don't talk just kiss/ let your tongue fool around

there are no definite plans for this post. like there ever are, but it is good to pretend that medusa is this organised superbrain who has detailed plans for whole week's post to come and etc.
anyway, city and hostel are both terribly hot. the heat is tangible, if you move your hands around you, there is a warm humid feeling in the air, as if you are made to touch warm blooded reptile. there are pockets of respite on the road, but to reach them you ahve to mount an excursion that is equivalent to a lazy person's journey to the sahara. medusa's favourite past time these days is to feel the different temperature zones in her room and to manuevar herself so that the exposed parts of the body are in contact with the less warm zones.
anyway, too much of something is not always bad.
so medusa decided to turn the heat on by unleashing angelina on the blog world.
apart from such maundane ramblings, medusa is happy to note that she has finally sat down to study and has started writing as well. what rocks medusa's boats right now is the idea of "masquerade" as proposed by Joan Riviere (that smart psychoanalyst who freud and etc will not sleep with because she was so intellectual....) and then later on developed by many other film theorists. Riviere says that supposedly masculine women , in her world that would be intellectual and successful in a porefessional capacity, tend to overdo the tropes of femininity in order to dispel the threats of patriarchy. for her, this is a strategy for survival.
but later on, masquarade has been looked at as something that by being overdone exposes the made nature of discursive formations such as femininity and therefore is a threat to patriarchy.
yay.

gym gym gym gym

i have been quite ill. had my annual stomach upset and vomiting fits.....the hyd heat is as usual killing!!! so will not indulge in reservation controversies, l>t,hope u dont really mind the wait.
here is something about the only place that seems to make me happy these days.
When the cat's away, the mice will play:
Our paunchy gym owner/instructor was absent yesterday. and we had fun. i used to think that since we do not know telugu (the vernacular in hyd and in AP), the DUDE manages to oppress us, scold us, torment us and never say a kind word to us. it is my hypothesis that he didn't bother to learn niceties in english, realizing that barking oders at unwilling subjects of torture is all that he needs. at times he gives up verbal communication altogether. he smirks, grits his teeth and shows three fingers, implying "i know that you are cheating and have completed only three sets of this extremely gruelling exercise. but you need to do three sets and i am not likely to forget that."
therefore when his highness is away, the thin pretty boys group together in one corner and show off their camera phones to each other. the thinner boys try their hands (or other body parts)at the machines that they have so far been denied access to. the thin pretty girls flutter their eyelashes at the handful of hunks that we have been blessed with, and try to make conversation.
the hunks however put on their usual garb of unconcern and divide their time among heavily breathing in and out: trying to smell their deos as if, and admiring their magnificent muscles.
i try to ignore the mirrors, (very diff since they are everywhere) and pretend that the rolls of fat are actually not there. that i am not that ball of flesh that needs to be toned and done various other unimaginable things to...

of maddening non maladies

first things first. therefore, clarifications. i did not write the poem in the previous post, as dave rightly pointed out, it is a song by abba. thanks for all the compliments, but i am acutely incapable of composing any poem, sad or otherwise.
hell, i am even almost incapable of feeling sad, so sad that you have to express your pain. i don't even hurt much, apart from at times when hurting is fashionable and makes great companion on lonely evenings.
have been reading politically correct bed time stories, but will not quoye any for fear that they will be attributed to me once again. (not that i would greatly mind).
let us talk about class then (that class which i attend because i have a cruch on the instructor, and suspect that she knows as much). one ma first year girl had to make a presenation on something, and since the course was entitled "identity and represntation", she decided to talk about the seven laws of spirituality, from zen to uri gellar...and said that she belives in them becasue all of them have a strong scientifc basis.
she also said that she is against reseravtion on the basis of caste or gender because even though she comes from a backward caste, she has never afced discirmination, and though reservation might be necessary in a pre-post graduate level, at the pg, it is highly unecessary.
it seems funny that this argument came the day after ambedkar's (the father of the indian const. and thought of as the greatest dalit national leader ever) birthday celebrations at the campus. have been hearing anti-reservation arguments for so long that now they cease to anger me, i just laugh and forget about it.
that is not the way i know, and one has to talk about reservation to the unwilling audience, but what i can not figure out that if i, for whom caste did not exist before i came here, can understand the arguments, they why can't people who have been racially, economically and culutrally deprived?
enough for today.
did this make sense though?

One of us is crying
One of us is lying
In her lonely bed
Staring at the ceiling
Wishing she was somewhere else instead
One of us is lonely
One of us is only
Waiting for a call
Sorry for herself, feeling stupid feeling small

rain rain come again

and it rained.
and we were there, with full force to meet it.
we jumped and shouted.
threw mud and water on each other.
rolled on the ground.
soaked up the water.
someone not so wise said, "for the first time it feels so good to be wet"
well, as far as i know, it always does...



open your arms wide. look the sky in the eye. you hardly ever do that anyway.
smell the mud and the rain. smell the cig that will save you.
smell the sky.
it cries.
cry.

a night without cigarettes

run forest run.
run for your life.
the on campus cig store might close.
it is closed.
i do not have a single cig.
what to do now?
all the night stretches forward, and you start to feel like the patient etherised on the table.
the night, obviously, does not care.
come back to your room.
get out again.
look for people who have at times borrowed cig from you.
can't find any.
wonder why.
o yes, you always do the borrowing.
change of strategy.
beg and borrow.
get non smokers to beg for you.
no one is around.
of course, they like to go out and have their fun.
change of strategy again.
is it worth it to go out in the night and maybe get abducted?
not much chance, but lets find our possibilities inside the campus first.
have you looked into the ashtray and the dustbin?
yes, they are empty.
now it is too late to go out even.
there is some pot.
but no tobacco.
hmmmm
anguish
go to sleep
but i woke up just ten hours ago.
what the hell...
ok, good night.

inspiration:
cig. haunter

You can call me Al

boy and girl stay fifty feet away from each other, in adjoining hostels where there are absolutely no rules whatsoever about comings and goings....
but middle of the night both phones are engaged (free hutch to hutch calls might have something to do with it) and confused youngster asks a group of potheads , what can two people possibly have to say to each other for so long.
i have the answer....
they tell each other....


If you'll be my bodyguard,
I can be your long lost pal!
I can call you Betty,
And Betty, when you call me,
You can call me Al!
Call me Al ......

look at the number of headings of my posts that start with I

and then anon asks me whether i feel as if i possess this "self" that i talk about.(ref: comment about the previous post)
obvously not, i do not even claim to know what is this elusive "self"hood or subjectivity that is mapped across the various discourses of power that i am (and this i is not a well defined and /or monolithic or even cognizable i)a part of or have been created by.
but does that mean one lets go of the carefully cultivated liberal humnaist notions of selfhood and individuality? especially since it is so much fun to pretend to do as much and the share a sense of subversion that can happen only from within?
*smirks* at her own supposed wittiness.
last night as usual was wild, with lots of whiskey and gin, good good good food and french cigarettes (the brand that godard smokes)......pretensions of being intellectual i tell you.
what followed was not half as happy as medusa might have wished it to be, but i suppose every once in a while medusa also feels like being sad just for the heck of it, because she has been too happy in her own happiness and seemed to lack the quintissential melancholia that everyone needs to experience every once in a while.