I’M NOT USELESS I HAVE PROOF

So change into your pajamas now and brush your teeth and braid your hair.

“The time has come”, the Kitu said,
“To talk of many things:
Of shoes and ships and sealing wax
Of cabbages and kings.
And how Dora took my world apart
And whether pigs have wings”

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No I don’t mean to be shouting at you, Zonk. The caps is only on because writing the title makes me relive the panic of The Day of Dora. And now of course you’re wondering what The Day of Dora is. And I do intend to tell you all of course I really do. But before we begin my Favourite Friend, I must warn you. The story is a long one and it is not for the weak-willed..

So change into your pajamas now and brush your teeth and braid your hair.

“The time has come”, the Kitu said,
“To talk of many things:
Of shoes and ships and sealing wax
Of cabbages and kings.
And how Dora took my world apart
And whether pigs have wings”

Sorry, Lewis Carroll. I don’t mean to deface your awesome poem but I had to fit my story into it..

And I see you’re all prepared to hear my little long story now. Very well, then. I shall begin.

Seven days and more ago, I woke up in the dead of night with a fever and a pounding head. I took a crocin, Zonk.  I pulled on a thick sweatshirt from out of my collection of two thick sweatshirts and I zipped it up and I piled the blankets on and shivered the worst of the sickness off. I woke up feeling ick. And so I went and got the standard mix of fever, headache and sleeping pills from my doctor. Now I don’t know if all doctors work the same way, so I’ll just tell you a bit about mine. He never speaks. Except for when he points at the little mounds of pills on his desk and says “After lunch, after tea, after dinner, after breakfast; yellow one will cause drowsiness. Forty rupees.” Indeed. It doesn’t matter if you have the flu or filaria. There is always The Yellow Pill that will knock you out like a bottle of rum. Not that I know what a bottle of rum is like. I usually drink whiskey. Besides, it only takes a quarter to knock me out. But that’s a story for another day.

So. I went to the doctor and slept through the rest of the day. The next day I was fine, and the day after too, and I might have painted some I can’t really recall. But after that I caught a cold and a cough and a new fever, and I was sick but not too sick to be bored out of my skin. Which was when I stated doing online jigsaws, Zonk. What a day that was. Six puzzles; and some took hours. I was on a roll I was on fire. I was the lean mean jigsaw killing machine. I didn’t stop to stretch I barely even blinked. If you’d counted, you’d even have been been amazed at how seldom I’d have peed. And I said to myself: “I’m sick.”

It is okay for sick people to do jigsaw puzzles all day, my Zonk. It is okay because they are sick and they can’t do much that might be of use to anyone anyway. But what of when they get okay and still do puzzle after puzzle in what they call their “spare time”? Be warned, my friend. The jigsaw is a terrible vice it will inflame you it will make you mad: ‘Tis good you know not that you are it’s prey. For if you should, O what would come of it! And I did not know, O Zonk. And so it was that I became inducted into the Cult of the Jigsaw People. And I was blissfully ignorant of how low down I was on the scumlist.

Until I started doing a Dora the Explorer puzzle. Now that is really the pits. And it hit me, halfway through the puzzle, that I’m a 21 year old unemployed piece of shit that sits at home and does Dora the Explorer jigsaw puzzles.

And then I started to really hate myself.

It’s been more than four days now and I haven’t done a single puzzle since.  Some would say I’m a success story. I woke up today and there was a mail from Oprah in my inbox. She wanted to know if I’d like to talk about my..uh..story..on her show. I thought about it but I said no. I don’t think I’m ready yet, Zonk. Dora really scarred me. For Life.

Anyway. I spent most of last week feeling super worthless and slithery as a snake. But I woke up this morning and I felt awesome. Partly because they play No.1 Ladies’ Detective Agency on HBO every Saturday morning at 10:45, but also because it hit me that in spite of all the drama and the trauma, I’ve had a pretty productive two weeks. I’ve finished my Supersecret Art Project, for one. I did two paintings in the last fourteen days, finished my first-ever decently done assignment, and I recorded a song. Might not be much and it definitely doesn’t make up for feeling worthlessly unemployed, but it still does count for something.  And so I’m here to put up everything I’ve done in the last two weeks. That is my:

  1. assignment
  2. painting
  3. painting
  4. song

Here you go. This is proof that I am not worthless at all. I’m not I’m not I swear to god I’m not.

Egypt ad for a made-up travel agency

tea, ink and fingerprints on paper

acrylic on canvas

Ps: I just realized I should be standardizing the frames I use for putting up my paintings. Oh well. Also, if you click on each picture it’ll link you to the image with it’s name and a description.

Pps: About the song. I give up. I was done writing this post at 3 in the afternoon and it’s 9:17 p.m. now and I’ve tried uploading it on various websites all over the internet and I even cancelled my myspace profile to make a new musician profile and it’s still not uploaded. And internet speed is not the problem this time: other people with faultless net-speeds have tried. My song is not destined to be on this blog. Fuck it. Just so you know, I did record it, and it also is proof that I am not useless.
If any of you might want to hear it..let me know here and I’ll mail it to you. Don’t judge me too harshly though, Zonk, if you do ever hear it.  I sound about 12 years old and my voice was never made for singing. But my head was made for writing songs. What to do. We are bundles of contradictions, every one of us. How the Universe must love the Irony.

~

Author: Kirtana K

I paint and make music and blog like a maniac. These days I try to run. But I have chicken legs and lungs the size of two-rupee balloons. I fail. I like pajamas and striped socks and books that read like song and songs that sound like poetry and strangers who read this page. And Maggi when I'm sick or cold or sad or celebrating. They'll find noodles in my veins if ever they cut me open. And potatoes. And maybe a tiny bit of whiskey. I'll be an Unidentified Living Object and they'll put my insides on display. It will be crazy. It will be awesome. It will.

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