hasty snatches

 Time, tide and deadlines wait for none. And I don't particularly want to do a Canute here.
    Where have all the bloggers gone? The neurotic, manic-depressive and oh-so-reassuring (magnificently fueling the 'if you're in shit hey look, there's someone shittier!' complex) ones.
   They became whole once more, existential angst were outgrown along with teenage braces and half-formed ideals and pakami. Leading whole lives in the fullness of time, with no reason to whine. Tradition be damned!
   What remains is a handful of brittle leaves of yesteryears. Thake shudhu ondhokar, mukhomukhi boshibaar...
  
   Read a few good books after a long time. Kerouac's On the road. And all the jazz associated with why i wanted to read it in the first place. Then Lust for life on van Gogh. And yes, my ears are still intact though it prodded me into picking up palette and paint - resulting in a brilliantly horrendous canvas. Skimmed through Arthur Haley's Hotel. After the uncompromising reality of Irving Stone it didn't quite cut the mark.
 Now back to Eliot's evenings spread out against the sky. Early in the morning too!
 Finally classified myself into an obsessive-compulsive nostalgic. The whole looking back and 'how green was my valley' thing. Every time.  Oh no, never vocal. College spurts on like paste from a tube and I remain ensconced in my Dylan and Cohen and the sudden Beethoven.
 We are nostalgics to the hilt - taru, myself and a few others. It has always been the Beatles and Dylan, Sinatra and
  This blog has withstood many a fevered tirade against nothing in particular.