Archive | November, 2008

To the Person…

15 Nov

…who got here by searching “wisdom wears pyjamas”:

You bet it does.

In all its naked glory, it’d be too hot to handle.

(Ooh, my wisecracks kill me.) :mrgreen:

When in Geeksville

13 Nov

You see, affection is like those blinking computer thingies on the screen. Unless you receive packets, the lights just don’t twinkle.

~Me to the Boy, attempting geekspeak


12 Nov

To all those kind enough to vote for my flash fiction entry here, thank you. (Doesn’t ring a bell? Refer to this post.) I was leading the poll until a while ago but now thanks to some lazy bums out there WHO CAN STILL GET OFF THEIR REAR ENDS AND VOTE and substantial help from trolls out to pull the average down, my story is trailing behind. But, because I’m a kindly soul, (and also because no one else will read it) here’s another tall tale, again, under 500 words. Enjoy.


It wasn’t me. I did nothing. Didn’t invite them, didn’t ask them to stay. They sought me out, beseechingly, with open arms and pleading pitches, hear us, tell us, unravel our souls. At first, I ignored them. Maybe if I looked busy enough, they’d go away. So I’d turn my back to them, knitting in hand, and click the needles loudly, so they’d be forced to withdraw. Don’t harangue me, I’d say firmly, looking them in the eye when they tried to crawl back. Go find another home, one that wants you.

It worked for a while. I believed it was over. Life lulled me back into its everyday rhythms and I watched the leaves change color and the flowers wilt. But one day, they came for me. Thick and fast, flying at me in droves, the Stories clung to my legs like many-syllabled leeches, sucking the words out of me and making them their own. They clutched my tongue and tugged at my fingers and sapped my brain to within an inch of its life, wailing, clamoring, begging to be told. They lodged themselves in my house, my room, my closets, my typewriter, smirking from behind the ribbon, calling out from under the staircase, leaping onto my unsuspecting shoulders, clawing my neck until I acquiesced.

I wrote. I had to. They wouldn’t go away, I couldn’t make them. So we stayed up nights and had pre-dawn parties, where they’d form a ring and dance around my ankles, and I, who had begun to enjoy the attention, was bright and alert and oh-so-productive, and then of course, there were drinks to help. They stood on the rim of the tub and watched me bathe. They scattered my hair with a flick of their commas and dotted my eyes with colons. They stacked my sheets and tied them with ribbons, arguing over the color and whether we needed a bow. They said they loved me anyway and that they didn’t care I was about to win a prize. I loved them too, my angelic creatures, my babies, my Stories, beings of my being. They were right when they said the men would take me away and for a while, all was white and quiet and their voices receded as I lay in a big van, sibilant whispers tapping my eyes, sliding under my skin, making me fall, fall, fall……..

When I awoke, they were gone. A lone nurse smiled tightly before feeding me soup. The corridors were empty. The room was empty. My head was empty. Only the soup bowl was full. Nurse made me rest. A quick prick of something green and I was drifting away. The clock struck three and I turned to take a look. As my eyelids drew closer, I noticed the spread of a delighted smile rocking behind the pendulum and knew all was well with my world again.

~The last entry from the personal journal of Emma McCormick, Nobel Laureate for Literature, 1964.

About the Black Man in the White House

9 Nov

Thank you for those warm wishes.  I can see you with all smiles, laughter and with displays of admiration.  We are so happy here at this historical time.  The election of the first ‘African-American/ visually multiply ethnic’ President is more than a breath of fresh air for many.  This is true especially for those who fought against ferocious dogs and water hoses and police brutality in order to get the American vote.  The suppressed breath for real citizenship has been exhaled.

~Email from a dear friend, a southern, African-American lady, who had to flee her state after marrying a white man in the ‘70s. She is now blind, but has the clearest insight of any person I know.

Also, jerk those tear glands here.

All In A Day’s Work

7 Nov

The sun came in and swabbed the floor

Kashmiri chillies kissed a wall

Parrots seeped into the rocker

And teakwood spun a yarn so tall.

A squashed bug bemoaned Neruda

Face creams swirled in jars

Milk shimmied around on skateboards

And printers whirred on Mars.

Singers snored for inspiration

Peaches whipped batter with their toes

Photographs changed their colors on whim

And verse cackled at prose.

Now if you’re done fulfilling

This flippant Friday quirk

Perhaps you’d consider, Miz OJ,

Getting back to work.


6 Nov

Us bloggers, we’re the online counterparts of university block-mates: up way past midnight, typing furiously, in and out of each others’ rooms, slamming doors, hooting at wisecracks and coming alive at the Cinderella hour, as if the magic of the moment will bind us in a sorority bracelet and the globe will light up in shimmering blips as we warm the continents with our hit counters. Either that or we’re just a bunch of over(net)worked, over-stimulated insomniacs.


Blogging is therefore to writing what extreme sports are to athletics: more free-form, more accident-prone, less formal, more alive. It is, in many ways, writing out loud.

~ Andrew Sullivan, in Why I Blog

Somebody Up There Finally Listened

5 Nov


(Photo credit: Callie Shell for Time, via Indiequill).


CNN on the historic win.

Details at the BBC.

Thank yous on Obama’s blog.

Result reactions in pictures.

Welcome, # 44, it’s about time.

Could This Election End Already??

4 Nov

You’re my Obama. You’ve come to mean so much in so short a time.

~The Boy to me, obviously OD’d on the Presidential race.

On All Souls’ Day

3 Nov

It’s interesting, how we patronizingly pray for our dead, when it is they who could do us a favor by praying for those of us left behind in this mess.

History is a Halloween Party

2 Nov

a.k.a. The One in Which the Ghost is Toast

History was her favorite subject at school. The one that bumped up her social sciences average and had Mrs. Shah chastise her for asking too many uncomfortable questions.The one that had fiercely anal retentive Prof. Naqvi pardon her absence from his special brand of exam torture. The one that earned her the title ‘H-bomb Queen’. The one for which she risked being called a nerd. The one she collected extra credits for, while others collected lovers.

So when her own turned ghoulish, and swooped through cobwebbed corridors, moaning her name and breathing moldy angst on her nape, she stumbled through silent alleys on her disjointed knee, mentally zipping up that chapter, sealing the plastic with duct tape, and tossed the file backwards at him, never again glancing at his grey, disfigured face.

Or so she thought.

(…to be continued….sometime, someplace)