moved

This blog closes today.

redundancy

every other theory serves to just replace religion. the fervour, the devotion, the amazement is just the same.

sandman

The price of getting what you want, is getting what you once wanted.

wearing sunscreen

The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind; the kind that blindside you at 4pm on some idle Tuesday.

nope, not 49931

someone please oblige me with those from there, though.

update: this is a bummer.

post secret

screw everything that generates such hope. or maybe i should express awe instead.

giving pornography its dues, finally

No debauchery compares with thinking. It is most shameful in what positions and with what licentious ease a mind manages to impregnate another mind.

~ WISŁAWA SZYMBORSKA

Szukam Slowa - II

contd from.


I prefer the cinema.
I prefer cats.
I prefer myself liking humans
to myself loving humanity.
I prefer green.
I prefer not claiming that
the intellect should be blamed for everything.
I prefer exceptions.
I prefer leaving before.
I prefer talking to doctors about something else.
I prefer moralists
who do not promise me anything.
I prefer calculated goodness to goodness that is too gullible.
I prefer conquered countries to the conquering ones.
I prefer having my objections.
I prefer the hell of chaos to the hell of order.
I prefer Grimm tales to the first pages of newspapers.
I prefer leaves without flowers to flowers without leaves.
I prefer noughts that are loose
to those queueing for a digit.
I prefer insect time to stellar time.
I prefer touching wood.
I prefer not asking how much longer and when.
I prefer considering even such a possibility
that existence has its reasons.

moi defeated

14000 feet, wind that defies gravity, red boulders, clouds that are below you.

featherweight hummingbirds that flit to delude that they are more than just two dozen, smugly disregarding your presence by feeding off your fingers, filling in for incubus days after.

the sharp pain from the tear in your skin from the rockbed of the glacier lake.

the knock of your neighbour protesting your pitched screaming.

the v between the rock shapes.

the incline.

the disc that keeps disappearing and appearing.

the shasta that obliges by maturing in time.

the clayey fat robins that nest in your garden.

600 hours that march in with the sound of running water and the chit chat of the feathery.

gevalia, irish creme, worms and slugs.

the bluejay that lures you into bear country.

the grunt that makes you wish for company while peeing.

the freezing cold shores of bete gris.

the numerous details that overwrite what remains.

and the subtle surrender to the inconspicuous fenetre.



For some, even this is not enough.
They hear the patter of rain,
feel the chill of raindrops on necks and shoulders,
they look at the bridge and people
as if they saw themselves there, in that never ending race
along the endless road, to be traveled for eternity
and they have the audacity to believe
that it is real.

~ Szymborska

treading water

Sometimes you do something, and you get screwed. Sometimes it's the things you don't do, and you get screwed.

the not-so-common fluenzes

......... And as women continue to be circumcised against their will in Africa, and girls commit suicide so that their parents do not have to arrange for their dowry in India, I wonder if I should see a doctor about the cold ...... ~ inky


me - am just worried about the long wait and the fact that the doc knows only a little more than i do.

maybe i should be institutionalized, lest i conform too.

words

that mere play of words can move people is known. i am poor at the art of conveying what i feel, and always crib that people discount my deeds to words, yet i always bow down before a master of words. immortal words some, some that cease with me.

i have always been fascinated by snakes. stumbling upon a snake while walking and seeing it slither away from me is more captivating than anything yet i have seen. to use the allure of a snake to write about repression, glory of sin and hence renunciation of the concept of god and pretentious morality is something that only D.H. Lawrence can pull off.

For a serpent is a thing created. It has its own raison d'etre. In its own being it has beauty and reality. Even my horror is a tribute to its reality. And I must admit the genuineness of my horror, accept it, and not exclude it from my understanding. . . . There is a natural marsh in my belly, and there the snake is naturally at home. Shall he not crawl into my consciousness? Shall I kill him with sticks the moment he lifts his flattened head on my sight? Shall I kill him or pluck out the eye which sees him? None the less, he will swarm within the marsh. Then let the serpent of living corruption take his place among us honourably ...

drawing an analogy between killing a snake and conforming to the whims of society - where are people like him today?

pure envy

i envy the chinese for having come up with go and written works by realists like sun tzu. that we have no realists or those who preached it is a shame. all we can boast of are idealists, excellently creative epics, non-documented-hence-debated claim of origin of chess and stagnant social attitudes. the stagnancy has been attributed to many reasons like this, though they collectively contribute, i must add that social behaviour that is driven by need for emotional/financial security is the worst interpretation of realism ever.

other side. grass greener. annoying.

par closer

burn all feminists, engineers, inventors or watever they are called, yeah, burn the linguists too. and burn the guy who first cooked meat on fire. or maybe take over wiki and redefine everything to the age of cave men. and you tell me lions are dumber than men? huh!

post note: why fret? the above is the best solution to every stupid thing there is to fret about. or negates the necessity to create things to fret about.

post note on post note: the google bug led me to this random paper. try composing posts on the search bar, its fun. you need to be a devotee of brevity though.

short (?!) break from war

yes, i didnt really complete this. i sincerely apologize, but i dont want to finish it however abrupt it ends. i need time and maybe some depression to finish it. i am too detached from the world now and am preoccupied with a multitude of silly delights, minor details and small splashes, so. ah yes, i decided to explain things, for a change. am in a benevolent mood et al, you see.

and sun tzu, u never had to deal with psychological warfare at its best, did you? i bet thats what drove you to the fields :P. anyways, however engaging it might be, i am taking a vacation from it, without leave ;). bonvolu reveni, people.

:X

next time someone asks you why cows are so sacred, tell them that herd mentality is the main principle by which everything works there, and hence they are so. and no, its not the monkey for us, for even la creme de l'indie act like cows and bulls these days. they just cant outgrow that trait of theirs. frustrating and disappointing.

of nostalgia and greener grass

FILLMORE: Welcome back to Kapupu Lagoon, Thornton.

THORNTON: I miss the North Pole already. When I look into my frozen Pina Colada, all I see is the rolling snowdrifts of my home.

FILLMORE: It is a little strange that a polar bear keeps showing up around here. Why'd you come back?

THORNTON: Whenever I look at snowdrifts, I see Pina Coladas.

from villains in fairy tales

as another spinoff of creative redundancy, you always have people reinterpreting classics from the perspective of the antagonist. at one end you have poets like ali writing the wolf's postscript to little red riding hood, on the other end you have an amusing horror/comic writer's rewriting (NSFW) of the snow white tale.

evilatheart, you would want to check out neil gaiman's other works, especially The Sandman . enough blood and gore with cool graphic detail - you might even be tempted to redo the graphic. tipsters do get free previews, i suppose?

p.s. me actually feel good imagining the situ of someone who was a victim of the link not being noted as NSFW before. everyone else, sincere apologies.

:))

Desire: I should warn you, getting what you want and being happy are two quite different things.

great expectations

Technical skill is mastery of complexity while creativity is mastery of simplicity

-- Zeeman.

she has always felt disappointed that her children were leaning more toward mastering complexity than simplicity, she failed to recognize that she never appreciated any attempts at creativity that didnt go in tandem with her world, and hence she herself shunned her children away from it.

maybe she should never realize it. a little disappointment is better than guilt.

or maybe she has the license to do so, she created them, hence she owns them, thus she owes no guilt and is also allowed a huge credit of expectations?


and she tries to kill herself when her child dies, so her expectations are not so great, after all?

building art

natural light in architecture has long been neglected for the very obvious and rather superficial charm that the artificial has. it must be reviving, though, what with the institution of the international Velux Award and the research put into the creation of this very interesting sunlight simulator. If it really does what it claims to do, thats one neat knowledge based tool.

Szukam slowa

My apologies to chance for calling it necessity
My apologies to necessity if I'm mistaken, after all.
May my dead be patient with the way my memories fade.
My apologies to time for all the world I overlook each second.
My apologies to past loves for thinking that the latest is the first.
My apologies to great questions for small answers.
Truth, please don't pay me much attention.
Dignity please be magnanimous.
Bear with me, O mystery of existence, as I pluck the occasional thread from your train.
Soul, don't take offense that I've only got you now and then.
I know that I won't be justified as long as I live,
since I myself stand in my own way.
Don't bear me ill will, speech, that I borrow weighty words,
then labor heavily so that they may seem light.

-- Wislawa Szymborska, the woman who described poetry as a sustaining railing. For some, at some times, maybe.

call me ishmael tonight - II

Its not easy to outgrow Agha Shahid Ali. And no, the motivation for what follows is not love for an individual. Layers and abstraction in movies, poetry, paintings, etc., done this well, are truly rare and exquisite.


At a certain point I lost track of you.
You needed me. You needed to perfect me.
In your absence you polished me into the Enemy.
Your history gets in the way of my memory.
I am everything you lost. You can't forgive me.
I am everything you lost. Your perfect Enemy.
Your memory gets in the way of my memory:

I am being rowed through Paradise in a river of Hell:
Exquisite ghost, it is night.

I'm everything you lost. You won't forgive me.
My memory keeps getting in the way of your history.
There is nothing to forgive.You can't forgive me.
I hid my pain even from myself; I revealed my pain only to myself.

There is everything to forgive. You can't forgive me.


Or maybe its just his urdu influences, that make them excellent for rereading, for even when he sets aside his abstractions:

"You said each month you need
new blood. Please forgive me, Phil, but I thought
of your pain as a formal feeling, one
useful for the letting go, your transfusions

mere wings to me, the push of numerous
hummingbirds, souveniers of Evanescence
seen disappearing down a route of veins
in an electric rush of Cochineal."

References to Dickinson, nostalgia, and a dying friend. Definitely not a prescription for insomnia.

it is annoying when people find references for every damn invention in some ancient culture and bring it to your notice with that "it was already there" smug look. the fact that people in that age did not divulge or record details in a better manner, is a shame, not something to be proud of. people can write down and recite mythical stories but stuff like LSD remain a secret for 4000 years - ridiculous.

applesauce-v1.1

am still silly enough to delight in attentions.
and i really dont like being silly without me intending to.

well, whatever, the fact that me can actually dual boot os X and xp soon makes me realize that i was not far off when i said that google's rather parasitic relationship with you-know-who will actually turn symbiotic in the future. hmmm, now how long do u think that would take? or rather, who would it take for that to happen.

it is sad that the number of stories that can be spun are rather limited to a few plots and once you start frowning at redundancy, life becomes very boring.

common disclaimer

this is written out of angst from silly things, a little exaggerated maybe. please do not ping/mail/call me regarding anything here. keep in mind that drama has always been my first passion :).

உய்கை

எனக்கு த்ரோகம் நானே செய்கிறேன்,
எனக்குள் ஒரு விஷச்செடி வளர்க்கின்றேன்,
ஒன்று அழிய,
மற்றொன்று செழிக்கும்,
வேர் எது நிலைத்தாலும்,
முற்றும் நொடி விரைதல் வேண்டும்.

keep committing the same mistakes over and over again - refuse to believe its a non-deliberate mistake anymore. tis reducing to just one vicious cycle, nay spiral.

cant understand how paranoid a person must be in order to allow their significant other's conversation to a fleeting acquaintance ruin their pleasant demeanor and forget all cultivated mannerisms. or how pathetic a person must be in order to delight in/attempt at provoking jealousy in their would-have-beens or had-beens. and hate it when these people are women.

a river runs through it

When you are in your teens—maybe throughout your life—being three years older than your brother often makes you feel he is a boy. However, I knew already that he was going to be a master with a rod. He had those extra things besides fine training—genius, luck, and plenty of self-confidence. Even at this age he liked to bet on himself against anybody who would fish with him, including me, his older brother. It was sometimes funny and sometimes not so funny, to see a boy always wanting to bet on himself and almost sure to win. Although I was three years older, I did not yet feel old enough to bet. Betting, I assumed, was for men who wore straw hats on the backs of their heads. So I was confused and embarrassed the first couple of times he asked me if I didn't want "a small bet on the side just to make things interesting." The third time he asked me must have made me angry because he never again spoke to me about money, not even about borrowing a few dollars when he was having real money problems.

We had to be very careful in dealing with each other. I often thought of him as a boy, but I never could treat him that way. He was never "my kid brother." He was a master of an art. He did not want any big brother advice or money or help, and, in the end, I could not help him.


another reason why I think one has to be atleast 70 before one attempts at writing - people like Maclean. Men are more charming as they grow older.