Just the other day, one of my professors, referring to how organizational change is dependent on the passing of generations (among other things), quipped "Things don't change overnight, things change when people die." That little aphorism is morbidly apt for today, the day they announced Osama Bin Laden is dead. OBL was allegedly found and killed near Islamabad in Pakistan, inciting celebrations all over the United States and much of the free world, especially at 'Ground Zero', where the twin towers once stood, proud symbols of America's economic and corporate power. To all those who lost their loved ones on September 11th, 2001, and in the resulting 'War on Terror', the news of OBL's death brings a sense of closure, of justice finally being done. And yet, I see no cause for celebration. All I see is another dead human being, another tragedy to add to the already long list of casualties of life in the 20th century. As one internet-wit puts it, "Lonely, deranged, religious man with kidney disease murdered in Pakistan." It is another matter that the man in question was directly responsible for the deaths of thousands of innocent people, but at the end of the day, he was just a man. The organization he led, Al Qaeda, literally means the 'way' or the 'basis', perhaps best translated as 'status quo'. Al Qaeda seeks to do what all fascist regimes have attempted (and failed) to do, to establish total control over an entire population. But history shows us that the will of the people may be suppressed for a while, but it can never be broken. Humans are an adaptable, resilient species, by nature predisposed to exercising our basic freedoms. The recent revolutions in Egypt, Libya, Algeria, Yemen and Bahrain are just the beginning of a global shift in power structures, in the way authority is exercised, and governments serve their people. A better day, and a better way of doing things is on the horizon.
No, I would not celebrate the death of OBL. I would celebrate the death of what he stood for, what all tyrants, all dictatorships, all authoritarian establishments stand for- the culture of hate and mistrust for one's fellow man. I would celebrate the end of ignorance, the end of violence, the end of the commonplace, everyday hatred that seems to reside in every human heart (but really has no place there). And I believe that I won't have to wait much longer.
tl;dr: Things don't change overnight. Things don't change when people die. Things change when people let go of the old ways, and embrace nobler ideals than the ones they are accustomed to. Imagine a better world... then make it so.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Leveraging the zeitgeist
It's a new age. Information has never been as freely accessible as in our time. The people of my generation are the first to truly embody the concept of 'global citizen', with the entire knowledge of the world at our disposal, literally at our fingertips. We are also the originators of another unique paradigm, participating daily in something that can best be referred to as the cultural conversation. It began with messages exchanged over usenet newsgroups, and has, over time, evolved quite naturally and organically into the many so-called social networks represented by services such as facebook, orkut, myspace, twitter et. al. A basic human urge is the need to be heard, to have a voice with which to share oneself with one's peers. What has been conceptualized as a 'global brain', as the ephemeral, illusive 'noosphere', is the Leviathan, and it is finally here.
Everything I have just said is wrong. The world-mind has always been a characteristic of the human race, the only difference is that now we are able to externalize, refine and track the movements of individual ideas in the noosphere. As above, so below, and so on ad infinitum in endless, fractal complexity. But you already knew this, even if you didn't know you knew it. Every generation likes to feel unique, to feel as if it is 'the first' whereas in truth, every generation is merely an echo of the previous one, albeit a more refined version, a slight variation on a familiar theme. Similarly, every generation has experience with the 'cultural conversation' in some way, shape or form. Hegel, in the 1700's, called it the 'zeitgeist'; the theosophists arrived at an approximation of it and chose to call it the 'akashic records'; the good people of 1980's Mtv called it 'pop culture' and James Cameron made a movie about it and called it 'eywa'. Our generation is unique in that our cultural conversation is truly global, in the sense that it includes more people than any other generation before us. Even our children learn how to access the internet almost as soon as they learn how to speak, if not sooner.
The gist of the matter is that being part of this grand cultural conversation, it is safe to assume that almost everyone (give or take the few inevitable outliers) is privy to the same knowledge, that there exists, at any time, a superset of collective information that is shared equally by the collective consciousness. Consider, for example, the rapid (almost virulent) spread and enduring appeal of internet memes. This opens up all kinds of possibilities in terms of marketing to this new, ultra-savvy generation. In order to appeal to the interests of the new consumer, products must be packaged accordingly, wrapped in the terminology of the 'new' generation, riffing on whatever happens to be at the forefront of the cultural conversation.
A great example is the announcement trailer for the game 'Dead Island'.
The relatively short, approximately 3 minute long trailer incorporates several tropes and idioms prominent in the current zeitgeist and then leverages them successfully, making a lasting impact on the viewer. The music is sensitive, evocative, and poignant; the opening sequence, with the close-up shot of the eye, coupled with the music, is heavily reminiscent of the wildly popular tv show LOST. The scenes that immediately follow are out of chronological sequence, running backwards inter-cut with scenes running forward, meeting halfway, highlighting the tragedy at the heart of the trailer, which is then further amplified by a short 'coda' sequence at the end of the trailer, which is, again, out of chronological sequence. This was a technique used most popularly in the movie 'Memento', and subsequently emulated in several other pop culture staples such as music videos. This is clearly not a novel technique, but it is well executed, and succeeds in engaging the viewer. Lastly, and perhaps most importantly, the trailer features zombies, a particular fixation in the current cultural consciousness. The most telling part of the entire trailer, however, is that it is completely animated using CGI and thus says nothing about the gameplay and/or the graphics of the finished product. What it does manage to do, and do quite well, is get people to notice the game. All these factors coupled together make for a compelling viewing experience and are sufficient to propel the trailer, and with it, the game, into the ongoing cultural conversation.
Which leads me to ask the inevitable question: what else are we being encouraged to talk about, and perhaps more importantly, what are we leaving out of the conversation?
Friday, February 4, 2011
F*#k Twilight.
Media Consumption Alert!
It is my duty to inform all and sundry that I am currently hip deep in Charlie Huston's 'Half the Blood of Brooklyn', the third 'Joe Pitt' casebook, and am in imminent danger of picking up the fourth and fifth volumes soon. The Joe Pitt Casebooks being the chronicles of a certain eponymous undead P.I. who often finds himself mired in unlikely (and often deadly) situations, involving bad guys, vampires (humans afflicted by a 'Vyrus' that consumes their blood, necessitating the need to periodically replenish their own bodily supply) and ..well.. 'others'.
It is my duty to inform all and sundry that I am currently hip deep in Charlie Huston's 'Half the Blood of Brooklyn', the third 'Joe Pitt' casebook, and am in imminent danger of picking up the fourth and fifth volumes soon. The Joe Pitt Casebooks being the chronicles of a certain eponymous undead P.I. who often finds himself mired in unlikely (and often deadly) situations, involving bad guys, vampires (humans afflicted by a 'Vyrus' that consumes their blood, necessitating the need to periodically replenish their own bodily supply) and ..well.. 'others'.
Major appeal: It's not twilight. This is hard-boiled, Chandleresque vamp-fiction that takes itself with a pinch of saltpeter, with a wink and a tip of the hat to classic vampire literature in the vein of Bram Stoker and (dare I say it) Anne Rice. Set in contemporary New York, the books stay true to their pulp origins, and like their traditional pulp counterparts, remain just as enjoyable - down to the last drop page.
Protip: While each book can be read separately as a standalone novel, there is an overarching storyline that is carried forward by each book until the final, stunning, conclusion, so maintaining the reading order is highly recommended.
Checklist:
- Already Dead
- No Dominion
- Half the Blood of Brooklyn
- Every Last Drop
- My Dead Body
Happy Reading!
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Indi-Pindi Day!
Patriotism [pa·tri·ot·ism] [pey-tree-uh-tiz-uhm] is...
living in a foreign country for nigh on two years, having left friends and family behind, working at a less-than-minimum-wage job for unbelievable hours at a stretch, weekdays and weekends, day in and day out, often with less than four hours of sleep to make just enough money to pay rent, busting your hump at school so you can some day hope to graduate and get a real job, one which allows you to pay off your (ever-increasing) debts, be they to your parents, towards student loans, or due to your monthly credit card payments, but still using LifeStyles brand condoms, made in INDIA [over 1.2 billion sold in the USA!]
Jai Hind! :p
living in a foreign country for nigh on two years, having left friends and family behind, working at a less-than-minimum-wage job for unbelievable hours at a stretch, weekdays and weekends, day in and day out, often with less than four hours of sleep to make just enough money to pay rent, busting your hump at school so you can some day hope to graduate and get a real job, one which allows you to pay off your (ever-increasing) debts, be they to your parents, towards student loans, or due to your monthly credit card payments, but still using LifeStyles brand condoms, made in INDIA [over 1.2 billion sold in the USA!]
Jai Hind! :p
Monday, April 19, 2010
To The One That Got Away
i had a dream about you this morning
and it was one of those
happy/sad things
because you were beautiful
(in the dream)
as always
and i enjoyed seeing you
again
and talking to you
but you
were not really
there.
And in a way
i think i
was
happy-er
that you
weren't.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Crossing the Vaitarani
'This is the terror. To have emerged from nothingness, to have a name, consciousness of self, deep inner feelings, an excruciating inner yearning for life and self-expression - and with all this yet to die.' -Ernst Becker
Splashdown. We've fallen down the hole into what looks like another cavern, which echoes with the flow of some large body of water. As my eyes adjust to the dark, I see that we are at the banks of an underground river. The river is wide, and the opposite bank is hard to see. Strange lights, like will 'o the wisps, provide some dim illumination, and by this wan light I can see my darker self sprawled on the ground some ways away. I stand up, and the blood rushes away from my head, making me dizzy. The fall has left me bruised and aching, but thankfully, nothiing is broken. I make my way to the lip of the bank, walking slowly to keep my head from spinning, my feet making soft, squishy, *crunching* noises. I can't look down to identify the source of the sounds, because I am riveted by the horrifying sight before me. The river is not water at all, but blood, and as my senses reel, I am suddenly aware of the overpowering stench of rotting flesh that pervades the entire cavern.
Before I can recover, several of the lights materialise in front of me, and rush straight at my head. My legs buckle under me and it feels as if my weight has doubled. There's a buzzing in my ears, and I'm overcome by a sudden sense of vertigo. I black out for a moment and when I come to again, I'm vaguely aware of another presence in my head.
And then I hear the screaming from behind me. I whirl around to find my adversary pitifully scrambling away from the river, only to end up cowering against the curved stone wall of the cavern, the Fear come naked in his terrified screams.
Curiously, I am not afraid. I look down at my feet, and find myself surrounded by human bones, rotting muscle, skin and offal. The 'ground' is not stone or rock, being entirely composed of the skeletal remains of countless bodies. A subterranean golgotha, a thousand times worse than any other place of death imaginable. And the odor of death permeates this place through and through. And still, I feel no fear, while my dark half rants and screams obscenities at me, desperately scrabbling to climb the walls of this place, to no avail.
I am impelled to speak. The voice and intent are mine, but the words seem to come from somewhere else, a part of me that I had no access to except perhaps in dreams. The sensation is not unpleasant, in fact quite the contrary, I feel a refreshing sense of purpose, of wholeness, of finally being in control.
"What's wrong? Isn't this what you wanted?"
"Shut up! You don't know what you've done! This isn't our time!!"
"Why? What are you so afraid of? Death?"
"Don't you be so glib you shit! What do you know of death?"
"I know that death is a fact of life. All that are born must die. I have nothing to fear from death. And neither do you."
"WORDS! More of your damnable words! YOU CAN'T DEFEAT DEATH WITH WORDS! NOBODY CAN!"
And then he breaks down, all the anger going out of him, leaving only the Fear, naked and vulnerable.
"Please. I don't want to die. Just get me out of this place. I promise, I swear, I'll leave you alone."
"You know as well as I do that's not going to happen. You are a part of me. My first reaction to the world."
"Then why are you doing this!!"
"Because you've become lost. I needed to find you again. Stripped of all your posturing, reduced to the basic facts of your being. And here we are."
"Look, this will be the end of us. You don't really want that do you? We will be returned to the void. AND I DON'T WANT TO GO BACK!!"
"Returned to the void?? Death is not a return to nothingness. Who can claim to emerge from nothing? Can you? Where did you get this body from? This form, this shape you hold, this structure holding you, can you presume to claim ownership of any of its component parts? You don't own any of it, not one molecule, not one atom. It belongs to the all, every last speck of your existence, so dont resist it, and dont deny it. Not one of us has emerged from nothing, we owe our existence to the grand infinitude of all creation. So why fear Death? We come from the All, we live and breathe the All, and to the heart of the Universe itself is where we shall go when we die. We are all of us, each one woven into the tapestry of life, there is no place for Fear in this system. Come, take my hand, brother. Let me show you."
We hold out our hand. I can see the Fear holding him back, but I can also see the Will radiating outward from Us into him, and moving along that ephemeral thread, he takes a step forward, and grasps it. The touch is electric. Everything changes. The river doesn't foam with blood anymore, its speed arrested. Time has no meaning. I am whole again, alone no more. And I know exactly what I have to do. I move towards the river, and the blood begins to churn again, lapping at my feet. A terrible black smoke fills the entire cavern, buzzing with the angry noises of a thousand insects, stinging at my eyes and throat, but I can scarcely feel any pain. I wade in to the river of souls, the blood hot, burning away at my flesh, until I am completely submerged. And I close my eyes.
Splashdown. We've fallen down the hole into what looks like another cavern, which echoes with the flow of some large body of water. As my eyes adjust to the dark, I see that we are at the banks of an underground river. The river is wide, and the opposite bank is hard to see. Strange lights, like will 'o the wisps, provide some dim illumination, and by this wan light I can see my darker self sprawled on the ground some ways away. I stand up, and the blood rushes away from my head, making me dizzy. The fall has left me bruised and aching, but thankfully, nothiing is broken. I make my way to the lip of the bank, walking slowly to keep my head from spinning, my feet making soft, squishy, *crunching* noises. I can't look down to identify the source of the sounds, because I am riveted by the horrifying sight before me. The river is not water at all, but blood, and as my senses reel, I am suddenly aware of the overpowering stench of rotting flesh that pervades the entire cavern.
Before I can recover, several of the lights materialise in front of me, and rush straight at my head. My legs buckle under me and it feels as if my weight has doubled. There's a buzzing in my ears, and I'm overcome by a sudden sense of vertigo. I black out for a moment and when I come to again, I'm vaguely aware of another presence in my head.
And then I hear the screaming from behind me. I whirl around to find my adversary pitifully scrambling away from the river, only to end up cowering against the curved stone wall of the cavern, the Fear come naked in his terrified screams.
Curiously, I am not afraid. I look down at my feet, and find myself surrounded by human bones, rotting muscle, skin and offal. The 'ground' is not stone or rock, being entirely composed of the skeletal remains of countless bodies. A subterranean golgotha, a thousand times worse than any other place of death imaginable. And the odor of death permeates this place through and through. And still, I feel no fear, while my dark half rants and screams obscenities at me, desperately scrabbling to climb the walls of this place, to no avail.
I am impelled to speak. The voice and intent are mine, but the words seem to come from somewhere else, a part of me that I had no access to except perhaps in dreams. The sensation is not unpleasant, in fact quite the contrary, I feel a refreshing sense of purpose, of wholeness, of finally being in control.
"What's wrong? Isn't this what you wanted?"
"Shut up! You don't know what you've done! This isn't our time!!"
"Why? What are you so afraid of? Death?"
"Don't you be so glib you shit! What do you know of death?"
"I know that death is a fact of life. All that are born must die. I have nothing to fear from death. And neither do you."
"WORDS! More of your damnable words! YOU CAN'T DEFEAT DEATH WITH WORDS! NOBODY CAN!"
And then he breaks down, all the anger going out of him, leaving only the Fear, naked and vulnerable.
"Please. I don't want to die. Just get me out of this place. I promise, I swear, I'll leave you alone."
"You know as well as I do that's not going to happen. You are a part of me. My first reaction to the world."
"Then why are you doing this!!"
"Because you've become lost. I needed to find you again. Stripped of all your posturing, reduced to the basic facts of your being. And here we are."
"Look, this will be the end of us. You don't really want that do you? We will be returned to the void. AND I DON'T WANT TO GO BACK!!"
"Returned to the void?? Death is not a return to nothingness. Who can claim to emerge from nothing? Can you? Where did you get this body from? This form, this shape you hold, this structure holding you, can you presume to claim ownership of any of its component parts? You don't own any of it, not one molecule, not one atom. It belongs to the all, every last speck of your existence, so dont resist it, and dont deny it. Not one of us has emerged from nothing, we owe our existence to the grand infinitude of all creation. So why fear Death? We come from the All, we live and breathe the All, and to the heart of the Universe itself is where we shall go when we die. We are all of us, each one woven into the tapestry of life, there is no place for Fear in this system. Come, take my hand, brother. Let me show you."
We hold out our hand. I can see the Fear holding him back, but I can also see the Will radiating outward from Us into him, and moving along that ephemeral thread, he takes a step forward, and grasps it. The touch is electric. Everything changes. The river doesn't foam with blood anymore, its speed arrested. Time has no meaning. I am whole again, alone no more. And I know exactly what I have to do. I move towards the river, and the blood begins to churn again, lapping at my feet. A terrible black smoke fills the entire cavern, buzzing with the angry noises of a thousand insects, stinging at my eyes and throat, but I can scarcely feel any pain. I wade in to the river of souls, the blood hot, burning away at my flesh, until I am completely submerged. And I close my eyes.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Prelude; Endgame
All is darkness. I am cold and alone, on a bare stone floor as before. My adversary, the aggressor, is none but myself. And I am alone. I'm back in the cavern again. I am on the ground, he is standing tall in his rags, all sackcloth and ashes, pacing back and forth on the cold stone floor, cackling as he tears pages from a battered old leather diary. My diary.
"Oh look, here's a fun excerpt!"
He reads an excerpt from my diary to me, one of my low points, about how I feel I'm slowly making my way through every person on the planet, alienating each one, and this makes me sad, because there are a lot of people, and its going to take me a long time to isolate myself from each one, personally.
"A tad dramatic, wouldn't you say? Oh wait, you DID say!", followed by a burst of maniacal laughter.
I shift my weight around, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. There is no visible source of light, and yet I'm able to 'see' him/me.
"Why do you look like me? Who are you?", I ask again.
"Isn't it obvious? I am the God of HELLFIRE, and I bring you.. naah, just kidding. I AM you. Well, a part of you anyway. I'm the one who cautions you against risk, the little voice in your head that keeps you from killing yourself every time, the part of you that hates everything else. Sad but true!"
As he speaks, he becomes more animated, and conversely, I feel weaker. He seems to be drawing the strength right out of me, feeding his own frail frame, appearing taller, more imposing with each word.
"You've been digging yourself into this hole for a long time, my man. I'm just here to liven up the atmosphere!", so saying, he grabs me by the neck, and I'm dragged towards the lip of what I now see is a deep chasm, powerless to resist.
"You're gonna fall for a loooong time, boy. Are you sure you want to do this? The risks are high in this game, and the dice are loaded aaaall the way down!"
I've always been scared of heights. Enjoying my fear, he stands over me, and recites from another page..
"The heights by mediocre men reached and kept, were not attained by sudden flight, but they, whilst their companions slept, soiled their underpants in their fright! Aahahahaha! Derivative, to be sure, but how apt! A visionary sir, truly!"
And just then, I realize what's happening here. If he is me, then I am him. And this is all just a sick fucking game in my head. But there's only one way to find out.
As he's about to speak again, I interrupt loudly from the floor, "Oi! That's MY diary you're reading from, and I've had high times as well as low. Turn the page, fucker. I'm not all about the gloom and doom. There's self-absorbed misery, and there's flashes of light and brightness." He's visibly taken aback by this sudden change in my demeanor, and I take advantage of his hesitation.
"You might be one aspect of me, but I have more than just one face. I wear several masks, and you're only my least favorite. You think you're in control of the situation, but you've got it all upside down. You think you can scare me by dangling me over this precipice, this black hole in my psyche that I've been running away from? I'm willing to bet that you're more afraid of this than I am." Saying this, I leap off the floor towards him, and grabbing him in a strange, awkward hug, I push us both over the edge and into the darkness.
"Oh look, here's a fun excerpt!"
He reads an excerpt from my diary to me, one of my low points, about how I feel I'm slowly making my way through every person on the planet, alienating each one, and this makes me sad, because there are a lot of people, and its going to take me a long time to isolate myself from each one, personally.
"A tad dramatic, wouldn't you say? Oh wait, you DID say!", followed by a burst of maniacal laughter.
I shift my weight around, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. There is no visible source of light, and yet I'm able to 'see' him/me.
"Why do you look like me? Who are you?", I ask again.
"Isn't it obvious? I am the God of HELLFIRE, and I bring you.. naah, just kidding. I AM you. Well, a part of you anyway. I'm the one who cautions you against risk, the little voice in your head that keeps you from killing yourself every time, the part of you that hates everything else. Sad but true!"
As he speaks, he becomes more animated, and conversely, I feel weaker. He seems to be drawing the strength right out of me, feeding his own frail frame, appearing taller, more imposing with each word.
"You've been digging yourself into this hole for a long time, my man. I'm just here to liven up the atmosphere!", so saying, he grabs me by the neck, and I'm dragged towards the lip of what I now see is a deep chasm, powerless to resist.
"You're gonna fall for a loooong time, boy. Are you sure you want to do this? The risks are high in this game, and the dice are loaded aaaall the way down!"
I've always been scared of heights. Enjoying my fear, he stands over me, and recites from another page..
"The heights by mediocre men reached and kept, were not attained by sudden flight, but they, whilst their companions slept, soiled their underpants in their fright! Aahahahaha! Derivative, to be sure, but how apt! A visionary sir, truly!"
And just then, I realize what's happening here. If he is me, then I am him. And this is all just a sick fucking game in my head. But there's only one way to find out.
As he's about to speak again, I interrupt loudly from the floor, "Oi! That's MY diary you're reading from, and I've had high times as well as low. Turn the page, fucker. I'm not all about the gloom and doom. There's self-absorbed misery, and there's flashes of light and brightness." He's visibly taken aback by this sudden change in my demeanor, and I take advantage of his hesitation.
"You might be one aspect of me, but I have more than just one face. I wear several masks, and you're only my least favorite. You think you're in control of the situation, but you've got it all upside down. You think you can scare me by dangling me over this precipice, this black hole in my psyche that I've been running away from? I'm willing to bet that you're more afraid of this than I am." Saying this, I leap off the floor towards him, and grabbing him in a strange, awkward hug, I push us both over the edge and into the darkness.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Too Long for Facebook
It's Sunday evening. I have just awakened from a day-long dream. As I sit up on the couch, shaking the stardust from my hair, I have the strange, unsettling sensation that somewhere, I'm still asleep and dreaming. And then I'm looking out my window watching the moon rise. And then I realize I can hear Iron and Wine's version of Such Great Heights playing somewhere off-camera. And then I think I'm going to cry. But then I wake up. And everything is exactly the same.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
But for Today, I'm Just Happy (That You're Not Here to See Me)
Ever get that feeling, like your life is being written by a mad, drunken, crotchety old poet
who, ranting against the world, prophesies your misfortunes with unnerving accuracy?
Me neither.
Yesterday
I went out
into the sun:
a rare thing for me;
long accustomed
to dimly lit
rooms
with peeling wallpaper
and
overflowing trashcans.
Passing by an old saloon,
a bum asked me for change
I gave him my last cigarette, instead
He looked at me with watery eyes
and muttered "fuck you"
tossing it back at me
disgusted, insulted
his wrinkled face
and crazy eyes
retreating now into the purple haze of memory.
smoking
coughing
i walk around town late at night
the policemen know me
by now
and ignore my carcass
while
the prostitutes on the corner
wait
for sunrise
tapping nails,
(chipped)
on lampposts,
(phallic)
scratching at moles on stretch-marked thighs
red lipstick smiles
smeared
across the face of night
back home, last friday,
a man he asked me
when cottage cheese
tasted better,
before
or
after,
the coming of Christ.
It depends
(i said)
on where your shadow falls
at sunset on a rainy day
but then again
one can never be sure
about these things
especially
if you've been drinking
the vinegary gray wine of despair
as long as i have.
the world went crazy
without me
and so i stayed sane
if only just to spite you
Or maybe
I'm
still lie-ing
in a meadow
by a river somewhere
watching
your reflection
as it slowly waxes
and sometimes wanes
within me.
before you go,
let me just say
how i always loved
the emptiness
inside you..
Tomorrow morning
I promise,
i'll bring you flowers
instead of
bad poetry.
who, ranting against the world, prophesies your misfortunes with unnerving accuracy?
Me neither.
Yesterday
I went out
into the sun:
a rare thing for me;
long accustomed
to dimly lit
rooms
with peeling wallpaper
and
overflowing trashcans.
Passing by an old saloon,
a bum asked me for change
I gave him my last cigarette, instead
He looked at me with watery eyes
and muttered "fuck you"
tossing it back at me
disgusted, insulted
his wrinkled face
and crazy eyes
retreating now into the purple haze of memory.
smoking
coughing
i walk around town late at night
the policemen know me
by now
and ignore my carcass
while
the prostitutes on the corner
wait
for sunrise
tapping nails,
(chipped)
on lampposts,
(phallic)
scratching at moles on stretch-marked thighs
red lipstick smiles
smeared
across the face of night
back home, last friday,
a man he asked me
when cottage cheese
tasted better,
before
or
after,
the coming of Christ.
It depends
(i said)
on where your shadow falls
at sunset on a rainy day
but then again
one can never be sure
about these things
especially
if you've been drinking
the vinegary gray wine of despair
as long as i have.
the world went crazy
without me
and so i stayed sane
if only just to spite you
Or maybe
I'm
still lie-ing
in a meadow
by a river somewhere
watching
your reflection
as it slowly waxes
and sometimes wanes
within me.
before you go,
let me just say
how i always loved
the emptiness
inside you..
Tomorrow morning
I promise,
i'll bring you flowers
instead of
bad poetry.
Monday, March 8, 2010
an homage to Das Uberwoman
Let me start this off by being very clear. I don't celebrate women's day. Simply because the female of the species deserves more than just one day of being given the respect she rightfully deserves.
Women are an embodiment of the female aspect of Creation, and should be treated as such, as equals in all human affairs. Men and women complement each other's qualities and capabilities, and are merely two halves of the same whole, like yin and yang, existing in a state of co-related, mutually dependent, and dynamic harmony.
Unfortunately, in recent memory, the feminine principle has been suppressed by religions obsessed with masculinity, devolved versions of originally monotheistic religions that recognized the existence of the One in the Many. We must return to basic principles, learning from the past. Just as the mystical traditions speak of Adam and Eve, the primal male and female pair, there exist too the ultimal pair, the ones that epitomise our divinity. The Super-Man and..
The SuperWoman
By Ella Wheeler Wilcox
What will the superwoman be, of whom we sing -
She who is coming over the dim border
Of Far To-morrow, after earth’s disorder
Is tidied up by Time? What will she bring
To make life better on tempestuous earth?
How will her worth
Be greater than her forbears? What new power
Within her being will burst into flower?
She will bring beauty, not the transient dower
Of adolescence which departs with youth -
But beauty based on knowledge of the truth
Of its eternal message and the source
Of all its potent force.
Her outer being by the inner thought
Shall into lasting loveliness be wrought.
She will bring virtue; but it will not be
The pale, white blossom of cold chastity
Which hides a barren heart. She will be human -
Not saint or angel, but the superwoman -
Mother and mate and friend of superman.
She will bring strength to aid the larger Plan,
Wisdom and strength and sweetness all combined,
Drawn from the Cosmic Mind -
Wisdom to act, strength to attain,
And sweetness that finds growth in joy or pain.
She will bring that large virtue, self-control,
And cherish it as her supremest treasure.
Not at the call of sense or for man’s pleasure
Will she invite from space an embryo soul,
To live on earth again in mortal fashion,
Unless love stirs her with divinest passion.
To motherhood she will bring common sense -
That most uncommon virtue. She will give
Love that is more than she-wolf violence
(Which slaughters others that its own may live).
Love that will help each little tendril mind
To grow and climb;
Love that will know the lordliest use of Time
In training human egos to be kind.
She will be formed to guide, but not to lead -
Leaders are ever lonely - and her sphere
Will be that of the comrade and the mate,
Loved, loving, and with insight fine and clear,
Which casts its searchlight on the course of fate,
And to the leaders says, ‘Proceed’ or ‘Wait.’
And best of all, she will bring holy faith
To penetrate the shadowy world of death,
And show the road beyond it, bright and broad,
That leads straight up to God.
... and all will be One again. Ah bugger it, a very happy women's day to you all. Peace, Love and Respect! :)
Women are an embodiment of the female aspect of Creation, and should be treated as such, as equals in all human affairs. Men and women complement each other's qualities and capabilities, and are merely two halves of the same whole, like yin and yang, existing in a state of co-related, mutually dependent, and dynamic harmony.
Unfortunately, in recent memory, the feminine principle has been suppressed by religions obsessed with masculinity, devolved versions of originally monotheistic religions that recognized the existence of the One in the Many. We must return to basic principles, learning from the past. Just as the mystical traditions speak of Adam and Eve, the primal male and female pair, there exist too the ultimal pair, the ones that epitomise our divinity. The Super-Man and..
The SuperWoman
By Ella Wheeler Wilcox
What will the superwoman be, of whom we sing -
She who is coming over the dim border
Of Far To-morrow, after earth’s disorder
Is tidied up by Time? What will she bring
To make life better on tempestuous earth?
How will her worth
Be greater than her forbears? What new power
Within her being will burst into flower?
She will bring beauty, not the transient dower
Of adolescence which departs with youth -
But beauty based on knowledge of the truth
Of its eternal message and the source
Of all its potent force.
Her outer being by the inner thought
Shall into lasting loveliness be wrought.
She will bring virtue; but it will not be
The pale, white blossom of cold chastity
Which hides a barren heart. She will be human -
Not saint or angel, but the superwoman -
Mother and mate and friend of superman.
She will bring strength to aid the larger Plan,
Wisdom and strength and sweetness all combined,
Drawn from the Cosmic Mind -
Wisdom to act, strength to attain,
And sweetness that finds growth in joy or pain.
She will bring that large virtue, self-control,
And cherish it as her supremest treasure.
Not at the call of sense or for man’s pleasure
Will she invite from space an embryo soul,
To live on earth again in mortal fashion,
Unless love stirs her with divinest passion.
To motherhood she will bring common sense -
That most uncommon virtue. She will give
Love that is more than she-wolf violence
(Which slaughters others that its own may live).
Love that will help each little tendril mind
To grow and climb;
Love that will know the lordliest use of Time
In training human egos to be kind.
She will be formed to guide, but not to lead -
Leaders are ever lonely - and her sphere
Will be that of the comrade and the mate,
Loved, loving, and with insight fine and clear,
Which casts its searchlight on the course of fate,
And to the leaders says, ‘Proceed’ or ‘Wait.’
And best of all, she will bring holy faith
To penetrate the shadowy world of death,
And show the road beyond it, bright and broad,
That leads straight up to God.
... and all will be One again. Ah bugger it, a very happy women's day to you all. Peace, Love and Respect! :)
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
the heart of the lotus is one
"Ye ask, who are those that draw us to the kingdom, if the kingdom is in Heaven? ...the fowls of the air, and all beasts that are under the earth or upon the earth, and the fishes of the sea, these are they which draw you, and the kingdom of Heaven is within you; and whoever shall know himself shall find it. Strive, therefore, to know yourselves, and ye shall be aware that ye are the sons of the almighty Father; and ye shall know that ye are in the city of God, and ye are the city."
We are living in a time when it is possible for us to take control of our destiny as a species. The transition from child to adult, from novice to initiate, from human to superhuman, does not occur by itself. It requires dedication, the conscious exercise of will, and a rigorous process of constant self-improvement through self-examination. Exposing oneself to the scrutiny of the mind's eye is not easy, but it is necessary if one wishes to refine one's consciousness.
As humans, we are all living in a state of violence. The primal urge for violence finds expression in anger, in hate, in resentment and suspicion of one's fellow beings and is satiated only when it returns, magnified manifold, to its originator, in its pure form, as violence. The instinct for self-preservation is a throwback to an antediluvian period in our development. It is one of the many outmoded 'instincts' holding us back from achieving our full potential. The Golden Rule, in its many forms, teaches us the secret of peaceful co-existence- empathy. Only when we reconcile ourselves with the world, and the people around us, can we truly be happy. The instinct for self-preservation has no basis if we eliminate the concept of 'self' from our lexicon. Us and them; You and I; are both one and the same. Love thy neighbour as you would love thyself. We are all made from the same dust, breathe the same air, and are all destined to return to the same Source.
'God' is a fountain that flows back into itself. The concept of eternal return is crucial to this understanding. Nothing ends that does not have a beginning, and nothing begins that does not have an ending. All is governed by the law of cause and effect. All causes bear the seeds of their effects, and all effects bear the mark of the cause that set them into motion. The final nullity is also the birthing ground of infinity. The space between is where one who seeks can hope to find a trace of our divinity.
The urge to communicate, to make our thoughts apparent, is what drives us. We are unique, as a species, in the sense that we are the only ones to have codified a system of communication, a method by which we can relate to our fellow beings. We have created the glorious mystery of language, and have become captivated by it. Enchanted by the words we speak, we lose sight of the meaning those words convey, and a crucial element is thus lost in translation. The pointing finger is not the moon. There are other, more subtle means of communication available to us, if only we choose to perceive them.
The world is not as it seems. All that we perceive is not all that is. There is an unseen dimension to the world, one that cannot be made apparent by relying on our five senses alone. But when all our senses are in harmony, and when we learn not to rely on one at the expense of the others, we are able to access a 'sixth sense', as it were, one that is composed of all five senses feeding into the mind together, simultaneously. This is the state of nirvana alluded to by the ancients, and accessible to a Buddha. To perceive the world in such a manner is to see the All as it really is, not in part, but in whole. And with this opening of the third eye, the last remaining door of perception is thrown open, and the Mind-of-the-One is allowed to become one with the Mind-of-the-Many. Savitri, Gayatri and Saraswati; Srishti, Stithi, and Vinash; the balance represented by Yin and Yang, between Being and Not-Being, and the creative chaos represented by the Spirit, which, in turn, arises from the tension between any two opposing values; are all reconciled within the Logos.
But don't just take my word for it. Look within and without, and see for yourself :)
"Let not him who seeks... cease until he finds, and when he finds he shall be astonished; astonished he shall reach the kingdom, and having reached the kingdom he shall rest."
We are living in a time when it is possible for us to take control of our destiny as a species. The transition from child to adult, from novice to initiate, from human to superhuman, does not occur by itself. It requires dedication, the conscious exercise of will, and a rigorous process of constant self-improvement through self-examination. Exposing oneself to the scrutiny of the mind's eye is not easy, but it is necessary if one wishes to refine one's consciousness.
'AUM'- so chanted, in parable, the ancient Indian Seers-
Is the three-fold basic vibration, the musical sound
'To Be', Being, and Ceasing-from-being.
Unfolding as a lovely flower, eight-petalled,
An octave of consequential notes:
Seven the grades, the inter-locking ratios,
The fellowship linking the Many in the One
With the bond of brotherhood, of a common Father as sons.
Is the three-fold basic vibration, the musical sound
'To Be', Being, and Ceasing-from-being.
Unfolding as a lovely flower, eight-petalled,
An octave of consequential notes:
Seven the grades, the inter-locking ratios,
The fellowship linking the Many in the One
With the bond of brotherhood, of a common Father as sons.
As humans, we are all living in a state of violence. The primal urge for violence finds expression in anger, in hate, in resentment and suspicion of one's fellow beings and is satiated only when it returns, magnified manifold, to its originator, in its pure form, as violence. The instinct for self-preservation is a throwback to an antediluvian period in our development. It is one of the many outmoded 'instincts' holding us back from achieving our full potential. The Golden Rule, in its many forms, teaches us the secret of peaceful co-existence- empathy. Only when we reconcile ourselves with the world, and the people around us, can we truly be happy. The instinct for self-preservation has no basis if we eliminate the concept of 'self' from our lexicon. Us and them; You and I; are both one and the same. Love thy neighbour as you would love thyself. We are all made from the same dust, breathe the same air, and are all destined to return to the same Source.
'A', they said, as they chanted solemnly,
Is the sound of building up,
'M', they said, is the sound of breaking down,
And 'U' is the bridging sound of serialization
Sustaining, extending, holding in balance
The ebb and the flow of Being's course
-The 'Yang' and the 'Yin', the Chinese poets called it-
The relation between that we know as Time,
As Space, or as Consciousness,
Enabling the 'I' to conceive a 'Thou'.
Is the sound of building up,
'M', they said, is the sound of breaking down,
And 'U' is the bridging sound of serialization
Sustaining, extending, holding in balance
The ebb and the flow of Being's course
-The 'Yang' and the 'Yin', the Chinese poets called it-
The relation between that we know as Time,
As Space, or as Consciousness,
Enabling the 'I' to conceive a 'Thou'.
'God' is a fountain that flows back into itself. The concept of eternal return is crucial to this understanding. Nothing ends that does not have a beginning, and nothing begins that does not have an ending. All is governed by the law of cause and effect. All causes bear the seeds of their effects, and all effects bear the mark of the cause that set them into motion. The final nullity is also the birthing ground of infinity. The space between is where one who seeks can hope to find a trace of our divinity.
Gayatri, the Indian sages called this measure,
The 'bird' Gayatri, swift hawk, flight of the Eagle to the Sun,
Bearer of the Plant of continued life
From generation to generation, spanning Time.
Said they, who hummed this mantra Sound,
Seeking thus to demonstrate
The Wheel of the law of progression:
Within the Cause lies the Effect,
Within the 'I' the seed of 'Thou',
Within that inconceivable, the limitless Eternal,
Lies Time, Space, what is, and what is not,
The germ of generation.
The 'bird' Gayatri, swift hawk, flight of the Eagle to the Sun,
Bearer of the Plant of continued life
From generation to generation, spanning Time.
Said they, who hummed this mantra Sound,
Seeking thus to demonstrate
The Wheel of the law of progression:
Within the Cause lies the Effect,
Within the 'I' the seed of 'Thou',
Within that inconceivable, the limitless Eternal,
Lies Time, Space, what is, and what is not,
The germ of generation.
The urge to communicate, to make our thoughts apparent, is what drives us. We are unique, as a species, in the sense that we are the only ones to have codified a system of communication, a method by which we can relate to our fellow beings. We have created the glorious mystery of language, and have become captivated by it. Enchanted by the words we speak, we lose sight of the meaning those words convey, and a crucial element is thus lost in translation. The pointing finger is not the moon. There are other, more subtle means of communication available to us, if only we choose to perceive them.
The 'Heart' that 'speaks', the Egyptian Seers called it-
That utters the 'Word' we know as 'Creation'.
'Thoth', they named it, Tongue and Messenger,
Executive of the Power TO BE.
That utters the 'Word' we know as 'Creation'.
'Thoth', they named it, Tongue and Messenger,
Executive of the Power TO BE.
The world is not as it seems. All that we perceive is not all that is. There is an unseen dimension to the world, one that cannot be made apparent by relying on our five senses alone. But when all our senses are in harmony, and when we learn not to rely on one at the expense of the others, we are able to access a 'sixth sense', as it were, one that is composed of all five senses feeding into the mind together, simultaneously. This is the state of nirvana alluded to by the ancients, and accessible to a Buddha. To perceive the world in such a manner is to see the All as it really is, not in part, but in whole. And with this opening of the third eye, the last remaining door of perception is thrown open, and the Mind-of-the-One is allowed to become one with the Mind-of-the-Many. Savitri, Gayatri and Saraswati; Srishti, Stithi, and Vinash; the balance represented by Yin and Yang, between Being and Not-Being, and the creative chaos represented by the Spirit, which, in turn, arises from the tension between any two opposing values; are all reconciled within the Logos.
Eight-petalled Lotus, City of the Eight,
Octave of potentiality, all things containing,
Maintaining, and at the end resuming:
Lovely Harmonia's musical manifestation,
Source and Sum of Number,
Father and Mother of Doing, Being, and Knowing-
Within thy cup, O Flower, those Seers saw enshrined
The Golden Seed of Being's cycle:
Verily, they sang, the Heart of this Lotus is ONE.
Octave of potentiality, all things containing,
Maintaining, and at the end resuming:
Lovely Harmonia's musical manifestation,
Source and Sum of Number,
Father and Mother of Doing, Being, and Knowing-
Within thy cup, O Flower, those Seers saw enshrined
The Golden Seed of Being's cycle:
Verily, they sang, the Heart of this Lotus is ONE.
But don't just take my word for it. Look within and without, and see for yourself :)
"Let not him who seeks... cease until he finds, and when he finds he shall be astonished; astonished he shall reach the kingdom, and having reached the kingdom he shall rest."
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Dreaming at the wall of mystery
Hm. Haven't posted on the blog in a while. Well, here's another exciting segment of Rev. Joshi's Travelling Salvation Show; Storytime!
The Wall of Mystery [as retold by Anne Twitty; Parabola 1986]
Far in the East there was once a wall of mystery. Few people approached it. Occasionally, however, someone more daring than the rest made his way to the wall and began to climb. It was not easy to climb to the top of the wall, but some persevered. Those who reached the top of the wall and looked over to the other side were seen to smile; then they slipped over the wall and were never seen again.
After a while, the people of that country learned to recognize the signs that told them someone was about to approach the wall. That person's eyes would begin to stare through and beyond his surroundings. He grew forgetful, and would often fail to answer questions put to him, seeming absorbed in other questions, the nature of which was obscure to those around him.
Though the people did not want to risk climbing the wall themselves, they very much wanted to know what lay on the other side of it. The next time they noticed someone with staring eyes and the look of inner vision, they brought chains and waited beside the wall. As the young man began to climb, they seized his feet and fastened chains to them. Still, he climbed upward, until at last he reached the top of the wall.
He looked over. He smiled, just as the others had, a smile of rapture. The men at the foot of the wall, overcome with curiosity, pulled on the chains, and pulled him back. Eagerly, they began to question him. What was it like on the other side? Why had he smiled? What had he seen? But none of their questions were ever answered. By the time the young man's feet touched the ground, he had lost the power of speech.
~end sermon~
Obligatory, obfuscated hidden link here.
The Wall of Mystery [as retold by Anne Twitty; Parabola 1986]
Far in the East there was once a wall of mystery. Few people approached it. Occasionally, however, someone more daring than the rest made his way to the wall and began to climb. It was not easy to climb to the top of the wall, but some persevered. Those who reached the top of the wall and looked over to the other side were seen to smile; then they slipped over the wall and were never seen again.
After a while, the people of that country learned to recognize the signs that told them someone was about to approach the wall. That person's eyes would begin to stare through and beyond his surroundings. He grew forgetful, and would often fail to answer questions put to him, seeming absorbed in other questions, the nature of which was obscure to those around him.
Though the people did not want to risk climbing the wall themselves, they very much wanted to know what lay on the other side of it. The next time they noticed someone with staring eyes and the look of inner vision, they brought chains and waited beside the wall. As the young man began to climb, they seized his feet and fastened chains to them. Still, he climbed upward, until at last he reached the top of the wall.
He looked over. He smiled, just as the others had, a smile of rapture. The men at the foot of the wall, overcome with curiosity, pulled on the chains, and pulled him back. Eagerly, they began to question him. What was it like on the other side? Why had he smiled? What had he seen? But none of their questions were ever answered. By the time the young man's feet touched the ground, he had lost the power of speech.
~end sermon~
Obligatory, obfuscated hidden link here.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
and as I fell, I heard a voice say..
It's 4am. Shouldn't you be asleep?
>Hmph. I should be dead.
Dead? Now why would you say something like that?
>I dunno. Just.
Are you afraid of dying?
>I dunno. Maybe..
Hm. Why do you think that is?
>What are you, my shrink? Lay off!
Now now. No need to be so confrontational, we're all friends here.
>Speaking of which, where exactly is "here"?
It's a place..
>..in my head..
..Well, yes. And no.
>Explain.
I can't.
>Why not?
You're supposed to figure it out on your own.
>Ah. I see.
Not yet you don't. But you will.
>How?
Well, traditionally, you'd start with opening your eyes.
>Oh wow. Another straight answer. Great.
I think you already know what I have to say to that.
>...
>I'm asking the wrong questions..?
Oh no. You're asking the right questions, sure enough. It's just..
>What?
..the wrong time. It's too early in the story to start revealing all the answers.
>I call bullshit.
You can call whatever you like, it doesn't change the fact that I can't tell you anything right now.
We shouldn't even be having this conversation yet. There's a ton of exposition to go through first, character development, foreshadowing, yadda yadda yadda. And remember, always keep an ace up your sleeve. You gotta keep the audience guessing.
>Oh please. "Always leave them wanting more". What a cliche.
Don't underestimate the power of a cliche.
>Sigh. I suppose now you'll explain.
And how can you say that?
>I dunno. Just a feeling I have.
What kind of feeling?
>Like I've..lived this..before. Like deja vu, only weirder.
Indeed. This particular facility of yours is going to come in very handy, in the days to come. You've only been skimming the surfaces so far, floating along with the currents, but you really need to learn how to surf the waves. Now if only you could combine the two..
>The two what?
Foresight and hindsight.
>Ah. And what good would that do me?
You'd finally be able to perceive life the way it was meant to be perceived.
>In glorious stereoscope?
Something like that. But you need to take it one step at a time. You're close to the edges of it, but you're too easily distracted, too eager to make the leap. Here's an image.
>That's my grandmother. What does she.. oh.
Exactly. Remember what she used to say?
>"Nanga koode ujaad mein." The naked man jumps into a wasteland.
Indeed. As she put it, it is the prerogative of the naked, the unprepared, and the reckless, to throw caution to the wind, and jump willy-nilly into the barren wasteland of hopelessness. "What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow out of this stony rubbish? Son of Man, you cannot say, or guess, for you know only a heap of broken images, where the sun beats.."
>I must confess, I have no idea what you've been going on about. Actually, I'm quite lost.
Indeed you are. You do realize there is an easy way to deal with that particular issue?
>And what would that be?
Go find yourself!
>Ah. Brilliant.
Aren't I? Well, looks like my work here is done. Cheerio, pip pip, and all that. Keep a stiff upper lip and all, the excrement, it's going to be flying thick and fast pretty soon. And I'm afraid I won't be too much help this time. It's still too early for me to make an actual appearance, and I've tarried too long as it is. I mean, you haven't even written in my grand entrance yet.
>But I don't even know who you are!
Ahem. I daresay I'm tempted to resort to another popular cliche. Summat to do with pots and kettles, if you catch my drift.
>What does that even mean??
Nevermind. Oh look, a random reference to a song that doesn't quite fit but has a deeper meaning when considered in the context of this particular incident/blog post/drivel!
>What, where??
Here.
>Hmph. I should be dead.
Dead? Now why would you say something like that?
>I dunno. Just.
Are you afraid of dying?
>I dunno. Maybe..
Hm. Why do you think that is?
>What are you, my shrink? Lay off!
Now now. No need to be so confrontational, we're all friends here.
>Speaking of which, where exactly is "here"?
It's a place..
>..in my head..
..Well, yes. And no.
>Explain.
I can't.
>Why not?
You're supposed to figure it out on your own.
>Ah. I see.
Not yet you don't. But you will.
>How?
Well, traditionally, you'd start with opening your eyes.
>Oh wow. Another straight answer. Great.
I think you already know what I have to say to that.
>...
>I'm asking the wrong questions..?
Oh no. You're asking the right questions, sure enough. It's just..
>What?
..the wrong time. It's too early in the story to start revealing all the answers.
>I call bullshit.
You can call whatever you like, it doesn't change the fact that I can't tell you anything right now.
We shouldn't even be having this conversation yet. There's a ton of exposition to go through first, character development, foreshadowing, yadda yadda yadda. And remember, always keep an ace up your sleeve. You gotta keep the audience guessing.
>Oh please. "Always leave them wanting more". What a cliche.
Don't underestimate the power of a cliche.
>Sigh. I suppose now you'll explain.
And how can you say that?
>I dunno. Just a feeling I have.
What kind of feeling?
>Like I've..lived this..before. Like deja vu, only weirder.
Indeed. This particular facility of yours is going to come in very handy, in the days to come. You've only been skimming the surfaces so far, floating along with the currents, but you really need to learn how to surf the waves. Now if only you could combine the two..
>The two what?
Foresight and hindsight.
>Ah. And what good would that do me?
You'd finally be able to perceive life the way it was meant to be perceived.
>In glorious stereoscope?
Something like that. But you need to take it one step at a time. You're close to the edges of it, but you're too easily distracted, too eager to make the leap. Here's an image.
>That's my grandmother. What does she.. oh.
Exactly. Remember what she used to say?
>"Nanga koode ujaad mein." The naked man jumps into a wasteland.
Indeed. As she put it, it is the prerogative of the naked, the unprepared, and the reckless, to throw caution to the wind, and jump willy-nilly into the barren wasteland of hopelessness. "What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow out of this stony rubbish? Son of Man, you cannot say, or guess, for you know only a heap of broken images, where the sun beats.."
>I must confess, I have no idea what you've been going on about. Actually, I'm quite lost.
Indeed you are. You do realize there is an easy way to deal with that particular issue?
>And what would that be?
Go find yourself!
>Ah. Brilliant.
Aren't I? Well, looks like my work here is done. Cheerio, pip pip, and all that. Keep a stiff upper lip and all, the excrement, it's going to be flying thick and fast pretty soon. And I'm afraid I won't be too much help this time. It's still too early for me to make an actual appearance, and I've tarried too long as it is. I mean, you haven't even written in my grand entrance yet.
>But I don't even know who you are!
Ahem. I daresay I'm tempted to resort to another popular cliche. Summat to do with pots and kettles, if you catch my drift.
>What does that even mean??
Nevermind. Oh look, a random reference to a song that doesn't quite fit but has a deeper meaning when considered in the context of this particular incident/blog post/drivel!
>What, where??
Here.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Incoming Message from the Big Giant Head
Greetings, faithful readers! Just a quick update, November being National Novel Writing Month, expect limited bloggery. The downward spiral story will continue in December, so bear with us! Rukaavat ke liye khed hai, and all that.
50,000 words by November 30th. Woot! :D
ps : if anybody else is participating, I'm bluechartreuse.
50,000 words by November 30th. Woot! :D
ps : if anybody else is participating, I'm bluechartreuse.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Denial
I'm falling. How far can I fall before I reach the bottom? I'm falling. At some point, I lose consciousness.
Something cold slithers across my face, leaving a trail of slime. I'm awake, but I can't move.
I'm lying flat on the ground, no telling where, but on the bright side, I can feel all my limbs, and nothing seems to be broken. And then I hear it. Harsh, ragged breathing, off to the left, and directly above my head. I turn my head to look, but all I can make out through the shadows is a humanoid shape, squatting over me. What the hell..? I try to stay very still but it's too late, the thing seems to sense that I'm awake.
With a flash of crooked, rotting teeth, the creature says, "Welcome to denial", its voice dripping with malicious glee.
"Wh..where am I? What is this place?"
"I'll give you one hint, it's NOT a river in egypt!", the thing replies and cackles, the sound echoing off stone walls, raucous and obscene.
I prop myself up on an elbow, and take a look around. I seem to be in a cavern of some sort, judging from the way the sound echoes in here, but it's too dark to see anything clearly. I try to get up, but my head starts to spin almost immediately, and I fall back to the floor.
"Now now cully, that won't do.. make an effort. Come on." I can almost see the cruel, mocking smile on its lips. "I dare you to move!" I fall back into oblivion, peals of laughter following me all the way.
I'm falling again. Deeper still?
I wake up. I'm in a chair. I feel too lightheaded to try getting up, so I stay where I am and wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. The smell registers first. The strong, sharp smell of hospitals. Disinfectant and blood. The room is strangely familiar, and then I realise I'm sitting next to a hospital bed. There's a bottle of IV fluid suspended next to it. Deja vu. I've been here before. Recently. I don't want to know who's in the bed. I don't want to look, but I can't turn my head away.
What's happening now? My arms are so small, my fingers are so tiny. I can't move again. I think I've wet myself. Oh fuck, I think I'm a baby again. There's a lot of noise coming from the next room. People yelling. Things breaking, crashing to the ground. I don't want to cry. I want to be brave, but this.. thing.. is welling up from inside me, like a dead weight rising to the surface, pushing it's way up out of my stomach and clawing its way out through my windpipe. A scream. But not mine. There's a loud sound, louder than anything I've ever heard before, and then suddenly everything is silent. I can't even hear the blood in my ears anymore.
I'm in the back of a car. Bigger now. Older. And I'm scared. I can hear someone crying. Was that a gunshot?
The crying gets louder. But it's not me. I'm lying very still. I don't know this house. This is not my bed. Someone I love has just died. Maybe if I just lie still like this, the cancer will pass me over, leave me be.
I'm at my desk now. Bombay. Every square inch of wall and ceiling is covered with posters. Newspaper clippings pinned up on one wall, a veve on another. The sea is right outside, I can hear the waves smashing against the rocks. The blade feels so cold against my skin. The blood that leaps out is hot. But I can't feel anything else. I'm just.. numb.
The sun is so bright against my eyes, I have to shade them with my hand. I'm at the Lakdikapul MMTS station. The 8:17 to Hi-Tec city is just turning the bend. My eyes are still red from last night. How could she do that to me? I'm not thinking straight, this is a bad idea, maybe I should reconsider, but by then it's too late. I've already jumped, and for one awful moment, I'm living in suspended animation, the train inches away, and I don't want to be here. The train hits me anyway, smacking into my side with a sickening thud.. and miraculously depositing me back onto the platform with three broken ribs, a mouthful of blood, and a lifetime of regret.
"Had enough, cully? No? Don't worry, there's plenty more where that came from!"
Something horrible has happened to someone I love. And I couldn't do anything to stop it, or take it back. It wasn't my fault. And yet, the guilt. Another bottle of wine, more booze to beat back the gnawing pain. No matter how far down I push it, it keeps coming back, biting its way back to the surface.
"Oh aye, I'm gonna eat you ALIVE boy. Eat you from the inside out."
I need to stop. I've been falling too long. "Ha! As if it's that easy. You're in MY world now, boy. I DARE you to move." And he's right. I can't. I can't move an inch, I'm paralysed. I'm stuck. I can't move forward. I can't do this anymore. I just can't fight this awful gravity. I can't keep running away from the past. But I have to make a stand, break free from all this. I struggle to get up, but its useless, my body won't obey me. I decide to confront my antagonist "Who are you! Show your face, you coward!"
"I'm me, who are you?", accompanied by more cackling. I'm getting sick of this. I've just been made to relive some of the worst moments in my life, and to this ..thing.. it's all just a joke? All I can do is howl in rage. So I do that. Until I'm hoarse.
And he just chuckles. "There, there. Your anger is useless here." A pause, and, "You really don't know who I am yet? All right then. Here." he says, stepping into the light.
And its a trick. I know it is. It has to be. Another sick, twisted illusion designed to confuse and frighten me. Because the face he's wearing, is my own.
~*~*~
Something cold slithers across my face, leaving a trail of slime. I'm awake, but I can't move.
I'm lying flat on the ground, no telling where, but on the bright side, I can feel all my limbs, and nothing seems to be broken. And then I hear it. Harsh, ragged breathing, off to the left, and directly above my head. I turn my head to look, but all I can make out through the shadows is a humanoid shape, squatting over me. What the hell..? I try to stay very still but it's too late, the thing seems to sense that I'm awake.
With a flash of crooked, rotting teeth, the creature says, "Welcome to denial", its voice dripping with malicious glee.
"Wh..where am I? What is this place?"
"I'll give you one hint, it's NOT a river in egypt!", the thing replies and cackles, the sound echoing off stone walls, raucous and obscene.
I prop myself up on an elbow, and take a look around. I seem to be in a cavern of some sort, judging from the way the sound echoes in here, but it's too dark to see anything clearly. I try to get up, but my head starts to spin almost immediately, and I fall back to the floor.
"Now now cully, that won't do.. make an effort. Come on." I can almost see the cruel, mocking smile on its lips. "I dare you to move!" I fall back into oblivion, peals of laughter following me all the way.
~*~*~
I'm falling again. Deeper still?
~*~*~
I wake up. I'm in a chair. I feel too lightheaded to try getting up, so I stay where I am and wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. The smell registers first. The strong, sharp smell of hospitals. Disinfectant and blood. The room is strangely familiar, and then I realise I'm sitting next to a hospital bed. There's a bottle of IV fluid suspended next to it. Deja vu. I've been here before. Recently. I don't want to know who's in the bed. I don't want to look, but I can't turn my head away.
~*~*~
What's happening now? My arms are so small, my fingers are so tiny. I can't move again. I think I've wet myself. Oh fuck, I think I'm a baby again. There's a lot of noise coming from the next room. People yelling. Things breaking, crashing to the ground. I don't want to cry. I want to be brave, but this.. thing.. is welling up from inside me, like a dead weight rising to the surface, pushing it's way up out of my stomach and clawing its way out through my windpipe. A scream. But not mine. There's a loud sound, louder than anything I've ever heard before, and then suddenly everything is silent. I can't even hear the blood in my ears anymore.
~*~*~
I'm in the back of a car. Bigger now. Older. And I'm scared. I can hear someone crying. Was that a gunshot?
~*~*~
The crying gets louder. But it's not me. I'm lying very still. I don't know this house. This is not my bed. Someone I love has just died. Maybe if I just lie still like this, the cancer will pass me over, leave me be.
~*~*~
I'm at my desk now. Bombay. Every square inch of wall and ceiling is covered with posters. Newspaper clippings pinned up on one wall, a veve on another. The sea is right outside, I can hear the waves smashing against the rocks. The blade feels so cold against my skin. The blood that leaps out is hot. But I can't feel anything else. I'm just.. numb.
~*~*~
The sun is so bright against my eyes, I have to shade them with my hand. I'm at the Lakdikapul MMTS station. The 8:17 to Hi-Tec city is just turning the bend. My eyes are still red from last night. How could she do that to me? I'm not thinking straight, this is a bad idea, maybe I should reconsider, but by then it's too late. I've already jumped, and for one awful moment, I'm living in suspended animation, the train inches away, and I don't want to be here. The train hits me anyway, smacking into my side with a sickening thud.. and miraculously depositing me back onto the platform with three broken ribs, a mouthful of blood, and a lifetime of regret.
~*~*~
"Had enough, cully? No? Don't worry, there's plenty more where that came from!"
~*~*~
Something horrible has happened to someone I love. And I couldn't do anything to stop it, or take it back. It wasn't my fault. And yet, the guilt. Another bottle of wine, more booze to beat back the gnawing pain. No matter how far down I push it, it keeps coming back, biting its way back to the surface.
"Oh aye, I'm gonna eat you ALIVE boy. Eat you from the inside out."
~*~*~
I need to stop. I've been falling too long. "Ha! As if it's that easy. You're in MY world now, boy. I DARE you to move." And he's right. I can't. I can't move an inch, I'm paralysed. I'm stuck. I can't move forward. I can't do this anymore. I just can't fight this awful gravity. I can't keep running away from the past. But I have to make a stand, break free from all this. I struggle to get up, but its useless, my body won't obey me. I decide to confront my antagonist "Who are you! Show your face, you coward!"
"I'm me, who are you?", accompanied by more cackling. I'm getting sick of this. I've just been made to relive some of the worst moments in my life, and to this ..thing.. it's all just a joke? All I can do is howl in rage. So I do that. Until I'm hoarse.
And he just chuckles. "There, there. Your anger is useless here." A pause, and, "You really don't know who I am yet? All right then. Here." he says, stepping into the light.
And its a trick. I know it is. It has to be. Another sick, twisted illusion designed to confuse and frighten me. Because the face he's wearing, is my own.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Fear Itself
I came home completely plastered last night. I had intended to quit drinking with such frequency, but on my way home from work, I'd run into an ex-girlfriend. The encounter left a bad taste in my mouth, and the only thing that would get it out was a lot of alcohol. I made a detour and headed over to the Undertow. There's something about a seedy bar that puts my mind at ease. There's something about the cheap whiskey that puts my wallet even more at ease.
Flashcut to my apartment, three hours later. I'm struggling with the keys for what feels like an eternity before I finally let myself in. Two steps to the hatstand, sharp turn left and I'm in the kitchen. Kitchen sink, water, waterspout, bump, headache. I press a palm to my throbbing skull and stagger into the living room. The cleverly placed couch prevents my arse from making contact with the floor, where several splinters lie waiting, sharp, and hungry. I can sense their resentment through the haze of liquor. I'm waiting for the room to stop spinning so I can get off the couch. It doesn't show any signs of slowing down, so I time my jump, and leap for the hallway when it swings past.
I hit the bathroom door head-first. Ow. But this is actually a stroke of good luck, because I feel the sudden urge to vomit. I manhandle my way in somehow, and hunching over my old friend the toilet bowl, I let the bile out. Five minutes later and my whole body is racked with chills, my stomach feels like its sticking to my spine, and my spine feels like it wants to crawl out of my back and run across the streets, kicking and screaming like a spastic on steroids. My brain feels like its melting out through my nostrils and my liver feels like my heart, small and hard and cold like a piece of shattered stone at the bottom of the sea. I wait for the shivers to subside, and when I'm sure there's nothing else left for me to expunge, I flush the lot, and slump back against the cold porcelain.
My bleary eyes fall on Jeff Goldblum, who's been watching the whole thing. "Er, you need to uh, run, you know." he says, looking right at me. "Oh fuck off Jeff Goldblum, you don't know what you're talking about." "Um, actually, I'm quite certain that they're going to uh, be here any minute now. You'd better erm, haul ass if you want to er, survive this." This is insane. This is batshit crazy. Cockroaches, squirrels whatever, but Jeff 'the fly' Goldblum? No way. Even I'm not that crazy. "Dude, what the hell are you talking about? I'm just drunk aight?" "I KNOW that!", Jeff splutters, eyes bloodshot, "But that's what makes you so vulnerable right now, you're not completely in control, its easier for your subconscious mind to take over, don't you see? My god man, you've left the door wide open, ANYTHING can come through!" "Whaddayamean, anything?", I ask, and just then, I hear a terrible keening sound, like nails being dragged across a hundred blackboards. "What the hell is that?" "My god, they're here already!", Jeff exclaims, as the sound increases in pitch, and complexity. I can hear a wailing now too, over and above the nails. The sound is awful, and the images it's invoking are even worse. Like a thousand mutilated babies, all crying in unison, as the world burns around them, like a dog being whipped mercilessly, and howling at the injustice of it all, like the yowls of a cat being skinned alive. I have no words to describe that awful sound. And it was getting worse. And it was getting closer.
"You need to get the hell out of here.", Jeff Goldblum yells over the horrifying clamour. That's easier said than done, the bathroom window is too small, and the bathroom door is shaking like a leaf in a storm. He jerks his head toward the commode, "Quit wasting time, and go!" Into the commode? What the hell, this isn't trainspotting, how the fuck am I going to fit into the shitpot of all places? Despite my misgivings, there's a frenzied look in Jeff's eyes, and just then, the sound is right outside the bathroom, and something starts to batter against the door, each bang accompanied by a horrible, sick, squelching sound, like ruptured flesh. "All right, but how do I get in there?" "The world is malleable enough. As long as your will holds out, anything is possible. Now GO!" The door begins to splinter, cracks appearing like magic in the sturdy wooden frame. With no other options presenting themselves, and my heart beating against my chest like a ferret on crack, I take a deep breath and jump into the crapper headfirst, just as the bathroom door smashes open, woodchips flying into the air.
[To be continued...]
Flashcut to my apartment, three hours later. I'm struggling with the keys for what feels like an eternity before I finally let myself in. Two steps to the hatstand, sharp turn left and I'm in the kitchen. Kitchen sink, water, waterspout, bump, headache. I press a palm to my throbbing skull and stagger into the living room. The cleverly placed couch prevents my arse from making contact with the floor, where several splinters lie waiting, sharp, and hungry. I can sense their resentment through the haze of liquor. I'm waiting for the room to stop spinning so I can get off the couch. It doesn't show any signs of slowing down, so I time my jump, and leap for the hallway when it swings past.
I hit the bathroom door head-first. Ow. But this is actually a stroke of good luck, because I feel the sudden urge to vomit. I manhandle my way in somehow, and hunching over my old friend the toilet bowl, I let the bile out. Five minutes later and my whole body is racked with chills, my stomach feels like its sticking to my spine, and my spine feels like it wants to crawl out of my back and run across the streets, kicking and screaming like a spastic on steroids. My brain feels like its melting out through my nostrils and my liver feels like my heart, small and hard and cold like a piece of shattered stone at the bottom of the sea. I wait for the shivers to subside, and when I'm sure there's nothing else left for me to expunge, I flush the lot, and slump back against the cold porcelain.
My bleary eyes fall on Jeff Goldblum, who's been watching the whole thing. "Er, you need to uh, run, you know." he says, looking right at me. "Oh fuck off Jeff Goldblum, you don't know what you're talking about." "Um, actually, I'm quite certain that they're going to uh, be here any minute now. You'd better erm, haul ass if you want to er, survive this." This is insane. This is batshit crazy. Cockroaches, squirrels whatever, but Jeff 'the fly' Goldblum? No way. Even I'm not that crazy. "Dude, what the hell are you talking about? I'm just drunk aight?" "I KNOW that!", Jeff splutters, eyes bloodshot, "But that's what makes you so vulnerable right now, you're not completely in control, its easier for your subconscious mind to take over, don't you see? My god man, you've left the door wide open, ANYTHING can come through!" "Whaddayamean, anything?", I ask, and just then, I hear a terrible keening sound, like nails being dragged across a hundred blackboards. "What the hell is that?" "My god, they're here already!", Jeff exclaims, as the sound increases in pitch, and complexity. I can hear a wailing now too, over and above the nails. The sound is awful, and the images it's invoking are even worse. Like a thousand mutilated babies, all crying in unison, as the world burns around them, like a dog being whipped mercilessly, and howling at the injustice of it all, like the yowls of a cat being skinned alive. I have no words to describe that awful sound. And it was getting worse. And it was getting closer.
"You need to get the hell out of here.", Jeff Goldblum yells over the horrifying clamour. That's easier said than done, the bathroom window is too small, and the bathroom door is shaking like a leaf in a storm. He jerks his head toward the commode, "Quit wasting time, and go!" Into the commode? What the hell, this isn't trainspotting, how the fuck am I going to fit into the shitpot of all places? Despite my misgivings, there's a frenzied look in Jeff's eyes, and just then, the sound is right outside the bathroom, and something starts to batter against the door, each bang accompanied by a horrible, sick, squelching sound, like ruptured flesh. "All right, but how do I get in there?" "The world is malleable enough. As long as your will holds out, anything is possible. Now GO!" The door begins to splinter, cracks appearing like magic in the sturdy wooden frame. With no other options presenting themselves, and my heart beating against my chest like a ferret on crack, I take a deep breath and jump into the crapper headfirst, just as the bathroom door smashes open, woodchips flying into the air.
[To be continued...]
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
In which I meet Stella
So I'm on my way to class last Thursday. It's already five past six, and class started at six. I need to file my candidacy form for graduation, today's the last day, and in a classic display of reckless brinksmanship, I haven't even looked at the form yet.
I'm walking fast, smoking furiously, and thinking how it probably wasn't such a good idea to skip lunch and still get loaded right before class. I'm out of breath by the time I reach the event center, so I slow down to a more human pace, giving my lungs a chance to catch up. There's a stitch in my side the size of Texas, and my bum knee hurts like a bastard. I really need to quit smoking and start running again, I think to myself for perhaps the thousandth time. I lean against a tree, and set my bag down for a breather. It doesn't help that my laptop weighs about as much as a small elephant with low self esteem and an endless supply of comfort food. I'm just about to leave when I notice a squirrel at my feet, watching me intently. Now there's a lot of squirrels on campus, and most of them are pretty fearless and upfront about their territory, but this one's wearing a leather jacket. A tiny little leather jacket and Audrey Hepburn wayfarers, raised over its head, between its ears.
"Er... can I help you?" I venture, remembering Phil from a few weeks ago.
"Oh I'd say you could. This is MY territory bub, you better getchyer ass offa that tree there."
Now I'm not used to taking shit from just about anyone, least of all talking squirrels, so I overcome my trepidation and counter with,
"O rly? Well I don't see your name on it." (Juvenile, I know, but how else are you supposed to talk to an unreasonably confrontational squirrel?)
"On the contrary, mon frere, my name IS on that very tree which you are currently leaning your bony little arse against", the squirrel says, pointing at the base of the trunk, right by my left foot. I crouch down, incredulous, but sure enough, there it is, like miniature jungle graffiti, gnawed into the bark in letters three inches high, a single name, "Stella".
"Oh."
"Like I said. MY turf, bitch."
"Oi, First of all, I'm not your bitch, and second, I was just catching my breath." I can't believe I'm getting talked down by a squirrel. A SHE squirrel! Called Stella, no less.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever." She says, with a dismissive flick of her tail.
A moment of awkward silence follows, while the evening sun moves toward some conveniently placed mountains, and a chill breeze blows through campus, bending the grass and shaking the leaves off trees. Fall is here.
"Stella. That's uh..a nice name.." I attempt, trying to defuse the tension.
She affixes me with a blank stare. "For a squirrel. Go on. Say it."
"Wha..? Of course not. I mean, in general. That's a nice name."
"Well, my girlfriends call me the Seeker", she says, relenting, and winks, with a smirk.
"Ha! That's cute.", I blurt out. Well it IS cute! A squirrel called the seeker!
"Not really. You know how it is."
I don't have an answer to that. I do know how it is, and it's not exactly a barrel of laughs.
"That constant hunger in the pit of your stomach, makes you want to grind your teeth, to gnaw the mask off the face of the world, just to see what lies beneath, days when you just want to set it all on fire. Days when you can't sit still, when you have to get off your feet and just go. Somewhere, anywhere, just to see what's over the next hill, to see if there's any meaning to it all. It's not fun being a seeker. And you know when it really hurts? When you meet someone who distracts you from your constant seeking, and you settle down, take a breather, think 'hey, this is it, I'm done looking, I'm gonna settle down with this girl, and I'm gonna concentrate on making her happy' and right then, just when you decide to chuck it all and settle for a life of contentment, she ups and leaves, 'cos she's seen right through you, and knows that you're one of 'em. A seeker, a ramblin' man, and for people like us, the search is never over. That's what sucks about this job."
I'm speechless. Mostly 'cos everything she said hits very, very close to home. And then something occurs to me, and I can't help but ask.
"Wait, so you're saying you're a lesbian??"
"Oh I'm a boy, I'm a boy, but my ma won't admit it", says Stella in a sing-song voice.
"Ah." Now I'm just confused.
"Well, it can't be all bad, being a seeker..", I try to sympathize, both for her sake, and mine.
Stella smiles, wryly, "It's a dirty job, but like they say, someone's gotta do it."
"I guess that's true", I say, wanting desperately to agree, to accept that sometimes you have to lose something to gain something, but my heart's not in it.
"There are perks. You don't sleep at night because you're busy searching, but you get to see the sun rise every morning. You search for miles and miles without finding anything, but along the way, you meet a lot of interesting people. Some of them, you might even come to call friends. And when you find the smallest hint, even a tiny clue, heck, any piece of the puzzle, it feels absolutely incredible. There's no rush on Earth that compares. But then again, you know how it is.", she smiles, and since she's absolutely right, I smile back.
"Here, d'you have a smoke on ya?"
"Um, lemme check", I flip open my pack of cigarettes, but there's just one cigarette left.
"Yup, the last one, you want it?"
"Oh no. I just wanted to know if you still had that last one. Do us a favour, hang onto that one eh?
You're going to need it soon." she says, with a sincere look, but then again, how do you know if you can trust a butch dyke squirrel in a bomber jacket?
"Er.. so I don't smoke it then?"
"No. You don't. You should quit 'em altogether actually. Fuckin' things will only end up killing you. Just.. hang onto that last one." this last was almost an imperative, such was the urgent sincerity with which she looked at me. Stella seemed to realize that I had noticed this minor break in character, so she recovered quickly, and slid her shades back over her eyes.
"Well, this was nice, but I'd best be getting back to the search now, aren't you late for class?"
I look at my watch and she's right. It's 6:30, I'm a half hour late! When I look up, she's scampering off across the grass, her tail flashing in and out of sight, like a furry periscope rising through the verdure.
"Hey! Wait up! What if I smoke that cigarette?" But it's too late. Stella the Sapphic Seeking Squirrel has spoken, and split the scene.
I'm walking fast, smoking furiously, and thinking how it probably wasn't such a good idea to skip lunch and still get loaded right before class. I'm out of breath by the time I reach the event center, so I slow down to a more human pace, giving my lungs a chance to catch up. There's a stitch in my side the size of Texas, and my bum knee hurts like a bastard. I really need to quit smoking and start running again, I think to myself for perhaps the thousandth time. I lean against a tree, and set my bag down for a breather. It doesn't help that my laptop weighs about as much as a small elephant with low self esteem and an endless supply of comfort food. I'm just about to leave when I notice a squirrel at my feet, watching me intently. Now there's a lot of squirrels on campus, and most of them are pretty fearless and upfront about their territory, but this one's wearing a leather jacket. A tiny little leather jacket and Audrey Hepburn wayfarers, raised over its head, between its ears.
"Er... can I help you?" I venture, remembering Phil from a few weeks ago.
"Oh I'd say you could. This is MY territory bub, you better getchyer ass offa that tree there."
Now I'm not used to taking shit from just about anyone, least of all talking squirrels, so I overcome my trepidation and counter with,
"O rly? Well I don't see your name on it." (Juvenile, I know, but how else are you supposed to talk to an unreasonably confrontational squirrel?)
"On the contrary, mon frere, my name IS on that very tree which you are currently leaning your bony little arse against", the squirrel says, pointing at the base of the trunk, right by my left foot. I crouch down, incredulous, but sure enough, there it is, like miniature jungle graffiti, gnawed into the bark in letters three inches high, a single name, "Stella".
"Oh."
"Like I said. MY turf, bitch."
"Oi, First of all, I'm not your bitch, and second, I was just catching my breath." I can't believe I'm getting talked down by a squirrel. A SHE squirrel! Called Stella, no less.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever." She says, with a dismissive flick of her tail.
A moment of awkward silence follows, while the evening sun moves toward some conveniently placed mountains, and a chill breeze blows through campus, bending the grass and shaking the leaves off trees. Fall is here.
"Stella. That's uh..a nice name.." I attempt, trying to defuse the tension.
She affixes me with a blank stare. "For a squirrel. Go on. Say it."
"Wha..? Of course not. I mean, in general. That's a nice name."
"Well, my girlfriends call me the Seeker", she says, relenting, and winks, with a smirk.
"Ha! That's cute.", I blurt out. Well it IS cute! A squirrel called the seeker!
"Not really. You know how it is."
I don't have an answer to that. I do know how it is, and it's not exactly a barrel of laughs.
"That constant hunger in the pit of your stomach, makes you want to grind your teeth, to gnaw the mask off the face of the world, just to see what lies beneath, days when you just want to set it all on fire. Days when you can't sit still, when you have to get off your feet and just go. Somewhere, anywhere, just to see what's over the next hill, to see if there's any meaning to it all. It's not fun being a seeker. And you know when it really hurts? When you meet someone who distracts you from your constant seeking, and you settle down, take a breather, think 'hey, this is it, I'm done looking, I'm gonna settle down with this girl, and I'm gonna concentrate on making her happy' and right then, just when you decide to chuck it all and settle for a life of contentment, she ups and leaves, 'cos she's seen right through you, and knows that you're one of 'em. A seeker, a ramblin' man, and for people like us, the search is never over. That's what sucks about this job."
I'm speechless. Mostly 'cos everything she said hits very, very close to home. And then something occurs to me, and I can't help but ask.
"Wait, so you're saying you're a lesbian??"
"Oh I'm a boy, I'm a boy, but my ma won't admit it", says Stella in a sing-song voice.
"Ah." Now I'm just confused.
"Well, it can't be all bad, being a seeker..", I try to sympathize, both for her sake, and mine.
Stella smiles, wryly, "It's a dirty job, but like they say, someone's gotta do it."
"I guess that's true", I say, wanting desperately to agree, to accept that sometimes you have to lose something to gain something, but my heart's not in it.
"There are perks. You don't sleep at night because you're busy searching, but you get to see the sun rise every morning. You search for miles and miles without finding anything, but along the way, you meet a lot of interesting people. Some of them, you might even come to call friends. And when you find the smallest hint, even a tiny clue, heck, any piece of the puzzle, it feels absolutely incredible. There's no rush on Earth that compares. But then again, you know how it is.", she smiles, and since she's absolutely right, I smile back.
"Here, d'you have a smoke on ya?"
"Um, lemme check", I flip open my pack of cigarettes, but there's just one cigarette left.
"Yup, the last one, you want it?"
"Oh no. I just wanted to know if you still had that last one. Do us a favour, hang onto that one eh?
You're going to need it soon." she says, with a sincere look, but then again, how do you know if you can trust a butch dyke squirrel in a bomber jacket?
"Er.. so I don't smoke it then?"
"No. You don't. You should quit 'em altogether actually. Fuckin' things will only end up killing you. Just.. hang onto that last one." this last was almost an imperative, such was the urgent sincerity with which she looked at me. Stella seemed to realize that I had noticed this minor break in character, so she recovered quickly, and slid her shades back over her eyes.
"Well, this was nice, but I'd best be getting back to the search now, aren't you late for class?"
I look at my watch and she's right. It's 6:30, I'm a half hour late! When I look up, she's scampering off across the grass, her tail flashing in and out of sight, like a furry periscope rising through the verdure.
"Hey! Wait up! What if I smoke that cigarette?" But it's too late. Stella the Sapphic Seeking Squirrel has spoken, and split the scene.
Monday, September 28, 2009
I'm sailing on the seas of fate...
Sundays are good days. I wake up early every sunday somehow. With no school, no commitments to meet, no places to be, I find myself awake at the crack of dawn, watching the sun come up, glittering gold through the palm trees in the East.
This particular Sunday was better than most, a happier, mellower day than the ones in recent memory. The day started early as usual, I managed to clean my room, and my experimental recipe for chorizo con huevos didn't kill, maim or permanently damage anyone. Always a bonus. I stepped out for a cigarette, but somehow I never got round to lighting up. It was a nice day so I put my feet on autopilot like I always do for nice days, and shortly found myself outside the library. And wouldn't you know it, there was a book sale on.
I love book sales. Growing up in Bombay, some of my happiest memories are of Sunday afternoons spent browsing at the used book stalls in Churchgate. Delicately improvised shelters made from discarded plastic sheeting and bamboo poles, bound together with string, rope, wire, and glue, they stretched all the way from Flora Fountain down to the old Parsi well at the edge of Cross Maidan. Rain or shine, the booksellers would be there, setting up their wares at seven in the morning, and taking them down at nine, every night, like clockwork. I think that was one of the first places I felt the touch of probability, of the hidden workings of the world. When I visited Bombay, and book-street, for the first time, I was eight. I had never seen so many books gathered together in one place. An entire street lined with books! I was giddy with delight. My parents worked their way from shop to shop, picking out a novel here, a textbook there, bargaining with the dealers, asking them for such and such book by such author, this writer, that poet. Me, I didn't know where to start or where to stop. So I just ran from one end of the street to the other, drinking everything in, reveling in the glorious decadence of it all. More books than I could read in a lifetime! TWO lifetimes! I was the happiest eight year old on the entire planet.
When we finally moved to Bombay, I would visit book street every chance I got. I often played hooky from college, skipping class to hop on a bus to Churchgate, exchanging last week's book for another, and then catching another bus back to Girgaon chowpatty. I'd leave my body behind on the beach, and let my mind go wherever the book took it. Across the ocean, past Neptune and Pluto, backwards and forwards through time, over strange battlefields and under magical seas, living whole lifetimes in the space of one afternoon.
The annual Strand book sale was another treat. The used book stores in Lucknow gave me a taste for comics, science fiction and Agatha Christie. Book street nursed me on Kafka, Sartre, Jung and Nietzsche. And Strand introduced me to poetry. Neruda, Eliot, Woolf and Alighieri, all in one place, eager to grab my eye, feed my soul. I devoured entire volumes, whole stacks of books, and my appetite just grew. Smoker's Corner was another old haunt, that yielded many treasures, and satisfied many a mid-afternoon craving. Amidst all this chaos, my parents' personal libraries were the snack shops I would frequent between meals, having Ed McBain or Eric van Lustbader for an appetizer, and Wodehouse for dessert. And no matter how many books I read, there were always more to be had. It was heaven on Earth. A patchwork introduction to literature, but an education nonetheless.
Book street isn't there anymore. The street vendors were evicted by the municipal authorities years ago, and though you might still find a few secondhand booksellers in the area, it's just not the same. The Strand annual sale still happens at Shanmukhnanda Hall, but it's getting smaller with each passing year. I guess it's hard to compete with large bookstores like Crossword. Smoker's Corner hasn't changed too much, small enough to stay under the radar I guess, and they still carry those Doctor Who paperback serials I used to love as a kid. Time passes, Bombay changes to Mumbai, the pavements become spotless, unobstructed, and much too clean for the likes of me. Migrants do what they do best, never pitching their tent in the same place too long. Stay awhile, share what little you have to give, then move on.
But the book sale today brought all the happy memories rushing back, of a time less complicated. I breathed in the used book smell, and within moments, I was a child again, fresh-faced and eager, new-made, innocent, and desperate to read everything I could get my grubby little paws on. :)
***
I love California. The sun shines bright and true every day, even when its raining. And days like today make me love it even more. Of all the places in the world I could be, it's a strange and beautiful train of coincidences that have led to me being here. There was a time, not long ago, when I would have given anything to go back in time and change some things about my life. Avoided a lot of hurt, much too much guilt, and a fair amount of pain, both given and received. But looking back, putting things in a certain perspective, seeing my life by the light of this bright new Sun, I realise I don't want to change a thing.
Wherever my feet take me is where I'm meant to be, enmeshed and entangled in life's radiant web, surfing the wave of synchronicity every moment of every day, just... being. Borrowing a pretty phrase from Audrey Niffenegger, as long as there is world and time enough, I'm going to keep on keeping on. The ancient alchemists, the wanderers, the seekers, the founders of secret orders, guardians of 'secret' knowledge, were all deluded, misguided, following imaginary trails down paths leading nowhere. Every place on this planet is the center of all things. The cup that holds the water of life, the place from where everything begins. The origin.
Stop where you are, empty your mind of all conscious thought, close your eyes, and listen. Can you hear it? Can you hear the sea? From deep within the chambers of your heart, the distant echo of all that could have been, all that is, and all that will be. Like a wave crashing through time and space, swirling all around you, all the time. We're adrift on a sea of choices, an ocean of infinite possibilities, and though we can barely begin to comprehend the sheer depth of meaning behind it all, the important thing is, we can try. Come, ride the waves with me. All you have to do is let go.
...and beneath my feet, over my head, in the spaces between my ears, the waves are crashing, crashing.
This particular Sunday was better than most, a happier, mellower day than the ones in recent memory. The day started early as usual, I managed to clean my room, and my experimental recipe for chorizo con huevos didn't kill, maim or permanently damage anyone. Always a bonus. I stepped out for a cigarette, but somehow I never got round to lighting up. It was a nice day so I put my feet on autopilot like I always do for nice days, and shortly found myself outside the library. And wouldn't you know it, there was a book sale on.
I love book sales. Growing up in Bombay, some of my happiest memories are of Sunday afternoons spent browsing at the used book stalls in Churchgate. Delicately improvised shelters made from discarded plastic sheeting and bamboo poles, bound together with string, rope, wire, and glue, they stretched all the way from Flora Fountain down to the old Parsi well at the edge of Cross Maidan. Rain or shine, the booksellers would be there, setting up their wares at seven in the morning, and taking them down at nine, every night, like clockwork. I think that was one of the first places I felt the touch of probability, of the hidden workings of the world. When I visited Bombay, and book-street, for the first time, I was eight. I had never seen so many books gathered together in one place. An entire street lined with books! I was giddy with delight. My parents worked their way from shop to shop, picking out a novel here, a textbook there, bargaining with the dealers, asking them for such and such book by such author, this writer, that poet. Me, I didn't know where to start or where to stop. So I just ran from one end of the street to the other, drinking everything in, reveling in the glorious decadence of it all. More books than I could read in a lifetime! TWO lifetimes! I was the happiest eight year old on the entire planet.
When we finally moved to Bombay, I would visit book street every chance I got. I often played hooky from college, skipping class to hop on a bus to Churchgate, exchanging last week's book for another, and then catching another bus back to Girgaon chowpatty. I'd leave my body behind on the beach, and let my mind go wherever the book took it. Across the ocean, past Neptune and Pluto, backwards and forwards through time, over strange battlefields and under magical seas, living whole lifetimes in the space of one afternoon.
The annual Strand book sale was another treat. The used book stores in Lucknow gave me a taste for comics, science fiction and Agatha Christie. Book street nursed me on Kafka, Sartre, Jung and Nietzsche. And Strand introduced me to poetry. Neruda, Eliot, Woolf and Alighieri, all in one place, eager to grab my eye, feed my soul. I devoured entire volumes, whole stacks of books, and my appetite just grew. Smoker's Corner was another old haunt, that yielded many treasures, and satisfied many a mid-afternoon craving. Amidst all this chaos, my parents' personal libraries were the snack shops I would frequent between meals, having Ed McBain or Eric van Lustbader for an appetizer, and Wodehouse for dessert. And no matter how many books I read, there were always more to be had. It was heaven on Earth. A patchwork introduction to literature, but an education nonetheless.
Book street isn't there anymore. The street vendors were evicted by the municipal authorities years ago, and though you might still find a few secondhand booksellers in the area, it's just not the same. The Strand annual sale still happens at Shanmukhnanda Hall, but it's getting smaller with each passing year. I guess it's hard to compete with large bookstores like Crossword. Smoker's Corner hasn't changed too much, small enough to stay under the radar I guess, and they still carry those Doctor Who paperback serials I used to love as a kid. Time passes, Bombay changes to Mumbai, the pavements become spotless, unobstructed, and much too clean for the likes of me. Migrants do what they do best, never pitching their tent in the same place too long. Stay awhile, share what little you have to give, then move on.
But the book sale today brought all the happy memories rushing back, of a time less complicated. I breathed in the used book smell, and within moments, I was a child again, fresh-faced and eager, new-made, innocent, and desperate to read everything I could get my grubby little paws on. :)
***
I love California. The sun shines bright and true every day, even when its raining. And days like today make me love it even more. Of all the places in the world I could be, it's a strange and beautiful train of coincidences that have led to me being here. There was a time, not long ago, when I would have given anything to go back in time and change some things about my life. Avoided a lot of hurt, much too much guilt, and a fair amount of pain, both given and received. But looking back, putting things in a certain perspective, seeing my life by the light of this bright new Sun, I realise I don't want to change a thing.
Wherever my feet take me is where I'm meant to be, enmeshed and entangled in life's radiant web, surfing the wave of synchronicity every moment of every day, just... being. Borrowing a pretty phrase from Audrey Niffenegger, as long as there is world and time enough, I'm going to keep on keeping on. The ancient alchemists, the wanderers, the seekers, the founders of secret orders, guardians of 'secret' knowledge, were all deluded, misguided, following imaginary trails down paths leading nowhere. Every place on this planet is the center of all things. The cup that holds the water of life, the place from where everything begins. The origin.
Stop where you are, empty your mind of all conscious thought, close your eyes, and listen. Can you hear it? Can you hear the sea? From deep within the chambers of your heart, the distant echo of all that could have been, all that is, and all that will be. Like a wave crashing through time and space, swirling all around you, all the time. We're adrift on a sea of choices, an ocean of infinite possibilities, and though we can barely begin to comprehend the sheer depth of meaning behind it all, the important thing is, we can try. Come, ride the waves with me. All you have to do is let go.
...and beneath my feet, over my head, in the spaces between my ears, the waves are crashing, crashing.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Secret teachings of all ages
Strange dream early this morning. I'm working at Silk Road, and this lady comes up to me, looking very pretty, with her headscarf pulled down tight over her hair. She asks for a bowl of rice, and some cocoa beans. "The rice comes with my order, yes?", she asks in lightly accented English. Just then, the phone starts to ring. I quickly tap in her order into the system, and answer the phone with my free hand. It's Sajid, the owner, which is strange, 'cos I thought he was in the kitchen, cooking. "Hello, Joshi?" "Sajid bhai?" "Are you coming in to work today?" "...Erm, but I'm already here.." "Oh good, can you check on the rice?" Things are not making any sense. I look up to check if there's any customers coming into the store, but there's nobody there. Not a soul. Where'd the pretty girl go? I put down the receiver, and head to the back. As I lift the curtain aside, I'm confronted by a bright glowing light. I step in through the doorway and find myself home, in my bed.
It's nice and bright outside, plenty of sun. I'm still thinking about the dream, trying to make sense of the imagery. So I empty my head and try free association. Cocoa beans, coffee beans, stimulants for the mind. The rice comes with her order. For some reason I'm thinking of a bowl of salt. Like the pagans use in their rituals, to symbolise the Earth. A saucer of salt for a magickal disc. The material plane with a pentacle drawn through it. A bowl of rice, a saucerful of secrets, pink floyd! The cover art for that album was designed by Hipgnosis, purveyors of fine art and 'hip', secret knowledge. Much like a dream conveys hidden knowledge from the subconscious mind to the dreaming self. Six degrees of separation and we're back full circle. Interesting.
Full circle, like the rim of a bowl, like a great big ball of fire, up in the sky. Fragments of a stolen lyric run through my head. "Little by little, the night turns around". There's a change coming. I'm on the wrong track, barking up the wrong tree. I need to change my trajectory, chart a new course, reset the controls.
Halfway down the street, passing by the library, there's something else in my head, a poem I seem to half-remember from somewhere...
The thread in the hand of a kind mother
Is the coat on the wanderer's back.
Before he left she stitched it close
In secret fear that he would be slow to return.
Who will say that the inch of grass in his heart
Is gratitude enough for all the sunshine of spring?
For some reason I have my phone in my hand, flipped open. I lift it to my ear, cautiously, and it's Sajid again, "Joshi? Are you still on the line?" "uhrr..buh?" "Listen, if you're already at work, just make sure the rice is ready, and get started on the Chicken Tikka Masala, could you do that?" "Oh..uhm, uh huh" "Great, I'll be in around 12 or so" and hangs up. A quick look at my alarm clock (ha! some alarm clock) tells me its just past 11am. Great, I need to haul ass or I'm gonna be late for work. I strategically roll out of bed and onto the floor, landing hard on my left hip, (Yes, I meant to do that) grab my clothes off the floor and leap into the shower before any of my roommates decide to take an hour long shit. I'm showered, shaved and out the door in five minutes.
It's nice and bright outside, plenty of sun. I'm still thinking about the dream, trying to make sense of the imagery. So I empty my head and try free association. Cocoa beans, coffee beans, stimulants for the mind. The rice comes with her order. For some reason I'm thinking of a bowl of salt. Like the pagans use in their rituals, to symbolise the Earth. A saucer of salt for a magickal disc. The material plane with a pentacle drawn through it. A bowl of rice, a saucerful of secrets, pink floyd! The cover art for that album was designed by Hipgnosis, purveyors of fine art and 'hip', secret knowledge. Much like a dream conveys hidden knowledge from the subconscious mind to the dreaming self. Six degrees of separation and we're back full circle. Interesting.
Full circle, like the rim of a bowl, like a great big ball of fire, up in the sky. Fragments of a stolen lyric run through my head. "Little by little, the night turns around". There's a change coming. I'm on the wrong track, barking up the wrong tree. I need to change my trajectory, chart a new course, reset the controls.
Halfway down the street, passing by the library, there's something else in my head, a poem I seem to half-remember from somewhere...
The thread in the hand of a kind mother
Is the coat on the wanderer's back.
Before he left she stitched it close
In secret fear that he would be slow to return.
Who will say that the inch of grass in his heart
Is gratitude enough for all the sunshine of spring?
Suddenly, Champu (#12)
These are the ongoing chronicles of my roommate, Chimanlal Champu. Boldly going where no man has gone before, or indeed, should ever go again.
[Champu on... water bodies]
Anirban : When I was a child, I went to swim in a river.. the current was so strong, it almost dragged me along with it..
Champu : How come river has current dude? River is surrounded by land, you must be swimming in a lake!
[Champu on... water bodies]
Anirban : When I was a child, I went to swim in a river.. the current was so strong, it almost dragged me along with it..
Champu : How come river has current dude? River is surrounded by land, you must be swimming in a lake!
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