flibbertigibbet

is my word of the day

oh the irony of applying for a commonwealth scholarship to study post colonial theory in the uk.

i remember reading somewhere- that the characters in epistolary novels must have been letter writing maniacs. racing to their desks to scribble away the minute an event had occurred, wearing out pens at a furious rate, if the intensity of the exchange of letters in the novel was to be believed. its possible though. because an exchange of letters can be so seductive. and you can read exactly what you want into the ambiguity that cloaks even the most regular of utterances.


have become completely obsessed with the blower's daughter. listened to it all day.

have also found an ice cream parlour in north campus that shows promise. it isn't in the same league as corner house, but then few places are. i hope it survives.

stray thoughts from here and there

i absolutely detest playing mind-games with boys. its a complete waste of time, and you never know when you're winning. i don't see the point of playing if not to win, and in that sort of game winning would end the fun. or some such complicated game-related philosophising that i'm not up to.

meanwhile have rediscovered how much fun playing cards is. had flashbacks of the hostel (the previous , non cat-infested one) and playing bluff with two and a half decks. cards and scrabble. we played a lot of scrabble. i do not like monopoly however. the beginning is fine- all the racing around to by property is fun. i have a special fondness for the water works and for old kent road. its the squeezing rent out of your friends bit that i really find hard.

why does laura linney do multiple versons of the weird-mother role? in the squid and the whale. in driving lessons. she's very good at being slightly off.

due to being unduly clever while downloading them i now have several french movies without the subtitles. what i shall do with these i do not know.

richard thompson is playing in my head. this makes for the strangest of moods

Bah

I can't remember the last time someone used the word chick in my presence as if it was legitimate word, to be used in public spaces without meaning to be ironic about it.

Why is femininity so often measured in the length of one's hair? This drives me crazy. And yet I wouldn't dare to brave my multifarious aunts and just chop the damn stuff off.

The resident cat is looking increasingly sharp about the ears. Does that happen to cats? Can their ears get pointier with age?

the things we do for love

the star sports espn network blatantly ignores ancic matches. instead tonight they have chosen to air the safin-seppi match. ancic is playing ferrer in the fourth seed- on centre court- but no. thats not enough. he must meet federer for the match to be aired. the sort of encounter few survive, and unfortunately ancic hasn't. not since 2002.
so- am reduced to following the point tracker on the wimbledon website. which lets me know in blinky yellow letters what the score is. the actual play i am left to imagine for myself. it informs me that ancic is in a fourth set, losing the third in the tie breaker.
am also most impressed with tipsarevic. have always found him interesting on account of the dosteovsky he has, tattooed upon him. and yesterday against roddick he was nearly fully error-free. he wasn't just watching the roddick serve whiz past, which is what tends to happen on the days when roddick's serve comes out to play. he confused roddick by managing to return it. and, in a clever fashion, went after the roddick backhand.
the safin, seppi match has turned into a sluggy brawl from the baseline. its only a matter of time, i think before safin does himself in. the longer they play the greater the chance that he will lose his temper and combust on his own, gifting the match to his opponent. am a bit tired of all this back court rallying.
though i can't watch the match itself, i can sit and imagine ancic (so pretty in a somewhat bambi-like manner) serving and volleying away.

If I were a Vampire

I do not spend much time working.
Instead I get online and find things like this.
Have spent some time since, singing 'If I were A Vampire' to my self in the manner of Tevye.

Random

Ancic has risen 23 spots. He is now ranked 69 in the world.
I wish I knew my texts as well as I know the tennis rankings.

On Fleeing Libraries

The MSN homepage has an article every week or so on where/how to meet men. The answers rarely change- and basically amount to any space outside your house. Which is self explanatory, since it would be odd to have potential objects of interest hanging about at home that you hadn't noticed before.

So when I go to the library I am not thinking- 'now I will go to a sort-of-public spot and browse for people'. Though I am vaguely aware that of all places a library is among the most acceptable- as it implies (perhaps not deservedly- because I don't always read everything I issue) that one is there out because one reads books. Books are good.

Today a boy; and I really wanted to ask him how old he was because he did seem too young to be that (and the only appropriate word that comes to mind is a bit archaic) forward was rather surprising in his persistence on making conversation. Having lived in Delhi for almost four years, I am no longer incompetent at making my displeasure known at unwanted attention from boys with too much time and distorted notions of what constitutes an acceptable mode of expression. But this boy- he didn't seem rude or letchy, or anything terrible. Except weird and possessed of a large vocabulary. Which made me want to not be rude, but also to race away. Which I did as soon as I found the books I wanted.

Now it occurs to me that he might have been bored and harmless. Perhaps I am too suspicious.

But kids are creepy.
This much I know this much is true

d school

The D school canteen is now metal and glass- fancy stuff. The outdoor, makeshift version was nice. I did worry about the unwelcome addition that birds may have made (never happened), but it had charm. The new one has a roof. And no sunlight. The mutton cutlets are the same though.

We sat in the winter afternoon sun, S and I. So pleasant it was to just be: mildly traumatised at our lack of direction, complaining about the complications that boys embody, and discussing the many attractions of Pahadganj. A skinny dog walked past and settled on a pile of leaves near my left foot. An equally skinny, but more curious young thing- past the pup stage, but not yet fully grown- at that age when they eyes, tail and ears seem larger than normal- stopped by to make friends. I wanted to take it home, but I fear it will not get along with the cats that currently rule the hostel. Cats which are reproducing at an alarming rate I might add.

Three young men settled, some distance away. One opened a bag, took out a laptop and placed it on the ground- the leaf strewn and definitely dusty ground. What must it take to be that casual with a laptop? I tend mine like one would a rose cutting, which I have found to be a particularly recalcitrant and delicate sort of plant. Constant dusting and virus checking and that kind of thing. Not allowing food near it, washing my hands before using it and not allowing people with colds to venture near- in case they sneeze and release germs. They, on the other hand, didn’t even have a case for it. I wanted to go over and see if it was scratched from this rather disinterested manner of use.

One got up to dance-demonstrating what we took to be a new dance move- because the other two seemed to offer suggestions and make modifications. That was the end of the dancing. And all this while Tarkan was playing. First that cheesy and annoying kissy kissy number which all of us recognise, and then some stuff from later albums. Which I identified and S didn’t, because I went through a major Tarkan-phase two years ago after finding a poster somewhere and discovering that he was sponsored in Basel by the Doner Kebab Association (DKA). This has pleased me muchly. Doner kebabs are my friends. I find the existence of doner kebab society rather sweet- like an idli-chutney organisation, or an appam appreciation group. A harmless fringe activity. Here is some of the poster.


This is where I lived last year. Tarkan smiled creepily down us, and Herb and I had interesting discussions about his appearance. He has always been a source of much entertainment in one way or the other. Once when delirious with fever, and sick from the antibiotics I thought I saw his eyes move. He has not accompanied me to my new room. When I fall ill I do not want to feel like I am being stalked in my own chamber.

heath ledger

heath ledger is dead.
and i am feeling more sad about this than one normally would about someone that one doesn't know.

end of the year

It’s the end of the year (or so it was when written), and I’m trying to race but only crawling through Tom Jones while also writing this post, and knitting between chapters. Am surrounded by a mess of blankets, hot water bottle, pencils, pens, photocopies, laptop plus wires, balls of wool, books, clothes and a hula hoop. Similarly adorned are the other surfaces in the room which is driving me nuts but haven’t the energy to fix this. Can hear the music from two parties cutting into each other. From the back comes a rather drunkenly rendered version of We Will Rock You. To the right some guy is going on about Beautiful Girls. Ah- and now they’re all Staying Alive. Meanwhile the rockery ones have moved on to some sort of guitar noise thing, punctuated by shrieks.

Am returning to Tom Jones. If only this Fielding guy would stop digressing and get on with the tale. Two steps forward one step back. Thats how the book progresses. Like a snail on sleeping tablets- where did I get this phrase from? Eagleton I think. He’s full of animal imagery and is the only fun thing I’ve read in the last few days.
Coming soon- one post about Nepal