“As the moon lingers a moment over the bitterroots, before its descent into the invisible, my mind is filled with song. I find I am humming softly; not to the music, but something else; some place else; a place remembered; a field of grass where no one seemed to have been; except a deer; and the memory is strengthened by the feeling of you, dancing in my awkward arms.”

A River Runs Through It

The quote is so charming, and reminds me, of the time when I was once happy, and when I had my dancing shoes on, too.

The past few days been terribly unhappy, and some upsetting things happened, including a flood of rumours. A few obstacles at work for something I had wished to finish, a paper due for the next week. It all left me rather empty, and coupled with the difficulty of wanting to concentrate on foreign currency accounts for the weekend. I marked the day in my calendar, time for me to put my mind to it, and finally finish a few books for the CFA. I don’t know simply how people like SW do it, to dedicate so easily every day to topics which can be really banal, and financial ratios that slip by me. Whenever I think of all these, my mind just swims and the darkness comes over me again, thinking about things I ought to be doing in my life, things I have not. There is a dismal realization of failure, in one than one quarters of my life (those confounded quarters they force down you at self-improvement sessions), and considering forced solitude to sort out all these things, but solitude causes me to think wildly and my mind is left out of cages and ponders and sighs…and it is all a vicious cycle and there is nothing I wish better than to be happy again, to be able to sit down calmly and finish a chapter of my Accounting text without thinking of all these things, to do each thing as it passes, but how do I describe the way even simple things like that are not so easy in my life anymore.

People say, there is nothing like time, to get through things. The clock runs, Poe’s clockmaker will get killed, the clock will strike 13 and the people will go wild, and things are topsy turvy. The next moment, you might be preoccupied by the next murder. The next lottery. But even the smallest things may take the biggest part of your mind. The way you ponder on a bean which suddenly becomes something which occupies two thirds of the picture. E ever drew a lovely book for her art text (final year examinations), the story of a little pet duck which grew bigger and bigger under the moon till the little girl could not keep her anymore, and had to say goodbye. Sometimes I think back to that little duck, and think how it can represent more than an item of possession, but something that fosters in you and something that you let go. But all these things merely go to boxes in your mind, and it is a painful task, this, finding boxes to store all these things every day.

You need to get by, with little things. Like Emily’s root beer popsicles.

Y and I used to make these, together, too, and found all sorts of mysterious concoctions, even of things we didn’t like. Or a little part of jelly. But it is so thrilling now, the thought of cool root beer float popsicles thinking of a land of snow.

Or thinking of the moment of the creation of something. Mr Tambourine. Bob Dylan. Poised over a typewriter.







The restlessness, the cigarettes spent.

Or a holiday somewhere – the mysterious romance of a place dreamt of in Sofia Coppola’s eyes. (photos shared from shimu’s holiday)



Does anyone remember the Lost in Translation hotel?





I think it is amazing, the way, the hotel was somehow playing a role, in its way, it was lost in translation too.

Or the Claridges. I still remember spending New Year in the Claridges, the man with the bagpipes, the happy watermelon cocktails, the Sherlock Holmes bar and the mysterious woman eating smoked salmon with a nude Chanel resort bag… the gorgeous teas!

I think I would like to get married in the Claridges, one day.






I always thought the floor in Claridges is quite detective-tale like. And I love the lights on the trees outside the hotel when its Christmas.

Ah, I miss London.

A cat’s clean paws.


People get surprised when I say I don’t like rabbits that much. But its because rabbits always have dirty feet. Somehow their feet don’t matter to them. Cats are fanatical about having clean feet.

My cat now is terribly depressed, too, because she is sick. She is down with the rounds and has been lurking in dark corners looking sad and guilty. Yesterday I hosed her down and she was fresh and clean, and we rubbed our noses into each other and huddled into each other as we did our night reading. I dreamt afterwards that she understood my every word, even the little dominoes thing that you do on walls.


Some cats however, look like rabbits without tails…


Cats spying on you.



A world of adventure from behind the door!

Cherry tarts blue.

Wish me luck with my depression. Hopefully the next time I write I will be over it…? And with my dancing shoes.

(last 3 from buttermilk blue)


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