Die, evil book-hungry vortex

Books that have been sucked into the vortex that is (clearly) operating somewhere in hostel. Near the water cooler, is where I reckon.

Transmission - Hari Kunzru

Procured at a Landmark Table-of-Perennial-Sale in Chennai, circa 2008. Reading this had taken rather longer than usual. But it was an odd sort of story, and I'd enjoyed it. More importantly, the cover art was funky.

Chocolat - Joanne Harris

My. Oh my. I loved this book. Not in a generic sense (which isn't to say I didn't like reading it. Oh well.), but this copy in particular. It had been bought with my aunt in Bangalore when we were out on a used-book-scrounge. The pages were yellowed, the spine was slightly wobbly, and it had belonged to someone called Ida, who had a lovely loopy handwriting. It had a Feel to it. It had Atmosphere. Also, it had Johnny Depp and Juliette Binoche on the cover.
Looking HOT.

Mobius Dick - Andrew Crumey

This was a leaving gift from my best friend when we'd just graduated from school and were en route to our respective undergrad colleges. I'm not completely sure if the Dick in the title had anything to do with it. I'd read it thrice - the second time because I wanted to to, and the third time for lack of other reading material. Yes, excluding the blurb at the back of the box of Kellog's. This is a strange, wistful book with schizophrenic characters, parallel universes and time travel thrown in for good measure. Oh, and Schrodinger's cat.

I hate losing books. Even if I'm not overly fond of them. It is worse, even, than ripping your newest jeans at the crotch. And that is saying something.

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Creepy Poem

[It would seem there is yet much angst in my happy little bohemian soul. Apologies about the title. I couldn't stop myself.]

I look down
to see, my feet
are not my own.
My fingers are
melting, slowly, dripping
Like candle wax.
Hot puddles on the mosaic.
My eyelids
are heavy, hung
It is so cold.
Drenched in misery and self-loathing,
Who have I become?

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Exalt

I am king, and I am ruler supreme, and my kingdom is mine own to bless or condemn as I see fit. These people, who scurry about like ants in search of food for hoarding, they are my serfs, and all of their toiling would be for naught were it not for my grace and benevolence.
My chariot is of gold, and it shall be hoisted by my men, their supple bodies tan and oiled. Raise me higher, so my people can marvel at my majestic being, at their sovereign. Watch, as they gape in awe, these weaklings, slack-jawed.
Join me tonight; we shall dine at my palace. The table is set for a hundred. Watch now, how these men, these beings of lesser order bow, watch how they grovel before my countenance. None dare be inattentive to my luxuries, for my wrath is not to be made light of. Not for me, your Stoic restraint. I shall have my women as I have my wine - full-bodied and voluptuous, not unlike Rubens' Venus. And they shall love me, these women, and be devoted to my every need, for they shall know no other.
Come now, let us feast.

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Poem

Bouquets of roses, and
the scent
of your hair - apples,
and wildberries.
Honeyed kisses -
your lips,
your tears.
Sweat, and our bodies
Aching.

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She talks to angels

[Title sourced from the Counting Crows song of the same name]

She was a little girl in a wild, overgrown garden and the tall grass dwarfed her.
She was five, wearing the green dress with the pretty yellow socks and the white mary-janes. And she was bent over a tiny puddle helping catterpillars cross, and she would marvel at the way they curled around the twig.
She was seven, lying on her back in the grass when she saw the eagle. And he would soar higher with every beat of his wings. And it was beautiful and magnificent and her eyes were large with wonder.
She was ten, with her face raised to the sky, and she could smell the allspice leaf crushed in her palm and she could smell the rain.
She was parting the wispy wayward wildgrass stems and she could see in the endless distance a tall chimney, and the breeze was curling the smoke into fantastic patterns.
She was on her favorite mango tree as high as she could go, and she stood on tiptoe to see what was beyond the sudden drop of road along the slight hill and she saw the silhouette of a lone tree, leafless and wizened and bent against the indigo of the sky, and it made her want to weep.
She was the sun. And the earth belonged to her and she belonged to the earth.
She was a dervish, whirling barefoot on damp soil.

She trips and lands on the mattress, laughing.

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