A Break

a single manly tear rolls down my paper smooth skin yO MOMMA

I will be taking a break. From blogging that is (and just social media and writing and anything that brings me joy in general? except going biking at the local national park because ey monsoon’s here and everything is green–i saw a fawn playing with a baby monkey and a peacock dancing during a light drizzle and a turtle maybe communicating with a bird and okay so maybe I’m not giving up everything that brings me joy).

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Not that very many people would care or even notice but in case some poor unfortunate soul stumbles by for the first time in a couple months and wonders why there isn’t any recent stuff, this blog isn’t dead just resting. Feel free to click over to some of the older stuff while you’re deprived of any new content.

Not like doing this will even make any difference, seeing how normally I posted maybe once in two months anyway (barring the last couple recent stress-infused months).

But yeah I’m taking a break, albeit reluctantly, but I gotta keep reminding myself this is all in favour of achieving something I want to do. Which is to go to med school. Which I hopefully will next year if I work hard enough.
I’m taking a drop year to prepare for the pre-medical tests and I’ve been known to be distracted by this platform instead of studying so it is probably for the best, even if it will take some getting used to.

I won’t enjoy it but hey this something I want to do so gotta make sure I do end up doing it instead of, to quote internet sensation, faniel towell, “procrastinate on our one shot at existence”.

Whoop-de-do.

 

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Yours Truly,
Simran

p.s. rice has the prettiest of the plant scientific names: Oryza sativa, as does the sweet pea: Lathyrus odoratus 

p.p.s. rice + Arabidopsis thaliana were among the first plant genomes to be sequenced before the Human Genome Project.

p.p.p.s. carrots were originally purple.

And that concludes your botany lesson for today. Tune in same time next year for some juicy deets on the rich and famous from the sorta-journal I will maybe kinda hopefully keep while away.

god is a woman

What am I when I’m not simply potential?

Death isn’t something I think about very much. It’s inevitable and a normal part of life, so really what’s the point? There’s nothing I can do about it, just like there’s nothing I can do about the Universe expanding or the fact that our sun will eventually literally blow up in all our faces (and to think the Beatles wrote a song about you, ye ungrateful wench) and the Earth will become a flaming pile of destruction (metaphorically though, we’re already there).

I do, however, think about getting old. Which also happens to be inevitable and a normal part of life but the difference, in this case, is that I know what it’s like. I have physical, documented evidence of what it’s like to grow old, i.e. (from what I’ve seen) mostly bad hips and saying, “I’m too damn old for this”. Maybe shaking your fists at rowdy teenagers, I don’t know.

Point is, growing old bothers me.

What will I do when I don’t have my entire life ahead of me. What am I when I’m not young and idealistic (lolololol maybe idealistic isn’t the word. what do you call people who are disappointed about the glass being only half full but also intensely fearful of the glass breaking, leaving dangerous shards all over the carpet? what do you call them? losers? idk)

What am I when I’m not simply potential?

I suppose what I’m really asking is what am I when I’m not allowed to make mistakes anymore. What am I when the things I set out to do have been done or irreversibly not done depending on where life takes me. What am I when something I do wrong has consequences that reach far into the future (because everybody knows you get an entirely new identity once you turn twenty and your past is more or less erased and so nothing you’ve done till then matters. It’s why the underworld is crawling with pre-pubescent crime syndicates).

wHaT AM i.

A bird? A plane? Two bipedal cats in a trench coat trying to sneak into the opera?

lgbtq+ icon whom no one knows and whose orientation is actually represented by ‘+’???

Growing old under protest? (she says at eighteen. which, as you all know, is positively ancient.)

 

~fin~

About the title:
She’s not, actually.
He’s not a man either.
He just is. She doesn’t subscribe to the gender binary. It’s just some translation problems, from what I understand.

Just like ships aren’t women. But the Titanic still broke your little adolescent heart in history class, didn’t she? (the ship, I mean, not the movie the movie THERE WERE OTHER PIECES OF SUITABLE DEBRIS HE COULD HAVE FLOATED ON IF NOT WITH ROSE THAT SELF-SACRIFICING LITTLE OLD STYLE STEP DANCING EARLY GATSBY FOOL)

~fin2~

gif used.

~fin3~

in defence of bad art

I think words of longing.
of sand in all my pockets
and the creases of my jeans

of pale trees long gone:
portals to songs and shouts
and paper lights
on warm summer nights
spent fighting sleep

of dust on wooden bookshelves
burning eyes and lazy hands
and records
and records
and records
that serve no purpose
save a quiet joy
I press in between curling pages

of the sound of the earth turning,
and sitting on the cusp of winter

always on the cusp of winter

impossibly young.

 

Yours Truly,

S.C.C.O.P

MAYDAY

MORE LIKE REPOSE PROSE

…or technically the opposite of whatever Mayday is since this is a post about all the GOOD things that happened this May. So, I guess a more apt title would be REPOSE PROSE (as thesaurus.com informs me repose happens to be one of mayday’s antonyms), but I can’t decide if that would be grammatically correct (and has nothing to do with the fact that it tragically lacks in puns that barely pass off as puns. honest.)

I’m so good at titles.

Onwards:

  1. The most amazing that happened (and it barely made the cut since it was on, like May 30th) was the fact that I met–in person–one of the friends I made on here. Thaz right. I met the modern-day equivalent of my pen pal. This is she. We met and had breakfast and it was wonderful and beautiful and just great. She’s great. Find her on InWords (great website by the way) here.

 

  1. I also got a bunch of paint supplies and bought more books (even though I still haven’t read half the books I bought at the last book fair) and just had a very good end to a month that was otherwise steeped in anxiety.

 

  1. According to the International Renewable Energy Agency (IRENA), as of May 29th, the renewable energy sector now consists of nearly 10 million people globally.

 

  1. Taiwan became the first Asian country to begin the process of legalizing same-sex marriage. (It coulda been us but society playin’–but hopefully this will pave the way for India to also recognize that love is love)

 

  1. Some corals in Kenyan marine national parks have adapted to warmer waters. Which is amazing news considering the depressing reality of the Great Barrier Reef.

 

And that’s five good things that happened in the fifth month this year.

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There’s a lot of crappy things going on in the news: things that nobody saw coming, things that were predicted by a few and dismissed by the many, things that have been happening for years but only now been able to get the appropriate coverage. So in this day of hyperawareness and (perhaps as a result) desensitization, if you’d like some good news along with the bad, this might be a nice place to hang out on the weekends.

On that note:

Yours Truly,

S.C.C.O.P

P.S The featured image is a picture I took of the Husainabad Clock Tower in Lucknow. Which is just a beautiful city. 10/10 would recommend.

p.p.s The gif is of an actor known as Misha Collins, who is among my favourite people currently in this world, not least because of his charity organisation called Random Acts and his A+ parenting skills. (fun fact: he was allegedly accused of being the antichrist by the Westboro Baptist Church–make of that what you will.)

 

 

 

 

Confessions of a Retiring Serial Metaphorist (Not To Be Confused With Metamorphist)

I wring out poetry
from used bandages left
by others who bleed poetry.

Words painted gold
painted
pink
purple
cerulean bold.

But I am sick of violets
growing beneath my eyes
they’re not, its skin,
I’m only tired and sleep-deprived.
an unexpected blood-stain
on sleep-heavy sheets
is not an ode to my strength
nor a sin for which to flog me,
it’s only biology.

There are no galaxies in my eyes,
no cosmic rivers in my veins,
at least, none that are not there in everybody else’s.
(Newsflash: The Big Dipper is not my copyright.)

I wring out poetry
from books that are falling apart on my shelf,
from flaky spines and too-sweet pages
that drip honey onto my lips

(But there are 15 of those I have still not read)

I wring out poetry
from flesh and skin
and people who don’t put sunscreen

But I am sick
of hair spun from gold,
of hands that trace lightning into my soul
of alternate realities that come to a standstill when I take a breath
of things that are not me,
or you,
things weighed down with an importance
that does not ring true.

I bleed poetry when I say
I like you,
and think:
this is the place to be.

(within walls that do not suffocate,
and paint that peels
and plants that never flower
but grow a deep green
and weeds that bloom with a defiance
blue
yellow
pink
in places they shouldn’t be.
here, there is poetry
and less of a pretense;
indoor voices unnecessary–

because we’re here too short
to play it cool;
we’re here too brief
to run ourselves hoarse
over things we don’t care about)

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Yours Truly,
S.C.C.O.P
(Simran Can’t Curse On Paper)

ps: I say retiring metaphorist but I mean forced metaphors. I can’t do away entirely with metaphors. An apple cannot simply be an apple, pfffffft where’s the fun in that? An apple is (has to be) cyanide, the death of innocence, the loss of paradise.
A vain hag’s final attempt at superficial relevance.

Every Story But Mine

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i am 23 and singing to a girl
who does not love me-
-but that’s not true i am only 18.
a pretentious witch
who has never fallen in love
but can pretend
and shamelessly exploit
the theoretical heartbreak anyway.

i am 48 and clawing at a nicotine noose
that only seems to cling closer-
-but that’s not true i am only 18.
and smoke may look good in black and white
but cigarettes make my eyes water.

i am 34 and burning the slippers
of a husband who left me-
-but that’s not true i am only 18.
and the burning plastic would
only serve to poison me.

i am 9 and aboard a train
and the man kisses my hand-
-but that’s not true i am 18.
and kindness can be a disguise.
 

yours truly,

[idk man do I even need to sign-off? why am I making this harder than it has to be]

Dreaming Boy

I will not write in green.

There are no adventures for me.

No films with watery sunlight.

No sea-worn glass on a pebbly beach.

No pirates to sing my praise,

no evil lairs that I set ablaze.

 

But no matter.

There are worse tragedies at play (they say):

The birth of a man.

 

‘The boy is gone’,

they cry,

eyes warm and too bright.

And it echoes into the tearful night:

the boy is gone.

 

–but the girl was never even born,

and her story lies blank.

No grand tales in golden lettering,

purple leaves or dark blue dreams.

No crown to place atop her head

or cape of torn, worn sheets.

 

what is a boy, but a young, bright thing

scrambling to love what it can.

what is a girl but a dangling string,

once taut, now barely seen.

 

Broomstick cowboy, won’t you stay?

Bless this land with songs of play.

Dreaming girl, won’t you wake?

Don’t you see the things at stake.

 

Yours Truly,

Simran