Thursday, January 28, 2010

Dust-Land Should Never be Cleaned.

Yes, the decision has been made.

It was a brilliant moment. The moment in which I made the decision that is. It’s ironic that it takes so many more moments to actually explain that one moment. I would like to reiterate my deep appreciation for the sheer volume of work that neurons perform in a moment, whereas I use more than my legitimate share of moments to do a fragment of a neuron’s workload.

But coming back to the decision, I will devote half an hour’s worth moments to its description.

Being a photocopier at the CIA is off the cards. As are:
(a) A pastry chef (world renowned, no less)
(b) Traffic police (I used to hold the view that it’d help me absorb the ‘feel’ of the city while standing at a crossroad, my arms akimbo)
(c) A crocodile
(d) Semi Solid (I don’t want to be as irrelevant as a ghost, just with some of the benefits)
(e) A gondolier (Not an option since the oar might just be taller when held upright than I am)
(f) Famous
(f) Rich
(f) A moody, grumpy, hunchbacked brilliant gardener.
(g) The heir of Gryffindor
(g) A politician (I’m way too lazy to work hard at selling my soul. Not to mention, I don’t want to)

I am going to be the creator of a self sufficient unit, dependant on others only for the land and the cash flow. All right, let me rephrase that, I’ll be the creator of an isolated unit that sustains me!

The house must be built of honey coloured stones of indeterminable age. Better still, stones salvaged from some sight of historical significance by shady convict labourers, one of whom was wrongly accused of a crime he never committed. I will of course get him legal presentation and have his name cleared in a landmark judgement; he’ll walk free into the setting sun, his hat sitting jauntily on his head, smoking that one cigar that the rest of the crew would have pooled in money to buy for him. What can I say he’ll be a man of quirky tastes. And maybe, I’ll be half in love with him. His freedom will of course put the building of my house behind schedule, but we’ll manage somehow, fuelled with beer smuggled from the border. It doesn’t have to be smuggled; I just said that for the thrill of it.

During this time, I’ll live in the dilapidated outhouse. It’ll mean an existence plagued by fear of being waylaid by a snake or a spider, but what’s life without a little adventure. It’s not like I’m going to offer to help someone with their tax returns in which case, there would be plenty of cause for prayers.

The house will be surrounded with ancient, gnarled trees that I’ll have rescued and replanted before they were sawed down to make cricket bats. There’ll be several acres of lavender fields to the south, white lilies to the north, red tulips to the east and a vineyard to the west (more cash inflow!) (although I'm not entirely sure if the same soil could sustain these crops). These will of course be worked on by phantom-ish figures that look like they belong to the past. I’ll have to worry about being stabbed in the back with an unwashed and rusty gardening tool that one of them might hide under the voluminous cloaks they’ll wear even in the summer, until a fateful day when they’d save me from a band of robbers after sprigs of my prized lavender for a lavender creme brulee they planned on making to celebrate St. Someone’s Day. That night I’ll sit with those phantom-ish figures around a blue fire drinking moonshine (that we confiscated from the robbers) and then dance around it singing, “Voulez Vous”.

I’ll sit in this brainchild of mine and make a fortune writing historical fiction about the local weathermen. And about bankers {to mollify the banking community} when I’m falling short on paying the EMI for that Bugatti Veyron 16.4 that I’ll never drive because the roads are too narrow to hold the car. After finally coughing up that offending instalment, I’ll cycle back home (narrow roads remember!) and eat a dinner of hot soup and cold garlic bread.

As far as dusting is concerned, it’s a moot point. There’s no such thing as dust. It’s actually gold-dust I tell you. It just adds a glow to things, softens colours, distracts you from life’s miseries when it makes you cough during a pity party etc etc etc. Besides, dusting in the dustland would just put an end to all these pleasant meanerings.

At the end of the day, I’ll stumble up to my room, thrash about in the bed till its messy enough for my satisfaction and each limb is comfortably crooked. Then, I’ll go to sleep dreaming about how my life ‘could have been’ had I not made this momentous decision because maybe, just maybe, the described life only looks good on the new LED screens, when the colour settings are just right.