lazy sunday afternoons

It has become somewhat of a habit now as sunday afternoons while pacidly away for my life to fall comfortably into the cracks of time, this little dim down down space where things are pretty much suspended and the only things worth noting are the humidity of the afternoon, and the humming of the dilligent fan, somewhat like a hispanic movie where the glare of the sun hazes the entrance of the door and a familiar stillness marks the air.

On sundays like these biding their time eternal I move slower, read half-heartedly because it takes a little too much effort than I care to give for this particular moment. Still, nothing's lost because hopefully I can go back and read those words one more time so that I get the pleasure of novelty twice over the same thing. Brilliant, innit. I say hopefully because one can never say for certain when it comes to the matter of permanance. So I hope, in a lazy, languid way.

My brother's usually hanging around with his church kahkis, some of whom have their three-year-old faces captured forever, in matte photographs taken when they celebrated his birthday, when they were all chubby babies toddling around and in the photos they're facing each other, open-mouthed smiles chuckles and grins obviously delighting in a discovery one of them just made. My brother had the most angelic smile; it's his beautiful eyes, I think, full of joy at being three years old with a cat-cake to eat in a while. My parents will be snoozing somewhere, and maybe later in the day daddy and I might find ourselves watching one of them hindi shows on suria.
Ever since I left for hall life, certain things mark my return. For example, we all know daddy'll make me two soft-boiled eggs, and invariably ask the question do you want tea too? daddy's really proud of his masala tea, though I'm not sure if I got the spelling right. We got the recepie [do teas have recepies?] over a wedding reception from a chinese woman, one of the parents' friends from long long ago who works in a bank that deals mainly with indian currency, or something like that, and embraces the culture after a sophisticated, bankerish fashion. In our family, I'm the one who becomes an emotional wreck after each bollywood film we see -I must say devdas was the most devastating one and I have no doubt that the similarity of the two words are not mere coincidences-, while my brother's the one who has fallen in love with the fare. I pretty much like the cuisine myself but daddy and him are the ones who actually have their favourite restaurant. Mommy just looks on with indulgence I suppose. heh.

I should also actually mention that I wanted to write to a certain person previously; in one of those slighty pensive thinkalouds where I accuse somebody of walking into my life and then dropping out again. Oh I suppose that if I really wanted the relationship to continue I should take the initiative to say hi over msn or something but sometimes six years of not talking does funny things to you, one of them being precisely not knowing where anything is and not quite daring to move in case things start falling apart. Hmmm that sounds like a house. So right now I'm teerthering on the brink of another ephiphany [someone still has yet to come forward and enlighten me on the spelling of /e-pee-fern-nee/ so I shall take the liberty of ignorance here] and somewhat like alice in wonderland who just nibbled from the very small cake on which the words "EAT ME' were beautifully marked with currants [carroll's words, not mine] so that she's both the one holding the house together- think pressing against the walls of the cottage- and bursting it apart. yeah, at the same time. Oh I hope I don't break this particular friendshiphouse apart, we can be too good friends to throw this chance away. It ended once before, will you wait another six years again?
Oh, on a side note, I've finally figured out after thirteen weeks for sure that in thai the adjective comes after the noun, so that friendshiphouse isn't friendshiphouse, it's baan puan. Sorry the phonectics aren't completely accurate; puan ought to read a little like /pe4 ern2/ per syllable.


well now I'm stuck in an inbetween of an inbetween, now I'm more than inside of a delicately drifting day. I'm inside a six year old space too, as though I've lived my six years wordlessly waiting but. you see. I haven't. We both moved along quite well I think, only as I told you if I did hear about you it'd be with a little wistfulness. But my point is, all blank spaces and vortex aside, that the impossible happens on languorous sunday afternoons, and that

dreamy boredom makes/ the
postponment of exertion
(of any imginable sort)
perfectly permissible
and
correct, even.