Beatnik


Ghole: Qigong?
Me: Damn.
Ghole: What?
Me: Just that.
Ghole: What, that was a trick question?
Me: Sure.
Ghole: And I'm tricked into what?
Me: Ignorance. Of whether you were tricked or not.
Ghole: Wow. You tricked me!
Me: Good. Consider it an early birthday present.
Ghole: You're getting me an iPad? Awesome!! Buy me the new one... It has retina display...
Me: Dream on, Ghole. #striketwo
Ghole: What happened in oral pathology today?
Me: Made up a new classification of cysts. With potato shaped tumours.
Ghole: Really?!
Me: Hah. Strike three. You're out!
Ghole: Or am I?
Me: This is going to be like one of those endless chain of questions where you try to extract and I try not to divulge which usually ends with me dropping the circle of inquisitivity altogether and settling for an 'okay', isn't it?
Ghole: A little creativity is always welcome...

Every Tree is a Burning Bush.


Impossible thoughts are nice. This guy says he's burning up the sky. Why/how would anybody even do that anyway? We found love in a hopeless place, says Rihanna. Which is weird, again. But weird is always good. And flexibility is a sign of intelligence. Like pi. Like cello. Like Iron & Wine. Like intervertebral discs.

I dreamt lots last night. Maybe it was the chocolate biscuits I OD'd on after that drunk mosquito bit me, or something else. The contents of the dreams were dispatched straight to Gholekins twice during the night cause he's my girlfriend, and also because one of them featured him and the most ignored subject of his life.

The gatekeeper at the hostel just showed me a glass bottle inside which he claimed there was a Dengue mosquito, which frankly looked more like a baby dragonfly to me since it was huge compared to the average mosquito but the guy was insistent that it was the real thing.

Here I lie in my sparsely-lit room, musing silently in my brownness, aging quietly with the world, merging shadows of my monsters with their worst enemies. My Garbhagriha. Such Great Heights by The Postal Service plays in the background. Nagging thoughts come and lie down in my path, but I skip over them already aware of the whirlpool circling the drain that they lead to. But here we sit, trapped silently in great big glass bottles, struggling for survival anyway. Fight for this love? I think not.

Katy Perry says she's thinking of you. "You're like an Indian summer, in the middle of winter." Stuck in the shadow of my own mistakes, breathes this guy. Which is saddening. Ironic. Like a left bundle branch block. But not as infuriating as not being able to move forward because you have no oars. And you can only keep blowing into your sails for so long.

Klebsiella for King


Nickelback's "I'd come for you" is very hummable. I like it. Like Livers and Prometheus. Like how we studied pneumonia in Medicine today. Which explains why I have peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on my mind. Or how its nice that they have fancy descriptions for all these sounds. Like vesicular is " the sound of wind blowing through the leaves of a tree." A pleural rub is "the sound made by treading on fresh snow". Like how the third and fourth heart sounds have the same cadence as  "Kentucky" and "Tennessee".

Which brings us to how I'm taking the weekend off again and running back home tomorrow. For the third time this month. Because we don't need no edjucaayshun. Pah. Like that's going to make a few good men out of us.

Sfumato.

If we were to continue from where we left off, our little train pulled safely into the station exactly two months from today, but with only seven-ninety out of the one thousand people on board having survived the harrowing experience of their grey cells nearly turning into potato mush. Which was an excellent outcome as it were, given the odds, and the little train was very thankful and humbled by the powers that be, but as little trains go, this one didn't seem to be too happy about things. There was for instance, this other train that'd passed through the same ravine and managed to bring back eight hundred and forty of her passengers alive. And another. And another. And the poor little train couldn't stand all this and it became very very ill.

Now the station master wasn't having any of this. He knew exactly what was bothering the little train but he was a little concerned too because he'd never seen the little train so ill in the past three, four years or so. So he sent the little train off to its home tucked between some distant hills for some well earned TLC.

And so the little train became well again. And then for the next two months, it took to the tracks with all the fervour and enthusiasm it could muster on having being ordered to craft dentures for the partially edentulous, along with other adventures that come with life on the railroads and all that jazz. And all was well with the world again.

Next week: Catch the Little Train and the Nasty Interdental Currettes and Hoes as they scale some of the most risky (and prolly stinky as hell) heights on the planet. Meanwhile, enjoy the March Madness and don't forget to feed the fish!