Dish!

I am back and ever so ashamed! I haven't written in so long! For starters, I truly am back, the primary reason I wasn't writing was mainly because I wasn't myself for the last few days and whenever I'd sit down to write, I'd find myself writing in crazy stream-of-consciousness replete with cosmological and kingly imagery! Creepy, I know.

But all that is behind us (me) now and I have some things to share, some dirt to dish and some incidents to reflect upon.
"Marcia! Marcia! Marcia!"
GossipGuy secretly channels his inner Jan everytime the lovely Marcia Brady comes to visit, for she chose the flashy Flash Thompson over Santiago. I could be bitchier about this but I won't because I fervently believe that Ms. Brady had no idea that Santiago was vying for her affections anyway! And Santiago? True to his alias, he is stoic and uncaring. On the outside. Oh but I know that a part of him still bears a torch for Marcia! Oh Marcia: 'How easy is it for the proper-false
In women's waxen hearts to set their forms!'

The Travails of Prince Stepan.
Lyra and Prince Stepan are doing that dance! The very one involving secret intrigues and Lyra throwing a series of fits that cause everyone to virtually sigh out Tolstoy's 'Un-Happy Families Hypothesis'. It is as a mutual friend very wisely said, "Prince Stepan is the kind of guy you can figure out in no more than 2 meetings." And rightly said so too! Should I go on? Perhaps not! Far be it from me to take sides on this one!

Duke Orsino 'Plays On...'
My poor Masakalli! She recently traipsed in upon an intrigue that her beloved Orsino was carrying on in a land far off from this one. Needless to say, there was more sighing and more Tosltoy reiterating followed by a rather plainly worded "Fuck you" that Masakalli sent forth to her erstwhile lord. She insists on remaining detached and unmoved and this frightens me. Surely grieving is a part of moving on?

To 'Have Shuffle off this Moral(!) Coil...'
"I'm a terrible person!" is Hamlet's 'Mea Culpa' these days, which in itself is ironic given that the prince's 'errors' are mere expressions of the most human of traits. Lust and jealousy may add an unexpected piquancy to the rather bland meal that is a woefully persevering mind, but the need to incite those very emotions in another bears with it a zing so zesty that it cannot be resisted! And so my prince comes to folly! And then there's Winona...

Love's Labour's Recycled.
Punjaban and Neo are just so fantastic together! Their conversation is a melodic amalgam of Hindi, English and Spanish! Now my love-life, on the other hand, is rather strange. The Biologist and I are still flirting. Or at least I am, she laughs at all the right points so I guess...No! I shall not go down that road again! In fact, I like this. I like the banter, the laughter and the song sequences at the dining centre (For the love of God, do not ask!). It's aerial, but it's heady, and I like it!

To 'Train my intellect to vain delight!'
I am still bearing a masochistic torch for my Academician! It is a situation that finds its equivalent in someone holding on to a cigarette for a friend and periodically burning himself with it. Deliberately.


'Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?'

My poor and saintly Charles Ryder, Astride bare-back upon the tiger that is love, Oh but where o where can one get off?

Lascivious innuendos and Cold War references: Charles would love me for it, or so I would hope! But alas! Our good friend has found himself in love and his meticulously arranged world has gone to pieces in the best way possible! Organised chaos is so Charles's cup of expertly poured green tea! Fortune smiles upon him rather beautifically because Charles's love does not go unreciprocated! Elton John croons and my friend deliquesces some more as he wonders whether or not he should give in to this trespass sweetly urged! I can hardly wait till I make my return to that wondrous city and see all for myself!

Until the next time,
GossipGuy

Base Court

The unruliness that comes with adding 'regality' and 'kingliness' to one's list of apparent virtues is exactly the kind of thing a man must do in order to depose himself.

"What must a king do now?" Oh how the words that make up this sentence rearrange themselves to form a drill that proceeds to make holes in my cranium. Perhaps, it is a good thing to have holes in one's cranium, it gives one's brain the option to up and leave. Oh how have I imagined my brain flying off into the sunset, flapping its brain-stem with rapidity, like a rare prehistoric bird. And I? I, desensate wave at it, wishing it good weather and a safe flight. And then I lay me down to sleep- never perchance to dream, thank God!

"What
Must
A
King
Do
Now?"

What fucking 'king'? Oh what a fool! To fashion kingliness out of a slightly higher acumen and a dress-shirt! Wait, what? Higher acumen? No! This is hubris! The Gods shall strike you down for even thinking that!

but i must somehow be contended. my hubris is my hamartia.

God, how I hate your lower-case 'I', but it's good you know your place! And please don't do the whole 'hubris-hamartia' nonsense, you don't know what you are talking about!

YOU CAN'T FUCKING SAY THAT! YOU ARE A PART OF ME!

Typing in upper case? How jarring that looks!

'Jarring that looks?' I do believe that 'jarring' is used to describe sound!

I was being ironic!

You were being ignorant!

Why must you wear that sweater? You look fat!

Oh God! You're doing the Faulkner thing again! This is bad, emo-esque stream-of-consciousness excreta that no-one is going to publish! You're not Quentin!

My skull is like a colosseum packed with angry, toga'd men who are all yelling. Yelling something or the other. I don't hear anyone completely. I can't. Everyone has something to say, and everyone is equally important. These are strange senators, these men, they are not old, but yet they are. Their voices belie their wisdom, for I am sure they are sagacious! Why else would the heavens deploy an entire capitol's worth of senators to help this fragile mind? Yet everyone has a suit! A suit that must be heard! NOW! Am I not a king then? Am I not managing this court? Am I not trying to please them and yet they bring me down! Down? DOWN! Into the base court! Base court? Base court at the base of my brain where I grow base! I answer to traitorous calls and do them grace! I am treason itself.

I! Me! Look at me! Look. Upon. The. Glorious. Drama. That. Is . This. Life. Ay me!

So, really, what the fuck must the king do now? Must he be deposed? Go the fuck ahead! Must he lose the name of king?

Yet we are King. We are king to this revolting land redolent with the vile stench of civil strife.

We are King and this much we know:
the name of king is a God's name.
A God's name. A God's name? Let it go.


Let it go.

And no matter how much we shall have to take of this shit,
We shall always end with a rhyming couplet.

Decay

I start this post on a sombre note: Hamlet and I had one of our rare fights. Like all things associated with Hamlet, there was nothing even remotely conventional about this skirmish. In fact, the only reason I am calling it a 'fight' is because I have no other word to describe it! And you know me well enough, reader, if the word exists, I will find it!

It all started in a fairly silly way: a grammar joke (an abysmally bad one) was made, the stink of my compromised dream caught up with me and a whole lot of unpleasantness followed. Yet, no accusations were hurled, and not because of the 'saintliness' of my heart or the true saintliness of his, but merely because there was no accusation to be made! It was just uncomfortable! I mean, God knows, I can be very, very acrimonious but not to Hamlet! Never! Oh and I didn't have a reason! You see how confusing this is? Nothing happened and yet the stench, that rancourous stench was there! Take it from someone who knows, dear reader, never let the acid odour of decaying desires overpower the fragrance of something that is actually good for you.

The flood waters have seeped into everything and that malodourous smell permeates through my friendships, my mood, my cavernous room, my lonesome bed...Like in the Tennyson poem, from here can I feel 'the broad stream in its banks complaining'. Oh decay, decay! There is nothing here! Nothing! I have no stories, I have no revels! Like Charles Ryder, who fashions himself a Gaveston surrounded by 'wanton poets and pleasant wits...music and poetry is his delight, [he] shall have Italian Masques by night.' Ah me! Fear hangs about my neck, fear that my city shall say this to me: '"Go whither thou wilt, seeing I have Gaveston!"' Oh how jealous and base have I become! The glint of the moon roils my blood and drives me mad! Mad! Punjaban's love, Hamlet's fortitude, Charles Ryder's sprightliness are all bright, bright lights that accentuate what I lack. What of my fortitude? 'Tis a jest! A fortitude made up of sighs and theatricality! "Go to!" the city shall cry! "Go to! We want none of you!"
I do not want to go home anymore! I don't think I can! It won't be the same! Like unhappy Edward of yore shall I beg the Eternal City:

'Know that I am a king: oh, at that name
I feel a hell of grief! Where is my crown?
Gone, gone, and do I remain alive?'



GossipGuy.