Human, All too human.

The Following...

2010-04-03T08:00:00.000-07:00

Days have been cruel to you,

The nights have stolen from you,

Mornings blind you,

And in these mornings I see sight

In your eyes.

The evenings have lost their light and

shrouded you in darkness,

Dawn lurks too long in the shadows

Perched upon its timely haze,

Dusk is the ancient hour of witching

And it has bewitched you,

Time is running in slow circles

And we around it,

Time is leaving red herrings

And dry patches

You follow it,

And I follow you.

Entry

2010-01-11T05:35:00.000-08:00

There is a meeting in a gallery,

A gallery that’s somewhere that’s nowhere at all,

A gallery where full portraits hang from it polished walls,

And fountains spot its hallowed halls,

Portraits of times that have long since

Joined and rejoined,

Its stray rivers, intertwined,

A gallery where the old masters still sing,

A gallery without lost causes

Or lost reasons,

Creaking sounds or rumbling noises,

A gallery where bad taste is the highest treason,

Lead me into this gallery dear,

Hold my hand now; show me the sights now,

Hold my fingers and point them in your direction,

Show me the way to the gallery,

Where I know you’ll wait for me,

Fully embracing this thrust of destiny,

The swift emblem of change,

Lead me into this gallery,

Your gallery, where blindness is a virtue,

Where the light bulbs project movies

Inside of our eyes,

Our every wanting eyes,

Take me to that deep corner

In the gallery where you always sit

And dream of times like these,

Where you sit and pray to your gods of vision,

The changing season,

You pray to be virtuous,

You pray to the gallery gods,

As the wavy drum roll thicken,

I walk towards you,

With fear on my breath,

Whispers clouding my mind’s eye,

I walk with boulders tied to my feet,

My back corroded from the golden heat,

Towards her aura of lilac lilies I walk,

Towards the bliss of her being.

And when we finally meet,

We stood toe to toe,

Both praying to the same painted gods,

Slicing the demons with our swords,

Praying for the same final answer,

We both seemed to stand together,

Forever,

Praying,

For the promised blindness,

The wreathed whiteness,

It is ours now,

Forever. Forever.

Exit.

2010-01-11T05:26:00.000-08:00

-- I --

She stood at the door,

Her silver stance glazed to the floor,

Staring at the distant waves,

Staring at the shore,

She starts to walk out the framed picture door,

Her hands held up to a gentle wave,

The Lapping oceans,

Solemn glimpses,

Kissed teardrops,

All waving back to an addiction,

Born within the gates

Of love and sedition,

The departure of a borrowed time,

Gone, gone forever,

With its solitary ravages and its sun lit fires,

She stood and waved a final sigh,

She waved good-bye.

--II--

There was sand at her feet,

Flight in her eyes,

Within her sights was the frozen beach,

Within her sights lay cities seized,

Within her eyes swam pink rabbits and honey bees,

Run stains scattered across wonton seas,

Still she waves standing at my door,

My eyes are glued to the floor.

There is a soft water that does flow,

From the ducts emerge a hollow glow,

Watching a drop as it falls

To the carpet on the floor,

She still stands there waving, at my door.

So cruel- so cruel- a maiden of ice,

A time- a life- lived full to its size,

Into the oceans, droplets a dime,

Giving birth to the now and now of time,

The lucid halo of a sun that is a rising,

The golden brew in the golden light is shining,

And as she walks out her steps

Steps that are rhyming.

Why do you continue to be gone?

Did you not hear?

The beach is back!

A start has begun,

A river with its hosts,

Icy maidens and their sand driven ghosts,

You and me ,

Silently,

Observing weirdly,

What we could have been,

Our weakness in our words,

The demons in these worlds,

The distance in these clouds,

All silver trinkets,

All silver moons and silver Junes,

And I’ll be back soons’.

The car door shuts,

The engine growls,

A black puff and a floating sound,

I see my feet turning around.

11 Shows you probably haven’t heard of and should surely watch !!

2009-09-05T15:14:00.001-07:00

Sons of Anarchy
Dirt
Krod Mandoon and the flaming Sword
Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog
Garth Marenghi's: Dark Place
Dead Set
Underbelly
Jericho
Generation Kill
Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip
Flashforward
Southland
Brotherhood
better off Ted
Modern Family
Kings

The Whistling.

2009-01-17T03:58:00.001-08:00

Part I: Dropping.

We were songbirds in a lost dream,

Somewhere on a beach, between the icy glades,

Siphoning off minute bits of reasoned time,

For the lewd battles that lay ahead,

With sand beneath our feet,

And Sand in our hair,

Sand in our teeth,

Sands' light reflections

Suddenly laid bare.

We were drinking and sinking

Into a silver oceanic chalice,

There was wet sunlight everywhere,

Wet sunlight glazing off our skins,

Falling into our eyes,

Dropping onto our tongues,

We could taste it

The sunshine and cyan,

We could surf the paved liquid tunes,

But nothing mattered, not in least

As we walked towards the beast,

Hand In hand and shrinking

All our sensations blinking,

It was our overtime.

Part II : Floating .

There was quiet under the water,

Safety and subtly,

Like in the womb of the sea goddess

We were worshipping then,

While we lay afloat,

Under the blue crush,

The steel rush,

The moon flashing us

Its sensation staligtile visions,

Shooting white arrows at us under the bubbles,

Arrows of light and pastel shine,

Arrows, electric.

We were floating,

On currents,

Floating nowhere,

Floating everywhere,

Floating together.

Part III: Descending

There was snow beneath our feet,

Scratching us in recognition,

Of the cold that seeped

Into our minds and sides,

In recognition of the thawing,

Of the descending,

Of the de-peaking.

White from below, white from above,

White from the sides, white from the rides,

White forms,

White foams,

White devils and white Gods,

White clouds frothing

Into the white snow,

The light was white,

The light was flying beneath us,

Into a kaleidoscope of colours,

Some dirty, some clean,

Some shimmered,

While some gleamed,

All victims of an

Inverted white magic,

We were preying on the whistling.

Part IV : Awakening

I heard you take out your wings,

I heard you flutter,

I heard the whistling,

I heard the sizzling.

I heard us sail

Through the moon light,

Through the laced liquid dynamite,

I heard me take out my wings,

I heard me flutter,

I heard the whistling.

I heard us whistling…

Factory Girl

2008-08-21T10:54:00.001-07:00

She walked over to the bar,

A Vodka - tonic please,

Make it large and no ice disguised,

Say words out loud for frustration,

What is this sunshine?

And where is the rain?

Where is my private poison?

The drug store turned her out, said she had no prescription.

These Insults of a higher colour,

Faiths in looser hues,

Oh! How she struggled to stay afloat.

She always found that place,

She always heard the voice

Those words of yearning and listening

Compounding without loss

All in the songs of a travelling minstrel

She saw it all.

The past was like the cold in night time,

Seeping in through the covers, oh so slow,

Inches in time, inches in rhyme

Day by night and night by day,

The cold stole it all away.

All she had were words,

These words so silent in its turmoil,

Never reached the gulf of solidarity,

Never bridged these gaps of dreams' past,

Never beyond the summers did last.

Here's you poison honey,

Drink it slow,

Let it grow,

Let the smoke rings halo

Remind you of that other fellow

Let it in slow.

The days of gleeful siding,

Remember sweetheart

That day in October,

Those sly dances

The burning cold

And escapist dreams of problems old.

Drink it slow, let the warmth grow

I'm the bartender and

I'm your friend.

Tell me your secrets,

Your foes; your woes

Here's to another vodka tonic.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Musings…

2008-08-21T10:52:00.001-07:00

We are a race consumed by the virility of life. Constantly Consumed, Devoid of, yet races for meaningful signs and naked Gods with naked engravings. Pillars and post have proven to be a failed protest. Running in solitary circles, dooms day advocates predict a dark tomorrow. But most know better. Most believe in faith and reason. We live for it all, the days and nights, the moments and silences, hearts and beats, the virility, the weird and the perfect.

It might be a moot point of action, but I seem to have hit the main responsibility of truthfulness. It's the way ahead, the reason to fight, war worthy. It is the climax of an institution we lovingly refer to as humanity. So what is this great discovery? Why should one commit suicide and not let death consume the body in its natural progression? Why am I going against thousands of years of human experience, norms and mores? The reason is simple. It's all about control. Our frail sense of happiness positively depends on inner and outer, micro and macro control. To control what we do and more importantly what is done to us.

Without these feelings of need and questing jest, the institution is futile. We need to control how we die. Most importantly understand why we die. The only plausible way to do that is death in accordance with our own boundaries. Don't get me wrong here, I do not advocate a repeat of the Cobain's or such like, I am not advocating shot gun in the mouth and bang! All I'm saying is death, as we know it may or may not be the ultimate end. There is really no way to be absolutely positive, so why take chances. We have one birth and sure one limited death. So die a martyr, die for a cause, and die for reason. Death often achieves as much as life, at times even more. So commit suicide, for the cause. Once you have spoken to creator's evil twin, riding the forsaken horse with an empty saddle only for you, die. Don't resist or desist, assist.

I wonder how I ever got to this place. Talking of death in a manner befitting mayhems' sole survivor. How did I get here? What were the turns that betrayed my way? Was I led or mislead? If so, then who do I blame for the recent developments?

Barrages of questions bombard my feeble mind. It troubles me and frustrates my feeling and knowledge of myself. I knew this day was not too distant, but still, fear and disgust over the actual event is deeper than I anticipated. It caught me positively off guard. Knowledge is what is killing me here. Failure looms high and looking ahead is tugging me down. Revelation is not to be sought, reasons I get aren't the ones I expected. So why now, why here and why at all?

Does it all end some day. Will people understand my life and how I lead it? Is wastage acceptable and if so how do I sell it? How do I justify my reasons for not doing what I didn't do? An elegant suicide is of utmost importance. But the first one must not include death. It must not be gruesome and it definitely must not be now. The time will come. Or has it come?

Deeper the deliberatation, louder the questions, softer are the answers. Whispers on time are floating by so harmlessly it causes jealousy in harms eyes. Aspirations are born off it. We are cleared of all doubt. It brings me up to date, holds my hand in an angelic way, caresses my lips and flows into my eyes. It makes me see that the time for beatification is now. To revive, to die, to rise.

The War.

2008-08-21T10:48:00.001-07:00

The Part of Weapons.

Oh- run, run, from the burning sun!

Feel the light on your back,

Bristling, falling like water...

Over the infested seas.

Run, run – run for shelter,

The sun is rising; it might well burn your eyes!

Some feel the moon light,

Soothing the wounds of the sun's light,

Over ages of laughing,

At all mans' brave mistakes!

The angels came from the loose ground,

Clutching in their hands dirty brown,

Flying over my head, screaming,

Flying around in their golden gowns,

Beaming...

I waved goodbye, and

They slid their way into my mind!

Through the wafers of the living

And the distance of the deaf

The kingdoms of broken verses

And the leaflets of the bereft

The foot soldiers trample slowly

And the generals follow suit

In armoured cars with a machine guns

And cigarettes burning where their minds begun!

Travel long. Travel hard!

Travel- travel- travel

Where the Bombs have fallen

To the lands of loosed gravel

Where the rivers turned still

And silence is a nail screech

Travel towards the blooming poppies,

Into valleys of the bomb breach.

Part of understanding.

Berlin, where are your men

And Himmler- is the sky green?

Who gassed the masses?

Was it the guilty brasses?

What lies you ensured,

To de-corrupt the men ununiformed.

Summon your men to the magic mountain,

And ask them to kneel

Is it the fathers they fear?

Or the touch of their mothers heal?

Are there no flags too high?

Or submarines too deep?

To be hidden from plain sight

Unlike the secrets you asked smoke to keep.

Will all be revealed?

Like some magic trick

In an amateur magician's chamber,

Where the milk maid is the queen

And the lovers, into the rooms lean

No sleight of hand, or moonlight sonatas

To teach treachery's lessons,

Will all be reaveled?

A little longer

A little while longer...

The Part of Fear

Someone whispered in fright,

Of the truths that gossip bring,

The Russians! The Russians!

All pray the power of red!

Tanks with stars and planes with stripes,

Referred to the senders of might,

Creepy feelings, with musty ceilings,

The end begets the peace pipes.

Shanti – shanti – shanti –

The last words of poets' great,

The chants of an uncanny peace,

Pieces of hope that cease,

As the levels are grounded

For the walled lease, surrounded

Founded on victories

Pyrrhic and majestic.

Be the flame – not the moth.

2007-10-08T14:11:00.000-07:00

“Robert Wright: So you believe that a Buddhist can be saved, can have salvation, the afterlife that a Christian has?

Lorenzo Albacete: Probably faster than I would.

Robert Wright: And what about an atheist?

Lorenzo Albacete: Oh yes, faster than I would in all probability.

Robert Wright: What would an atheist have to do to get into Heaven?

Lorenzo Albacete: Even St. Thomas Aquinas would say, follow his or her conscience. Be honest to your heart.

Robert Wright: But clear moral…

Lorenzo Albacete: Yes but it’s not the morality that gains you heaven. It’s not because an atheist does good things. It is the heart that gets you there. This is very important. Even for the Christian, a Christian can fulfill every damn moral law there is And end up in hell. This is a doctrine of the church. It’s not what you do, it is your stand in respect to otherness. It is your conscience.”

There has been a time for words of love, and an equally long time for hate. Today is an era of neither. The day the realization dawns on me that we only love as hard as we hate, will be a new epoch. Of abundant clarity, simplicity and that searing sensation of being without. The long walks of solitude has coupled with the sprints of passion, the result has been exasperation beyond the comprehension of the long distance runner. Such tiredness, such fierce dances, of fire and ice, magic and colour; he never saw eyes burning so bright!

So sincere, so utterly confused, so out of her mind.

That realm where tears are not for crying, but rather a residue that warmth brings. The fear of loosing that time, knowing it to be the last. Not too unlike slow dancing in a burning room. The music never stopped. The lights went out though. The carpet was the only remnant of a room long burnt, where people often danced.

Drunk and honest, she walked into the sea on her own.

Light in flashes, lightning crashes, all around us, for the world it flashes. Gagged in the manner of speech, I was so happy. I sat down to talk on the table, but I decided to listen instead. Words were spoken, some were true, most were false, but over it all, it just made the room grow small. The science of reason was deemed blasphemous. We had to recede in to the realm of the esoteric.

She spoke, and I spoke some more, till we found, we’d run the same lines ashore.

Chess was played. Some games played by the Gods and some by the angels. We cleared the pawns and the horses, hoping we learn to play the game too. The statue of the king stood eight feet tall, and that’s when we knew he’d never move. History had dealt us the deaths kneel. As I stood with my swords drawn, the spears sharpened, all that greeted me was a battle field of hollow voices of dissent and misunderstood truths. Taken into the strides of time, the age of love-hate-and all things seldom said reaches its conclusive bend and no one wants to accept responsibility. Some say it’ll end, most say we are simple fools conducting a stereotypically foolish orchestra, digging its toes deeper and deeper into the quagmire. Someone throw us the lifeline please, ‘cause else, we’re so going down!

Sadness is seldom a cause for sorrow, I said.
What if I was wrong? She inquired.

Colourful Greed.

2007-03-31T03:44:00.000-07:00

Feed live colours to the sea, pure child,
Carry white laughter in your hair,
Wild violets within your feet,
Rum stains in your eyes,
Gleaming, In the half light,
Of this misty, orange morning.

Run and slide to see,
The silver mind, the remedy,
Wreathed in greenish notions,
Loud, shaded, striped-potions,
And light air sequences,
Losing sight in your blue mind,
Rising tides, rising tides,
Of some misty mornings' paper sides.

That last journey is not end,
Those era songs yet not sung,
Though all mercy is forgiven,
And those words forever given,
Rising tides, rising it rides,
Into all the wishing sides.

A Lack of Name?

2007-02-23T03:00:00.000-08:00

Come directions, in the far sided levees. Replete but yet so honeyed. Argumentative bees fighting for benign supremacy, of the religious flowers, flowering. They arise in swollen shapes of raging man-made rivers. Thousands of flapping wings, flowing in their respective alleys in search of the Grammatik stand-off.

Who was the regions last long distance rider? Did he finally marry the goldsmith’s daughter? Why not? Aah! That balloon of a man finally did meet a dismal lady of his dreams. My pessimism is well founded; the collector’s daughter is privy to that sly reasoning.

The bees dressed up in gold? Never could wear the sunlight, could they? Suits the queen, I presume. A bit over weight though, birth of a colony is the causal culprit I recon. Do I speak for the other too? Not to my Gnostic knowledge. Fat filled flowers? Not the colony? That is for the dietitian to decide. I’m forced to plead ignorance to that science.

Laughter!

There were champagnes’ from all chateaus of the region and rice beer too. But the invitees of dignity sipped their personal liquors of choice. The marriage was a rape of the traditional beliefs and mores. Never had the quarter of a generation waited for the eventual marriage of such an uninspiring family to the goddess of visions and rebellion. Not to me in the direct sense of personality of even harm, but simply the attitudes of the beasts in the neighboring ocean-villas flopping about in their ideas that grind my bones to silly irritation. Man and women of desertion.

Shocked!

Then a cloud of shocking evens ensued: autumn arrived in its abundant splendors to press the fully cloaked bees to the wall. A marriage was announced. Some lonely two legged creatures decided to please the world. Food was ordered and a fire was started. The previous union had left the galleries of the chefs depleted, and hunt began for the remaining autumn flowers. With singular silvery motions, one to another, the flowers bleed and fell to the hands of the ceremony of love. Elixirs flowing into the tea pots for flavoring of the dried cousins. The beauty was killing the guests off penury.

Sniffs!

Too young, the maids of honor were to even understand the words being spoken. But they did understand the tones though, the tough parts from the romantic, the pristine from the jaded. It rained red and white the proceeding jabs. Complete in its visual antics. Designers of a lost kind, the traditional! All the way, from the next complete room. The vows ensued. The lovers renewed their recent commitments. “You may now kiss the bride.”

Cheers!

The noise was deafening. That clanging shrill! Spoons on glasses of wine. And the dignity of champagnes filled, the hive with jealousy! The thin green candle was lit! Happiness at such moments is the foreplay to dawn’s glowering secrets. The bees missed the invitation to the gathering. No alembic lines to interpret. No directions in tow of the decadence. No reason to watch from trees up in the realm of smoke. So silent. The queen was in a deep thought. The slivers of nature were rubbing shoulders with the cloaked insects of the sweet day. Images and images.

Descends!

A furore in the trees above was noticed by the young, first time caterer, towards the cynosure of all activity, a colored mass descended. A million stings were felt and cried out for, slapping of the wrists in a ditch attempt of safety. Silting slowly in the torrid zone of shouts and wails, a marriage was broken. The first dance.

Cream!

All the willowed pieces, all the hefty agents. Dying, dying, all along the old vine, borrowed. Random acts of flight, an attack on the wanton acts of the parties. The surrogacy was complete. The victors saw the picric grass. “Where did the runner run?”
Very far? Thought to that direction! “Did the lady find beauty?”

Compromise…

“Pretend the dove from above is a dragon and your feet are on fire.”
- Josh Ritter.

...

2007-02-08T11:26:00.000-08:00

They showed me ice lights
Rising from foreign corners,

They showed me light green
Water in their eyes,

They showed me circular ponds
Displaying their hyacinths,

They showed me the gilded mirror
Saying we are made of stardust.

They showed me soft sands.

They showed me electric trees.

They showed me,

Yellow,

Light laughter,

Asterisks and Exclamations,

They showed me the room
I just walked into.

Shaking my head, gently.

Ellipsis.

Balance of sorrow.

2007-02-02T08:37:00.000-08:00

"Her name shall be Deirdre, and she will be the most beautiful woman in the world. But that beauty shall bring death to many heroes, and much sorrow."
- Deirdre of the Sorrows.

Initially the phrase was ‘ The’ balance of sorrow’. But after a slight chat with a relative friend it struck me that the use of ‘The’ in this situation would be an acceptance of the generic viability of sorrow. Balance shadowed the sorrow. Thus ‘A’ balance of sorrow. The balance was delivered in my head through red-eyed projections.

Tears cut, and stolen from gypsies who were lamenting the loss of dynamic relationships. Relations shared by them.
Shared by them, with their sorrows. Confused purely by the virginity of these vestal, emotive aggravations to their ideas of grief.
The initial moments of sorrow. How plain! How sweet!
Litters of flowers in reds and blacks.
Dirty! Rotting, not just yet. Orange!

The moods:
Engulfed!
Engulfing!
The remnants of the strewn feeling, drawing from the simple multitudes of the aforesaid harsh moments.

2002.

The torture of the limited conscience for the legality of the patriotic serum, dry and driven. The raped song! Drying within the tube light nations images of the west running, and accused of secretly applying fiery balms to divisive wounds. The floods dried it of the acceptance of unattainable ignorance.

Tilting, are the seesaws of the hide and seek game.
Status quo. Irrelevance.
A monopoly of truths, an army of orange flowers, walking below bridges and building criss-crossed shelters. Attempting the emergence of sorrows.

Religion sat on a park bench, religion absorbed, the gifted red. Not asking, nor refusing.
Religion jumped from rooftops, impaled, in perfect unison.

A weighing scale, yielded by the queen of circumstance, crouching behind marked oak chambers. Weighing the rivers of sad memoirs written in bright inks, in the hope of a notice. The balance.

Tears and fears with angel leers.

In their eyes it can be, in their eyes it shifted, sparsely. Balance of such sorrow reflected off the silver glass panes and numb movements. Silting in issued tents. Not asking for comfort or pillows. Nor strong words of love and martyrs. No curtains.
Only macro scopes. Yes! Macro scopes!

The second discussion –

‘A’ balance, rejects the collective sphere of sorrow. ‘The” balance, forgoes the personal experience. Thus the balance I try to elucidate if dwelling in the chasm of these two bi-polar desserts of sorrows. Both eyes see different angles of the light. Collective sight is the aspiration of this piece.

Blue has many shades.

2007-01-31T09:11:00.000-08:00

Smart words! Smart words!
Escaping my windows!

How to relish the fog? Or the smog where I’m concerned??

In pursuit of a silent movie I’m walking a mile. With sneakers on for comfort. But it’s biting into my vocabulary. And I do not attempt to lie. Sense is not construed in untruthful sentences.

Took the painters advice and bought some cushion for lying down.
Next to a few mythological dreamers. We had a lot in common. All our words lacked gender and tense.
Lacked even the viable strands of times’ errors. Words on words. Not a line spoken. All through the tentacles of the dictators of the silver screen projections.
Not the directors. They are content being ghosts. Driving home language instead of limousines.

I was not interested in languages. Nor were my mythological dreamers. It was the grail of ultimate letters in tow, we were after. Letters in tow.

The weight it yielded was light. Only the esoteric group of welcomed bystanders were heavy, seeped in misplaced profits!

Misplaced profits! The guffaws of the banks ware hardly cynical. They too succeeded in comprehending the dreamers’ dream. The mythology of words.

Found words are far too boring. I was going on and on about the languages I could not speak. Illiteracy in the guise of ignorance.
The lost words are the real interest.
Free of morality, they operate beneath our/my radar. Copulating hazardously. Practicing incest. Dying in orange pools of slow blues numbers. Orange!

I discovered a new author this morning. He wrote pretty poems too. I felt his pain. Died his heroes’ death. Cries his widows tears. Understood all his poetic allusions, and the realm between the lines. His words were mine. I knew them all too well. He just said them with more style and panache.

He never bothered to invent.

Nor did she.

The only time I collapsed attempting the revival of the unknown linguists, was also the last time I lost my mind in straight sets to an under confident player of the arts. Why did I never call for a challenge?

Being doomed to the paths of the less knighted, dwelling in the soft glows of the green lights, the long sentences I omit are forgotten by the deep sea publishers.
Growth to the wandering babbler. Hail the unreasonable household rambler.
The pioneers of the fantasy. Of discoverable words.

Orange, live, in silence, no longer rotting in water bottles, under the plastic covers we laid it to sleep on. Seeping fast into the shoes I wore in search of the silent movie.
Comfort, the vocabulary is now preserved within the envelops of the gallery walls.

Cyan waters – cerulean mud – robin egg blue imagination – teal bells ringing – viridian stones gathering paintings to quench the unattainable thirst of colour contrasts.

Wish me the courage to imagine new letters being towed!

Of confusion, destiny, illusions, and sounds.

2007-01-22T03:01:00.000-08:00

Sounds are the integral system of confusion.
Fearing the cacophony, the jingles of confusion are born.

Noises from the vocals of a reason ravaged generation. That is it that is so different from the lonely hobos of the yesteryears as opposed to their counterparts today. They sing in the same alleys, similar songs. Of love, riches, roofs and subway tickets.

Is Mr Sen correct in describing the illusions of destiny in a 198 paged book? Rather simplistic I feel. But probably not.
What I feel is ignorance is also the flip side of the beatific illusion called destiny.
I am inspired by Mr Sen.

So how is it that I aspire to relate sound, confusion and destiny?
Its rater simply depends on the following of the colours.
Dolphins and glassy water.
Scarlet windows beaconing me to climb a little lower into the water and attempt to touch the skies way below.
Not the reflections of the northern clouds but the reality of such illusions.

Thus comes the tap on the big doors of destiny fixed into contorted shapes…
Contorted shapes….
Confusing shapes…

Now that is where it struck me that these shapes were way too busy with vivid sounds to care for the reason ravaged voices.
Fear of the cacophony binds the strings of paralysis.

Waves crashed onto the brown rocks wearing the crowns of a thousand rich kings.
I stood on the realm of this kingdom.
Intoxicated, floating on the noises, confused, dazed, like a poor song, sung on the galleries of to few, attacked my the misers of the deaf.

The only connection between the noises that gave me this illusion of a confused destiny was a lyric. Which one, I forget. But it was lucid, mercury, and a silence of green eyes.

Orange windows and ice showers.
Ice mints in my mouth.
Ice mints in my mind.
Ice - ice - ice

I’m sweating snow!

Goa - !!!!!

2006-12-29T01:23:00.000-08:00

The age old curse of the Goa monster has lifted. I only hope I do not speak too soon. 3 years since the day I stepped into college, I have been planning to embark on a magical journey down the golden beaches of Goa.

The real tragedy of my life resides in the fact that I’ve never seen the ocean.
Never.
So full of hope and expectations, I planed and I planed some more, bout how I’m going to catch a Volvo to Goa, rent a shack next to the waters, drink kings beers and read all the books I had not the courage to delve into. Wake up precisely at 12 in the morn/noon, swim, see a few great white sharks( but was told they kind of don’t like Goa too much), get seriously drunk and then puke out all the lobsters I had consumed before, and so and so forth.

Now I’m not the new-years-in-Goa type, I’d rather be there a few days after.
Love my space, my time, like some soppy infomercials. But its more personal. Being one, in the union of a few thousands, swarming the beaches and the parties, with exaggerated rates and deals, not my typical scene.

Thus, the 2nd Jan date with Goa.

Hope this works out, and I’m not too disappointed.

2.7 years of extensive experience in Mainframe Testing.

2006-12-25T00:06:00.000-08:00

II really was not aware of this but as it turns out I have 2.7 years of extensive training, really, I do.

Some thing called “mainframe testing”.

I’m still grappling with this truth. To be very honest I don’t very much know what this really is, but as today the multiple cheers of the joyous ‘ Merry Christmas’ emulates from the collective voices of many a generations all over the spherical planet, I’m confident I can handle the real truth.

The real truth, mind you, not the unreal one.

Last night I really was very eager to go for midnight mass. Never been to one before. But unfortunately my aspirations of multi cultural understanding, from the respective view of a pseudo atheist were cruelly crushed.

After a few moments of visionary fog lifting, I came to the doorway of reason which told me that since Christmas denotes the birth of Christ and so and so forth, all this is actually bout J.C. but somewhere in the sands of the same festival, its been hijacked but Mr. Santa Claus. Its all but him now days, sure a few convent schools will put up plays depicting the manger, the Magi and the regular flowers. All parts played by grade 4 students, but they too on their return home wait for Santa to come bearing gifts.

So when did this hijack really occur. That is the question.

“mainframe testing”

Sounds very computer to me.

Where is your will to be wierd?

2006-12-17T23:46:00.000-08:00

Its been a long time since I posted. A very long time actually. Delhi is over, Mumbai is over, Pune is the new city of joy. With its bad roads and non existent book shops, non a/c cyber cafes propagating online gaming, its trots along, peacefully. There is some soul here. Many will surely disagree, most likely, most will. Took me 3 years to reach this forlorn conclusion, yes, this conclusion is forlorn. Firstly this city is small. And is it tiny. The road density has its own private shoot-at-sight orders. It aims to kill. But then again that is the same old story of every small city deprived of a decent admin.

There is this inherent joy in complaining. Relieves us of the pressure of taking any potentially useful steps. The joy of pee-ing on the road and then critising the ‘Indian’ mentality the next time I cross the same lane that is now smelling of decomposing ammonia acids is liberating. (also for once the over eager chauvinists cant blame women at large. The absolute generalization fails, thankfully). Well, as a model citizen of this country I do not pollute public areas, at least not when I’m sober, but can this free expression of democracy be the true reason for the 13000 mark in the markets and a nearing 2 digit growth rate?

I wonder what my city would be without the thousands of two wheelers snaking its way through dead traffic, cursing and reving their engines…..

There is this area near college, where I happen to reside, thats popularly known as DBC. Short for Deep Banglow Chowk. It’s a typically crowded, shop infested locality where at first glance you’d wonder where all the flats are. The buildings are old, with rotting paint and exposed pipes and wires, trying desperately to show off the new coat of paint it just got(more often than not, it’ll be a bright flourescent yellow or such like) that will in all likely-hood be no existent by the next rain fall. Picture this: from my balcony you can see a green house with red lines meant for design purposes, to its left is a bright, sorry super bright yellow building , then a pink set of houses and lastly the balcony its self is blue with Hanuman orange doors and windows. There are a few coconut trees and a few palm trees, with enough imagination , we have an imitation of Goa(that’s mainly for the feel good factor).

DBC, always reminds me of Death by Chocolate in Corner House, Bangalore.

I live here, and I absolutely love this place, its convinient, close to therest of the world, as my room mate loves to say: its got the power of the three golden words – Location! Location! Location! But its more than that. Its home.

My greatest complain against Pune is the absence of western loos!! Why? Why? What is wrong with this world today. If you want a person to propogate nuclear disarmament , you’ll have to, I repeat, have to, give him his throne.

Every once in a while you rediscover this old passion. Some what like revisiting the childhood home, where you grew up and left behind for the big city. Not very unlike was the rediscovery of this place adjoining our college : the N.C.C canteen. It’s a magical place. I have wasted countless hours there, drinking its milky north indian chai and discussing the lousy ways in which our college operates.

Symbi! Oh Symbi!

There is this point in every humans life when they start question the standard replies to sterotypical questions. There is this lull, white noise, the requiem light, deafening and painful. Not loud nor silent, not even audible, a high pitch scream that only inaudible parts of our selves can register a response to. So I reached this point too. In my own time
and Assamese speed. Which is highly slow, by the way. I discovered that these were not my questions but of the city. The answers were somewhat fake. Disguised. Its said that deception is the best disguise, and its holds true here.

To put it simply, the way I prefer the Blossoms over all the Crosswords all over the sub continent, with its large glasses and fancy recliner chairs that beg you to stay and read is a marketing stroke of genius, the longer you sit there, the more your chances of picking up objects outside the agenda, but its substandard. Its like the notes I make to self or the New Years resolution that I’m going to make in 22 days. Its steel and glass.

Ever wondered how plastic cups starts leaking before the actually break.

Crash courses are another aspect of Pune that amuses me. It gives you a crash course in every thing , from friendships to wines, riding fancy bikes to auto tarrif cards readings. Its all here. I’ve spent 3 years here, 2 more are left, I often wonder, am I talking to my self again, like the first time I was going to get a tetnus shot, I told myself that the needle was too small and I was a few million times its size for fear to be a factor.

I forget the outcome of that needle chill.
Wisdom will come to me.

I will go jogging every morning.
I will have breakfast.
I will attend college
And get a first div.
I will not curse and I will clear German.
I will sing only while bathing.
I wont watch too much t.v.
I will wonder.
I will laugh at the newspapers optimism.
I will start drinking coffees instead.
I will start answering sterotypical questions
from the day after tomorrow.

On The Road : The Movie

2006-12-15T01:26:00.000-08:00

Francis Ford Cappola is producing On the Road. Finally!

I’m a Cappola fan. Since Apocalypse Now to The Godfather Trilogy right down to eagerly awaiting for the Good Shepard. The guy is a genius. American Graffiti .. wow!!

That said , 2009 On the Road should be out. Long time , yes, but we’re getting there.

2006-11-24T06:55:00.000-08:00

I’ve been listening to some music that I think will make a difference in the coming ages of development… I've tried to make a short list of the best i've explored so far...

1. Gillian Welch
2. Nick Drake
3. Jeff Buckley
4. Josh Ritter
5. Ryan Adams
6. Jonathan Rice
7. Talk Talk
8. Alexi Murdoch
9. Iron and Wine
10. Vashti Bhuyan
11. Patty Griffin
12. Massive Attack
13. Damien Rice
and lastly... no. 14 - James.. they are like U2 with out the ego.!!

p.s. Sorry , could not keep it short.

2006-11-23T08:18:00.000-08:00

I never understood why when you died, you didn't just vanish, everything could just keep going on the way it was only you just wouldn't be there. I always thought I'd like my own tombstone to be blank. No epitaph, and no name. Well, actually, I'd like it to say 'figment.'

- Andy Warhol.

India : dulce et decorum est

2006-11-18T05:21:00.000-08:00

Part I.

What is that song you protest?
Who was the painter you paid?
To paint pretty golden coins for your collection;
After the morning sun is down
Below the gulfs of a country born
Whilst the world was sleeping.

India, when will you treat your mirrors with respect?
India, When will your children treat with you with hate not love?
Or did they do so just yester night?
I told you how the books I read were in bad English,
Bad context,
And bad taste.
India , I told you I threw away every novel where you were critized.
India, all I have to offer you are words,
If I’m a little richer, maybe some scotch.
I know you don’t drink, they tell me you don’t smoke either
But then, why India, does your health fail you so often?
Me and my friends were all born after you
And will probably die before you,
Yet we pray for you, cry with you,
Run after you and sweat for you,
But somehow I don’t remember bleeding ,
Do you?

India,
All your states are flawed .
Your head and arms are smoldering
While your feet are submerged in water.

Part II.

Assam, when will you learn from our mistakes?
Please accept me
For then only will I know you exist.
Bengal , when will you get over your rightful superiority
That flourishes in your coffee houses?
Delhi, how rich are we?
Maharashtra, when will you get over Bombay ?
Karnataka, whats in a name?
Punjab, how many cars are too many?
How do you survive with such large hearts?
Rajasthan, when will you respect Venus?
Bihar, when will you grow tired of cowsheds and fodder?
And begin remembering what you really were.

India, why am I oblivious to the rest?
India, why do they have brown eyes?
India , how fast can you talk without losing breath?

I love you but then you always knew that.

How are the Tatas right?
Why is slavery not dead?
And did you maliciously pretend to the contrary?
India, why are your novelist entrapped within the cities?
Why can I only read Amitav Ghosh?
India, is the media conducting a pig circus?
Should we put them, on trial?
The greatest fashion trend was the death sentence,
But now its way too passé.
India, Should I write you an electronic mail?
Please don’t return to sender.
My red haired friend was right:
We are a country of thinkers not tinklers!

Part III.

India, are you unconstitutional?
Are these really modern times?
India, when will you repeal the AF(SP) Act
Please do repeal the AF(SP) Act.
Most of us really don’t like it all that much.

India , should I become a defense lawyer?
Will you cherish me more then?
India, did you vote for the Republicans or the Democrats?
Did I tell you?
I prayed for the nuke deal.
But I do abhor smoking.

India, where can I buy homeopathic medicines?
I desperately need R-49.
India, wanted to register a complaint
My local store has run out of MBAs and LLMs.
Though, I actually wanted a DSC.
India, Dr Sen just told me that the Sensex is suffering from insomnia.
Should I give it some sleeping pills?
India, lets collectively veto all fashion shows,
I find the models too striking!
Lets reinvent the dhoti.
Yes! Lets reintroduce the dhoti!
No, I’m no super patriot,
Nor am I political.

The vote banks!
That’s the real democracy.

India, have you heard Joan Baez sing
‘We shall over come’?
You should give her an honorary citizenship.

Part IV.

India! Oh India!
We are frozen between ice sheets;
Melting - the heat of the Moon!
Floating inside airwaves and neon sunshines;
Shining gold coins for memory,
Shiny silver coins for reflection.

The seasons are changing colours;
Electricity is gaining spark;
Cynicism is dying a slow death
and under water exaust fans are taking pictures,
Of gold fish and gold bullions
some where very far.

Country born; country died;
Country torn; country tied.
Country! country! country!
Yielding its weight,
along side blindfolded time.

miguel pinero.

2006-11-15T00:27:00.000-08:00

Dedicated to those magnificent black women & their blond wigs

Black woman with the blond wig on

you're living an illusion.Think that head blanket

bought from macy's on a lincoln sale

will make the residents of forest hill

slay out a black carpet to their blond streets

because you have some blond horse hair on?

Black woman with the blond wig on

are you playing James Bond in blond

secret agent in charge of repression

congo blood?

Black woman with the blond wig on

is it your greatest desire to appear on t. v.

welcome to

I've got a secret

commercial?

"Here I was with $60 one day and all of a sudden somebody was giving me $15,000 . . . . I was being asked to lecture at Princeton, at Rutgers, at Pratt Intitute. Here I have no education whatsoever and I am working as a mentor to . . . top students . . . . What the hell am I doin’ here?"

Is the intellect only a concept?

2006-11-09T07:01:00.000-08:00

She was a smart girl, I can vouch for that much. But how much of her did I really envision from my own mind. My minds a bitch. No, it really is. Does these funny funny things to me. Could never figure out why. I kept it busy , with books and music,lots of movies and 'intellectual' convos. All it ever did was make a mesh of things.Put one into another, wired it up, squeezed it into fallow lines, of soft age and many more irksome things and ideas.

It made me a believer of her ways. Simple, made up, passionately defended and highly honest.
I had to stop and wonder, is abstract poetry really better than the rhyming lines. Was Leonard Cohens' work ever fanthomable to Ogden Nash? I mean, honestly speaking the "intellectual" is a 12 lettered word. Now that confuses me! How much of it is actually a concept? I always believed that our pet best friend: God: is nothing save an over simplification of an cosmic concept, a phenomenon. I'm not trying to get ahead of my self here, but it made sense to me. Are we in a massive fit of self denial doing or rather pushing a concept forward into an arena that was made for much simpler times, if not more occupiable times.

The her in the former paragraphs refer to a girl we all met a few centuries ago. She walked towards us with her pregnant arms wide open. Wanting and trying, vehemently to embrace her in her ways. She liked the name reason for herself. It at times makes me trip , over a tear drop she left behind that never dried, because we all some where, sometime, denied to her her name.
And called her other names behind her back, and I found out just a few moments past, that I too had called her a name, branded her , branded it, the intellect.

____Go!

2006-11-05T22:26:00.000-08:00

"But then they danced down the street like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!"

No word nor sigh ever meant more to me that these words of Kerouac, here he is explaining the essence of the Beat generation.
I say we should all be mad- mad as birds.
Would'nt you agree.??.

Winter walks.

2006-11-02T03:06:00.000-08:00

"The only excuse God has is that he does not exist."

- Stendhel.

soft punishment for gods.

2006-10-31T04:11:00.000-08:00

would you punish through the symbols of guilt.

Oρφεύς)

2006-10-28T23:05:00.000-07:00

The colours of character of one as strong and mournful as Orpheus are laden with potent and inherent sentimentality. It is the reason for music to cry. He played the lyre, he charmed the world, the underworld, Hades and Persephone, brought back Eurydice from where people had lond ceased returning . But , it was lost. All was a flashpoint in the ripples of the communion of Dionysus. A glance was the counter price for his music.

"Dancing maenads , dancing maenads, please don't dance too low. No song nor line, no light nor hue, can ever sing that song you love."

The symbolism of orpheuses head on the lyre after being killed by the meanads of Dionysus, floating through the rivers filled the senses of a person I never knew with the colour of sorrow.

In the memory of symbolic gestures we never forget, but seldom see, I salute not Orpheus, but the "hue" in his mythology. The tint in the complexity of being.

Fable of the Mermaid and the Drunks

2006-10-28T12:34:00.000-07:00

All those men were there inside,
when she came in totally naked.
They had been drinking: they began to spit.
Newly come from the river,
she knew nothing.
She was a mermaid who had lost her way.
The insults flowed down her gleaming flesh.
Obscenities drowned her golden breasts.
Not knowing tears,
she did not weep tears.
Not knowing clothes,
she did not have clothes.
They blackened her with burnt corks and cigarette stubs,
and rolled around laughing on the tavern floor.
She did not speak because she had no speech.
Her eyes were the colour of distant love
,her twin arms were made of white topaz.
Her lips moved, silent, in a coral light,
and suddenly she went out by that door.
Entering the river she was cleaned,
shining like a white stone in the rain,
and without looking back she swam again swam towards emptiness,
swam towards death. _Pablo Neruda

2006-10-28T08:31:00.000-07:00

"Would you reach out your hand to save a drowning man if you though he might pull you in.?"

A very humble question asked by Dylan in this movie.
Got me thinking, for a few moments atleast. After a lot of deep thought, and i mean real deep, I finally got my answer:
I in most probability would'nt, but surely I'd throw him a rope.

The summer we seldom had.

2006-10-28T04:03:00.000-07:00

Its a very tried and tested fact that humans love writing, about themselves, their h and a's, lovers, haters, mothers - fathers, any one or anything that simply envokes. Envokes anything!
But, the henious but,
all of those who quite dont , how do i phrase this, 'cut it'..?? Where do they go? The simple summer of wisdom that we never had. Its all worked up over the course of a life time never lived.
Its rather sweet really, some what like the bees that love flowers but cant stand perfumes.
All summers we never had.