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.