Tuesday, May 26, 2009

Butterflies in My Brain

Dear, dear, how queer everything is today!
And yesterday things went on just as usual.

-Alice in Wonderland

People pop pills, I pop olives. Minus the martinis.

Not that I need cheering up. I’m currently situated somewhere very close to the nadir of despair.

That’s because I’ve put the finishing touches to my land of make believe. It’s a wonderful place to be really.

Built to order. Custom made. Like handmade shoes. Hence, deviously divine.


In Linda Goodman’s words- A wild place where two lilies and seven white roses grow among the iris.

With background scores that engender a great deal of deliberation.

For instance, Harry Nilsson’s Puppy Song made me compile a very comprehensive list of potential pets.

I want a black cat with blue eyes that I’ll call Moscow and a white cat with green eyes called Tuscany. A fish called Melrose. A parrot called Haddock. A doormouse named Shiraz. A dog called Perrier. A tortoise called Speedy, a rabbit called Winnipeg, a horse called Abercrombie, a monkey named Duke, a chimp called Rhett. And just maybe a tiger called Euripides.

There’s a bone deep certainty that they’ll all be even tempered, gentle and charitable paragons of virtue.

I’d of course have to become hugely rich to support such a syndicate and still have a few stray millions left over for me.

And just in case anyone’s planning to sue me for intended irreverence towards animals---This is a make believe world, where humanoids can peacefully co-exist with animals without a full scale power struggle.

But my pining for a parallel universe hasn’t blinded me to my immediate realities.

One of which is that you can find shapes in trees. The same way you look for shapes in clouds.

True, most of the times they look like disproportionately small heads with big hair deprived of styling gel.

Or like a statuesque beauty with an outrageous number of limbs.

Or they look like thin, mutilated warhorses.

Or they look prosperous and potbellied, blessed with a profusion of greenbacks.

This is probably the only instance when this last is the most handsome.

It’s pathetically outrageous that out of the several hundred trees I saw lined up by the roads today, few hundred of them provide sanctuary to very lethal yet dignified and industrious beehives.

All these fluttery feelings were topped off by exposure to an extremely suspect poem.

Oh and lastly, what happens when you get a haircut that leaves you with an accidental fringe, flick, (whatever it's called in stylist jargon) that resemble Scarlett O'Hara, pretty, flighty and damn inconvenient?

You turn up on prime time national television.

And you get to speak.

And then you subside into a mental puddle because of the sheer enormity of it.