Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Surviving the Streets (#2)
Always, ALWAYS acknowledge people you know, even if you've only met them once. A smile, a nod, a tip of the hat goes a long way. What goes around, comes around. 'Cos loneliness is worse than hunger, worse than sadness, worse than anything dreamt of in your philosophy. And you might have friends now, but when you're all alone and one step away from the edge, an unexpected smile could save your life.
Suddenly, Champu (#9)
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... the joy of yogurt]
Champu : Dude, you can only truly appreciate curd after eating ass-burning items
Me : ... (!?)
Champu : I'm serious dude! The feeling you get after burning your own ass, and then soothing it with curd... *sigh* ...awesome...
[Champu on... the joy of yogurt]
Champu : Dude, you can only truly appreciate curd after eating ass-burning items
Me : ... (!?)
Champu : I'm serious dude! The feeling you get after burning your own ass, and then soothing it with curd... *sigh* ...awesome...
Friday, September 18, 2009
Riding The Bus
Its late evening on a Friday night, and I'm just off my shift, enjoying a leisurely smoke at the end of day's play. This random guy comes up to me and says "Hey, bro. You got a dollar for the bus?" Instinctively, I shrug, and spread my palms outward, universal gesture for "Wish I could help you, but this recession's been hard on us all, especially us starving student types. Whaddagonnado?" But then I remember I've got some loose change in my pants pocket, and the guy looks like he really needs the money, so I arrest him with an upheld finger, while I fumble around for the 75 cents I do have to give. He palms the money, dips his head in gratitude and disappears around the corner. The wrong corner. The closest bus station is round the other side of the block.
The streets have their own language. A hidden alphabet, a lingo, a code. Its a knack you pick up, how to communicate complex ideas via a shrug of the shoulder, a tilt of the head, an incline of the left eyeball and a quiver of the right nostril. I can go through some days without opening my mouth or uttering a single word at all. The semiotics of the sidewalk. And like every language, each speaker imbues it with a little bit of himself. There's a multitude of dialects, a glorious cacophony of voices, a miscellany of inflections and tones to choose from. The same idea can be referred to in many different ways and by many different names, while retaining its quintessence.
Like the 'bus'. The bus that goes nowhere. Sometimes, if pressed, the aspiring passenger will reveal that the bus goes to San Francisco, sometimes Fremont or Sunnyvale, but more often than not, the furthest the bus gets is the nearest liquor store. Or the closest fix.
You think I'm being cynical. But when you sit on the same stoop on the same street every Friday for a whole year, and the same people come up to you every time, and ask you the same question, its kind of difficult not to get just a little bit jaded.
In the Ramayana, there's this really clever bit about a shape-changing demon called Mareech. The demon acquires the form of a beautiful golden deer, captivating the senses of Sita, so much so that she begs her husband Rama to catch the deer and bring it back for her as a pet. Rama, prince-in-exile, is an accomplished tracker and hunter, but the golden deer is much too fleet, and eludes even Rama. Long enough for Ravana, king of the demons, to abduct Sita, who is left unprotected and vulnerable, while Rama chases the demon Mareech. Eventually, however, Rama sees past the illusion, and slays the demon.
The parable uses the simple metaphor of the 'golden deer' to indicate the folly of being captivated by the material world. In the end, Rama uses an arrow, much like the magickal Sword of Reason, to 'kill' the demon, thus destroying the illusion.
The bus that goes nowhere, like Mareech, is a thing of hope. The golden deer, fleeting promise of a better tomorrow, always JUST out of reach. If only I could have another dollar for the bus, I'd make everything right, just one more dollar to get all my shit back together, to make it through the night, to make it to the morning of my tomorrow. Just one more dollar, I'm telling you man, that's all I need.
But you of all people know how it is. Another day, another dollar. Just one more rung to the ladder, and one step closer to the edge. Its a hole that never ends, a bottomless pit into which you can fall forever. Fall long enough, and you forget you're even falling anymore. Round and round the circle goes, where it ends, nobody knows. When you're lost and far from home, its kind of hard to get a grip, or to summon the will to break out of a comfortable rut. Easier said than done, and all that jazz.
Funny thing is, a dollar is a dollar is a dollar. You could invest in a decent fix with a dollar (if you know the right people, and speak the right street-jive), or diversify your portfolio with some liquid assets to help you get through the night. Or you could see that dollar for what it really is, see all the potential condensed within it. If you want it to be, it can be a doorway that can lead to anywhere. Even home. Grab it, hold onto it, and stop falling. Take that dollar and get on the bus. The real bus, the one with wheels and a driver and a destination. Ride that bus through the night, until you see the sun shine down. And you just might find yourself in a better place than you were at before.
(For DollaRapper, BlueBaglady, AngryOvercoatGuy, BugEyeWanda, and all the rest of the downtown gang. May you catch your bus, and may it see you home.)
The streets have their own language. A hidden alphabet, a lingo, a code. Its a knack you pick up, how to communicate complex ideas via a shrug of the shoulder, a tilt of the head, an incline of the left eyeball and a quiver of the right nostril. I can go through some days without opening my mouth or uttering a single word at all. The semiotics of the sidewalk. And like every language, each speaker imbues it with a little bit of himself. There's a multitude of dialects, a glorious cacophony of voices, a miscellany of inflections and tones to choose from. The same idea can be referred to in many different ways and by many different names, while retaining its quintessence.
Like the 'bus'. The bus that goes nowhere. Sometimes, if pressed, the aspiring passenger will reveal that the bus goes to San Francisco, sometimes Fremont or Sunnyvale, but more often than not, the furthest the bus gets is the nearest liquor store. Or the closest fix.
You think I'm being cynical. But when you sit on the same stoop on the same street every Friday for a whole year, and the same people come up to you every time, and ask you the same question, its kind of difficult not to get just a little bit jaded.
In the Ramayana, there's this really clever bit about a shape-changing demon called Mareech. The demon acquires the form of a beautiful golden deer, captivating the senses of Sita, so much so that she begs her husband Rama to catch the deer and bring it back for her as a pet. Rama, prince-in-exile, is an accomplished tracker and hunter, but the golden deer is much too fleet, and eludes even Rama. Long enough for Ravana, king of the demons, to abduct Sita, who is left unprotected and vulnerable, while Rama chases the demon Mareech. Eventually, however, Rama sees past the illusion, and slays the demon.
The parable uses the simple metaphor of the 'golden deer' to indicate the folly of being captivated by the material world. In the end, Rama uses an arrow, much like the magickal Sword of Reason, to 'kill' the demon, thus destroying the illusion.
The bus that goes nowhere, like Mareech, is a thing of hope. The golden deer, fleeting promise of a better tomorrow, always JUST out of reach. If only I could have another dollar for the bus, I'd make everything right, just one more dollar to get all my shit back together, to make it through the night, to make it to the morning of my tomorrow. Just one more dollar, I'm telling you man, that's all I need.
But you of all people know how it is. Another day, another dollar. Just one more rung to the ladder, and one step closer to the edge. Its a hole that never ends, a bottomless pit into which you can fall forever. Fall long enough, and you forget you're even falling anymore. Round and round the circle goes, where it ends, nobody knows. When you're lost and far from home, its kind of hard to get a grip, or to summon the will to break out of a comfortable rut. Easier said than done, and all that jazz.
Funny thing is, a dollar is a dollar is a dollar. You could invest in a decent fix with a dollar (if you know the right people, and speak the right street-jive), or diversify your portfolio with some liquid assets to help you get through the night. Or you could see that dollar for what it really is, see all the potential condensed within it. If you want it to be, it can be a doorway that can lead to anywhere. Even home. Grab it, hold onto it, and stop falling. Take that dollar and get on the bus. The real bus, the one with wheels and a driver and a destination. Ride that bus through the night, until you see the sun shine down. And you just might find yourself in a better place than you were at before.
(For DollaRapper, BlueBaglady, AngryOvercoatGuy, BugEyeWanda, and all the rest of the downtown gang. May you catch your bus, and may it see you home.)
Surviving the Streets (#15)
If you haven't eaten any solid food for three days, and feel like you are going to fall down, you probably are. Sit down.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Suddenly, Champu (#35)
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... mixed metaphors]
Dude, sometimes I feel like a frog.
Like a frog in a pond, you know?
And the ocean is so green!
[Champu on... mixed metaphors]
Dude, sometimes I feel like a frog.
Like a frog in a pond, you know?
And the ocean is so green!
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Freedom of Speech
Right, so this one's about blogging. I haven't been able to sleep for a few nights, and the insomnia pixies have been visiting me fairly regularly for the past day or two, messing with me in broad daylight at times. As a result, I find myself trawling the web night after night. Mostly I just find sweet FA, but sometimes I come across something cool, new, and useful. I'm pretty sure the people who read this blog fairly regularly (yes, all three of you) read other blogs as well, besides posting on your own. So this story might be familiar.
Its pretty damn awful to realise that what we take for granted is a privilege much prized by some, and each day is a struggle to stay connected, to stay online. Each post a subtle thumb of the nose at the establishment.
So I'm adding one blog from each country mentioned in the report to my blogroll. Right under my beautiful mugshot. Right hand side of the page, ya just can't miss it.
So get clicking. And together, we just might change something. Lets make each hit count. Vive la revolucion!
Edit : And of course, in my revolutionary zeal, I overlook the simple fact that not every blog on the intarwubs is en Anglais. This is going to be harder than I thought. 'Cos google translate..well.. sucks. But I'll be putting them up soon as I find 'em. Right, then, as you were.
Its pretty damn awful to realise that what we take for granted is a privilege much prized by some, and each day is a struggle to stay connected, to stay online. Each post a subtle thumb of the nose at the establishment.
So I'm adding one blog from each country mentioned in the report to my blogroll. Right under my beautiful mugshot. Right hand side of the page, ya just can't miss it.
So get clicking. And together, we just might change something. Lets make each hit count. Vive la revolucion!
Edit : And of course, in my revolutionary zeal, I overlook the simple fact that not every blog on the intarwubs is en Anglais. This is going to be harder than I thought. 'Cos google translate..well.. sucks. But I'll be putting them up soon as I find 'em. Right, then, as you were.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Suddenly, Champu (#19)
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... pregnancy]
Dude, did you ever notice how girls become fat after marriage? I think its because of sexual intercourse...
[Champu on... pregnancy]
Dude, did you ever notice how girls become fat after marriage? I think its because of sexual intercourse...
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