Sound, Fury, Now, Memory

As a Lover of the Eternal City, my mind is constantly seething, and why should it not, really? There are enough espresso tinged antique fables, enough branded fairy toys to take me on so many separate trips that will, at some point, converge. There is also the fact that the Spitsbergen beckons, as I am suddenly inundated with news from friends back there. What fun it is to throb between two such wondrously different lives: one as decadent as rich chocolate and the other bearing the familiar comfort (and snowy whiteness!) of vanilla. And thus, is too much inspiration a bad, bad thing. So much has been going on, I really don't know what to talk about and what to leave out! Seriously, I may have written a dozen drafts before this one and each of them could not do justice to the week I have had! Let's hope that this one hits the mark.

Peek-A-Boo!

Mall-hopping can be quite a trip! I mean that in the acid/meth sense! I can never really bring myself to leave and when I do, I spend several restless days craving just one more hit and, thus, I inevitably find myself throwing a tantrum at Cartier or trying on shoes upon shoes at Aldo: oh, and I am as happy as a clam! The stores, the ambiance: it's a heady, nourishing miasma! The fumes, though invisible, are potent, invigorating, intoxicating and basically the stuff that causes many writers to launch into paroxysms of purple prose. Not me, though. Never me!-I'd totally throw in a 'LOL' at this point, if the stick up my ass wasn't all that far up.

At any rate, this potent, potent headiness that I speak of is also found in the depths of the limpid eyes of, what I like to call, the Peek-a-Boo Girls. My first encounter with the species occurred at The Biggest Mall in the World. There I was, with a group of friends, wrestling with my guilty conscience at Marc Jacobs when I felt a pair of eyes burn into my Marc-ensconced back. That particular expression isn't a cliche for nothing- it really does hold true, I did feel the burn! And it hurt so good...I turned to face a pair of greyish-green eyes illumined with mischief and experience. I smiled, as the Spitsbergen taught me to, the smile was returned! A warbling giggle and a rustle of fabric later, she was nowhere to be seen! O God! O God! What was this? None of my companions seemed to have noticed the exchange but I had to tell someone! I pulled Charles Ryder aside and told him about The Green Goddess (as she was clad in this silky green thing that left just enough to imagination...). Charles nodded knowingly and said, "The City is all about sex, dear boy, but with a twist! It's all about eye-fucking these days: only lookey, no touchey!" Eye fucking?! Intriguing. Very intriguing. I wanted to see more of her! Go again, if you will. But the mall was a vast, vast terrain and having lost her...Oh I wanted to cry and laugh and dance and...I was losing it!

After a major detour that involved Orange Julius and another friend who fell unabatedly in lust with a frat boy's (he sure as hell looked like one!) shanks and followed him around River Island as the rest of us detachedly looked on, I found myself at Ted Baker where I ran into the Green Goddess again: Full beautiful- a faery's child! Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild. My God! We caught each other's eye several times, (Kiss me. Kiss me where your eye won't meet me.), she looked approvingly at the coat I had picked (Oh you know you know you know I love...) and I valiantly tried to look smoulderingly at the dress she caressed (I mean I'd love to get to know you.). With a lingering smile that bespoke a million velleities, she disappeared into the trial rooms, leaving me destitute...on a cold hill's side. Mon Dieu! I'd just been eye-fucked and I'd liked it. Oh God, yes! But now? She was gone! What would become of me?! (No you girls never know, Oh know you girls'll never know, how you make a boy feel.). Apparently, another gentleman in the store had noticed the exchange, a true Tiresias, he gave me an understanding look which seemed to say, "La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!" And when The Green Goddess emerged from Ted Baker, bags in hand, my newfound friend-Mall Tiresias- looked at her with prurience, his hands creating a riot in the pockets of his jeans until he finally whipped out his...cell phone and pushed play: 'Hauli nach, hauli nach kendey mundey tainu, lak tutju pataliye naare!' (All the boys ask you to dance slowly because the sway of your hips drives them wild!). Suddenly, I was Mall-Tiresias! My glitzed up version of 'A Man and a Woman' had suddenly acquired the sordidness of 'Backdoor Sluts IX'. Ew. I decided to join my friends at Cold Stone. If there was ever a time for a smoothie, it was now.

Supah-Dupah!

I love Sichuan cuisine, and having expressed the wish to spice up my palate with some, my parents took me to my favourite Sichuan restaurant in the City: Dynasty. I am fond of Dynasty for various reasons: they don't create a fuss over reservations, the food is lovingly prepared by someone who obviously cares for the cuisine and is just delectable- the understated and unpretentious elegance of the place draws me to it over and over again. Dynasty evenings always sizzle, be it the chilly flakes in the food or the crackling conversation--everyone's a bit drunk so...
At any rate, this evening was slightly different, and the cause? Memory. This time I was more than content to stare at the shadow puppets awnings and think back to a time so very, very different from this one. Back at the Spitsbergen, my room-mate Santiago and I would frequent this rambunctious, pungent (in many ways) establishment called 'Super Buffet'. He had discovered it while we were returning from a grocery excursion. Not a Sichuan place, per se. It was more of a Mongolian grill, but, I could guile them into making me some Mapo Tofu! Loud evenings- such a respite from strait-laced schoolwork and hall government duties- would ensue: a mixture of quips and fuck-yous, political humour and some toilet humour too. Laughter, as thick and heavily spiced as the sauce the tofu luxuriated in. Oh how I missed it all! The performance I'd put on so that the owner would let me carry some of the tofu home, and Santiago would get that look upon the charade with his laughing eyes... This, at Dynasty, was just elegant and where's the fun in that! I missed the 'rave-tastic' music Santiago played in his car on the way back (Are we human? Or are we dancer?), so different from the lilting thumries (a form of classical music) that were played in my father's car. The shadow puppets before me mimed battle, but, on the inside, I was battling my own confusion. What was going on here? Was I <gasp> missing the Spitsbergen? Oh no no no, it was so much simpler than that. It was Santiago who had made those evenings what they were. So no, it wasn't the Spitsbergen, it was my friend who, if he were there, would have even made 'Dynasty' a supah-dupah affair.

"So intimate, this Chopin..."

All this talk of Mapo Tofu proved inspiring enough for me to actually whip some up for a luncheon I had scheduled with Charles Ryder. So I unleashed my inner '50's housewife and set about the task of making onion soup, egg-fried rice with asparagus, mapo tofu, and avocado smoothies. It was exhilarating to 'create' a meal all by myself and, judging by how much Charles enjoyed it, I think I didn't do too bad a job! There was a Wharton-esque feel to the evening: suddenly my high-rise became a New York brownstone at the dawn of the 20th Century and we were two gentlemen, enjoying a meal and wittily talking about the many vicissitudes of life and everything else like it. I have experienced espressos with Charles Ryder many times in the past and the conversation that we've had has flowed as smoothly as the coffee concoctions that easily slipped down our talk-eroded throats. Conversations with Charles are always charged, informative affairs that run the gamut from popular culture to intimate confessions. The theme, that evening, was variation. Remember the diary I mentioned in the previous post? Well, I read out a few sections from it to Charles and all he could say at the end of the recital was, "Who were you?" Who was I indeed! That poisonous, bunch-backed toad of a diary belied the perky (Charles's word) in-control persona I projected at school. Yet, in an inscrutable way, Charles and I used pretty much the same defence mechanisms to keep at bay the chaos that threatened to take over our lives. The only difference was that Charles's battles were infinitely harder than mine....
The realm of memory is a welcoming yet shady place that may somehow show you that what you thought true then had not even an iota of exactitude in it. That is why it is always a good idea to have someone like Charles along when you visit with memory; doing it alone may just dement.

Snow Candy!

My early mornings, though rare, are rather organized albeit cozy affairs: Propped up in bed I nibble on Walker's fantastic shortbread biscuits between alternates sips from a steaming cup of light roast (thanks Charles!), while attending to my correspondences and Facebook things. It was on one such morning that my MSN buzzed and a bright "Hey A!" flashed up on my screen. It was Punjaban! She and I spent a good hour-and-a-half chatting about ourselves, our significant others (mine being the Eternal City!) and just things in general. It was a heartening, almost salubrious exercise for the banter, the persiflage, the memory of snow and eternal cold balanced out by sticky lattes and the warm glow of camaraderie put me in a fantastic mood for the rest of the day. I even smiled at the treadmill rather than glare at it with the usual contempt for five minutes before mounting it. It pleased me to no end that she and Neo were getting along fabulously. They truly deserve each other! Yet Punjaban found herself doing that thing again, that thing when she wonders why Neo chose the beguiling night of her dark tresses over the many sun-kissed blonde ones that were available to him. This never fails to astound both Hamlet and me. Here's Punjaban: funny, sexy, smart and solicitous and Neo is obviously enamoured. Then why question so good a thing? Oh how I miss them all! But Hamlet will be visiting the City soon. More on that another time...

Punjaban, if you're reading this: I LOVE YOU!

R.A. Apprehensions Part II: Rah Rah R.A.!

I cannot wait to be an R.A. Seriously. I am really, really looking forward to it. But I am afraid too: a new building, new people and me. O God, o God...it took a Santiago and a Lyra to get me to emerge from my self-constructed chrysalis and become sociable again. I really don't want to be stiffly formal again! I do it well but I don't necessarily enjoy it. Of course, I've corresponded with many of my co-RA's and my affable hall director, but the apprehensions persist! Last night I had a dream, and promise you won't think me weird, and in it, I was back at my old dorm and there was this Mrs. Danvers-esque person who kept steering me towards the windows and asking me to 'listen to the sea'. Creepy, yes. But a definite improvement over the 'Titus Andronicus' fantasy!

Until the next time,
GossipGuy!

Signs

'Coming Home' is, quite frankly, an over-rated concept. The cinnamon-spiced warm milk of a feeling is something that is the product of bad books and really bad movies! All in all, homecomings are bizarre! Take mine, for instance: my friends have completely different agendas now, some work, some study while they work, others can't return and yet others don't want to... I came home to a brother who is now taller than I am and is a quintessential sixteen year old, read: blithe, apathetic and a wee bit self-centred. Actually, more than a wee bit: a whole lot! The only constants in this world of wildly changing variables are my parents. This isn't really helping, though, because I have changed too! What I once considered charming, even (and I hate this expression) sweet, now seems cloying and fetter-like! Change and its many signs, that was the theme that this sine curve of a week subscribed to.

Diary.

While inventorying my wardrobe and organising my beloved books, I came across an old diary that I had maintained. It was dated back to that transition year between 17 and 18. There amongst a mess of Stephen King paperbacks (reject pile) and Beloved Classics That Improve The Mind (flaunt pile), I began to peruse a life left behind...
Amusedly, I read the first entry: 'Dear Diary, Oh how I abhor that appelation! But really, what else can I go by? Dear Kitty? Oh please!' As I ventured into deeper water, my amusement began to turn rancourous. I most certainly could not have been this...this...creature! He was a hateful snob who had something mean to say about everyone! It embarrasses me to say that I had written some pretty dreadful things about people I was now on excellent terms with! O God, O God! The number of times the term 'fugly bitch' appeared in the text is inveterately frightening! The text was also cringe inducingly loquacious. Sample this: 'I cannot help but abominate that abomination!' Heavens above!
There is no easier way to say this: My old diary is clearly the Burn Book from 'Mean Girls'. I don't even want delve into what that makes me...Strangely enough, in true sine curve fashion, my amusement that had became rancourous now gave way to an odd sense of tranquility. I had turned out alright! That document was proof of that fact! The acrimony and spite had dulled away, or, maybe, had been exhausted in My Year Abroad-Part Une (no, we never talk about that!). Despite this realisation, the diary still haunts me! It sits in my bed-side drawer and I can hear its pages rustle and shift, like the tell-tale heart. And, God knows, this is, in a sense, my tell-tale heart! A part of me wants to dispose of it-murder it ritualistically, sacrifice it to the flames and another part of me wants to hold onto it as a memento of residual angst, a ticket stub from a stomach-turning roller-coaster ride, a reminder that I will never be THAT again. I know not what to do....Advice would be welcome.

Afternoon Tea.
Another day, and I forget which one, I had lunch with an old child-hood friend. I do not use the term 'old' loosely! Her family had relocated to another country when she was seven and I was 10. See what I mean? She was here on that bewildering crusade we all know and love: The Great College Hunt. As I sat across from her, me sipping my jasmine tea and she a macchiato, this line from Henry James' 'The Portrait of a Lady' popped into my head: Under certain circumstances there are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea. I cannot come up with a better sentence to describe the perfection of the moment. In the spirit of the sinuous nature of the week, the moment was that joyous point of inflection that followed the minimum point the initial awkwardness and led to the maximum point of an unconstrained tete-a-tete. For a moment I envied her fresh-faced, wide-eyed demeanour. At one point, I think, I was seeing an anime version of the girl who was gasping and laughing at the stories of my foreign homestead. I suddenly felt more avuncular and less friend-like! My brother and his companions, 16-year-old boys all, have done a great job of making me feel ancient and wise. Intelligent, I may be; wise, I most certainly am not! I'd rather not speak of the 'ancient' bit! This avuncular thought synapsed with my old diary that pulsated with my teen angst which, in turn, led me to wonder about how much she had changed! It was indeed like gazing upon the portrait of a lady! This girl, who used to glide through the corridors of her old house like one possessed, singing Bollywood numbers in a piercing falsetto, had bloomed into a marvellous young woman who had an air of quiet maturity about her. She obviously did not sweat the small stuff and her in-control manner probably made every contretemps shrink back. She was ready for the world, and I, sage as I am, can only wish her all the luck in the world!

Luncheon.

Charles Ryder astounds me. I did lunch with him this very day and it was exactly the kind of thing my somnambulatory existence required. Conversation was slick, creamy but had bite, much like the roux he deftly prepared: wildly different topics flowed into each other with ease akin to the delectable apéritifs that made their way down our parched throats, quirks like the caffeine of the man's mean cappuccino...oh, it was a delight! Ah, but this week is a circuitous bastard and within the swirls of a fudge-covered Baskin Robbins creation lay a dark, dark core. I have compared Charles Ryder to glamourous Gaveston, and as true as this is now, it wasn't always so. We spoke, this evening, of high-school where Ryder was a poorly understood outcast (and understandably so: Gucci and biochemistry seldom go hand in hand, but that's Charles for you!) and Mrs. Manson Mingott who had taken it upon herself to make a project out of him: it was a very public secret, sadly. But Mrs. Manson Mingott, like her namesake, wielded enormous power and influence over our microcosm. I love her! But I also love the way Charles Ryder held his own against her well-meaning yet unwarranted involvement.
"I didn't want to be pitied! I cannot imagine anything worse!" quoth he, as reminisced about those malingering conversations held in the class-room where Mrs. Manson Mingott held court. A tale of woe, repression and yearning studded with facetious jabs of humour (often self-deprecating) made for a sobering experience; thoughts of those tempestuous years when the line between appearance and reality had condensed and all but disappeared, took me back to that spiteful diary which, now, appears as a chronicle of what lay beyond that ornate mask of perfection and a smothering, cannibalistic quietude.

It appears to me now that coming home is not a return to the fold. No. It has more to do with touching base and taking stock. While I inventoried my wardrobe and organised my books, I also sifted through the baggage left behind by those particularly violent years and made note of what had changed, what had disappeared and what had appeared in place...

Until the next time,
GossipGuy!

Evensong

Yesterday: late afternoon, late June. The summer being at its blistering best, vicissitudinal music and a lilting tune...

From behind a grey-blue year long curtain of rain, my best friend had emerged: Verlaine. It pains me deeply that he hasn't found a mention on this blog yet. Verlaine and I, we have been inseparable since infancy and circumstance. Ah circumstance! How many times have I traced your peaks and troughs with my fingers, your very variability, your precisions and divisions... A dull acceptance have I learned off of your quirks.

Yesterday: late afternoon, late June. It was just a day, dull and laden with vacationable ennui. Yet anxiety niggled away at the base of my brain, playing the trapeze artist with my brain stem. I always get all hot and bothered before meeting Verlaine, our lives have drifted apart so much that I wonder if we have anything left to say to one another. Each time have I been proven wrong resoundingly, yet each time I am still a little bewildered.

The evening was stretched out against the sky, and I dressed in a worrisome way: why was I so worried?! It's ridiculous! I have known him all my life! Nothing has changed! The dynamic still exists...Dear God!

I stepped into the mall where our fashionable cup of coffee was supposed to take place and, in time, I saw him. Resplendent in red, he greeted me warmly and my fears vapourised. Of course, I have a penchant for botching things up...I gave him an awkward hand-shake! He took it in his stride and we made our way to La Gaufrette. Conversation was easy, quirky, dark, hilarious and, frankly, unchanged. What I find best about my conversations with Verlaine is that we slip right back into the scheme of things very, very easily. Suddenly, that one whole year compressed itself into an errant comma that places itself in a conversation because, just for a minute, something else had to be attended to, and now we're back and talking as if we'd never stopped talking.

There was time for laughter. We laughed a lot. That is what I remember most: full-throated laughter, very unlike the politically correct chuckles that befit our age. Laughter, slicing its way through a thick mist of disillusionment; meticulously scripted deceptions; love, bitter as chocolate; sex, sweet as nectar, the irony of therapy: a monumental rhapsody, set to the strains of laughter. And then there was time for Earl Grey and Mocha with sides of quirk, caprice, mousse and carrot cake:"This mousse. It isn't very good." said Verlaine at one point-

And so the conversation slips Among velleities and carefully caught regrets Through attenuated tones of violins Mingled with remote cornets And begins.

I had missed him. The full weight of how much I had came crashing down on me as the evening drew to a close. We hugged this time, as we probably would have when we met if I hadn't done that ridiculous hand-shake! The evening, it was still stretched out against the sky. A tedious dinner event (that, after this therapeutic rekindling, appeared to me an empty, soul-sucking monster of empty, soul-sucking conversation) waited for my attention. God O God! I wanted to go home and luxuriate in this feeling of overwhelming peace that came from knowing that I still retained that part of my soul which would resurrect itself in Verlaine's presence. Mollified by the sheer decadence of our talk and laughter, I wanted to go home and think of the world, having talked about it for the past 3 hours:

We, that do chisel words like chalices,
And moving verses shape with unmoved mind,
Whom wandering in groups by evening seas,
In musical converse ye scarce shall find,—


Until the next time,
GossipGuy!

Skinny

Having lived the dorm-life for the past year, I lost a lot of my inhibitions and a lot of weight. God knows, I was carrying at least 15 kgs in excess, of which I managed to drop 10. At this point, I am really tempted to lie and say that I found a work-out buddy and we did fun gymmy-buddy things pine fresh in the early morn, followed by a sumptuous (yet healthy) breakfast with an accompaniment of dark, judgmental looks that were cast upon those upon who opted for the delicious 'scone-and-a-latte' option. Now, all I need to do is throw in a clever and ironic Falstaff quote as seasoning and it shall taste just as a perfect, aspartame flavoured weight-loss success story is supposed to.

Of course, I am not going to do this. It's wrong! Not that that has ever stopped me, but, let us face it, the people who know me shall chortle at this Falstaffian approach, and Old Jack does have his pride, though he may be somewhat confounded by what is deemed morally questionable.

The truth is a bit more distasteful than the fanciful (yet false) picture painted above. Oh no no no! There was no frenching the tooth-brush! By distasteful, I mean bland, not puke-escent (totally coined that!). Allow me to eluciadate this by prevaricating the lie:

Item 1: "I found a work-out buddy": Untrue and, in no sane world, could ever hold true, I am a bit too cynical to appreciate the salubriousness of a work-out buddy. Or even a work-out.

Item 2: "Pine fresh in the early morn": I am snorting with sarcastic laughter here! The only times I'd, and pardon my French, drag my slothful ass out of bed "in the early morn", would be in order to make it in time for an 8 a.m. class. I honestly don't know which is the bigger joke here, "early morn" or "pine fresh" because I am not really a happy-"Good morning to you!"-awakening sort of a person. I am bitter and crabby and full of hate until I get that caffeine flowing.

Item 3: "dark, judgmental looks that were cast upon those upon who opted for the delicious 'scone-and-a-latte' option.": This dispels the "healthy, sumptuous breakfast' bit as well because I was the King of SconeandaLattenia (amongst other minor duchys of habit and mind). So yeah, self-hatred can only extend so far!

I find that I cannot run from this anymore: the sad, bland truth is that I basically neglected my meals. Sometimes, I'd eat once a day and that meal may or may not consist of a single (albeit fairly well-sized) bowl of cereal. I am a stress-junkie: caffeine and workahol are the fuels this engine runs on! *slaps rump* Under optimal work-load, I don't need food! This is, of course, a far cry from my 'O' and 'A' Level years as well as my York days when I was eating emotionally. Maybe there is something about college that makes us want to look svelte as we throb between assignments and exams, to bloom during paper season...I shall never understand it!

I cannot help but reminisce about the many weighty conversations that I had with my friends. For three guys and two girls, that is a whole lot of baggage to cart around! Santiago, who, it seemed, subsisted only on beef jerky and copious amounts of soda, would good-naturedly sneer at my crisply placed order of "Diet Coke please." everytime we went out to eat. He would also ruminate over his 'gut'- a gut that, I have firm reason to believe, was only in his mind. I never saw it and I was his room-mate! Punjaban would woefully remonstrate over how much she had bloated in the past few months while I would rush in with quick assurances that she was being ridiculous. This was true, of course, with sensible fashion choices Punjaban always looked unfailingly fresh and stylish. Now, Masakalli, who was by no means fat, a different matter all together! Everytime a lithe young Freshman thing would walk by, Masakalli would launch into a King Lear-esque rant, calling hell-fire, sulphur and brimstone on the aforementioned's perfectly toned ass. This would invariably be followed by a need to work-out and now! Sometimes she'd blame Punjaban for her (that is, Masakalli's) missed work-outs. I, on yet another hand, was petulant and dark about how fat I was: I'd talk about all my nice clothes (an understatement) and how it was unfair to them that they got to adorn such an unflattering frame (an understatement). After venting our respective spleens, we'd all take a moment to hate Baingan, (a mutual friend who looks like anything but an egg-plant) who would work-out each day come rain, shine, sleet, hail or all at the same time (and yes, this has happened!). Hamlet, with his swimmer's build, was the very pattern of patience, he said nothing.

The one factor that makes the aforementioned jeremiad sound like 'The Three Sillies' is that none of us were as disgustingly obese as we thought ourselves to be. Now, that I am back home, I find that I fit perfectly into jeans that I last wore when I was 14. Not that this has humbled me in any way, I guiltlessly shop at stores that I used to avoid because the very mannequins made me want to cut myself, I still stick to 'Diet Coke please' and mournfully order skinny lattes at Starbucks, but perhaps the most annoying habit of all is starting sentences with "Now that I am skinny..." or the lovably humble substitute, "When I was a fatty..." How quickly have I forgotten those days of sucked in stomachs and hurling my mobile phone at the help because she dared to agree with me when I said that I looked fat... I didn't work for this weight-loss, it just happened to me! Oh God, those phrases reek of hubris! I am such a fool! Weight tends to creep back! What must the skinny king do now? Must he purge? The king can't do it! Instead, he shall skip lunch!

Until the next time,
GossipGuy!

Deep, Silent, Complete.

Today is my birthday. Today I cease to be a teenager. My heart is rent, O kind keepers of my decaying age, as this decade tumbles to a close. Perhaps this is a luxury I can ill afford: nostalgia is an accoutrement purchasable only by those who have a few more scores of years in the purses of their minds and bodies. But this decade has been so tumultous, in its variance, how like man! In its hesitance, how like a fallen angel! The story of my teenage years is a story that spans three glorious cities, one vast ocean and packs within it multitudes of dreams and characters who had their entrances and their exits: some who I wished would never leave and others whose backs I was only too glad to see! Dream! How like a dream it does seem!

From a drama-ridden gremlin of 13, quick to tears and suicide threats, I have been moulded into a man. But what man? The sense of drama has not been lost, if anything, it has become more subtle- a far cry from the 'bleeding stump' wailings of a 13 year old voice of unstable pitch and loudness. The dress, the bearings, the carriage, the accent, the speech- all the marks of a man, a grown man who understands his place in the world. But do I, really? The magic has now begun to fade...Read on as I talk of love, regret and solace.

I found love twice in this decade. My First Great Love, my lovely Isobel Ingoldsethorpe, was the Zaara to my Veer. Sure, we may have been of opposed nations, but that didn't stop a life-long friendship to blossom into love. I was never more happy than when I was with her, yet, I was a mere 15 and, when things began to get serious, I withdrew as ungallantly as anyone ever did. Lady Isobel and I could have had a future together, as the years would have passed, our love would have only intensified. I forsook that virtuous diamond! I left that rubicund Rose of Lancaster to wither, as she eventually retreated into Lancastrian folds. [I am not going to phrase this in terms of world affairs as they stand now. It somehow seems appropriate to fashion this as a tale of courtly romance]. I was a fool not to see it, the fact that I could have been happy, despite what anyone would have said! Of course, popular support turned against me and My erstwhile Lady's friends' displeasure manifested itself in several, excruciatingly vocal ways. I will not soon forget the cold animosity that existed between Maraguerite D'Anjou (a close friend of My Lady) and me- animosity that made my 'A' Level year quite hellish at times.

My 18th year saw me return to my Yorkist homeland, where I was as miserable as an exile. Yet, in a moment of play-acting and patriotism did I pass this sentence upon myself. I was too much of a stranger to those lands: they wanted none to do with me nor I with them. Yet, a lot of good came from this migration: I met my spritely Punjaban and I could carve myself a path into the Newe Worlde and potential peace. It was during this time of upheaval whence I struck up a dalliance with the lovely, yet desperately lonely, Katharine of Aragon. While I languished in my Yorkist prison of spring, My Lady lived in a rain-drenched city of her own. Yes, A Long Distance Relationship fraught with frustration and drama, and drenched with tears. Suffice it to say, it ended badly. I was at fault again. We are friends, though, my goodly Katharine and I, but we all know what that means...

Now, at 20, I have many joys to behold: Santiago, the best room-mate in the realm; Hamlet, my soul-brother; Lyra and Prince Stepan, who I love dearly despite not knowing them long; Punjaban and Masakalli who are the sun and the moon to this piece of earth that is my body; Charles Ryder, who enchants and delights with his quick wit and clever quirks; Verlaine, my Official Best Friend who carries a piece of my soul with him; Signior Benedict, who is in possession of another bit of my soul, for he built me up when I was down...There are many others who I have not mentioned, but love just as fondly. My relationship with Prince Hal, my real brother, has lost its acrimony and has become one of mutual respect. I am a good son.

But, today, I shall finally come up and embrace the facts that I will never be a doctor or a man of letters. Given that I lacked the courage to make such major changes in my seemingly perfect life, I had always hoped for an omen or a portent that would compel me to. None came, and 'tis just as well. Mayhap, I shall never be good boyfriend material: my humours are too mutable, too unstable. I shall relinquish my idylls of Courtly Romance to the jaded generation after me that needs these more than ever. Now, at 20, I shall finally step through the mirror into the Real World and embrace as if it were my own. Evading it seems stupid now, at this age, the sparkles are dull in their twinkles- a sure sign to me that they were only of my imagining: no-one will give up these honours and start from scratch. No-one shall be whisked away by love. No magic. And, as I burn away the ambrosia of these fairy toys, these antique fables, I shall, in the words of the King I fashion myself after, 'forget what I have been, Or not remember what I must be now!' Nay, not the latter, it sounds too fantastical, too much of a conjuring humour. After all, At seventeen years many their fortunes seek;
But at a score it is too late a week:

Until the next time,
GossipGuy.

The Return a.k.a The Stress Induced Surrealism of My Brain

I have practically spent the whole of the last fortnight bristling-to the extent that I may just appear a blur! Oh God, God...what a week it has been! Since this post is going to be all about me, I shall dispense with what is going on with the others first:

Marcia. Marcia? Marcia!

The lovely Marcia Brady has retreated to the far side of the moon, the side unlit by the blonde, hair-gel based rays of the sun that Flash Thompson. Both Lyra and I looked eagerly on, hoping that Santiago would make his move and, y'know...But I fear that nothing to that effect is going to happen. The romance has been sucked so fully out of this situation and so surprisingly too! It's akin to a nightly ritual where one pulls out the Cool-whip Can from under one's bed and proceeds to slather his mouth full of whipped cream. This goes on for several saccharine nights until, suddenly, one night the fluffy goodness just doesn't issue forth! No-one saw that coming! Oh my God! Ridiculous and oddly sexual similes aside, Santiago is looking forward to a summer sailing the seven seas. "Good deal!", as they say in this Super-nice state. And 'good deal' indeed! Anyone with half a brain would take the swift sailing the seven seas offer as opposed to the stagnant murkiness of a relationship!

Not-So-Gentle Pilgrim Profanes:

The fact that they called Neo 'The One' in the Matrix films has never resonated this strongly with me before. Congratulations meri Punjaban!


Me:

Item #1: Titus Apprehensions.

Have I mentioned that I hate Pre-finals week? Have I mentioned that I hate finals week too? Have I mentioned that even as I type I am planning a hugely overdone suicide? Now this is a problem, I haven't thought on those lines since I was 13 and, God knows, if I could I'd go back and slap my 13-year-old self and tell him to get over himself! Oh, my 13-year-old life was like Titus Andronicus: lots of bad, over-the-top poetry, unwarranted theatrics and people being baked into pies. Metaphorically. God, I used to be so young...

A thought that isn't going to desert me anytime soon, rather it is going to amplify and tumerate as I return to this Spitsbergen to start another year as an RA. How my mind misgives when I think about being an RA...What shall it be like? What shall I be like? Unctuous? Pithy? Warm? Awkward? Clearly an open mind is required! I was chosen for a reason: they saw something in me that made them think that I could do this. Then why do I not see it in myself? I have this weird image of myself with my right hand lopped off, dripping blood all over the floor, as I yell, "I AM THE SEA!" while nasty looking cherubs pelt me with confetti...

WOW.

Item #2: Lady Anne and Kind Cruelty.

Moving right along, I did coffee with the ever-so-resplendent Lady Anne. Lady Anne shall also join me in the RA Guard next year, but then again, we've known each other through this speed-dating thing: a long story that I'm not telling anyway! At any rate, as Lady Anne and I talked about the various, serious issues of the world, like which one of us was gaining weight and which one was losing it, who had a worse time at high school and how sometimes we need to be kind to be cruel to people who pretty much do the same thing themselves! Oh nasty, nasty at a church run coffee house too! But there are interesting rumours to be unearthed here: Lady Anne is both feared, admired and despised and given that I was seen with her prompted a certain boor to yell out from the roof-tops (truly, the actual roof-top of that particular building) that we were...ahem...known to each other. In the Biblical sense. Of course Lady Anne yelled back an expletive but I had to deal with a certain degree of persiflage all evening long. Clearly, news, especially the 'Spotted:' kind, travels fast!

Item # 3: Homecoming

I type this on a 15 hour flight between the Old South and my Eternal City. I actually travelled from Spitsbergen to my Bellomont with Hamlet where I spent quality time with his wonderful, wonderful parents and his delightfully precocious sister. The spice in all of this was a particularly fun, moonlight illumined visit to Badi Begum's sanctum. I cannot believe I haven't mentioned Badi Begum before! She is caustic, funny, witty, queenly and maddeningly arrogant. We spent a lot of the night talking about relationships, cute nurses and history teachers who seem to flirt right back but not quite...And as Hamlet and Badi Begum made plans for the next day, I realised that I wouldn't be there! Why, I was going home! HOME! My Eternal City! Oh joy! Oh grief! Oh...mess! I couldn't believe that I was getting sentimental about Spitsbergen and the university! Oh I am getting a little teary eyed right now! Oh I must stop this at once!

My flight from Bellomont to the Old South was uneventful, I purposefully hid behind my face-concealing, Do-Not-Look-At-Me-I-Am-A-Celebrity Cavallis. God knows, I did not want conversation at that point, but seldom have I had control over my jabbering and so I began talking to Wisconsin Boy. To be fair, all I did was offer him a mint because I felt guilty eating one all by myself! But anyway, as I spoke with Wisconsin Boy, I came to realise that I had longed to have an extended conversation with one like him nearly all my life! Wisconsin Boy was all that he sounds like: the tousled hair: unwittingly stylish, the unbelievable height, the college T-shirt, history on the foot-ball team, phliantropic trips to Europe (making me feel horribly guilty about my debauch ones!) and very good grades. He was fun to talk to, oh yes, and then he wondered aloud, "Man, I don't know why a lot of these international students keep to themselves? Are they intimidated or what?" I would have done a double take if the seats would have enabled me! My God, I was one of them before I offered him the mint! I was of the 'Thank You Come Again' (TYCA, hereafter) variety to him before the Offering of the Mint. Quoting Shakespeare Furiously, was my first approach, but to what effect? To show that I was clearly above the TYCA lot? Which, let's face it, I am! But I would never see Wisconsin Boy again! So why the showmanship? Instead, I did something worse, but right up my alley: I talked about me! I wanted to die! Ever have that feeling that you're bleeding all over the floor you're so desperately trying to wipe clean? Yeah, that was me until Wisconsin Boy told me that he had fun talking with me. My 'Kill me, kill me now!' was replaced with a 'Why would he say that? I was being hateful!' I ruminated over all of this until one of the stewardesses on the flight bound out of the Old South into my Eternal City called me " Darlin' "! I nearly came!

So, this 15 hour flight is showing no signs of coming to an end! Perhaps, I shall watch 'The Curious Case of Benjamin Button' in a while. I love that movie! But for now, I shall divide time between my book, leching on that succulent Georgia peach of a stewardess and intermittently shooting dirty looks to that Econ. professor sitting across from me grading papers. In flight. You do not do that! Ah, but my mind! My mind shall resonate with Charles Ryder's infectious, whsipered couplet: "GossipGuy make haste, the Eternal City awaits..."

Oh until the next time (and I promise it shall be sooner),
GossipGuy!

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