June 24, 2008

"Indian Nonsense"

I came across an anthology called The Tenth Rasa: An Anthology of Indian Nonsense, while browsing in a bookstore in suburban Philadelphia. The book is a collection of nonsensical poems and short stories from all over India, most of them translated into English. It’s one of those rare Penguin India titles that ended up getting distributed in the U.S. (An earlier book that I discovered in exactly the same way, was Samit Basu’s The Simoqin Prophecies. Also, I should point out that the editors of The Tenth Rasa have started a blog to promote the book.)

I’ll say a bit more about the idea behind the collection below, but what I have in mind for this post is a celebration of nonsense by example, not so much a thorough review (I’m also curious to know whether readers can remember their own South Asian nonsense rhymes, in any language. Anyone? Translations would be nice, but not required).

For now it might make sense to start with a couple of poems. First, the spirit of the collection is perhaps best captured by a favorite Sukumar Ray poem, “Abol Tabol,” (translated alternatively as “Gibberish” or “Gibberish Gibberish” to catch the reduplication), first published in Ray’s book of the same title in 1923:

Come happy fool whimsical cool
Come dreaming dancing fancy-free,
Come mad musician glad glusician
Beating your drum with glee.
Come O come where mad songs are sung
Without any meaning or tune,
Come to the place where without a trace
Your mind floats off like a loon.
Come scatterbrain up tidy lane
Wake, shake and rattle ‘n roll,
Come lawless creatures with willful features
Each unbound and clueless soul.
Nonsensical ways topsy-turvy gaze
Stay delirious all the time,
So come you travelers to the world of babblers
And the beat of impossible rhyme.
(Translated by Sampurna Chattarji from the Bengali)

(“Glusician” is not a typo, by the way; its utter unjustifiability is in some sense the point of the poem.)

Another of my favorites from the collection is an almost-limerick, originally written in Oriya by a writer named J.P. Das, and is called “Vain Cock”:

Taught to say ku-ku-du-koo, ku-ku-du-koo
He only said, ‘cock-a-doodle-doo’
Such a vain cock—
You’re in for a shock:
Not tandoori, you’ll only be stew.

(The joke here of course is that in many Indian languages a rooster’s cry is rendered along the lines of ‘ku-ku-du-koo’, and presumably in the Oriya version of “Vain Cock” the phrase “cock-a-doodle-doo” is rendered phonetically exactly as in English. The Vain cock, in short, is due for stew because of irremediable Anglophilic tendencies in his onomotopoeic ejaculation.)

And yet one more, this time by Annada Sankar Ray.

“What the Little Girl Learnt”

A-ha!
Yes ma!
Baa baa black sheep
Have you any wool?
No ma! No ma!
That’s all bull.
Not black, not a sheep.
Not at all woolly.
So where’ll I get wool?
You’re wrong, fully.
(Translated from Bengali by Sampurna Chattarji)

We obviously lose a little here in translation from the Bengali, especially at the end. But the point still comes through: “No ma! no ma!/That’s all bull” is a way of talking back to the dominance of English nursery rhymes in India, even outside of “English medium” elite spaces. Shakespeare and Dickens may have begun to give way to Tagore and Rushdie in Indian English literature classrooms, but “Baa baa black sheep” and the gloom-filled “Ring a Ring a rosies” still rule the nursery rhyme canon. (In this case, “black sheep” also has a certain possible racial tinge, which Ray seems to be resisting.)

Other nonsense rhymes in The Tenth Rasa have a bit of an anti-colonial flavor to them as well. For instance, there’s a Tamil folk rhyme translated by V. Geetha:

Mister Rat, Mister Rat
Where are you going?
I’m going off to London
To see Elizabeth Queen.
You’ve got to cross the seven seas
Pray, what’s your solution?
I’ll buy a ticket for a plane
And fly across the ocean.
You will get hungry on the way
Pray, what will you eat?
I’ll buy bajjis and vadas, hot,
And give myself a treat.

(Vadas, yum. Exactly what I would want to eat if I were going on a journey across the seven seas, to see the Queen of England…)

The many words for different kinds of food, in different Indian languages, is also widespread theme, as we see in a short tidbit from Sampurna Chattarji’s collection, “The Food Finagle: A Culinary Caper”:

Idli lost its fiddli
Dosa lost its crown
Wada lost its violin
And let the whole band down.

(The above was originally written in English, and part of the pleasure here is in hearing the sound of south Indian dishes – Idli, Dosa, Wada – spilling phonetically into English.)

As I hope these examples illustrate the pickings in The Tenth Rasa are quite rich. People who haven’t been exposed to this type of writing before might want to also get ahold of Sukumar Ray’s wonderful Abol-Tabol, for which a quite decent English translation is available.

And Heyman, Satpathy, and Ravishankar have piqued my curiosity about the Indian experiences and writings of the father of English nonsense writing, Edward Lear (Lear spent two years in India, and left an extensive travel journal, as well as a handful of excellent poems, including “The Akond of Swat” and “The Cummerbund”)

For the curious, here is a bit more on the way this volume was put together:

The Title. The title is an allusion to Bharata’s Natya Shastra, which has a famous chart of the nine literary Rasas, or moods (“spirits”): love, anger, the comic/happy, disgust, heroism, compassion, fear, wonder, and peace. The one that was missing was perhaps the rasa of “whimsy” – or nonsense. The Bengali writer Rabindranath Tagore noticed the absence, and suggested that a tenth rasa might be needed (he also published a volume of writing for children, as well as a collection of Bengali folk rhyms called Khapchhada (1937), which has never been translated in its entirety. And Sukumar Ray, the most famous Indian nonsensicalist of all (the Indian Lewis Caroll) took up this charge quite directly, which contained an apologia at the beginning of the Bengali edition: “This book was conceived in the spirit of whimsy. It is not meant for those who do not enjoy that spirit.” In his introduction to The Tenth Rasa, Heyman points out that the Bengali for “spirit of whimsy” is “kheyaal rawsh” – where “rawsh” is the Bangla version of “rasa.” Thus, The Tenth Rasa.

The Sense in Nonsense. Some readers might think we are just talking about “pure” nonsense, but Heyman defines the specific literary genre he is working with quite carefully:

We may begin by classifying literary nonsense texts as those where there is a type of balance between ‘sense’ and ‘non-sense.’ Such balance is necessary if the text is not to become either plane sense, as in a best-selling crime novel, or utter gibberish, as in a baby’s babbling. The former is unremarkable, the latter, unintelligible. Good nonsense engages the reader; it must ‘invite interpretation’, implying that sense can be made, but at the same time it must foil attempts to make sense in many of the traditional ways.

In order to keep the balance, the ‘sense’ side of the scale must weigh heavily: Nonsense thus tends to be written in tight structures, that is, with strict poetic form or within the bounds of formal prose. It also usually follows meticulously many rules of language, like grammar, syntax and phonetics. Nonsense stories are about identifiable characters and the usually simple plots are understandable.

In short, in order to be interesting, nonsense has to be carefully crafted; it usually bowdlerizes the kinds of literary forms with which we’re most familiar.

A little bit later, Heyman describes the distinction he makes between nonsense and related genres like riddles, fantasy, and fables:

Jokes, riddles, light verse, fantasy, fables—none of these forms is in itself nonsense. A joke is funny because it makes sense; nonsense is funny because it does not. A riddle is clever because, eventually, it makes sense; nonsense is clever in how it suggestively does not. Light verse, fantasy, fables… nonsense can live in any of these forms and more. Indeed, it thrives on some overarching form that gives it some recognizable shape and meaning—something to make sure the nonsense techniques do not make the text explode into boring gibberish—yet the form itself provides only such (necessary) restraints; it does not equal nonsense. Thus, nonsense is a kind of parasite inhabiting a host form, yet it has a life of its own.

In short, what we’re speaking of is not just any old bakwas, but the most refined rubbish.

amardeep at 03:39 PM in Haiku, Humor, Literature · 23 comment(s) · Direct link

February 22, 2008

55Friday: The "Luchini AKA This Is It" Edition

Facebook status messages are amusing, but when they borrow from long-forgotten Camp Lo lyrics, they are empyreal for their ability to summon Mnemosyne, who then sets up her projector for an impromptu mental picture show entitled “nostalgia”.

Seeing SM commenter Yeti’s “Yeti thinks this is it, what” took me back to 1997 at Formula One speeds, when “Luchini” lived in my car stereo (and my driving of a non-McLaren Mercedes was about as sloppy as Schumacher’s at Jerez). Luchini was a prominent part of my soundtrack in the late 90s; the tape it was on (ha!) flipped constantly via auto-reverse as I roamed from the legendary-but-now-defunct Green Planet in Davis to Newpark Mall’s then-revolutionary Forever 21, for hoochie ‘fits to wear to San Francisco’s Sol y Luna (and inevitably and regrettably, Steps of Rome* immediately after that) in North Beach. 1997. Sunroof always open, speeding down 880, being 22…that was it, what.

Obviously, since this song has been on auto-reverse in my head for the last 24 hours, you know what’s coming next: it’s our Flash Fiction 55Friday theme! This week, as you ponder participation pensively, get inspired by Sonny Cheeba’s** Dadaist lyrics and blaxploitation fetish. Alternately, you could choose your own “damn, it’s been years since I heard that”-joint for a starting point or write about something unrelated to excellent hip-hop entirely.

If you’re newer to the Mutiny or you have already forgotten what we did with Radiohead two weeks ago, allow me to refresh your drink.

Flash fiction, also called sudden fiction, micro fiction, postcard fiction or short-short fiction, is a class of short story of limited word length. Definitions differ but is generally accepted that flash fiction stories are at most 200 to 1000 words in length. Ernest Hemingway wrote a six-word flash: “For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn.” Traditional short stories are 2,000 to 10,000 words in length.[wiki]

One type of flash fiction is the short story with an exact word count. An example is 55 Fiction or Nanofiction. These are complete stories, with at least one character and a discernible plot, exactly 55 words long.[wiki]

So, craft a story with exactly 55-words (no more, no less) about anything even remotely related to our theme and leave it in the comments below. If you’re still not convinced that this is a worthwhile timesuck OR you can’t wrap your head around how a story so tiny would even work, peep this, my favorite 55 from our previous, election-themed edition:

I crawled from the wreckage of the cab, dazed. I couldn’t feel my left side.
“You okay?” a man asked.
I lurched toward the crowd of onlookers, my leg dragging.
“I… vote…Obama!” I gasped.
His face registered alarm. “Buddy, you gotta get to a hospital!” he said.
I shoved him aside.
“Fuck… you… Clintonite!” [srsly]

Excellent 55, Saurabh. Your submission made me laugh out loud. :)

This week, it should be even easier to flash us with fiction, considering our Camp-y subject. If anyone thinks this song is suboptimal inspiration, know that when Yeti put the needle on the record, when the drum beats go like this with his Luchini-enhanced Facebook status, he mercifully replaced that “My arms get cold…in February air“-noize` from the Old Navy commercials, which had been stuck in my head for DAYS. Would you have rather had that? Didn’t think so. ;)

*If the non-human vermin which now infest Steps (see the “regrettably” link) aren’t icky enough, look what they did when I was just trying to reapply lipstick one night, four years ago! You can get that lap dance there for free, but who wants it? I know, serves me right for the cosmetic-application-in-public faux pas, but COME ON.

** I swear there was a kid with this name at either Davis or Cal.

`Before you ask— it’s by Lights.

anna at 03:11 PM in Haiku · 17 comment(s) · Direct link

February 08, 2008

55Friday: The "Hail to the Thief" Edition

Once upon a time, every Friday at the Mutiny, we would have quite an orgy of a writing party, as we composed scintillating stories which had a maximum of 55 words.

Flash Fiction Friday (or the Friday55) has been on hiatus for a few months, but it seems like the time is right to commence creating again. :) It’s a new year, it is time to discover new writers.

When we did this in the past, we’d have anywhere from a dozen to almost a hundred story submissions left in our comments section. How is such a thing possible? Well, as I mentioned above, at a wee 55 words, these were rather abridged stories.

I know I’m not the only one who is looking forward to reading the brilliant gems you mutineers tend to come up with. If it’s all still a bit unclear, I’ve got an example of nanoficiton for you to consider; I used to post tiny stories regularly on my personal blog, HERstory. Here is one of those short-short stories, to give you a sense of what they are like, and how zimble they can be, if you are not yet acquainted…

She nervously adjusted her sari, hoping no one noticed. So far, the night had gone flawlessly; she had made a good impression on everyone, she could just tell.

The older woman at the table noted how silk was tugged upwards. Taking a delicate sip of tea, she thought, “She’s not good enough for our family.”

And now, for some background on the genre:

Flash fiction, also called sudden fiction, micro fiction, postcard fiction or short-short fiction, is a class of short story of limited word length. Definitions differ but is generally accepted that flash fiction stories are at most 200 to 1000 words in length. Ernest Hemingway wrote a six-word flash: “For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn.” Traditional short stories are 2,000 to 10,000 words in length.[wiki]

One type of flash fiction is the short story with an exact word count. An example is 55 Fiction or Nanofiction. These are complete stories, with at least one character and a discernible plot, exactly 55 words long.[wiki]

I used to help organize a writing workshop in DC for would-be Lahiris and the one thing which was consistent was an inability to get started. If you looked around at the beginning of any warm-up or writing exercise, you’d observe a morose sort of gaze focused on one’s notebook, writing instruments quivering, and nothing marring those smooth sheets of paper or glare-ridden laptop screens.

To get around this for our Flash Fiction fiestas, I used to choose a song for our “theme”. It was always drawn from my music collection and usually, it was the sort of song one would have seen featured on the now-defunct, but ever-legendary 120 Minutes. This week, I’m going to veer from that formula in two ways. Our theme is the name of an album and a recent one, at that. In light of current events and primary colors, let’s ring around the rosy “Hail to the Thief (The Gloaming)”. More about that, after the jump.

The title of the album is considered by some to be a reference to an anti-Bush chant (itself a play on “Hail to the Chief”, a march played to announce the arrival of the President of the United States) that was used by activists during the controversy surrounding the 2000 U.S. presidential election. However, the band has emphasised the wider political context of the slogan, citing its use during the 1888 election. In the June 2003 issue of Spin Magazine, Thom Yorke was quoted as saying “If the motivation for naming our album had been based solely on the [current] U.S. election, I’d find that to be pretty shallow.” The album’s subtitle was also explained by Yorke: “[The Gloaming] is the imminent sense of moving into the Dark Ages again. The rise of all this right-wing bigotry, stupidity, fear and ignorance.” [wiki]

This Friday, write about anything political, whether it’s election-related or not. Or, defy convention and write about whatever your dil desires. Just post your 55-word story below, in the comments section, so we can all swoon over it, please?

Previous editions of the Friday55, here. Future editions of the Friday55 tbd, depending on whether our new class of commenters contains as many Vikram or Arundhati-wannabes as classes past… ;)

anna at 06:15 PM in Haiku · 63 comment(s) · Direct link

August 10, 2007

55Friday: The "Enter Sandman"* Edition

This Friday, after reading a few of your comments on my last post about Sir Ben, I was struck by how many of you fervently appreciated his work in The House of Sand and Fog. In fact, I was so affected by your opinions, I was inspired to put up (finally) a new edition of the 55Friday.

I love creating an open space for all mutineers to get creative and if you care to grace our thread with a perfect little gem of nanofiction, which spans just 55 words, I eagerly await reading what you’ve imagined.

If, however, you feel like doing something different, perhaps we can do a little “writing exercise” to clear away the cobwebs, since it’s been a wee while since we 55ed. Sometimes, when my English teacher wanted to stir things up, she’d write a sentence on the board and then one-by-one, we’d have a few minutes to add to whatever came before us. At the end of this process (there were only 12 students), she’d read our ad hoc story.

So, I found a sentence from The House of Sand and Fog, and if you’d like to, you may write one to come after. And then someone can follow you, and so on. Normally, I’d say “leave an ‘I got next’ comment” if you want the subsequent turn, so we don’t have two writers scribbling simultaneously, but I get the feeling that won’t be necessary. ;) If by some miracle you all like this, then you might want to start doing that, with the caveat that if it’s been more than 10 minutes, you lose your turn.

Alternatively, if reading all that exhausted you, you can use our THoSaF sentence as fodder for your 55-word flash fiction. Just let your mind meander so you can exercise your atrophied creativity, and write something. That’s the entire point. :)

Here’s your prompt:

My daughter, Soraya, was married on Saturday and I feel already there is a hole in my chest with her gone.

Ready, Betty?

::

*And no, the title of this post does not mean I have given up my life-long aversion to Metallica. Ugh.

anna at 07:10 PM in Haiku · 45 comment(s) · Direct link

June 15, 2007

55Friday: The "One Sentence Story" Edition

I hadn’t logged in to my del.icio.us for a while; when I did so today, one of the “popular” links on the main page caught my eye.

One Sentence - True stories, told in one sentence. [link]

Since I’m the resident doyenne of fast fiction (ironic, innit?), I was predictably and immediately interested.

As soon as I thought, “This might be fun for 55Friday,” your torment was assured. Last week, we had as many haikus as we did examples of nanofiction, so I know you like to change things up a bit. Oh, and to those who wondered out loud why we do this writing-thing/expressed how you’d like to see less of these posts on SM, I have three things to type:

1) Others actually love what you dislike.

2) It’s a tradition! We’re desi, we love rituals and routines!

3) As one of you put it in a very kind email:

I noticed that you haven’t posted a 55Friday topic in a while. I hope you didn’t discontinue it. I love 55Friday because it’s the only time during the week when I’m creative. One day a week, I get to feel like I’m living up to that ever-present new year’s resolution to “write more”, so please bring it back if you can.

So, please ignore this if it doesn’t have any effect on your knickers and move on to something which will— and that’s solid advice for every post you wrinkle your cute little nose at, not just 55Fridays.

Okay, back to one-sentence wonders. The most significant difference between this and our typical 55s? These are supposed to be true, real, non-fiction. I chose a few from the site, to inspire you and help demonstrate what to do. Most of these were plucked from the “Best of” section.

I don’t wish that I had Jesse’s girl…why did he find a woman like this:

Jesse

She’s ruined half of my music library for me.

Since these are true stories, this one made my heart crack:

zot

I am heart-sick because, like many parents of children with profound disabilities, my most secret and unspoken prayer is “Dear God, please let me outlive my child.”

This (since they’re supposed to be true!) is just wrong :)

Adam

The pedestrian looked concerned, as he bounced off the bonnet of my car.

The following reminds me of my little sister; though she pretends to scribble in the air to quickly figure out which her right is, instead of doing what’s below.

Jabberwocky

I know 18 digits of pi and can recite the quadratic equation, but I still need to make an L with my hand to find out where left is.

This could have been written by one of my closest friends, a quondam lawyer and current SAHM:

ilinapde

I always thought I’d be a type-A career woman my whole life, but there he was on my chest, squirming, blinking, crying, clutching my little finger with all his might.

If this IS a true story, wow:

countedx58

How fitting it was that my best friend’s abusive husband died a painful death from melanoma of the rectum.

Have a bit o’ humor:

Erik Wennstrom

It was one of those exams that you absolutely must pass if you want to continue in the program, and I failed the set-your-alarm-clock-properly portion.

THIS is for the most unsuitable girl I know:

dooya

Recently I realized that I waste my life on the internet … and published this insight in a blog.

Kinda poignant:

denton

I want to hold her to stop her tears, but I know my girlfriend would not appreciate that.

And a final pinch of humor:

zooey

Only later did I realize that the taxi driver wasn’t making an obscene gesture, but rather, trying to inform me that I had left a box of takeout on the roof of my car.

See? Wasn’t that swift and yet satisfying? :) Some of you are intimidated by the prospect of writing 55 words which contain an entire story; maybe creating something zimbler, like one sentence will free you from your fears.

Here, the silk ties which will bind your hands, if you so desire:

All stories must be one sentence and one sentence only. Yes, there are ways you can write a gramatically correct sentence that goes on and on and on (hello, semicolon!) but please keep it reasonable. The idea is to tell a story from your life in as little space as possible.

The best One Sentence stories are ones that give the reader a clear picture but also leaves them thinking, “I wonder what happened after that…”

Try to avoid starting your story with “One time…” or “I remember when…” and other similar crutch openings. [link]

If you love what you’ve done and care to submit it to the actual “One Sentence” website where I pulled all of today’s examples from, click here and paste away.

And finally, our standard fine-print:

Obviously, you may ignore this new kink in our virtual writing-orgy and 55 away, especially if you prefer creating fictional stories vs. retelling true ones. We’ll love you and your nanofiction just as much, I promise. The point is to write, right? :)

anna at 12:25 AM in Haiku · 94 comment(s) · Direct link

June 08, 2007

55Friday: The "'I'm Screwed'/Haiku" Edition

When we 55 each week, it’s usually because I have looked to my iPod for inspiration; I try and choose a meaningful song with which to name our Flash Fiction orgies and yes, it’s almost guaranteed that whatever I select once aired on 120 Minutes.

However, on this freaky Friday, like most of you, I’ve got a screaming/crying blonde on the brain. It seems apposite to use one of her shitty songs, in honor of all this justice she got served. Welcome to “Screwed”, from her eponymously named album which is chock full o’ Scott Storch-tainted crap. Perhaps they should make Miss Hilton listen to it in prison, 24/7, as part of her rehabilitation…I know after 30 seconds of each song, I was clawing off my headphones while vowing to never misbehave again. It’s THAT painful.

The lyrics to “Screwed” (heh) are below the jump. Don’t expect much from them. Wait, what am I saying, you are all too bright for that…though if you’re anything like me, you’ll giggle at the thought that the words “I’m screwed” are repeated eight times (ah, there’s the reason for our title). Perhaps she was humming them to herself in the police car?

No matter, on this Fast Fiction Friday, write 55 words about heiresses, anything Paris’s or what’s fairest. Ignore our topic and write about other stuff, too, as long as you do so with exactly 55 words, since that’s what nanofiction is all about. Not sure how to play? Lookie here:

A literary work will be considered 55 Fiction if it has:

1. Fifty-five words exactly(A non-negotiable rule)
2. A setting,
3. One or more characters,
4. Some conflict, and
5. A resolution. (Not limited to moral of the story)

Many new versions of the 55 Fiction have started to modify on the rules by either ignoring to include conflict, or basing it on a true incident and dramatising it. [wiki]

Having copied and pasted all that, in celebration of today’s delicious victory for right over pink-clad evil, you haiku-freaks can get down, too. Same rules for you, just fit your genius in three lines of carefully-counted syllables.

Finally, if you’re wondering what’s up with our visual aid— it’s from an episode of South Park which aired in December of 2004. “Stupid Spoiled Whore Video Playset” was hilarious (and it really was the name of the show, so you can’t yell at me for the caption…that’s what I meant by the asterisk, not that you had any way of guessing that):

Hilton presents herself as “totally spoiled and snobby” and “a whore”, according to onlookers, and announces the opening of a store called “Stupid Spoiled Whore” in South Park. The girls enter and discover, among other things, lewd clothing and a perfume titled “Skanque”. Wendy is appalled by the blatant objectification of women. As Paris drives away in her limo, her small pet dog, in a fit of depression, pulls out a gun and commits suicide. Paris shrieks that “it happened again! Another dog killed itself!” The limo driver himself appears less than surprised.

Later that day, Wendy goes over to a friend’s house and is quickly confronted with the Stupid Spoiled Whore Video Playset, a partial reference to the Paris Hilton Sex Tape scandal that occurred several months prior. The kit takes jabs at Hilton by describing its contents as including “a night vision filter, fake money, losable cell phone, and 16 hits of ecstasy!” Meanwhile, Hilton is in fits over the suicide of her dog, Tinkerbell. In her throes of sorrow, she sees Butters, puts him in a bear costume and demands that he come with her as her replacement pet, naming him “Mr. Biggles”. [wiki]

………………………………….

Screwed by Paris Hilton

I’m Screwed (8x)

Please don’t let it begin
You’re under my skin
Same old story
Boy meets girl and she falls much harder than him


Baby, where’s the glory
If all night, all night, you’re attention’s not mine
Please don’t let it begin
You’re under my skin
It’s a sin cause you’re starting to win


Since I’m already screwed
Here’s a message to you
My heart’s wide open
I’m just getting through to the lover in you
Yet I’m still hoping
That tonight, tonight, you’re gonna turn down the lights
And give me a little more room just to prove it to you
What do I gotta do?


Just push her aside
She’s not your type
So cliché when a boy falls under the spell
Of a woman from hell
It’s hard to take cause
Tonight, tonight, you could have found out I might
Have been the girl of your dreams
Baby, you might have seen what it means just to really be free


Since I’m already screwed
Here’s a message to you
My heart’s wide open
I’m just looking through to the lover in you
Yet I’m still hoping
That tonight, tonight, you’re gonna turn down the lights
And give me a little more room just to prove it to you
What do I gotta do?

Tell me that you do
Tell me that you do
Tell me that you wanna take my number
There will come a day
An easy day in May or a storm in mid December
When you need someone just to have a little fun
I could be the perfect girl for you
When you need someone just to have a little fun
I could be the perfect girl for you to ruin

anna at 07:00 PM in Haiku, Humor · 33 comment(s) · Direct link

June 01, 2007

55Friday: The "Hallelujah" Edition

What was I supposed to say at that sorrow-saturated moment, when you stood behind security’s velvet rope, reaching out for me one last time? I couldn’t follow you to your gate, I can’t follow you in to hell, I must follow this war even more closely, because you have been deployed, though you weren’t supposed to be.

If we could all go back in time, would some of us have voted the way we did, if we knew this is where we would be in May of 2007? I didn’t vote for him and I certainly didn’t vote for this nightmarish occupation which causes nothing but anguish, for innocents cowering in their own homes, for the young, so very young men and women in uniform who witness that and for the relatives of those witnesses, who walk about in a depressed haze, worrying if the last time…was that the last good-bye?

Dazed, I now sleepwalk similarly through my days, wondering where you are, if you’ve had proper food (vegan? In the military??) and if you are okay. I can’t focus, I can’t sleep and I’m grateful to be an allergy sufferer, because it gives my tears and the perma-red eyes they descend from acceptable reasons to exist.

I miss you already, little sister and only sibling of mine. You will always be three to me, knobby knees and ankle socks, super-short hair and moody sweetness. I miss everything about you and I wish you could come home.

What kind of a war are we waging if we send people who just survived cancer scares over, I asked a mutineer. “We’re sending people with spinal cord injuries, what do you think?” was their reply. I think we should support our troops, by bringing them home NOW. And I felt that way before I knew they would take you, too.

That soul-crushing moment when I had to let you go, when I couldn’t stop hearing Jeff Buckley’s voice in my head crooning “Last Goodbye”, I lost every word in my expanded-thanks-to-Scripps-Howard vocabulary. I stumbled with my leaden tongue instead of my wobbly feet, awkwardly letting “bye”, “be well” and “take care of yourself” get muddled in to some nasty cliché cocktail. What I really wanted to tell you, was “I love you, so very much. You are precious to me and I will count the hours until you return.” But that truth never came out of my lips. At least I didn’t cry, not while you were looking. Only when the tram took you away from me did my tear ducts release pain and fear. And Buckley was there again:

There’s a blaze of light
In every word
It doesn’t matter which you heard
The holy or the broken Hallelujah

I did my best, it wasn’t much
I couldn’t feel, so I tried to touch
I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah [Cohen]

I did my best, Kalyani. It wasn’t much.

And even though it all went wrong, I’ll stand before the Lord of Song with nothing on my tongue but hallelujah…because at least I got to hug you good-bye, unlike our Mother, who wasn’t given a chance for such grace, who could only weep from 3,000 miles away while she prayed for your safety.

::

This Friday, write about pain, farewells, uncertainty, war or whatever haunts you.

Ten years ago, Jeff Buckley drowned in Memphis; that tragedy stole his shimmering, otherworldly vibrato and left thousands of music-lovers wondering, “What if…?”. Write about him or other voices which will never sing again, like Nusrat’s, which inspired him.

Earlier this week, I couldn’t get Marvin Gaye’s Mercy Mercy Me (The Ecology) out of my head; find inspiration in his work, if you like. Write whatever story you feel like telling, as long as it contains just 55 sets of unbroken characters, because it’s Friday and if you’re anything like me, words are how Hygeia’s sister soothes you.

anna at 09:48 AM in Haiku · 26 comment(s) · Direct link

May 11, 2007

55Friday: The “Something to Talk About” Edition

It’s Friday, which means another work week is over and it is time for some flash fiction-fabricating.

Between the last post I wrote, the edifying discussion on hair which spontaneously occurred when we failed to identify a brown model, AGAIN (Sorry, Sree) and the most precious Gmail I’ve received in weeks (which contained this query-via-wideo from a four-year-old) well, The Papaya, he is playing on my mind. One of you messaged me regarding your surprise that I hadn’t voted for Sanjaya, a secret I revealed here, but American Idol has nothing to do with my passion for papaya. I sweat him because he’s so kind and ingenuous, because of his sweet nature.

I’m thinking in particular about Papaya’s last performance (available in the video above), which took him from tears to a tiny bit of triumph when he customized the chorus of Bonnie Raitt’s “Something to Talk About” to “other than haaaaaaaair”. That was the moment when my affection for him became solid, when I realized that it wasn’t just idle amusement; he had put up with so much and he was still smiling in his typical, good-natured way. I was amazed, mostly because I’ve never been a fan of this song, but also because he seemed so poised for a teenager. “My hero,” I thought. All those detractors piling on him in addition to the biggest hater of them all—Simon—plus the blatantly racist slant to much of the criticism he received (uh…where were the anti-Italian comments?) equaled humility and niceness, not bitterness or resentment. When I grow up, I want to be a papaya.

::

This week, write about gossip, the blues, papaya, fanjayas or continue the week’s trend and 55 away about hair, ‘pooed, oiled or otherwise. If none of this tickles your knickers, pick your own plot to flash some fiction with, but please play along anyway. I’m sure you have something to talk about, how about packaging it in a mere fifty-five words?

anna at 12:43 PM in Haiku, Music, Video · 12 comment(s) · Direct link

May 04, 2007

55Friday: The "How Soon is Now" Edition

I am glad that this song is now so old, I can cop to liking it without wincing from the “trendiness” of it all. You see little minnows, in 1988— which is when ancient me commenced high school —if someone random noticed a Smiths bumper sticker on a Spanish text book (ahem), it wasn’t surprising if they exclaimed, “OMG, I LOVE that ‘sun and air’ song, you know?” Mmm, yeah. I know.

Like all bands, The Smiths had one song which everybody knew; I always gnashed my teeth at the fact that it had to be this one. After all, I needed this one, damnit. But when you’re 13 and a painfully shy freshman in high school, all you’ve got is your indie/goth cred. So I’d just nod and be all like, “Yeah.” Then they’d leave me alone, lest they be seen with the weird kid and have their ranking on our school’s popularity index decline dramatically.

It always makes top-whatever lists (lyrics, songs, guitar tracks) but I think the real significance of How Soon is Now lies in its status as an anthem for the alienated. Beyond that, HSiN has the greatest intro ever, as far as I’m concerned. Goddess bless Johnny Marr, for his oscillating wildly. But I digress. Then again, that’s just what I do, innit?

Today is Friday and last week, we didn’t have a nanofiction orgy. I wanted to make sure that we got right back on that uber-short story riding horse, lest we all forget how delightful it is to zip up an entire tale in a mere 55 words. Our theme is “shyness”, but as always, you are free to digress…it’s only fair, if I get to do it…

I know I’ve built this flash fiction tradition around the songs that saved my life, but this one is extraordinarily special; it’s akin to breaking out the big guns, to battle the forces of evil. I woke up to some awful news in the wee hours of this morning, so I think it’s okay to dust off the greatest cannon in my canon. Leave your brilliance in the comments below; it’ll get my mind off of casualties, senseless violence and collateral damage, thanks.

::

How Soon is Now

I am the son
And the heir
Of a shyness that is criminally vulgar
I am the son and heir
Of nothing in particular

You shut your mouth
How can you say
I go about things the wrong way ?
I am Human and I need to be loved
Just like everybody else does


I am the son
And the heir
Of a shyness that is criminally vulgar
I am the son and heir
Oh, of nothing in particular


You shut your mouth
How can you say
I go about things the wrong way ?
I am Human and I need to be loved
Just like everybody else does


There’s a club, if you’d like to go
You could meet somebody who really loves you
So you go, and you stand on your own
And you leave on your own
And you go home, and you cry
And you want to die


When you say it’s gonna happen “now”
Well, when exactly do you mean ?
See I’ve already waited too long
And all my hope is gone


You shut your mouth
How can you say
I go about things the wrong way ?
I am Human and I need to be loved
Just like everybody else does

::

The only rule that Kurt Vonnegut knew of— “God damn it, you’ve got to be kind”.

Sigh.

anna at 08:06 PM in Haiku · 15 comment(s) · Direct link

April 20, 2007

55Friday: The "There is a Light That Never Goes Out" Edition

I wore burnt orange and maroon today, did you? I almost feel guilty hosting a flash fiction fete on a day which is dominated by vigils and remembrance. But maybe this is exactly what we need, maybe this will be an outlet or a distraction or a comforting little bit of familiar. There is no theme this week; the title song is there for an entirely different reason than “usual”. It is one of my favorite songs of all time and it means quite a bit to me. It conjures youth, loss, sadness, faith and eternity the moment I hear its first few notes. It is what I listened to when I wrote a letter to Minal Panchal on Tuesday. It’s a song which moves me, which breaks my heart a little whenever I hear it and that is why I can’t get it out of my head.

::

Write 55 words about whatever moves you and post it below. If you can’t do that, but you can write a poem, a haiku or a slightly shorter or longer piece of flash fiction, feel free. While I usually try and insist on adhering to the 55-word shape, this is a week for inclusion, sharing and acceptance, so whatever you want to leave is welcome.

anna at 05:00 PM in Haiku · 24 comment(s) · Direct link

April 19, 2007

Oh, Beloved Papaya...

Don’t cry, little one.

We heart you, dear Sanjaya.

May your haters rot.

::

Have you a haiku for Sanjaya, too?

anna at 06:30 PM in Haiku, Kids, Photos, TV · 72 comment(s) · Direct link

April 13, 2007

55Friday: The "Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now" Edition

I am drained.

It is not because I’ve fought a cold all week, nor is it due to what had to have been one of the busiest Fridays I’ve spent at any job. No, it is this. This site. This ever-growing, always challenging, far-too-smart-to-be-left-alone (much like my German Shepherds, when they were puppies) community/blog/baby/project which I cannot abandon, no matter how many times it makes me cry, rant or mope. I did all of the above, btw. I cried when I re-read a certain infamously raw post about my past, because it is a trigger. I ranted right here, just a few posts below where you are now. And I moped, ohhhh did I mope.

I felt despair. I had been warned that at some point, this blog would grow so big that we would not be able to contain it, control it, corral it…keep it. The writing may have been on the wall, but it was not in our comment threads; some of our oldest readers, loyalists who had been with us forever, people we met online and then later IRL via meetups, whom we cherished…they no longer comment or visit us. They don’t want to be here and it breaks my heart; “that’s the price of success,” one of you told me. No, not that. I want it to always be like this, exactly as rare and wonderful and mutinous as this…

But for a good chunk of the afternoon, exhausted from moderating and well, caring, I gave up. I started to drink the rotten kool-aid and it upset my stomach and more important things, like that squishy mushy, weak, red thing in my chest. What was the point? The mean people who suck would win. And I for one would not welcome our new troll overlords.

I couldn’t take being 16 when I was 16, so feeling that morose, melancholy, weepy bleh-ness was extra untenable as a 32-year old. What did I do when I was that age and this miserable? Ah yes, THE SMITHS. Because as perverse as it reads, they cheer me, yes they do. Within seconds, Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now wafted through noise-cancelling phones and by the second line, I was smiling for the first time all day. I smiled wider when I realized that I had “my song” and thus, my theme for Friday’s nanofiction orgy.

Write exactly 55 words about what makes you miserable, what feels like heaven, Caligula (my favorite despot!), How Soon is Now or anything else that the lyrics which are pasted below evoke. Hell, write about whatever you feel like burying or praising, just make sure you do and that you post your mistresspiece below, yes?

Yes.

Now that I am impossibly chipper (just listened to Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me!), I’m ready to go home. I hope I have yummy 55s to read when I get there.

I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour
But heaven knows i’m miserable now

I was looking for a job, and then i found a job
And heaven knows i’m miserable now

In my life
Why do i give valuable time
To people who don’t care if i live or die ?

Two lovers entwined pass me by
And heaven knows i’m miserable now

I was looking for a job, and then i found a job
And heaven knows i’m miserable now

In my life
Oh, why do i give valuable time
To people who don’t care if i live or die ?

What she asked of me at the end of the day
Caligula would have blushed

“oh, you’ve been in the house too long” she said
And i (naturally) fled

In my life
Why do i smile
At people who i’d much rather kick in the eye ?

anna at 08:11 PM in Haiku · 37 comment(s) · Direct link

April 06, 2007

55Friday: The "Candy Everybody Wants" Edition

When I’m not listening to Accuradio at work, the wee leetle iPod, it is on the shuffle. Like all other gadget-addicted fruit-lovers, I marvel at how the seemingly random is the utterly awesome, since I like every tune that gets served up, every time.

This, despite the fact that I am the one who chose to load all my favorite songs on to Suitable iPod in the first place, thus making me an ingrate for feeling so much wonder at what I, not shuffle, hath wrought. Maybe it’s the timing of it all, i.e. how the perfect song always seems to play at the exact moment it should? How else to explain why Depeche Mode’s “Master and Servant” blares when I’m reading about Dick Cheney and Dubya… ;)

Anyway, I’ve heard the song which inspires this week’s nanofiction orgy 2-3 times a day, every day this week thanks to shuffling. It’s one of my favorite joints of all time, in part because I sweat Natalie Merchant’s voice so so very much. So, since I already had mancandy on the brain and there is ALWAYS candy in my tummy, this week is dedicated to sweet stuff, which seems especially apposite when baskets everywhere are being filled with goodies which will make dentists rich in a few months.

Write about sugar, peeps, sour patch kids or that totem of my childhood which is pictured to the left, Cadbury fruit and nut. I’ve had everything from Hershey’s to handmade, exorbitantly-priced truffles and no chocolate is more delicious or makes me feel more loved; if it’s from England (where it tastes better!) I feel positively adored.

Write 55 words (exactly 55 words, no need to be Hemingway) inspired by the lyrics to “Candy Everybody Wants” or about your own sugar-fix in the comments below. If you are in a salty mood, disregard the weekly theme. We just want to read, so get typing.

if lust and hate is the candy
if blood and love tastes so sweet
then we give ‘em what they want

hey, hey, give ‘em what they want

so their eyes are growing hazy
‘cos they wanna turn it on
so their minds are soft and lazy
well, hey, give ‘em what they want

if lust and hate is the candy
if blood and love tastes so sweet
then we give ‘em what they want

so their eyes are growing hazy
‘cos they wanna turn it on
so their minds are soft and lazy
well… who do you want to blame?
hey, hey, give ‘em what they want

anna at 07:48 AM in Haiku · 43 comment(s) · Direct link

March 30, 2007

55Friday: The "I Feel Fine" Edition

Set adrift on memory bliss…

My screen says, “Please replace this generic password.”

Either my kappipaal hasn’t kicked in yet or I’ve got a severe case of Spring fever (perhaps cowbell could cure it?). I can’t focus, let alone devise a password with 12 letters, one symbol, two numbers and an exclamation point. One of my favorite co-workers stops by my desk, with an eyebrow raised.

“You look lost.”

“Can you like, pick a password for me? Like, passwords are hard.”

“Like math?”

This is our favorite inside joke, this reference to Barbie’s great fustercluck of ‘92. Still, despite legendary vacuous utterances, Barbie is beloved not just by me but also his six-year old daughter, because as we three agree, them Bratz dollz are slatterns.

“Sure I’ll pick something for you.” He seems serious.

“You like music. Use a song lyric.”, he instructs, before striding in to his office, which is next door to my desk. Then he pops his head back out…

“I used to use ‘It’s the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine’ as mine.”

“R.E.M. fan, eh?”

He smiles at me in response. We’re nearly the same age; we were both dorky loners who probably spent all our free time between classes with our headphones on, tuning out the world. We both remember how the release of “Green” in 1988, during the fall quarters of our Freshman/Junior year in high school defined a moment, a mood.

“You know, I usually just pick a word in Greek or Latin.”

“That also works.”, he says and then he’s gone.

I’m trying to choose something which is easy to type and still somewhat secure but now I really can’t concentrate. All I can hear is Michael Stipe singing/shouting “LEONARD BERNSTEIN!” and I feel like I’m falling backwards mentally, travelling through time.

Being able to sing along to that song was something impressive; memorizing the rapid-fire lyrics didn’t just prove that you loved R.E.M. and “college rock”, it also affirmed that while others listened to disposable pop, we chose to be “politically aware” and ponder what it all meant.

After my fuzzy trip back to my first year of high school, I realized that perhaps the universe was giving me what I had asked for— inspiration for today’s Friday55. I am so sorry. I’ve meant to do one every Friday since the last nanofiction orgy, which was a while ago, but something always comes up and if it doesn’t, I just blank when it comes to a theme.

So, write about

rapid eye movement
Athens, Georgia
A tournament, tournament (there’s your madness)
the rapture
or
why you feel fine. :)

In other words, pick any phrase or idea out of the lyrics below, that is, if you need a prompt, a gentle nudge, a temporary muse. You may also choose to be a G.D.I. and ignore our theme completely. Whatever you do, pretty please mold exactly 55 words in to a fantastically short short story and post it in the comments below. Friday calls for flashes of fiction, because I (and hopefully you) feel fine.

::

R.E.M.- It’s The End of The World As We Know It

That’s great, it starts with an earthquake,
birds and snakes, an aero plane -
Lenny Bruce is not afraid.
Eye of a hurricane, listen to yourself churn -
world serves its own needs, don’t misserve your own needs.
Feed it up a knock, speed, grunt no, strength no.
Ladder structure clatter with fear of height,
down height. Wire in a fire, represent the seven games in a
government for hire and a combat site.
Left her, wasn’t coming in a hurry with the furies
breathing down your neck.
Team by team reporters baffled, trump, tethered
crop. Look at that low plane! Fine then.
Uh oh, overflow, population, common group, but it’ll do.
Save yourself, serve yourself.
World serves its own needs, listen to your heart bleed.
Tell me with the rapture and the reverent in the right - right.
You vitriolic, patriotic, slam, fight,
bright light, feeling pretty psyched.

It’s the end of the world as we know it.
It’s the end of the world as we know it.
It’s the end of the world as we know it and I feel fine.

Six o’clock - TV hour. Don’t get caught in foreign tower.
Slash and burn, return, listen to yourself churn.
Lock him in uniform and book burning, bloodletting.
Every motive escalate. Automotive incinerate.
Light a candle, light a motive. Step down, step down.
Watch O’Neil, crush rush, Uh oh, this means no beer Cavalier.
Renegade and steer clear!
A tournament, a tournament, a tournament of lies.
Offer me solutions, offer me alternatives
and I decline.

It’s the end of the world as we know it.
It’s the end of the world as we know it.
It’s the end of the world as we know it and I feel fine.

The other night I tripped a nice continental drift divide.
Mount St. Edelite. Leonard Bernstein.
Leonid Brezhnev, Lenny Bruce and Lester Bangs.
Birthday party, cheesecake, jelly bean, boom!
You symbiotic, patriotic, slam, but neck, right? Right.

It’s the end of the world as we know it.
It’s the end of the world as we know it.
It’s the end of the world as we know it and I feel fine…fine…

(It’s time I had some time alone)

anna at 09:33 AM in Animation, Haiku, Music · 42 comment(s) · Direct link

January 22, 2007

No One's Perfect, not Even Indian Girls (updated)

Listen, my children to your Akka so old,
For she has a story, which today should be told.

Once upon a time, well over a decade ago
Akka received a call from a voice whispering low…

“Help. Oh my God…I don’t know what to do…”
“Wait—Gigi? What’s happening to you?”

“Anneka, I can’t take it anymore; I just want to die…”
“Shhh, stop…you’re a devout Catholic, I know that’s a lie.”

“What…no smile? That’s hilarious, G. Laugh.”

But my own laugh faltered and fell back in my chest,
This was no cry for help, this didn’t feel like a test.

“Anneka, I love you, please always remember that,”

“You stupid bitch Geee, stop, take that back!”

“I won’t let you say Good-bye, this isn’t the end,
I refuse to let you take away my best friend.

I know you feel like you are already dead,
I know about the demons in your heart and your head.

But please, don’t do this, it’s a permanent answer
To a temporary—-

She sobbed, “This is worse than cancer,”

“At least then people would feel sorry for—”
“Screw them, and if they judge you…well, fuck them more.
I know; they and your past are impossible to ignore…

But I also know that I’ve never met anyone with a purer heart,
That you are spun from light and goodness, unlike this tart.

Gigi, where are you, I’m already in my car
Damnit, this is Davis, you can’t be that far…”

“No, please, don’t. I’ve been enough of a burden to you—”

“Gee, I swear to God, I’m going to find you and slap you.”

“Anneka, please don’t hate me for what I’m about to do,
Promise me you’ll forgive me, I’m so sorry…I love you.”

Click.

“GIGI!” I screamed in to an ominously silent phone,
yanking the german car she loved over to the shoulder, alone.

Redial, redial, redial, at least twenty times
Tachycardiac beats and my breath form rhymes.

“BREATHE PROPERLY Latha, you need to be calm…”
I’m hyperventilating, I need a brown bag, I want my mom.

I feel crazed, like I can’t bear to be inside my skin,
My heart and my stomach take turns twisting, within.

“Am I okay to drive?” I whimper to the me in the rearview
“Do you have a choice??” my reflection hisses back, on cue.

During a race to west Davis, Yokohamas stain old tar
An illegal U-turn, a floored pedal, it’s not that far.

Brakes squeal, the front end bounces, fuck the 5 mph sign
I don’t care about parking lot rules when I’m in such a bind.

Daddy’s car is half on the sidewalk, half on a lawn once pristine
I’ll take what I need, this is now an emergency scene.

Jump out and run past dusty security cam,
Poor car is unalarmed because that’s not what I am.

“Hold on, Geee, I’m coming,” I murmur through tears
Everything is too quiet, increasing my fears.

I pound on the door, shouting her name
Then brace my shaking body with both hands on the frame.


Nothing.

I pound again, rattle a door knob, wish my shoulder were stronger,
Want to break down the door, want to keep her here longer.

I’m out of breath, out of heart, and I’m almost out of hope.
This time her voice sounded different, like she couldn’t cope

With what she had carried around inside of her for one anguished year.
Gigi, precious best friend, it took me a few minutes, but I’m here.

Dazed, I walked back to my car to try and call her home phone
To tell her that I’d hold her, that she would never be alone.

But there’s no answer, either from her cordless or my aching head
I’m consumed with terrifying possibility, replaying the words that she said.

I force myself to attend my favorite class; I’m trying not to cry.
Can’t focus on the the History of Mogul India, stare at lecturer’s tie.

Two hours later, merciful epiphany as defibrillator—
Rush to my sorority house, suddenly I’m an investigator

Enter my security code, open sesame, open DG,
rush for the basement door, trip down stairs clumsily.

Suppress the nausea rising from my core,
Stumble over rush-related clutter on the floor.

Inside the filing cabinets, lyrics, financials, info for pledges
I almost miss the hot pink hanging folder with such frayed edges…

“C.O.B. 1995” There should be just six apps within
Jesus, DG and Jen (our Pres), forgive me for this sin.

“Fernandes, Gisele Grace” is shoved in my Jansport ski, then there were five.
“Please God, Mary, anyone, please just keep her alive…”

Back in goes pink, inside the drawer, inside dust-covered steel.
Up I go, up old stairs, though it’s only down that I feel.

“Anneka! What are you DOING?” someone haughtily inquires.
“Nothing, Whitney, go back to ‘Days’.” I leave, avoiding quagmires.

Inside my car, I whip out her file and scan for what I need…

“Permanent phone: (510)…-….”

Gigi laid out like this…it’s almost unbearable to read.

Shaking hands dial cell while quaking lungs inhale.

Far away, in the east bay there’s ringing…

…my arms look like Braille.

Tiny, tinny voice tentatively lilts a “Hullo?”
The most difficult thing I’ve had to ask…can I do this? No.

“Hi Auntie…I’m Anneka, I go to Davis. I’m Gigi’s best—”
“I think I know you. You are her Indian friend, yes?”

“Yes. Auntie, I’m so sorry to bother you, but I’m worried. Is Gigi okay?”

“No, my dear…she isn’t. Gigi overdosed earlier today.”

:+:

I left my car in front of the DG house, in a space which wasn’t mine,
To sleepwalk through traffic on Russell, crossing double yellow lines.

Numb and lost, nauseous with guilt, I traipsed through the MU,
Through the quad, then past Shields, I passed Mrak hall, too.

Down by the still green water, amid the ducks and dirt,
Fell to my knees on soggy ground, punch drunk from all the hurt.

Closed watering eyes, let sobs implode, shook like I was on fault
Nursed torturous guilt like it was a glass of rare Clynelish malt

Had she been on the other side of the front door which I feebly attacked?

Or at her Doctor-parents’ home instead, which was predictably drug-packed?

Oh, Gigi, why? How could you do, you do not do
Even if…it…was so wrenching to live through.

Good Indian girls don’t ever get knocked up,
In fact, good Indian girls, they never fuck up.

Good Indian girls get rid of their issues
(Except when they are Catholic, then they need tissues.)

Handmaiden of God Gigi wore her crucifix to mass
said rosaries of innocent wishes semi-weekly, before class.

Meanwhile, Dominatrix Anna made livid CRs bicker
her backpack festooned with an “Another Republican for CHOICE” bumper sticker.

But Gigi was the one who ended up having to choose,
Gigi was the girl with everything to lose.

Pre-med Gigi, always sober and responsible
Biochem major Gigi, lying half-dead in the hospital.

Our lady of sorrows, last year died on a table
Our angel Gigi, was never again stable.

Penitent Gigi never forgave herself
Suicidal Gigi, because she hated herself.

Unwilling enigma Gigi, did your parents know?
Where Gigi the sinner and I once had to go?

If they did, do they know you did it to protect them,
You sacrificed your sanity so your error wouldn’t affect them.

You swallowed your misery as your Mother railed about Roe v Wade
You wept to me later on the phone about the mess you had made.

You are still an angel, a lady, our Gigi’s still good.
You did everything as well as you possibly could.

I refuse to believe in a deity who would hate you.
I refuse to condone those who would berate you.

I refuse to forget the look on your face in that recovery room
I refuse to forgive your bastard ex- “Dev”, who fled so soon.

I refuse to give up on you, on women, on what’s right,
I refuse to let the cross round my neck turn noose-tight.

I wish I could show your Mom and other “prayer warriors” your pain.
I wish they’d grok how your agony never wanes.

I wish they understood that no one giddily throws a post-abortion fete.

I wish they were as compassionate as the example Jesus set.

I wish they believed me when I said I think life begins at conception
I wish they understood voting for choice won’t send me in hell’s direction.

Precious Gigi didn’t deserve self-imposed death sentences;
Gigi deserved love, babies and white picket fences.

We disagreed for four years whenever we argued,
On our way to class, in the car, on the phone, over food…

But those dozens of times we debated the morality of a doctor’s knife,
Darling Gigi of mine, I was pro-choice because I was pro- your life.

:+:

Names and certain details have been altered to protect the rights of a survivor who got what she deserved—a simple kind of life with her husband and children in Northern California.

anna at 06:14 PM in Haiku, Health and Medicine, Issues, Musings, Politics, Religion · 129 comment(s) · Direct link

January 12, 2007

55Friday: The "Number 1" Edition

The ping came from the right-most tab of my browser; soon, the unavoidable flashing would commence, alerting me to someone’s attempt to chat from within GMail. I avoid AIM like it’s meat, I don’t even have Yahoo or MSN screen names, but Google…ah, you still own a little bit of my heart. Just who was interrupting my intense reverie? It was one of you.

“Shawty… today is Friday.”

”?”

“55s”

“ah…watching Ronin. maybe it will inspire me…”

“Ronin!”

I hope it’s not a side effect of turning 32 (as my relatives in Kerala loved to point out— an unmarried woman in her 30s is a CRAZY woman), but I have had blogger’s block sum’n fierce for the past week, which is why I’ve been all Mathangi on your kundis. Unfortunately, Ronin didn’t provoke anything besides salivation over the prowess displayed by a certain M-propelled E34.

But, I miss you and I miss this exactly-55-words-thing we do, so I left “Freude am Fahren” behind and turned to what I should have in the first place for some inspiration— music. I grabbed my ancient shuffle and resolved to use whatever song played first as motivation. Et voila, Goldfrapp. It is an apposite choice and not just a random one; this is the first nanofiction orgy of 2007 and I concur with Alison when she sings, “You’re my favourite moment, you’re my Saturday”. I already told you that you were.

This Friday, collect 55 words and arrange them in to the shortest of stories; create nanofiction about your “firsts”, about digits, about whatever your number one might be. Leave your first-rate short-short in the comments below (or let us know where we should go, in order to find it). Happy new year, mutineers…here’s to much fiction and fun with my number ones in ‘07.

anna at 06:02 PM in Haiku · 17 comment(s) · Direct link

December 15, 2006

55Friday: The "Cherub Rock" Edition

I believe in Sliding Doors.

I believe in Serendipity (though I never ventured there myself).

And yes, I believe that at least one angel watches over me. There’s no other explanation for my stupidly good luck or the consistent little miracles which always make my heart lift a little bit in my chest as my hands fly to cover my face from either shock, delight or both. I’m a girly-girl and a Christian one at that, so for me, this is a season for miracles. True to my Orthodox roots (and like a certain Uncle and Auntie in Florida who used to wear buttons pointedly declaring this fact), I believe that Jesus is the reason for the season. If I do THAT, then I have to suspend cynicism, don’t I?

:+:

7:15. Metro. Red line to Glenmont. I hear the infamous, “Doors closing!” as I’m rushing down the escalator at Tenleytown, just as fast as my Connolly-colored mukluks could take me.

I skip the last three steps but it’s too late. Six minutes to the next train. That’s not so bad— it seems better than the Orange line, anyway. Six minutes pass, I board and after Cleveland Park, we pause for no apparent reason as the operator announces “Stand by.” I roll my eyes. I just want to get home.

7:35. Dupont Circle metro. I climb the obscenely long escalator, hang right and rush towards the “other side” of Connecticut Avenue, where the pretty Starbucks and Kramerbooks is…there’s some commotion but this is Dupont Circle and weird crap happens all the time.

7:45 Two plain-clothes-clad police officers or detectives stop me outside of Ruth’s Chris.

“Miss, did you just walk up Connecticut Avenue?”

“I did, what’s wrong?”

“There have been a series of muggings in the area— the perp has a knife and is considered dangerous. Please look at this picture and tell us if you’ve seen him.”

I do.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I have-“

“That’s okay. Take the flyer and be careful, he’s here somewhere and armed. We just missed him.”

He’s pointing down the street, exactly where I just walked.

“WHAT?”

“Yes, around 7:30, down by Kramerbooks. Stay alert.”

As I walk away, I hear the other officer say, “I can’t believe we just missed him.”

My friend was violently mugged in the same area the next day (he’s…okay). Considering the amount of time I spend running around D.C. AND the fact that it gets darker earlier, I feel lucky to have not suffered the same fate. No, I don’t think I’m the beneficiary of the randomness of the universe. :) Mock it if you will, I don’t mind.

:+:

This Friday, write 55 word short stories about the moments which leave you with flesh more suited for geese; whether you are a fan of the movies I commenced this post with or the X-Files (or hell…both), find inspiration in the ethereal and the intangible. Explore intuition or celluloid depictions of destiny (and frozen hot chocolate), and if none of those ideas move you, disregard me entirely and write about a subject you prefer— just leave your nanofiction in the comments below if you haven’t posted a link to where we may find it.

While I am sick of seeing this cheesy duo, I still believe Cherubs Rock (especially when the Smashing Pumpkins say so).

anna at 03:35 PM in Haiku · 21 comment(s) · Direct link

December 08, 2006

55Friday: The "I Want Your SEX" Edition

It is time for further explorations of today’s “You asked for it…” theme, via flash fiction on a Friday:

Jai: As someone recently mentioned on the News tab, this blog is screaming for a Bad Sex in Fiction-themed 55Friday, like a man and woman simultaneously exploding in a 2000-gigaton thermonuclear detonation of desire and mutually-assured destruction, the mushroom cloud of their passion suffusing the bedroom like acid rain in a post-apocalyptic nuclear winter.

Pooja: A N N A did respond to my suggestion with a “Hell, yes!”
We’re waiting… ;).[linky]

Wait no longer, my pets (though allegedly, if you do it’s that much better)— the porntastic version of 55Friday is here. Jai and Pooja? Membership has its privileges, because this DJ doesn’t always take requests. ;)

For those of you who are utterly confused as to what we three book-lovin’ pervs are going on about, Ennis wrote a post entitled “Good Writers Finish Last” about a dubious competition—the Literary Review’s Bad Sex in Fiction Award— which inspired the comments you see quoted above.

Now in its 14th year, the award is given to the passage considered to be the most redundant in an otherwise excellent novel…

The judges said the award’s mandate is “to draw attention to the crude, tasteless, often perfunctory use of redundant passages of sexual description in the modern novel, and to discourage it”. [linkypoo]

Hopefully you still have enough stamina to mount an attempt at some 55age, though I know some of you must be exhausted from all of that passion expended over on the “size matters” thread. You may write total fiction, obscure some, ahem, non-fiction or use Mutineers or anyone else you please in your nanofiction. Come now, it can’t take you all that long to recover. ;) After all a 55-word story is nothing but a quickie. You’ll be done (and so very satisfied) before you know it.

:+:

A note about our theme song:

1) I’m referring to IWYS part one; appositely enough, it had some of the most cringe-inducing lyrics ever and I’m someone who had pictures of Georgios Kyriacos Panayiotou up in my locker Freshman year, so you know if I’m dissing it…

2) This is a bit of a departure for our 55s— I usually pick songs which I love, which meant something to me (and often, still do).

anna at 07:10 PM in Haiku · 80 comment(s) · Direct link

November 24, 2006

55Friday: The "Thank You" Edition

What, like you expected somthing else, after all this? :)

Due to one memorable mindfulness class I took in 2003, I have spent the last few years growing more conscious of how we are surrounded by opportunities to be grateful. It’s been such an eye-opening experience, to the point where I feel horrible about the past, because I know I was oblivious to so much goodness which I didn’t acknowledge. I can’t do anything about that, but I’ve tried to incorporate gratitude in my daily life, because the truth is, the act of appreciating something or someone can be transformative and beyond that, it’s just the right thing to do.

Around this time of year, it’s even easier to say “Thank you”. :) After all, you get time off from work to do it! I’m not sure if some of you partook in that ritual last night where you go around the table and state whatever you’re thankful for, but if you did, I’d love to hear what bullet points you offered to your family and the turkey carcass. Perhaps you can contain what thrills you in exactly 55 words, but because it’s a holiday, I’ll be just as appreciative if you haiku it. I’m just grateful that you kids play along with my inconsistent flashes of silliness and I’m delighted that a few of you mentioned how you are thankful for “55s” in the comment thread of my last post. It’s nice to know you care. :)

This week, our theme song is extra flexible, because I can’t decide if I’m referring to the Dido version of “Thank You” or Alanis Morissette’s much-mocked take on the phrase. I know, the fact that the latter contains the phrase, “Thank you, India” might militate in favor of choosing THAT as our tune du jour, but then, if we invoked the Manish-Vij-anti-exotification clause… ;)

So, write about flavor-free poultry, family, cranberry sauce, gratitude, popular female singers (one of whom was naked!) or whatever else you are loving right now. While you do that, I have to go remind my Mom to make her famous cranberry pickle while the berries are still available, because that exquisite hotness is ridiculously yummy. Unlike the rest of you foodies, I didn’t stuff my strict-vegetarian face yesterday so I’m still hungry. I could totally go for some chor, mor and pickle right now and you’d best believe I’d be thankful for how good rice, yogurt and an extra-spicy condiment always taste. :D

anna at 11:38 PM in Haiku · 38 comment(s) · Direct link

November 17, 2006

55Friday: The "Blue Jean" Edition

“Let’s motor”, a certain red Mini whispered my way late last night, so I happily complied. Careening down Rock Creek Parkway, I thought I was already as blissed as I could possibly be, since I had a sticky car on a curvy road obeying my right hand’s every whim. Then I realized that XM’s Fred was sending me some David Bowie-flavored sweetness; I hadn’t heard “Blue Jean” in at least a year, which is unfortunate, because it’s one of my top three Bowie songs of all time. Laughing out loud, I made the volume dial spin clockwise as I threw caution out the sunroof. My wrist chose sixth and my night was sublime.

I tend to name our nanofiction orgies after songs which helped me survive high school and “Blue Jean” can definitely take some credit for that feat. No, seriously…I don’t have any other reason for choosing it. It’s not like I’m trying to indicate a subtle preference when it comes to college sports or anything. CoughGOBLUEcough.

:+:

Today, we’re going to do something a little different with our flash fiction festivities. Yes, you have a theme, which you can mutilate as you see fit (blue, jeans, space oddities…it’s a very special Abhi-edition of the 55). You may also ignore it, if you have words within you that have nothing to do with the song which is still stuck in my head. However, if you are not inclined to write an amuse-bouche of a tale which is composed of exactly 55 words, I have another option for you.

I seek out and usually yenjoy a certain part of the Sunday Post’s Style section; it’s called “LIFE IS SHORT | Autobiography as Haiku” and it is wonderful. Like the Mutiny filing 55s under this particular category, WaPo stretches the word Haiku to accommodate more than a spare, three-line poem would; in this case, the submissions are 100 words or less. Here’s a brown example of one from last year, which I heart:

Post-Ivy League, post-investment bank, pre-grad school. I’m comfortably nestled in the quarter life crisis void where every vodka and tonic chips away at my savings and the line, “I’m Raj, 26, and unemployed” is met with muted smiles and calculation of my marital market value, determining if I can provide the BMW, basset hound and MTV-crib-style house by 2011. Being Sri Lankan, not dark enough to be black, not light enough to resemble European, leaves me in genetic No Man’s Land with the ladies. Love is blind, but not to income or skin pigment.

I figure there is always reincarnation.


Rajeev Sreetharan
Bethesda

Raj, I am at your “2011” and it doesn’t get easier or more fun, when you’re 31. The positive aspect of this blue truth is it provides us with more material to write about…or so I’m told, whenever my life is upended. Autobiography or Flash Fiction…what’ll it be, mutineers? At the very least, if you choose the former, you can update your Friendster’s “About Me” section with something craptacular wonderful, right?

anna at 11:59 PM in Haiku · 31 comment(s) · Direct link

October 13, 2006

55Friday: The Callipygian Edition

I know. Normally, there is a song title plucked fresh from my iTunes to grace that prominent, headlining area, but today, by very special request, your girl Friday is going to acknowledge one adorable-assed comment from a few weeks ago and sample it for this post. This is the remix, etc etc…

So I see a word I don’t recognise. I go to dictionary.com to look it up. I find out this word means:

having well-shaped buttocks

Having beautifully proportioned buttocks

I suddenly discover a whole new meaning to my life, to insert this word into conversations whenever I can, because it is as curvacious a word as the thing it describes. I think this has taken over as my favorite word in the English language, which used to be ‘Serendipity’, followed closely by ‘luminous’ and in third place ‘lepidoptery’.

But now I know what callipygian means, I am in love with that word. Please write a post featuring this word in the headline.[link]

And you thought I wouldn’t remember…silly sepiates. I’m all about the love, especially when that’s MY word you’re crushing on (well, it’s mine along with “apposite“…can’t overlook that one). Red Snapper’s kind command has been playing on my mind for these past two weeks, as I considered what post would be…um…apposite for such curvaceous titling. Finally, I have decided to take the easy way out. ;)

This Friday, take a crack at writing a flash of a story, with just 55-words to flesh it out. Take your inspiration from Sir Mix-a-lot, Wreckx- n-Effect or anyone else who’s got love for the booty (HELL, YES!). Write nanofiction about Wessside interpretations of Miami Bass, extra-memorable Seinfeld episodes, Boricua starlets who destroy innocent Beatnuts songs or how “kundi” is going to be Sepia Mutiny’s big contribution to the emerging 2nd gen cross-cultural lexicon (HA! Take THAT Northies!). Or, write about something else which fits in exactly 55 words. Just write something. And then post your astounding ass-terpiece in the comments below, so we can ogle it shamelessly, okay? Get crackin’, you mutinous poo-flingers.

Sepia Mutiny does not waste your time. [link]

It does on Fridays, mang. ;)

anna at 04:08 AM in Haiku · 55 comment(s) · Direct link

October 08, 2006

Sunday55: The "Black Dog" Edition

One of my best friends sent me a virtual pep talk at 5:15 pm; he had no possible way of knowing that the words he borrowed from Winston Churchill to make his point were already on my mind. Reading his GMissive on my august, semi-blinged phone’s meager screen while parked in traffic at M St + Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown reaffirmed my belief that nothing is accidental and that especially in my life, continental, oceanic and ironic plates clash together to create quaking moments which belong on celluloid. What are the odds? I get that email when I’m already pondering the British Bulldog, while “Black Dog” by Led Zeppelin blares through every straining speaker of this zippy red morsel of German perfection, which is mine for the evening? G-d is one hell of a director; I dig all the synchronicity.

Currently, I’m being haunted by the spectre of a black dog myself, as I reboot my entire life and go it alone, in every possible sense of the word. I desperately wish that I had just one pair of my venerable Docs with me in this cocoa city, to stomp through all the omnipresent ick with…alas, every set of bouncing soles lives with Moms, 3000 miles to the left. Incidentally, that picture you see above was taken the day I met Sepia Wizard Paul for the very first time, in North Beach, for a day of molesting Harry Potter (that was me), being confused by elderly Asian people (both of us) and mais oui, espresso at Greco (that SHOULD be everyone). I’m always a sentimental old bat, but I think tumult like this makes it even easier to conjure the past, as if to remind myself that this, too, shall pass, just like everything else has.

We haven’t held a festival for 55-word nanofiction in several weeks, so this Sunday, write about your black dogs, your love of fog, your fear of being a cog. Whatever floats your clove-smoking, black wet-n-wild nail polish-wearing, Gothic boat. If you’re not too black and blue to do so, that is…

anna at 06:34 PM in Haiku · 50 comment(s) · Direct link

August 18, 2006

55Friday: The "Monkey Gone to Heaven" Edition

…and that mother$>@%!#& Macaca apparently got there on a mother$>@%!#& plane. Whether the simian sported a mohawk or a mullet is still open for debate.

Today is Friday and on most Fridays at the Mutiny, we write flash fiction. Co-ink-i-dinkily, today is also August 18th and thus, a very special holiday. It’s Bad Poetry Day!

Bad Poetry Day is a day to create some really bad verse. But, why you ask? Perhaps, the answer is simply “because you can”. Maybe, it exists to allow us to better appreciate good poetry. Or, perhaps it is to be written to irritate someone…the intention is to gather a group of old high school friends, and write some really bad poetry. Then, send the poetry to your old high school teacher. Wow!, That sounds like a lot of fun…[linkage]

Indeed, it does, especially if you ignore that part about sending it off to a teacher— I mean really, who has the time?

The last time the Mutiny did anything collaborative with poetry, it was Valentine’s day and we invited you to submit haikus; since you enjoyed that so much, I thought I should encourage you to write more of those spare, elegant poems, especially if it means that people who normally don’t 55 can participate in our creative corner of Sepiadom.

Many of you ask me either in person or via email, “but how do you write one of those 55 things?” To which I generally and unhelpfully respond, “You just…do. MS Word. Wordcount. Before you know it, you’ve got 65 words and then you find yourself doing some careful pruning.” The reaction to this incoherent response is almost always further confusion or frustration. Well, it may seem daunting to tell an entire tale using less than five dozen words, but what about a three-line work of art? You could manage that, right? It’s a mere 17 syllables (arranged thusly: 5-7-5), you can so do it.

Annnnnd, I think I’m done here. I have one of the most addictive college rock hits EVER happily lodged in my head, you have TWO options to get busy in a thoughtful, literary way and we all have fantastic reading material to look forward to…right, Kobayashi-san? Any mentions of

• snakes
• the Confederate flag
• planes
• macacas
• noose-lovin’ Senators
• Tunisia
• hairstyles which are all "business in front, party in the back"
• fake-ass-cowboys
• Palos Verdes
• the power of the interweb (in both of those situations!)
• Samuel L. Jackson

will be enjoyed heartily, I assure you. Now get crackin’, macacas.

anna at 01:20 PM in Haiku · 35 comment(s) · Direct link

August 04, 2006

55Friday: The "Forbidden Fruit" Edition

I think this is the second time I’ve had to reach beyond my treasured, “120 Minutes”-era musical fetish to find a tune which fits a Flash Fiction Friday. I blame Siddhartha, for the Parisian prose in his post, since it reopened that festering debate about how cringe-inducing cliches which brown writers seem to sweat (henna, silk, spices, MANGOES) make us all want to vomit…curry. Or something. I’m not too broken up about this, though; if I had to use something other than excellent alternative music for our theme song, ain’t no shame in my Nina Simone-soundtracked game.

It’s the second time for something else, as well. Today, I invite you to create 55-word stories which sound like they were taken from “The Arranged Marriage of Crazy Curry-lovers in Marin” or whatever disposable lit you care to mock mercilessly. The December 16th, 2005 “Why Can’t I Be You?”-edition of 55Friday nominally used a similar theme, though what I really asked for then was for you to borrow the voice of someone famous for us to later guess…Sajit made a special request for some tamarind-flavored 55age and you came through like champions. My favorite two from that edition are below.

The Ill Hindu himself contributed this miniature masterpiece, before he was a Mutineer:

His tigress.
Desire crowded his mind like pilgrims at Benares. Her silken lips, cinnamon eyes, lashes like Assam tea. Her breasts, twin Taj Mahals at sunset.
How exquisitely she played his shehnai. The taste of her mango lassi.
A monsoon of sadness flooded him.
“It’s been fun,” she’d said. “But I’m having an arranged marriage.”

GENIUS. After that, Badmash dropped the J-bomb (sorry, Saheli):

The elephant in the newsroom was her use of cheap metaphors in foreign assignment pieces from exotic locations. The juggernaut of letters to the editor from offended Sepia readers concerned him enough to call her in for a meeting. How would he ask her to tone down the spice without invoking the wrath of Kali

Weren’t those fab? I expect no less from all you ardent members of the Anti-Mango Brigade. I know that Red Snapper may not forgive me for exhorting you to do this, but cliche away!

anna at 05:53 PM in Haiku · 41 comment(s) · Direct link

July 28, 2006

55Friday: The "Black Metallic" edition

Yesterday, I wrote the first of two posts about the anomalous attention paid to (in that case) two brown actresses by the popular “Go Fug Yourself” blog. Fluffy as that post might have seemed, the discussion it prompted was by no means insignificant. My delayed epiphany about Mindy and Parminder was inpsired by their skin, specifically, how it didn’t conform to what much of the diaspora considers beautiful. It was the color of their skin and I know fellow older alt-music fans, it wasn’t black metallic.

This Friday, my thoughts move aimlessly, passing so many things: beauty, skin, pigmentation, fireworks, torture, St. Catherine of Alexandria. Perhaps your mind is similarly adrift— if so, write. Write about any and all of the above, or none of it if it doesn’t move you. The important thing is that you write a very short story, a tale so brief, it is composed of exactly 55 words. Ah, this Friday wanes, my energy with it…think of me when I’m sleeping. Of all the secrets that I’m keeping, some of which, I promise, will surface below…but only after you spill yours, my dears.

anna at 11:56 PM in Haiku · 13 comment(s) · Direct link

July 14, 2006

55Friday: The "Original Sin" Edition

This marks the second time that fellow Mutiny-org