Madness

Can you love like you did at sixteen? Or even eighteen?

I remember watching an episode of Ally Mcbeal (yes i know, just let it go for now) where she talks about how as men grow older, past their teens and into real adulthood, they lose the ability to love passionately, and uninhibitedly. Everything they feel is more mature and tempered with reality and responsibility. I've nevr been sure about how accurate this theory is, but I do know from my own experiences, that I dont feel as all consumingly as I did when I was sixteen.

There are of course problems with feeling so intensely, but honestly, who doesnt want to be loved like that? Now, in my early twenties, Im madly in love with someone who is in his early thirties. I have a much better grasp on my own emotions, and I'm no longer as psychotic as I used to be. But, neither is he. And as he has had so much more practise at being in control, I cant help but feel a vague longing for the madness that I remember from the love of other men who were still in the middle of growing up.

More importantly, and certainly more distressingly, I feel incredibly left out when it comes to his youth. when he speaks to me of women he loved when he was eighteen, women who are still a part of his life, women who he is still very fond of, I see in him the madness that I know is missing from his feelings for me. I dont think he is in love with anyone else, and I know that the reasons his previous relationships didnt work out were solid, and he has no desire to be with anyone but me, But bloody hell I wish he could love me like he loved them.

Its like there was this whole other man, who I will never know, never get to enjoy, never get to hate and never be loved by, who exists in the past tense but continues to haunt the present. We are so fatally stable, so committed to each other at such a fundamental level that in some sense there is no excitement left between us. The madness I have had with men before him, both the insane joy and the insane grief have become duller, less extreme, pastel.

He appears to be beyond such frivolity, but I know I am not. I want him as the man he was before he became mine, and I want to feel in the bright colours I used to. I can find it somewhere else obviously, but in truth I want him. I want to hvae some part to play in who is going to become, to give him the memories of insanity that we both have with other people.

I want, to put it simply to be drowning in the madness once again.

Happy New Ears to you all!

So the eventful year of 2007 is over. What a strange, surprising, unpredictable and unusual 365 days it has been.

I shall at some point do a recap, but for now my apologies for irregularity, when the recap does emerge it will explain much.

Love and kisses to you all, I hope your new year is as full of giggles as possible without the involvement of muscular people and padded rooms.

House Insanity I

I live in a big house in DLF. Well, big by Delhi standards. Having lived my whole life in a two bedroom flat with my parents, this place is mammoth. Sharing my new home and stealing all the hot water, is Blue (also known as boyfriend). Blue and I are owned by two dogs, Darth Ravenous and Darth Gazelle. Yes, they are in fact proficient in the secret arts of the dark side. Come visit and you'll see.

In retrospect, I must rephrase. I live in a mad house in DLF. Insanity pools in the bathroom floor along with the bathwater because the drains are clogged and can only be cleared through demolition of the neighbours kitchen. Needless to say I will be wading through both insanity and bathwater until the end of time.

Adding to the merrymaking and chaos is the household help, lovingly referred to as Idontknow. There is also the more explicit version of her name, prefered by Blue but unsuitable for use in this blog. Idontknow is called thus because she speaks no language discernible by modern man. Or women. Or canine for that matter. My mother, who speaks more languages than most of the people I know combined, informs me that she speaks in an obscure dialect of Bengali. As a result, giving her instructions to do anything has more inherent dangers than a game of russian roulet. I once told her to clean the bathroom floor, you know, mop up the bathwater and the insanity. Ten minutes later I found her on the first floor balcony wringing out the stray cat that had adopted us. Blue thoughtfully told her she did her job very well, and she took the afternoon off, reduced to bitter tears.

We never did figure out what it was he said in that obscure dialect of Bengali. Though since that day she has come in every morning and stood over him while he slept, watching with what I hope is maternal tenderness. Though its not likely.

She is currently on a fifteen day hiatus, no doubt trying to regain some sort of perspective on life outside the gigglefest that we conduct here. OR she is off to her village to recruit other, more voluptuous unintelligibles to come and stare at Blue. The possibilities are endless.

Urban Legends

When people first discover that I live with my boyfriend they all react the same way. Their eyes glaze over, they emit a deep sigh and generally exclaim with great sentiment, “How ROMANTIC!” (Yes, in capitals)

Usually I respond with an indulgent smile. Let them have their delusions, everyone needs some hope for mankind. But sometimes, when for example I’ve had a particularly ‘ROMANTIC’ morning at home, I break into vigorous laughter tinged with rampant hysteria. I try to stop before they begin to edge away and talk soothingly of therapy.

Unfortunately this romantic concept of living together is shared by many who have never tried it. Its not all candlelight dinners (unless the electricity has disappeared again and you’re forced to eat cornflakes with wax dripping into it, again) and soaking together in bathtubs (what do you mean you forgot to put on the pump? Is there no water at all??).

The one sure way to kill romance sadly is to move in with it.