November 22, 2005

Home Alone

I am genuinely happy to be home alone tonight. It has been such a lousy and miserable day that I could have bitten off every single face I had come across today at work and the mood was not expected to get any better once I got home. Thankfully, things did change. On my way home, I stopped by the local fish market, picked up some pomfret and spent a little bit of time cooking it for dinner and then polished off every morsel that was cooked.

Now there is Notting Hill playing on television, while I am in the other room listening to it and reading up one last time before I cuddle up with a book or call it a night. Incidentally, do any of you have the same bad habit of listening to television than actually watching it? Normally, reruns of old television serials and movies that you have already watched make for best television hearing, but an active imagination should see you through in doing the same with any kind of programming.

Which brings me to the question that has been bothering me for quite a bit in the day, how do you conjure up good sex in a work of fiction if you have not had any yourself? And you can please stop snickering, such things do bother me, now back to the question. It is funny because you can imagine what it must feel like when it comes to emotions and situations. Hell, you can even imagine or fantasize about what it must feel like to be a hijacker. But sex? How do you ever imagine good sex?

Or is it that I am the only one who finds it weird that so many people write some fantastic bits on people making love? It can’t be possible that all of them have made love in the manner the have described. At least I hope not, for I can’t imagine the plight of humanity and publishers if things were to come to a stage where the public discovers that the key to having good sex is to become a writer. Still, I find it awfully funny these days when I read passages that go like “he put his hands on her thigh and she flinched in pleasure”. Don’t you agree?

Another thing I’ve grown to develop a great deal of distaste for is people saying “I can understand how you feel”. I hate it with all my life and I really do want to bite my tongue off every time I come close to saying it. How in the world can I ever understand how another person feels? For that matter, how in the world can another person understand how I feel? Even the stupidest of us are unique in our own ways and even then there is no way one can make up another’s emotions and context by virtue of imagination.