Where the hell are you?
The hours come falling down. And the days are candle wicks.
The rain. The wind.
To and fro. Our leaflet dreams under a crazy sunrise.
And in the middle of all that commotion.
The grain of sand.
That blows inside me. Outside.
There's one head I can enter. Although with increasing difficulty. But still, I am allowed inside. And I am grateful. Because I know. There's people who keep going in and out of heads. I call them wind-people. Because they are so like a draft. Homeless. I guess too many people want them. And nobody actually needs them.
I am afraid my last oasis is closing its doors on me too. I don't want to become one of them wind-people. I don't want to blow forever.
'Someday, never comes' - CCR
The other day I heard this mountain weep on the air. It was sad. The mountain I had lived on. It crumbled.
Standing there I heard the thunder and felt lightening cracking through my spine. I tottered. There was much silence and less movement. There still is.
How in the world? There's only a few leaves you keep in your books. Three in total. And there's people. With heaps buried between their pages. How then, does the wind need one of your three? How then, does one of your three need the wind?
If only there was music that never faded or stopped. Then you'd be a tree, and the rest of the universe would be the tip of a pin.
Home alone. Ahab. Cooking. Jenny.
All is well that ends Jenny.
Headache. Missed stop. The walk back. Lovely night. The call. The news. Stillness. Dogs. Buying rice. Feeling stoned. Feeling ghost. Entering. Trying to weep. Trying to laugh. Cooking. Reading. Eating. Dishes. No sleep.
Damn alarm. Breakfast. The long double-bus ride. Friends. Adapters. Books. RPD. Delhi blasts. Sadness. Hostel. Conversation till 0300. Aching. Non-stop.
Die with me?
Birthday greeting. Internet. Roads to take. Places to be.
You got me wrapped around your finger
Three cheers for the Irish accent! And the angel in her voice.
Yea. So the job's fine. No internet though. I am learning Persian. If there's someone with any help to offer. ASAP, tell me! I added this new blog-list thing to my blog. Suddenly stopped writing. Started composing. In the mornings. Recently watched Trainspotting and Kill Bill. In one go. Observed a pattern. All the pleasant women are married. Damn. Miss my hometown. I don't know what exactly I miss. Because most of the time I just wandered around like a vagabond there. Alone and without purpose. But I still do miss it. This city is so not good for purposelessness. There is work. Maybe it is a sign. Maybe I am not supposed to be purposeless. Pole star. Pole star. Speak up! There is only one thing worse than a dead man. It is the last rites. Saw how they sang and danced around him and painted him and drenched him and finally set him ablaze. Wonder if they would've dared to even touch him had he been breathing. I was sorry. When you break into my house and there's me on the sofa. Blue and stiff. Just bury me under the nearest tuft of kindergarten grass. No aerials above me please. And bury me at night, so that the children don't know I am there. I have always dreamed of being invisible and watching little ones at their games.
Nah. Despite all my rolling in shite, I am still purposeless. Desireless even. Just wrapped and doused in corporate feces. I come home and take a bath every evening. And only then, Jenny.
It's like I am sitting on a dock. And there's stones in my hands. I throw them so that they glide on the water. Then they sink. There's circles they make. And the circles come right back to me. I wish they wouldn't. But they do.
If it were, that we were all invisible. It'd still go the same for us.
Somewhere. There's smiles. And perfumed hair.
Resting beneath the yellow sun. I think it'd be better to sink. For the ocean much resembles a desert. And you much resemble the sun.
Today, I saw a girl cry. He went away. He ate grapes with her before he went. And he kissed her too. The sun was too strong when he did. So I turned away and climbed the stairs into an empty room.
There's the ocean around me. And I am clueless. Pole star. Pole star. Tell me. Where do you want me to go? Where must I turn my boat? Where lies the shore? I shall believe, whatever you say to me. I promise. But you must speak. Just speak.
Sitting On The Dock Of The Bay Otis Redding
Stone Thrown Turin Brakes
Like A Rolling Stone Bob Dylan
I Shall Believe Sheryl Crow
The view from the roof of my hostel is impeccable. There is a church a mosque a railway tube a canopy of lovely spring trees glistening granite skyrisers and a beautiful dancing sky! I have always wanted to climb up at around sundown and capture the whole thing. Skyline and all. So. Armed with a modern state of the art point and shoot, off I marched into the twilight battlefield. And I was eaten up. In one go! The colours the call from the mosque the riggity raggity of the train and the trees all dandy and bright in their oranges and yellows and supermodel poses. I looked at the puny little camera in my hand and then at the formation of birds gliding across the sky.
There's beauty. And it doesn't want to fit inside a box of transistors and LEDs. It cannot limit itself to pixels and 2-D. It wants to flow. Through time and space. Through us.
Our memories are like little tumblers dipping inside a whole ocean of beauty. Why then, must I hold on to the half a litre inside my miserable little head? When there's infinite gallons of it, waiting to be poured out. It must be drunk aplenty. And pissed aplenty. Mother earth is a gracious host. She doesn't mind us helping ourselves to a millionth serving.
And so thinking and so dreaming, I wiled the dusk away. Without a single click.
The other day I was caught ticketless. They dug a whole trench in my pocket. And I forfeited two days of brilliant dining, just to get back to budget. I was sad. I could see the brown slowly circling in. I was not sad for it. I was sad because I could also see a brown slowly spiralling out. My leaf has been turned over too many times. Both sides's dabbled black and brown. No place left to write. Shall then I stop writing? Shall I lay down my crazy ash pen and turn the leaf over twice and thrice and fling it away? Does the monkey like his tail? Does the dog like his yelp? Does the Green Lantern like Hawkgirl? And many more such questions still unanswered, shall I then let my leaf fall?
I love asking stupid questions I already know the answers to. Just to see your 'Aww, poor pussy cat' smile. And so. Moonface. Here's my leaf, one more time. See the little corner there. Still green. I shall write on it. And you must smile.
Steaming vadai are a lovely breakfast. Thunder Road and Human Touch are haunting. Jenny is the bestest thing to touch any given day. Bugatti is super sexy. Differentials have a weird gear arrangement. Nothing beats waking up to an alarm on a holiday and repenting your existence. Sardars are more universal than the universe. Pretty HR girls are dangerous. The mind refuses to forget stuff it really must forget. It is adamant and self destructive. So is friendship. That's that.
" Sometimes it's like someone took a knife, edgy and dull, and cut a six inch valley through the middle of my soul. At nights I wake up with my shirt soaking wet and a freight train running through the middle of my head ... "
I've gotten super duper lethargic. I am trying. I think. Hehe.
I don't know what awaits me. I am not very keen on finding out either. But I guess I will have to. What a shame. It gets uglier as it comes closer. I could write a bunch of stupid philosophical blah blah on it. But I choose to spare this keyboard. And my own imagination. And your eyes. I always spare eyes. There's pretty they are. I am not so kind to ears though. I cut them off and add them to my own.
I think people are drifting away from me. Not the regular current, I mean. The ones I supposed would be kind of more solid. They's going off. Creeping away slowly. And I don't know how to stop them. Because they's moving so slow I cannot say they's moving at all. But I know they's on a course away from me. And I don't even know why. I am already lonely! Damn. I have to make some new best friends soon. First I will have to make some new friends though. Nah. This time I will take it the other way round. Because they's all going to go here and there after some time. No matter what way I start.
All the stupid English is from Mary Ann Evans and Richard Llewellyn. Good company on Jennyless days. In fact a whole month with no Jenny this. Drats. And double drats.
Two posts today. Of which, one was a desperate cry for an escape plan. Just deleted it. Now now. So much for uncomputerated. But the slow connection is a good repellent. It is 0300h right now. I am sleepy. But there's no reason to sleep. I am not sleepy. I am confused. I think. I don't know. I tried sleeping. I could only think of the fact that I was not asleep.
I have had time to review my old poetry. Gosh. I was so dumb. Gosh. Ten years down the line I will look back and say the same stuff. And there's wheels that turn you know. And we keep coming under them like little berries and stones. And then they keep rolling over us. And we's all some nutwhacks and doodledums and we keep going round that spiral. Spiralling into some great center in the middle of our noses. You know. Right between the nostrils.
Hm. There's other forms of discomfort at home. There's things that happen that you've been trying to get away from for as long as you can remember. And every time you is close to them you shudder out of disgust. There's the apple of your eye. There's much love. And there's worms over everything.
I miss writing poems. I cannot write anymore. I is drained I am. Damn him old harry. That damned crazy old fool old harry. I is troubled I am.
But I am happy. Because I am beginning to see the light. Um. There's an album by that name by the Acoustic Jazz Quartet. Wonderful stuff. I Recommend.
Wow. This post turned out way longer than I thought it would. And I will disappear for some time now. Unless fate throws such a night at me too soon.
I have a feeling I have overpunctuated this transience. Whatever ... ?;':!,." ?!? !?!
O ya. And (on insanely repetitive asking) my dad gave me this übercool rosary. It once belonged to some Tibetan Buddhist monkie. Yey! There's 108 beads in it.
To the many days that have come and gone. To the many nights. To chances and dreams and other ephemeral things. To the most ephemeral of them all.
Yestreen. Late late yestreen. I was randomskyping. And I randomed into this person. Sort of helped me with the question. O boy. I am so behind every other 21.9 year old in the universe. Whatever. At least I started. So yea. I am supposed to know what I want in life. I mean I don't see the point. But there's no point in not wanting anything either. So yea. The procedure's simple. You make a list of every damn thing you want to do. Sane things. Insane things. Impossible things. Unpossible things. The next step is to wear earplugs. This is crucial, especially for mediocrity-struck dreamers like this guy writing all this trash. Whatever. Mediocrity is a shitmyth word made up by astute social climbers who cannot appreciate stuff which is not written down in papers and reports and books. So yea. You wear earplugs. And you keep climbing the building, like deaf frogs. And don't listen to no one. Don't take no shit from no one. Just keep walking. And having fun. And all the while, an eye on your list. Again. One might wonder (as I still do) why the fuck do you even need that bugging list. It's distracting. But yea. What else will you do?! You know. Fly someplace? You won't even have the money to walk when papa stops pushing. Whatever. Yea. So. The best thing to do is keep walking. With a list and a walkman, or as in my case, with Jenny. Your nostrils full of oxygen. Your ears full of music.
Whew. I think I wrote that down as a quick reference for myself.
Whatever. It's just a beginners guide to obtaining direction you know. So yea. It's childish etc. But it's what I will be starting off with. And yea. Hurrah for Latvians with free advice!!
Funeral home, funeral home
Going to the funeral home
Got me a coffin shiny and black
I’m goin’ to the funeral and I’m never coming back
- Daniel Johnston
1. Don't take no shit from no one: An evening with Billy Joel
2. Late late yestreen: Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence!
Is the moon broom Kiki? Mushroom?
I was wandering meandering like a flautist in F in an orchestra of G and I got hit by this train. I wonder where in Lebanon? Black ribbons windblown Hi Hi!!
Mother. Many twenty years and one ago we were one. I was a seed straw-piping your blood. You didn't mind. You never mind blind to cancers. Your breath. Like the atmosphere. Moving. Breathing for all the earth.
But you know now. Now. The vampire is tired. The vampire wants to cut off his fangs thangs and lie down in his box. Wants to far float on green clouds. Some place there is no friend. Nor foe. A new identity. An old trade. Anonymous. But nun any sweat you. Still your blood running in. Running out. Of this stupid contraption. You made it. Look. It pulses. Whack O Whack O. What courage! Look. Floating in shit. Still. Whack O Whack O. What dogged determination. You put some of your Whack O in it while they weren't looking, didn't you? Now it jumps. How it jumps! That's far enough little Whack O. Look. Look!! What unending perseverance. As if it wants to break free. As if it wants to tear this bosom apart and run right back to you. Someday then. When I nun need it nunymore. I will wrap it in a white sheet. I shall wrap it. Just like you had done me. It shan't be easy to get rid of it. But I will do it. I must. So. I shall take it, and send it to the postmaster. The moon shall be full that day. And beside him Lucy. Strong as when she was when your feathers were not so grey. And when you see her there, you will know how brutal I was. And how sad for my lack of blood. But for now, I must. Just a little more. One drop of shining glistening red. Then no more. Then no more. I am ashamed.
Much embraces. Much gratitude.
Much loves darling.
Druggies and Junkies. They represent us. They beat us. Time after time. Us. Non fliers. We are the bedrock, on which barbiturate must build its strong and cruel empire. While we lay down our souls to Jenny. In white. And we lay down our flesh to Mephistopheles. In black, not red.
Yeah. So there's this exam tomorrow. Lots to study still. I think it's going to be a long night. I hate such nights. And it's a beautiful cool breeze outside too. After a 42C day!
Walk. Keep walking. The road don't end. Nowhere. Keep walking.
If the road don't end why don't we just call it a day and camp right here?
We aren't sure the road never ends.
But you just said ...
I am the voice in your head. I lie habitually. Now walk.
Bubbly toes did too.
Her eyes are as big as her bubbly toes
On the feet of the queen of the hearts of the cards
And her feet are infested with tar balls and scars
- 'Bubbly toes', Jack Johnson
To cast down my burden
There is a fire already burning
So I burn with a thousand fires
Do I stop looking then?
Do I sit down under the midday sun
And let the vultures and the hyenas devour me?
I do find an oasis
And drink aplenty. And am fed. And am nurtured
For indeed the desert is vast
And indeed the traveller is stubborn
Bent on crossing this terrible and ghastly wasteland
PS: Thomas Stearns anyone?
I have been reading.
And watching movies. Just got done with Requiem for a Dream. Ya. I live in the past. I love my arm. I love natural insanity too. None of my requiems shall have sacrifices. They shall be soft dirges. With simple chord changes.
Writing. Wrote something I didn't think was trash. Lightyears since that happened last. Nevermind the fact I wrote it in class.
Listening to Coming Back to Life in an infinite loop. Damn I don't want to turn it off even when I sleep.
Sulking. Being happy. In an infinte loop.
Packing and unpacking Evil Jenny. Again an infinite loop. Loopy days these.
So there was this amazing dusk sky yesterday. And there were trippy colours. It is all about being reminded. Like blue stripes on white. Swanky palette shoes. Beautiful un-black hair. It is also about imagining the rest. Like half clouds.
A new look for my blog. Sorry about all the hearts. But there's birds too. And a tree. I started and deleted a music blog today. Another sign of my current instability.
Watched a lot of movies, long pending.
- Waking Life
- Well. It cleared up a lot of clutter in my brain. And replaced it with ten times
- The Neverending Story
- Reminded me of all the lovely things we did in school. I think it was our Geography teacher who took us to the video library to watch this one. Ondrilla. That was her name, I think
- Stand By Me
- A lovely movie. IMDb description - 'For some, it's the last real taste of innocence, and the first real taste of life'
- Kiki's Delivery Service
- Another studio Ghibley production. Weird settings. Weird storyline. A very engaging film!
- She's All That
- The worst movie of the lot. Sappy dripping chic flick. Not recommended for people above 12. Watched it only for Rachael Leigh Cook!!
- Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street
- Burton + Depp. Need I say more?
- Grand Hotel
- A real oldie. 1932. A script that makes you wonder whether the papers reported the writers' strike 50 years too late
- The Broadway Melody
- Another oldie! 1929. It had a lovely description of an artist/performer's life. Their reasons to carry on. Their reasons to stop.
- I am Legend
- A modern shoot 'em up zombie movie
Which is the most universal human characteristic - fear or laziness?
Later, the rooftop. The stars. The clouds. Tagging them with shapes. Burdening them with meaning. I am certain of my loneliness now. Any many company, any much talking can't make me not alone.
So no grief.
No desire for shapes.
I’m not your larder. I’m Alife your guarder.
Yes grief. For the no grief. I am scared of having turned ice. I don't want a frozen heart.
Alife my larder. I can't forsake you or forsqueak you.
- Robert Wyatt. Rockbottom.
Here's to remembrances. To people who half-exist. Who drive you out of your own. Drive you towards a cup of coffee. Toward a lonely evening with a table lamp.
Here's to running away from freedom.
Here's to 'You're the closest to heaven that I've ever been. And I don't want to miss you right now'.
Here's to incorrect lyrics that sound better than the correct.
Here's to running into yourself. Again and again.
Here's to being struck. Being sleepless. Being used. Being unused.
Here's to wanting. Here's to not getting. Here's to nowhere and no how.
Here's to council from the deads and the fools. To the warmth in their company. To the reassurance in their wretchedness.
Here's to all that. And to silences broken by tch-tchs from a keyboard.
Redemption Song by Bob the Hippie Rasta.
The song is supposed to carry with it airs of political rebellion. Of unrest. Of a strong desire to be free. And those airs it does carry, faithfully and in abundance. But today, fighting with myself I realised - behind those melancholy staccato strums, behind the sad heart breaking recital lies a simple plan. A simple lesson. As much personal as political. The plan called action. And yet, at his point of time, this simple plan is a blow to my very concept of freedom. For me freedom stood for free fall. Letting go.
But for the simple minded rasta freedom lies in strife. In effort. First, for the attainment, and then for sustenance. And it is not the pot, but this freedom that I gratefully accept from you, brother.
I am scared of the impending strife. I am not good at it. But I must accept it. Must find a way to feel one with it. Because after all, it is my freedom.
Credits: Staccato. TB(oO) and Vane.
But today, walking back from breakfast I came across this guy I don't know too well, and have no desire to either. Mostly because of his/my smugness. Automatically, without the slightest thought or provocation - out came a smile. A less messy, low calorie, highly covert smile. And at that very precise moment, I took back every Hello I have ever said. The sham, the artifice!
Over the past few days I have also realised my mind is not free in its musings. There is a dark cloud of logic gathered above my skies. It filters every soulward ray emanating from my atomic brain, so that all that reaches my shivering core is a faint smudge. There is no warmth. I think too much before I think. In zeros and ones. I have an OCD, whence every sentece must be spic and span. Perfectly ordered. Blacks and whites, clubs and spades.
Yesterday I read Heaney. Listened to Van Morrison. I realised how ordered my life is. How free their art is. How free I am. Only I refuse to accept it. I refuse to work towards it. And therein lies the issue. The arid monster. So, today, I want to be inkorect. Polætically offtrackened. Ethicaly chällenged. Erothik eveन! And so, I presen to yuo, the most wvile of ऑल human kreationß, I presenn to यू, a meop ...
not to be deflected- an excerpt from 'Interferences: a sequence of nine poems' by Edwin Morgan
the arrow, puffed up
straight to its
They are not necessarily Sundays or Saturdays. And they definitely don't start at a comfortable five in the evening. They are normal full-fledged working days which begin as soon as you unsleep for the first time in the day.
Yesterday was one such Day of Utter Nothing.
It hit me. Smack in the middle of an average hectic undergraduate week. Left me so so off balance. Tottering. And as always - suicidal, but for the memory of.
I awoke. And then awoke. And was finally awake at noon. Then the nothings. One after the other. You can't help it. It is worse than sleepwalking. Because you are perfectly conscious. Skipped lunch. Avoided company. Sent people away. Stared at the wall. Read something about an ubearable lightness or so. Let the phone ring.
Basically left one day of my life blank. Maybe it is a space, between two chapters. Maybe it is only a space between two words. Deliberately streched out into a vast void. The book, is only written once. Maybe. Maybe I am too tired of writing.
But in all probabilities I am just writing a lot of fancy lies to cover up my chronic dumbass laziness. I have a thing for masks and self destruction.
Sometimes I wish I were not so stranded. These strands never intertwine. Each one stretching out, like an infinite arm of the sun. With me in the center. Alone, unarmed. And burning.
There is no one to blame. Maybe.
Oh damn. They didn't have juicers, did they?
First and foremost, you are already there. Isn't the 'You Are Here' sign supposed to be like a downward arrow blinking above your head?
The roller coaster is to the right and the rest rooms are to the left. You will have to look around for the other rides because I am also kind of new and lost around here. But yea. The 'You Are Here' is pretty much everywhere you go.
Be sure to check out the House of Mirrors. Or maybe, by the sounds of you, that's where you are right now. Don't let them mirrors fool you! They're just for fun. You're not that fat. Or thin. Or ugly. Or whatever. If you walk a few extra meters north from there, the mint and chocolate-chip ice cream is whaaaaaa!!!
Be careful with your money though. The fun is a little overpriced at times. Unless, of course, you don't mind busking around like me.
And don't turn back! That's the exit.
PS: I know we've been wandering around for roughly the same time, and our tickets carry identical sets of directions on the flip side. So you know at least as much as me. But still. Sometimes we need stuff spelled out for us. Especially the signs, right above our heads.
Never let a cat near you while eating chicken biriyani. Even the bright eyed ones. They will not rest till you are only left with rice.
Never make plans for Sundays. They're the trickiest of the lot.
I said my first sorry to a non-living thing today. It was too sad. I was too happy. The equation too unbalanced. Unless I added some guilt to the left hand side.
I received two lovely little cards today. One of them has the Revontulet on it. Beautiful.
Last night I slept well. Less, around 4 hours, but well. I even dreamt about something. I think.
I have re-fallen in love with Image Processing. And Counting Crows. But never watch their videos. Duritz is sad-eyed.
O yea. I finally bought them slippers. Bata. So I am a slipper-borrower no more. Yay!
Bah. What the ...
Sometimes I am scared. Of being happy. I have this feeling. That it is too good for me. Maybe it is. Maybe it isn't. But that's not the point.
What all this pushing and pulling ends up in is a huge huge wave that sweeps away whatever happiness there is. Even the tad bits which my super ultra pessimistic self would allow me. I keep throwing myself into an abyss. Till I realise that I have fallen way more than I have to. Till I have no way of crawling back up. I am tired. Of trying. Because I know no matter how much I try. In the end I will end up throwing myself back into misery. And believe me, it's not the life goes in cycles of happiness and sadness thing. I force sadness upon myself. It's like I am designed for it. Automated to seek out the smallest teeniest tiniest morsels of joy and to shred them. Stamp on them. Till blue mud oozes through them.
I don't wallow in the mud though. I don't. The only thing I do is to pick up a book or Jenny or whatever and be aware that there is a slight discomfort. But I never wallow. At times, I have tried the wallowing bit too. It sucks. It's like you are scratching a bad itch till you bleed. So you just go on with your day. Let the itch itch. No matter what happens. Don't scratch. Or you will end up writing blog entries at 0100.
Whatever. Yea. So I have borrowed a pair of slippers from this guy. I will buy my own. Someday eh. Nah. This weekend.
I miss plum cakes. Tiny overpriced plum cakes. I miss them at precisely 2300 every night. I also hate having coffee alone. Darn exams.
Wait. Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts. Hm. Does a strong urge to eat mint chocolate chip icecream count as a happy thought? Can an urge even qualify as a thought? Whatever. That's the closest I can get to a happy thought right now. No. Wait.
Naah. That's about it.
PS: Blue mud. Adrian Mitchell, 'Leaflets'.
Yea. So I made a decision yesterday. To try to take back control. Hard. Taxing. Tiring. And I don't even know why I am doing it. I think I want to stop thinking about whys. For a little while.
Still roaming around in my shoes.
Being haunted is bad. By lines. Faces. It's scary. I want out. Stop. Even colours. And leaves.
Sisters. Visitorless days. A heaviness of the heart. Of the soul. Sometimes. They say. When you cry much. And your eyes hurt. Because you're not letting them cry with the rest of you. The soul moans. It absorbs all the tears. And finally it cries. And gives birth. To another soul. Then it always rains. But stones are prisons. Trapping in themselves many souls. Till the rain wears them out. And the souls scatter away in ten different directions.
I wish. That I wouldn't wish. But I keep wishing.
Do you ever get that feeling. That it's no use. Do you?
Zinger burgers are not bad. But I always thought KFC fries the chicken a little too deep.
Slept two hours yesterday. That makes seven hours in the past three days.
I have realised. Sometimes. When you really feel it. You don't have to think about it. You don't even have to care. About the fretboard or the strings. You just keep feeling. And listening to your soul. Rain always helps. To keep time.
I want to sleep. I can't sleep. Closing my eyes is a poker draw. Sometimes it's a blank valium sea. With me floating around in the middle. Other times I find myself on a carousel. That keeps going round and round. Till I fall off. Still awake. And hurting. I was never good at poker. They say I can't keep a straight face. Of course, you do know poker is played with faces, don't you? I always lose.
Nah. I let you win. Just for the face of you.
PS: Sorry. I am thinking in short sentences again today.
I have been putting off the actual programming for like ages. I have thought up and rejected a million algorithms. Nothing seems to fit. I don't have the objectives clearly defined. And all my guide wants are results. Don't even know what she means there.
Watched the first season of Grey's Anatomy. Kinky show. Whatever. What else can I do. Coffee breaks mean at least an hour. The cafeteria is so damn far off. The lead walks kind of funny. Kind of like this girl in my school.
Yea so someone asked me why I have to publish my diary for public consumption. Well, I was thinking about it and I don't think this is my diary. I have written a diary, for a month. It's way more personal and true. This blog is a sort of mask I love putting on. Because I don't have the stamina to be true to myself for more than a month.
In a diary, it's just me. I can't lie. I can't pretend. Because the reader me knows the writer me. There's just facts with footnotes. Which sort of have needle heads and saw teeth. I am tired of cutting and sewing.
So. I write crap on the internet.
Not to mention the free connection. Thank you, ye faithful taxpayers of this lovely country. Just a couple of months. Then you can juice me for all my worth. And then some more.
Damn. I broke my sandals and my slippers. And all my clothes are dirty and I have like just one fucking jeans to spend the rest of the week in. I have the laundary neatly piled up. It's not like the room's dirty or something. It's just that I don't have enough inspiration. To do laundary!! Sick bastard.
Whatever. But the sandals breaking is like totally horribly bad. Because now I have no decent footwear. I have to wear 'shoes'.YUCK.
It's been a horrible day today. I had an extra class at 1000. I forgot!! Just slept in. Realised at around 1200 that I had missed it completely. Gosh. Stupid stupid stupid me. Whatever. I needed the sleep too.
Yea. I've been wanting to do so many things lately. But no time. Yesterday I played after a long time. Cricket!! I suck now, at bowling. But yeaps. My batting's still solid enough. Basketball!! I was never very good, but I am glad to see that I have not gone down.
In the end, which was like ten seconds ago, and hasn't quite really become the end, I figured you're just you. You know. Then you're a stone for me. A parakeet for someone else. A broomstick for some other guy. You can't help it. Because you're nothing basically, outside your own self. And then there's people who know that. For whom you are you. And then you are a human. Which is kind of good. Because the whole chain of reasoning maintains that humans are nothing, but humans. The last sentence deserves to be read one more time. Please.
Whatever way. Don't think I am very human yet. Still some earth left in me. Here and there. And everywhere. So yea. I am still having a bummer of a time working through my project. Yesterday we went for a job-treat a couple of my friends threw. Whoooo! And the winner is - Haryali Kabab! Nah, its the Gosht Husaini Handi. Of course, we robbed the poor bastards. Whooooo!
Well, since this blog is in itself an act of self-promotion. Here's the poem I was talking about. Comment if you want to. Nobody hates comments you know. Anonymous, synonymous. Whatever.
The whistles of a stone
* Text removed by author *
PS: This poem was first published in M.A.G. (Muse Apprentice Guild), so don't copy it. Or not me, but they will sue you. And they have shitloads of money to waste you know.
Watched a string of movies recently. Training Day, Vanilla Sky, Hamlet (the direct from Shakespeare 1948 Academy Award Winner thing). Boy! Hamlet was hard to understand. It's a two hour movie, and I was able to complete it only after around four hours. It's all Shakespeare man. I still don't get some of the dialogues!! But it was fun, for sure. And the direction and acting are just awesome.
String reminds me. I am going to buy a rosary! The other day I found myself treating my key ring as if it were a rosary. So yea, let's see what I do with the real thing. Fun fun!! But it will be around a week before I go out to get it. So yea, till then there's keyrings and keyboards and stuff.
Today morning I was talking to this acquaintance of mine. And it drifted into the definition of happiness. Yea, quite weird a topic to discuss at 1000 in the morning eh! But during the discussion I realised that this feeling I had about knowing what happiness is. About knowing what I want from life. What life wants from me etc. It's a sham. I don't know anything. It took us around fifteen minutes to decide upon what happiness is. Our conclusion - it cannot be defined.
I realised happiness is not good food, lovely music, family, money, fame or anything of that sort. Issues like material and spiritual happiness (whatever both of them mean), like happiness of the mind or body, happiness as a form of obsession, as a form of appreciation. All these issues have stopped making sense now. Damn these stupid Wednesday mornings. What I was able to understand though was that happiness is a moment. Or something.
Today is pruning day!! I prune my gtalk list. I throw away people I know I don't know. I have been sharpening my axe for quite sometime now.
Watched Garden State today. It's quite good. Kind of one rung above a chica flicka, but only one rung.
Antibiotics suck. They make you drowsy. They double suck when they don't make you well.
PS: Notice the reduced use of full-stops
So this blog is about the stuff I have liked over the past few days.
The sound of the electric in the music room. Especially when I turn the amp up. And there was a couple of folks come to tell me it was good. Killed me. Right there.
Rediscovered my love for playing cards. He ho ho. Trying to learn a new game. Twenty Eight. Man do they treat novices like shit around here. Whatever. Fun.
Oh the joy! Attending all the classes in a given week. Wheeeee. Without getting bored or dozing off in a single one, I mean.
Watching movies. Watched 'Stranger than Fiction' yesterday. Emma Watson. Very powerful. Very talented. Very beautiful too!
Playing table tennis.
Playing with cats. Ocassional dogs and deer. Gosh. Realised how beautiful the word 'mrignayini' is. Damn. Them eyes. Large and kind and not dangerous and simple.
Coffee at dusk. With a little piece of overpriced plum cake.
Reading. Social science and Postmodernism. Muhahaha. Fuck off Gaussian Optics.
Planning for the entire week, taking into account the fact that the plan is never going to be followed. Believe me, it's quite a challenge to plan that way.
Listening to Mr. Vai and realising what his eccentric fiddling means. Really. It is not just a mad genius unleashing his fantasy. Every slide. Every bend. Every title. Thought out like an elaborate Tolstoy-ian plot. And yet. Not quite as clean as Tolstoy. Quite dark at times. Twisted. Only to emerge a masterpiece. Whew. I am biased!
Configuring Linux. It's simply lovely!! You get to choose every damn detail of your system.
O yea! And listening to Jack Johnson. Thank you Inta, for the introduction. The Horizon has been Defeated always intrigues me. And yea. I understand Flake. Other ties. Eh. Not that dumb eh.
But I'm so tired of trying.
I love linux. It's quite customisable. But yea. If you don't have good internet speed. It's a dud. Just the sheer speed with which linux repositories have grown over the years stuns me. If the linux revolution does fully set in (yea yea. I don't think it's even close to that now), especially in the home PC market, internet would increase in value. Manyfolds. Somehow, that doesn't quite appeal to me. Internet is kind of stupid. You get to know stuff you don't need to. It's a different matter that you want to know stuff that you don't need. But who doesn't give in to temptation eh. Yeah. I connect to people I would have no chance of meeting otherwise. But is this contact neccessary anyway? Old mates who've never talked to me suddenly get chatty. Old mates who've talked to me all my life suddenly start stalling. I know people I don't know. I don't know people I have always thought I knew. It is all a waste of life. It is all a gain which we don't have means to measure. Whatever. At this particular instant. I feel it is bullshit.
Paul Simon rocks. Graceland rocks.
I think I am happy. Jinkies.
Hm. I guess this is what time management is all about eh. And I guess I suck at it. Just can't get inspiration enough. I also guess that I make lame clichéd excuses. Whatever.
I just discovered a different species today. Well, at least became aware of their existence. It's the meme sapiens, or memes. Now a meme is not neccessarily a bad chap. It's just that he is obsessed by an activity called memeing. He can't think of nothing else. Never cry in front of a meme. He will never lend you a shoulder. Instead, he will start crying with you. In more general terms, never talk to a meme about issues which do not directly involve him. Otherwise he will follow a very convoluted zigzag of reasoning and finally relate everything to himself. Even the question of cosmic dark matter. Yeaps.
Now don't you go out there labelling memes and putting them in jars. There's a meme in everyone of us. No preaching. I swear! You. ME ME. Everyone. It is just that some people give in to him more than they should, till he takes over their lives and consumes their very brains and they become one with him. Memeing their lives away.
I think some of the dearest people I know are memes. Even that a!@#ole in the bathroom mirror. He just can't shut up. Seriously, memes get very irritating sometimes. Then I want to take them to the beach and sit them in front of that biggest meme there is on earth. Listen to that you bastards. That is how it feels. Only you don't look so fine.
No sleep. Just talking and listening. Started with Linux. Ended on E minor and A major. At 5, a stroll through the streets. Lovely weather. Cold. Hands in pocket. Then roadside coffee. Do gilas. One with and one without sugar. Decision, every cup from that shop henceforth shall be unsugared. Definitely tastes better. Came back. Found my first audience. Whooo! Hi!! *Waves*
Hm. Simple plans for the day. Try to dish out something for SB to chew. Install some form of linux that runs on my stupid SiS chip. Sleep early. Two days to make up for. Yeaps. Thats that.
O yea, unimportant update. I got rid of my job worries. I think.
I want to know what they've had for lunch. What is the biggest thing going on in their lives right now. And I don't want them to see me. If I could only become invisible. Then I could see them all I like. And make no notes. I'd watch and forget. And watch again.
I hate strife. I swear I do. I let people jump me in the line. I let people beat me to the booth. I let people take my coffee from the counter. I let I am an idiot for that. I know. But I can't help it. I think this attitude is ruining my career. I can't help it. I know they wouldn't like it if someone did to them what they do to me. Or maybe they would. Sometimes I do try to protest. But it's more to see what they have to say than anything else. I hear people laughing. And I accept. And I let them.
I think a lot. I want to work. I want to work in the field. I swear. I have stamina. I can lift them stones to wherever the builder is taking them. I can chop wood. And till them fields. I want to. But with dignity. With seclusion. And I know I can't. Unless I beat them at their own game first. And I know I can't.
Sometimes I wish there was someone who'd sympathise. I yearn. I see people yearning. And yet, I know we yearn for different things. I see them find their desire. I see them betrayed. Again and again. I see them betraying. And I know we yearn for the same thing. I have good ears, if you want to talk. Ever.