yesterday duddles handed over the april issue of jetwings... with my article in it! yay! it's looking quite good actually, esp with vikrant's pics so anyone flying jet airways in the next month pick it up and check it out. the mag's theme is colours of india and i chose grey - the colour of the mountains, the monsoon, the sea off bombay's coast, the manic construction in all the cities - a canvas that no one notices, but one that lets all the other colours stand out. next month: food trails of india. any suggestions? i've got a couple of thoughts - how about pickle? like a trail of typical pickle-makers across bombay? starting, i think, with the old gujju lady who makes my mom's stuff. also, it would be nice to take a look at marwari pickle-making with deepti's grandmum. and maybe prawn pickle east indian-style. woohoo.
what a nice, cloudy day. and there's no work, because the electricity's out at office. so. pleasantly cloudy day, no work, no office, and here i am in front of the computer. it must mean something. that i don't have much of a life, i expect. and on top of everything else, i've got a slightly guilty feeling. i should be doing something, dammit. not sitting around farting on blogspot. well i suppose it's either that or sit around fiddling with my dangly bits. which i intend on doing of course, but it's always better when there's a feeling of accomplishment. so, this blog. laa lala laa... ok, i can't hit enter after every few syllables, that's cheating. i wonder why there's so much of a hoo haa about giving yourself what is in essence, a therapeutic massage. admittedly, it's a very focused one, but in the end, you're just doing what you're programmed to do. i mean, i do it inside my head often enough. everybody does. and certainly a ...
as the layered bite of stone's guitar crunches down and eddie makes words catalyze passion I relive the fractured innocence of a decadent decade. a generation's hopes couched in anger and disbelief ephemeral geniuses cut short by blade of unsought fame we had a voice that spoke to the world with words of our own unrestrained and undefined by the boundaries of commercial creation a sound unsullied by that so-perfect production raw emotion unhindered by your fucking expectations.
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