fly away on my zephyr

10:47am: Can I get some good karma around here?


......................................

12:40pm:

they go on living simply because it's a habit they can't give up

che.

2:23pm: "Pedestrian crossing signals featuring female, rather than male, figures, are launched in Zwickau in Germany on a three-month trial."

oh feminism.

1:04pm: um
..............................

Propriety grabbed my throat and squeezed last night.

...............................

9:52pm: The Moles and I always miss each other's calls.

2:14am: laa-dee-daah
I admire a man that still uses these for shaving:



Indian shaving cream that comes in bars like soap leaves grandfathers' cheeks smelling like hot ginger snaps.

4:21pm: email from matt
"...we discuss daily whether we are helping the corn have sex or masturbate. and if we are helping it have sex with itself...is it like extreme incest?..."

10:44pm: Suddenly, as I was driving home today, I got the sudden feeling that I, yes I, am indeed the (better looking) reincarnation of Edward Scissorhands.

AND finally, there is possibility of FRESH MEAT on the scene. though meat is tasteless I still enjoy chopping it up with my scissor-hands.

snip snip snip.

Ahem = Amen?

July 31 is National Orgasm Day. orgasmic or what?

12:24am: all of a sudden there is a lack of colors and clotheslines.



( ColorsColorsColorsColors )

'poet (?):
that word needs re-
defining

when I hear that
word
I get a rising in the
gut
as if I were about to
puke.'

thanks buk.

12:04am: i shall now take the liberty of introducing you to the indian men i love:

1) saif ali khan

2) mahatma gandhi

3) Osho

4) gramps

5) rabindranath tagore

6) arundhati roy (oops, she's a woman)

i shall now take the liberty of introducing you to my newest theory:

someday (not soon) people will evolve into creatures that only need to masturbate to reproduce.

hip hip hooray for masturbation.

2:53am: spawn of SATAN!

11:13pm: One of my pockets contains Rupees and the other Euros. I have only two pockets- there is no space for dollars.

When I left Delhi it was 4th July, 12:30 am. When I arrived in Paris, it was 8 am, 4th July. When I arrived in Cincinnati, it was 1:40 am, 4th July.
It has been the 4th of July for over 24 hours, and the sound of fireworks outside my bedroom window is not pleasing me.

I have forgotten the concepts of privacy and personal space. Flat expanse makes me nervous.

Four days ago I woke up and said my last goodmorning to the Himalayas with a cup of Kehwa green tea from my grandparents rooftop:



My uncle once wanted to be a sadhu (hermit) and travelled all over India, visiting various temples and ashrams.

My suitcases smell delightful, and I just want to go back HOME and wallow in the scent of monsoon-concrete.

This is the most beautiful thing I saw:

1:20am: I wish I could describe to you the contrast of orange flowers against green palm leaves that I see everytime I look out the window.

And everytime it rains in the puddles are flowers.

But I miss my cable modem. a lot. i can't even post pictures.

3:46pm: I will be leaving for India in exactly a week.

In Bombay I will arrive on June 10, swept in with the monsoons . My ankles will be greeted with earthworm slug-filthy water and my feet with red plastic gumboots and my nose with alternating wafts of masala-chai and cow dung. And in Bombay I will have the best coffee I have had in my life in the roadside cafes, better coffee than Europe even, coffee that brings shame to the murky questionable brews served here, and bidis and beggars and cigarette butts and rickshaws, sweltering sun and dirty water and men and women rolling ox-carts filled with mausambi, the sweetest of citrus fruit and mangoes and litchis from my grandparents’ front yard in Dehradun with snow-capped mountains in the distance. And water shortages will allow me one bucket of cold water each day for a bath; because of the electricity outages almost every night we will light long white candles and sit on the porch of the whitewashed house and tell stories and jokes, I will sit in the wicker swing I sat and swung in eleven years ago, with a warm puppy in my lap and my cousin at my side.
In the streets of Bombay I will hear the newest bhangra-rap that has overtaken the music scene and ride the rickshaw to Diamond Garden, where the old man gives rides on his pony and where children stand in lines to slide down the long steel slides, with their smiling parents ready to catch them at the bottom. I will buy erasers with colored cellophane wrappers and Natraj pencils along with the excited chattering schoolchildren, speaking alternately in Hindi and broken thickly accented English.
In the choppy Bombay night will be clubs and drinks and drugs and movie stars and miniskirts, and in the sweet cool Dehradun nights there will be lizards on the ceilings and antiques in the attic and hot breakfasts, mosquito nets and flower gardens and bicycle rides, densely forested narrow lanes and small fruit and vegetable bazaars.
But in Bombay no longer will my mother tell me stories of Rumplestillskin and Sleeping Beauty while waiting for the crunching gravel under the tires of my father’s car, and no longer will my cousin and I be able to stand on the wicker swing together and swing higher and higher and eat poison berries from the backyard.

Or maybe we will.

In America I want to be alone and think. In India there is no such nonsense. Pure life, just life, everywhere, in all its beauty and ugliness.

I can’t wait.

I already don’t want to come home.

10:45pm: Tomorrow marks the last trash day of my high school life.

For the past four years, trash day has been my favorite day of the week.

This calls for a moment of silence.

11:31pm: mr. schroeder had a dream about me.

i'll leave it at that.

12:40am: this made me quite weepy once:

"...But this is the way the world ends, everyobody alone, that's good, that's how you started, remember? Everybody dead in the cemetary; husbands live with their wives; the 4:19's on time; Texas sheriffs wear stars, etc....everybody's in his heaven, God made the world, I'm okay too adn get hi once a night and still belived and still love you."


Tutte le strade conducono a Roma- all roads lead to Rome.

This has been a day of rereading of underlined (pro)portions.

10:55pm: And those first few nights in the apartment building when all of a sudden in the midst of foreign American slumber breaths of fresh smog- free air the fire alarm would ring and jolt jolt sitting up in bed we thought it was only the alarm clock but as we slapped the Snooze we realized that it could be a fire and we had to wake up and get up and run, stop drop and roll if there is a fire, the elevators won’t work so clankety clank we trudge down the aluminum fire escape stairs winding winding, winding like a jewelry box ballerina all the families and blanket wrapped children trudging clankety clank down the stairs, one after another, did we just pass the 6th or 5th floor? and how many more? all whilst rubbing sleep goopy eyes with chubby sweaty fists as one sandled foot followed the other down streams of aluminum stairwell. And my mother rushed us out of bed and into the assimiliation of clankety clank footsteps groaning sirens and barefooted we were out onto the hot pavement I remember how strange it all was, so many people living here together all at once and clunking down the same stairs for months every time someone’s beans accidentally got burned or the hair curler was left to catch the rubber gloves on fire. And no on had warned us about these fire alarms or what they entailed and my mother rushed us out of bed the first time, afraid that there really was a fire and we all ran downstairs without even putting shoes on, my heart kerplunking and thump-thumping hoping our belongings wouldn’t burn, then where would we live? The downtown was cruel and wouldn’t take us in like the streets of Bombay and its beggars and sewers and cigarette butts would swallow us whole, offering us it’s grandparented age-old wisdom and lights that lit up a necklace fit for a queen, distant pearls holding it all together, encircling us with sea-breeze monsoon breeze hum.

11:23pm: Life is a whore.

10:55pm: Scott and I have derived the formula for nothingness:



That is some hot action.

12:46am: How can we ever lose interest in life?
Spring has come again
And cherry trees bloom in the mountains.

- Ryokan (1758-1831)

2:35am: Let me provide for your eyes, not a venn diagram, but a ZEN DIAGRAM:

11:07pm: My mother asked me if I needed antidepressants today.

11:22pm: My mom and I did a Buddha charcoal sketch tonight.  It looks funny, but we are getting better. I am exhaused: 2.5 hours of tennis...much needed.

1:50am: me>> "zen is emptiness" <<

her>> "well what's the fun in that?"

I need to vomit. I want a cigarette.