So, a month home and slowly but surely, the tummy grows. It's like a mutant foetus, feeding upon the assorted delicacies that I choose, latching upon the surface of my abdomen as a singular oval pouch... And I love it.
It is an experience unlike any other to me, see, while others might cry out in discontent, I relish the experience, for it does not come often; almost never at all. It takes a lot to just have a slight raise so to speak. Really, when one could only engorge in all sorts of homely food twice a year, a tummy becomes a sort of testament to the awesomeness of home.
*
It occurred to me that the best writers are often a quite mentally disturbed. Even now I'm watching the telly about the life of Enid Blyton, celebrated children's story writer and by God she's a fucking nutter. Quite like the collective evil of all the villains in her stories that I love so much as a kid. And for some reason, I'm not even surprised, amused, yes, but not surprised. Over the years, most of the authors that I love are just quite simply, insanely fucked in the head and I believe that to write at a certain respected calibre, one must be a bit twisted in the head. Especially in fiction, I think, one must be able to actually... Retreat into a world where what people perceive as make belief, the authors themselves believe in that reality.
It's quite comforting, if I am to be honest, because somehow I feel as if I belong in this group. I mean, if people were to call me a fucked up human being, I would not actually deny it but I would retort by saying at least I'm not Enid Blyton. Sigh. I should re-read her books, I think. It gives one quite the melancholy of a childhood well spent.
 |
| Stare into the pleasant, demure face of evil. |
*
I'm reading William Dalrymple's Nine Lives and I must say, it's fucking amazing. It's like... the line separating fact and fiction has been totally and surgically removed, without even living a scar. Fuck man, the part where he went to Rajasthan and met the bhopa, sweet mother of God, that shit is awesome. And meeting Hari Das, the theyyam dancer... That portrayal of irony is pretty much the sweetest I've laid my eyes on. And all this in India. Fucking India... I would like to go there one day, perhaps live there for a while... And when it comes to India, my thought will always shift to Kashmir.
One day. Perhaps.
I've been reading a lot recently, I feel as if I need to absolve myself for the time spent in Egypt doing nothing. Read the Game of Thrones, Chuck Palahniuk's Damned which I must say is really good and Jean-Dominique Bauby's highly rated book; The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. Unfortunately, I did not really see the merit, I mean, yeah, it's an amazing effort by the author (He could only blink after suffering a massive stroke, and well, he wrote the book by blinking the sentences in existence. I shit you not. No really. I shit you not.) but then I'm uncertain. My every cell applaud his fucking amazing effort in being able to produce it but as of the book itself, I am not moved.
What else... Hmm, Max Brooke's World War Z was fantastic. Susanna Clarke's The Ladies of Grace Adieu brought back a lot of awesome memories from Europe. I bought her first book 'Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norell' in a bookstore for 5 Euros or less, I think and it was in bad shape. But it embedded itself onto my conscience like a parasite and I finished the whole book of one thousand over pages in a mere three days. It was that good.
Fuck, that reminds me. Bookalicious. It's an amazing motherfucking asldkfjaskfdjgas;dfas;diufgasd;gasdcva bookstore, Jesus fucking askckdcasj;dkfa;sdofafoh I love that place with all my fucking heart. And also, Leon the owner, I must say I was bloody impressed. As I was browsing through, he approached me with a book and said that I might like it. That never happened to me in MPH, Borders or any of the fucking chain bookstores. I mean, this is the kind of person who knows what the fuck he's doing, unlike those fucking school kids that don't even know who the bloody fuck Atticus Finch is.
Sigh. We need more people like him.
*
Eargasm of the fucking WEEK: Of Monsters and Man. I swear there's something in the air of Iceland that makes the inhabitants awesome musicians.
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