Tuesday, March 25

Lat: in medias res // tr: in the middle of action


then she wore a hat that looked like an outstretched raven, and pretended that the king's health depended on it,

a pair of adobe huts on her mind and a pair of iron ingots in her hands, she traipsed along the earthpath hoping for a gypsy or a hobo at least…

“True true”, they said, “adobe it has to be. No rainfall for 2 years now. Can’t kiln.”
A puddle here, or a julep these days isn’t any match for those manna showers that stretched the latitudes before. Yes.

“Find me a tiny pony, will you?”, she cried. “My legs are lithe and white from skipping stones across the Pyrenees but these adobe huts weigh so much.” Time to find a new home.

Came along a gypsy pony.

She crossed her legs over Finns, this pony as lithe as her legs, with hair as buxom as her bosom, that rose and fell like the inchcape bell. As they hurtled across the skies.

Sunday, March 23

White Cube

I used to be a stuck-ist for a while till i found myself pushed into the White Cube last year.
Now i like peach blossoms on my clothes and daisy studs on my earlobes. Flowerchild is only a show from the last Antwerp.

I will return.

If not through the burst of yellow wildflowers in the soul,
through the truth tables of p and q.


"because the rose is a symbolic figure so rich in meanings that by now it hardly has any meaning left."

- Umberto Eco, In the name of the rose

Monday, March 3

saraswati puja
They say that, on the day just after saraswati puja, the temperature shoots up. it does, every year. It did this time too. I wonder what it is about.

Sunday, March 2

i was going through some childhood pictures of my friends. This one stuck to my mind more than chewing gum on a school-bus seat.

tabish and his dear mother