rejection.

He approached my car with Jesus tucked under his armpit, skinnier than usual and covered in lacquer. With his other hand he waved about the other Jesus, equally skinny and shiny, outside my window. I waved my hand submissively and he proceeded to the next car in the traffic line. Amongst the billow and hum of steady fumes, in the few minutes before red turns to green, other sellers swarmed around to promote their ware. They specialize. One type of ware for every seller. Mini helicopters which could actually elevate for a few minutes before dropping dangerously close to my windshield. Crispy snacks which are allegedly fried in hot sand and allegedly non-cholesterol. Giant, footlong pencils which you could flexibly twist. Skeleton keyrings and hairy gorilla masks sold 5 months in advance of Halloween. A dazzling array of World Cup fever memorabilia. Playboy magazines, and Jesus.
And then of course, there are the others. The ware-less, beggars. Tiny barefooted children, their tiny baby siblings slung on their backs. Old women leading their blind old husbands through the maze of cars. Skinny muscular men strumming their broken guitars, or just clapping. I cannot feel sympathy for these men. The people in the cars usually have preferences. They, too, specialize. Some prefer the kids because they should be in school. Some give to the muscled men because they are annoyingly persistent. I prefer those who obviously cannot be productive. But it’s so easy to be apathetic, simply because one gets used to it. Even sympathy is a different thing from philanthrophy, the former not necessarily leading to the latter.
And so it was today that a blind man approached my car, befitting into my ideas of obvious unproductive-ness. But not this man. This man was selling bottled water, chilled despite the blaring heat. He’d press his hand on the window to feel whether it opened for him or not.
As it was, mine did. Howmuch?, I asked him and he told me the price would be 2000. I gave him 3000. Before he handed me the bottle he took the notes and felt them slowly around the edges, one, two, and three. He gave one back to me and said, “this is too much”. No its okay, I said, take them all. He shook his head and handed me the bottle with the 1000 note.
And he walked away to the next car, hands outstretched.

"Rome"

There are many roads to Rome, it’s true
And possibly I feel subdued
I’m humbled by the twists and turns
The overwhelming choices earned

But there are many ways to Rome, he’d say
Before you change your mind and sway
through Rio, Brazil, and Madrid, Spain
To see the world and back again

It almost seems like Rome is near
Though many paths, the goal is clear
Still, fears come greet me all the while
For life most perfect is, most fragile…

[for the complete, unabridged version please ask me very very sweetly ;p]

Thesis is like Soap.

You never really end up the way you had predicted from the start. Although this theory is dependant on how consistent, and how competent a scholar, the writer is, I would like to think that most writers don’t end stories up as planned. In the beginning there will be a sneak preview, the introduction of characters that seemingly lean towards a certain predictable tale. In the middle complexities and subtle nuances appear, frantically trying to steer the writer in other directions. If I were not a thesis writer at the moment, I would gladly yield. It would be the most natural thing to do, like when life throws hurdles at you and you simply flex, bend, and take an alternative route. In extreme moments, I feel currently my thesis is like a soap show, not merely tempted to steer off track, but to steer in and out, add and subtract characters, undergo extreme surprises, have affairs left and right, and voila… end happily.
But no… it must be boring and rigid. With the thesis, you must end as you had planned, because the professors hold you accountable for your plans. I so lack the privilege of a melodrama.

How sadly deprived.
In anticipation of a certain event tonight, I had spent a few hours of two days deciding on what to wear. Helped by mom, always so excited and intervening, I tried on thisandthat, even became a little adventurous. As if a holiday spirit had come over me, all I seemed to covet were girly windblowy skirts and beaded necklaces. So unlike me. And precisely why I completely failed, having discovered that I do not have enough resources to develop a holiday fashion within two days. How can people manage to match every bag with every shoe? It’s beyond me. My talents reacheth not this realm. I am humbled. In resignation I settled upon my usual simple look, elegant at best and quite boring. Assured myself, as Oscar Wilde has so eloquently stated, that ‘fashion is a form of art so ugly that it must be thrown out every three months’. Also quoting from Mies van der Rohe, that ‘Less is More’. Of course, I stoically ignore that neither scholars work in the fashion field. After much ado and psychological reframing of mind, I was finally content and set upon having a good time, fashion-oblivious. Only to be told that the event had been cancelled!

I am now wishing I had more quotes. :(