Forty-Something Years in Ninaland


Happy Halloween!

il_570xN.278232981I remember when I was like eleven I played a “rich woman” for Halloween. I stole my mom’s rabbit fur coat from her closet and wore it with some fake diamonds. All the mothers at school who volunteered for the Halloween party LOVED my costume. I thought I was the shit. Then the fake diamond ring that I was wearing made my finger blue and would not come off. I had to go to the Emergency room and they cut off the ring. Apparently I wasn’t the first person to do such a thing.

After Halloween was the best time, time to eat chocolate. I would organize the candy according to type. That is phenomenal since I never organized anything in my room or in my life. My trapper keeper was a mess and so was my closet. But the candy, it was stacked in rows of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, Milky Ways, Butter Fingers, Etc. Etc.

Anything that wasn’t chocolate was OK. I mean some people gave chips, and chips are pretty good with chocolate. But except for Jolly Ranchers, the hard candy was kind of a bust.

Until I was in fourth grade, my parents would buy me Halloween costumes from K-mart. The kind with the plastic mask and the plastic clothes. It was truly embarrassing when some people had hand-sewn costumes. My mother was a doctor though, not a seamstress! She was a doctor who shopped at Kmart.

When I went to Columbia University in New York, I had the best costume in town. I was Cleopatra. I wore a velvet Indian salvaar kameez, and a long thin scarf rapped around my entire body. I had a crown and my eyes were done immaculately. I carried a peacock-feathered fan with me. People thought I bought a Cleopatra costume. By the way, no one was Indian in my class that year.


I wore that same costume to an Indian Halloween party and everyone was like: “What are you supposed to be, an Indian?” It was embarrassing.

I naturally look like Elvira or a witch, so those two costumes I got down pretty well. I got a nose for a witch and the long black hair. I have the hair and eyes for Elvira as well.


Can you see the witch in me first thing in the morning? Look at that nose!

One time after college I went to a Medical Frat party and dressed up as Cat Woman. Apparently I had a little too much fun and somehow ended up in the middle of the dance floor, gyrating my hips back and forth, while these doctors examined me!

Then I lost the keys to my car and almost had to walk home. There was no Uber back then.

I could be an awesome vampire as well because I have fair skin and really dark hair. I should look into it.

This year I’m laying low. No one I know is having a Halloween party and I’m on a diet so I can’t be giving out candy to kids. “Giving out” candy to kids means you eat half of the candy. I could eat half my weight in candy. So I’m just going to have a nice dinner with some friends this Halloween…Have a good one!

Please follow and like us:
 October 31st, 2015  
 0 Comment

You Think You’re Cooler Than Me…Re-Post

sixth grade nina

Me At 12 Years Old

Tuesday, July 22, 2014

You Think You’re Cooler than Me…

So I can’t remember if I’ve told you this story yet…so I’m going to tell it to you again.  When I was in sixth grade one of the “cool” girls invited me to her birthday party.  I was excited as hell.  This was going to be big.

Speaking of big, my mom had an idea for a gift.  She bought a HUGE ASS cooler, like a thing you put ice in and stuff.  She decided that I was going to give that as a gift to a 12-year old girl.

Did you hear what I said? She wanted me to give this ENORMOUS cooler to my friend who was just a regular girl.  I protested, but apparently I lost because she wrapped that thing.  It took both her and my dad to wrap it together to get it done.  I could hardly pick it up.

So I come into the party, trying to act ‘cooler’ than I looked while carrying a cooler.  Literally.  Everyone was staring at me when I entered my friend’s house.  “Yours is the biggest present we will open that last!” one of my friends yelled.  I looked at her like I was scared.

I was nervous until it was time to open presents.  I tried to hide in the bathroom but that didn’t look so good.  So I stood there with my palms sweating.  My friend got cool stuff like magazines about pop stars and other appropriate things.  “I can’t wait to open your gift!” was my friend’s sentiment towards me.

I can’t wait to fall over and die is what I thought.  My face started turning red, as it was my turn.  Everyone was paying attention to this one. She slowly unwrapped the gift; oh I forgot to mention it was wrapped in Christmas wrapping paper.  Red and green.  Could I have looked like more of a fool?  How could I look less cool?

As she opened the gift her eyes were wide with wonder, and then it happened.  It was right there for everyone to see.  Another friend of mine looked at me curiously, “It’s a cooler?”  I didn’t say anything and tried to smile.  I wanted to scream that it was my mother’s idea; it was all her weird fault.  But that would have just made me look weirder.

It was bad enough that I was the only minority in the room.  But trust me everyone was assured that I was ‘different’ when they saw that gift.  “You got her a cooler?” my friend’s mother asked.

Yes I did people.  I am not cool. I had to bring something to cool my ass.

It was a sleepover party and later that night I wanted to hide in the cooler, I was so embarrassed.  But I think everyone was over it, I think they stored all the other gifts in the cooler.  I bet you her parents used that cooler at barbeques and picnics.  It was more like a ‘family gift’ if you ask me.

So after my mother forced me to commit social suicide, I went to school like normal the next Monday.  I don’t know if kids were talking about the cooler, probably everyone forgot about it.  Everyone but me.

A year later I moved to Troy, Michigan.  I was on my way to being less cool when I entered a new school.  At the time I wore very colorful sweaters with huge patterns on them.  I think they were in style.  I cannot be sure.

I was definitely uncool in school when I first moved to Troy.  It was one of the hardest years of my life.  I wasn’t as studious as the smart Indian kids and I wasn’t cool enough for the cool kids.  I didn’t fit in anywhere.  I was the smartest kid in Livonia and the dumbest Indian in Troy.  No one knew what to do with me; least of all did I know what to do with myself.

However, finally by high school I gave up the swirling patterned sweaters and lost some weight and looked almost ‘normal.’ I mean I wasn’t ‘normal’ normal.  I was just not as much of a freak as I was in middle school.

I think I was cool in college.  I mean I’m having trouble analyzing it objectively but I hung out with some ‘cool’ people.  I didn’t drink like a mad woman or have random sex in college but I had a good time.  I even bought a black leather jacket from The Gap.  It was by far my coolest possession.  The check bounced when I bought it, but I ended up owning it nevertheless.

When I moved to New York for grad school I bought a sable colored leather jacket.  I was funky back then.  Everyone is cool in New York.  You can be yourself there.  There is no standard of coolness: people are so different all around the city. I think I finally came into myself there. Although I did lose my mind there as well, but I was never ashamed to tell people in New York that I had Manic Depression.  I felt like you had to have something to get into the School of Arts at Columbia.  It’s not a myth; writers and artists are bit mad.

I swear a couple people were jealous of me that I had so much to write about, being crazy and all.  It was cool to be crazy at Columbia.  In fact I told a couple people I had to spend some time in a psych ward.  This one guy was like, “Man if they put me in there, they would never let me out.” He was not diagnosed or anything, he was just street crazy.  He would exclusively write about gory homicides and rapes.

The real question is, am I cool now?  I don’t know how to answer that: I’m almost forty. I don’t know if I care anymore. I think I need to start using a new word besides ‘cool.’  I think I’m groovy.  How about that?

What about you, are you cool?  In my biased opinion I think if you are taking the time to read this, you are definitely cool.



Please follow and like us:
 October 29th, 2015  

god mother part II

pink flower mandala on the black background

pink flower mandala on the black background

If you haven’t read this first, read it before you read this post: Dear nina it’s me god…

So where did we leave off? Oh yes…I thought God was talking to me. So I go to the day hospital because of panic attacks, which is a program where you go spend like only the daytime in a setting where they do all kinds of group therapy and art therapy etc. I particularly like the art therapy and the discussions. I made a real nice abstract painting; I’m only good at abstracts. I’m also good at discussions. I know how to talk.

But it is so incredibly sad. There is a woman who can’t keep it together since her cat died. And when you look at her you know it’s not just her cat that’s the problem. Then there was a dude who was a little overweight with bad acne. He talked about how he would just be at the dinner table and he would want to kill himself. He started to tear up when telling us this.

I didn’t feel at all like killing myself. It was a foreign concept to me. I was in this day hospital program because I was having severe panic attacks. This is the thing: I was having a nervous reaction to life. Two people in fact had tried to sexually attack me and it was making me crazy.

(This is the thing that me and my friends who have a mental illness talk about: It is not sane to be OK with the world. Insanity is an appropriate reaction to the horror of life. It’s possible that if you are not reacting to the things that are happening in this world, perhaps you are not paying attention).

I of course did not tell a soul at the day hospital that I thought god was talking to me. Even I, in all my craziness, knew you don’t go around telling people stuff like that unless you want to truly be locked up. Or so I thought.

However there was a woman who interviewed me at the hospital before I left. I don’t know; there was something about her that made me trust her. She told us she was a therapist with a private practice. I immediately wanted to see her. I told my mother, for some unexplained reason, that I would see no one but her for therapy.

I went to the first session, and I stared to shake and feel something like chills go up and down my spine. Something happened in that room, that I can’t explain. I don’t remember the details of exactly what I said, or how I said it. But it went something like this:

“Something is happening to me, to my entire being,” I said in a shaky voice.

“What do you mean? What’s happening?” she asked. Her beautiful face looked at me quizzically.

“God is talking to me,” I said to her. Then I told her something about the soul of her dog.“ I mean I’m channeling god,” I told her after I felt like the feeling of being submerged in the source had passed.

“OK, how do you feel after this happens?” she asked.

“Very tired.”

“That makes sense,” she said. Sense? What is she talking about? None of this makes sense

“You believe me?” I asked shyly.

“Yes,” she said confidently. I thought for a moment she was crazy. Isn’t she supposed to diagnose people who think god is talking to them?…To be Continued.

That was the first time I told anyone that I was channeling the source. Let me tell you once again. I do not think that I am god in the Judeo-Christian definition of the word. I am not the guy with the beard who goes around judging people. I am simply one with god, and so are you. The only difference is I know it.

Let me put it to you this way. I have a Hindu friend who goes to the Sai Baba temple and as a regular occurrence she has heard young kids say things like, “I mean I know I’m god, but I can’t tell Steve I’m god. He won’t understand and he will stop playing with me.” In many Eastern religions it is not absurd to say that we are all in fact god.

Now what about the crazy aspect? Who is to say I’m not just flat out insane? Because the truth of the matter is I still think god is talking to me, and I’m medicated, certified sane. This could just be an ongoing symptom of my disease, Bipolar Disorder. If you believe that, that is OK. Everything is OK.

What is god saying you ask? God only gives me messages of love. That is all. I hear things like, “You helped to create this universe, so why complain about it?” Or “You are loved, and love is all there is. I have always loved you.”

Trust me when I say there is no earthly love like this. Trust me when I say this god entity that is speaking to me just wants love, he/she doesn’t care what I do as long as I love.” Fear is the opposite of love, and I fear when I write these words people will say to me, “Who do you think you are?”

I am not a “good person” per say. I don’t go around doing volunteer work or help the needy or even do anything in particular for anyone. I do take care of my parents who are ill, but that is just my duty. I’m not a “bad person” but I will not win the Noble Peace Prize or anything like that. I lie sometimes, I hurt people every now and then, and I can be a real bitch sometimes.

So please don’t think that I think I’m someone important because I have connected to the god in me. I’m just a regular girl who has been searching for peace since I was little. I would pray like mad when I crossed a major intersection when I was eight or nine, to go to the candy store with my best friend. My parents made me vow to never cross a major road, but I did it every day, and I prayed the whole time that they would not find out. They never found out.

I know that sounds kinda stupid and frivolous. But I always believed in something greater than me. Many of you are wondering, how do I make this happen to me? Why her? She’s an idiot. She swears and doesn’t even go to the temple she’s supposed to go to.

I have no idea how or why this happens to some people. I don’t know what to do with this experience except write about it. I don’t go around talking about it. I don’t even talk to the people who know about this experience. Some of them think I’m wacky and weird, others think it’s possible, and others believe there is something to this.

Take your pick. Choose what you want to think. If anything it is at least interesting. I know that much. I will tell you honestly, I am afraid. I’m afraid of being labeled a complete nut job. Then there is the other side, I fear that people will expect me to be holy and do godly things. I’m not going to. The holiest thing I do is meditate.

This is not normal, I agree with that. But it’s good. It’s good for me.


Please follow and like us:
 October 27th, 2015  
 0 Comment

The Raw

freeimage-20709060-highI tried to write poetry the other day, I want to be raw with you. I want to be real with you. I want you to see me bleeding. Because I bleed on the inside. my mind is bleeding, my heart for something, someone. I am alone. That is the truth. The truth is the truth and an eye is an eye. They want me to describe this table, all I wonder is if I can dance with Plato’s table in the sky…

my heart itches sometimes and I scratch it

and it hurts, I make it worse

my eyes water sometimes when I think of the brown in your eyes and the multicolored mania in my mind…

I am here, you are there, how do we even know each other?

I am you, you are me, we are one, except we can’t stand on another. I want to dance on tables that are broken. I want you to catch me when I fall. Will you stand by me? Darlin’ stand by me…if you sit, it will be OK.

There are people in my dreams that I know better than the people in my life. They are all standing in a line, waiting patiently…for me. Only me. I am the star of my dreams. I’m famous within my own head.

“Let’s play twister, let’s play risk, see you in Heaven if you make the list,” REM is singing on the radio. Let’s play pretend. I will pretend I’m Madonna you play Bono. Let’s sing. Shall we sing?

I strive to make sense. These are the thoughts of someone who sometimes doesn’t know what sense is. What is good?

Is this talking and talking and talking about anything at all?

“It’s about you and me and all of the people, with nothing to do and nothing to prove”…you know that song? It’s on right now. Someone is standing next to me and I can hear them breathe, see them live. I can see you, you are living. You are not dead.

We are both alive. Yet we don’t know each other, we don’t understand the difference in our eyes. You have that look, the look like you want to dance. Your eyes are tearing, the drops fall on your porcelain face. The white in your eyes is shining like the sun.

We should all be in a circle, around a fire, singing the tunes in our heads. Telling each the real stories, the ones we can’t talk about. The real horror. The one in hearts.

The hunger, I’m hungry…I need something to fill the blank spaces in my soul. I took an eraser and edited my dreams, now they are simple and false, now I can pretend to not need them.

Where is the piano, where is the song? The one you keep humming in your head. The one that won’t leave you alone. That song is the anthem of your heart. Spell it with your hands. We are all deaf, just waiting for a sound.

I could walk miles in a desert, I could sleep in a tent on your doorstep. Would that make me tall, tall enough to be your friend? You only like people who fit in your story.

Your eyes are moving, right and left. You can’t really see me, can you? You only see the person I was yesterday, the person I hate, the woman without wings…

Where will we fly? Far away…to another place where people demand with their tongues. They eat each other like animals. Who said we are not animals? Someone drain my blood.

I’m not sure if I can react properly, if I can say a thing, without disturbing the stars. They say the stars determine my fate, I say look at my face. I will tell you how the years have been, how the time is spilling in my cup.

What did I really say? About anything…I’m not saying anything. I’m not telling you how hard it is for me to open up these wounds and play house with my friends while we cry about broken windows.

What does that even mean? I flew out your window, I made a new path. I don’t understand playtime, I think this is all work. That I must work to be free. I am not free.

Are you free? With what will you measure your own state? I am not real, these are not real thoughts. I am playing pretend. I’m not sure if sense is making me.

I want to dry out the fruit on the table. And make something out of nothing. Where is my plate? Who is eating with my fork? Who took that things that belong to me?

We are all sitting a feast, with no food. Someone is serving us something, in a box. We are the box. “The sky was all purple, there were people runnin’ everywhere. Couldn’t run from the destruction, you know I didn’t even care.”

Do you care? About any of this? What is this?

This is my song. The one I couldn’t sing you. The one that makes no sound.

This is half of me and half of you, together we make a tree…In the sunlight we are growing.


Please follow and like us:
 October 25th, 2015  
 1 Comment

Another Day, Another Café

Starbucks_Corporation_Logo_2011.svgI got a bottle of water from Starbucks this morning and the cashier, in all the shuffle and because I also ordered an iced coffee with milk and sugar free hazelnut syrup, forgot to charge me for the water. I realized it when I sat down. I thought about going back up to the lady at the register and telling her, but something stopped me.

It’s not that I’m not a good person. It’s just that first of all why do I have to pay for good water? Our water should be pure. Secondly, the water is probably like two or three dollars and they give a whopping five cents to humanitarian causes. Five cents. I know, I know, Starbucks is a great company etc. etc. BLAH BLAH. However they overcharge for coffee and they are taking over all small café’s in the entire world.

If we don’t watch out the world could become one big Starbucks. I’m not kidding we could all end up living in a huge coffee house with a green sign. Don’t get me wrong; I have a love/hate relationship with Starbucks. It bores me to death that it’s everywhere, however I like my sugar free hazelnut, not all cafes have that. It’s a conundrum.

I’m not suggesting you steal from anywhere, but if someone mistakenly gives you a free thing, I would take it. Especially if it’s from a company that is bigger than god. But what about morals? What about doing the right thing? I’m not sure that spending this much on coffee is the right thing to do anyways. You know that thing about how you could save like a million dollars for retirement if you just stopped buying coffee from cafés? It’s probably true.

I used to go to a café in Birmingham, Michigan. I don’t remember the name, but it was an independent thing that kept changing owners and names. It was open all night; students would usually crowd the place and a few homeless people too. One guy was known to be Schizophrenic and he would roam through the streets of Birmingham and always buy a Mountain Dew from the café.

I’ve heard Mountain Dew is special and can stabilize someone with ADHD. It could be a myth, don’t quote me on it. I don’t know what Mountain Dew does to schizophrenics. I know what it does to me: wakes me up….


I just had a salad at Panera Bread. I’m on a new diet. We will see if this one works. There is a Jewish man sitting across from me wearing a cap, I don’t know what it’s called. I want to ask him. I want to talk to him, because he is different than me. And I know men who wear turbans, and have a hard time and a lovely time, living. Is it similar wearing a cap too? Is it the same as wearing Hijab for Muslims, or Burkha? Nothing is similar, nothing is the same, yet we are all somehow one.

Speaking of us all getting along, I guess I’m as guilty as anyone else about judging people by the way they look. There are two attractive middle-aged blonde women sitting next to me. They are dressed very fashionably so I assume they are rich housewives. I don’t know anything about them, who am I to judge? “She’s like schizophrenic,” one of the housewives says. Is she under the impression that schizophrenia is multiple personality disorder? People get that mixed up all the time.

People will be talking in jest and say things like, “She’s so bipolar,” when talking about some random acquaintance of theirs. It’s casual and I know they don’t mean anything by it, but it still bothers me. Maybe it should not. Maybe I should be stronger than that. But I’m not.

It’s a beautiful day! Remember Mr. Rogers? “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day in the neighborhood, would you be mine, would you be mine, would you be my neighbor?” I want you to be my neighbor. It’s like you are sitting next to me right now and I’m just talking to you. Just talking.

You can talk back to me, if you put in the comments I can hear what you have to say.

Pretend we are having a cup of joe together at one of these very cafés that I go to. You know what I don’t like? There is a Target across the street. It’s probably identical inside to a Target in Minneapolis or Kentucky. There’s no variety anymore. I like Target, but the world is turning into a great big strip mall with the same exact chain stores, cafés, and restaurants. And it’s not just in America; Starbucks is like in India and stuff. They don’t even drink coffee much in India and no way can Starbucks make proper chai.

“A really nice staple cream blouse,” is what the housewife next to me is saying. I mean why does she have to be so typical?

What’s up with that anyways?

There are construction men hauling things outside the window. Some people think I’m a snob because I won’t date construction workers or truck drivers. I just don’t think we would jive? What’s your opinion on the matter? Could you see my princess ass with a construction worker? What would we talk about? I don’t know, am I too judgey?

There is a total of one black person, no sorry two black people in this entire café. I live in such a white-bred world. “Uptown Girl, she’s been livin’ in her white-bred world, I bet she’s never had a backstreet guy, I better mother never told her why…I’m in love with an uptown girl.”

I guess I’m an uptown girl. I want to be different. I mean I lived in Harlem next door to a drug dealer when I was in grad school. It did change me somewhat, I gave that neighbor a dirty look, like don’t even think of looking my way, every time he walked by.

I don’t have to do that here in the suburbs. There is a Muslim woman with a light blue scarf or hijab on. She is stunning actually. She is talking to a bald man outside.

I wish there was even more diversity in this town. I am the one and only Indian person in this café. That’s kind of annoying and kind of brilliant. I’m unique and I’m different.

I can’t decide if I’m special or I’m just being stupid.

I started Weight Watchers; this will be like my tenth time trying it in my life. I’ve lost weight on it before, so it should work. I like it so far; I’ve had one meal and a snack. Oprah bought into Weight Watchers big time. It just so happens I do everything that woman says.

It’s nine-o’clock in the morning, on a Friday. I’m at a bagel shop. Nothing is happening. Literally, nothing.

Let’s talk about nothing for a second here. What is nothing? It’s literally no-thing. Not even a thing. Nothing is wrong right now, nothing is right. Am I the same person I was yesterday? I don’t know. ‘Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away…cause I believe in yesterday…” I believe in yesterday, just as much as I believe in tomorrow.

There is something about yesterday that is sweet. There is something about the past that is real. The future is imaginary. But really there is only one moment: the present. The present is all around us, it’s real. For me it’s a bagel shop with a bunch of businessmen getting their breakfast. Right now, that is my present moment. The smell of fresh bread and cheese. It’s all here, in this moment. None of it is bad. I’m OK ,you’re OK. We are gonna be alright. I know it…


Goldfish Tea

Now I’m at the teahouse sipping on mint tea. They are about to play live music, one of my former students is playing guitar. Seems to me there are a lot of people in their twenties here. That’s nice, it makes me feel young. “Tonight, we are young, set the world on fire…” I don’t remember the rest of the words. I think it’s a group called Fun that sings that. Great name for a band. Fun.

Oh I didn’t tell you someone told me to patent Ninaland…I might just do that. If I have to sell Ninaland t-shirts to make money, I might. Anything to keep the dream alive. “What’s your dream? In Hollywood everybody’s gotta dream…” Name the movie that line came from…

I want to be distracted tonight…I don’t want to work. Two young chicks came into this joint with red and pink roses in their hands. They are wearing a lot of make-up but they are still pretty. I should have worn lipstick. But tonight I’m me, just me. Bare faced and no longer a young girl. A woman.


Please follow and like us:
 October 24th, 2015  
 , ,   
 0 Comment

Back To the Present

back to the futureBack to the Future is officially in the past. Why does everything look basically the same since the eighties?

Although as people we have changed. Yoga wasn’t a huge fad until now, either was Greek yogurt. Netflix wasn’t around. There were hardly any shootings back then. Terrorism was a thing that happened in other countries.

Are we more evolved or less evolved? A lot of us spend all day in front of a computer. Most of us cannot live without our phones. I sometimes exclusively get my news from Facebook and comedy central. We text each other while in the same room, we call each other on our smart phones while we are in the same house. We think going on Facebook is socializing. We think Tinder is getting out there and meeting people.

There is a black president, there might be a woman president. However things are not that much better for African Americans or women. Our heroes like Michael Jackson and Robin Williams are dead. They died too young. Our favorite father, Bill Cosby, is a rapist. Superman ended up in a wheelchair.

What does this all say about our culture? Are we any better off now? I don’t know. Are we worse off? Maybe…

There is definitely a spiritual movement that seems new. Or maybe it’s waaay old and it just seems new. People are more concerned about the environment, and the environment is waay worse.

You can binge watch a show, which studies prove can be unhealthy and lead to depression. We online date now…which is maybe good, maybe bad. I guess this future of ours is all based on the Internet. It’s funny when the Internet first came out in like the early 2000’s my boss would tell me it was weird that I never surfed it. He didn’t understand that I would rather surf my imagination than other people’s.

I stare into space sometimes, and daydream. I space out. I guess this place is what we could officially call Ninaland. A lot of things have changed in Ninaland since the eighties. I used to watch a lot of T.V., now I rarely watch it. Scooby-Doo and Three’s Company were some of my favorites. I’m taller now.

I like myself better now then I did when I was a kid. I have better friends. I realized I’ve been battling a mental illness my entire life.

I’m more outgoing now; I was shy as a kid. I’m probably happier now than I was when I was a kid. I know kids are supposed to be happy, but for some of us that is a myth. But what is happy? Are people happier now, in the future? Did we by any chance find the secret to happiness?

Are we any closer to being content than we were thirty years ago?cosbyshow

It’s possible we are less content. Back in the day, The Cosby Show entertained everyone. Now we have 500 channels, everyone is on a different channel, watching a different show and somehow none of it is as satisfying as a good episode of Cosby. Now you can’t even watch that show without feeling sick to your stomach.

But you can definitely watch news shows with all the women accusing Cosby lined up and ready to talk.

Are you ready to talk? Talk about what you’ve learned in all these years. Talk about what it’s like to be alive in a future that seems like a repeat of the past. We all expected flying cars by now, GM…What exactly are they doing, isn’t that the reason the government bailed them out? So they could invent new shit. Cars look exactly the same; houses look exactly the same. Life looks kinda the same too.

What exactly is going to change thirty years from now? The Internet cannot possibly get any faster. We might have 3D computers, but that’s just inevitable.

What about us? How are we gonna change? Are we gonna follow our real dreams more often? Are we going to sing a little louder, dance a little longer? Are we going to be ourselves more often?kardashians

Will we recognize ourselves in the mirror? Will plastic surgery be really cheap and very common? Will the Kardashians still be famous for nothing? Will they have done something by then?

In thirty years I will be seventy. That is absolutely shocking to me. I can’t even think about it for too long. Will I look back on this blog post and think I am an idiot?

Thirty years ago I was ten years old. I was shockingly stupid at that age. I thought sex was two people kissing for a long time. Because on T.V. that’s as far as sex ever went. I thought Family Ties was the best show on T.V. Michael J. Fox was my hero. Now he’s very sick and still my hero.

Back to the Future was probably one of my favorite movies of that time, besides The Breakfast Club. Two very different movies. I’d like to see The Breakfast Club now; I’d like to see some adults trapped in a room with nothing to do but talk to each other.

Now we are not as ‘futuristic’ and cool as we thought we would be. I thought for sure we’d find aliens by now, but we can’t even find our own damn selves, much less life on other planets. We found water on mars, and that was a monumental discovery. That’s all they can come up with? Water.

Finding water on Mars is about as exciting as finding air on Mars.

It’s still not totally OK to be gay. Transsexual is still weird and frowned upon. Black people have some of the same problems, especially with the police. Women are still not getting paid as much as men. Human trafficking is probably bigger than it ever was. Child marriage is still going on in this world. So is genital mutilation.

Instead of Russia, we hate China and South Korea. Instead of the Japanese we hate Muslims. Instead of accusing people of communism we accuse them of terrorism.

However, maybe we haven’t changed that much. But the millennials,, those coming of age after the year 2000, are a little different. I teach them in my classes and I’ve observed some interesting differences.

(Oh Gosh, BREAKING NEWS: Michael J. Fox was arrested for insider sports betting. There we go, another hero, shattered. Just a day after we celebrated Back to the Future day. What a pity.)


Anyways, speaking of the millennials, they are a little different than us old folk. I asked them to do a debate in one class about the legalization of gay marriage, one kid was like, “It’s a stupid debate; no one is against it.” So we did an informal poll, no one was against it. At least no one admitted to being against it. Same thing with the legalization of Marijuana, almost no one was opposed.

I think we may have created kids who are more open-minded than our old asses. These new kids are gonna rule the world one day. Yes, they are a little more entitled then we were at their age. Yes they are addicted to technology. But they are also a little more aware of the diversity of the world.

That is a great accomplishment, people.

If he have anything to look forward to, it’s this new generation.


Please follow and like us:
 October 23rd, 2015  
 0 Comment

Singing To My Own Tune—-Repost

Thursday, July 3, 2014

Me as a Freshman in High School                 

I am wasting the next 72 minutes of my life at the Secretary of State.  Why is waiting in a line for me the equivalent of a slow unpredictable death?  I hate lines.  I hate waiting.  Sometimes I just hate time itself.

I realize I’m a spoiled brat and I barely have to wait in line for anything in this life.  I know there are worse lines, like say the unemployment line or the line to try and get food if you are poor and hungry.  There is also like the line to get tickets to a Madonna concert, all pain is relative.

I also acknowledge there are worse things than waiting in line, especially when you want to break out into song.  OK I will admit that I secretly think I can sing, much like Madonna.   I can’t.  I mean it’s a factoid that I cannot carry a tune to save my life.  However sometimes, when you are like standing in line at the grocery store do you ever just want to break out into song and dance? (Come on Vogue!)


Right…I would have gone into drama had the stars aligned differently.  I remember in fact when I was a freshman in high school and the drama class was full and I ended up taking journalism instead.  I was so pissed.  I remember this very weird “spiritual” woman who carried a doll of her guru around told me, “If it’s meant to be it will happen.”  Well it turns out that weirdo was right.

OK I have to tell you this story.  Picture it: Troy High School, 1991.  So I’m a freshman in high school.  I decide that not only am I going to try out for the play “Oklahoma” but I am going to try out for the main lead part.  I had never acted, never sang, and had never seen “Oklahoma.”  

I was part idiot, part naive, and just young and stupid.  So I go to the audition and start singing one of the main songs of the play. The thing is I couldn’t read music.  I MADE UP A TUNE.  You heard me, I made up my own tune for the song.  

So the director stops me midway as I’m singing in my soprano voice, cracking and just making a complete ass of myself.  He stops me for a second and simply asks:  Which song are you singing?

Yep you heard it here, I was so bad that he couldn’t make out the song, the words, and he could not follow my homemade tune. Then I tried the dance steps, I was never very coordinated let’s be honest.  I couldn’t keep up with the instructor and bumped into a couple people.

It was literally a shit show.  I had no idea what people in the theater were saying about me but they must have had a good laugh.  I mean if there was YouTube at the time, my audition would have gone viral.

sheetmusicplus-oklahoma-gifSo I didn’t really miss my calling in theater.  Although I truly believe I can act secretly.  And if you know me in real life you may have seen a dramatic monologue or two.  

However instead I’m writing a screenplay with a director friend of mine.  It’s a Zen Hitchcock thriller.  Zen and Hitchcock don’t go together you say?  Oh what do you know?

You know what I want to know, what the secretaries at the Secretary of State would have really wanted to do when they grew up.  I mean your dream job cannot be working at the Secretary of State.  

There is nothing wrong with any job, that’s not what I’m trying to say.  There is honor in all work, I just wonder how some people handle their jobs.  More than that I wonder about all these people, who of them is living an extraordinary life, who is simply existing in a mediocre fashion?

I could strike up a conversation with someone but I’m so enamored by my own conversation with myself, why bother?  This is the last day for me to get tabs for my licence plate.  Who me, wait until the last minute?  Stop it.

The new me is gonna try to plan these things out better, perhaps do it online and NEVER have to step into the Secretary of State again.  Do you understand me, NEVER again do I want to spend time in this frivolous line.  

But there is something about suspended time when you have to wait.  When you have nothing but your own thoughts to deal with. Nothing but you raw and dirty and annoyed and real.  

This is me, in line…


Please follow and like us:
 October 22nd, 2015  
 , ,   

Deadly Dreams…

freeimage-17237255-webIn this country we have a fascination with death. There are so many T.V. shows that portray in detail the bodies of people who have been violently murdered. Our video games are all about killing the bad guy. Our gun lovers want more guns so they can kill a potential threat. Our terrorists are plotting to kill us all. Our shooters are going on killing sprees in sacred spaces like schools and places of worship.

Kill, kill, kill. Death, death, death.

Did you see Kill Bill or Pulp Fiction? Both are great movies but they are both violently depicting death as if it is no big deal. People are close to death and die in front of other people and nothing is thought of it.

Either we don’t value life, or we are obsessed with death. Or both.

I once went to my shrink and told him, when my father was temporarily in the hospital many years ago, “I’m afraid my father will die.”

“He will die,” my psychiatrist said. “One day.” I couldn’t believe he said that. I was in shock. I go to him to feel better. But I finally got it one day. He was just telling me the truth.

I had a Creative Writing class in undergrad once and my T.A. told us never to use the words like “truth.” Maybe he would have included the word “death.” He said we don’t understand what these words mean and they mean something different to everyone. Sometimes in writing classes they focus too much on the physical. What color was his shirt? Let’s talk about yellow. Describe the yellow and never ever say truth.

I think it’s very American of him to teach that. In many countries people are not so afraid of the ambiguous. In my religion, Sikhism, there is a phrase in our scriptures: “The truth never gets old.” The truth is not new and never will be old.

What is the truth you ask? What is the truth about death, you might ask? I’m not an authority on the subject but I think everyone’s truth is a little different even though it may be based on the same principals. And I think everyone’s death might be a little different too. I read somewhere that what happens after death is exactly what you think happens. If you think you will go to hell, you will and so on. I’m not sure about that…but I’m not sure it’s not true.

In grad school I wrote a story about my Grandmother’s death. One of my professors told me it was not a realistic reaction to death. She didn’t know it was a true story. What is a realistic reaction to death? I made jokes in this story; she didn’t think it was funny. Then my mentor read it and told me it was perfect. What is the perfect reaction to death?

What do you think death is exactly?

What do you think happens after death?

All we know is what happens before death. Life happens before death. But what happens before life?

I think death is a transition into another realm, and then possibly a transition into another body or life. I think when you die you become very happy for a while because you meet your soul, and maybe god. I think you feel pure love and bliss. Then you either go on to a heavenly realm or you come back to some planet in some form of life.

I could be completely wrong. I could be completely delusional. Maybe some people who are bad go to a dark place after death. I personally don’t think there is a hell, however I believe there are places that exist that are devoid of spirit. I think those places can be on earth itself as well.

Some people think you die and just end it all. Some people think you vanish and cease to exist after death. I understand completely why people think that, it seems like the scientific explanation to go by. But science doesn’t know where we were before our death, if we existed then, and what happens to our ‘mind’ or our ‘soul’ after death.

Does our mind even exist? The mind is not the brain. The mind is a compilation of thoughts and feelings. Where is it though? Is it in space? Where do your thoughts and feelings go after death? Do they disappear into thin air?

I personally don’t think so, but I don’t have any proof or anything. I believe the soul captures these feelings and thoughts and moves through the universe.

It’s the biggest mystery of them all: death. We only know one thing for sure: all of us will one day die. Isn’t it funny that the earth will be inhabited by totally new and different people after we all die. It’s kinda depressing is what it is.


But would you want to live forever? I don’t want to, I want to live to like eighty-five. I know I can’t really make that decision now, but I don’t want to get to a state that I can’t take care of myself. I don’t have any kids, who is going to take care of me? That’s kind of sad too.

But is death supposed to be sad? In some cultures they celebrate death. I want people to party it up when I die. I mean I hope they laugh remembering me much more than they cry. Thinking about my death is making me upset. It should be a good thing because I will be moving on to my next phase of existence. I should celebrate the idea that I had a life on this earth, and a good one.

I have had some people close to me die, it was never fun. I think in our culture we demonize death and make it harder than it should be. We should smile when we think of these people who have passed.

But let’s be honest, we usually have to cry for a long time before we can smile about it. I wonder is crying over someone’s death a show of love? If I laughed at your death, would you cry?

I suppose dying is a miracle as well as a curse.

They say we are all in denial about our death. I don’t know, maybe. I know I’m going to die, but do I really believe it?

What would be in your heaven, a place you could go after death, if you could create it?

I imagine a place first and foremost where you cannot get fat by eating and you can eat anything you want all the time. Yes, I’m not gonna lie, that is my first requirement.

Secondly I see a place that is like a big city on a beach. I imagine beautiful waterfalls and hot springs. I like to think it is a place where everyone knows your name. Like a small town maybe. My heaven is maybe an island, where all the inhabitants know and love each other. They are like-minded in the sense that they value the important things in life. Or death, whatever you want to call it.

In my heaven, people still argue, but they hug afterwards. People are different, but they accept each other. And people meditate and sing together. They don’t have the word ‘violence’ in their vocabulary in my world.

I suppose I could create this heaven on earth if I really tried. I don’t think you have to die to be in heaven. I think heaven and hell are right here. I sure as hell have been to hell, I tell you that.

I’ve felt moments of heaven, moments of complete happiness and peace. If you can feel that all the time I guess you are what they call saved, you are in Nirvana. Is Nirvana a place or a state of mind?

Is death a place or a state of mind? Hmmm…

Perhaps I asked more questions than I answered. Maybe I don’t know much…but I want to know something before I die.


Please follow and like us:
 October 21st, 2015  
 0 Comment

Indians in America

MehdhiDo you ever wonder what it’s like to be Indian? Let me give you a glimpse into my culture. Now I’m talking about Indians who grew up in my generation and their parents. I think we are called first and second generation Indian Immigrants.

When you are a kid and you are Indian you often times are born with hair on your head, dark hair. I was one hairy baby. White people are stunned by this since most white babies are bald. I’m not sure if my parents were disappointed that they had a girl because I don’t remember my birth, but they ‘claim’ they were happy.

Indian mothers will coddle you, spoil you and feed you. They don’t play that game where they let you cry until you are cried out. They hold you until you can’t breathe for your first few years. Later on, they will cook for you and you will eat until you can’t breathe. If you come over to an Indian person’s house and their mother is cooking…you better eat…or there will be consequences.

indian food 3

Indian fathers will try to educate you while you are still in the womb. My father started to educate me at a tiny age. We would spell words like cat, hat, bat, etc. My father taught me what negative numbers were when I was like eight. I didn’t understand the concept. In fact I can’t say I really understand the concept even now. I was never a math person. He has never accepted that and tried to teach me calculus concepts at age fourteen. I just looked at him funny.

Just so you are clear, all Indians are not geniuses, but the Immigrant Indians that happen to come to America are usually the smartest people in their generation. My mother is a doctor and my dad is an Engineer. When I was a kid if I said I wanted to be an actress or a teacher, my parents would correct me: You will be a doctor. It was like a mantra for them: You will be a doctor. You will be a doctor. Mind control. I actually wanted to be a doctor for a good part of my childhood. The closest I ever got to the medical profession was dressing like a doctor for Halloween and the game Operation.

Indian doctor

Young Indian people call their parents friends ‘Uncle’ and ‘Auntie.’ This is all across India, regardless of religion or caste. My dad would tell me to call the neighbor, Bob, Bob Uncle. Not Uncle Bob, but Bob Uncle. The name of the individual comes first. Like Ram Uncle and Preeti Auntie. I was like six or seven and I understood then that Bob wouldn’t understand why I was calling him Bob Uncle so I would try to avoid calling him by name. Even if I don’t know an Indian person that is my parent’s age, I will call them Uncle or Auntie. As far as I’m concerned there are almost a billion Aunties and Uncles in this world.

In America, when older Indian people see other Indians in public, they either befriend each other or give each other dirty looks. I don’t understand this one myself; just trust me that it happens all the time. If you hear Indian people talking in Hindi in public and you think they are talking about you, if you stare at them long enough, they probably are.

Now there is this concept of the ‘Indian Party’ that my white friends never understand. We would go to other Indian people’s homes a lot. To this day my parents have like two or three white friends, all of their friends are Indian. I would play with my friends in the basement and my parents would sit and talk to their buddies. A lot of times the women would sit in one room, the men in another. They would clap their hands together loudly when they laughed. Indians in America also speak Hinglish to each other, Hindi mixed with English. And they usually have a third language like Punjabi or Gujarati that they mix in there too. You literally have to understand three languages to get what they are saying.

When I was growing up I had two sets of friends: my Indian friends and my white friends. These two sets of friends did not know each other, and I was not allowed to sleepover at anyone’s house unless they were Indian. And if they had older brothers it was questionable. My mother would drive an hour to my Indian friend’s home rather than let me sleepover at my neighbor’s house.

I told my parents at the age of fourteen that I was interested in boys. I tried the honest approach. Totally wrong, my sister had the right idea and would sneak boys into our walkout basement. My parents told me there was no way I could have a boyfriend so I better shut up. That was the end of that.

When I was young my parents were convinced that I would get an arranged marriage. Almost all Indian people their age had arranged marriages and none of them were divorced. First they wanted me to get married at eighteen, then after college, now they would appreciate if I would just get hitched in my lifetime. They no longer think I will have an arranged marriage. In fact they have given up on the idea that I will marry another Indian. At this point, I have tired them out to the point that all they want for me is a husband with a job.East-Indian-Sikh-Wedding-ceremony-s22

I still remember when I was in college they tried to introduce me to this foot doctor. We met and didn’t hit it off. OMG did I hear about how I could have married this dude and been happy with children and healthy feet. My parents only very recently stopped mentioning the random doctors etc. that they tried to ‘arrange’ me with.

When I was in high school I started to do poorly in math. My dad would not accept lower than an A, an A- was not good enough in his eyes. When I started to write and love English and Creative Writing, my parents thought this was a hobby. “What is this writing shyting?” my mother would ask. Indian people will often say a real word and then make up a rhyming fake word after it. For example “Are we going to eat cake shake?” or “Let’s drink chai shai…Where is the bottle shottle?” Why they do this is even a mystery to them.

There is also this thing called IST, Indian Standard Time. If you invite Indian people over at six-thirty, they will come between seven-thirty and eight. An hour to an hour and a half late to a party is expected. In fact the host is not usually ready until an hour after they invite people. I make the mistake of being on time to Indian parties and my friends get pissed. They look at me like “What are you doing here?”

OK, so let’s clear this up…Are Indian people cheap? Yes and no. My mom cannot pass up a sale or a bargain. She once bought a gigantic soy sauce bottle at Sam’s Club because it was on sale, and we are not Chinese nor do we eat any Chinese food. When asked about the soy sauce, her response: “It was on sale! I also bought five boxes of frozen egg rolls, they were five for ten dollars!” They were nasty.

My parents don’t understand the concept of tipping, because no one tips in India. They still think ten percent is OK. I finally taught them twenty percent so I could show my face at restaurants. My parents will buy thousands of dollars of Indian jewelry, however, they shop for groceries at Wal-Mart despite the fact that I have told them it is an evil company. “Evil, shevil,” my mother will say. “We save at least twenty percent there…It’s not my fault they don’t pay their workers.”

In high school, all my Indian friends were in A.P. classes. We were all smart, some of us were nerds, some of us were ‘cool.’ Some of us were just different and weird. I was probably a weird nerd. But honestly I wasn’t doing well enough in school to be a true nerd. I tried to get out of honors math, but my counselor wouldn’t let me. I swear it was ‘cause I was Indian…

Indian people also do this thing where they have elaborate parties for every occasion. I’ve been to high school graduation parties that could rival any wedding party in fashion and expense. Indian people like to entertain, and when I was growing up there was a competition to see who could have the most extravagant graduation party. I went to parties with belly dancers in halls that fit up to three hundred people.

Indian Party

To Indians at the time I was growing up, the college you got into was EVERYTHING. I somehow managed to get into University of Michigan. My parents could finally show their face in public when I got off of the waitlist. When I got into Columbia for grad school they had hope for me. Now my dad will chant: “Can’t you sell a bestseller? Why don’t you write a children’s book? The girl who wrote Harry Potter is richer than the queen of England!”

Now that I moved back in with my parents, they want to impose the same strict rules they had for me as a child. I wanted to have a party, and my mother said she didn’t want young single men in her house. I told her most of the single men were gay, and her mouth dropped. They still get upset if I come home after twelve at night and tell me that I ‘roam’ too much. My mother even thinks it’s bad that I go to café’s alone, she thinks it’s not lady like.

I could probably go on for days about the Indian culture and I’ve probably missed a lot of points, like how extended family is so important, until you get into a fight with them over land in India. But that’s not the point; the point is after all this Indians are some of the most successful communities in this country. We are educated, we are cultured and we have morals, for the most part.

Indians are awesome!


Please follow and like us:
 October 20th, 2015  
 , ,   
 0 Comment

These are the normal days of our lives

Like Sands Through The Hour Glass...

Like Sands Through The Hour Glass…

I want to convince you that I can be totally normal. I want to show you my totally average side. I know I’m weird, and I’ve bared my strange soul to you. So I would like to show you how I am also just like everyone else. I’m at Barnes and Noble, a place I consider sacred. I’m sitting at a green table drinking a Starbucks Pumpkin Spice Latte. It’s decaf ’cause it’s too late in the day for me to have real coffee. Some people wonder why people even bother drinking decaf, I’m with you on that…I have no idea why I’m drinking expensive fake coffee.

I’m meeting some college friends for dinner at the Cheesecake Factory tonight. My mouth is watering thinking about that Reese’s Pieces cheesecake with it’s peanut buttery, chocolate madness.  I’m also excited because an old friend from college is in town. Honestly is it the friends or the cheesecake I’m looking forward too? It’s a draw.

There is man in a cowboy hat sitting across from me. You don’t really see that much in these parts. I try to see what cowboy is reading but I can’t make it out. I wonder what kind of man he is. Is he a redneck? Would he hate me? I should ask him…just kidding.

There is a man limping terribly near me, he’s talking to himself. He seems like he might be intellectually disabled.  I want to say something, about how much I respect those that are disabled in any way. I was just thinking about this book I read where the guy is extremely mentally handicapped and then has a procedure done to make him almost a genius. When he has a low IQ he is incredibly happy. When he is smart he is incredibly unhappy. Would you rather be smart and unhappy or very unintelligent and happy? Most people you will find will choose smart. I find that interesting. I can’t decide what I would choose.

This woman next to me is playing this loud obnoxious video on her phone. Lady please, get a grip. Don’t be rude! I just ate a cupcake, a vanilla one. Shit I ate cake ’cause I forgot about the cheesecake. Cake is sooo good I can’t talk about it. I can’t have two cake products in one day! That’s like having your cake and eating it too, who do I think I am? I think I’m eating sweets because I’m very uptight today, it’s weird. My shoulders need a massage…

Today I also went to Goldfish Tea in Royal Oak, Michigan, it’s a tea cafe. I went there to chat with a friend. We sat by the window watching the trendy twenty-somethings with their tight black leggings and tattoos walk by. We talked about life and all it’s nuances while drinking Jasmine tea out of a steaming glass tea pot. We talked about jobs and how we hate them. She’s a waitress but she can do more than wait tables. She can charm a room.

A woman with blue hair and a faux fur coat told me I looked familiar. She thought my name was Connie. I read an article about how names are just names, any name I choose is who I am. Kaur is my pen last name because I don’t want my employers to read my stuff on here. But I could call myself Veronica. I mean my name is mine. I own it, why can’t I change it? Does it even describe who I am? What does nina say about me? It means ‘girl’ in Spanish but it is actually a Russian name. I suppose certain letters contain sounds that have certain vibrations. I suppose there is a certain cadence to ‘nina.’ Every Sikh woman is supposed to take the last name Kaur. Kaur means princess, god knows I think I’m royalty.


Tea Time

There are beautiful paintings with asian script on them and tiny porcelain tea sets with tinier flowers delicately painted on them. I want to buy all the pretty tea sets and I don’t even like tea that much. Coffee is more my thing. A man is standing by me and my friend, leaning on a coat rack, closing his eyes as if he’s sleeping while standing. My friend looks over at him and stares, he won’t know we are staring. Then he opens his eyes and stares back at us. My friend asks him what he does.

How and why she managed to ask a complete stranger what he does is beyond me. He says something about Internet security, he has red hair and wide blue eyes. They talk for a bit and he says that he meditates…there is a man after my own heart. Really? I ask. “I’m not very good at it,” he says.

“No one is,” I reply. We get into a conversation about work and life and how he’s writing a novel. He says he needs inspiration, I tell him the best advice I can give a writer is to write. Most writers spend a lot of time thinking. If they spent as much time writing as they do thinking about writing…

If people had the courage to say and speak their truth, we would all be better off.

Later, my friend leaves and I run into red haired man and his friend. His friend is fiercely friendly and offers to help me with my website. We talk and talk and talk and decide we will work together, the three of us. We exchange emails. I’m so excited and full of life and energy! I leave the two boys to their work and sit down at a sofa on the other side of the cafe. A good looking guy with a soft green colored sweater and a sable colored coat sits down across from me.

I find out he is a writer too, I’m inspired to talk to him even though he is a stranger. He has an MFA in writing as well. What are the chances? Apparently in my house of people, or whatever, the stars are aligning. We decide one day we will share work. He seems like an extremely nice person, almost Southern in nature.

I have made new friends. I’m in the middle of the Midwest, in Michigan. Sometimes I think I’m in the middle of nowhere, until something like this happens and I realize people are friendly and real here. The cashier has pink hair and she tells me she admires me for writing stories. Did I tell her that, or was she overhearing one of my conversations? It doesn’t matter, her long black feather earrings tell me she’s got style. I like her.

There is a man wearing all black. He has a black suit on with a black shirt on underneath it. I assume he is an artist. We smile at each other. He is carrying a bag that looks like it may contain a portfolio. I think I want to know more artists, and singers and dancers and those who create anything at all. The artist man is older, maybe in his fifties. A woman walks up to his table, she looks like an ex-hippie. Something about her faded plaid red shirt and her long straight hair.

They are talking about football. I’m surprised, I expect them to talk about global warming or cultural gentrification. This is not my conversation though. Just because I prefer people to be deep and meaningful or absolutely hilarious, two extremes, doesn’t mean the world will conform to my wishes. I’m bored listening to something about the Michigan, Michigan State game.

It’s not like I have anything against football or anything…I just am not really interested.

I read something about how if people were as passionate about other things in life such as the environment etc. as they are about football, the world might be different. All the screaming and waving of hands, all for a ball. I know there is more to it than that, and I know it’s really important to most people. I just don’t care either way.

It’s fun you say. It is fun. I can’t argue with fun. I love fun. It adds some spice to this sometimes dull life. “No one gets less respect than a skinny man.” The man wearing black says. What about a fat woman, I think. Isn’t funny, men have to be bulky and women are supposed to be frail.

There is an old woman on a couch with pure white short hair who is deep in sleep. Her glasses are falling off as she leans over the side of the couch. She is so tiny and looks weak. I want to wake her up or tell her it’s going to be OK. I want to know what she knows.

Why did I come here? We have plenty of tea at home, I make chai for my parents every morning. Real chai doesn’t taste like it does at Starbucks or even at this tea house. Just like real people don’t look like they do on T.V. and real food doesn’t look like it does in a magazine. They paint turkeys so they look more delicious. That’s disgusting. Give me flaws, let me see the scars. Give me real authentic cultural food and drink.

Don’t feed me your antibiotics and pesticides. I’m tired of my food being mixed with random chemicals. Then I have to take chemicals to fight the chemicals. And then all I am in the end is one big chemical reaction.

The man in the black suit said “draconian.” I knew he was an intellectual. Do you think you are an intellectual? I don’t know if I’m smart enough to be one. I don’t know anything about science or math. Does that make me half-brained? I have no left brain. Oh yes, the man in black and the hippie are talking about India and Mahatma Gandhi. They are discussing the meaning of truth. They are talking about liberalism, hippies, progressive people and racism. I want to join in. This is like watching a good talk show.

I love my life.

The world is right again.


Please follow and like us:
 October 19th, 2015  
 0 Comment