15 definitions by Bhanu: A Failed Novelist
A tropical modern building with an elevator. The name of a club in Brixton. A definition of narrative that resists complicated responses, because it's so fucking cool.
"What did you do on Saturday night?" "Oh, nothing much. Chucked back a few Malibu and Oranges, and all that." "Where did you go?" "Architecture 5." "Dude, that's really weird. That's where I went too." "No." "Yes!" "Shut up!" "No, seriously. I met this amazing, amazing guy. His name is Scott and when it was time to go, I heard this voice in my head, and it said, you have just met your future husband." "What, like a voice inside you or something you actually heard?" "I don't know." "Wow." "Yeah." "But, I think you should take it easy. You've been through a lot lately." "I know, but...he was really cute." "Define cute." "I don't know." "You're a little bit stupid, aren't you?" "What?" "Oh, I was just asking Terry where the olives were." "How is Terry, anyway?" "Terry! Terry, how are you?" "Fine." "He says he's fine."
by Bhanu: A Failed Novelist February 1, 2008
Sometimes I think that the whole reason I met him was to discover that his wife was studying Counseling Psychology, if indeed that is the name of something a person might actually learn, with the great-grand-niece of Frida Kahlo. In the narrative of desire, perhaps what matters is not intimacy but it's counterpart: a new thought. In this sense, the lover is a necessary force, but rarely it's limit. I said: "Maybe this is the reason we met." Thinking of the yellow table, the third eye, the monkey in her arms. Dominant. I begged for an introduction, forgetting for a moment who I was. To him. For her. A cunt. Do cunts get to meet Frida Kahlo? In the flesh? Greeley, Colorado is where the slaughterhouses are. I'd like to visit that university town.
by Bhanu: A Failed Novelist January 27, 2008
Obviously: the deluxe cheeseburger franchise. Apparently: Brooklyn. But actually: the initials of an obscure experimental prose writer of Punjabi/British origin. Author of: "Monsters I have Known": an essay on inter-racial romances that ends with the soulful but unkempt and aforementioned BK drowning her sorrows in short, skim milk lattes, even though it is a well-documented fact that too much coffee makes her impervious to omens and others signs that things are or are not going well. Which is no way to live. It's precarious, and does not necessarily lead to a marital outcome. But there you have it.
With a big sigh, BK flipped through the glossy pages of Cottage Living, even though it was was clear that the so-called cottages were really five bedroom annexes to an already established empire of primrose-yellow wallpapered mansions in places like Vermont and Southern California.
by Bhanu: A Failed Novelist January 23, 2008
The sordid and, obviously, pink creature of wierdly non-porcine origins, in A.A.Milne's "Winnie the Pooh." A baby kangaroo, Piglet often gets himself into confusing situations, like being stranded in trees when it's raining, if I am remembering my English childhood correctly.
My uncle, a civil engineer from New Delhi, was a contract worker for the Iraqi government in the mid 1980s. He once visited us in the UK, and insisted on taking me and my sister to Harrods. My sister immediately chose a high-quality Piglet, complete with green corduroy onesie. Actually, writing this example makes me realize that Piglet was not a baby kangaroo at all. He was an actual piglet. Sorry about that. Back to Harrods. I believe I selected a white mohair jumper that I wore on special occasions, such as Dorcas Day, throughout my adolescent years. It is difficult to explain what Dorcas Day is.
by Bhanu: A Failed Novelist January 14, 2008
The remarkable event of one's heart breaking at the exact instant that someone offers you a vial of their blood.
Rochester, NY: February 1994. Though chunks of ice were falling from the sky, he bicycled to Tops supermarket to get me, then a menstruating woman in her mid-twenties, the Sunday New York Times and a bloody steak. Now that's true love. Except, of course, it wasn't. Sometimes I think that love isn't something located in a particular person, like a husband, but, rather, something that's passed from person to person, like an albino rabbit at the petting zoo in Oklahoma City. But where is Oklahoma? This is the problem with not knowing how to position yourself appropriately in a restricted space. Though I'm now an American, I was born in a country where even the children drank tea for breakfast, like pirates in need of root canal surgery. Where were you born? Do you love someone? Describe your favorite lover of all time. My lovers have had the following occupations: bike mechanic, waiter, wedding video maker, performer in a miracle play, rabbi, merchant banker, poet (though I don't think they earned any money), professor, and...I think that's it. No. Art critic. Electrical engineer. Peace corps volunteer. The son of the Chief of Police of Rajasthan. (I believe he received a stipend.)
by Bhanu: A Failed Novelist January 18, 2008
An entity who carries stories the way other entities carry bits of twig or children with big eyes or a carapace.. I cannot say the human being has a set of appendages or that he or she has language. It's not about that. It's not about movement. It's not about sounds that are held in the body. When I boil up a human being (which is horrible to think about, I'm sorry), I get: narrative. As the distinguishing trait.
I mean, she broke up with me, but she broke up with me in the morning. She was a real human being about it, you know? She spent the night.
by Bhanu: A Failed Novelist January 16, 2008
A grid system in four parts: site, threshold, damage, and a shaky content that's subject to change. Or: a way of holding things in one place long enough to understand what's happening. Narrative. Then it rains. It rains for three days straight, and the city disappears. Then you disappear. I am thinking of the night you opened the door of your house and threw the book into the garden. Dark garden. An intermediary text, architecture is not for babies. Architecture is not for the house, but what surrounds it. If the grid gets wet, then you just slide off it, into the rain. This is an act of repetition made possible by the structure, but only when the structure fails.
"Hey mister! If I'd of wanted architecture, I'd of asked for architecture." "It's architecture 1, dummy." "Who you calling dummy?" "You, dummy." "Don't call me dummy. Architecture 1, my ass." "I love it when you talk dirty." "Oh shut up, do you want me to come over there and..." "Oh shut your pie-hole. This ain't a donut shop, in case you hadn't noticed." "No, I hadn't, actually."
by Bhanu: A Failed Novelist January 29, 2008