hisses

would you smite me
with a jolt of shock
that comes even though
I expect it fully
to make me gasp

Spilling the tea

I might have just outdone myself with my cup of tea today, which I finished sipping on, relishing till it reached the point of emptiness.
Tea to me forms an important part of my day, except those when I'm on a caffeine purge, and that's a week, but today was not that day.
I've already mentioned how I postponed my morning tea to an afternoon one and soon after my lunch I look forward to those sparse moments of enjoying hot tea while surfing the interwebs, after which I get on with my daily tasks and schedule, which is currently finishing a drawing.
Tea is that silent moment of utter recluse which I cherish, letting my universe fully envelop me, muting all the voices, keeping myself threaded within and just inhaling the essence of my existence. It lasts only as long as the tea and it not only works wonders but forms a sort of foundation to get on with daily stresses, which is why it's absolutely necessary for the tea in question to be of my liking, because anything other than that might greatly upset me, which also explains why I hardly ever drink tea outside or in someone else's house when offered, unless it's not simply deconstructed black tea or green tea for that matter that doesn't need the usual milk, sugar paraphernalia.

The tea I talk about here is the typical one pan tea where it's literally cooked with spices etc and often called masala tea, wherein my case it's mostly just ginger tea that always has a bit of sugar. Sure I do love my daily dose of oolong and jasmine tea's too, but they come only secondary to this basic necessity and which I near surpassed myself today.
I could go to great lengths and talk about how each individual has a different method/style and taste for tea but I shall only talk about the kind I like, which is to say strong but not in a way that tea leaves are generously brewed, but in fact balanced by keeping milk to a minimum and adding ginger enough to sometimes scald your throat.
Typically I like to have a little more than a small cupful, which is to say anywhere between 130mls-160mls with about a teaspoon of sugar, half teaspoon + a big pinch of long black tea leaves, an inch cube of ginger grated and no more than 30mls of milk. All cooked together until it boils at least thrice for which one is obliged to lift up the pan and bring it to a simmer, repeating this action thrice before straining it and bringing said elixir to lips. And even though this recipe is usually precise because thou shalt never make tea without measuring it can always vary a little at times. Sometimes the ginger isn't strong enough or the sugar might be a bit different (smallest changes can affect cooking and their tastes), or the milk is a different company, and these factors tend to make the tea taste subtly inconsistent each time, not with unfavourable results, but today it felt like everything was meant to come together in refreshing harmony.
The resulting concoction was the drinkable form of all that could be anti-apocalyptical. Just sweet enough, beautifully gingery, coloured like the amber glow of a honeyed kiss, aphrodisiacal in its perfect caffeine strength with the heady aroma of good quality Assam tea, wafting in a cloud of a beautifully coordinated song.
Yes, it was a good tea day.

Deadhouse Gates

A compendium of emotional thesaurus was 'Deadhouse gates'. 

If roller coasters could be published, they'd be this book. To say that it was fun, intelligent, invigorating would almost be as real and peripheral as saying water is tasteless.

Deadhouse Gates was a dynamo, constantly charging itself into gears of fantastical lengths and zooming inside of a reader's system combining pangs of anxiety, laughter, confusion, confoundment, marvel, fear, revulsion, hatred, love. It was shocking, sad with the ability to make you want to break a pane of glass with your head or weep your eyes out to the point of dehydration.

Imagine cramming a galaxy of characters, stories, relations, connections into a coherent thought and putting it out into words and paragraphs so spellbindingly delicious that to miss out on them would be almost criminal. A surge of crack or should I say 'durhang' like ability seeping out of this book that numbs a reader to all happenings in the real world, for the world of Deadhouse Gates and its characters feels so wonderful that you'd almost wish you were on board, applauding your favourite characters to ascension. 

The description of events that would be impossible to put in meaningful words let alone interesting ones were so arresting, all consuming that it was flabbergasting. 

So on point and riveting were all the battle scenes, the description of military tactics, aches of sorcery and contused pangs of losses that you'd be tearing your hair out in anticipation or yelling out words of encouragement to characters of such remarkable bravery that'd  leave you humbled and cowering with disgust at your own self.

Deadhouse Gates is easily one of the best books out there and so complete is it in itself that you can forgive yourself for not reading anything ever. 

tissue thermal seal sack

Stop me before I caffeinate myself into a rush of hyper stimulation.
Jittery to the point I want to keep typing gibberish on the keyboard. more like bang my fingers and use all those little keys that I never much bothered about.
Won't this then be a post of symbols then?
so many fun symbols too. I want to use them all.
no, I want them to use me. Yes yes I 'd like tilde to num lock me into an exclamation embrace please.
Ooh, what does this button do?
blows into a bajillion smithereens. Now I'm a ghost. My orgasms shall therefore be ectoplasmic. Love me at your own peril. Platonic at best, criminally carnal at the very best.
Now I'd like to kiss something inanimate. Like a spouse. hah!
no, bad bad. Must be good. What is good? I'll tell you what's good. Trying to run headlong into a mirror in the hopes of cracking your face on it and having little chips of glass stick in shards all over your features but instead getting swallowed by the very mirror thus reaching another dimension where you turn into a one dimensional framed painting, lying under someone's broken bed.
That would be decently good.

clean up jazz

Talk about waking up to melodious diapason. ( check next to that box)

Ah, sigh. oh sigh.

The temperature has started to drop faster than my morals, and I take offense. As if.

So brrr today and all I have to do is hit play to warm up like a tropical heat wave.

mmm .

In a joyless life we must prepare ourselves to absorb whatever little joy life throws at us, and I take immense pleasure in clean ups. Diwali is right around the corner, and I took this opportunity to give my house its weekly ablution, which involves a cleaning so thorough its surface shines like an explosion in a crystal factory.

Cleaned the windows. the door knobs, doors, sinks, floors, kitchen chimney, bathrooms, mirrors, shoe racks and every imaginable nook and cranny.. none of which has ever been left unexplored.

Even cleaned the house slippers which warmly tumble in the drier. 

It feels so fun to walk on the floor wearing a pair of socks. You glide like an olympic figure skating medalist.

The usual problem of course plagues me, what with the over worked washing machine throwing up heaps and bundles of clean clothing, there is an unscalable mountain of laundry that need to be folded and ironed and stacked in cupboards.

These are little bobs of slight irritations that come with the territory. 

I now go to hunt for the darling cat, who shall entertain me with his indifferent licking of his nether regions while I go about with folding.

But I'm here still.. talking, telling.. all that's new with me and all that's old.

Poem not from poems

Excerpt from a poem, that comes not from a poetry book but rather from a prose more poetic than poetry ever knew itself to be. 

'Lolita' of course..always.