Thoughts from the afterglow

I feel Neo-esque.
When he first sees the Matrix scrolling greenly down a computer screen, he’s flummoxed and stunned. As the movie progresses, his view of the matrix toggles back and forth between the numbers and the ‘real’ world that they represent.And then there comes a sort of epiphany; the views merge and he can see the numbers for what they are. He has grasped a new language.Of course, this is an imperfect analogy (aren’t they all?)But the spirit of the thing’s sort of the same.

Especially when you consider that I was once a little girl who used to cry bitter, desperate tears when faced with my math homework that no amount of cajoling or positive reinforcement (or, on occasion, a sharp smack from my father) could remedy. And now here I am, (resigned or victorious, you decide), not so scared anymore, and finally able to see that behind the big mass of 1s, 2s, 3s and graphs, there’s the world that I am just trying to understand.
(All caveats about the ability of statistics to elicit perfect understanding apply.)

You’re not going to believe this:

I love SPSS.

I’ve just scratched the surface, but if this were a man, I’d definitely be airing out my tiny black dress. He and I have a lot of very seductive dancing coming up.

Flowing from this, three observations about self:

a.) Self is incapable of liking anything. I either love it or nothing.

b.) Love is a necessary catalyst for work. I had to fall in love with SPSS, or my data analysis wouldn’t have gotten done. If you don’t believe me, consider the fact that it’s already 4 months late – all this time, I’ve been trying to get started. I have no doubt that it would’ve come to a choice between ‘Do this thing whether you like it or not’ or ‘Fail your PhD’. I would have gritted my teeth and allowed the latter to just happen. Lame? Perhaps. But it’s in my blood: No love for what you are supposed to do for 12 hours of each day? No can do it.

c.) Erotic love is the only kind. I have to make everything tactile. It’s all about how SPSS clicks and how smooth the curves are (and oh baby, they’re smooth) and how it gets under my skin so I dream of it. Anything less than a full-fledged falling is just not possible. The landscape of my destiny is pitted with cliff-edges, all leading headlong into rapture.

No, I can’t quit the drama and just work. If you want me to, take your dirty paws off my blog at once.

I have learnt:

Not that it's of the least interest to anyone, but an obscure demographic: The state of Maharashtra, in India, is the second largest sub-national entity in existence in terms of its population.
This is the perfect explanation for why, unless I extend this PhD into a ten year full time job at the head of a team of 20 highly trained and better paid researchers, I should be perfectly happy to smirk that I can actually cover one measly taluka.

------------------
Men are despicable.
No exceptions.
_____________

It's my mother's birthday today.
Also the anniversary of her mother's passing.
Generation 1 slipped quietly into heaven on this day. Generation 2 is celebrating life and love and inshallah, yet another year of happiness, health and joy. Generation 3 is wondering if there's a priceless life lesson embedded into this particular date.
But mostly, she's instinctively grasped it, methinks, because she lived today to the fullest, wished her mother a happy birthday from the bottom of her heart and vowed to keep 'waking up' in the middle of the day every day and appreciating how precious it is that her loved ones are alive, happy, well, safe, warm (mostly), and, well, that she has more than she can count on the fingers of one hand. Which is twice more than anyone's deserved share, and infinitely more than hers.

---------------------
Those silk cushions I mentioned in the last post?
One of them has turned into a spectacular success. She is a snow white square (particularly apposite considering that the whole of England is currently this colour), and with a large square of blindly brilliant glittery flat silver sequins on the front. She's sitting in front of the other cushions on my bed and heh heh, she single handedly lights the room. And doesn't come with an off-switch. Goody.

-------------------

Just to reiterate:
Men are despicable.
No exceptions.
(Except definitely Papa and perhaps the cat.)

Miss Tara's Manual of Household Management

1. Vacuum cleaners are useless. You have to use them anyway because they don't make home-type brooms in the god forsaken west (correct me if I'm wrong, PLEASE!! And send me one!) But after you're done, fill a bucket with scalding hot water, pour in some dettol, some floor cleaner (wear gloves; chemical burns are most unattractive. Ask me. I have two.) Get a piece of cloth and swab the goddamned floor. On hands and knees. Every single tile.
It's easier than you think. And it smells great. It fucks with your back.
Get a massage from Man after (or better still: get him to do it. Kick him if he misses large swathes.)

2. You actually have to clean your windows even if the blinds are always down. Otherwise, intoxicated by the success of swabbing exercise, you pull them up triumphantly to let the light in, and there's a dust storm that annihilates everything you've already cleaned. Most annoying. Clean windows first.

3. The person who scrubs the bathroom owns the house. This is non-negotiable. So make sure it's you.

4. If you do not water the plants, they die.
Have compassion. Stick them under the bathroom tap once in a while and say nice things to them as they drink. They flower better that way.

5. Recession chic: Get out the two kites you bought in the bazaar in N. Delhi SO long ago, and decide you will never fly them in the f.ing gales they get here, so bluetac them onto the bathroom wall just under the skylight. Since the bathroom is so small and they are so bright, you don't need anything else. Then throw saris over everything. Raani pink goes with: pista green, midnight blue, cobalt blue, peacock blue, bottle green, gold, silver, white, crimson, saffron... you get the idea. Make sure there are peacocks, elephants, lotus flowers and mango motifs on every iridescent piece of everything. Throw silk cushions over all chairs. (Pick these up, a pound apiece at the Evolution sale. And don't ask me to send; they're sold out, I bought them all.)
Light diyas everywhere.
Then get the Scot to lie back on the divan, thus embellished. Viola! Rajkumar in palace! Decor done!

6. Go have a long shower and tell the man you want dinner and a massage to be ready by the time you're out.

For the record.

Sick of angst. It's boring and porridge-coloured and despite all it's potential, entirely unexceptional in and of itself.
So enough.

Cheers

The English Patient:
When Almasy, half-crazed with despair and longing and desire asks Madox what that place at the base of a woman's throat is called, Madox says: For God's sake, man. Pull yourself together.

Why.
Isn't that passion the goal?
Unseaming is just the natural by-product; desirable, in fact, because it acts as a good proxy to having attained said goal.
No?

**********************************

My interviews.
Coding them (again).
Deleting old transcripts and replacing them with new notes. .doc by .doc. Wild tabla music in the background, and the last edges of a wineglass spilling the sort of carelessness that is required for good concentration.
And I wonder, as I hit Delete-delete-Delete, again and again and again (with the calm certainty that what comes next is better): is this what He will feel like when it comes time to bring about the end of the world? Simple, energizing background music, a tinge of winered madness, and a calmly certain click on some cosmic Delete key. If so, I wouldn't mind being a part of that party. There's good music, wine, and what comes next is better.
No?

Just Be

When did being clever and strong and beautiful turn into a race to become cleverer and stronger and beautifuller till we were all running, running, running, all in the same direction, pushing shoving pulling, running, running,
ourselves
straight
into
the
ground.