hmmm....
am sitting here with a copy of Huck Finn, a glass of coke and for once a constantly buzzing cell phone, will soon proceed towards the television to watch "The little Mermaid" for the umpteenth time and await my ascent (i hope) into 2006.
Have only just decided to celebrate "new years", hypocrisizing it by vaunting it along with my non-fellow human beings.
a) Because I dont know when the wiccan new year begins ( cant keep track of solstices and moon cycles) and I "just" dont see myself dancing naked to a full moon.
b) 'Cause this way I am "Still" part of the globally infesting race we call "mankind" even though im beginning to have my doubts about the simple fernetics of the word. "Man"-"Kind" ....HAH!
Hopefully by next year I will have realised my calling for space travel and all you sad souls who actually "write" to me (much as i appreciate it) will get post marked letters...
Return to sender
Address unknown,
no such number, no such zone.
After note- to after self: Cannot believe we finally managed to use that one.
Saturday, December 31, 2005
Sunday, December 25, 2005
My Favourite Things
Quite funny how the moments that propell me faster and flightier to the pivot of madness are always my sanest moments. Sanity is way overrated, truly!
Anyhow... am sitting in a strange place, thinking strange..."un-kinky" thoughts, which just makes them plain, arcane nuisances. So yet AGAIN, out of sheer, catatonic lack of ANYTHING else to do... will try and compile a list of.....what- not- who- cares's.
....These are a few of my favorite things:
1. The pure acrid, carbonated bliss of an ice-cold bottle of coke. Mankind's greatest merit, since...hmm, mankinds greatest merit, period.
2. Bob Dylan's "Froggie went a courtin' " which I am almost positive is a naxal, zerox copy synopsis of my "never-impending", forever-fabled wedding day. Always giving me an sense of immense comfort as to how 'the chaos' wil intermittently unfold. A sychophant's deliberation.
3. Writing my diabolical reveries in already printed pages, and forcefully imparting the already "imparted" with my noisome rhetoric. I love seeing my pencil carvings next to printed pages. I have been known to give Achille's hell over the heel, still have to get down to having my looming "talk" with Tolkein, though that requires massive doses of meditative, preparation and cerebral faculties. The latter of which I formidably lack at the moment.
4. Rex Harrison's portrayal of Henry Higgins in "My fair Lady"- the most handsome, blatant, chauvinist, nocuous pig in celluloid. However since he's dead, I feel no threat in thunderously, unabashedly showcasing my thus unrequited love.
5. The creative genius, maelstrom calisthenics and eternal wit, that Bugs bunny and Daffy duck splash for the benefit of the ignorant. Cliche'd one-liners that define everything and nothing, and noone even notices (sob). Seriously 'Whats up Doc?'
6. The mercurially succint, taste of "Crest" toothpaste, post having thrashed my unsuspecting gums for atleast 6 minutes, when my mouth is frozen raw. However since "bloody" Crest now costs 200 Rs ( asshole corporate cows), I must make do with waning, distant memories of frothy bliss.
7. Zia Moheyuddin reading Faiz, the sibilant perfection of voice merged with the sublime perfection in poetry. Simply put "perfection".
8. The point where my grandparents timid, polite laughter, turns into obnoxiously loud gaffaw's and rants.
9. Days when the electricity conks out (NOT IN SUMMER) and I am FORCED to venture forth from my "fortress of solitude" and sit outside in the sun, with a book.
10. The ultimate cheesy, one-liners my mom churns out only for my benefit, because she knows they are not worth subjecting to public ridicule.
11. Taco Bell's burrito's and jumbo nacho's- my most 'potent' calling back to the US. Boo Ya!
12. My father's 'blue-moon' smile, when aimed in my direction.
13. Reading my friend Milt's 2 page long conversation/reverie/ advice columns from silicon screens that he has inexplicably transfigured, so they now appear much less hostile.
14. "Bouquet's of freshly sharpened pencils" and the first word they put to unsuspecting paper.
15. 'Kodak moments" captured with loud, zany, politically "in-correct" friends... sans camera.
16. The first ragamuffin on the street selling the first "narcissus" posies of the season (true they arent "technically" the first, but the first I see) which amounts to the same thing. Staying true to the spirit of Narcissus.
17. A galloping horse, loads of wind- no shoes, no saddle.
18. "The Little Mermaid"- Sebastian's "Ariel, the human world is a mess" diatribe.
19. The smell of Sunflower/vanilla face wash, although since even "Freeman's" crap has now gone up! Am making 'do" with regular Pears bar soap. The lament of a bourgeois beauty, trying without evident success to maintain the latter.
20. Daily 'serendipities' encountered navigating Lahori traffic, flicking through random channels and browsing my way through cyberspace nebula's. Even though I actively nurture my apathy towards technology, I cannot help but be thankful for the internet. It is the only 'society' open to the sociopath.
21. Peter pan- the ultimate "Pan-ness" of Peter's pantomime and his ephemeral shadow.
22. Wooly scraves, hats and poncho's that my poor grandmother spends hours and hours perfecting, just to "score points" with me.
23. My "well preserved" magic wand- which "WILL" shoot sparks to confirm my confounded faith in all things "fairy tale".......any minute now.
24. The elusive sensation of still being lost in "book-lands" that lingers on for atleast three hours after I close the bind, regardless of how many times I read Harry Potter.
25. The elusive yet fascile wonder of writing myself little notes and pledges that forever aim to propel me in a thrust of forward motion, notes that I write, tape up to my wall and then lie down to stare at.
26. A bunch of technicolour baloons and ice-lollies in winter rain. Nothing beats a brain freeze, when the brain is already in the process.
27. The initial rush experienced when boarding a plane to destination unknowns... the rush passes, when they do not provide the adventure you may hope for. But its minute presence lingers for 'time agains'.
28. The perrenial grace and magnificence of Yul Brynner utterring the words "1-2-3 And"... for who can say no to such a 'Shall we dance?'. Not I. Never I.
29. Open seas and open skies, a wonder unsurpassed and often unnoticed.
30. The faint and fading, yet corporeously present knowledge in my bones...that there is still hope.
Hmmm, boredom and sheer doleful meanderings have elapsed.
...Your welcome!
Anyhow... am sitting in a strange place, thinking strange..."un-kinky" thoughts, which just makes them plain, arcane nuisances. So yet AGAIN, out of sheer, catatonic lack of ANYTHING else to do... will try and compile a list of.....what- not- who- cares's.
....These are a few of my favorite things:
1. The pure acrid, carbonated bliss of an ice-cold bottle of coke. Mankind's greatest merit, since...hmm, mankinds greatest merit, period.
2. Bob Dylan's "Froggie went a courtin' " which I am almost positive is a naxal, zerox copy synopsis of my "never-impending", forever-fabled wedding day. Always giving me an sense of immense comfort as to how 'the chaos' wil intermittently unfold. A sychophant's deliberation.
3. Writing my diabolical reveries in already printed pages, and forcefully imparting the already "imparted" with my noisome rhetoric. I love seeing my pencil carvings next to printed pages. I have been known to give Achille's hell over the heel, still have to get down to having my looming "talk" with Tolkein, though that requires massive doses of meditative, preparation and cerebral faculties. The latter of which I formidably lack at the moment.
4. Rex Harrison's portrayal of Henry Higgins in "My fair Lady"- the most handsome, blatant, chauvinist, nocuous pig in celluloid. However since he's dead, I feel no threat in thunderously, unabashedly showcasing my thus unrequited love.
5. The creative genius, maelstrom calisthenics and eternal wit, that Bugs bunny and Daffy duck splash for the benefit of the ignorant. Cliche'd one-liners that define everything and nothing, and noone even notices (sob). Seriously 'Whats up Doc?'
6. The mercurially succint, taste of "Crest" toothpaste, post having thrashed my unsuspecting gums for atleast 6 minutes, when my mouth is frozen raw. However since "bloody" Crest now costs 200 Rs ( asshole corporate cows), I must make do with waning, distant memories of frothy bliss.
7. Zia Moheyuddin reading Faiz, the sibilant perfection of voice merged with the sublime perfection in poetry. Simply put "perfection".
8. The point where my grandparents timid, polite laughter, turns into obnoxiously loud gaffaw's and rants.
9. Days when the electricity conks out (NOT IN SUMMER) and I am FORCED to venture forth from my "fortress of solitude" and sit outside in the sun, with a book.
10. The ultimate cheesy, one-liners my mom churns out only for my benefit, because she knows they are not worth subjecting to public ridicule.
11. Taco Bell's burrito's and jumbo nacho's- my most 'potent' calling back to the US. Boo Ya!
12. My father's 'blue-moon' smile, when aimed in my direction.
13. Reading my friend Milt's 2 page long conversation/reverie/ advice columns from silicon screens that he has inexplicably transfigured, so they now appear much less hostile.
14. "Bouquet's of freshly sharpened pencils" and the first word they put to unsuspecting paper.
15. 'Kodak moments" captured with loud, zany, politically "in-correct" friends... sans camera.
16. The first ragamuffin on the street selling the first "narcissus" posies of the season (true they arent "technically" the first, but the first I see) which amounts to the same thing. Staying true to the spirit of Narcissus.
17. A galloping horse, loads of wind- no shoes, no saddle.
18. "The Little Mermaid"- Sebastian's "Ariel, the human world is a mess" diatribe.
19. The smell of Sunflower/vanilla face wash, although since even "Freeman's" crap has now gone up! Am making 'do" with regular Pears bar soap. The lament of a bourgeois beauty, trying without evident success to maintain the latter.
20. Daily 'serendipities' encountered navigating Lahori traffic, flicking through random channels and browsing my way through cyberspace nebula's. Even though I actively nurture my apathy towards technology, I cannot help but be thankful for the internet. It is the only 'society' open to the sociopath.
21. Peter pan- the ultimate "Pan-ness" of Peter's pantomime and his ephemeral shadow.
22. Wooly scraves, hats and poncho's that my poor grandmother spends hours and hours perfecting, just to "score points" with me.
23. My "well preserved" magic wand- which "WILL" shoot sparks to confirm my confounded faith in all things "fairy tale".......any minute now.
24. The elusive sensation of still being lost in "book-lands" that lingers on for atleast three hours after I close the bind, regardless of how many times I read Harry Potter.
25. The elusive yet fascile wonder of writing myself little notes and pledges that forever aim to propel me in a thrust of forward motion, notes that I write, tape up to my wall and then lie down to stare at.
26. A bunch of technicolour baloons and ice-lollies in winter rain. Nothing beats a brain freeze, when the brain is already in the process.
27. The initial rush experienced when boarding a plane to destination unknowns... the rush passes, when they do not provide the adventure you may hope for. But its minute presence lingers for 'time agains'.
28. The perrenial grace and magnificence of Yul Brynner utterring the words "1-2-3 And"... for who can say no to such a 'Shall we dance?'. Not I. Never I.
29. Open seas and open skies, a wonder unsurpassed and often unnoticed.
30. The faint and fading, yet corporeously present knowledge in my bones...that there is still hope.
Hmmm, boredom and sheer doleful meanderings have elapsed.
...Your welcome!
Saturday, December 24, 2005
"All The Madmen"
Day after day
They send my friends away
To mansions cold and grey
To the far side of town
Where the thin men stalk the streets
While the sane stay underground
Day after day
They tell me I can go
They tell me I can blow
To the far side of town
Where it's pointless to be high
'Cause it's such a long way down
So I tell them that I can fly, I will scream, I will break my arm
I will do me harm
Here I stand, foot in hand,
talking to my wall I'm not quite right at all...am I?
Don't set me free,
I'm as heavy as can be
Just my librium and me
And my E.S.T. makes three
'Cause I'd rather stay here
With all the madmen
Than perish with the sadmen roaming free
And I'd rather play here With all the madmen
For I'm quite content they're all as sane as me
(Where can the horizon lie
When a nation hides Its organic minds in a cellar...dark and grim
They must be very dim)
Day after day
They take some brain away
Then turn my face around
To the far side of town
And tell me that it's real
Then ask me how I feel
Here I stand, foot in hand, talking to my wall
I'm not quite right at all
Don't set me free,
I'm as helpless as can be
My libido's split on me
Gimme some good 'ole lobotomy
'Cause I'd rather stay here With all the madmen
Than perish with the sadmen Roaming free
And I'd rather play here
With all the madmen
For I'm quite content
They're all as sane as me
Lyrics by David Bowie
They send my friends away
To mansions cold and grey
To the far side of town
Where the thin men stalk the streets
While the sane stay underground
Day after day
They tell me I can go
They tell me I can blow
To the far side of town
Where it's pointless to be high
'Cause it's such a long way down
So I tell them that I can fly, I will scream, I will break my arm
I will do me harm
Here I stand, foot in hand,
talking to my wall I'm not quite right at all...am I?
Don't set me free,
I'm as heavy as can be
Just my librium and me
And my E.S.T. makes three
'Cause I'd rather stay here
With all the madmen
Than perish with the sadmen roaming free
And I'd rather play here With all the madmen
For I'm quite content they're all as sane as me
(Where can the horizon lie
When a nation hides Its organic minds in a cellar...dark and grim
They must be very dim)
Day after day
They take some brain away
Then turn my face around
To the far side of town
And tell me that it's real
Then ask me how I feel
Here I stand, foot in hand, talking to my wall
I'm not quite right at all
Don't set me free,
I'm as helpless as can be
My libido's split on me
Gimme some good 'ole lobotomy
'Cause I'd rather stay here With all the madmen
Than perish with the sadmen Roaming free
And I'd rather play here
With all the madmen
For I'm quite content
They're all as sane as me
Lyrics by David Bowie
"Superman's Song"
Tarzan wasn't a ladies' man
He'd just come along and scoop 'em up under his arm
Like that, quick as a cat in the jungle
But Clark Kent, now there was a real gent
He would not be caught sittin' around in no Junglescape,
dumb as an ape doing nothing
[Chorus:] Superman never made any money
For saving the world from Solomon Grundy
And sometimes I despair the world will never see
Another man like him
Hey Bob, Supe had a straight job
Even though he could have smashed through any bank
In the United States,
he had the strength, but he would not
Folks said his family were all dead
Their planet crumbled but Superman, he forced himself
To carry on, forget Krypton, and keep going
Tarzan was king of the jungle and Lord over all the apes
But he could hardly string together four words:
"I Tarzan, You Jane."
Sometimes when Supe was stopping crimes
I'll bet that he was tempted to just quit and turn his backOn man,
join Tarzan in the forest
But he stayed in the city, and kept on changing clothes
In dirty old phonebooths till his work was through
And nothing to do but go on home.
Lyrics by Crash test Dummies
He'd just come along and scoop 'em up under his arm
Like that, quick as a cat in the jungle
But Clark Kent, now there was a real gent
He would not be caught sittin' around in no Junglescape,
dumb as an ape doing nothing
[Chorus:] Superman never made any money
For saving the world from Solomon Grundy
And sometimes I despair the world will never see
Another man like him
Hey Bob, Supe had a straight job
Even though he could have smashed through any bank
In the United States,
he had the strength, but he would not
Folks said his family were all dead
Their planet crumbled but Superman, he forced himself
To carry on, forget Krypton, and keep going
Tarzan was king of the jungle and Lord over all the apes
But he could hardly string together four words:
"I Tarzan, You Jane."
Sometimes when Supe was stopping crimes
I'll bet that he was tempted to just quit and turn his backOn man,
join Tarzan in the forest
But he stayed in the city, and kept on changing clothes
In dirty old phonebooths till his work was through
And nothing to do but go on home.
Lyrics by Crash test Dummies
Small Things
Small hands that shatter glass and strangle throats.
Small feet that travel wide and explore groves.
Small eyes that see spirit and man and worlds.
Small lives that build empires, shackle Kings and empower Gods.
Small thoughts that tickle, torture, travel and endure.
Small memories that penetrate like mists and invoke storms.
Small habits that make and break and build and hold a human being.
Small words that cut and pierce, that touch and love.
Small tastes that make lives worth living.
Small people that will always say, “The world is too big for differences”
Small minds that believe them.
Small feet that travel wide and explore groves.
Small eyes that see spirit and man and worlds.
Small lives that build empires, shackle Kings and empower Gods.
Small thoughts that tickle, torture, travel and endure.
Small memories that penetrate like mists and invoke storms.
Small habits that make and break and build and hold a human being.
Small words that cut and pierce, that touch and love.
Small tastes that make lives worth living.
Small people that will always say, “The world is too big for differences”
Small minds that believe them.
CYNIC
It pays to be a cynic…
To scoff in fortune’s face
It pays to know that things go wrong,
To know the shock, when they work out
My destiny isn’t changing: the stars aren’t rearranging
While God sits on his throne,
Smiling a smile “oh-so” content…
Down here I’m going crazy,
Drawing the line: “Who I AM” and “Who I INVENT”
When faith becomes elusive; the soul becomes reclusive
My eyes have now been opened
My head has now been cleared.
I’ve seen all there is, of truth
Known all there is, of fear…
If I end up all alone, at least I’ll have my way…
“It pays to be a cynic” even for a day.
The day that God comes looking,
He’ll have to change his tone.
He’ll have to be polite,
And face me all alone.
The message rings loud and clear…
“I’ll still be standing here”.
To scoff in fortune’s face
It pays to know that things go wrong,
To know the shock, when they work out
My destiny isn’t changing: the stars aren’t rearranging
While God sits on his throne,
Smiling a smile “oh-so” content…
Down here I’m going crazy,
Drawing the line: “Who I AM” and “Who I INVENT”
When faith becomes elusive; the soul becomes reclusive
My eyes have now been opened
My head has now been cleared.
I’ve seen all there is, of truth
Known all there is, of fear…
If I end up all alone, at least I’ll have my way…
“It pays to be a cynic” even for a day.
The day that God comes looking,
He’ll have to change his tone.
He’ll have to be polite,
And face me all alone.
The message rings loud and clear…
“I’ll still be standing here”.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Doppelganger
Dexterous yearnings of doppelganger shadows
My ephemeral nuance
My nihilist gamekeeper
Sallow through my miasma of serpent tongues
And flaccid fortune,
Ride the waves of sardonic fury
My cerebral continents of marshmallow skies and candy-floss caverns
Let us roam these streets of forbidden flavors
Forever parting the skies of coterie comfort
Devil may care dances to solitary traveler tunes
Let us dance the dance
And sing the song…
In all its ontological corphorages
In all its dead pan silence.
You and I
Let us bury this truth
Let us live the lie.
My ephemeral nuance
My nihilist gamekeeper
Sallow through my miasma of serpent tongues
And flaccid fortune,
Ride the waves of sardonic fury
My cerebral continents of marshmallow skies and candy-floss caverns
Let us roam these streets of forbidden flavors
Forever parting the skies of coterie comfort
Devil may care dances to solitary traveler tunes
Let us dance the dance
And sing the song…
In all its ontological corphorages
In all its dead pan silence.
You and I
Let us bury this truth
Let us live the lie.
The frog who dreamed of being a King
Did you read about the frog who dreamed of being a King
And then became one
well except for the names and a few other changes
If you talk about me....
the story's the same one
Yep, 'I' the obstreperous monarch of cess-pool swamps
The Stalinist governer over swamp dominions.
'I' the ruler of pedagogue tadpoles and taciturn toads
'I' the law governing all beings that hiss, croak and infest
My seaweed banquets to pivot 'favours' in my favour
My confounded, ingenious legacy of 'plush' flies and 'gooey' gunk
My grave 'gargle' of truth
My solemn 'croak' of defiance...
Yep... 'I' the ignoramus Frog who dreamed of being a King
And then became one.
And then became one
well except for the names and a few other changes
If you talk about me....
the story's the same one
Yep, 'I' the obstreperous monarch of cess-pool swamps
The Stalinist governer over swamp dominions.
'I' the ruler of pedagogue tadpoles and taciturn toads
'I' the law governing all beings that hiss, croak and infest
My seaweed banquets to pivot 'favours' in my favour
My confounded, ingenious legacy of 'plush' flies and 'gooey' gunk
My grave 'gargle' of truth
My solemn 'croak' of defiance...
Yep... 'I' the ignoramus Frog who dreamed of being a King
And then became one.
Sunday, December 18, 2005
The cathartic merits of corporate "crap"
TA-DA...am back in all my inordinate "lack" of splendour.
Have just experienced the latest in my string of ontological epiphanies... regarding the corporeal meaning behind mankind's existential dilemma. Glory be to the creators of the infallable "Tom and Jerry' show.
Having just sat through an hours marathon of the "not- so original", " not- so dynamic" duo i finally recognise the hidden nuances behind their constant stream of "cat and mouse" pun intended. It is amazing how despite knowing "exactly" what will happen in each fateful encounter, one is compelled to watch it unfold. All its' sordid-ness, becoming more and more hilarious each time. It Kind of makes you wonder how God feels watching "us", knowing, but still compelled to watch it all unfold.... poor chap!
Tom chases Jerry. Jerry is smart...ergo jerry 'will' not be caught.
HALLELUJAH....climax... 'heavy', preferably clanky, object will fall on Tom generally in the cerebral vicinity.
Jerry will smile a sadistic yet simultaneously adorable "oh yes! im a narcissitic, vaunting, prat..but you'll love me anyway, hoop la...smile" and the circuitous path will continue to unfurl till kingdom come.
And these crazy ass idiots in the media say ideas need to be 'original" to be catchy! No ass hole, they need to be predicatble, only mind- numbingly so.
Dear William Hanna and Joseph Barbera, in all your congealing ministrations, "My humblest thanks for the midnight dose of enlightenment!" .Power to you for never having to "speak" to say.
Have just experienced the latest in my string of ontological epiphanies... regarding the corporeal meaning behind mankind's existential dilemma. Glory be to the creators of the infallable "Tom and Jerry' show.
Having just sat through an hours marathon of the "not- so original", " not- so dynamic" duo i finally recognise the hidden nuances behind their constant stream of "cat and mouse" pun intended. It is amazing how despite knowing "exactly" what will happen in each fateful encounter, one is compelled to watch it unfold. All its' sordid-ness, becoming more and more hilarious each time. It Kind of makes you wonder how God feels watching "us", knowing, but still compelled to watch it all unfold.... poor chap!
Tom chases Jerry. Jerry is smart...ergo jerry 'will' not be caught.
HALLELUJAH....climax... 'heavy', preferably clanky, object will fall on Tom generally in the cerebral vicinity.
Jerry will smile a sadistic yet simultaneously adorable "oh yes! im a narcissitic, vaunting, prat..but you'll love me anyway, hoop la...smile" and the circuitous path will continue to unfurl till kingdom come.
And these crazy ass idiots in the media say ideas need to be 'original" to be catchy! No ass hole, they need to be predicatble, only mind- numbingly so.
Dear William Hanna and Joseph Barbera, in all your congealing ministrations, "My humblest thanks for the midnight dose of enlightenment!" .Power to you for never having to "speak" to say.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Epiphany
Out of sheer lack of anything constructive to do, not that i would ever DARE attempt anything constructive, i have decided to waste my time more ingeniously by contributing to this travesty of a forum for the socially retarded and mentally vivacious.
Basically i have nothing to say, yet my pack of Pringles' is running out and at this "particular" time Bob Dylan's morose morbidity has soothed me into a false state of security which i must rouse myself from, lest it be too late and i begin to nurture the false hope that humanity "could" change. Maria...WAKE UP!
Am relating vey well to Ishmael from Moby Dick "Hell is an idea first born on an undigested apple dumpling" no dumplings, since dont have the drive or initiative to bother baking them just to get constipated from concumption. Plus i have just figured out that Pringles coupled with diet coke, and Fox mint is equally effective in clogging up what ought to remain unclogged.
Yes! meanderings are definitely not healthy, but need to conclude on brilliant note....
Aphorism for the day "Never fuse fizzy carbonated bliss with processed cheese kernels and layer them with sugar" ...moment of genius has passed.
Note to self: Next time get "Barbecue"....Vinegar "not happening".
First-after Epiphany: "Excercise" when finally attain afore mentioned state of constructive initiative and drive.
Second-after Epiphany: No worries, have atleast ten years.
Third-after Epiphany: Will be too late then anyway.
Basically i have nothing to say, yet my pack of Pringles' is running out and at this "particular" time Bob Dylan's morose morbidity has soothed me into a false state of security which i must rouse myself from, lest it be too late and i begin to nurture the false hope that humanity "could" change. Maria...WAKE UP!
Am relating vey well to Ishmael from Moby Dick "Hell is an idea first born on an undigested apple dumpling" no dumplings, since dont have the drive or initiative to bother baking them just to get constipated from concumption. Plus i have just figured out that Pringles coupled with diet coke, and Fox mint is equally effective in clogging up what ought to remain unclogged.
Yes! meanderings are definitely not healthy, but need to conclude on brilliant note....
Aphorism for the day "Never fuse fizzy carbonated bliss with processed cheese kernels and layer them with sugar" ...moment of genius has passed.
Note to self: Next time get "Barbecue"....Vinegar "not happening".
First-after Epiphany: "Excercise" when finally attain afore mentioned state of constructive initiative and drive.
Second-after Epiphany: No worries, have atleast ten years.
Third-after Epiphany: Will be too late then anyway.
Monday, December 05, 2005
Prayer
I believe we are all sent down on this planet with three traits, ingrained in our person. As we walk our own paths we lose each, one by one.
“Identity”. “ Personality”. “Faith”.
As the abyss unfolds, each one seeps out of our being, without our knowing it. One fine day we sit at home and our mom tells us to wear “decent” clothes, to act like a lady and to stop acting talking like a lunatic. So we lose the first to family.
As the globe turns, one fine day we walk the streets and glance at the people on both sides, there is no difference. Our pace is the same, our clothes are the same and our expressions are the same. So we lose the second to society.
As the skies pull away to soak the world in fresh color, we glance momentarily at our surroundings, all we see is death and hate. We see poor men and rich men. We see bullies and we see judgment. We look up and all we see “up- there” are clouds, there is nothing else. So we lose the third to reality.
In essence we remain shells of what were once individuals, because it was just so much easier to conform. It was the only way they left us alone. Then one of us wakes up, as if jerked upright after a heart attack by a massive jolt of electricity. He looks at the rest in horror, an army of automatons. He starts jolting each one awake. Pulling, pushing and screaming.
“You! Get up and use that brush! You’re a painter, don’t you remember?”.
“And you! You’re a doctor, go save lives! For God’s sake”.
“You! Turn of that damn drain box and go outside and play, don’t you remember…? you’re a child”
“Me?”
“I’m the dreamer”.
Now they are all awake, striving to revive that meager spark, that gift from the divine. The strong survive by a thread and the weak perish. But still, they all try.
“Identity”. “ Personality”. “Faith”.
As the abyss unfolds, each one seeps out of our being, without our knowing it. One fine day we sit at home and our mom tells us to wear “decent” clothes, to act like a lady and to stop acting talking like a lunatic. So we lose the first to family.
As the globe turns, one fine day we walk the streets and glance at the people on both sides, there is no difference. Our pace is the same, our clothes are the same and our expressions are the same. So we lose the second to society.
As the skies pull away to soak the world in fresh color, we glance momentarily at our surroundings, all we see is death and hate. We see poor men and rich men. We see bullies and we see judgment. We look up and all we see “up- there” are clouds, there is nothing else. So we lose the third to reality.
In essence we remain shells of what were once individuals, because it was just so much easier to conform. It was the only way they left us alone. Then one of us wakes up, as if jerked upright after a heart attack by a massive jolt of electricity. He looks at the rest in horror, an army of automatons. He starts jolting each one awake. Pulling, pushing and screaming.
“You! Get up and use that brush! You’re a painter, don’t you remember?”.
“And you! You’re a doctor, go save lives! For God’s sake”.
“You! Turn of that damn drain box and go outside and play, don’t you remember…? you’re a child”
“Me?”
“I’m the dreamer”.
Now they are all awake, striving to revive that meager spark, that gift from the divine. The strong survive by a thread and the weak perish. But still, they all try.
Saturday, December 03, 2005
My Religion...
I hear the disrupted dogma defecate my ears, corrupt my courage and seep through my senses.
I feel the sarcasm of Atheists wash over my cynical faith, with a bitter douche of reality. I have no argument now to attest to holding on, yet still I linger on the borders of spirituality carrying with me; a trifle crumb of loyalty, for a belief so hard to believe in.
I know of a truth unspoken, unheard and unknown. A truth depreciated by words, rituals and ramification. A truth reduced to vowels and consonants G-O-D, F-A-I-T-H, B-E-L-I-E-F…all strings of paper scrawls with no reality except “realism”.
I see a path before me, a path that spreads only wonder but asks a heavy price. It cloaks itself, well hidden until one manages to strike true, deep into the core. Strike all culture, all knowledge and all thought. Until one manages to walk the path with eyes closed and hearts open.
I find a meaning finally, buried deep under hypocritical appearances. A meaning without all constants. A meaning that asks for nothing save courage, to acknowledge it once it is found. A meaning that requires a lonely Scavenger Hunt into the depths of all that is wrong, to hit what is right and recognize it. A meaning that provides no answers, poses no questions and serves no urges… it just offers peace.
My religion is boundless, its truths elusive. Its book: Goodness, its principles: Human. Its dogma: Tolerance, its Prophet: Art. It’s God, the elements outside my heart and inside. My religion, My truth, My book, My dogma, My prophets, My God.
My religion is the fulfillment wrought on by a good Dylan song,
The ecstasy known only after dancing in circles till the point of collapsing
The bliss of silly laughter shared with friends without reason
The first sip of a ice-cold Coke
The sound of summer storms and thunder rain
My religion is all the joy that colors bring; blue for mood, white for peace, red for passion.
My religion is the taste which lingers after a warm helping of enchiladas
My religion is the pat on the back after a job well done,
My religion is the flick of the match that lights a candle.
My religion is someone else’s joy which becomes so palpable it is mine.
My religion is a man’s smile that sparks my own.
My religion is a book that drives me to tears, when words on a page change my reality.
My religion is my Grandparents hands.
My religion is all that I am, and all that I wish to be… My religion is all that life holds for me and all that I seek from life.
My religion is my humanity and my dogma my happiness.
My religion is the search.
The search is eternal
The answers indefinite
The logic fraternal.
I feel the sarcasm of Atheists wash over my cynical faith, with a bitter douche of reality. I have no argument now to attest to holding on, yet still I linger on the borders of spirituality carrying with me; a trifle crumb of loyalty, for a belief so hard to believe in.
I know of a truth unspoken, unheard and unknown. A truth depreciated by words, rituals and ramification. A truth reduced to vowels and consonants G-O-D, F-A-I-T-H, B-E-L-I-E-F…all strings of paper scrawls with no reality except “realism”.
I see a path before me, a path that spreads only wonder but asks a heavy price. It cloaks itself, well hidden until one manages to strike true, deep into the core. Strike all culture, all knowledge and all thought. Until one manages to walk the path with eyes closed and hearts open.
I find a meaning finally, buried deep under hypocritical appearances. A meaning without all constants. A meaning that asks for nothing save courage, to acknowledge it once it is found. A meaning that requires a lonely Scavenger Hunt into the depths of all that is wrong, to hit what is right and recognize it. A meaning that provides no answers, poses no questions and serves no urges… it just offers peace.
My religion is boundless, its truths elusive. Its book: Goodness, its principles: Human. Its dogma: Tolerance, its Prophet: Art. It’s God, the elements outside my heart and inside. My religion, My truth, My book, My dogma, My prophets, My God.
My religion is the fulfillment wrought on by a good Dylan song,
The ecstasy known only after dancing in circles till the point of collapsing
The bliss of silly laughter shared with friends without reason
The first sip of a ice-cold Coke
The sound of summer storms and thunder rain
My religion is all the joy that colors bring; blue for mood, white for peace, red for passion.
My religion is the taste which lingers after a warm helping of enchiladas
My religion is the pat on the back after a job well done,
My religion is the flick of the match that lights a candle.
My religion is someone else’s joy which becomes so palpable it is mine.
My religion is a man’s smile that sparks my own.
My religion is a book that drives me to tears, when words on a page change my reality.
My religion is my Grandparents hands.
My religion is all that I am, and all that I wish to be… My religion is all that life holds for me and all that I seek from life.
My religion is my humanity and my dogma my happiness.
My religion is the search.
The search is eternal
The answers indefinite
The logic fraternal.
Street Lights
White light on the free way,
Flooded grave –yard: bard dances and referred redemption
Where nothing ever comes free.
Red light flickers the back street
Where whores look, touch, book, fuck…
Cash only- life itself comes free.
Blue lights flood a jazz club
Where melody frames moods: bass and drums hook drunkard bums
Drifts of laughter, tears and hotel fears
Sermon dirges of the brood
Yellow light laminates a traffic pole
Where “proverbial indecision” reigns-
Of cradle crusades and carnivorous carnivals
The border outlines of sanity.
Green lights scream GO!
Ushers of movement and all things good: Charity, magic, model faith
Time kicks in and refreshes sin:
Losing my religion
Losing my smile
Losing my grip
Losing my damned narcissistic wiles
Green means GO!
Ready- get- set …
Lights out
Flooded grave –yard: bard dances and referred redemption
Where nothing ever comes free.
Red light flickers the back street
Where whores look, touch, book, fuck…
Cash only- life itself comes free.
Blue lights flood a jazz club
Where melody frames moods: bass and drums hook drunkard bums
Drifts of laughter, tears and hotel fears
Sermon dirges of the brood
Yellow light laminates a traffic pole
Where “proverbial indecision” reigns-
Of cradle crusades and carnivorous carnivals
The border outlines of sanity.
Green lights scream GO!
Ushers of movement and all things good: Charity, magic, model faith
Time kicks in and refreshes sin:
Losing my religion
Losing my smile
Losing my grip
Losing my damned narcissistic wiles
Green means GO!
Ready- get- set …
Lights out
A Pencil's lament
I often mourn the loss of simplicity that evades my grasp. Of pixel images and plastic words punched in computer screens. How I hate man’s verbose dependence on plug-in wires and cyberspace nebula’s.
I forever mock the scratches of pen on paper, the bitter hardness of ink. How will my nemesis ever comprehend my simplicity? Therein lies the beauty of the pencil-in its minimalism, in the wood and charcoal that slides across pages and keeps up pace with their pantomime. The poetic justice of charcoal fire, colliding with shrapnel wood fusing to give birth to expression. The prolific grace of old smudged paper and worn away sentiment. The saturated shards of freshly sharpened shillings. They will never recognize my charms in time.
Crying shrieks of sherry moments and caramel graces all lost in wire gauze fiber, I sit calmly in plastic mugs of idle stationary glaring at my nemesis. He stands beside me arrogantly erect like a peacock flaunting his feathers, frequently the object of her misplaced affections. I admit that I am blatantly obsequious, waiting with baited breath for the moment to be picked up and out of this cramped prison. Forever waiting for transient scrawls of innocent charcoal battled by iodized, fossilized ink. I think I loathe nothing in this world as much as the hatred I actively nurture for perfection. For fabricated faces, porcelain figures and placid colors. The world would collapse were it in any way “correct”. It is their fatal flaws, their imbecile enigma, their marring ugliness that will be their redemption. Not their perennial quest for perfection and hybrid existences. The only manner of fitful life to be found on any blessed canvas is my communion with her thoughts, our orgasmic collision of fairytale towns and bold pirates.
Finally the moment shows itself when I settle in her hand along these words, I drift softly along her Tudor walls and taste her fruitful flavors, the question screams out “Where is this page taking me?” Yet I let her lead me, page and I ever eager to be a part of her thoughts. I hide in her coral caves of imbalanced proportion, I deftly avoid her rounded edges of worldly concerns as I skate along the smooth gloss of procrastinating sheen.
This legend of ivory paper and this forest lament of processed durges are the only scraps she ever throws our way, and I lap in their luxury sans regret. She takes my charcoal fire and smashes it against page’s wooden scroll, and we both love it. Given life by lifeless soul, we love being used and discarded, only one- night stands are we yet still we cant wait to be picked up.
Tell me my friend; tell me my oldest savior, my bitterest critic. Why does she lead us through perilous mind warps, through scandalous self-discovery and maligned mysticism?
O tell me perpetual page…
When does it end?
Where is she taking us?
I forever mock the scratches of pen on paper, the bitter hardness of ink. How will my nemesis ever comprehend my simplicity? Therein lies the beauty of the pencil-in its minimalism, in the wood and charcoal that slides across pages and keeps up pace with their pantomime. The poetic justice of charcoal fire, colliding with shrapnel wood fusing to give birth to expression. The prolific grace of old smudged paper and worn away sentiment. The saturated shards of freshly sharpened shillings. They will never recognize my charms in time.
Crying shrieks of sherry moments and caramel graces all lost in wire gauze fiber, I sit calmly in plastic mugs of idle stationary glaring at my nemesis. He stands beside me arrogantly erect like a peacock flaunting his feathers, frequently the object of her misplaced affections. I admit that I am blatantly obsequious, waiting with baited breath for the moment to be picked up and out of this cramped prison. Forever waiting for transient scrawls of innocent charcoal battled by iodized, fossilized ink. I think I loathe nothing in this world as much as the hatred I actively nurture for perfection. For fabricated faces, porcelain figures and placid colors. The world would collapse were it in any way “correct”. It is their fatal flaws, their imbecile enigma, their marring ugliness that will be their redemption. Not their perennial quest for perfection and hybrid existences. The only manner of fitful life to be found on any blessed canvas is my communion with her thoughts, our orgasmic collision of fairytale towns and bold pirates.
Finally the moment shows itself when I settle in her hand along these words, I drift softly along her Tudor walls and taste her fruitful flavors, the question screams out “Where is this page taking me?” Yet I let her lead me, page and I ever eager to be a part of her thoughts. I hide in her coral caves of imbalanced proportion, I deftly avoid her rounded edges of worldly concerns as I skate along the smooth gloss of procrastinating sheen.
This legend of ivory paper and this forest lament of processed durges are the only scraps she ever throws our way, and I lap in their luxury sans regret. She takes my charcoal fire and smashes it against page’s wooden scroll, and we both love it. Given life by lifeless soul, we love being used and discarded, only one- night stands are we yet still we cant wait to be picked up.
Tell me my friend; tell me my oldest savior, my bitterest critic. Why does she lead us through perilous mind warps, through scandalous self-discovery and maligned mysticism?
O tell me perpetual page…
When does it end?
Where is she taking us?
Friday, December 02, 2005
The Mask & the Mirror
When the fog lifts and illusions become clearer
I take off my mask and face my mirror…
When mists fall and the crowds gather,
The mask slips on- smiling, glaring, weeping, laughing…. fiercer.
It moulds, it shifts, and it changes: as the truth gets nearer.
Everything is easy, its all impulse and its getting weaker
All until I face my mirror.
The face of reality, the face of illusion
Which is easier?
The wardrobe holds my masks.
Every moment, of which I’m the reaper.
Don’t you love my mask?
Won’t you hate my mirror?
I take off my mask and face my mirror…
When mists fall and the crowds gather,
The mask slips on- smiling, glaring, weeping, laughing…. fiercer.
It moulds, it shifts, and it changes: as the truth gets nearer.
Everything is easy, its all impulse and its getting weaker
All until I face my mirror.
The face of reality, the face of illusion
Which is easier?
The wardrobe holds my masks.
Every moment, of which I’m the reaper.
Don’t you love my mask?
Won’t you hate my mirror?
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