The Grammar of Lassitude

This past week has been so difficult to parse, and not just for me: the usually immaculate Charles Ryder suddenly finds himself sweating under his delightfully starched collar too. Why? Not my dirt to dish! What can I say? The state of things has been rather pluperfect...

I have always prided myself on knowing how to use the future perfect and the future perfect continuous tenses, but, God knows, I hate a tense that talks about the past in the future. It is nought but a tense of regrets! And that brings us to Punjaban and Neo's tepid (for lack of a better word) 'romance'. Oh even Donna Reed and James Stewart had more fun with theirs, I don't even know to which era this THING belongs to. For the past few days, Punjaban and Neo have been doing a strange mating ritual over a pack of UNO cards and this game normally ends with an awkward hug or a shy kiss. It's quite stultifyingly future perfect: 'He will have kissed her before the clock strikes twelve and the game of UNO is over.' Sadly, I will have tired of this by the time I end this sentence. Don't get me wrong, Punjaban is a lovely girl, but does she really have to debase Hamlet and me before Neo? You're not into either of us and we certainly aren't into you. He gets it, woman! Some dignity would be much appreciated! Masakalli, Hamlet and I are all of the opinion that this romance needs to be speeded up and now! I will have punched a hole in a wall by the time Punjaban makes the millionth ponderance about how her cappuccino measures up to his steamer of a complexion. I really should stop, God knows, this act of 'My Fair Desi' always puts me in the imperative mood!

Recently, I had a crazy idea! It is an important adverb clause in time, really, since I am normally trapped in the ironically perfect present, sandwiched between the not-so-simple past and the 'hurtling-towards-me-in-all-its-simplicity' future. But here, I had a self-centred tense all to myself as I wondered about a certain beguiling biologist and the feelings she might have for me...
Oh it is but a crazy idea! Cunegonde is a thing of the past, ours was a fairly superficial attraction and the only genuine part of it was the rejection, but this! This comes with a modal verb of probability! Maybe I am being too hard on myself by saying that she 'might' have feelings for me, I feel the magical reverbrations of a 'may' in the surreptitious touches, the inflection in the voice when she speaks to/of me, the hugs...All of which tell me that she is in the indicative mood! Ah, but it is a crazy idea! Yet the moon seems to be hanging lower in the climes these days, or am I just making an intransitive fool of myself?

I really don't want to talk about the flood; God knows, everybody else is! It's so frustrating and it brings with it so many forbidden possibilities! Possibilities that steep me in guilt everytime I think on those lines. But then, as Hamlet said yesterday, "Why so subjunctive?"

Until the next time,
GossipGuy!

Deluge

These days, I sit at my window, Edith Wharton volume in hand and thoughts of doom in my head. Clearly, this city is a dumping ground for the elements. First, there was heavy rain and I was pleased. Spring showers have a magical quality about them, they tend to activate those thoughts of romance left dormant and, God, how I wish I could just lounge about and pine about romances waiting to happen, but sadly, some jarring news caused me to tumble out most unceremoniously from these imaginings: there is to be a flood. And at the rate things are progressing, it may as well be The Flood of Adam: The Sequel and this time, we aren't taking the rabbits!

The good people of this city (town) took it upon themselves to construct a dike made entirely of sandbags! How exquisite! Scoff, if you must, but all this is so new for me! Of course, the very thought of going outside in the pouring rain and hauling sand-bags seemed repugnant at first. Hamlet, who had just returned from a mini-break, was quickly reminded how vitriolic I could be as I said, "I am thinking of others, I'd love for them to sand-bag!" in response to one of his comments about looking to the greater good. How is it my fault really? I spent most of my youth suspended in a sort of 'Lost Generation' ennui in the most decadent of all cities... It turns out that people actually care about things like natural disasters! Hamlet, bless him, knows exactly what makes me tick so he promised me week-long bitching/moaning rights, a Gone With the Wind moment and just a truck-load of guilt.

The mis-en-scene suddenly involved a river swelling with the promise of disaster, an overcast sky, people passing sand-bags to one another with the automatic regularity of an assembly line. You know the astounding part of it all? I was a part of that chain. Hamlet, Me, his (and now mine) delightful friends S and J, full of wisecracks and good humour, passing sand-bag after sand-bag. No matter that I was dirty, no matter that tomorrow every bone in my body would sing the Habanera, I was just so happy! I mean there I was, all smeared in mud, trepidation on my face crying out, "As God is my witness, as God is my witness they're not going to lick me. I'm going to live through this and when it's all over, I'll never be hungry again. No, nor any of my folk. If I have to lie, steal, cheat or kill. As God is my witness, I'll never be hungry again!"
Few people got it, but those who did were rather appreciative! In fact, I am almost glad that I was filthy and wearing, to put it nicely, 'home clothes'...it enhanced the 'Gone With the Wind' effect! Oh and you know what is truly the most astounding part? I didn't use my bitching/moaning licence at all! I was helping out, and God knows, I have never done that before! I connected with S and J and I love them! But most importantly, and I am sure that even Hamlet doesn't realise this, the experience showed me that I am not quite as shallow as I give myself credit for being. Oh there is hope for me yet!

So here I am, sitting at my window, Wharton volume in hand as the ever so clever Santiago blasts Bob Dylan and 'New Orleans is Sinking'. I chortle but there I cannot supress that tinge of horror as the snow begins to fall...


Until the next time,
GossipGuy!

Signalling

There is something very disturbing about signals, non-signals and the interpretation of those...things.

Take Charles Ryder for example, a friend-ish recently gave him the 'come-on'? Or was it a 'come-on'? Clearly someone's lips nuzzling your neck is hardly difficult to interpret, but what if, the very next day, the Nuzzler pretends like it never happened? Ah my poor Mr. Ryder, being ridden every way but the one that's fun, here's to the lemon squares of perplexion...

Punjaban and Neo are still in Switzerland: the neutral land of chocolatey politeness, butterfly kisses and never-ending games of Tag (Heuer). So while 'The Chosen One' suns himself over spring break, Punjaban and I inhabit this veritable Spitsbergen: our dark hued jackets mirroring our very moods as we sip sticky lattes and examine and re-examine everything that happened in the past to the point where the lines between fantasy and reality, between the platonic, the Platonic and the planktonic begin to blur! We search for signals that Neo gave out, signals that Punjaban returned-were they received? Interpreted? How? Is cleavage a variable or a constant? It's like signal transduction! So Punjaban and I make corny biology jokes, sue us for being scientists! Sue us for caring, you inglorious bastards!

Signals, sadly, do not exist only between couples. Or at least between romantically linked ones. It is this other variety that has the potential of getting particularly nasty. The vibes between Dick Diver (who is more of a Virginia Woolf, now that I think with a coherent mind) and me are perfect examples. Throughout our sessions, I always catch myself wondering(!) down the following path, 'Does she like me?'---->'Oooh, she's trying to be politically correct!'---->'She despises me!'----> 'She likes me!' It doesn't take a genius to understand that these signals are accompanied with a lot of channel noise. Oh Dick Diver/Virginia Woolf, what do you really think of me? The fact that I like to think of myself as a Quentin Compson figure, does it not make you wonder if I have created a fetish out of snobbery? The fact that otherworldly things fashion me into a Richard II/Hamlet/Macbeth hybrid, what does that say about my state of mind? Give me a signal that can clear away the channel noise...

The nature of love, they say, is mutable. But that, I think, applies to the nature of human interaction as a whole. It's these crazy, crazy signals! Like those I receive from a certain academician to whom my heart I have lost. Signals that are inhibitory, at best. It is a doomed thing, is it not, to love an academician? And what love that too? A love so scarcely understood? A love based on this:
"You are forbidden to me and that is why I want you. Everyone fawns over me and my alleged precociousness but you read it as pretension. Did I mention how much that turns me on?"
Ah but if my prayers could such affection move...

Of course, I would be a bad friend if I didn't at least mention the Luna-Hamlet mess in this tangle of signals! It's like the myth of the Fisher King, really, with the ripe, fertile green Thanksgiving followed by a white, icy winter and no sign of a Grail Knight! Not that the spring is going to do us any good since all the Grail Knights are probably indulging in all that nastiness at Cancun.

Tut, I am upset now, I simply must do laundry and ponder about Negativity while snorting these lines of Sardonicism I have set forth...

Until the next time,
GossipGuy!

Blah

I pray that a week like this never comes upon me, or anyone. Despite the happy ending (which included a wide array of take-out, a test well-done and about 16 hours of sleep), I never, never, never want to suffer through another On-call Week (as I like to think of them). God, I must be aging! I used to be able to do this when I was 16...strange how 3 years can change one. But I digress...

There are things that make me happy:

-Santiago and Marcia: Whenever I see the two bantering and flirting, Sinatra's 'Things' automatically plays in my head! And I find myself revisiting the times I was in love and happy...'Things like a lover's vow/Things that we don't do now/You got me thinkin' 'bout the things we used to do...'

-Punjaban and Masakalli: Now Masakalli's significant other Orsino was in town recently. He's a cheshire cat, that one is! We were cruising down gray, snow-ridden American roads as he blasted infectious 'bhangra' beats in his car. As Punjaban surrendered herself to the vocal ministrations of a singer who claimed ever so earnestly that everytime she'd sway, the whole club would sway with her, I couldn't help but wonder about the place I was in...I, Tiresias, throbbing between two identities and, for once, it was good.
Punjaban and her Neo are just so smitten, one has to carry a certain amount of insulin if one wants to hang with them and diabetics need just stay away! Of course, now that Neo has gone to sun himself with other Hollisterboys this spring break, it is my duty to keep my Punjaban happy! Yes, we shall go down-town and people-watch...

And then there are things that leave me reeling:

-Hamlet: As the date of his departure neared close, Hamlet started sinking into the abyss of unrequited love. Since I was 'On-call' throughout the week, I couldn't do my 'there, there' cup of coffee with him. So, when the weekend descended upon me with its promises of freedom, I had a wrecked Hamlet upon my hands: a wrecked Hamlet who wished over and over again that his 'too too sullied flesh would melt'. I wasn't a very good friend to Hamlet last night, I wasn't. My all too solid flesh had already resolved itself...and I had to get to bed. Pity, really. I mean, he had hauled my revelerous Richard II ass up to the dorm last week...

-Therapist or The Rapist? Dick Diver, my therapist (and a woman, despite the name), is challenging me these days and I know her reasons for doing so: she's supposed to help me. And it's helping! Is hating one's therapist healthy? No, I don't hate her! But I have not made a fetish out of snobbery! Or have I? As I said: reeling!

I also had a conversation with Luna today. There were so many times when I wanted to burst out and tell her to set Hamlet straight! But what can she do? Not much of anything, sadly...(sigh) Luna Love-good, Luna Love-bad and then the worst of all: Luna Love-not-at-all!

Until the next time,
GossipGuy

Lust Bunnies and Unrequited Love

I am just so flabbergasted, I could spit! Hamlet and I had one of those mind-numbingly delightful conversations that flirted with the fringes of philosophy. It was all very Platonic: yes, indeed! It had to do with Plato and his concept of the transcendental absolute. The philosophy bases itself on perfect, eternal realities that are free from the mutability of the physical world as we perceive it. So, basically, imagine a dress-shirt: imagine the most perfect dress-shirt ever! Now, can you make improvements to it? Is it possible to make it more perfect? It is, isn't it? You, my friend, are on the path to searching for the Platonic dress-shirt: the ultimately perfect dress-shirt! And no, the Dior argument does not apply. Plato trumps Dior. There I said it! And never shall I again!

I'm afraid that I may be guilty of giving you the wrong impression of how things stand between me and Hamlet: it isn't all metaphysical masturbation. In fact, he's called me a whore so many times today that isn't even funny. Actually, it's uproariously funny! This evening saw me sweating bullets as I studied Organic reactions while fastidiously avoiding Don Quixote! Having done nearly enough, I decided to 'run into' Hamlet and Punjaban. As Punjaban wondered for the millionth time if she was pretty enough for her paramour, Neo, and Hamlet did that thing that he has been doing for a while now: whenever someone would talk about something couple-centric, Hamlet would start PTSD-ing and talking about the many iniquities that the lovely Luna subjected him too. He always flashes the joke light, but frankly, I am getting quite worried. And there's me: my strange romance is like a rehash of 'The Reader', but that's a story for another day.
Frankly if it weren't for our lust-bunnies, we would be so destroyed! Our lust-bunnies are a projection of our sexual frustrations onto an outward, aesthetically pleasing locus. Clearly, Masakalli and Punjaban are never going to proposition their Hollisterboys, neither is Hamlet ever going to act upon his one (and probably only) lecherous impulse- a mutual friend who makes him flash scarlet everytime she glides by! Most religions, including our respective faiths, tell us that lust is sinful. But is it really so long to tease/muse as we wait for love? That the moon will never descend in Hamlet's back-yard is a given, Masakalli and her significant other need the bickering in order to keep the sparks flying, Punjaban would be lying if she says that she doesn't enjoy the longing even a little bit and I, oft-disappointed in love, find lust more malleable. Oh love will happen! I hold my faith in Soulmate Principle fortified! Perhaps I shall meet her in New York and it shall be autumn! Or maybe on a rain-drenched New Delhi street...who's to say?

Punjaban, Masakalli, Hamlet, Santiago and I are all in the same, static boat and while we wait for the Platonic to emerge, it wouldn't hurt to celebrate the platonic with a couple of skinny lattes!

Until the next time,
GossipGuy!

Shit Happens

Rumours, rumours and more rumours abound! Tongues are awag (and yes, that is my neologism) about GossipGuy and those close to him. You know you're doing something right when people talk about you:

1) Ms.Saigon, a dear friend who I know from Microbiology, told me that I was the subject of great slander amongst a group of yuppies who complained cantankerously whenever I asked a question. Ms.Saigon was very apologetic, poor child, but I rather enjoyed it! Really, I did! There's something fantastic about being a Hermione Granger-it's such a great high! I always smile a little brighter whenever I run into those people now...

2) Apparently Punjaban and I are porking! Yep! There's a faction convinced that Punjaban and I are having a steamy, steamy affair. I mean, we're always seen together and something always happens that can be construed as inappropriate-to the untrained eye, of course! Punjaban found it rather funny, actually and, God knows, I did too!

3) Don Quixote is a source of unending agony to this writer! For the past two days, he has been whining and whimpering about how badly I treat him! Demonize me, if you must, but everyone including Hamlet [who is known for his rather charitable (he claims, humanist) views on the human condition] who has seen Don Quixote fawn and truckle claims that he his behaviour is very, very strange. Just a few days ago, he offered me money! Again! I am starting to feel cheap! Of course, his other claims that I am unapproachable and an 'angry person' are absolute bull-shit!

Brushing the rumours and rejoinders aside, Hamlet and I paid a visit to this town's charming 'down-town' replete with boutiques, swanky coffee shops and an old-fashioned ice-cream parlour. Hamlet had found me a men's store that carried all my classic European labels-he's the best! Punjaban and her effulgent room-mate Masakalli joined us for lunch at a rather well-liked Chinese buffet. Of course, as a vegetarian, there wasn't much I could feast upon, but the real meat lay in our flighty, acerbic, multi-lingual conversation! Punjaban giggled in her demure, flirtatious manner, Hamlet pouted, Masakalli ribbed and jostled while I threw in occasional witty barbs! So much for unapproachable, I say! Maybe life isn't all that complicated after all!

Until the next time,
GossipGuy!