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.