It's all in it. That word. 3 letters, half a syllable. All the answer one needs.

One knows not why one writes. One just knows that if one doesn’t put one word, to another, to another, much like pieces of lego, one doesn’t, somehow, feel complete. So, we all try, in our own ways, to build our little lego houses. We are unsure, when we set out. So we hack at it. Building small huts, with mismatched blocks, one green piece snapping at two red ones on a yellow base. But, we build. We build because we finally have our fun. We build houses and gardens and little lego people having little lego tea parties on their little lego lawn.
Our houses aren’t good looking, no. Yet, they have a scruffy charm.
And as we build more and more, we find that shapes and colours need to be set, just so. And our vocabulary grows. So does our grammar.
And we write. The first poem. Looking feverishly into the dictionary for words that rhyme with condolence.
Our first big lego house is constructed. We are proud, and display it on top of our TV. And uncles and cousins and neighbours look at it, our poem and nod their heads. They don’t understand it, sure, but they like the twinkle in our eyes as we tell them of how, incense not only rhymes with condolence, but also, in rare circumstance, share the same context.

Soon, we are building three houses a day. Our spanking new lego set is now getting dirtier. More used. We find there are some words we use often, others stay in the big, grey Aristocrat suitcase, to be used later. Some pieces we forget, or throw out of the window. We build townships, and roads.

We get the upgraded Lego set - they call it the Technic. With running parts and rolling blades. And we pick up elements of style and composition. We no longer use all of the pieces, oh no. But we impress friends with what we write.

We use similes, metaphors and sloping roofs and transparent doors. We might outgrow our childhood fascination of the lego. But, those pieces we dumped in the old grey suitcase are still there. For us to use when we are bored. Or need to say something impressive.

Words. Lego pieces. Same difference.

1280 it is, no preparation, no studying. Not even enough prep-tests. Whatever time we had, we spent it in the office. We celebrated, therefore, with some chocolate chip cookies.

Why see at all? Why not just dream?

Alright, I concede it - I can't go any faster than you can run. I am no match for your bike. Neither am I as flashy as the new generation. (But seriously, what is it with those kids these days?)

But please, don't let me die this horrible, slow death here. In a dark corner of a damp house. Condemned to neglect and the spider's web. Please, take me out, give me some air. I deserve a second chance. Didn't I give you one when you first learnt how to ride me and fell off the third minute?

As he sat, flipping by tabs and blogs, a thought struck him. Why not do a little LJ updating. Long due, wasn't it? To think is to act. And so, he found himself, staring at an empty page wondering what to write about on his Journal. A 55 word story? Yes, that will do admirably

In love with it all

You do remember, don't you J, when we both played that stupid game of foot-cricket. You do remember, don't you my friend, when I shouted at you for throwing my new softball into the scrub. And how I got even by hiding your sandals. And how you got even by making me run through the hot sand.

I miss that my friend. I miss those days. But most of all, I miss the fact that you, J, will not be around anymore. You are now Jayantho. No more the J. You have grown up, matured and become the successful writer you are. But I, no. I have continued to be the same kid who hated hot sand and thorny bushes. I have not aged.

And I resent that. For you see, I was supposed to be grown up and you the kid.

J, come back man. It's time you let Jayantho die

Madras must truly be a city of bridges. Or at least, it is a city with more bridges than I have seen in my lifetime. Look at it. Bridges over railway tracks and railway bridges over roads. Bridges over rivers and lakes and ponds and slush. Bridges over bridges and roads under bridges.

And beneath it all, is a whole different set of people.

From the Desk of Chandrachoodan Gopalakrishnan
Saturday, January 20, 2006


Good morning all

I’ve been meaning to do this for a long time. I’ve even threatened a few of you with this. I said I would write your story, our story into a book.
But it was always second priority. There were ads to shoot and places to visit and temples to discover. There were people to meet. More stories to listen to and think of. So much so, I didn’t realise our story was THE story.

But that’s all the past. Even as you read this, I have begun the book. And for a while now. I thought of it as not a book but more as the journal I didn’t have. I thought of it less as a book and more as the constant mails and conversation we’ve all had. And that, I believe, is how I can do justice to our story. Your story. Their story.

This final mail of mine to you, my friends, for a while at least, will eventually find its way in the book. So I take the liberty of introducing us all to those who will read it.
There’s me, of course.
There will be a Vinod.
DaDog A and Jay will join us. I hope.
And then, there’s D. The D. Never far away.


C

5 years of blogging. daily html coding on tripod.com; blog service on tripod.com; two LJ accounts; Blogger.com; blog-city.com; movable-type on selectiveamnesia.org; wordpress on selectiveamnesia.org.

All along, writing, writing so I can do something. Writing for I needed to write. Writing because I do that best. Writing for if I didn't write, who would?

That's when the story happened. It has always been there. For me to write into a book. But I was far busy reading other books and pursuing other stories. But time to change.

The book will be written. Here. On J.Log.
For I know. This is the one place it will be written. But not read. Not read enough to change it or kill it. Read. But read the way I need it to be.

Wouldja believe it, I have had this and other LJ account for like ages but never put anything down here.
About time, dontcha thing, to change it.

So here goes. The first of the posts. And a light one at that.
Hi.
There. Done.