salutations

I don’t blog. I write letters. I like to know who’s at the other end. Somehow blogging has always seemed rather attention-seeky to me. But that’s what we all need, anyway, attention. And since there’s a whole world out there full of people who can give it to you, who have suddenly been pulled much closer thanks to virtu-topia, why not attempt to garner it from them?
Attention from real people is, however, tastier. Or perhaps that’s a personal opinion. Yesterday, for instance, I was immensely flattered at getting a free drink from an Albanian bartender, because I said ‘fuck!’ shyly, when my small change didn’t add up to 8 quid. Maybe it makes me feel female? There’s a gender case study in there somewhere. A woman who basically enjoys being treated as an object sometimes because it affirms her feminity! Or maybe it’s supreme confidence, which does not allow chauvinism to bother me, only to flatter? I’d like to believe that.
I live in a tiny room, with 2 huge windows. One links me across space, the other across time. Deep, na? Let me explain… the physically ‘bigger’ window looks out across the Thames at the City of London. St Paul’s Cathedral peeks through the few transparent panes of the Tate Modern’s hat into my bedroom, as I lie there looking at the red sky at night, shepherd’s delight, imagining sordidly the red sky above the city when a baker left his oven on in 1666. That led to a series of events that swept the city and changed history. London’s history, and consequently its appearance, have been rewritten many a time. As a matter of fact, it is the most written-about city in the world. Charles Dickens had a London that Pip visited and David explored. Jack Higgins had one that Sean Dillon tried to blow up. Bridget Jones ate half of it I suppose. So my window looks through the veils of time and lets me spin pleasant cobwebs in my head about how it used to be... here.
The other window is this, the computer screen. Sounds like a school essay hmm? But, think about it - I think we don’t revere our IT enough. No really! I can sit here at my minimalist desk and live at home, or in Delhi, be in my lover’s arms (not frequently anymore, though). Just a small black, incredibly expensive box and you automatically have a life, even if you don’t.
So this is my story (a la j.d. in scrubs)