(no subject)
It doesn't really feel like a New Year, maybe because night of the 31st was spent sleeeping on the floor of one of the many extra rooms in a complex owned by a very rich cook with the floor beneath me vibrating because of the music they were playing.
Maybe because there was no drink [ hah like there would have been otherwise!].
Maybe because the First was spent in a car to a jetty and in a fish smelling launch at the jetty and in a finally fish smell devoid launch on an unsurprisingly dirty river.
So I came back today, to a dining table overloaded with cards and letters and gifts, all for my father . To two telephone messages. To an internet connection which has taken over an hour and a half to open my email inbox.
I was asleep in the taxi which we took from Delhi, or half asleep atleast, and whenI saw the very familiar road and the a very familiar Crystal Mall, they weren't so familiar anymore, and could have been part of any mole hole of a town which you pass on your way to somewhere and fleetingly observe how utterly dead it is, and then go back to your book, or your CD player.
I'm not happy and I'm not sad. I'm just a little impatient for tomorrow. So that I can make phone calls. I'm just a little regretful, sad that i didn't send Tobermory a card. I'm a lot excited, because I just remembered Marcus Behalt. I'm just hungry hungry hungry, achingly cravingly hungry for the Ingmar Bergman book which I bought in Calcutta. [ Yes, I founf a book by Ingmar Bergman in Calcutta! Yes It is a fresh lovely new book and Yes I own it.]
Did I just say I'm not happy?
Maybe because there was no drink [ hah like there would have been otherwise!].
Maybe because the First was spent in a car to a jetty and in a fish smelling launch at the jetty and in a finally fish smell devoid launch on an unsurprisingly dirty river.
So I came back today, to a dining table overloaded with cards and letters and gifts, all for my father . To two telephone messages. To an internet connection which has taken over an hour and a half to open my email inbox.
I was asleep in the taxi which we took from Delhi, or half asleep atleast, and whenI saw the very familiar road and the a very familiar Crystal Mall, they weren't so familiar anymore, and could have been part of any mole hole of a town which you pass on your way to somewhere and fleetingly observe how utterly dead it is, and then go back to your book, or your CD player.
I'm not happy and I'm not sad. I'm just a little impatient for tomorrow. So that I can make phone calls. I'm just a little regretful, sad that i didn't send Tobermory a card. I'm a lot excited, because I just remembered Marcus Behalt. I'm just hungry hungry hungry, achingly cravingly hungry for the Ingmar Bergman book which I bought in Calcutta. [ Yes, I founf a book by Ingmar Bergman in Calcutta! Yes It is a fresh lovely new book and Yes I own it.]
Did I just say I'm not happy?