to believe I missed a couple of awe inspiring shows Colombo hosted including the design festival. Yeah shoot me.

However mind glowingly things can get, a bunch of us and I cant wait to meet Farah Pandit on Friday concerning discussions on conflict against American Muslims identity crisis since 9/11 as well as the Sri Lankan Muslim issues. Will hopefully put up a detailed post after Friday. Just hoping Mahinda maama will not take the entire Colombo roads to himself. 3id was by far a stagger. Enough to say that I had an okayish day indulging with exotic mouth watering sweets made by an aunt.

P.s- Thanks to Dee, I am now a proud holder of better skills at Origami. Yaay

OMG!

2010-11-16T14:16:00.003+05:30

THAT! and how did I miss the Ceylon Motor Show???

Toast

2010-11-11T18:11:00.001+05:30

I instantly fell in love with his writing just like with food. He's the male version of Nigella, I presume. His book 'Toast; story of a boy's hunger' consists of foodie delicacies and nostalgic memories around his kitchen. The relationship between man and food are captured vividly while reading the extracts from the book itself. Nigel Slater, your a babe.

Extract from the book Toast

One day my father came home from work, and even before he had taken off his coat he grabbed one of our jam tarts from the wire cooling rack. He couldn’t have known they had come from the oven only a minute or two before. His hands flapped, his face turned a deep raspberry red, beads of sweat formed like warts on his brow, he danced a merry dance. As he tried to swallow and his eyes filled with the sort of tears a man can only summon when he has boiling lemon curd stuck to the roof of his mouth, I am sure that I saw the faintest of smiles flicker across my mother’s face.

More men should srsly get to the kitchen. I want this momentous Toast on my plate now cause its my cup of tea. Bwah?

Project 1A8T

2010-11-09T09:59:00.003+05:30

Yeah that's right.. The name of my project. Am starting one. Its a collection of art, my head, some thinking, crayons, a bit with colored pencils, colored paper and ink. Anything. With it may come fabric and even shoes. Who knows. I love fabric surfaces done with a bit of craft too.
If you like the sound of this, you want to see them yeah. Then you shall look at the flickr link on my right which will have an album collection employed plainly for my project work. I will upload them everyday if I happen to have the camera in my hand. If not don't think am cheating. meh. if the date's different.

So lets see if I can cover Art in 180 days and take over the world.

1000 Awesome things

2010-11-06T10:58:00.001+05:30

What I think is super awesome from Neil's list beecause Ive been there and done that.

#876 Taking your bra off after wearing it for hours.

#790 Seeing someone laugh in their sleep.

#433 Being next.

#662 Fixing your wedgie when no-one's looking.

#912 Hanging your hand out of the window of a car.

#405 When someone pronounces your name on first try. Amen to that.

# 599 Walking around naked when your home alone.

#656 When the plane suddenly speeds up on the runway.

#803 Your comfy old T shirt.

#954 Rain hair. CHYEH!

#395 When your taxi driver knows all the shortcuts.

#448 The smell and the feel of bedsheets that dried in the sun.

#418 Carrying the ice cube tray you just filled up all the way back to the freezer without spilling.

#880 Getting piggy backed anywhere.

#413 Trying on your new clothes again as soon as you get home from the store.

#392 Catching the ice cream truck.

#401 The sound of dry leaves blowing across an empty parking lot.

#637 Rocking out on air instruments.

#429 Baby feet.

AWESOME!

Check out what you think is awesome at http://1000awesomethings.com

I want to..

2010-11-04T10:03:00.009+05:30

visit places with wacky sign boards.

learn making origami

do pretty little dirty things.

have street walls sprayed and painted

have hearts in my hands.

get slop sucked by the sea and drown all sorrow

sleep on sheets that spread love.

sleep on roads.

feel happy and smile more when I know its right there under my nose

before I turn 30.

Wine lovers out there this is for you

Crabby old man

2010-11-02T09:36:00.000+05:30

Yeah you could say am an internet junkie and I like inspirational people. I got this by mail and came across on the net as well and so blogstarz. I'd like to share this with you.

When an old man died in the geriatric ward of a nursing home in North Platte , Nebraska , it was believed that he had nothing left of any value. Later, when the nurses were going through his meager possessions, they found this poem. Its quality and content so impressed the staff that copies were made and distributed to every nurse in the hospital. One nurse took her copy to Missouri . The old man’s sole bequest to posterity has since appeared in the Christmas edition of the News Magazine of the St. Louis Association for Mental Health. A slide presentation has also been made based on his simple, but eloquent, poem. And this little old man, with nothing left to give to the world, is now the author of this ‘anonymous’ poem winging across the Internet.

Crabby Old Man

What do you see nurses? … .. . What do you see?

What are you thinking … . . when you’re looking at me?

A crabby old man … . . not very wise,

Uncertain of habit … . . with faraway eyes?

Who dribbles his food … . . and makes no reply.

When you say in a loud voice … . . ‘I do wish you’d try!’

Who seems not to notice … . . the things that you do.

And forever is losing . . … A sock or shoe?

Who, resisting or not … . . lets you do as you will,

With bathing and feeding … . . The long day to fill?

Is that what you’re thinking? … . . Is that what you see?

Then open your eyes, nurse … . . you’re not looking at me.

I’ll tell you who I am… … As I sit here so still,

As I do at your bidding, … . . as I eat at your will.

I’m a small child of Ten … . . with a father and mother,

Brothers and sisters … . . who love one another.

A young boy of Sixteen … . with wings on his feet.

Dreaming that soon now … . . a lover he’ll meet.

A groom soon at Twenty … . . my heart gives a leap.

Remembering, the vows … . . that I promised to keep.

At Twenty-Five, now . . … I have young of my own.

Who need me to guide … . . And a secure happy home.

A man of Thirty … . . My young now grown fast,

Bound to each other … . . With ties that should last.

At Forty, my young sons … . . have grown and are gone,

But my woman’s beside me … . . to see I don’t mourn.

At Fifty, once more, babies play ’round my knee,

Again, we know children … . . My loved one and me.

Dark days are upon me … . . my wife is now dead.

I look at the future … . . shudder with dread.

For my young are all rearing … . . young of their own.

And I think of the years … . . and the love that I’ve known.

I’m now an old man … . . and nature is cruel.

Tis jest to make old age . . … look like a fool.

The body, it crumbles … . . grace and vigor, depart.

There is now a stone … . where I once had a heart.

But inside this old carcass … . . a young guy still dwells,

And now and again … . . my battered heart swells.

I remember the joys … . . I remember the pain.

And I’m loving and living … . . life over again.

I think of the years, all too few … . . gone too fast.

And accept the stark fact … . that nothing can last.

So open your eyes, people … . . open and see.

Not a crabby old man … Look closer … see ME!!

Remember this poem when you next meet an older person who you might brush

aside without looking at the young soul within. We will all, one day, be there, too! Yeah?

Yeah.

I groove to Moroccan style

2010-10-27T10:26:00.000+05:30

Moroccan lights.

The Djellaba. Ill have that as a wedding gown.

Moroccan interior design

Five star hotels

Kasbah Tamadot (splendid)

Tigmi (but I like this better)

One of the top 5 places to visit Chefchaouen city

Outlandish
CHYEAH!

Moroccan men have class. dammit.

Am a culture slut. Yella. Yes. I will. Someday

My body is my business.

2010-10-26T09:42:00.010+05:30

Hitting on a woman with a hard patch of sexuality is never okay if you ask me.
Yeah and I thought so if blogger victims bring about more awareness to such situations something can be done. So here's my little stories.
This is no chimera in the air but back in my school days I used to travel by bus. Only if I'd stay back in school. There were times when I usually traveled with my guy friends if I were to bus it home. I always felt much safe but then again I felt solitary was also bliss. I was that girl who loved being seated by the window lie in glory and rollick with the breeze hitting my face or the silly one trying to jump off the foot-board while the bus is half moving feeling boyishly cool. But when such bus fun is distracted its never cool. Never.

Bus biwlas

Young and 16 I was after a club meeting, 0600 was the time on my watch and I clinging onto a sight of an Ashok Leyland with a 176 yellow tag. Good glory do I see it. Got on and so did a man say middle or late 30's while climbing on the foot board he brushed his hand on my bum. First impression not cool. I found there were no seats. Oh joy I thought. So with each junction passing the man gets closer to me every single time. I move, I wriggle away, I slightly push him with my bag but no this man doesn't get my signal. He instantly rubs his hard shaft on my bum. With all my force I pushed him back and there goes the brake. Jeezuz. I asked what the &%#$ his problem was ( mokadda huh pissu miniha) I wasn't fluent with my Sinhalese back then and he gives me that 'ah nangi accident ah sorry'. I leave the bus immediately at the next stop. To my horror I see him follow me, to the next bus. I run and he runs I find a seat next to a lady, sat down. He vanished off.

At 18 again. I joyfully get into a bus and land next to a young dude carrying an umbrella. Eh? He had this umbrella on his lap moving it up and down right throughout the journey and shockingly he placed his hand gently on my lap. I got up then he pulls down my dress in order to make me sit. However pulling myself I managed to move away away from this jerk.

Clinic case

Our family doctor's clinic had a cute pond. My brother and I were merrily looking at the fishes in the pond, when suddenly my brother pushes me into the pond. What a kill joy. I was drenched so had all my clothes taken off with only my elocution bag as my 'Eve leaf'. This man looks at me in good cheer asking me to take the bag away from my groin. Basterd. What do you want from a 10 year old?? And sadly because of me the pond is no more. Embarrassment much??

Student stress

My experience with a Math master. He brags about him teaching BSC kids and holding a degree in Math and I was just a 7th grader. What sort of boobs will I have at 12?? Instead of solving equations and algebra his eyes are glued to my chest trying to scan what color bra I was wearing with his legs tightly locked on mine. I should have kicked him in the shin but I accidentally purposely threw my pen at him funnily landing on his nose. Hard.

Boyfriend bother

I had a boy. A Buddhist who had this nail biting rage in situations where he found me talk to an ex boyfriend or the male bestie. He had some nerve that bothered him to see me have a good talk with the male friends so much that he even hired spies to watch over me in my class since we weren't from the same school. He even sent threats of raping me and he would beat up my ex and the male bestie. Eh? There were times when he compelled me to remove my head scarf just so that he wanted me to 'fit in' and to impress his friends, I found this an abusive nuisance and I refused.

Teaching trauma

We all know kids lurrve young teachers. But this is something very rare. Recently I started taking classes for middle school and high school. this 6th grade young chap I teach from a leading international school, Samsung Corby in the pocket, pretty rich and studious but eventually I see where he is heading. While learning he also learns to try the art of footsie stunts and so does his toe climb and dig into my pants. I asked him to stop it and he did. Good I thought. No this time he sends his hands to his groins constantly and the same hands begin to wriggle in between my thighs, I closed the book so hard that he woke up almost freaking out. This went on for a good two months when one day I gently closed the book, asked the kid to call up his driver and pick him up and never come back again and I quit. Teaching. The elder sister eventually stops coming due to shame.

I see a great decline in regard to woman's dignity today while perversity is growing in number and sadly nothing is being done here so its become a social norm and some sort of a bitter dose to be expected to be taken on a regular basis. The male species think having a little fun will get them into any woman's pants. Its the inferiority status of woman in Sri lanka that pulls a man's ego on top. Dressing modest doesn't help you anymore cause I tried so hard to conceal my chest but the kid tries to see right through the shawl for tiny glimpses of my breasts. In addition to this pepper spray is so freaking expensive at Odel. SO it feels like there is no safe code for a woman out there traveling or being on her own and society doesn't pull about any concern to this but shrug it off. I also find the victims rarely coming out in the light to complain about this all because of shame or taking down a peg only bringing dis honor to herself and family. She might also not want to try an elbow whack cause of black fears haunting her, what the man can possibly do next.

People rarely see its danger and depth and its ugly picture seeing a man poke a breast and the woman keeps quiet about it. Her body is ONLY a part of her and unnecessary male physical exhibition cannot be tolerated. Us women need to break the silence. We need to stand up and be counted.

Flies spread diseases, keep yours zipped- Author unknown

Am proud to be a 90's kid because:

2010-10-24T10:44:00.002+05:30

I grew up listening to Macarena, LFO, Cheb Khalid, The Hansons and reading Backstreet boys lyrics with a child sized heart. I abhorred Nsync cause I loved BSB better. #youshouldknow

The best of TV shows were born in the 90's. Friends. Seinfield, The Simpsons, Saved by the bell..

I owned a bubble gum pink etch- a-sketch also called magic memo pad. It was an endless renewable art fun experience.

I had a favorite Spice Girl (Girrrrrl power) and Venga Boys was house music.

The world was hit by the Titanic. The movie and I knew Barbie girl by Aqua by heart.

The super craze girls in school had over-colorful slam books and autographs pads.

My first major exposure to puppets and reserving the TV on Saturdays all for Sesame Streets sake. Unique colorful puppets. I mean a monster loving cookies? Believable or not?

A game of hopscotch would save a full day of exams stress. We never had mini clip back then.

I loved to be the pink one out of the Power Rangers.

'Clarissa Explains it all' can beat Miley Cyrus anyday.

The stirring emotional response I get watching Lion King over and over again

Biker mice from Mars, Jem, Captain Planet, Mummies alive, TMNT, Xmen, and BANANAS IN PAJAMAS. Enough said.

I was introduced to a slew of new characters from Sweet Valley high under bed light lamp in the wee hours of midnight due to high maintenance of rated reads.

I ripped off teen magazines with hunk fluff pieces of Leonardo Di Caprio, Devon Sawa, Nick Carter etc etc.. and then collecting the tear out posters in montage without Mom noticing it.

The bowl cut or the mushroom cut was a must have for the boys. I cannot believe I had my hair like that. Total tomboy I was back then

Whatever happened to teen boys wearing the white banyan like t shirt with a checkered over-sized shirt as pull over? I loved it, bring it back you 21st century pseudo hippies.

I used to date Brian Littrell in my dreams and was overjoyed when I found out his birthday fell one day before my younger brother's. Eee Insanity at its best? I still have a soft spot for his perfect square jawline and crystal blue eyes. Oh boy.

When two people french kissed, I called it 'romancing.' Yeah never mind

Cant get over

2010-10-20T11:44:00.003+05:30

How do you feel
to steal
and leave a world all gray?
Where are you all day?
Are you
happy?
Are you
safe?
Are you
seeing
another face?
Are you
laughing hard?
Are you crying soft?
I juggle these thoughts
aloft
and shake them.
They wont
seem
to leave me.
What can I do?
I cant get over you.

Giving music a different flavour

2010-10-18T10:42:00.012+05:30

I happened to stumble upon these while joylessly and joblessly surfing the net.

Hip-hop drummers to a rap beat.

MJ's Billie Jean covered by Ten Strings

Chicago's bucket drummers.

Why isnt Colombo cool like this?

Just give it a listen.

Guilt

2010-10-12T11:03:00.004+05:30

The sun just slumps

the air wave like

and we plunge

into wonders of late afternoons

with bodies filthy

minds dirty

but hearts

just as strong as a tree.

The pain aches

like a lover’s rejection

when he swallows me

like his first cup of tea,

gently stroking

the leaves in my body

curling with his

and we fuck

until

the moon creeps

thick

across the window

while the sun is away

almost

at the end of the day

our wedding rings

left by the side

watch us

in guilt and dismay.

Meeting the whales in October

2010-10-05T12:16:00.005+05:30

I stumbled over this awesome Indie Folk band. Love their dress sense, their pure style in all British bliss.

Tracks that can really pull the heart strings like

And some makes your heart skip happy beats.

A curly haired onesome with guitar fingers and pinched with a female vocal in an Indie Ark is a killer, I tell ya.

Yes I adore British bands.

And on other news, life is basically a shit hole. Deep deep one.

Little things matter

2010-09-29T09:51:00.005+05:30

Seeing her from a distance, she walked immaculately dressed in a black shot pencil skirt and crisp white shirt loosening three buttons open while constantly oscillating her chest like some yo-yo down Colombo passing sludgy perverted demons leaning in for a gaze at her little juggling circus and simpering behind her back. It irked me.

Okay lady you maybe proud of what you have but girl you got a lot going on. It was so unbeautiful to watch her move so fallaciously only creating unethical behavior and moral degradation.
I remember during my days in school as well girls used to walk jutting their central zone so high that male teachers were engrossed in this girl game. My attempts to be superman and walk up and tell her what a different perspective the public might take to her. Yet I failed. What if she judged me or what if she thought I was jealous or thought what the hell my problem was, what if she was late and in a hurry, instead with a yarn of pudency furiously tugged at the ends of my my mind, somehow I realize that having massive ones is iota difficult to walk with. Yaay for small ones.

Seriously whats all this madness getting to me?

I love this picture.

Love at first lines

2010-09-02T21:09:00.009+05:30

And so I was inspired by the Fool of April by breezing through her nyomnyom heart stirring awesome blog. Her post got me all thinking that I should do something like that as well. And so here is my list to share.

Eveline by James Joyce

'She sat at the window watching the evening invade the avenue. Her head was leaned against the window curtains and in her nostrils was the odour of dusty cretonne. She was tired. '

...

The Memoirs of Barry Lyndon by William Makepeace Thackeray

'Since the days of Adam, there has been hardly a mischief done in this world but a woman has been at the bottom of it.'

...

A pair of Blue Eyes by Thomas Hardy

'Elfride Swancourt was a girl whose emotions lay very near the surface. Their nature more precisely, and as modified by the creeping hours of time, was known only to those who watched the circumstances of her history.'

...

There and Back by George MacDonald

'It would be but stirring a muddy pool to inquire--not what motives induced, but what forces compelled sir Wilton Lestrange to marry a woman nobody knew.'

...

Paradise by Toni Morrison

'They shoot the white girl first.'

...

Memories of My Melancholy Whores by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

'The year I turned ninety, I wanted to give myself the gift of a night of wild love with an adolescent virgin.'

...

Hard times by Charles Dickens

'Now, what I want is, Facts. Teach these boys and girls nothing but Facts. Facts alone are wanted in life. Plant nothing else, and root out everything else.'

...

Eyeless in Gaza by Aldous Huxley

'The snapshots had become almost as dim as memories'

...

Middle Passage by Charles Johnson

'Of all the things that drive men to sea, the most common disaster, I've come to learn, is women.'

...

The Satanic Verses by Salman Rushdie

'To be born again,' sang Gibreel Farishta tumbling from the heavens, 'first you have to die'
...

And Ill say first impressions do count big time.

Thursday Thoughts

2010-09-02T10:24:00.004+05:30

'Keeping fear in your heart everyday is like compounding interest debt you haven't even borrowed yet..'

Fear does nothing more than hold you back from the life you deserve to get.

Happy Thursday all.

Parenting, Late night wake ups and booby pride.

2010-08-16T10:12:00.010+05:30

After incessant chatters with Bestie who is married and is just after bringing life to a third( she is as older to me), I start to blog this swishing my freshly washed sweet smelling thought that sometimes notches up my self confidence a bit.

The harder the knocks you get in life, the more you learn and try to put them to use in future, some wise one said and having to agree with that, I wonder the wonders of having a child would bring. Am not into settling with the 'cook and clean and have the babies in arm', and being just too young enough to hold a baby least for 30 mins or more, however this gut in the corner gnaws me to stroke the soft feeling of having a child. I know it sounds like one of those checked under the list of 100 -things -that- makes -you- laugh. But off late shaking the sense of how the world works with a bundle of joy in the hands is quite fun in the pram. I used to be pretty comfortable about this whole idea would happen in a distant future. But in recent of my lifetime an absolute avalanche of babies keep parking at my spinsterhood doorstep to a point where this baby urge makes me drop all things out of my system and begin folding nappies of happiness around me, like an annoying fly.

Everyone who is anyone I know keeps getting married or is pregnant, but am just sitting here eating. After frequents calls and meetups with the friends whom are hitched off, the only acknowledgment I hear from both sides are 'Go for it', 'Being a mom has been the best thing I have ever done,' 'kids are a major happy distractions', and another friend points at her shiny center and waves her booby pride over my head and says' it just gets bigger'. Yet while nervous lump forms on me – like a butterfly in my chest we groupthink again of sippy cups, soothers, the whole pregnancy gig, delivery dungeon, postpartum depression, how late night wake ups can chafe in your sleeping clothes. Then suddenly one crawls the opinion of self sacrifice in fact a very common issue and not as rare as society may believe and predictably the rest follow. I smelt the challenge of raising children bittersweet and deep down in the gutter I then make a shift not to extend my youth and I know I did the right thing.

Before starting to confess from a negative angled attitude, think of the gem of joy having cotton candy on a summer afternoon at the lake with the kids playing peek-a-boo ever so loud. I hope I find something more to perpetuate this little desire to maintain the lifestyle.

Long story short, I want a child.

Mon rantings de merde!!

2010-07-19T09:34:00.004+05:30

I want a friend. The African kind who owns an elephant in Desert Sahara. The kind who will lend you that elephant when you just want to get quick sand to swallow you or dunk your head in a pool of ice. I smelt TGIF( thank god its friday) on a fresh friday morning and Saturday arrived in all its glory, we headed to Pettah to grab some artsy crafty goodies as I had to make something for the besties. you see Pettah is a place where you witness a thrilling. chaotic. experience.The smell, the dirt, the ear rending shouts AND the nefarious humor! Truly added, it presents a charming scene but speaking of the latter 'nefarious humor' is giantly added.

I was completely drawn to its endless sketch of bargained goodies for a good 2 hours and in the middle of nowhere my little sister of just 9 comes to me and utters in whispers, here your wearing your top the wrong side.'

Right.

And needed a good deal of sense knocked in head too. I just felt like ...
What. On. Earth?

At the same time thank god for my scarf, parts of the hideousness was concealed. Yet you have no idea the beast it made of me. I felt like insanity stuffed in a jolly rosebud. :I
Signs of lusty men in tuk tuks waiting to turn the knife into a female's direction. Is it better to cause pain or save pain. I did not know what kind of somersault position my head was that minute. What will I choose? Who will die? My soul should be at rest but behold! Like a frozen tear upon my burning face- A relief.
I swear I felt like seated under the lemon tree eating crackers with apricot jelly thankfully the moment Dad pointed to 'Ganesh Textiles' and got hold of the fit-on- room, yes is fresh blood ever nice to you? No right. I watch all the salesmen gazing at me, taking giant footsteps to the fit-on-section having no fit-on- attire in my hands just gate crashing like I pwned Ganesh or something? In the end I had no regrets other than laugh it off with the entire family and the salesmen cause they love me for who I am. ^^

Oh how strawberry dreams create a picture. sigh.

Lastly would like to say:

P.s Too much drama eh? Apologies

Catchy jazz ( take a listen)

StreetArt

2010-07-14T11:40:00.000+05:30

I heart how colors can speak. I red heart street art. I heart the smell of spray paint. Mmm. I heart how dull old busted grey can blend with any other color in the rainbow. I heart the way 'loud' can mingle with bright and busy.

Sao Paulo is one beefed up city with Street Art level sprinkled with professional graffiti artists.. I wonder sometimes if Picasso accidentally purposely vomited in this country.

Cities in Brasil

Lgo do Arouche

Rebouças city

Gemeos, Sao Paulo

I (heart) this

Bela vista, Sao Paulo.

Funkeh lah so so funksh ( love those typa faces)

Matte Moore's art

Artificial meets natural.

Santa Tereza, Rio de Janeiro

Sao Paulo, see, why I (heart) Brasil. Too much too much this is.

Walking in this country is like you are in the middle of a freeking cartoon. I think I will have to book my eyes into rehab. -ho hum-
As street art is not allowed in the big city the rebel artists usually indulge in their craft in the hours of the night in the same breath go by this motto, 'if you obey all the rules, you end up losing all the fun'

Andrea Michealsson's art in Barcelona

A street in Duesseldorf- Germany.

Adres's art in Portugal to commemorate Carnation Revolution

Too much temptation in my blog neh?

Am going to try something like this out in Colombo streets down the walls of those newly built highways one day instead of having to watch walls polluted with all those politician thadiyaas cheh. The Nugegoda one sounds just faiyne. Oh Yes yes. YES!!

Places to travel before I die

2010-07-08T13:18:00.013+05:30

My love story with travelling is revealed. There are some of those places out there in the world that am totally drawn to. Its done in countdown style. Amen to all of that. One day, I shall one day.

10. Bateaux Mouches (France)- Owing myself in a glassed boat plod along lighting up the banks of Seine River and being served dinner with a delish dessert with only the faintest hint of the Tour Eiffel in the background would be surprendre!!!

9. Barri Gòtic in Barcelona (Spain)- A lovely stretch of district for an evening stroll. An excellent street symbolic of medieval Spain. Come cha cha with me. Anyone?

8. Burj Khalifa (Dubai)- Islamic architecture and the Gulf has always been a liking. The peerless making of unique architecture and ideal shopping arena is the best known adjective for Dubai. Aney you hunky dory habibees.

Burj Khalifah

7. Frankfurt ( Germany) -There is so much cultural attractions here and not just that the era of Hitler draws my attention cause I have this nerdy attitude towards the subject of History and yes a History teacher.. Sight seeing places like the Old Opera in Frankfurt city which was destroyed by bombing raids in WW2 is a dream walk in. Martin Luther's room in Wartburg Castle is a must visit too.

Martin Luther's room- Wartburg Castle

6. Rhodes (Greece)-One of the uber cool places to visit. A lot of old stories those mighty architectural pillars hold. The greek mythology and the multifaceted culture including their fancy ancient Greek fashion and especially the greek myth of Pandora. City of Rhodes, a strong liking.

City of Rhodes (sexy ancient arch)

5.Rome (Italy-) The paintings to sculptures to gilt edged Colosseum to Asterix to domes to arches to Pizza to Julius Cesar gets to me.

Colosseum, Rome

4. Maldives (Male)- This is no pineapple under the sea. ArgHH! Hitting the crystal clear blue waters on a surfboard or jetski . Almost all resorts and village hotels are beyond suparr. Chanced across this resort its called Cocoa Islands. and am sure Bikini Bottom cant beat this. A shot of paradise. Damn you Indian ocean.

3.Mekkah( Saudi Arabia)- Not yet been. Though the parents have. The place is just handsome. Am dying to touch the Black stone. Camel milk. FTW

2. Mumbai City (Yindia)- Dharavi the city of slums. I haven't yet been to the Northern part of India which I actually think even with all the shitty slums this place is carved to a tourist interest. Ooo and the handlooms that Mumbai offers. (hearts)

1. Rio de Janeiro(Brasil)- Anything with a Portuguese 'I was here' label is a cracker jack. Ive got a lot Brasilian chunks under my belt of favorites. The samba grooves to fusion jazz, their colorful flag, the Amazon rain forest (why I loved Geography), the wonders of Soccer aneeey my L. Fabiano (hearts) and Carnivuuuul taiyyyyme. A stark country done in colorful crayons from slums to topnotch technology.

Paraná City (Brasilian architecture FTW)

All pix courtesy Flickr

Ill go find a Rolls Royce owner now ^____^