parotechnics

...if human voices wake us, we will not drown. We won't, right?

I'd be pretty happy if life had this kind of post laundry neatness. Right down to the one missing sock, for piquancy. Because who knows where it went - into the great drier in the sky perhaps. To put it another, or rather the other way: "It's like when you put instant rice pudding mix in a bowl in the microwave and push the button and you take the cover off when it rings and there, you've got rice pudding. I mean what happens in between the time when you push the switch and when the microwave rings. You can't tell what's going on under the cover. Maybe the instant rice pudding mix turns into macaroni cheese when no one's looking and only then turns into rice pudding. We think it's natural to get rice pudding after we put rice pudding mix in the microwave and the bell rings, but to me that's just a presumption. I would be kind of relieved if every once in a while, after you put rice pudding mix in the microwave and it rang and then you opened the top

Cape Cod is famous for it's light, and artists and photographers have flocked to it for years. Famous things often seem like they will be cliches, and you anticipate, perhaps a clarity, perhaps flashily striated sunsets. But when you're here, the thing you notice most about the light is how it seems LARGE. You're struck too, by how specific it is, how well defined, concrete, how physical a thing, as if you could pick it up and fold it. Like a child's building set, it seems to rearange itself into new formations and densities each day. It's like a shadow companion that accompanies you everywhere you go, climbing onto your lap when you sit down to read on a chair, skidding in suddenly across a closet as you lean absently against the kitchen counter waiting for the coffee to percolate, spilling onto the counterpane when you're half awake in the mornings, watching you consideringly as you try to write at your desk. Most of all of course the sea is like the mood ring

April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. - T.S. Eliot, The Wasteland March has been a bit like that April. But today, an April day, has been a good one. This morning I felt my heart sink with that nameless despair and I slept in a slant of sun, my head heavy with grey dreams and the dread of waking up. When my eyes opened it was to a full sunilit sky. I went out then, walked for hours.Stared at the undulations of the water.... ...locked eyes with a highly rude looking seagull, met someone I know on the street twice - once on my way up and once on my way back, at which point she'd bought a new hat she seemed quite happy with- saw that the Portugese bakery had opened for the season and ate a slice of (delectable) orange torte. Leaned against the rock wall in my favourite tiny corner of beach until the shade got too cool. Wandered around looking at windows, weather vanes, people, t-shirts, prop

What is the most frequently asked question strangers urgently yell out across Provincetown streets when they see Paromita Vohra? "Ma'am, did you know your shoelaces are undone?" In other conspiracy theory news, there is also this question: Why is there a chair in front of the bathroom? Because American smoke alarms are racist and always go off when you make Indian food, necessitating a speedy opening of all doors and climbing up on chairs and waving your hand under the noisy white disk. If you are a lazy Indian then it is easier to just keep the chair there permanently. Smoke alarm does not seem to go off when you burn toast and smoke makes god rays in every window. Why?

Skeletal trees are beautiful.. I never realised how much (and no, smarties, it's not because we don't have trees in Bombay.) I like their air of prim perfection, like the genteel poor; they call up in me a little fear and some tenderness - it's a certain reckless nakedness, like that of some crazy old women you see with their thin yet wild white hair; dressed all wrong, but still walking inside the memory of being mocking, successful beauties in their youth.

I do not know the name of that bird, but now that I have a picture of it, I stop random strangers and ask - do you know what this bird is? And please don't tell me it's a cornish hen like on the menu at the restaurant last night (something about its stolid air just makes me feel like it's resigned to being eaten). Although this belated vegetarian style pang is perhaps understandable, it has not yet been laid to rest by internet research. The only pictures of Cornish hens I could find so far were these. Not reassuring. Or for that matter, enlightening. Ok, so you've all been laughing and shaking your heads about my obssession with the birdies. First of all I want to say that there are birdies outside my windown in Andheri (E). I have seen parrots playing like they were AWOL from miniature paintings. I have seen mynahs, egrets and once a kingfisher. But these are different. I don't care if they're common as grass. I have never seen them before. Not even in picture