Monthly Archives: November 2016

Respectfully mine

With an upcoming possible cyclone in our area (it does not look vicious – it may give us a few showers now and then, but that could be it), I logged on to my favorite weather site. People here are amateur weather enthusiasts, and through last year’s flooding catastrophe, they were accurate with their predictions.  Although the rest of the state is going into panic mode at the supposed low pressure, my weather bloggers don’t believe it will be anything more than passing showers and I believe them.

But that is not the point of this post.  The point is that I occasionally leave comments on their posts and everyone who responds, addresses me as “Madam”.  It never fails to take me aback because “madam” is something that you address a middle aged woman, or you know, the wife of your professor or something.  Oh wait.  I AM both. Hmm. Still, it feels funny to be addressed with respect from people who are about my age. No wait.  A couple of decades younger. Damn, I am not aging gracefully, am I?

This is not a new thing for me though. Innumerable number of people of the male gender have told me that I scare the crap out of people – especially of the male gender. My best friend tells me that back in college, I was a nightmare for his friends who were in awe of him because he was my friend.  Makes a bit of sense considering I have never had a boy who fell in love with me until I was 30, at which time a poor sod didn’t know what hit him until we were way past the honeymoon stage.

It used to bother me a lot a until a few years ago that in my presence, men instinctively straighten up, take a  couple of steps back and talk a few decibels lower lest I send them to bed without dessert.  The few who crossed the barrier and got closer to me, called me “sister”.  I asked my friend (who is probably the only friend of male gender I have who didn’t call me his sister, although his mother made up for it and called me the daughter she never had) why this was so, and he said that I wouldn’t take crap from people and that could put people off. I figured I wasn’t going to change and take crap from people just to stop putting them off.

Now, apart from the surprise that comes when people address me as “madam”, I am glad of the image I portray.  Bow down and worship me, all you there.  Unless you are my friend, in which case, let’s cut the crap and get me a beer.


Oh my !

On the stereo as I write,

McLean croons American pie

Could it be my day he sings

That “this’ll be the day  I die”

No time to breathe today

As mountains in my laptop lie

If I don’t head to work

I can kiss my job good bye

What kind of work you ask?

If you really want to pry,

This and that and lots lots more

Quite to set the brain on fry

While I end this rhyme-of-sorts

And set my today’s goals high

I’ll scramble just for fun

Fee fo fum and fi !




Share Your World – 2016: Week 48

Answering Cee’s questions to offer you a peek into the weirdness that is LG:

Do you prefer eating foods with nuts or no nuts?  

Nuts. Lots of them. Bring ’em on. Throw ’em into anything.

Matches my personality, you know.

If someone made a movie of your life would it be a drama, a comedy, a romantic-comedy, action film, or science fiction?

If it were a movie about the inside of Gobblefunkist’s head, it would likely be horror.  My external life would be a comedy.

Of errors.

 Who talks real sense to you?

My 12 year old daughter.  Yeah, baffles me too.  But the child has a pretty strong grasp on life, and I hope she holds on to it for dear life.  I’ll need it more and more as senility sets in. No, it hasn’t set in yet. Oh, shut up.

Do you have a favorite board game?

No. Do not have the patience to sit in one place for more than 1.3 minutes (yes, it has been measured) to play a game.  If you put a gun to my head, I’d probably play chess. I’d rather play games that involve running around and spraining butt cheeks.

Say what?

I have been reading a book on art (as a favour for someone).

“According to Schelling, art is the product or consequence of a world view in which the subject becomes its own object, or the object itself its own subject. ”

And the book is full of such gems.  FULL.   Another example:

“art may be called play, though not in the sense of a worthless occupation, but in the sense of a manifestation of the beauty of life itself, which has no other aim than beauty.”


The memory lane

Google reminds me of stuff that happened this day, six years ago.  We had apparently visited my grandmother’s farm house (now mine), at the outskirts of our city.  The flowers were in bloom, which is strange, considering it is November.  It must have been a good monsoon that year.


Awwww….how fast they grow.



Yes, the last two pictures squeezed my heart.  Some day, I will find in me, the courage to write about her.


I follow quite a few poet bloggers because I can’t write poetry to save my life.  I mean, the profound, non-rhyming form of poetry that compares love to a red-red-rose and stuff like that (see, I can’t be original even there).  My better-half can write such verses (in Tamil) and I am baffled with the process.  I can write rhymes that sound like nursery rhymes, though.   I did write a few of them in my erstwhile blog, but of course I axed that blog without a backup, so I lost them all.

Here are a few I found in my email archive.  They are “ewww” as I read them now, but what the heck…

The first one was titled “Flu poem”. I think I wrote it for my better half for an anniversary that was addled with flu ! I must be the only poet (!) in the world to use the word “phlegm” in a poem.

Psychedelic sky
Yellow bus goes by
A kid passes me
Making a fuss.

The drug addled brain
And the stuffy nose
Makes all seem  a dream
Almost comatose

I wait for you
As the day turns dark
Wool in head
Showing truths quite stark

I get a truth
A small epiphany
Not very clear
Sort of grainy

As my stomach churns
And I cough up a phlegm
You are always the man
For my femme.



A song in my soul
First ever in time
Love in my life
Of melody and rhyme.

You touched my  heart
That no one’s reached
With whispers of nothings
And nearness beseeched.

Sweet kisses on brow
Sweet smiles on face
Could life be better
Without your grace?

You are….
Not in the musical note
But the song within
Not the rainbow high
But the hue within
Not the beating heart
But the rhythm within
Not the stars above
But the light within..

The monsoon sky, the clouds roll on,
The lonely wind breaks into song
Could there ever, in mortal, be ,
Another quite such tranquility,
The clouds show her face so fine,
The thunder hides her voice divine,
Love, joy and thoughts engage,
Poems of pleasure to fill the page.

As the sky screams “Ware to all”,
Lest in sleep you chance to fall,
And dreams filter through your sleep,
To kindle the joy you ought to keep,
A gentle rain to torrent wild,
A smiling babe to naughty child,
And waking gives but small relief,
From prowling memories, stalking thief.

But oft as love befalls the man,
He catches moments when he can,
Her gentle face, her whispered word,
The passion felt, not seen or heard,
As days go by with kindred heart,
The vision that is set apart,
Of smiles that played all along,
Another thought became a song

See the rainbow in my sky?
They are your smiles that pass me by
See the hues that blend and merge,
The reds and greens that scatter and splurge
Wrap me in your pink and blue,
Fill me with the colours of you.
A shade slips gently to the next
Sometimes torrent, sometimes specks
The colours beyond the sight of eye
You are the rainbow in my sky.

I have a dream

In my old vox blog, I had a series of posts titled “I have a dream”, in which I described the dreams I dreamt, for some kind Freudian soul to interpret and put me out of my misery.  This was many years ago. Perhaps I must resume in this one. My dreams are getting wackier and wackier these days.  I am pretty sure they are the hormones surging around my perimenopausal being, and truth be told, I would rather have wacky dreams and wake up with “whew ! only a dream” rather than go on the roller coaster in wakeful times.

Most people I know never remember their dreams.  On the rare occasion that my better-half remembers his, he is surprised that he even dreamt.  I, on the other hand, remember my dreams vividly for a few hours after I wake up.  My dreams are never neutral.  They are sometimes pleasant, and such dreams are usually a bit on the randy side – last night I dreamt that I was out slow dancing with my better-half (I have never danced with anyone in real life, having been endowed with multiple left feet and zero elegance), which led to ahem, other things.  Mostly, the dreams are panic inducing.  For example, this afternoon’s siesta induced by the rare rice meal saw me attending a Hindi class, and not knowing which classroom to go to and panicking.

A few years back, I would repeatedly dream of a large empty building and me getting lost in it.  A gentleman who was a regular reader of my blog and an email friend, interpreted it for me that the building was me and I was searching for myself.  It made sense at that time because I was a bit on the loose end with no clue of who I was and what I was doing. I don’t get that particular dream anymore – have I found myself then?  I think I just don’t care anymore about who I am and what I am here for.  Which is a good thing.

My repeated dreams (since I was ye little) has been not being prepared for exams.  This is interesting because I have very rarely been unprepared for an exam – I am a bit of a nerdy prick that way.  I am sure there are other deep seated fears behind this particular dream – or I am just bat crap crazy.  I’ll go with the latter.

Do you remember your dreams?