Snap, Crackle and Kaboom!

This weekend was filled with familial love, amongst other things.

Friday night proved that I am a fully clairvoyant being – my predictions were totally on the money.

M & I met up after work and after some rather embarrassing pda’s we made our way to the cinema’s at yorkdale. While the plan was to initially pop the cherry on “a lot like love” – the totally wack scheduling at Famous Players propelled us towards watching ‘the interpreter’. Now, that was one happy accident that we both enjoyed. The movie was dramatic, thought provoking and interesting enough to keep me awake for the whole two hours. Those who know me are sure to know that doesn’t happen too often. Yup, im a sleeper. At the most inopportune moments, my body decides to shut down and take a nap.
After overdosing on popcorn (sans extra butter) I found myself once again nursing the urge of writing/filming/directing an expose on the brutalities that define my people.

My people. Sounds elitist doesn’t it? It also sounds like I’m segregating myself. And unfortunately, in this case – I am. Because that’s our reality. I will forever be defined by the struggle that has ravaged my country. The struggle for basic freedoms that has somehow gone sadly awry.

Now, why is it that the ideology of a revolution is always theoretically sound but the practice and application of it flounders like a fish that didn’t pass its swimming lessons?

That’s how I feel about most revolutions.
Socialism – great idea. In theory.
The fight for equal rights in Sri Lanka – a great game plan in theory and then it got side tracked. It’s the travel down a tangent that politically fucks up an entire nation. The LTTE were on the money – theoretically. In practice, egos and alter egos have marred its basic premise – leaving us with a nation torn on the grounds of hurt feelings and miscommunication. Someone needs to document these things. Appropriately. In a way that leads us to reconnect with the struggle as it happened. In ways which help the diaspora feel the girth and the strength of this monster. In a way that will make us all feel equally responsible for the unified survival of our island.

Yet, nobody has or ever does.

Sri Lankan authors seem to come in two varieties. Those who wax poetry about the struggle of balancing and juggling two cultures. Or those who document the historical and meticulous statistics of the war. I have yet to read a novel that inspires, informs and moves people through invective. I’m incensed people. Because I have that opportunity.

A fully functioning pen. Pounds of blank paper. Minus the balls to actually birth it.
Or maybe it’s a matter of fear.
But someone’s got to write this out. To write not only about the dark, grimey nature of war in a small island but to bring the motivation behind it to light. The only book that has come close to re-creating those feelings would have to be Cinnamon Garden by Shyam Selvadurai. Woven magically into his plot lines, he briefly grazed upon the large cavern that seems to separate the Tamils from the Sinhalese.

One day folks. One day I’m going to stumble upon that maturity I so desperately seek to pen the novel of a lifetime. One that will reveal the real consequences of this war in Sri Lanka. One that will touch on our collective experiences. One that will paint the Tamil culture in its true colors – not as trigger happy rebels, not as gang banging crack heads but as intrinsically cultured, naturally passionate and inherently multi-faceted individuals. One day people. And until that day comes, I guess I’ll take a number and join the rest of them arm chair critics.

I hate my powerlessness. Well, there’s one thing I hate even more than those feelings and that’s the fact that I am aware of it and yet, haven’t done much to alter that situation. A result of the human condition? Hrmph.

Back to the diaretic entry.
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Bottling small doses of wine. And not to mention some saccharine sweet love.

Saturday’s wine bottling was incredible. I love learning something new through application. S&Magic meant business – they were totally focused on the act at hand. We filled, corked and packaged 200 bottles. It was awesome. A was wonderful enough to show us the ropes and help out. And QC is pretty cool – I don’t think I’ve ever had the opportunity to get to know him before – so all in all – good times. Oh and the wine: how sweet it doth taste – it’s ice wine (a taste sensation for your palate) and acts as a dessert. It was mind numbingly sugary but I sampled some for the good of the larger group! Purrrrfeck.

I can’t believe that this shindig is merely 6 Saturdays away (as L pointed out in her email). HOLY SMOKES FOLKS! My lil sister is getting married. And she couldn’t have picked a better match. I’m so happy for the two of them and I can’t wait to share in all this joy. All this seemingly unbearable stress, chaos and planning will come to fruition when she walks down that make-shift aisle wearing that gorgeous sari of hers. My jaw almost hit the bed when I saw it – it’s absolutely stunning. And she will surely look like a Rani on that day decked in nothing but 6 yards of bridal pleasure.

The Family Do

I had to break the news to the masses. Which was hard enough. Couple that with the usual insensitivity that my extended family is well known for – and you’ve got the makings of a great melodramatic episode. I’ve always wondered how the dude upstairs links and pairs people together. Yes, I know I’m intelligent enough to realize that science disputes those celestial theories but, come on people – you look at my family and you quickly realize that some of us just stick out like sore thumbs. We have no patience for the collective gossip, the friendly mud slinging that inevitably turns ugly and the general backstabbing.

My family is filled with motormouths. Amma tells me it’s because they don’t really mull over what they’re about to say hence end up saying the wrong thing at the most inopportune of moments. I got the usual “you should lose some weight”/”when are you getting married”/”when are you going to let your parents retire” etc etc. It never ceases to amaze me that my family can make me feel like shit – I feel small, powerless and cornered when I’m with them. And that’s on a good day. So I left, balling my eyes out and vowing that my own family will never mutate into the pack of blood-thirsty piranha’s that my extended fam can be.

The mantra is as follows: Real love survives through the roughest of times.
Well, that’s what I keep telling myself at least.
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Sunday: Absolute and utter heaven.

I rode the metro in the morning to M’s and hung out with him and his mom. I swear it was the most relaxing time ever. I usually feel like my best self in that house. Unless uncle is making some insensitive comment which aunty chalks up to his lack of sensible genes. Boys are oftentimes afflicted with that condition. Well according to Aunty at least. And I am quite comfortable accepting that reasoning. Thank you very much.

I watched Meet the Fockers at their place. It was rip roaring in both content and comedic value. So funny. And more funny because aunty was watching it with us. Good times.

Oh and lest I forget – aunty bought me the most gorgeous black chiffon skirt – it’s tiered. Yup, sequins and tiers of silky smooth black paradise – I feel like a primadonna straight out of the forties. Gawd, I love a great skirt. And it was on sale. Yup. Heaven.

I ended my night with a friendly pow-wow with the members of the inner circle. Rejuvenating to the spirit and easy on the ears.
All in all, a nice relaxing weekend. I needed it too cuz this morning we got a couple briefs which means a comfortably busy week will be on rotation. Woo-hoo.

I love it folks.
Life with all its disparities, extremities and complexities tickles me all shades of pink.

And leaves me jonesin’ to don that sensational skirt with some slightly glorified flip flops. (WTF, where did that come from!)

Peace.