In class, accounting of all things and I am getting nearer and nearer to the due date so I figure when the term ends will face the devastating truth. I can’t think crap about bugger all. I read those eloquent posts on this person and that, his or her style, integrated with nuanced meaning, slightly obscured, cryptic just to add the spice of intrigue. Heaven knows if you can’t understand me you might not be as smart as you think, they said.
I figure it is like being whipped with a cat o nine tails.
Poor poor Radha dropped the ten ton 19 inch ego trip that was my husbands lap top. Who needs cars with machines like those? And it was a treasured masterpiece, a mac, tha mac the mac.. It had to happen sooner or later and it is later after all. What fool buys such a bloody big contraption? As soon I laid eyes on it I knew it was destined for an ugly demise. But in the hands of poor Radha who now risks staying home from pilgrimage to satisfy malice felt by daddy regarding the treasured but broken item.
Who studies accounting? Laxmi’s physique or maybe her brief case or is it hand bag. Panty closet? Who knows but in the end accounting takes you to the very ugly places of life, hey maybe they aren’t too ugly but maybe I am too generous.
The Christians got to me and sacrifice seems the order of the day. What if I were a committed hedonist? Actually I think that is half the problem; the conflict of who I am and who I want to be.
Had some pretty weird dreams last night. Moved on but in moving on I had to move back and complete something. Is that how things go?
Nandunandana wanted to be good today. He is finally wanting to integrate into the class on our terms. He only needs to be left in the cold again for it to be in ruin again.
Think I might actually read what I aught to so as to invent what I should for those who could but needn’t.
I am not obsessed with death, just hard up for inspiration in life regarding life. It seems all to point to death. It does not reflect on me but the way that lies ahead.
And I thought I wasn’t an evangelist. I was a bloody Mormon as a kid but I had a slightly rebellious and disgruntled Mormon parent so she gave the spice that offered an alternative perspective to complete surrender. At the time I was grumpy with her for not being like every one else. She is so difficult that she ponders her navel with 2 dogs for company while trying to reinvent her reality so as to swallow it hard instead of constantly puking undigested truths. Shit I am a bitch but I like the definitions it gives. Too soft and blurry and you only get innuendo.
The man must let go in incremental measures. First stop, the over priced silver mac. Second step your temper at it’s loss. Third step any hope of ever owning one of those again because you now earn nothing but a gesture to ensure you can sleep at night.
I know it isn’t the essence but then who can gurantee the directions that sacrifice offers.
It’s a waiting game so I come back to death again but that is because life keeps falling through the gutter grill. If it doesn’t for you then tell me the secret. Yeah yeah it is pretty enough but if you peek a little closer you can see the ants carrying the dead back to their lair and some of those dead are other little ants. We feed of our own dead. Jesus if that is not close then what is. So in comes the metaphor and which says or indicates we are all very very close to each other. Is that supposed to be a consolation. Depending on the hormones I expect.
Back upstairs out of the soothing reach of air con. The class has gone feral under the care of the math teacher and now the poor Bengali teacher struggles with these little westernised beasties. No fear struck into these hearts as the cane is not an option; pathetic little zeros next to names but surprisingly enugh they seem to care about that even if it isn’t enough to civilise them entirely. The big kids down stairs were such a relief compared to these munchkins that are toying so much with their identities and mine.
I have to struggle for ways to feel safe. Why is that? Is it because my childhood was filled with moments of terror. The gun pointed at my mother and I with his little one there somewhere. He only got 3 months for that and she blamed me, all of 7 years old for not being clear in court. Not smart enough for a lawyer at 7 , dear me what a failure. Her consoling words to me 3 months later were , be careful Michael gets out of Jail today. Thanks mum , and a good day to you too. You wonder why I have a sick edge. I know I chose it.
Want to hear another anecdote, lets see. Some are too sad and horrible to tell for fear you might hear them in the between the crack s of the words. According to all I deserved it anyway so how to reveal my just deserts with out revealing my true status in the world.
Practice and cull. Beloved was able to reveal horror without represnting the characters as being defined by it. Sounds trite but it is a feat to represent abuse and the abused while still giving the dignity of freedom to the abused and even a little to the abuser.
That’s the essay.
What am I to say about colonialism. In my voice. Allegory
My thumbs are seizing up and I think it is the computer combined with age and arthritis. I am not going to like disability one bit. Ganga Ganag but then what was all this for if it is all so bloody hard all the time. How am I redeemed by difficulty. Couldn’t you be gentler? I shouldn’t complain too much. It has been relatively easy compared to that lost and lonely childhood. The gift I received to ensure a responsible adult life or at least a knackered one, in the true sense of the word. No stepping out of the boundaries for me. I have seen where those roads lead and it aint for the faint hearted.
And the ghost. I had one too. A really good live one, full colour clear as day but only once.
I was helping her children play with the piano. Feeling sorry for them. Mother was unable to embrace them as fully as her own. All of 2 and 4 years old.
The house was the place she was struck down. Epilepsy was the reason he said but the family doctor knew otherwise. He was lucky then as mats didn’t dibber dob.
For the sake of respectability. Hey white men have no shame and therefore no blame. We be clean men, good men, Christian men. Union men. His father was a wharfy, maybe that was why.
The house was filled with her belongings. Electric curlers, Kenwood blender. Bed. Blankets. Children. Her youth still lay in the foundations of the house built for her lifes dreams. I don’t even know her name. Her daughter was named Yvette. She must have been a little different for such a lovely name to come to mind.
A small mirrored reflection of her former self trapped in the lounge watching her children receive a little kindness from a kid that knew the sins of the malice ridden heart of the newly implanted matriarch. She wrote of the sins of the father. Well she shore did ensure I would be free of one but she neglected to invest any consideration of the sins of the mother. I don’t blame just prattling an observation. That was her thing, her mother died when she was 8 years old. Still treasured until her mood suited otherwise later on. At least she was pretty more or less. My son is worried I will be ugly in old age so it seems that it matters.
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