another year

"Are you making any resolutions for the new year ?"

"Yeah, I'm resolving to wing it and see what happens."

"So you're staying the course ?"

"I stick to my strengths."

this soldier

A common foot soldier I am and I wield the pen. I was not always a soldier. I was once a common man, looking in from outside. Looking in onto the plain white, afraid to step in. But this battle is a free for all and so I was given my pen and asked to go forth and conquer words. Lay siege to adjectives, capture verbs and bring down paragraphs, sonnets, verses and prose.

Glory and literary acclaim, supposedly await me. Lines such as the pen is mightier than the sword are concocted to help me along. For inspiration I have a whole range of masters. From mere Knights to veritable Gods. People whose prowess with words, words are insufficient to express. Masters and mistresses of form, wit and dialogue, of satire, of drama and powerful intellect. Weavers of new worlds, builders of kingdoms, spawners of demons and dragons. As a foot soldier I look up and upon them and to their victories, legends that I strive to emulate, as I try to shape these words to my ideas.

Are the words there first or are the ideas ? I do not know. They are both at the same time. Without words, I do not know if I would have ideas and of ideas I do not know of any other kind. And yet, once the idea and the words that make it appear, I am able to discern a difference and make the idea be of other words, better words perhaps. More lucid words. Ah lucidity. Every moment on the battlefield, I strive to make my verbs and nouns and prepositions be where they are meant to be. I try to fashion vehicles for my thoughts and emotions, vehicles which will transport and deliver, without much ado to themselves. I do not often succeed.

Millions fight this war. The war remains the same, though the battle has spread to newer arenas, away from the traditional paper and away from the pen being the only weapon. A universe now exists composed of letters, words and lines uncountable, immeasurable. And in this immensity, a common foot soldier, I plod on. Oblivious to the tumult of humour, satire, poetry and prose around me, I am busy in an attempt to leave behind the only things about me that will remain. My body will perish, memories of me will fade, but my words, they will be about. That I was once. That, borrowing from Whitman, I existed, life went on, and these here were my verses.

Particularly weary, I realize that the sun has set on this days battle. So I clear a space on my desk and lay my pen down.

breaking the law

completely wasted,
i was riding the edge
while it lasted

top down and head up,
the night roared by
as my foot wouldnt let up.

my car screamed down the road
and my mind joined in
a while later

past the trees and the posts
as angels above and demons below
gambled on being my new hosts.

stray

somewhere along the way
i stopped being a stray.

orderliness, discipline and rules -
that is what is needed you fools.
or so we were told,
by those that were more than just old.

somewhere further along the way,
i miss being astray,
of thumbing my nose at the world,
and just having it my way.

of such

of patterns in smoke,
of swirling ideas,
and smirking people.

of whimsical writing,
aimless wanderings,
and ruminations.

of bored jottings.

habit

dinner is done
and i sit here
fiddling.
looking, searching, twitching
for my nightly habit

not finding you,
i pick up a pebble
and let it fly
while my mind
skips over everything
with hardly
any interest

my eyes flick
left and right
as my mind invents
reasons and rationalizations
to get rid of this splinter

poking, prodding
it refuses to abate
till i have you
in my sight

you are a nightly habit
and habits are broken
much harder
than they are made

i come back
each night,
wanting you
to grant me some respite.

blood and glory

my sword alive
walking the field
spilling carnage
and blood

madness in me
human no more
slashing
praying for respite

an axe
an answer
bowing my head
to redemption

my soul alive
walking the fields
of elysium.

blood and folly

my sword alive
i walk the field
spilling carnage
and blood

a madness is in me
human no more
slashing
i pray for respite

i am answered
by an axe
rescuing me
to my elysium

nothing

nothing
fills my head now
i am thirsty and take a sip of water
right at this moment -
i could die
a content man

Dead Poet's Society

McAllister: Show me the heart unfettered by foolish dreams and I'll show you a happy man.
John Keating: But only in their dreams can men be truly free. 'Twas always thus and always thus will be.
McAllister: Tennyson ?
John Keating: No, Keating.

about

i dont believe
that i can say more
i shall remain quiet
and smile to myself
some will call me insane
but who says sanity is all ?

ho hum

Oh to spend all day lying in elysian fields. Staring at the sky. And having millions in the bank.
Its simple really. We realize that passion and romance is all right and fine, but on a full stomach.

comfortable

and somewhere
since the beginning of this conversation
'twas something i said
or something i did
you changed
from being chatty
to being quiet and lost
in yesyerday - silent

i sit by the silence
that has you in a hold
moments i dont want to trample in on

with a warm cup of coffee in hand
watching you watch the outside
my fingers tracing figures on the table
not saying anything
comfortable.

jakeward bound

illusions they are
illusions you have
about your paths and ways
but all those roads
lead to me.

55er

The mallu was at it again. "Read it", he said, "and follow the story". So I did.

They had all laughed at him, the whole class. "Assholes!", he thought, gnashing his teeth. He was wearing a trench coat today, and would end it. Chemistry class was where and when it would happen. He patted his coat pocket, feeling the box containing the stink bombs. Smirking, he proceeded to be one of them.

and it rained

the staccato on the roof top has me in a reverie. its almost a trance this feeling of contentment, punctuated by the regular swish of the wipers and more randomly by the glare of a passing vehicle. my mind and body are in perfect sync. neither is exerting itself, nor are they idle. i feel the rhythm. a slight but steady pressure on the accelerator pedal, hands firm but not tight on the wheel. oncoming headlight - slight tightening of the shoulders - ease the foot off the pedal - vehicle passes. resume stance and dance. my body is on autopilot and my mind is empty. empty but not blank. i am there. just there. zipping past on smooth silky roads, towards a destination no doubt, but in no hurry to get there. this is a good state to be in i realize and must be what zen must feel like, and maybe it does. no reason, rhyme or consequence, just the events.

lady writer

Just the way that her hair fell down around her face
And I recall my fall from grace
Another time another place
Lady writer on the TV

- Dire Straits, Lady Witer

what caused the idiot

maybe its because i am not looking. or maybe i am. it doesnt really matter though. i live for the moments, there was one right here and now. moments,they are what matter. give me another while i go looking again.

the idiot

woooo hoooh ! it makes me go. go up and about, humming to myself, i am all sunshine,smiles and sweet saccharine. the world is indeed a splendid place. i know that this will fade, giving way to a more reasonable state of mind. but who cares ? right now, is a moment. grinning like an idiot, i am lost in savouring it.

Hamster people

That we are mortals. All people are, some (the ones in America, L.A.) more than the others. Every scene depcits racial tension, real life stereotypes, and scared, tightly wound people. The movie is set in L.A. And its disturbing. Even more so, because the movie is well made, with neat performances. Is this the land of oppurtunities ? I dont know. But its a land, as depicted in this movie, full of hamsters. Every soul in America who runs and works hard and cries and just cant seem to leave the circle thingy in the cage that is America. Hamster people.

whim

life is a whim of several billion cells to be you for a while.

heh. so much for the dantes and the miltons.

spiral

i try to stay away,
to let go,
to fly away.

but i come back,
this sling wont let go,
the string wont snap.
faster, faster
round and round.

i spiral inwards,
the world reeling,
i look away,
and look back,
look in.

and spot a single clarity,
in a universe of blur.
succumbing,i come
spiralling inward,
crashing toward you.

heh, houston's got nothing on this orbit trajectory.

pandora's

here's something you'll dig, i think. if not the music it picks, the idea behind it at the least. its like a radio that knows stuff about the music you like.

http://pandora.com/

here's a snippet, from http://pandora.com/mgp.shtml , of that idea.

~~ snip ~~

the idea of creating the most comprehensive analysis of music ever.

Together we set out to capture the essence of music at the most fundamental level. We ended up assembling literally hundreds of musical attributes or "genes" into a very large Music Genome. Taken together these genes capture the unique and magical musical identity of a song - everything from melody, harmony and rhythm, to instrumentation, orchestration, arrangement, lyrics, and of course the rich world of singing and vocal harmony. It's not about what a band looks like, or what genre they supposedly belong to, or about who buys their records - it's about what each individual song sounds like.

~~ snip ~~

neat huh ? so what you have is a database of over 300000 songs analysed, and all broken up into a genome of sorts. the genetic makeup of songs if you will. so you put in a song that you like and this looks up other songs with similar a musical gene makeup and plays them for you.

i have thus far tried it with a couple of my favourites and the result is suprisingly, um, for the lack of a better word, nice. the music that is played is very definitely interesting, and while the specifics of the song you are listening to will, as always on the first hearing of any song, elude you, you will come out with a ' hey, that was not bad ', and you will go back. heh, you didnt know what just happened in there but it was good.

the things people do. just neat.

inevitable ?

sweat pours out your body ...
later in the evening,
you lie awake in bed.

spoke the day,
and all in it,
its for you,
all for you, we know
whats best for you.

and you run.
run.

365 tomorrows

~~

365 tomorrows is a collaborative project designed to present readers with one new piece of short speculative fiction each day for one year. Utilizing the broad palate of science fiction, our vision of the future creates a diverse pool of stories with something for everyone to enjoy.

365 launched August 1, 2005 and will continue until July 31, 2006

~~

contentment

paratas, greased
onions, pickled
chicken, do-pyaza-ed.
the self,defeated.

burp !

dialogue

plateaus of ordinary existence,
surround me.
O juliet, wherefore went thou ?
O passion, whither ?

passion ?
i am jaded.

why these words ?
passion felt,
doesnt need expression.

a pretender then,
at being a better man.

eternal sunshine

how happy is the blameless vestal's lot
the world forgetting, by the world forgot
eternal sunshine of the spotless mind
each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd
- alexander pope

jim carrey, kate winslet and charlie kaufman. what a mix. splendid.
michel gondry (ze director) deals with an uncommon and a surreal topic - our memories. though the movie does not stick to a sequential time line, it never feels forced, in fact it'd be an effort to rise above whats happening in the movie to apply rational thought. you are swept along into this gloamy world of joel and clementine, but the movie ends in sunshine. kaufman makes a choice to not have the movie end bleakly and rather leaves us feeling all mellow and sunny. the transistion between carrey's memories, carrey reliving them and then reacting to them, is just sweet. it clicks.both carrey and winslet have delivered remarkable performances.
carrey plays joel, who is shy, quiet and understated. it fits carrey so like a glove, that you begin to be glad. carrey is not just somone who can stretch his face to akward proportions. he can act too, and very well at that. winslet is amazing and cute, wrenchingly so. she plays the part of clementine, ( so alive, yet needing assurance and security ) so well that you cant help liking clementine more than you would your regular woman in a movie.

a sunday two odd hours well spent. i was an idiot to have missed this movie for so long. i just got another movie in my favourites list.

A petition.

At the behest of a friend, I am posting this as it appears on his blog. He is trying to get as many people to read this as he can. And I am glad to be able to help him out.

Horrors of War ...
Close your eyes and think of someone very close to you. Now imagine someone:

- Piercing this person's ears with hot rods
- Puncturing this person's eyes, gouging them out
- Inflicting burns on his body using cigarettes
- Breaking his bones and teeth
- And after torturing him in this brutal fashion for over 22 days, shooting him dead.

This is what the Pakistani army did to Lt. Saurabh Kalia of the 4th JAT Regiment of the Indian Army during the Kargil war. Imagine the plight of the old parents of this young man who received his body in such a state, imagine their rage and helplessness.

We talk so much about the power of the blogosphere. What use is that power if we can not help these parents by raising this issue so that it is heard by International Human Rights Organisations? We have seen instances of main stream media in the US championing issues that were raised by bloggers. Why not in India?

I am making this post with a very clear intent. I want all those who read this post to please raise this issue on their blogs. I realize, making a general appeal like that and expecting others to post will not work. Very specifically, I would like you Chandroo and you Sambhar Mafia to raise it on your blog and make two of your friends responsible for publishing it on their blogs. If everyone does that, geometric progression will take care of spreading it to all blogs in the Indian Blogosphere.

If nothing else, just sign the online petition of Lt. Saurabh Kalia's father.

Links:
Online Petition by Lt. Saurabh Kalia's father
Geocities Page on Lt. Saurabh Kalia
Rediff Article on Lt. Saurabh Kalia
Dilip D'Souza's Post

silence ?

words threaten to consume me,
goading, teasing, twisting, snaring.
i sleep dreaming of words,
noise and disquiet.
my mind chattering,
i sink gibbering
and feverish
like a madman
beyond hope or succour,
looking
for some quiet.

rebirth

in the dark, under the stars and the sea in front. i close my eyes and feel them crash all around. surround sound. bose got nothing on this. it is, supposedly, called white noise, and i could spend an eternity listening to it. the waves rush, and break themselves apart, only to come back again. an eternal dance. the white foam and the dark waters. its an alien world, and i am in it. a million pin pricks above and the vastness before. no traffic jams, no snarls or inane laughs. no people. just the water the sky and me.

i close my eyes and drown in the sound, drown out the world. i am alien no more, this is me. i am the water raging, and breaking up and coming back to life. this is me, i am the many stars, shining down, eyes in the sky. this is me, the vastness. my head is full of a salty pungence. i inhale deep. my soul drinks it all up, restitution and healing from the dust and grime of life. life? that other pitiful excuse for one. thats alien to me now.

this is my moment. a moment stretcing across forever. buddha had his tree. i have my beach.

it wasnt your ajji

You say something. I say something. We'll collaborate.

oh, that dried up,

crone.
that wandered the streets of my youth.

what i was doing watching a crone,
when i was young,

i wish i knew.
but the dirty brown sway of her skirt that peeked under a sari.
would not be denied.

it was my first brown,
and not one i am like to forget,
rapt I looked on,
until

i tripped and fell
and looked on more brown
pushing up against my face.
all the world is hued these days
with the dying tint of a withered tree.

my mouth full of dust and some blood,
my face pink with shame.
but my ears,
ah they were full of sweet silver laughter

a brighter hue of sepia maybe, but definitely not pink.

but the laughter, tinkled on,
drawing me
i decided on the sepia,
and looked up

to hear.
i've robbed cradles in my time but not
one as sweet as yours. i'll have to let you go,
as i am now a consummate tease.

i looked on
my mouth and my mind agape,
where her skin was withered before,
i now saw a woman,
my first smile, now turning
away.

with unwonted diffidence,
i essayed a glimpse at a peek of brown
and longed for a withered crone

naya

face it,
its new,
interface,
its new.
wot say ?

a rant for you bill

calvin is six years old. and he has a stuffed tiger for a toy. only he imagines him to be real, kicking and alive. and the strip is about them. and you'd think that it was that simple.i come across phenomenal idiots who look at calvin and see a six year old, 'how cute'.

in the quiet words of the virgin mary, come again ?

which six year would talk about the permanance of his snow art inviting the user to contemplate on the intransigence of life ? and which stuffed tiger remarks about philistines on the sidewalk ?

my people. calvin is not a boy. he is a philospher never taken seriously. he is the avant garde. he is that fellow that screams in your face things that you wouldnt talk about loud. he is outside most of the biases that make us grown and those that fashion our culture and society. being beyond it all, he is dynamic quality, that is at the heart of new ideas and changing paradigms. and hobbes is the anchor. ever the paragon of good sense, he is there to counterweigh everything that calvin says against the harsh demands of a very real world.

everytime i read calvin, its magic. words fail me. i see profundity unfold in a few suqares before me.

staind

i am staind, tainted.
where went the spotless white,
that i once so coveted.

i crave for a single color,
of milky cleaness,
of undending purity,
of a landscape of soul searing brilliance.

i look,
i seek,
and my eyes hurt,
all i see is gray.

its been a while,
since i last beheld the white,
the white that i once so coveted.

wonts

i aint giving up,
i am going to read,
and i am going to write,
i am going to think,
parcelling my emotions
just right.

fading

he looked down at his watch, and screwed his face. she was going to scream at him again. he debated lingering on, just to spite her. damn her! damn it all! he bent and collected his shoes, dusted the sand out, and turned to leave.

colors.

it was a child with balloons. a rag-picker child with some colorful balloons. those are very pretty balloons for you girl, he thought, and he was ashamed. when did i become such an asshole ? the light was fading fast, and he better get home.

and the last light of the evening fell on the child's face for an instant. she was gazing up at the balloons that she held in her tiny hands.

it hit him. one of those moments that he never seemed to have words for. one of those, when nothing else existed. right now, it threatened to overwhelm him. he stood there, his heart doing a jackhammer's dance in his chest. he recogonised that ... that look.

and just as quickly it was gone, leaving him gaping at an empty beach. it was too dark now. he couldnt see the kid anymore. his mouth had gone dry. swallowing, he turned home.

she used to look at him like that. she never looked at him like that anymore. suddenly he felt cold. very cold and lonely.

where had it gone ? where had it all gone ? what was he going to do ? he started walking faster.

what am i to do ?

O progress !
thou hast made available the antibiotic,
as have you the tall building,
as have you the hope against malaria.
hope against a hard rain,
with a roof over my head.

made available the smoking factories,
and the spilling filth.
made available the vehicle,
and the noxious fumes.
made available the life saver,
with quick transportation.

should i want the one
and not the other ?
knowing full well,
that you are wont to give,
give both,
each in its own abundance ?

A dedication.

give in

dark dark mocha,
a silver of cream,
is this a dream ?

iced caramel macchiato,
a dollop of cream.
and frosted strawberries.

sweet as sin,
hot as a tart.

food or love ?

the fan fiction rant.

heh ! robin hobb is a she. no really, check out wiki on hobb, it had a woman's picture in it. and i thought the name sounded male.

right .

no this post aint about which of the hobb family chromosome pair dominated, its this - a rant. robin hobb's bile on why she doesnt dig fan fiction. she's got some very pertinent and sound points on rhetoric and writing a story. your own story. yeah, stop reading this and read her rant. she does it much better.

psst ! i got to get me a hold of her trilogy's. after the song of ice and fire, i want more, more big stories.

Love story

that I would be good even if I did nothing
that I would be good even if I got the thumbs down
that I would be good if I got and stayed sick
that I would be good even if I gained ten pounds

that I would be fine even if I went bankrupt
that I would be good if I lost my hair and my youth
that I would be great if I was no longer queen
that I would be grand if I was not all knowing ...

The words went on and on in his mind. A tune unbidden but not unwelcome.

He had found it in the attic of his father's house. A old shiny circular thing. When held at an angle in the light, it shone with all the colors of the rainbow. It was in a storage capsule. Buried deep among all the odds and ends, the only remanants of his father's now long lost life.

And paper! He had actually found something that had paper around it. Printed paper ! Paper that was almost extinct even in his father's time. But it was torn and ancient. And the printing had long since faded. 'Alanis Mor' was all he could make out.

"They used to call those compact disks, and I bet we still have a relic lying around that can read that for you", the Human-Interface to the nearest Store had said.

And so it was, that he came to own a device, with Sony written on it. It made sound when you placed the shiny round thing in it. He still remembered the first time he had turned it on. It felt funny, having to touch something physically to make it work. A woman's voice, throaty and long since dead, poured out. A soulful melody that seemed to raise his hackles. That first time it had scared him. It spoke, no, it sang of hope and yet had deep sorrow in it.

This song, he would carry to his grave. Turned on now whenever he was feeling low, it haunted him and soothed him at the same time. Reaching something deep inside him, stirring a wailing nostalgia of times bygone.

But he had known it then, the first time he had listened, that it was love at first sound.

The song that inspired this is 'That I would be Good' by Alanis Morissette. Do listen to it, if you can.
Update : this story is also posted at Mount Helicon.

Martin

Something about the howling of a wolf took a man right out of his here and now and left him in a dark forest of the mind, running naked before the pack.

Writing like that can keep you up. Oh yes. The last few hours have been spent in Winterfell, in GRR Martin's world of a Song of Ice and Fire.

ingredients

of nightime,
shrouded in silence,

of the moon,
bright with promises,

of understanding.
an empathy and
shared laughter.

of poems read,
and verses delivered.

of suprise,
and a silent wonder.

Of such things,
are assignations made.

never ending story ?

words tumble forth,
whisking me away,
on your personal jihad.
riding high on your argument,
a silent and willing
conspirator in this tirade.
blind to all else,
but your words,
i partake in this journey,
the end of which
leaves me wanting.

creation

i was meditating.

right, your turf.
your junkyard,
your lab.

your playground,
your kingdom,
your domain.

buiding castles,
tearing down mountains,
racing the plains
of your mind.

you are a god.

Trivia

from Wikipedia on Jorn Barger

"Inverse Law of Usenet Bandwidth": "The more interesting your life becomes, the less you post... and vice versa."

languor

lazing,
mom's wonderful tea,
a book,
mom's wonderful pakoras,
sitting by a window,
watching the rain.

maybe its all worth it. sometimes, just sometimes, i feel that.

" Wake up Mr. Freeman,

... wake up and smell the ashes. "

Sometime in the late nineties, Valve a game developer, previously unknown, made Half Life. That game single handedly upped the standards for an FPS game, immersing the player in a fast paced and cinematic experience. Along the way it collected every game of the year award possible.

As Gordon Freeman I stepped into Black Mesa, threw the switch, and literally, unleashed hell around the lab. Valve had just gained a fan. Armed with just a crowbar and my MIT degree in theoretical physics, I set out to save the day, gleefully unloading my double barrelled shotgun into the bad guys.

Early this year, Valve came out with the sequel to that masterpiece, and ladies and gentlemen, Half Life 2, hands down is simply the best FPS game I have played to date. Compared to this, this year's other much hyped release Doom 3 doesnt even come close to cutting it.

As Freeman, you don the HEV again, this time to save Earth from an already established alien stronghold called the Combine.

The game starts and you step into City 17.

I exit a bulding, and step on to a raised platform of some sort, and look beyond. What I see knocks me breathless for a moment. The first impression is of vastness, of immmersion into a real world, a vast city that is a virtual rendition of George Orwell's 1984. There are giant screens with a bearded big brother talking all the time. People in somber dull clothes, walk around aimlessly, the sky is a morose gray, a few birds fly across, carboard boxes and old fliers fly across my path. The buildings are old and dilapitated, some serving as makeshift offices for the Combine. The Combine seem to be everywhere. I look into the horizon , and there, eating up all of the sky, far ahead of me, is a massive tower reaching beyond eyesight up and away into the clouds. That is the Combine citadel, which you will crawl, bleed, shoot and kill your way through to, at the ending levels of the game.

A cloud parts and some sunshine leaps onto me, I look up, dazzled for a moment. I am in love. I exhaust some adjectives exclaiming how beautiful all of this is and move on, wordless. This is the first time, in a game, where I actually feel I am in a landscape, a city, a world.

Hefting my crowbar, I move on with a "I am Freeman baby, bring 'em on !"

The other thing in this game is the physics. It bloody rocks. Valve has made use of the Havok physics engine, with the result that almost everything in the game's environment behaves as it should in the real world. Shoot a wall, and the bullet richochets off the wall, leaving behind crumbling dusty holes. Lift a barrel, a box, anything and toss it around and watch it bounce, tip, roll, slide just as it would in the real world. And this physics is not just eye candy, its an important aspect of the game. Without the physics you wont get across any level in the game. Running around a level, with guns blazing, just gets you killed. Painfully at that. Instead, watch how the enemy moves, switch weapons, toss grenades, lift fridges, cars and hurl it at the enemy.

Everything from the background score (of which there is very little, and what is there is good, kicking in only in the more climatic moments ) to the faces of the other characters in the game is just splendidly done, with amazing attention to detail.
You meet Alyx, she is the daughter of former Black Mesa colleague. She helps you along at various points in the game. And she is a babe. Her face and eyes, the flawlessly done lyp-synching all come alive when she turns around to talk to you. I found myself stalling at times, just to gawk some more at her.

I round a corner and come face to face with a Combine, he is as suprised as I am, and I can actually see the hesitancy as he realizes, that is this is the Freeman, and radioes for backup, while simlutaneously lifting his gun to shoot. Not so fast you dont! I ( thankfully ) have my shotgun in hand, whip it up and squeeze a double blow into his face. I watch his head explode and he is flung back, with all of the game's rag doll physics kicking in.

There is silence in the air, broken only by a birds angry chirp as it flies away, disturbed by the gunshot. And I, oh sweet lord, can taste the adrenaline, my pulse thudding at the side of my head. A much repeated 'this game rocks' escapes my mouth, as I reload and move on.

I see Alyx approach, I need to lech ... er .. save the world people, so excuse me.

blog science

a paradise.

my imagination,
cannot rein it in.
yielding to the inevitable,
i let it roam free,
bounding across the undulating slopes,
and the fertile plains of my mind,
unfettered and true,
lambent and forceful, both at once,
giving shape,
to what dreams may,
oh, sheer joy !

Cut and paste ...

... from Will's long and pointless story about some shirt. This man does have a way with words.

"There's another fact you should know at this point, which is that nerds are not, inherently, asexual. We don't have much success with women, but that doesn't mean we are immune to their charms. Quite the opposite. We fall under such a spell that we are unable to function, and this renders us so unattractive that it creates a self-perpetuating cycle of desperate singlehood."

The heart cherishes secrets not worth the telling.

wont go down

"
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
- Dylan Thomas
"

my temper and bitterness
is all i have,
there is nothing to gain,
nothing to win they say,
no!
my temper and bitterness
is all i have,
i will rage to the very end.

fighting the darkness,
cutting through it,
my rage is a bright saber.
you shall not take me easy,
weilder of the sickle,
i will make you sweat.

my wrath burning,
will meet your cold blade,
you shall not have me easy,
i will rage to the very end.

tagged ergo post

The vagaries man tagged me. So here goes,

Books I own : 150 + (tech and non tech stuff). sad shit really, being a book lover, but hey, i just started earning. This number will grow. ( i used to survive on scavenging :-) )
Update : I forgot about ebooks, well over 3000. Yipeee!

Last book I picked up : A collection of poems by American authors, I forget the title.

Last book I read : Good Omens by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. Hilarious read.

5 books that I find special ?

1. Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Pirsig. Wont say much about this, but those who have read it, know.
2. Rendezvous with Rama. One of the first science fiction books I read, waaaay back. Always will remember this.
3. Calvin and Hobbes. Bill Watterson is god.
4. Unaccompanied Sonata by Orson Scott Card. This story tugs, tugs at something deep.
5. Ursula Le Guin's Wizard of Earthsea. Fantastic book.

And oh yes, I am supposed to pass the bug on, so these then are ze lucky ones
zimblymallu
Silverine
Phantasmogria

Darkspeak

I am God.
and i am the fallen angel
your nemesis
pitched you will be in battle
forever with me
neither will win
but i will always be there
tempting your minions
leeching away their souls
to eternal torment
every moment shall seem like armageddon
but for eternity
it will never end.

blaze

he looked down, almost empty,
the dashboard said,
but he couldnt go back now,
he floored the pedal.
his mind was blazing.

a fury like no other,
a righteous wrath,
white hot, blinding,
a nemesis he was,
for his mind was blazing.

he blinked,
and through the anger,
agony poked its head,
as a tear drop rolled down,
bringing with it,
the face of his love.

his love lying in blood.
the tear drop evaporated,
skittering on a hotness,
not humanly possible.
his mind was ablaze.

and away he went,
toward the anathema,
a ton of metal,
tires screeching,
his mind screaming.

legends came after,
after the smoke,
and with the silence,
of how one man,
so had his vengance.

a legend, of a blaze,
a blaze so hot and furious,
twas as if god himself,
lent his sword,

a careening ball of fire and fury,
to go away in a blaze of glory.

speka anglei ?

endless fascination with the english language,
the roll of the r's,
the smack of the lips,
the lift of the eyebrows,
the twist of the tongue and
the stressed 'th.
english. i love it.

rigor mortis

staring all day,
a decadent green screen
stares back.
kings and queens scattered,
in random disarray.

solitary, and bored,
solitaire then,
was all that mattered.

This short is dedicated to those blokes I know, who spend innumerable hours playing solitaire.

turn back time

cant take my eyes off of you,
there is an instant held,
by my eyes. you are glorious,
dazzling, most pretty.

looking at you is agony,
you are so beautiful, it hurts.
the world at a standstill,
i cant take my eyes off of you.

is this a dream?
no, but one fleeting instance,
that forever will be in my dreams.
cant take my mind off of you.

a greater agony, i realize,
that this is but a moment,
never to be lived in again,
never to look at your face again.

And as I walk past,
beautiful stranger,
the vision already fading,
i look once again.
cant take me eyes off of you.

Spinning yarn - The justification of Brutus.

"The fault, dear Brutus, lies not in our stars, but in ourselves."

Said he. "No", I disagreed. With each passing moment, I do something and it becomes done. I do not have a choice about it. I can not go back in time, I am not given a second shot. Things once done, stay so, forever immutable. To ponder on our faults, our traits and our talents is a pointless exercise. What might have been, good or bad, we will never know. The courses that we are on and will be, have all been preordained. What I am about to do in my next moment, and what you are about do in yours is what we were destined to do.

And so "forgive me dear Caesar" said I, unsheathing my knife, "for the fault does lie in our stars."

Another meeting.

On and on, the PSO's and the IPF's and the ROI's hit you. Big important sounding words. They hit you fast and hard. Before your brain has a chance to make an association and get to a context, 'they' are already on to another one. On and on, the never-ending story. Michale Ende did not write this one.

Meeting rooms are the place where you get paid to be caught up in the protocols, the definitions, and the how-tos while the actual idea is buried deep under.

Welcome to Dilbert country. Scott Adam's work just took on new meaning. Its not funny, its not literature, its the redeemer.

Already my vision's clouded over and my face has that hounded look. Need to escape ...escape....getaway ...roads, trees, gardens, managers(?!!)....
Charlize Theron...[dopey smile] .. zzzZZZ.

A primordial ...

... anger rips through,
hot fury,
my throat tight,

jaws clenched,
my head throbbing,
fists balled,
i take a shot.

the wall doesnt budge,
the anger is replaced by a silver of pain,
and deep regret.

Morbidities

going under.
drowning,
in things broken asunder.

glimpses of a horror,
beneath the facade.
far and away,

away from what once was,
all bright and blue and true,
I am going under.

what does it feel like to fall from grace ? Or if nothing as dramatic, to be really unfotunate. I mean really. Like what happens in our indian soaps and movies where the protagonist is beset by tragedy after tragedy.
what about perosnal ruin ? Absolute helplessness. A slow decay. Roaming among the ruins that once was your life. Beyond the point of no return. Ever so definitely towards that certain inevitability. When all that is left a vague memory of the life that was. So vague that, that the pain that was always there from the start of the decay, has dimmed to dull throbbing. Pain at remebering things as they were, now just a dull ache.

An empty shell to be put six feet under.

Some grace in human tragedy ? I think not.
*shivers*
That shit is only for the movies.

Blur

In our headlights, staring, bleak, beer cans, deer's eyes
On the asphalt underneath, our crushed plans and my lies
Lonely street signs, powerlines, they keep on flashing, flashing by

And we keep driving into the night
It's a late goodbye, such a late goodbye
And we keep driving into the night
It's a late goodbye

The words are from 'Late goodbye by Poets of the Fall'. This is what Winamp dished out just now. I have it playing randomly from over 10gb ( uh.. a *lot* ) of songs, and am often pleasantly suprised by what is in that dump.

A quick query and Larry and Page tell me that this song also featured in Max Payne.

Its been a long hard day at work, and the song captures the moment beautifully. The confused muddle of thoughts, ideas left half finished, images of the day whizzing past, snippets of conversations, snippets of code, reminders, laughs, frowns, and the fatigue. That ever present fatigue that is pulling me ever so slowly, a strong definite caress, one that does not want to be ignored.

Sleep, is all I want.

And as I slip into the twilight zone I am reminded of Going to Sleep by Herman Hesse ....

My yearning desire
Will receive more kindly,
Like a tired child, the starry night.

Hands, leave off your deeds,
Mind, forget all thoughts;
All of my forces
Yearn only to sink into sleep.

And my soul, unguarded,
Would soar on widespread wings,
To live in night's magical sphere
More profoundly, more variously.

Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, Or what's a heaven for ?
- Robert Browning

Indeed.

a fighter called Siddharth

If you will click on the title it will take you to a rediff news article about a guy called Siddarth. Siddarth has crebral palsy. He is 24. Oh and he also has a degree in economics with distinction. A person suffering from cerebral palsy has his motor coordination affected and his control over his muscles is lessened. But the mind remains normal, and in Siddharth's case exceptionally brilliant. This is akin to being imprisoned. Think about it, living with a disability, all the misconceptions, the biases, the judgements, the stares, all the while having a fine mind tick inside you.
I crib and complain about life and then once in a while I come across something like this, someone like Siddarth, and I am silenced. Kudos to him, and his parents.

In this sewltering mass of humanity, among the idiots, and the masses of the faithless, people like Siddarth go a long way towards setting right a skewed balance. They inspire, and remind me that things like hope do exist in real life.

balance.

to enjoy something,
but not be swayed by it,
to notice and raise an eyebrow,
but not a furore,
to take a hit and hit back,
but not rage,
to rise above daily banalities,
and yet remain passionate.

Balance, something one strives for, and so hard, but rarely achieved.

Dead poets society

We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race and the human race is filled with passion. Medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, "O me! O life! Of the questions of these recurring, of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life? Answer. That you are here, that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse." That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?

- Dead Poets Society.

Thanks to Vagaries.

monday morning.
chaos is in the air,
magic is loose ?
ground zero.
the midst of life,
and other surreal statements.

Is it ?

Endless inanities
come my way,
is this my fate ?
after eighteen years of toil,
to sit at a regular job.

looking up

there be masters,
work of theirs I admire,
spending days in vain emulation.

realization hits me,
few have talent born in them,
the rest, like me, work towards a zenith,
to be called masters,
one day.

In response to muh mate, this

Such rage,
Twas our saviour once.
Doth it make sense to quell it now ?
Is the world a fairer place ?

Humbled

I have a friend. I gained new respect for this friend today, as I stumbled upon something. Wanted to pen it down before I loose the moment.

This person belives deeply in something. I am at the other end of the spectrum. I have argued with this person incessantly, tried logic, reason and what not. But conviction holds this person in a death grip. I am left bewildered.

And, I havent come across another person with the patience, candour and faith in ones ideas that this person has. Especially the patience. Not just with me, but with other ..um .. brethren.

KUDOS to muh mate. I take my hat off to thee and hope that someday I grow up to have the patience, fortitude and open mindedness that you have now.

Sigh

Born out of a quiet desperation that I still indulge in sometimes. An old one this.

I am tired,
Tired of rationalising,
Tired of trying to find a purpose.
Things seem too vast and too complex,
Self-doubt plagues me.
Where am I heading ?
What if all that I am about and have been is a charade?
How will I know ? How will I know that I know ?
Circles, I am tired of them.

Sometimes a road less taken is that way for a very good reason, so said a wise man.
Ah, if only I could see a road, any road.

This is not a poem, but it is a musing.

I look out the window, and its a lovely day. Theres a slight dampness in the air, from recent rain. Its not too bright or too dark. All the leaves on the trees are a fresh green and everything about the outside is just right. It would be lovely to sit in some open air cafe, with a good book or a pretty girl.

Instead I sit here typing this.
Apr. 7th, 2005 @ 11:55 am

Insanity comes calling,
Among all the things that are broken and falling.
Throwing the towel in seems easy,
Braving the chaos not so.

The first two lines came as i was riding back home from work. Insane really, couple more years of navigating traffic in blore, and I'll be just another statistic.

This came after a day of doing nothing but reading stuff online. Hope my manager doesnt get to this.

All day long I stare at words,
All day long I dream of words,
All of the day is gone,
Another day is gone.

Musings

Inspiration comes at the oddest of places and moments. It might be when I am navigating the chaos that is Bangalore traffic or when I am on the pot.
Frustration later. More specifically when I pen down my thoughts and they dont look as grand as they did in my head. I am sure they were grand. Ahem! But to convey that grandeur to you, the reader, ah that is an art.
This blog at blogger, will be an attempt to (hopefully) become an artist.
And hopefully get that booker. While I am there, I would also love some pictures of pigs that fly.

So Jakespeak-Musings will be a listing of my attempts at writing poetry, or free verse, or whatever. Welcome.

People are born but to die,
And they take their living between slow.

Was inspired by one of Theodore Roethke's poems to write the above.

Hello world ?

Choices abound. Lj, Yahoo 360 or this ?
This from a guy, who till a year ago would have said "Blogging ? Please. I have better things to do with my time."
I have since sunk to such depths. Crossed over to the dark side. But dear virtuous reader, knowest thou the joy of push button publishing ? I wallow in it. I am such a pig.

But I digress, wot sayest thou ? LJ or Blogger ?
Blog the vote.

Update : have decided to contiue with lj for a while. Blogger shall be real estate for future cyber magnificence.