Two Way Streets

What we often fail to realise, is the two-way-ness of social human life. We fail to see, that in a social context, thoughts and feelings emanating out of the self are not enough to guarantee the same from others. To feel is not to be felt. To see is not to be seen. And so on.

of forgetting ...

today. someone i'd remember even in my sleep, forgot my name. and instead, called me by what i actually mean to them. it hurts like hell. fuck.

genjo sanzo ...

" ... embrace nothing. walking down the path - if you meet the buddha, kill the buddha. if you meet your father, kill your father. live your life as it is, not bound to anything ... "

finished watching saiyuki a couple of days back. not a very great animé by any stretch of imagination. but indeed, i could not have come across it at a better time. it is loosely based upon the línjì school of buddhism.

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there is no buddha outside yourself. if you see him at a distance - know, that it is not the truth. your redeemer and your guide. is you. it is there you must search for him. inside the many folds and layers of your own self.

right now. i see a multitude of buddhas coming towards me. in a neat golden line. like a thousand suns with much promise. and it is precisely at this moment they must be killed. for they are hopes and lights which stem from outside my soul. chains which seek to bind me. to suns which do not burn for me. or from me.

now. at this point. one might wonder if this is all a sad masochistic device, born out of fear. if this does nothing but to alienate the self from the world around it. to build a cocoon. but what one must realise is. for the self to meld with the non-self. for this union to satiate. for peace to follow. the buddha must be pure-born. of the seed of the self. for only then can this union be equal. for only then can the play be pure and unconditional. for only then can the self be saved from being alone.

"you want your freedom? then live ... "

To go home

I am kind of lost. More like. I have lost myself. Somewhere. I must get myself back, I know. But I don't know how. Or if it is even possible. I sure hope it is. I hate floating around like this. Having known the shore once upon a time. I long to walk on the sand. To experience the surety of standing up on my own two feet. Have my lungs filled with air. Again. I am tired of yielding to the currents. I am tired of the smell of the sea. I have started believing the sea is me. And that the mermaids and the dolphins are real. That the land is a hallucination. But there is memory. And there are ghosts. And they will not let me be. They haunt every idle second. Every storm-less night. And somewhere inside the sea of me. There is a tiny piece of land. Floating. Constantly reminding. Of the continent I used to be. If only. A man could gather himself from the sea. If I could. Arrive. Grain by grain. Till the whole shore was me again. And the trees. And the footprints. Were me. For the hundredth time. In this continuing erosion of a million years. I resolve. To go home. But maybe it is already too late. But maybe it is not.

PS: To Go Home - Daniel Johnston

New Day. Huh, what?!

Things are looking up. After a long time, am meeting people. I am able to concentrate on things. Bené is behaving more agreeably. I am able to work, build acquaintances, go out, and generally enjoy the little things life is putting on offer. I think I might be returning to normalcy. Yeah, right?! Might be. Still have panic attacks, extended bouts of insomnia-depression-loneliness and weird asphyxiating-on-my-vomit times. Still space out. But I am pulling through. Have a feeling that pretty soon I will start writing again too. Hell. I'm smiling so loud!

Latest development: A trip to Italy. Found my favourite part of Europe. The first thing which struck me was that everyone is literally dancing when they talk! And everybody is loud. And nobody thinks it ridiculous.

The architecture is lovely. Old, and yet maintained really well. The streets are clean. The traffic is Dilli, especially in smaller cities. Everybody is fond of dandy cars and pedal-flooring. If you take the freeways. You feel like you are blocking the traffic at 140.

O yea. The Last Supper is everything it promises to be. Don't miss it if you're around.

Food. Delicious! And prepared with much love. And not so expensive. The coffee is absolutely the best any place has to offer. So are the pizzas. Most food is fatty though. Nevermind.

Life is relaxed, easy and people love to be on the streets and in parks. At all hours. And not just them young folks. People of all ages!

The company was good. We roamed the streets, as opposed to trying to fit in the same frame as some giant famous monument. We did visit some of them, but they were not the focus. The focus was breathing in a bit of Italia. The aroma is strong, and leaves you wanting more.

evolution

today
i rise
from the depths of you

to leave
for a different ocean

for the ocean
that had cradled me
has chewn me
and spit me
and does not want me
any more

PS: i woke up today. with the ashes still on my eyelids. all around me i could see, the bombed city of us. and i decided, to leave. just like you had, a long time ago ...

merry christmas

my sentiments, exactly ...

emptiness

in dire need of inspiration ...

slow country ...

Huskies are mysterious. They wail. Have sad eyes. And run like arrows. Arctic foxes are super cute. So are wolverines and Arctic Owls. Reindeer are tasty? Evil, tc?? It was weird. Saw reindeer. Fed reindeer. Kissed reindeer. Ate reindeer. Husky sledges are totally awesome. Jack London makes more sense. Skiing. Whee. Died, almost. Arms still aching. Totally suck at skiing, hence, love it. Santa Claus. The feeling that it's all a lot of oysters, but no pearls (Counting Crows). 5 minute lunch. Museum of the Arctic. Weird recordings of birds and Lapland acappella. The Aurora show. Bon fire. Waiting for Borealis. Clouds. Shoes filled with snow. Thawing by the fire. Bus rides. 24 hours. More? Bum numb. Gorillaz, 6 times over. New acquaintances. Old acquaintance. Español. Hola! Puta? Puta puta puta?? Crazy 28 night. Belote, almost. The snoring orchestra. Pride and prejudice and zombies. Fun fun fun!

And still. You won't leave my head. Puta ...

PS: slow country - gorillaz

Sing another song, boys

This could've been our song neh? I remember sending it to you. And you never listening to it. I hope you never do. It'll creep you out! Or make you laugh till your breath chokes.



Tallinn is pretty. And old. Stockholm is crazy. With naked women lying face down in the city square at +8C. Lapland. I have heard you're a cold one. Save an ice embrace for me, my twin. Here I come!

even flow ...

thank you. pearl jam. for keeping me sane and real. if not for you. i would've spilt my brains on these crazy white sheets today. every scream. is an alarm. i am waking up slowly ...

fuck ok

I am tired. Of being happy and sad. I want one, not both.

Everything is dressed in white today. Such a pretty picture!

It hailed on me while I was biking. Was fun, initially. Then it really started pelting down. We took the refuge of a K-Market

What I wouldn't give to play with Jenny right now. Not 179€, I guess

I don't know what I want. Yea. Same old same old. But this time, I have even run out of short term goals/distractions

Somewhere in my heart. There is a fear of tomorrow. I go to bed feeling scared of it every night. I want to go to sleep. Knowing it will be safe to wake up

Fuck. I want to tell someone. I saw snow. For the first time today

Back to the war?

I am surrounded by people. Hence, lonely. Why does it have to come like this to me. Upside down. Everything. Upside down. Or maybe. I am

It was the shape of our love that, twisted me. Cohen

I am fed up. I want to write. But it won't come . I want to sleep. Nopes. Won't come either. Want to talk. No one. Want to cook. No one. Want to read a book. Won't come. Want to jenny. No jenny

There's no shapes in life sometimes. It's all ghosts and smoke. You want a shape. A definite tangibility. And there's nothing then. At those particular moments. Only vagueness. And the saddest thing of all. The vagueness is in direct proportion to your yearning for its lack

Ou est u?

Remember, we had a pact. We agreed not to breach any lines that might be drawn. And then we drew quivers of them accross every surface we could find. We promised there'd be doors that would never be knocked. Never be opened.But you know, I have been secretly breaking the pact. Many times, I have stolen in. I have prodded. I have lifted things, turned them over. But I always replace them exactly. Sometimes I have the feeling you leave the window unfastened on purpose. You deliberately leave your diary on the coffee table. You leave your wardrobe open. And countless hours I have spent in there, like a skeleton. Waiting for you to come home. But you always return way past the decent time for any thief to be caught waiting in a broken-in house.

Anyway. In case you should ever want to break in somewhere too - the key is inside the mailbox. And I never return until all the ghosts have disappeared.

---

Here's a little multilingual gibberish thingie I wrote

Y
Yo
You
Your
Yours
ours
our
ou
u
?

hei tei hei hei ?

In the whole world. You can be a traveller. You can be an observer. A partaker of ceremonies. A spectator of seasons. and lives. You can breathe in the history through arches and bridges. You can smell streets and lakes. You take pictures. You make friends and parties. You experience the air. You eat the flesh. The living heart of a people. The soul of a city. It is a feast. A carnival!

And then. You move on.

All the while. Knowing that your journey is incomplete.

(And you fear. Inside the laughterest of your laughters. Your very core weeps)

That it always will be...

Peut-être

Unreal expectations?
Dilli has put on its best weather in weeks! Rain. Cool breeze. And yet. There's people here who are not charmed. Who carry a desert with them. Nothing less than the sea turning itself upside down would satisfy their parched appetites. Perhaps, this is the secret of so many deserts dragging themselves around these streets nowadays
-----
Reasons can always be found

• To stall
  Because there's always something better to do on the internet! Of course
  
• To end calls
  Because you know what is going to be said next anyway
• To avoid certain conversations
  Like 'unconsciously forgetting' topics, never to take them up again

Let not familiarity breed contempt. Let not familiarity set itself up at all! Twisted thing this - familiarity. So yea. The lesser the better
-----

The little rain comes

and the little rain goes

-----

Questions

• How does one become interesting?
  
• What itch causes scratch-the-keypad-every-five-minutes syndrome?
  
• Why do some people need more communication than others?

-----
I am sorry Mr. Rain. For insulting you so

floating

I didn't know such modes of desperation existed. Trying to smell through a telephone. Axis bank ATM pauses.

Voices. Memories. In little flashes. At bus stops. In bed. During conversations. The most dangerous ones, while driving.

Why the sad phase? Brighten up!
No no. Not in blood red! In nicer shades please.

I wish I was a telepathic-headache-curer.

You're everybody's satellite

I want to let go. The thing is I don’t know how. Now I understand. The microbes don’t mean no harm. They just want to get noticed. Or maybe they’re really angry. Listening to Counting Crows is no way to beat the blues. But they’re fine company. Duritz is a weeper. It feels terrible to know that you're blowing up 5.5 grand on getting embarrassed and there's nothing you can do about it. Playing 28 is a bliss. I wonder if tea will ever taste the same again. If I could only have some more time. If only many things about me were not true. If only I was visible. If only the whole world was upside down and the seasons worked reverse and Finland was a south-Indian state and Louis was not so mean and you promised, then, I'd keep you like a scar. Forever.

Recovering the satellites - Counting Crows

Cholera in the time of Love

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Knowing many, loving none
Bearing sorrow, having fun
But back home he'll always run
to sweet Melissa

I like the word gypsy. I feel like a gypsy. Also, I don't think I want to be indifferent any more. In fact, I am tired of indifference, within and without. But then, isn't indifference a sign of gypsydom?

Whee. That's the new buzz word. Say it when you cross the road. When you eat a chocolate. Shake hands. When you're running on a treadmill. Riding a bike, your features twisted by the wind. Go whee.
And then. Think of me

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Amidst a bad cold and a terrible body ache, one realises how foolish it is to forget the little box of Vicks.
I think I am suddenly afraid of growing old alone

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Are the French tawdry? No no! Not you!! Sweetheart?
Why is it that I must play the fool every time I see you? Maybe I shouldn't see you then? I still remember the construct, verbatim. You had said "I am terribly". It was quite funny at the time. I thought you'd complete it later and you thought it was as complete as
I am not going to look. I am not going to make it - tawdry? Anyway, where the hell did I get this word from in the first place? Tawdry. It is as stupid a word as can be. Taw-dry. T-aw-d-ree. Broken down, it is still as vile. Vile. Vai-l. V-a-ee-l. Hmpf. So much for sanity. See. That's how dumb you make me.
All this. For a guitar? Or maybe a pack of strings? And who will fix the intonation? My goodness. I dread the coming Saturday when I will have to fix you. Fix you. Coldplay?

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This is one of my worst crashes. My wings are crooked. My security systems have failed. My rudder is twisted. And my radar's jammed dead. I'm plane old crashing into this desert that is the weekend. I can't tell the earth from the sky. The sky from the sea. And then there's you and me. And all the stupid things there be. Between we. You see. I have finally. Turned. Loony.

PS:

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Melissa - Allman Brothers Band
Apologies to all the folks to whom I mailed the word.

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Ruth Marie - Mark Kozelek

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Fix You - Coldplay

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Thank God I'm a Country Boy - John Denver

Breathe

He is not just words. Or maybe he is. A S
I wish I could go to Iran.
I wonder if they'll kick me out of the consortium consideration list for the e-mail I sent them. Jackass me.
How do I word this effing e-mail to L R ?
I think I should stop troubling her so. She's OK. R P
Jeff Kashiwa is good.
The Economist is good too.
I don't think I like being manipulated. I don't like manipulators either. I am surrounded! Hell. I am one of them. I hate getting manipulated by myself.
A third new start in a single month. Gee. I am nervous. Am I nervous?

Signs