Midnight is the time when profound thoughts strike me.
Is orange the color named after orange the fruit or is it the other way round?
why is yellow not called banana or banana not called yellow then? How about apple and red???
No matter how childlish the ponderings are, they are indeed thought provoking.
Monday, May 30, 2005
Sunday, May 29, 2005
Windows.
My yearning to create a better work space made me paint the office room. The room has an inaccessible wrought iron balcony that stages some fake flowering plants to add that splash of color. I tried to bring that hue in. After our thirty minute pondering over the color pallettes in the paint section, I ended up with a creamy orange shade, which looked more orange than creamy when applied to the walls. But warms colors have a thing about them and I liked the way the room turmed out. The color in the balcony tied up with the color inside but my quest for creativity prompted me to think of a border to go around the top of the wall. I asked for a few suggestions and did'nt find any strinking or challenging enough. I googled "office space wall paper borders" and came up with an exhaustive selection, but none of them pleased the discerning eye in question. A thought flashed across my mind, unconvincing in the beginning but appealing as the time passed by.
Fast forward to a four rung ladder, a bunch of talkon brushes and acrylic paint in bright hues that define windows paired with a semi seasoned hand that makes things appear a lot easier and an enthusiasm of a three year old, Bill gates' windows adorn the now colorful office space. The prime colors add the required splash and voila, the place becomes complete. The arched window with the wooden blinds and the wrought iron balcony and the microsoft windows that seem to pop on the wall stage the same thing. What is that word? color!!!
Fast forward to a four rung ladder, a bunch of talkon brushes and acrylic paint in bright hues that define windows paired with a semi seasoned hand that makes things appear a lot easier and an enthusiasm of a three year old, Bill gates' windows adorn the now colorful office space. The prime colors add the required splash and voila, the place becomes complete. The arched window with the wooden blinds and the wrought iron balcony and the microsoft windows that seem to pop on the wall stage the same thing. What is that word? color!!!
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
Tense.
Before my Paradigm takes word form, I really need to ponder over the Tense. Grammar "tense" that is.
Once, when I was in seventh Grade, Seshakka told me something remarkable while teaching me Algebra. "If you don't use it, it'll get rotten (she referred to my brain) just like flour goes bad after a while".
What words of wisdom? It has taken me a decade and a half to understand what she actually meant.
I notice a lot of "tense fluctuations" in my writings which never happened a year ago. Well, it took me an year to actually start writing, and the flour got bad.
Reason enough to do this writing more frequently may be I can stop if from turning even badder:-))
Once, when I was in seventh Grade, Seshakka told me something remarkable while teaching me Algebra. "If you don't use it, it'll get rotten (she referred to my brain) just like flour goes bad after a while".
What words of wisdom? It has taken me a decade and a half to understand what she actually meant.
I notice a lot of "tense fluctuations" in my writings which never happened a year ago. Well, it took me an year to actually start writing, and the flour got bad.
Reason enough to do this writing more frequently may be I can stop if from turning even badder:-))
Saturday, May 07, 2005
Fascination.
The first vision I have of her stays alive in my mind after two years and would stay there for years to come. A six pound something bundle of joy with a face so transperant that her green veins shine thru her skin. Small face the size of an orange, large eyes the size of almonds. She was as tiny as it can get and her eyes travel the length and breadth of the room aimlessly, without focus. A thick layer of hair covers her head and scantily spreads on to her forehead. Her complexion is a much coveted pink.
The icon arrives with a bang. The little soul that changes the way I look at life. The large eyes, the innocent looks, the wonderfully cute hands and feet.
She grows up wearing pink overalls, denim skorts and colorful trinkets in her wiry hair. She talks way ahead of her peers. At one, she calls me Bushulu and binds herself a big more tighter to a cord of my heart.
She is a quick learner, a prodigy a bit of sunshine, a beam of moonlight that brightens my life. I play with her, sing with her and try to be a real friend. She slowly connects to me.
She is two now, conversing and thinking sense and calling me "bushulu" with a tint of love in her tender voice. Her big eyes batter their eyelids in the amazement of talking to a fur toy and my heart skips a beat.
She is not mine, but she is mine in a strange way. A way that leads straight to some secure corner of my heart. She just needs to bat her mile long lashes, and my heart skips a beat.
Sivany the sweet lil angel that changes the life of her mom and her God mom is a subject of fascination that makes my life sweeter.
The icon arrives with a bang. The little soul that changes the way I look at life. The large eyes, the innocent looks, the wonderfully cute hands and feet.
She grows up wearing pink overalls, denim skorts and colorful trinkets in her wiry hair. She talks way ahead of her peers. At one, she calls me Bushulu and binds herself a big more tighter to a cord of my heart.
She is a quick learner, a prodigy a bit of sunshine, a beam of moonlight that brightens my life. I play with her, sing with her and try to be a real friend. She slowly connects to me.
She is two now, conversing and thinking sense and calling me "bushulu" with a tint of love in her tender voice. Her big eyes batter their eyelids in the amazement of talking to a fur toy and my heart skips a beat.
She is not mine, but she is mine in a strange way. A way that leads straight to some secure corner of my heart. She just needs to bat her mile long lashes, and my heart skips a beat.
Sivany the sweet lil angel that changes the life of her mom and her God mom is a subject of fascination that makes my life sweeter.
Bittersweet.
Your calls don't last as long as they are awaited.
Your talk tells me the untold.
Your chuckle reminds me of a child that knows no manupulation.
You seem to be a hero in your own right, a magic that has touched our lives.
You made your mark felt, without actually making an effort
You made hearts miss their beat, you made unknown, "unheard" of people
support you without asking them for it.
You are stupid sometimes and sometimes stubborn
You change lives, you change decisions
you create havoc and confusion.
She paints a picture about you
with vague words forming imaginarly lines
on the canvas of my mind.
I try to get her sketch!
I use some seen visions,
I imagine some unseen
I form a picture
not perfect but pretty
not pretty but pure.
My not perfect, not pretty but pure image
that speaks intellegence and spells innocence
appears before me when I hear your
sometimes confused, sometimes confident
and sometimes confusing voice.
Sometimes a pressure, sometimes a pleasure
you are like the experience of a new mother.
You come in and write another chapter in my life.
Another feeling to be felt, another bond to be built
You sometimes irritate me and sometimes amuse me
but never cease to amaze me.
You are unpredictible, I never know when you heal the wound.
I never know when you make it.
You tell me you are not as attached to me as I am to you! But You make me feel good.
May be because I acknowledge it and you don't. May be because I see the vulnerable little boy when I see you and you see a confident young man when you see yourself.
This unexpected addition to my life, this unasked attention and bondage add a shade more to the color of my heart.
I know not what it is! If it is just another of the many forms of affection, or
a flimsy tag of relationship that binds me to you. I know not if is my love for her or my love for you that reflects my feelings!
You strengthen a spirit, you weaken an emotion. You inflict a pain, you enhance a happiness. your every reaction refreshes like a breath of fresh air or leaves an uneasiness linger behind.
You say rediculous, outrageous, idotic things but you get away with them.
Your every careless word masks a feeling, your every sweet gesture unveils a truthfulness.
I fail to understand if your attraction lies in the way you are or the way I look at you. I feel like hating you, like ignoring you but I fail.
Sometimes bitter, sometimes sweet, you bring with you a whirlwind of emotions and enrich my life with another facet of love.
Your talk tells me the untold.
Your chuckle reminds me of a child that knows no manupulation.
You seem to be a hero in your own right, a magic that has touched our lives.
You made your mark felt, without actually making an effort
You made hearts miss their beat, you made unknown, "unheard" of people
support you without asking them for it.
You are stupid sometimes and sometimes stubborn
You change lives, you change decisions
you create havoc and confusion.
She paints a picture about you
with vague words forming imaginarly lines
on the canvas of my mind.
I try to get her sketch!
I use some seen visions,
I imagine some unseen
I form a picture
not perfect but pretty
not pretty but pure.
My not perfect, not pretty but pure image
that speaks intellegence and spells innocence
appears before me when I hear your
sometimes confused, sometimes confident
and sometimes confusing voice.
Sometimes a pressure, sometimes a pleasure
you are like the experience of a new mother.
You come in and write another chapter in my life.
Another feeling to be felt, another bond to be built
You sometimes irritate me and sometimes amuse me
but never cease to amaze me.
You are unpredictible, I never know when you heal the wound.
I never know when you make it.
You tell me you are not as attached to me as I am to you! But You make me feel good.
May be because I acknowledge it and you don't. May be because I see the vulnerable little boy when I see you and you see a confident young man when you see yourself.
This unexpected addition to my life, this unasked attention and bondage add a shade more to the color of my heart.
I know not what it is! If it is just another of the many forms of affection, or
a flimsy tag of relationship that binds me to you. I know not if is my love for her or my love for you that reflects my feelings!
You strengthen a spirit, you weaken an emotion. You inflict a pain, you enhance a happiness. your every reaction refreshes like a breath of fresh air or leaves an uneasiness linger behind.
You say rediculous, outrageous, idotic things but you get away with them.
Your every careless word masks a feeling, your every sweet gesture unveils a truthfulness.
I fail to understand if your attraction lies in the way you are or the way I look at you. I feel like hating you, like ignoring you but I fail.
Sometimes bitter, sometimes sweet, you bring with you a whirlwind of emotions and enrich my life with another facet of love.
Friday, May 06, 2005
Meaning or less.
The cul-de-sac curls like a lazy serpent.Pegions make funny noises. Roses wither and fall on the red bark below. Kids roam about leisurely on their bykes. An occassional screech of tyres cuts thru the scilence. Majestic houses seem to fall on each other probably due to lack of support or lack of space. A woman walking a dog, a man jogging on the side walk. Trees that shake gently, tall and short, big and small. green lawns, yellow lawns, kempt lawns, unkempt lawns. The view remains the same with minor alterations. Days roll by. The arched window with the wrought iron frame unfolds a new world before me.Yes, The view remains the same but changes the way I look at it as days roll by.
trying to rhyme.
I sleep turning and tossing,
And wake up a wreck.
I make an attempt to live
Another day with a meaning.
No matter what the day brings
Or means, or gives,
I still try to live it
I still try to love it.
Words and words form a void
that I try but fail to avoid.
Empty thoughts cross my mind
Just empty thoughts, nothing refined.
I attempt to create the magic of verse
And write a limerick longer
Than four lines.
Thanks to my silly brain
That composed this silly whatever.
If not it'd have been and
I'd have called this day
Another day down the drain.
And wake up a wreck.
I make an attempt to live
Another day with a meaning.
No matter what the day brings
Or means, or gives,
I still try to live it
I still try to love it.
Words and words form a void
that I try but fail to avoid.
Empty thoughts cross my mind
Just empty thoughts, nothing refined.
I attempt to create the magic of verse
And write a limerick longer
Than four lines.
Thanks to my silly brain
That composed this silly whatever.
If not it'd have been and
I'd have called this day
Another day down the drain.
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
Renaissance Man
Nana was the renaissance man. He was cool enough for me even when I was fifteen. I think that is the time when I actually started realising how intriguing the man was.
I'll check with amma and update his date of birth. Nana was a very fair complected, fine looking gentleman, with silvery gray hair by the time I knew him. He was tall, and well built. His face was austre, always neatly shaven and he never grew a mustache. Amma's nose looked somuch like his, and my nose looks somuch like amma's. So I inherited the nose from him.
Nana loved music dearly, among the other things in life. Our visit to his house, was always marked with his performance on veena. He played the instrument with absolute comfort. Nana had beautiful long fingers with long nail buds, an artistic hand as Cheiro would classify in his pamistry books. The pink finger tips of his left hand became brownish black from all the playing on Veena. He was immemnsely excited about music. The mornings I spent at his place were pleasant with a promintent Carnatic singer performing on his tape recorder. when I hear M S Subbulakshmi sing "Bhavayami Raghuramam, I remember some very precious memories of my childhood spent in Nana's house.
Nana spent a lot of his money on music and Homeopathy, his other passion. His clinic was filled with "Metria Medica" volumes neatly arranged like in an Attorney's office. I once remember him telling me that he spent over one lac INR on his homeopathy books. That was a prohibitive fugure for me, and I should admit, I honestly did'nt know the number of zeros in a Lac at that time, I was that young or that bad with numbers. The figure, however convinced that this man was ellocos about his hobbies.
Nana loved and just loved animals and humor. He would narrate jokes and chuckle uncontrolably. He loved watching wild life on TV and would always used to tell all his grand children to tell him when they spot any animals on TV. He smoked a pipe for some time, but smoked cigars all the time. He once told me that he started smoking cigars when he was twelve. He had some disease and smoking cigars was the cure. (funny, right??) I used to listen to his stories with dialited eyes and utter disbelief.
Nana did a lot of cool things. He worked for a government organisation, practised Homeopathy during weeknights and weekends and learnt music with a vengance. His close friends were his veena and mridangam teachers who were his age group. He loved finger food and snacks that nani made during the afternoons. He had the sweetest tooth I had known. Nana had his flip sides too. He had an obsession for cleanliness that often made his grandchildren hate him. "No food in the bed room" he would insist. I remeber once he traced a carbon paper folded and preserved the wrong side in my english text. He would take the paper out, fold it the right side and reprimand me strongly for doing such a foolish thing. (Well I am givng out many secrets about my IQ, Lol) I definitely though he never tried to sugar coat his opinions. I appreciate that quality of his now, but back then, I though he was a wee bit grumpy.
Grumpy or handsome, artistic or funny , Nana was defintely a strong influence on me. He spoke prestine english, but the way he said "garals" for "girls" and warald for "world" always made me smile. I used to correct him sometimes. He would just smile and pat my head lovingly but he never grew out of saying "garals" and "warald"
These two pronouciations become infamous in the anals of our family history and we still lovingly remember how he pronounced them.
Nana's last years were a stark contrast to his life. After He retired form his services, He and Nani used to live in the same town. He practised homeopathy, his serious hobby for quiet sometime.
One blazing May afternoon, Nana came to my place with Nani. His shirt was'nt tucked for the first time ever. His black shoes that shone all the time were matte. He looked haggard as he stood in the entrance. That was the last healthy image I had of him, standing tall and stout, and confident.
No one discussed it but I realised that Nana lost his money in some investments and more than his money, he lost his vigor for life and sadly enough, his health. Nana stayed with us the rest of his life, for about six years. He was paralysed for a brief period and he recovered, but never completely. His meaty shouldres slowly became emaciated, his frame became sleek and his straight forward ways of expression became meek. He would sit in solitude for most of his time listening to some artist performing on AIR or reading his Metiria Medicas. It was such pity that his Homeopathy that cured all the ailments we ever had in the household, failed to cure his ailment. Probably because it was more mental than physical. Nana was emotionall, physically and fincancially dependant on his daughters and that toned down all his pride and love for life.
Nana was still the same old man at heart, he would still enjoy humor and wildlife and he read his newspaper every morning stilling in the easy chair on our side yard.
He smoked cigars and played cards in his leisure with santu and geeta. He was still meticulous about his things and never let anyone of us hadle his precious belongings.
I should dedicate numerous blogs to talk about this renaissance man. The man who loved and gave without counting. I have a lots more to say about him but for now, I should say I am one of the luckiest garals in the warald to
have had a grand dad like him.
I'll check with amma and update his date of birth. Nana was a very fair complected, fine looking gentleman, with silvery gray hair by the time I knew him. He was tall, and well built. His face was austre, always neatly shaven and he never grew a mustache. Amma's nose looked somuch like his, and my nose looks somuch like amma's. So I inherited the nose from him.
Nana loved music dearly, among the other things in life. Our visit to his house, was always marked with his performance on veena. He played the instrument with absolute comfort. Nana had beautiful long fingers with long nail buds, an artistic hand as Cheiro would classify in his pamistry books. The pink finger tips of his left hand became brownish black from all the playing on Veena. He was immemnsely excited about music. The mornings I spent at his place were pleasant with a promintent Carnatic singer performing on his tape recorder. when I hear M S Subbulakshmi sing "Bhavayami Raghuramam, I remember some very precious memories of my childhood spent in Nana's house.
Nana spent a lot of his money on music and Homeopathy, his other passion. His clinic was filled with "Metria Medica" volumes neatly arranged like in an Attorney's office. I once remember him telling me that he spent over one lac INR on his homeopathy books. That was a prohibitive fugure for me, and I should admit, I honestly did'nt know the number of zeros in a Lac at that time, I was that young or that bad with numbers. The figure, however convinced that this man was ellocos about his hobbies.
Nana loved and just loved animals and humor. He would narrate jokes and chuckle uncontrolably. He loved watching wild life on TV and would always used to tell all his grand children to tell him when they spot any animals on TV. He smoked a pipe for some time, but smoked cigars all the time. He once told me that he started smoking cigars when he was twelve. He had some disease and smoking cigars was the cure. (funny, right??) I used to listen to his stories with dialited eyes and utter disbelief.
Nana did a lot of cool things. He worked for a government organisation, practised Homeopathy during weeknights and weekends and learnt music with a vengance. His close friends were his veena and mridangam teachers who were his age group. He loved finger food and snacks that nani made during the afternoons. He had the sweetest tooth I had known. Nana had his flip sides too. He had an obsession for cleanliness that often made his grandchildren hate him. "No food in the bed room" he would insist. I remeber once he traced a carbon paper folded and preserved the wrong side in my english text. He would take the paper out, fold it the right side and reprimand me strongly for doing such a foolish thing. (Well I am givng out many secrets about my IQ, Lol) I definitely though he never tried to sugar coat his opinions. I appreciate that quality of his now, but back then, I though he was a wee bit grumpy.
Grumpy or handsome, artistic or funny , Nana was defintely a strong influence on me. He spoke prestine english, but the way he said "garals" for "girls" and warald for "world" always made me smile. I used to correct him sometimes. He would just smile and pat my head lovingly but he never grew out of saying "garals" and "warald"
These two pronouciations become infamous in the anals of our family history and we still lovingly remember how he pronounced them.
Nana's last years were a stark contrast to his life. After He retired form his services, He and Nani used to live in the same town. He practised homeopathy, his serious hobby for quiet sometime.
One blazing May afternoon, Nana came to my place with Nani. His shirt was'nt tucked for the first time ever. His black shoes that shone all the time were matte. He looked haggard as he stood in the entrance. That was the last healthy image I had of him, standing tall and stout, and confident.
No one discussed it but I realised that Nana lost his money in some investments and more than his money, he lost his vigor for life and sadly enough, his health. Nana stayed with us the rest of his life, for about six years. He was paralysed for a brief period and he recovered, but never completely. His meaty shouldres slowly became emaciated, his frame became sleek and his straight forward ways of expression became meek. He would sit in solitude for most of his time listening to some artist performing on AIR or reading his Metiria Medicas. It was such pity that his Homeopathy that cured all the ailments we ever had in the household, failed to cure his ailment. Probably because it was more mental than physical. Nana was emotionall, physically and fincancially dependant on his daughters and that toned down all his pride and love for life.
Nana was still the same old man at heart, he would still enjoy humor and wildlife and he read his newspaper every morning stilling in the easy chair on our side yard.
He smoked cigars and played cards in his leisure with santu and geeta. He was still meticulous about his things and never let anyone of us hadle his precious belongings.
I should dedicate numerous blogs to talk about this renaissance man. The man who loved and gave without counting. I have a lots more to say about him but for now, I should say I am one of the luckiest garals in the warald to
have had a grand dad like him.
Monday, May 02, 2005
Greenest thumb on the block.
Before I blog about the thumb, I need to blog about the thumb's owner.
Let us call her Tia.
Tia has a remarkable thing about her, that is her style of walking. she sways elegantly on the side walk, does'nt matter if she is in a track suit or a business suit, her walk always has a sharp expression and femininity to it.
Tia is all what a modern woman is! A working professional, great mom to three handsome sons and an excellent homemaker. Now we'll talk about her famous green thumb.
gardening seems to be a serious passtime for her. I was always amused by the way she made it look like cake walk. While I toiled in the backyard trying to find a perfect place for my button rose, Tia would sway in and point me a place.
"Look at that spot in the corner, that'd be perfect!" she'd exclaim, and I being one of the dummies in the "gardening for dummies" agree meekly.
Her garden advice is always right. If she aske me not to plant mums in the front yard, she does so for a reason. The plants she shared with me and planted in my backyard always thrived better than the ones my family planted.
Her backyard bustles with peaches and roses. Strawberries are picked seasonally, peach preserve is made from the outrageous yeild of her peach trees and slender white roses adorn her breakfast table most days of the week.
Her honey suckles always grow stronger and bloom better, her apples are juicier and her Dhalias are always brighter.
Tia has the greenest thumb on the block and her simple but effective style of gardening is proof. Whether it is her swaying "cat walk" or the Calla Lillies that bloom in her backyard, this woman has style that is paired with a secret spell she uses on her green friends.
Let us call her Tia.
Tia has a remarkable thing about her, that is her style of walking. she sways elegantly on the side walk, does'nt matter if she is in a track suit or a business suit, her walk always has a sharp expression and femininity to it.
Tia is all what a modern woman is! A working professional, great mom to three handsome sons and an excellent homemaker. Now we'll talk about her famous green thumb.
gardening seems to be a serious passtime for her. I was always amused by the way she made it look like cake walk. While I toiled in the backyard trying to find a perfect place for my button rose, Tia would sway in and point me a place.
"Look at that spot in the corner, that'd be perfect!" she'd exclaim, and I being one of the dummies in the "gardening for dummies" agree meekly.
Her garden advice is always right. If she aske me not to plant mums in the front yard, she does so for a reason. The plants she shared with me and planted in my backyard always thrived better than the ones my family planted.
Her backyard bustles with peaches and roses. Strawberries are picked seasonally, peach preserve is made from the outrageous yeild of her peach trees and slender white roses adorn her breakfast table most days of the week.
Her honey suckles always grow stronger and bloom better, her apples are juicier and her Dhalias are always brighter.
Tia has the greenest thumb on the block and her simple but effective style of gardening is proof. Whether it is her swaying "cat walk" or the Calla Lillies that bloom in her backyard, this woman has style that is paired with a secret spell she uses on her green friends.
Saturday, April 30, 2005
When I have started
....speaking anout photographic memory, Why shoul'dnt I just go ahead and recite (read type) a poem from my third grade??
Thanks Sr. gracy, your teachings prove effcetive after so long ( I do't want to mention how long, in fear of feeling old)
Little fairy comes at night,
Her eyes are blue , her hair is brown
With silver spots upon her wings
And from the moon she flutters down
She has a little silver wand
And when a good child goes to bed,
she waves her wand from right to left
And makes a circle over her head.
And then it dreams of pleasant things
Of fountains filled with fairy fish
And trees that bear delecious fruits
And bow their branches at a wish
Or aurbors filled with densy secnts
From lovely flowers that never fade
Broght flies glitter in the sun
Glow worms shining in the shade
Or talking birds with gifted tongues
For singing songs and telling tales.
Does the ending seem absurd? I wish there was a way to double check how well I remember the poem.
I should add that the line "Or aurbors filled with densy secnts" makes a lot more sense to me know, after knowing what an arbor actually is.
Thanks Sr. gracy, your teachings prove effcetive after so long ( I do't want to mention how long, in fear of feeling old)
Little fairy comes at night,
Her eyes are blue , her hair is brown
With silver spots upon her wings
And from the moon she flutters down
She has a little silver wand
And when a good child goes to bed,
she waves her wand from right to left
And makes a circle over her head.
And then it dreams of pleasant things
Of fountains filled with fairy fish
And trees that bear delecious fruits
And bow their branches at a wish
Or aurbors filled with densy secnts
From lovely flowers that never fade
Broght flies glitter in the sun
Glow worms shining in the shade
Or talking birds with gifted tongues
For singing songs and telling tales.
Does the ending seem absurd? I wish there was a way to double check how well I remember the poem.
I should add that the line "Or aurbors filled with densy secnts" makes a lot more sense to me know, after knowing what an arbor actually is.
Maggie cuts her hair.
Any ICSE students who passed out ICSE during 1992-1998 will know what I am talking about.
I do not have a photographic memory, but Maggie, straignt from my seventh grade english text, was a living, breathing character for me back then.
"maggie cuts her hair" was an exerpt form a book called "The Mill on the Floss" by George Eliot. I wish I'd remembered the actual name of the author. George Eliot is her (yes, HER) psudonym.
So Maggie and her Brother tom and a bunch of aunts and uncles and her dad came into my life one pleasant morning. Our english teacher Ms. S taught us the lesson in an unforgettable way. This little girl maggie attempts to cut her hair(and actually succeeds with the help of her Brother Tom) She just does it not to look good or anything, She does it for validation, for making her uncles and aunts and her family think that she was clever.
I realted to Maggie. I probably did a lot of things for validation, for approval and for impressing others. Does everyone do it or is it just me??
Anyhows, Maggie left an impression on me. I still remember her form late early 90s and I think I will for sometime to come.
Now I know what I need to read next - "The Mill On the Floss" by George Eliot.
I know it is going to stir a lot of childhood memories, and that should probably generate a lot of nostalgic blogs.
Maggie sets her impression on a 12 year girl, long enough to sustain it through her twenties, by just cutting her hair. I wish it were that simple to make a lasting impression on someone's mind.
I do not have a photographic memory, but Maggie, straignt from my seventh grade english text, was a living, breathing character for me back then.
"maggie cuts her hair" was an exerpt form a book called "The Mill on the Floss" by George Eliot. I wish I'd remembered the actual name of the author. George Eliot is her (yes, HER) psudonym.
So Maggie and her Brother tom and a bunch of aunts and uncles and her dad came into my life one pleasant morning. Our english teacher Ms. S taught us the lesson in an unforgettable way. This little girl maggie attempts to cut her hair(and actually succeeds with the help of her Brother Tom) She just does it not to look good or anything, She does it for validation, for making her uncles and aunts and her family think that she was clever.
I realted to Maggie. I probably did a lot of things for validation, for approval and for impressing others. Does everyone do it or is it just me??
Anyhows, Maggie left an impression on me. I still remember her form late early 90s and I think I will for sometime to come.
Now I know what I need to read next - "The Mill On the Floss" by George Eliot.
I know it is going to stir a lot of childhood memories, and that should probably generate a lot of nostalgic blogs.
Maggie sets her impression on a 12 year girl, long enough to sustain it through her twenties, by just cutting her hair. I wish it were that simple to make a lasting impression on someone's mind.
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