MY BIG MOUTH

So, everyday, you’re alternating between euphoria and dejection and everything in between, all the while filling in the seconds you can’t seem to evade. That’s what it comes down to. Living, obviously, is a largely self-indulgent exercise, and very, very protracted.

It is black and white everywhere you look. There’s only room for the essentials; the intricate detail is out of focus. Pardon me, but black and white looks good on modern aesthetics; I’ll have some of that seriously absconding color, thankyouverymuch.

Then there’s the irony. Permanence is terrifying, transience altogether depressing. I’m hassled by the fleeting nature of everything and who knows, even if there may be no point ultimately, I’m preoccupied with finding meaning and value in the things I do.

I find that I’m living largely in my head, waking up to a life juggling the things I live for - that which give me happiness as well the things that I strive my darnedest to subdue. I find that the moment I might get comfortable with something, it is rudely taken away from me. Then again, I find that it is exceedingly easy to get lodged in a rut I have no desire of being in. 

There is a tremendous, reassuring tendency among iconoclasts, one that only serves to delineate their empowerment: the pull toward escape, the allure of change, the veritable need to get out of life - and stay out - at least, long enough till you’re ready to snap back.

And you’ll often need to take that other road, simply to become occupied elsewhere for a moment. Simply to preserve an essence of interest. Whenever, however you can, sifting along in the dearth of opportunities.

Which is why, when Ingrid casually asked me to go to Germany with her, I found myself - after a brief moment, blinking in hesitation and wondering if she was simply yanking my chain, and upon realizing that she was dead serious - go “Yes!”

We were making coffee at the office pantry, me lamenting the confused state of my existence in comparison to hers, what with her perfect July vacation and all, when she stopped me in my tracks.

I was aghast - there is a possibility that I mumbled that yes out of nothing more than a strange curiosity to experience what it would feel like, having made a decision to, you know, pop over to quaint ol’ Europe. I had that long-due vacation to do sometime, but I could always change my mind, right. Right? I mean, Europe? … Right.

Fleetingness notwithstanding, permanence lies in the grasp of a moment. A split second decision makes for the best fucking adrenaline rush; it will give you a moment of complete control. Don’t be gratifyingly dismissive to the impulsive, excitable girl. This is my high. In the blurred, fast moving reel that forms my memories, these are the moments that are fixed firmly on the film.

No minds were changed, the logistics were worked, and the visa acquired. Looks like I’m going to spend a little over three weeks in Europe this July.

Looks like I’ve just taken the turn down the other road.

Right… well. Popcorn, anyone?

bApHoMEt (pardon the derisive tone, darling; I do appreciate your role in slapping my blog awake from the reins of a creatively jaded and experientially diluted writer), I was bemused to know, was interested in getting me to

reach out for the book nearest to me,

open it to page 123,

skip the first five sentences,

and feature the subsequent three.

Doing thus, I have, from Milan Kundera’s first novel, The Joke:

“I should like to see Vlasta,” I say suddenly.

“You will see her.”

“Where is she?”

Not the most evocative or profound of passages to have come from Kundera. Leaves you hanging, though. Go figure. ::shrugs::

I wouldn’t like to perpetuate the inanity that tags seemingly represent (except that there’s much to be had from “digital traces,” as The Pink Imp gave me to believe) but for this sang-froid, stoner aspect in my head that’s all “Would you PLEASE, for once, for love of pete, lose the crazy uptight bitch persona and just do the damn thing!”

Then again, it’s easy to kill this right here because all the bloggers who I’d ordinarily tag seem to be taken already, leaving me feeling fairly relieved and smug.

Those who care for digital traces, however, are certainly encouraged to consider themselves tagged.

Kisses, y’all.

The compelling thing about art—or making anything, I suppose—is the moment when the vaporous, insubstantial idea becomes a solid there, a substance in the world of substances. Circe, Nimbue, Artemis, Athena, all the sorceresses: they must have known the feeling as they transformed mere men into fabulous creatures, stole the secrets of the magicians, disposed armies: ah, look, there it is, a new thing. Call it a swine, a war, a laurel tree. Call it art. The magic I can make is small magic now, deferred magic. Every day I work, but nothing ever materializes.

(From Audrey Niffenegger’s The Time Traveler’s Wife)

A few updates in light of the recent gym-related and overall bad behavior of this blogger.

Readers might be aware that Charl has previously allowed her body to fall into ruin for about a decade before jumping to the realization that while mild curves are flattering, she would do well with some stamina and less flab. Despite this, it seems as though she—for all her good sense—obviously rates her body and its capacities far higher than that of a seasoned athlete or a room-full of seasoned athletes. She has reportedly strained the ligament in her left knee, barely 6 weeks into gymming. This is the result of pushing herself far too much, doing 20-min stretches of sprints on the treadmill, which she claims to be a fan of, occasionally on a small vertical incline.

She is now reduced to a knee support-wearing schmuck during workouts and has been asked to refrain from running for three to six months. While relieved that the ugly brace remains hidden under her sweats, she tells everyone who’ll listen that she’s peeved about her injury, flatters herself by fearing that she may be not able to run for life, and grumbles about how they dared take away her favorite thing ever from her, that is to say, running. She doesn’t do well to convince anyone.

In related news, a trip to the nutritionist’s this morning revealed that—impossible as it may seem—Charl has put on a kilogram of weight: 0.5 kg of fat mass and 0.5 kg of muscle mass. Oddly, the fat mass accumulation has been put down to the irregular, 6-hour lags between meals, since the body apparently enters starvation, and thus fat retention, mode 3 hours or so after a meal. It may seem weird, to say in the least, that she has been asked to reduce fat mass by eating frequently every 3 hours and increasing her protein intake.

In contrast to the BMI report, Charl looks like she has lost weight in terms of inches and the onset of toning is also apparent; she is told that she looks svelte and petite, and by implication, hot, by at least two people a day, and feels it, too—she no longer has to struggle and contort her lower half while pulling on a pair of jeans, and her t-shirts are a little less than snug.

Given the contradictory developments, she is unsure of whether she should be ecstatic or disappointed. True to her penchant for trivializing things and undermining their true worth when she is unable to articulate them to a t, she has decide to go with “being all meh about it.”

That’s all for today. Keep watching this slot for the latest news and updates.

She scans the periphery from her perch under the marquee. There is a crowd of people. A hazy impression of movement. Of movement, or so they believe. She knew better.

In the background, there was music playing, interspersed by the occasional blare of motors. Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme.

In the background, the words were strewn about carelessly. A kudo here, a jibe there. They formed sentences for the sake a period at the end. Brutal, but functional. The words boasted a certain appeal; the sentences were merely incidental.

A life defined, limited by words.

She thumbs through the earmarked pages of a book. Faust. She is a series of quickly changing responsibilities, a picture of contemplation, an appearance of experience-laden skepticism. She is self-aware.

She is an island.

He sits alone, a few tables away. There was a certain air about him, a presence reminiscent of heroes. His eyes betray an alertness, an intelligence; his glance, a certain languid confidence.

In the mutual act of spectating, of discerning, their eyes meet. And the moment is ablaze with intensity.

Taking a final drag, he brushes the stubborn specks of ash off of his suit.

She sees him walk away, even as she watches him approach. She feels a surge, even as she knows the end. It would not be the first time.

He walks up to her, holds out a hand. “Hello.” She offers a charming smile.

The promise of a new beginning. The sealing of an end. It was not the first time.

Hi there, blog. Yeah, still alive; sorry to disappoint.

Just been sitting around, you know. Doing the things I do everyday. Films and music, and the general unfolding of the story of my life through films and music. Lusting after whathisface. Putting on muscle mass, although, wait, that’s a new one. Typing out a dozen mails in  endeavors of correspondence that will probably go nowhere. And feeling ambitious and hopelessly encumbered, at the same time. Losing my sense of time, way too often. Head rush and startling epiphanies. Sheer bitching stupidity.  Self-loathing as well as unrepentant selfishness. And weird as hell oh and, a shoddy bunch of frayed nerves.

Also, burning with goosepimples—a tad sheepishly—in the afterglow of the wit and genius that is Oscar Wilde.

Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else’s opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation.

Weeks of sitting around wondering at your inexplicable mood and it all comes down to this, only someone else wrote it. The irony.

I’m no nihilist, but sometimes a line that will come right at you, hit you squarely in chest? That’s all it takes to be disenchanted with existence, consciousness, with everything.

Last time I had a moment like this, it was because of Billie Joe Armstrong’s vocals: “She/she’s figured out/All her doubts were someone else’s point of view.” Back then I was either brimming with idealism and hope characteristic of a deluded college student or not fully conscious of the meaning. Or simply resigned to it. Now I’m more ambitious. Now I’m experiencing some sort of feeble anguish at my horribly average positioning in a stupid pyramid of human creativity and intelligence, and worse, at discovering my dwindling individuality. You and me, we’re a certain kind of cool, yeah, but we’re all turning out the same.

Then there’s the thought, that festering half-bakedness that totally kills the purpose of all this whining: We just don’t know any better, right?

Is this a hormone-induced flood of muddled thinking? Is it simply a true epiphany? It this sincerity or am I too fickle for the love of pete?

Today, I’ll wallow completely in my acrimonious filth. Tomorrow, a little less; I might be amply distracted by some other piteous care. Or, equally likely, not at all; I might be shamefaced about publishing this, kicking myself for not having left it unpublished like the three other posts before this. Hell, what are the chances, but I might spend a rare moment marvelling at the awesomeness that is me.

And I’ll sit myself down, raise a brow, and wonder what this was all about.

This is what happens when you’re alternating between being restless and blue on an intellectually vacant Saturday.

Goodbye, boring black. Enter subtle red highlights. Look at them, prettily deflecting in the light!

And then as if that isn’t enough, aside from lunch and coffee at two separate places with two different friends, I drop into an electronics store. I mean, what would I be doing in an electronics store, if I wasn’t say shopping for a wedding gift. Or buying a laptop. Which unfortunately, I can’t do often. No I’m not a cool gadget freak, sorry. I was there because I remembered I really needed that 4GB flash drive just so I can, you know, do my bit to further the menace that is piracy.

Cheapskate that I am, I snubbed the flash drive I wanted cause I knew it was available for 150 bucks cheaper someplace else. Crazy impulsive freak that I am, I ended up getting a demo of a set spiral curling tongs (so we went from poker straight hair to slightly comical pigtail-like spirals on just half my head) AND buying the thing. In addition to a blow dryer. :-/

How NEEDY can one get?

 New year’s resolution? I never usually make any, incorrigible brute as I am. No actually, despite the regular insecurities, I’m floating in a bubble up in the sky, having ever so slight delusions about being the epitome of absolute perfection. However, this year, I’ve pragmatically decided that it’s not very becoming anymore to have that inch (or three) of lard around my middle, incredibly attractive and appealing as it certainly is… Hence, this year, it is to be resolved to be having—at all costs even if it means ignoring free Chinese food and brownies—a washboard for a tummy. There, that’s said. Now let’s do.

That’s was me, circa extremeearly January. 

Look’s like the first year I ever make resolutions, I take them darn seriously. Either I love a challenge or I’m godawesomely principled. Actually I’d bet on both. (We’re really loving the self today. Yeah, fuck you, hormones.)

I’d put on a little, a little Satyajit, weight last year during my harrowing bout of lymphatic tuberculosis. Oh don’t ask. Someday I’ll tell you about about the sonography (if you’d never had to take off your bra for a medical exam before, this could be, well, weird) and countless other tests, including the unanesthetized biopsy I had to undergo twice—twice, for the love of pete—from an extremely painful-to-the-point-of-mindfuck lump a little below my left armpit just so they could tell me that I didn’t have a tumor in my left breast but only some caseous necrotic tissue (does swooping movement of joy) in a fucking lymph node. For the ensuing 8 months, I had to take a whole bunch pills, two of which were some steriod things that basically made me, not exactly fat…chubby, if you will. Seriously, people were coming over to tell me they couldn’t see my flattering cheekbones anymore.

Post medication and recovery, I shed all the weight I’d put on, but it was also time to achieve that toned body I’d always wanted. 

So Tuesday was my first day at the gym. And, what do you know, my trainer happens to be the most gorgeous man in the room, perhaps also within a 5-mile radius. Did someone say tired cliché? Yeah, whatever, go sulk in your corner. Cause I happen to be the one who gets to accidentally brush against, so far, his chest and be all elated about it in the most juvenile sense.

Anyhoo. Two days down the line and there’s a couple of general observations I’ve made. Not quite observations, but more like ”come to terms with” things. The gym (or “gyms,” rather?) is brimming with vain people obssessed with great bodies and who are competitive and compulsively checking everyone else out, either in the flirtatious way or the irritating “oooh look, fatty, I’m skinnier than you” way. Oh, and I’m not sure if this is a common gym thing, but in the spa area, I’m also coming to terms with the lack of knob on the nearly see-through glass doors of the marble bathrooms. I guess that’s the whole point of the “nearly see-through.” There’s no way anyone could accidentally walk in on someone taking a shower or some steam. Plus it’s not like it’s a unisex spa, so reason to panic, really?

Those who enjoy Crabby Charl, I hate to disappoint, but I’m sort of happy today, these days. This is not the post where I crib about having to wake up to make it to the gym by 7 am, sore muscles, knees that give way, my (hopefully unfounded) fears about tripping over my own feet on the cardio machines or being deemed too unfit for gymming (it’s been 14 years since I did something a tad memorable on the track team at school, and last year, all it took was a 30 minute make-out session for me realize I was thoroughly devoid of stamina, and I’m not quite sure why the hell am I putting this out here.) or the general trepidation about whether I might soon become demotivated to continue, like countless other spineless souls. We’ll do a historical a little later. Keep watching this space.

For now, here’s to testing my resolve and, also, to a fabulous-er ass.

Do haul your filthy fetishistic minds out of the sewage. I merely refer to the perfect term to describe women salivating breathlessly over pictures of gorgeous shoes. That’s what I’m into these days, people. Shoe porn. Hard core, if you please.

Yeah, judge me, go right ahead. I’m shallow, I’m a ninny. Say whatever you want, but don’t ever get between a girl and good shoes. You have been warned.

All my life I’ve admired shoes, intensely desired good designer footwear, dreamt of owning thousands and thousands of sexy pairs, and done exactly nothing about it. Which is okay I guess, seeing as I’ve been on this earth for roughly 23 years of which I’ve been able to live the consumerist in me only since 2005 when I became financially independent, and all that. Then it struck me that if I was simply serious about diversifying the fun things I do in my free time, my crazy shoe fantasy is actually quite attainable. Even if it’s just about collecting.

Don’t get me wrong. I would wear all the heels I bought, just not often. The thing is, that there’s barely any opportunity in a day in my life. Seeing as we can dress casually at work (uh-uh, the workplace? think heaven and you’ll be in the vicinity), there’s really no point in making an effort, or people might stare and you’ll be kicking yourself about the classy skirt and eyeshadow. So on a typical day, it’s mainly, yeah okay, Levis on, now bring out the flats.

Like I was saying, aside from very loud and pleasurable sighing over at Jimmy Choo and Christian Louboutin’s websites,  I’ve lately begun prowling around at www.endless.com every precious minute I get and each of those minutes has been thrilling. There’s so much in there that I’m shamelessly coveting. Grrr.

They don’t deliver outside the US, but it’s a minor thing and very fixable, thank the lord. I won’t go into the details, but let’s just say this brain drain thing? Totally heaven sent because I now have plenty of friends there who can ferry around hot footwear for me (if you’re reading this, I heart you, CF).

I’m starting with this exquisite pair from Kenneth Cole’s Reaction line—utterly and totally delectable, in black satin and a comfy almost 3-inch heel, with the bow lending an extra touch of vintage. It’s pure seduction and class and perfection, and hold on a sec while I wipe off the drool.

I have concerns about size, but I’ve compared my EU size from the sizing chart and purchased accordingly. How in hell do I know my EU size while sitting around India? Well, I’ve, uh, been lurking at Charles & Keith a lot. I go there hoping to find pretty shoes, duh. Not finding anything close to pretty in my size, and returning a few days later and so the circle continues. Does this also explain why I’m doing the online thing? I swear, over here, they only make ugly, blingy pumps for movie stars and flashy socialites and, like, hookers.

While I’m still having nightmares about size, I keep reminding myself that they’re available for dirt cheap. It’s worth a shot, even if I may have to stuff toilet paper at the back.

There’s a long way to go before I would need to dedicate an entire cupboard to shoes, al á Molly. And this is very like another phase, remember origami and all? But what the hell, I’ve kickstarted this (cf. point 7 of the long due things). I’m optimistic.

Holy crap I completed a year as a blogger; my big mouth’s been a year old for some 11 days without even realising it!

Wow. Just when I thought I didn’t have to deal with the idea of a birthday for another year. Time is a weird thing. So quick, so inconspicuous. Fat little nuisance of a thing.

To think that just one year ago, my boys Ergo and Avadhut got down to business, creating this weblog for me—I was obviously procrastinating—even picking the url. I mean, wtf is frayednerveendings anyway. Doesn’t tell you much, except that the author is possibly a some kind of junkie. Which I’m not, by the way. Although that was also Ergo’s first impression of me.

If anyone cares to know, the name was Avadhut’s idea. It so happens that I am a tad, uh,  a bit of an enthusiatic mouse clicker. I once accidentally hit “print” while having a catty online conversation about “someone,” and since you are familiar with how the universe is totally crazy about me, “someone” happened to be at the printer that very moment, shows up and hands me the printout a minute later with a badly disguised expression of pain on it’s face. It was a “yow” moment, to put it mildly. Okay, did I say “once”? Well, there were other incidents when either a friend found the printout or it was me racing frantically to the printers everytime I thought I hit print.

Hence frayednerveendings. I remember protesting, but one of the boys practically pinned my poor ineffectual wrists down while the other typed and saved the url. They only let me go with “My big mouth”—a tribute to my all-time favorite band, Oasis. Stupid name, too, yeah, but they couldn’t come up with anything that would make me look worse.

And now it’s been a year…of crazy spewing. This blog has been a crutch; it’s a place for ranting and silly stuff, a place where I can say any freaking thing I want (thank the lord for password protection!) and the consequences matter the least, where I smear the joy and the pain, a place I’m free to come back to when my head is on the brink of exploding. Also, to finally have something that won’t bear a grudge about my long disappearances; affiliations can otherwise be so goddamn  nauseating and claustrophobic.

When I started out, I imagined my blog would be a place where I showcased my interests. Music, art, movies, perhaps interspersed with personal stuff. But it never quite went that way. From the very beginning, it was a bona fide personal blog. It would be a reflection of myself and my life. Subject to change, very flexible.

I remember having concerns about my audience, fears about who is out there reading my private thoughts, and having to face the dilemma about what to put out here and what not to. But lately I’ve been finding a balance and basically? Beginning to not give a rat’s ass. A happy development for any blogger, I’d say. My blog is mine entirely. It’s for me; it serves my purposes…as a tool for cathartis, creativity, journal-keeping, whatever. It doesn’t matter who judges and how. If anyone thinks it sucks, ctrl W is the way to bugger off. Blog stats were interesting for a while, and then I stopped checking or caring.

This blog… is flawed; not very popular; doesn’t boast great writing; not in the least a place for intellectual or abstruse dialogue, save for the few  times I get all avante garde; it’s all me! me! me! to the point of boring the pants off anyone and understandably so; perhaps also ugly—hideous camo colors, after all, but I like the floral spray at the top, so say what you want. None of this matters at the end of the day. I’m not overwhelmingly crazy about it; it’s not as great as I’d like it to be and I’ve seen some pretty awesome blogs out there, but it’s mine and I’m proud of it in a grudging, critical, yet nurturing way. At the end of of the day, it’s all me and that’s pretty much all I’ve got. 

It’s been a good year at the blogosphere. My little damaged wrists will never be the same again, but I’m grateful to Ergo and Avadhut for starting the goddamn blog ultimately. I needed this thing.

Well, that’s done. Okay now, I have a long day at work, so excuse me while I go torment myself about something or the other.