What grows best in heat: cane-sugar; the coconut palm; certain millets such as bajra, ragi and jowar; linseed, and (given water) tea and rice. Our hot land is also the world's second largest producer of cotton--at least, it was when I learned geography under the mad eye of Mr Emil Zagallo, and the steelier gaze of a framed Spanish conquistador. But the tropical summer grows stranger fruit as well: the exotic flowers of the imagination blossom, to fill the close perspiring nights with odours as heavy as musk, which give men dark dreams of discontent . . . then as now, unease was in the air. Language marchers demanded the partition of the state of Bombay along linguistic boundaries--the dream of Maharashtra was at the head of some processions, the mirage of Gujarat led the others forward. Heat, gnawing at the mind's divisions between fantasy and reality, made anything seem possible; the half-waking chaos of afternoon siestas fogged men's brains, and the air was filled with the stickiness of aroused desires.

What grows best in the heat; fantasy; unreason; lust.







Talk to me. Ask me a question.

Someone sent me a message and reminded me of this space.

Hello.

My last entry was sad. I do not remember where I was, emotionally, when I wrote that.

In general, however, I am much happier than I ever have been when considering the tumult that was my life when this journal was a part of it. I had to take major steps backward but I am ever so much closer to making progress. I have gotten over not being who I was, which allowed me to finally grow up.

Sitting in one of my last academic classes while in Baton Rouge, I decided I needed to get involved in healthcare, not health. So I plan to become a family nurse practitioner and nurse midwife. I plan to travel the United States. I plan to travel the world. I plan to write novels about revolutions and stories with dead bodies and worlds contained in humans and escapism in them. I started to wear make-up. I started loving pictures of women with guns. I planned a trip to Europe. I became much more progressive.

I feel like there is so much more I could tell you, but I am not sure how or where I should begin, or even if this space is the right place for it. But, I understand now, I do not need to know everything at all times. All I need is to say hello.

Hello.

Night over France, and a giant shadow, a monstrous backdrop, is forming itself in the sky as the 747 approaches 17,000 feet, climbing to cruising altitude. The camera moves in on an airmail parcel bearing a Georgetown address, in which a Toshiba cassette player has been packed. The device will be activated as the opening piano notes to the song "1985" by Paul McCartney and Wings (Band on the Run; Apple Records; 1973) start playing. The bomb will detonate on the final crashing cymbal of the song--five minutes and eleven seconds after it began. A relatively simple microchip timer and strips of Remform equaling twenty ounces are in the Toshiba cassette player, and the parcel has been placed near the skin of the plane, where it will break through the fuselage, weakening the frame, causing the plane to break apart with greater ease. The plane is traveling at 350 miles an hour and is now at an altitude of 14,500 feet.

( I am nice, so a cut here for the graphic violence of it all.Collapse )

--originally written by Bret Easton Ellis

How are you?

( ...Collapse )

'Kay, now I'm blind and my arms want to fall off.