If i could freeze time...

...I would crystallise the last couple of weeks and preserve them for eternity. I'm so alright with the way things are going, it's scary. This kind of peace is almost asking for trouble to happen. (Yes, i'm being fatalistic.)

I had the most awesomest weekend. And i want it to be mine, just mine. Well okay, mine and his. :)

Goaaaaaaa.

A seafacing room with the beach a stone's throw away.
Lots and lots of Breezers, KFs and rolling.
Plenty of sleep.
The reluctance to get out of bed when there was an option to stay in and laze.
Yummy cheese tomato sandwiches. (By the way BJM, if you ever happen to read this, you realise we hardly had any Goan food? Pathetic, we were.)
An all night party with a 5 a.m hello to the beach at Baga.
Conversations, some pointless and some sensible. A little too sensible even.
A sleeper bus journey with the curtains constantly flying.
Dancing.
The coolness of the sea against warm skin.
Changing colours of the sky, and rain soaked greenery.
Three days just weren't enough.

Note to self.

I really must stop stuffing my face with murukku, samosas and banana chips first thing in the morning.

Let the party begin!

Friday night. I go out with ze boy for dinner, stuff my face, he drops me off at G's. I meet R and, too tired to stay awake, quickly go crash. 3 in the morning, my phone rings. R's calling. But why would he call me from the living room unless it was an emergency?

It was - he wanted me to jump out of bed and go join him at the dining table for some cuppas. And when i didn't do his bidding, he came into the room and dragged me out of bed. Some friends, i tell you.

Saturday dawned way too early thanks to a recording. Finished that and went for a relaxed breakfast at Zoe's. Then went home, packed clothes for the party and the next day, then rushed to G's place. Helped S with a couple of things and before heading out to shop with G.

Conned her into staying out till 7:45 and then had to take her back home for the party. By God, she was surprised. Completely. And the party was awesome, not just because everything fell into place so perfectly but also because i've never been complimented so much on the way i look! Black dress with a drop neck, black stilletoes, black chain and pearl earrings. Basically, i sizzled. Looking forward to having the same effect in Goa.

Sunday was very peaceful. Family day gave way to lots of sleepiness which gave way to conversation with ze boy for two and a half hours in the middle of the night when he was drunk and stoned out of his skull in the misty Coorg morning.

Went back to sleep with the sound of rain in my heart and a smile on my lips. Definitely helped me wake up all cheerful and happy this Monday morning.

Sigh. Life is good.

(P.S: Yeah, the writing doesn't do any justice to the weekend, but bear with me. These days i don't much feel like doing my job.)

Thoughts this morning.

How the hell am i managing to stay up with just 2 hours of sleep?
I'd never fogged up car windows before yesterday.
T-bone steaks are dead meat. I happen to be alive and kicking.
Oh.My.God.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven...
Thank God for long hair.
Mysore Road is a nice drive from the city.
I really need to get some work done today.
I can't wait for the day to end.
The Hangover is funnier when you watch it a second time in the theatre.

Been living a dream lately.

It started last Thursday evening, the meeting after 18 years, at Hard Rock Cafe. Spilled over to Friday with a looooong lunch at Cafe Oakwood, UB City. Weekend was a break, but still managed to stay in touch. Monday was maaaaaad, what with meeting for coffee and then deciding to meet again late night for dinner and OH, crazy throwing up of T-shots on an empty stomach in the company of girlfriends, half-an-hour long road mapping for the directionally-challenged half-australian half-bangalorean, a relaxed early morning breakfast (2 a.m is not the best time for French Toast) at Memories Of China with many golden chains-clad Member of the Underground at the next table promising to do something about someone's girlfriend in Toronto, a very charged cab ride back and weirdass messages thereafter.

Somebody needs to remind me not to drink coffee in the evenings. In fact, not to drink coffee at all. My body functions go all wonky and i end up being restless, supercharged and sleepless for close to half the night. The atmosphere in the cab only aggravated the condition.

I feel good chemistry. It's a rare, heady feeling and i intend to enjoy it to the fullest.

I R Old.

So, i was browsing through a blog today when i read of the Golden Quill Award for something like 'excellence in writing'. I went to the site to check it out, and oh my god for heaven's sake what the fish do i see but a copy of Kkrishnaa's Konfessions in the list of must-read books! I R appalled! What the freak has writing books come down to if some average nitwit gets away with crap writing and getting to the top of a must-read list, even if the list belongs to a maybe-not-so-popular awards page? No offense meant to the author with regard to the story - she has something unique there - but her writing SUCKS. Big time.

A writer, in case the world has forgotten and needs reminding, is not somebody who can string a sentence together and make a story out of several such sentences. NO. A writer is someone who can string several sentences together artfully, craft each sentence to evoke a reaction from the readers (okay, maybe not each sentence, especially if you're a Gabriel Garcia or Tolstoy kind of writer because then it'll be an overkill), and uses his/her skill of language to weave a wonderful, fascinating story.

Then i figured, most writing these days doesn't really follow that pattern. That style belongs to the veterans - the Amitav Ghoshes, Naipauls and R.K. Narayans of the world. So then are we really devalueing their skill and mastery by letting pieces of trash get away with publishing? Freedom of Speech and Opinion apart, why would anybody want to be an author known for his/her average writing? Even Chetan Bhagat - maybe he's improved in the last two books - what i remember from my reading of Five Point Someone, his writing was... average. Same thing - nice story, bad writing.

Maybe it's the new way of doing things. Maybe this is how new-age writing is going to be. But why? Why does it have to be bad even if it has to be simple and conversational? Why can't it be like, let's say...a Meg Cabot? She's simple and conversational. Or a Jodi Picuolt. Why does it have to be a terror for the reader?

And that's when i thought, maybe i'm old school you know. I'm fussy about my books and how i like the writing that i read, to be. That's just it i guess - I R Old. And ageing rapidly. But at least i can say that i grew up on books with character and good writing.

What's on my legs right now.

Flea bite marks.
A scar from a healed scratch caused by a midnight walk among the bramble-full jungles of Dandeli.
Another from a motorbike exhaust burn.
A blood clot that refuses to go away.
Veins. Deep blue and mysterious.
A jet black mole.
Stretch marks from lack of dancing/exercising.
Genie pants that cover them all up.