The Randomness of Life
Just finished with Kennedy’s Unfinished Life, which most ironically was left unfinished for the better part of the year. Finally though, yesterday the last chapter closed with his sad, yet by this time very predictable death in Dallas. (Love that about fiction—the hope that maybe he may live, become a single-woman kind of guy and live happily ever after with his delightfully charming American-royalty wife Jackie. But alas! Only in fiction.) Have now started with Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Know. So far, so good.
Even while writing things in a medium as public as this, one thinks in one of two ways. A) I am brilliant, my work is brilliant. I will get (relative) fame and recognition from the (two) people who (actually) do read this crap I occasionally spurt out (Azam Noon and of late, though serious Nancy Drew tactics Amal Khan {though I don’t know how much the latter reads. The former has no choice. He is blood. I will hound him with sagging butt skin and fake dentures till he’s 80 and I a very enchanting 83 ½--- which is also why he gets what’s written and leaves delightful notes, but the latter. Hmm.}) AND B) Why am I on this blooming band wagon. I have nothing profound to say, nothing that will make a dent in anyone’s life (not even mine). I am not brilliant and I will not hit fame. SO why am I wasting my time?
I tether between the two like a pendulum.
Then again, maybe it’s something to do with a brief, yet tangible contact with anyone who for the second runs the course of the same tangent I/you are currently one.
MEMO TO ME: Must introduce this to Burki, she would love the juxtaposed anonymity and complete lack of privacy this thing affords.
In an interesting turn of events (this is nothing interesting and no turn at all in events) I have stumbled onto the great in-disguise costume of Martha Stewart. Am Martha-stewarting my way though evenings when S is traveling and have (if I do say so myself) come across a couple of interesting dishes. Compared to the other alternative where I curl up in the one foot by one foot sink and sing back-to-back Barry White and King Cole songs, it just somehow seems more productive. Have also taken to gardening. Potting and repotting, and plotting and re-plotting plant strategies.
AND on the occasions when work is MOST pressing, indulge in online boggle like there is no tomorrow (http://weboggle.shackworks.com/5x5/). Sudoko too is a great alternative.
Am going home. On the 12th for 10 days. There is something about the word “home” that makes the mouth salivate and the heart go all gooey. (Have I ever mentioned that Azam is the best person to talk to on the phone. No I mean that seriously. He has the kind of humour that is self depreciating and has you in nothing short of stitches—God I am talking to myself here and/or to Azam. Am going crazy. Need help. This is pretty much Nazia-Zohaib Hassan as it gets. Ominous Reminder: NH died.)
Suddenly have lost interest in my self. Have a very short attention span especially for my own ranthings. Poor S, he bears the worst of it.
Hmm. My book beckons.
Even while writing things in a medium as public as this, one thinks in one of two ways. A) I am brilliant, my work is brilliant. I will get (relative) fame and recognition from the (two) people who (actually) do read this crap I occasionally spurt out (Azam Noon and of late, though serious Nancy Drew tactics Amal Khan {though I don’t know how much the latter reads. The former has no choice. He is blood. I will hound him with sagging butt skin and fake dentures till he’s 80 and I a very enchanting 83 ½--- which is also why he gets what’s written and leaves delightful notes, but the latter. Hmm.}) AND B) Why am I on this blooming band wagon. I have nothing profound to say, nothing that will make a dent in anyone’s life (not even mine). I am not brilliant and I will not hit fame. SO why am I wasting my time?
I tether between the two like a pendulum.
Then again, maybe it’s something to do with a brief, yet tangible contact with anyone who for the second runs the course of the same tangent I/you are currently one.
MEMO TO ME: Must introduce this to Burki, she would love the juxtaposed anonymity and complete lack of privacy this thing affords.
In an interesting turn of events (this is nothing interesting and no turn at all in events) I have stumbled onto the great in-disguise costume of Martha Stewart. Am Martha-stewarting my way though evenings when S is traveling and have (if I do say so myself) come across a couple of interesting dishes. Compared to the other alternative where I curl up in the one foot by one foot sink and sing back-to-back Barry White and King Cole songs, it just somehow seems more productive. Have also taken to gardening. Potting and repotting, and plotting and re-plotting plant strategies.
AND on the occasions when work is MOST pressing, indulge in online boggle like there is no tomorrow (http://weboggle.shackworks.com/5x5/). Sudoko too is a great alternative.
Am going home. On the 12th for 10 days. There is something about the word “home” that makes the mouth salivate and the heart go all gooey. (Have I ever mentioned that Azam is the best person to talk to on the phone. No I mean that seriously. He has the kind of humour that is self depreciating and has you in nothing short of stitches—God I am talking to myself here and/or to Azam. Am going crazy. Need help. This is pretty much Nazia-Zohaib Hassan as it gets. Ominous Reminder: NH died.)
Suddenly have lost interest in my self. Have a very short attention span especially for my own ranthings. Poor S, he bears the worst of it.
Hmm. My book beckons.
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