Eternal Sunshine of an Ignorant Mind
Friday, January 27, 2012
The aroma filled the house with a million little cartoon smoke-lines, each line equipped with an index finger at its end, each finger finding someone and tickling his nostrils, making him drool, then making him gently float through space and time, tongue hanging out, tranquilized, moving towards the kitchen with the focus of a serial killer, sinfully anticipating the salivary dissolution of the warm, mustardy meat.
On a usual day Xavier, upon his return from school, would have thrown his bag on the floor, wiped puppy stain and mud-mash from his hands and sat on the floor like a hermit. He would have banged the cheap, aluminium plate with a cheap, aluminium spoon till the house resembled a war zone.
On that particular day, however, the war was being fought inside Xavier's mind. All the cheap aluminium plates and spoons in the world couldn't begin to fathom the noise that was required to keep the incident from replaying in his mind.
Xavier was in the second grade. The boy who made him do it was in the fourth. Xavier was used to being beaten up, made to eat mud, give up his tiffin box, have the front of his pants splashed with water and made to pee in the Girl's Toilet. So when he knelt down in front of the unzipped trousers inside the Boy's Toilet on the school's second floor, he wasn't overtly scared; for him it was akin to a slap. And it hurt less.
Xavier's first reaction was to consider the thing hanging out in front of him. His first feeling was that of camaraderie, he couldn't believe dicks belonging to different people looked so similar. What he knew was that 'pee comes from there' and was confused as to why someone would make him drink pee directly from the source, assuming that that was what this was about, couldn't the guy just pee in Xavier's water-bottle? Why would he risk getting his dick bitten off?
Somehow, Xavier thought, there was more to this than urine.
Xavier's mother made him take a lot of supplements: Vitamins, calcium and syrups, which he invariably didn't like. So he had developed a routine, or as he liked to call it, a magic trick. He had the ability to hold the dosage under and around his tongue, so that he didn't need to inflate his cheek in order to avoid swallowing them, and could spit them out when he was alone. He had managed to fool his mother for over 6 months.
That morning, at school, he managed to fool the guy too. For Xavier, it was magic.
The next time it happened was three days later, when the same guy asked Xavier to do it if he didn't want his mom to know. Xavier appeared terrified, but on the inside, he couldn't be more excited. Finally, he believed that he was growing up. He was part of something absolutely awesome, an older boy was involved and there were secrets to be kept and mothers to be kept in the dark. This was new to him, this was outside the prescribed boundaries of the kind of fun his parents wanted him to have. Sure, he didn't really like doing the act, but then, does anyone really like running and kicking a round piece of rubber, all the while risking loss of life and
limbs? And Xavier loved football, so he understood pointlesness.
It was, as they say, for glory.
This form of bullying was different in another way, Xavier thought. In every other method, something was done to him, whereas in this, he was the one doing all the work while the guy just stood there. This made Xavier think, believe that he -Xavier- was the true perpetrator and the guy was merely an accomplice. This not only erased from Xavier's mind all thoughts of complaining to his friends or teachers but also gave him a sense of responsibility which made the periodic performance of the act an achievement that he was somewhat proud of, like paying bills, buying groceries or going to work. He felt special, important and busy. He felt like what he imagined to be an adult.
Which is why when the guy stopped involving him in these acts a month later, Xavier was devastated. Was he not doing it right anymore? Did the guy find someone better?
No sooner was he ditched than he started getting nightmares. He started waking up in the middle of the night, sweating and scared. A terrible sense of unfulfilment engulfed and filled him. He felt like the plastic mug that he playfully dipped slowly into the bath-tub every morning, feeling the reactionary pressure of the water increasing, then enjoying the relief in his hands when the mug's tip submerged and water rushed to fill it, taking it all the way down to the bottom of the tub.
It started, happened and ended that way; deliverance disguised as severance, so that Xavier went from confusion, to amusement, to hatred, to indifference, to delight, to dutifulness, to devotion and finally to sadness. Xavier lived an entire little sub-life in those few months and learnt a great deal, synecdochically, about life itself.
Years later, when the Internet was up and running and innocence and sin were institutionalized, Xavier read that millions of children across the world get abused on a daily basis. After reading these articles, by experts, Xavier used to have nightmares, where he dreamt of a world where all the children are abused perpetually and everyone is a victim, and the worst part wasn't just that that was a bad thing in the absolute sense, the worst part was that in that sea of haplessness, his story was perfectly unheard and unremarkable.
In those nightmares, Xavier felt like a plastic mug in an ocean.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Sexy girls on Facebook
There are four types of girls on Facebook. Or maybe more. The first are the outright ugly ones, who pose with other outright ugly ones and never hide their photos. They have great personalities and inner beauty and have flowers or cartoons as their display pictures and are predominantly interested in literature and music of a higher standard, so as to compensate for facial zits, bulbous noses, dry hair, a hairy upper lip, conical shapes, ritualistic arms and sappy eyes. The second are the ones who have inherent ugliness but make an effort towards looking presentable, which means fuckable, they crave for that single male eye with the lowest of standards. The third are outright stunners, who are usually in the presence of men so pretty that every visit to their profiles rebalances the Kinsey scale.
Then there is the fourth category. The sexy ones.
If you are the kind of person who consumes coffee quite generously, you must have come across this highly irritating black, waxy, smelly deposit that occupies the bottom of your cup, if you are the kind of person who, once he had has his cup of delicious, hot, aromatic, creamy, caramelly coffee, forgets (though not really) to take the cup to the kitchen and wash out the contents with one (or two) swift motion/s of the index finger pressed against the bottom of the cup, followed by moving the cup up and down, parallel to the motion of the falling water (think: cocktail shaker, think: mastrubation) and bring the process to its logical conclusion by using a clean towel to rub out the last traces of the cup having ever been used; if you are such a person, you would know exactly what I am talking about. The unwanted, disgusting deposit, which clings to the cup more tightly and makes it more disgusting and unusable with each passing day, like a wife, has to be faced and defeated and cleaned using all the strength that one can muster, since if we don't - and by 'we' I mean you and me and others like us, since I am assuming that if you are nothing like the aforementioned person, you wouldn't bother reading any further, and so it is in my best interest to reduce my target audience in order to affect a deeper understanding, realize stronger bonds and things reminiscent of generic positivity - then we cannot have the coffee we like and need so much and the taste and aroma of which makes up for the agony and disgust of cleaning previously stated black messy sedimentation.
The purpose of that somewhat longwinded last paragraph was to point out the necessary evil that is requesting an ugly (category two) girl to be your friend on a social networking site so as to gain access to her sexy girl-friends' sexy photos with other sexy people.
The sexiness in some is somewhat diluted when you zoom in to aforementioned snaps. You realize that cap wearers are mostly bald or balding, that most clothes are a bit too tight for their owners but are a necessary means to gain entry to a group of sexy people whose clothes aren't too tight for them, that all groups include a fat one (category one) and an ugly one(category two), that when category two girls comment on photos and say that they love other category two girls, it is not meant as affection but as approval, that no amount of rock music or poetry can ever compete with triceps, that triceps aren't a myth, that the uglier a girl is, the more friends she will have, in order to fill vaccums of varying densities, that there is something called 'green energy' that sexy people care about, that Facebook isn't just a global standard but also a local luxury.
There is something wonderful about the smile of a sexy girl on Facebook. I won't say that it hides inner pain or the million little deaths of faking every public reaction until inner comminution, like rocks ashore a shallow but violent sea, because that would be a cliche. No,there is something more to that smile. It provides intellectual, and deeply personal impetus, it is the central bank of hope.
Imagine a world without sexy girls' smiling faces. A world where nobody cared about climate change and poverty and wars and famines and injustice and other such extremely noble causes, all kept alive by the widening of perfectly smooth lips against European scenery.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
About a girl
This is the age of information, or the information age or something to that effect, we are told, and being unable to find her on the internet was a terrible thing. We didn't know her name or age or purpose. Not that we cared. At least not publicly.
We called her a cum guzzling slut. It was one of those things where you say something and then you take a pause that lasts for about a microsecond and you judge in that amount of time whether to laugh at that moment so as to show your false lack of seriousness or to keep a straight face so as to find common bonds within.
She wasn't socially networked enough for us to locate. Her online footprint wasn't visible enough, vague, like the faces of children who get abused very young. Like that one song that everyone has, which they claim to know so as to fit in a group, but they don't, usually a song with a high pitched guitar riff at the begining - but not at the start-so that they sing only the first two -wildly famous-lines and gradually, knowingly fade their voices so that it doesn't seem like they do not know the lyrics but just seems like they really respect the riff, and so their veiled ignorance turns into a kind of symbiotic appreciation. There was the whole air of obscurity to this entire operation, to be honest. Nobody seemed to know what to do, and in that common unsurity we found great strength, and this helped to avoid giving up all together.
We really wanted to find her and this almost comic enthusiasm took us to other people, people behind the camera, if you believe in the whole life, stage 'thing'. We found a lot of girls who fit her profile, she was a Cinderella with uninteresting shoes, but we decided to follow our collective heart and look for some more, since not one could fit any one of the images that we had in our individual heads.
Some were pretty, some were outright stunners. Some had great tits and some looked like they had their mouths full.
We never got pouts. It may have to do something with evolution, I don't know.
We did come across a few and we wished she were one of them, but, unfortunately, with the amount of information available, it is very difficult to get mislead. Weird then, this. Getting information like ink on blotting paper.
We needed pens.
The day I was about to meet her, I knew I would be dissapointed, because she, by then, had taken this Bukowskian distressed Goddess-like form in my head which reinforced itself as a figment of collective male imagination, and the sad part is, I was very aware of this. So it would be fair to admit, at his stage, that yes, I was dissapointed.
I was expecting a mango. The dissapointing thing was that there was no there there.
For if I am to believe that I can just imagine these kinds into existence, what effect would that have on me? Will I start imagining things more or less? Will I start more or less imagining things?
These were the questions, sadly, that ran through my head while I shook her hand.
And yes, they were very very soft.