The Last Meal
It is heart-wrenchingly ironic that, shortly after writing a completely flippant and grandiose article about food I was to be wracked by a bout of stomach-ransacking gastritis, as if a cautionary tale against future gastronomic (and probably literary) preferences. Either because I was basking in smugness about the perceived humour (henceforth deemed absent) of that article or because the lining of my stomach was bathing in syrupy, tissue-destroying acid, I was unable to materialise some of the writing ideas that were bobbing around in my head, for example finishing off the undoubtedly important and enriching reflections on my trip to India.

In fact, such a literary impasse ground on my nerves even more as I read the blogs of people (something that, to me, is like perusing pornography ? done by many, vehemently denied by all) whom I knew and found, amongst the customary pedestrian occurrences of their lives, certain gems of articles of profuse insight and thought-provoking issues that no doubt showed off their status as mavericks in this field. I, on the other hand, had purposely chosen to depart from heavy, leaden articles that debate the history and philosophy of material life, pieces that people scan through and nod meaningfully at, as though they were surgeons peering at an X-ray film, or people fingering their chins, gazing at some work of Picasso's or Monet's, and thus made whatever writing I have done so far seem facetious and unimportant.

Much as I would like to return to such a style, I've realised that I probably haven't the moral or psychological calibre to bear the brunt of such (close-to-)daily ruminations that weighs on the spirit like a sack of coconuts and casts a pall on the outlook like a December sky. Invariably it induces us to negativity, somewhat an old friend, but like some of my old friends has drifted further away, a negativity that, while is not nihilistic, tints our perception. Hence I have tried to be positive, an attempt which entails the embrace of triviality, in my writing while still trying to deal with certain pertinent (and definitely more personal) issues. As I like to think of it, pondering the meaning of one's life and alter-lives (like dreams, or the lives of others) reminds me of generals standing around this massive map of the world pushing mini-models of battleships and tanks to and fro, theoretically deciding the fate and course of the lives of millions, but not actually doing it.

While I still do my fair share of such things (pushing model submarines in the swirling ocean of the mind), just not on paper, it seems to readers of my old writings that I might actually have lost the plot (or, having actually lost the plot it is only I who have such a perception that others are thinking that I'm only knitting with one needle, or am just one fry short of a Happy Meal). Well certainly on demand I am sure I could conjure up something but it would not be the same (as people always say, even though they are equivalent), and, amongst other blogs in the same vein of trying to match meaning to matter this could be totally refreshing if it were aiming to do so, like a can of Fanta Pineapple.

You may take this as evidence that my writing has gone out to lunch whose quality is collapsing quicker than a Nigerian Viagra pyramid selling scheme. Indeed, in the bristling thicket of excellent writing from my peers this is like the gristle in your hamburger. However, the products of madmen have always held certain merit, like that of van Gogh or Virginia Woolf, and while I do not lay claim to such a similarity, I needed to churn this out to reset the glut that has elapsed since that last article, that still leaves a foul taste in my mouth, like that left by an inferior cigar.