Long time the maxome foe he sought.

Pruneaux Tagine.
Unpronounceable French wine.
Bad English.
Good humor.

A good script is divided into several stages/parts.  And some opium snorting Brit-head has taken the time to name these stages/parts and their sub-variants. (The only thing worth sub categorizing is beer.  And bras.)
While I dozed through most of the lecture in film school, I distinctly remembered one stage that goes by the name of 'belly of the whale'. (For the over informed, here is a link to all that is useless:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monomyth.  Go have an epiphany.)

Belly of the Whale:
The belly of the whale represents the final separation from the hero's known world and self. By entering this stage, the person shows willingness to undergo a metamorphosis.

When Henry Hill starts hallucinating choppers over his morning sky. 

When Devdas starts hiccuping. 

When Beatrix learns the five point heart exploding technique.

When you read the first page of any Murakami novel.

These past few days, I've been banging on the walls of this oval, vacuous, unnecessarily annointed belly. I was plucked out of my lovingly watered and nurtured routine and dropped headfirst into a pool of pruneaux tagine, unpronounceable French wine, bad English and good humor.(Note: a good script is not afraid to jump linearity in order to explain vague references made earlier.  Said sleight of hand does not apply to a Leonard Cohen song.) 

Every organism in my beloved familiar pond has reproduced.  2 laptops, 2 cigarette brands, 2 cups, 4 french toasts, 6 cats (huh?) and 2 nokia cellphone chargers float undigested inside this belly.  

There is conversation yes. Lots of conversation.  As I fluctuate in and out of my self consumed songe éviellé, I acknowledge the presence of someone else who is also banging against the fleshy walls of this very irritated whale.  

We're both stuck.  

Waiting for oceanic gastric acids to slowly burn a hole through our classy parisian cheese and move it permanently.  But the key word that Sir Joseph Campbell added to his final stage of the hero's mono myth - 'the willingness' to undergo metamorphosis - has begun to test my patience.  However, when I'm curled in bed, waltzing between sleep and wakefulness, I smell cinnamon brewing with 2 kilograms of fresh lamb in the kitchen, and I'm torn between one more snooze and one peek from behind a white shoulder, I think: "What a wonderful thing to be stressed about."

Meanwhile, my sucrose intolerance is getting better.  

It has not choice.

Pruneaux tagine is sweet. 

Eh.

He took his vorpal sword in hand:

There has to be a purpose for Mediocrity.
The way ash in an ashtray, inspires. 
The way the chin exists. 
It's just there on the face. 
Why, no one knows. 
But it's there.

The frumious Bandersnatch!

After 2 minutes and 18 seconds in the song 'Broken' by Jack Johnson, comes an interlude that teasingly sounds like the track has ended. It picks up at 2:30. The visuals I saw with my eyes while that interlude streamed through my earphones, will now forever be it's shadow: the gridlocked muddy treads of truck tyres, big white logos with heavy drop-shadows on cracking cement walls saying 'vaishno dhaba', and an unclean car window through which I've seen all of this, which makes the attention to detail of said visuals highly suspect.

But that's awesome.

It takes one disruptive unrhyming couplet that's affirmation that you know what you're doing with your life.

It takes that unique transition into bridge to verse to refrain to chorus that can choke you, make you realise you're  on fire or doused.

It takes one chord change to remind you of who you are.

In that perfect moment of unison with music, every song ever written, is for you.

Pride in the name of love, makes me manic, energectic and eventually I cry at "...free at last, they took your life, but could not take your pride'.

Jolene, makes me angry.

Le Moulin, slows me down. I don't play it while folding clothes. 

Rue de Cascades, makes me want to 'dance like a dervish'.

Bounce, makes me genocidal.

Edge of desire, does nothing.

Dry the rain, keeps me humble.

T.N.T, makes me want to wash a dirty car, in public, in my unmentionables, in high speed.

Take five, reminds me of everytime I've employed gallows' humor and how it has saved the day.

Broken, makes me want to hit Delhi-Jaipur highway. It's flat and endless, with a mirage of a promise of taking you all the way to Mumbai if you drive for 2 days continuously.

No hero in her skies.
A pupil in denial.
And so it is.

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

In conversation with Vongole DeJaunje (pronounced de-haun-yeah); 82 year old self proclaimed masterchef, in his minimalist Japanese (prounounced Jap-un-ease) kitchen.  The tiles are ancient greek and the wallpaper classic striped Victorian with peeled scratch marks in some corners.  The latter, demystifies itself eventually.

"Chubby, wobbly broad.  A wink and dimple does not maketh the dish.  These brits need some slippering before they wake up with their breakfast tea and resolve to preheat the oven."

"But Von, Nigella sells like hot cakes.  Her books, her shows.  In fact she gives my business a run for its money."

"Tell 'em to stick to garnishing traffic signals with petunias."

"I quite fancy Londons streets.  Flowers in every corner. Delightful."

"There are rodents in every street corner as well! Tomorrow rodents will cook.  You'll fancy that?"

"I'm afraid Pixar holds the rights for that one Von."

"Huh?"

"You sure the onions aren't burnt?"

"It's called Saute-ing.  Don't you think Saute is a sexy word?"

"Stop reading my blog and flirting with me."

"Pass the cherry tomatoes please".  He seems displeased.

"So Chef," feigning interest , "when does the duck go in?"

"When its hard enough." Giggles to a wheeze. 

Several diaphragmic undulations and hairballs later.

"You alright Chef Von?"

"I'm ok.  You could use a dash of humor."

"I guess you're right.  Doked Schmuck about ready?"

"Smoked Duck."

"Potatoe Potaato."

"None in this one sweetums."

He does have his moments of genuis.  The next blog hopes to stumble upon it. Else he would've denied being in a serious relationship with A. Bourdain. 

Or would he, Allen? 

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

I pledge.

Never to let my work jargon become my play vocabulary.
Never to get swept off my feet by colors when seen under white light.
To start an online movement to ban the font Mistral.
To let go of old towels, chocolate wrappers and excuses.
To finish Wolf Hall.
To love him back.
Never to judge those in banking. Unless their favorite book is The Alchemist. It usually is.
To be patient with those who pronounce it 'maw-cha'.
To up my threshold for pain and lower it for pleasure.
To admit to the world I still like Notting Hill.
To start quoting the bible when cornered in an argument.
Never to overtake from the left.
To give Jacobean literature another shot at my shelf.
To restrict number of tattoos to three.
To make up my mind by september as to who I'd rather sleep with; Howard Roark or Bernard Micky Wrangle.
To avoid using superlatives unless extremely overwhelmed and/or cannot remember comparative degree for the same.
To type 'fuck' not 'f@#$'.
To unhope.

My favorite chicken piece and why.

How much weight loss is too much weight loss?
When your ring slides smoothly off your finger and plops into the comode.

When there is enough negative space in your reflection for a two line body copy. (font size 34)
When the new hole in the belt is a book's length away from the last one.
When you save 2 valuable seconds in the ladies because the zipper need not be pushed down.
When jealous girls stop saying 'lucky girl'.
When you can't find yourself in a picture.  There are three people in it.
When you avoid stepping out on a breezy day.

My favorite chicken piece is the cartilage. I wish for that semi soft bone to never end.

Sauté, is a sexy word.

Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

There once was a bloke named Spoke Bollinbrooke

He did so ceaselessly too.

On the burning deck,

Hung the noose and his neck

For some sins had since accrued.

Pope Grim the third read the charges

Till many a quill did bend

The hour was tainted,

The housewives had fainted,

No flowers to Porphyria would Robert send.

‘You have but one wish’, declared Grim

‘Before I have your neck.’

The courtroom choked

And thus spake Spoke:

‘There’s this girl I have to wreck.’

Mr. Bollinbrooke survived, and lives in the city of Olafsvik, Iceland with an overactive imagination and a Korean Jindo, who he has named ‘gravy’.   He has a progressively increasing fear of potted plants and nightmares include visions of growing on a tree, incorrectly using the word 'whom' in a sentence and/or being followed by an angry herd of unicorns.

 

And the mome raths outgrabe.

Are you always ahead of your time?
Will hitting the keys 'e' or 'd' on your keypad start a global nuclear war?
Are you presently continuous?
Or have you swallowed a giant slab of raw chicken.


What is 'MIX juice'...'UNMIX tracks'...'MIX tape'...Tony MIXwell?
I understand the earth's axis has jumped and the days are a second shorter, but it takes approx. .23 seconds to type 'MIXED' juice.  UNMIXED tracks.  MIXED tape. Tony Mixwell MIXED well last night.


People please.  Sense the tense.
Or are you bore of all that?

All mimsy were the borogoves

Nakabandi.
Miscalculated turning radius.
White reverse lights on for like a good 20 seconds.
But the jaat insisted on coming in my way.

Cut to: The right side of my car bumper. Gone.
His license plate. Unrecognizable.
My middle finger nail, withtout giving the finger.  Missing.
I wasted the choiciest of splenetives on an inebriated semi-evolved missing link.
That too with the voice-over effect.

Haryana, I love you.

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe

I was always back of the line for morning assembly.  I always skipped the heels section at bata.  If there was a chair, I sat down to speak.  Buying my first pair of boots was cathartic; I didn't just evade frostbite and a very necessary pedicure appointment, I was reborn after over two decades of evading two inches. 
But the men stay short. 
And not just of expectations.

Sir Paul David Hewson: Josephine, beware of small men with big ideas.
Tall Girl: Mea culpa.

I love century gothic.  It's crisp.  Self aware.  And usually unavailable.  Like right now.
For my first words on this page, I am left at the mercy of verdana.  Wit is not it's aquaintance.  Neither is the sweet turn of phrase it's kin.  It's just a font! A series of dots and dashes ingloriously masquerading as MY 200 words per minute.  (Yes I type that fast).

Screw it. Thanks for the confetti n all.  Now let's write.