Don't

Keep them within yourself,
keep them private.

And he lived through smoke,
wasted cigarettes,
with a running obsession,
to live and ploy;
Secure young hearts,
and leave them for joy.

He lived for 45 years,
as mad as his obsessions.

He could have had a thought on his last breath,
that could have been,
"Why didn't I?"

He could have decided to stop.
Said, "Stop the drama."
And let death takeover.

No, this could have been more drama for him.

He might have thought.
"What is with my own dramatics?"
"What is with these defined _?"
"What is with you being dramatic?"


Do you think he might have died,
silently among exuberant folks,
lost in their own sweet world,
caring less enough for the braggart
they thought him to be?

What would his last thought have been,
in that case?
was he allowed one?
or did he die with his paranoid self?

He should have lived.
Shred and lived.
Less of obsessions,
more expression
love for people
hate for people
as a normal being.

He could have,
not lied to himself that he wasn't any of that.

-----

Smell of God
in my pockets;
I pull out my hands from them,
and there I found an assurance.

-------

There is something gay (old usage) and wrenching about the photograph of a happy gay couple.

Wait for the sailor
and for the mast;
wait a thousand nights
and days.

Wait until the ship sinks;
for Jupiter to show up in the sky;
for the sea to swell.

Wait,
and don't go for another moment.

Work haunts you when you wake up at 5.30, your usual weekday time, and are fluttered about having to get ready, and then something about it being a Saturday strikes you and it still is a suspicious thing. You have to go to office. Oh but well, we get back to sleep.

In isolation people find love,
when together, they find need.

--
A game should be foolproof.
Like a clear sky, and the unpredictable effects of the hemp plant.

(To be continued as prose)

--

The painting washed away by Neruda.

Overheard in the head:

A part of it wants you to quit smoking.
A part of it wants to smoke with you.

Vignette / Lightness

There was dainty mirth;
that Eliot would have found
in a nonchalant street musician in Venice.


--- < ! respond >

Restless feet,
ready to fly for a cigarette;


Man by the dinner table on one-
not making the piano request.


the hunched poet on another-
by the stream in the city.

Large liquid eyes-
pained by the rulebook of the world.

Here's what concern says to you:
"Free yourself, young man.
You need to be so much more
than you see or have to be."

 --- < respond >

 In the restaurant by the sea,
 there was no malady.

---

Letter your doubts
and make paper boats of them during the rains.

--- < ! respond >

Neengadha thendral,
paadadho un idazh?

-- < respond >

Melisaiyil urangavum,
kadal karai-il kanaa kaanavum,
chandiranai purindhukollavum,
ni vendaamo?

--- < respond >

Viz. the previous post:

Was I stoned, or something?!

Timepass Farts

I found myself blurting this as soon as I woke up from my evening nap, "Some people are worth more than conjugal bliss." It does not make sense now, though.

--

It's about how capiche sounds and not what it means.

--

An argument is tedious. There's deduction and induction, there has to be conviction, there could be emotion, and some condescension. Reminding me of the moods of this pseudo piece, here.

Analysis, on the other hand, is spawn of free ends. It's about the moot. Libertarian, in a better sense.

Language, the coordinating factor, doesn't help much. Just like this post, facts without a cause.
Ha, that's an argument.

< No, was a priori before it turned into an argument. >

Darn, all statements are arguments.
Aristotle made statements. Emphasised, rather.

Hmm, now emphasis has been dragged into what Butch says in Pulp Fiction -

Shit! Of all the fucking things she could forget, she forgets my father's watch! ... : I specifically reminded her - bedside table! On the Kangaroo! I said the words, "Don't forget my father’s watch."

or dismissed and coiled away for something emanating from a social handicap among other things.


Trashing all of the above statements, it is

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question …

Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”

Let us go and make our visit.

 

that I would like to bask upon.

Some thought on a Saturday morning led me to think there is pain in imagination (this might have accentuated it.)

That sounded like an easy statement to make.
And then, giving equal thought to what constitutes expression, the generation loss, constructs, and talking to people, I mightily killed my pet thought.

--

Where is Helene?  

     "    is Ralph? 

     "    is Philip? 

           is everybody? 

--

 

November Rain

For a long evening
of no disdain.

November Rain,
Silently plotting
the meadows, towns
and this very city.

Reminding me of
our primitive Worldspace set
tuned to KL Radio and Orbit Rock
on such dainty days.

Light

Everything is light when this feather sits besides me.
Everything goes awry when it flies away

and says each time, "You never once made me sway."

Should I have? Should the wind have?
Did I not? Did the wind not?

It is a stray feather, alright,
with no place to stay.

I put it at someplace
secure and safe.

But,
it departs so often that,
the air smells its flight
more often than my hand-held
gentle admiration of its lightness.

Missing the rhythm,
skipping beats.

Gul Mohurs along the way,
rising as tarts each day.

Cancalam

The Evening Song
does not stead by me.

It's a night
of insecurity.

I came across a new word today - tenebrous.

Pretty sure I won't remember to use it tomorrow, or later.

(Should this be on twitter, instead?) Hmm.

Thought (n) - mail drafts you never want to send for the sheer incompleteness and privateness.

Self Talk (Ignore)

Damnit. Why didn't I think Doppler's? Vis-a-vis the previous post. But, that would mean disinterestedness playing a part somewhere.

Comfort

How else can I be
with you in troubling times
but with bosom
consorting the same dissonance
and a face thusly placid
with vacuous mutters
to keep up the faked ignorances.

How else can I?
Unless you allow free speech,
bring yourself out,
and let us devise.

Different kinds of Respect

It should be liberating to have a Godfather.
At least, stifling responses wouldn't be of much concern
and yes, did I say liberating?
It has to be relieving as well.

Who wants ties with this mad connection made of people, and inanimate things.



--

Nothing more stimulating than a discussion that has accommodating people who aren't bothered about who gets the lead, or what has to be scrutinised and what not.

It's difficult being a woman.

And you < have to > think, the man has it easier.

--

Pirandello,
for an instant.
married to something,
for an instant,
Slipping away,
irritatedly.

Whiling away,
for what seemed like
an eternity,
Straightening ties with your wife,
for an eternity.
Cycling away
circularly.

Real trips

I'm suddenly taken back to the high-walled buildings I had been to. Even imagining sipping green tea near the venetian blinds of one of those floors as the evening sky rains. Dusk in all its wrung romanticism. A silent overwhelm.

Happened recently.

How would empathy for oneself seem?

-Like being able to astutely (remember and) feel the taste of medicated blood soaked cotton blobs around the gums, while the dentist was working on a root canal surgery drilling such that nano teeth particles and the  saline solution, hit the roof of the mouth and gave their own distinct taste and presence.

Good Lord, I am empathetic of myself?

A life between Mumbai and Delhi, simmering shoes that always wore a strut, impudence for all the vanity.

One night, of the many, saw her returning to her single apartment a little beyond twelve.
And the feeling of being a slut cringed in her. She wasn't one for real, though. But the late nights, her outrageous clothing, insolence, and many such apocalyptica prescribed by society for a woman, caught her off guard. I think she felt nauseous about herself.

Of course she didn't have the balls to confront herself with that or even pull herself and say, "I care two hoots." Neither did she want to tell anyone she felt morally screwed.

Oh, man.
 (incomplete)

--

Another Just:
 Do you want me to step down?
run far away
and hurt myself?

:D

Daybreak,

it's no more than shambles.

The thing about beating around a social occasion is that you find yourself giving excuses worse than the actual.

(Let's call this fiction?)

A sip of infidelity

Eloquent speech,
well-built frame,
man of many tournaments,
smart-dresser,

sat across me at the conference table.
Minting astute thoughts,
and languid glances.
It was before I could surrender, that,
I was reminded that I have a family.

< wish the ones below were removed >

And, so, my slow posture retired
knowing it would lean towards this man
in other conferences;
and the family would fade to
a passive impotent remembrance.

Sore

Pure acads beckon the soul cringed inside uncomfortable walls.

Of life

Drama is the Piano.
Piano is the drama.

Subtlety, beauty and mellowness linger within, here and there.

Non-obtrusively.

It's like this.

All you do is find poetry in others, and lose your own.

Unrest

Clouds of silence,
laid on an Ilayaraja piece.

Background for,
the tea shop, dish washing,
savoured rust of
the first bicycle.

Silence meted on memories,
clichéd references to footsteps;
perhaps along some barren beach.

Full moon night,
The heart was supposed to have sunk.

But, hoo,
we seem to have a mutter here.

You wake up,
and you find things to share.
Love, work and even an occasional nightmare.

Before retiring,
all you do is stare.

Sublime

In reality, they have an atmosphere in-between. 
In writing, they dissolve themselves.

- inspired by them

From dust to ashes,
through quivery living,
and meandering.

-

Var.

From dust to ashes,
the guileless body lives,
tarnished by rings of ideas
and premises.

-

Combo:

Two words for them who think of dust to ashes and isolate the interim period for one of struggle: Existential Angst.

For the others, like us, it's been 'from womb to an operational end.' We don't need to understand their fancy and dear hypotheses.
---

Narrative Loopholes

Marie, the cousin of Lucien, stitched away in the attic of their ancestral home. She never met anyone. Did not speak of anyone; not to the withered walls around her either.

This was what I was told.

With this my mother thought it fit for me to conjure an image of her; enough to not make me near her room.
However, I'd tip-toe to her door on many occasions, knowing she'd never lend herself to a view through the key-hole. Thus met with expected disappointment each time, I'd return thinking how such a lady could survive (how did she keep getting her wool?).

To be honest, it was the act of reaching out to her doorstep that mattered. I did not want to see a lady who had nothing edible given by any human we knew, and no formal place to clean/relieve herself. I'd asked my mom once (never after) about how the woman could survive, and she went on to say, "witches have that power."

Ha, why do folks think kids will believe 'em? I mean we do get all dreamy when you tell us such stories, but heavensake, don't assume we think such things are possible.

Biographical ideas for every paragraph.

It would not take me anything to sit-down and write an eloquent piece about my fomentations. But, I'd rather be with mediocre writing that lets me gain, than something so fragile that would break me.

What is it to wake up with a punctured soul? The grief the liberation of a cold early morning ride to and from Cantonment Railway Station brings? Do you have an idea?

It's not to do with dissatisfaction. It's insolence, absolute self-centredness, disregard and discourteousness, I have to face everyday that somehow stun me. Like this otherwise charming college junior, Sivaram, who assumes I have an answer to everything and asks me things, just anything, except if I could respond to them. Should I be rude and put my foot down on him? And then, some who in their silent rebel to fit-in and yet seem different-scared of their brittle selves, let their meat that grew with them through the years die in social acceptance. They're too heavy. I don't know if it's got to do with altruism, I wish they were out of such discordance.

Yea, how dare I say such things. I'm screwed up just fine. With all in the life running on the right path, but this stupid larger part of me that runs away from that blaming others for it. Dumbfuck.

As I say, my auscultation and being a bivouac is as pseud as my life. I'm so annoyed. Will anyone believe me when I say I sorely want to shed these? Bah.

Uhm, okay.

Uh, get a life.

Stick out, people; it fucking clogs the shit.

Grand condescending applause. What a joke this is! Haha.

Uncomfortable madness! Just let go, you'll get over mania.

---

An attempt, nothing else. I don't want this to be judged/associated/even regarded.


Aside, Tottochan is such a wonder. Seemingly the only strong competition to Heidi. (Peter Pan is still too cluttered to compare with.)

Writings of a failed actor who was found to be impotent upon death.

In an empty room, I take it upon myself to act. It would end up with a deafening freeze, that critics could probably write off for a character's cerebral turmoil. In five decades of life, repeated attempts at the spotlight, orating to an empty audience, staging myself to me, I had to refill myself everytime. I waned, my speech slurred; trembled to deception.

I could never be a good actor.
With peers who change with money, with them who pedestalise those who treat them like dirt and kick their loyal servants in the gut, with them who seek power and attention, with my shrivelled and devoted wife, with sprightly grandchildren who ask me to try out sneakers for my Chappals (it embarasses them), with friends of my wife I run into at parties that paint themselves with red, violet and black cosmetics, even rouge (sophomore girls in 50-year-old frames of women; sagging breasts can never be hidden, they say), with musicians who conceal their pain to make Adagios, with refugees, with nurses, with my sister who sleeps with someone not her husband, with her desolate husband, with great movies and even greater actors. With Ashame that I am a hypocrite. I shan't.

I suddenly catch some of their laughs, and like them too. I didn't expect this anti-climax.

With this comes the bereavement of my unsure fingers swearing that I could have been more honest and less apocalyptic here at least.

A stoned twirl-back of the head
and I'm with the smell of grass.

Musty and inviting.

Happened with Glass' 'Evening Song'.

My brain is partially working on the lyrics of this post,
and some of it is living many lives in an instant.
(Like it's been born to a thousand gushing springs.)

The rest lays calm,
almost like silence in the storm;
listening to the movement, and
watching the sun set.


 

Poetry / Home

As your fingers deftly play the keys from the piano of Burmese wood in the rich living room

and as my Nikon fm10 captures your essence.

As the walls resonate us, 

this shall falter. 

A hum

My brother stands by my door telling me how I seem like someone who borrows words in bits and pieces and puts them all together. I could say it's true, not factual.

These city rains remind me of the pensive Nox-bestowed Hong Kong lights and my Wills Lights. Draping themselves in the coldness around, sinking together by the lamp-posts. The shadow of my body from incandescent lamps upon the ground, and several flights to drier grounds. (The rains are always in love with earthy entities.) Like the drenched cigarette in my pocket and my hasty attempts to run over to the Noodle Store's lone sodium lamp. Such monotony. Such mood. I'm almost in the same slow-mo, letting these smoke rings fill the roof.

These words remind me of S's. He mentioned on several occasions that adjectives need to be avoided; done away to say the least. My writing wreaked of it, probably. I knew they were getting excessive on the head and the page. But, to strange nights, what would emptiness mean without the root descriptive, empty?

The void seems heavy in bland sentences. Tireless and unwinding. Perhaps why S could not conform to his notion.

I'm suddenly taken back to the high-walled buildings I had been to. Even imagining sipping green tea near the venetian blinds of one of those floors as the evening sky rains. Dusk in all its wrung romanticism. A silent overwhelm.

Qualifiers help. Emptying out the baggage; detoxifying thought. I'm now left with experience alone, in an asylum and a B&H stick. Sans humidity.

The days I had to save up to buy, seem more thoughtful than these where I can afford the Yamaha Guitar you would love, with a single swipe.

http://ibnlive.in.com/videos/97960/watch-4yrold-thief-caught-on-camera.html?from=rssfeed
Hey, come on, that's shoplifting :P

The Idiomatic and The Obvious

Drafts are to personal emails, what Patience is to Maturity .

It's my brother, I tell you. Salvaging me with his seemingly punch-dialogueish association with idiomatic expressions.

-

God, I am actually arguing with someone over the association between change and prominence wrt human behaviour.

Conviction is the only thing that keeps any argument. Have it, and condescension will take further course. Matters not if the conviction is true or faked. [ vis-a-vis RK! ] But this one I'm having turns out to me being called for a counselling session involving the prophets. The anti-climax (with no belittling).

Notes

The preemption of these nights lives on. IPL got over, dad doesn't stay up late, the street-dogs still get into mid-night wars, a flatness sweeps me. There is a new found emptiness manifesting itself in an adherence to a civil life.

Yesterday, at this hour, I remember gazing into the denseness of the skies through the window of a speeding train. There is nothing about it, except this belief that I have stilled myself from regularities. And then the revision of thought happens.

[ It moves me to wonder if salvation is born thus. Would a conscience and awareness of states and choices warrant it? Redemption is therefore born in us, should I say; pulling ourselves out, gathering ourselves... Liberation should thus be a null set. Then again, the idea of salvation can be dismissed saying it is an intangible pursuit and merely a theoretical fixation irrelevant to our existence. Farty enough.]

The Whitewash

 You are dying, as the composition in my head crescendoes. My being feels empty already. Will you come back as an immortal melody; sprightly?

What do we owe ourselves and our souls that we dwell in nether regions?

--------------

It  is this, I know:

1 2 3 4
   2 3 4 5 6
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8
   2 3 4
   2 3 4
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

1 2 3
1 2 3
   2 3 4
            5 6
   2 3 4
         5 6 7 8
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

And the epilogue reads "a serene bench."

I think I want to write a paper on the subtle potency of the tautology in "yeshtu rateu" (yeshtu?=how much?-in Kannada), and publish it for some eyeballs in some impotent medium like an oestrogen-ramping organization's journal.

Oh, hell, yeah, I feel like doing that. Just like that.

-

A person of circumstance sounds oh-so-varicose;

-

(forward)
You need an answer? I'm going to give you pre-fabricated trash.
You need a solution? "Fuck off."
You mean business? "You've started talking."

(reverse)
You say dollars? I'm counting Yen.
You pay for whores? I pay for charlatans.
You'll  be Co-op farming? I surrender.
 
(forward)
Can I trust you on my business always? Upon your involuntary bodily functions, as ever, you may.  

 (reverse)

Will you take me away? I'm an ascetic, you're a misfit.
 I've begged you? No, bugged.

(forward)
You mean business? I've no better option.

(reverse)
What's the business, though? ...

[ I wanted to stop with the first three lines of forward but then the forward-reverse thing got built. ]

Empty

Italians don't make movies, they capture us bare. In all our vulnerability. In all our running-aways. In all our hollowness.

Good Morning Heartache is one such of their films. Been haunting me for almost three months after having watching it. A must for anyone out, in and grown out of love (what does anyone understand about it, anyway?).

-

In hard times,
I hold my candle
weeping against your robe
and you daintily listen to my unspoken woes.

In other times,
you live in your world, I, mine
We don't need acknowledgment
and a bond to keep us, or even enliven our souls.


-

Francis Bacon wrote humbly brilliant essays. How well he dismisses Tabula Rasa. Bertrand Russel can never measure up to him.

-

I've a horrid opinion that this blog has become a priori.

Oh, Nadia,
The sin and the soul.

Lift up your spirits,
gather the bowls
of sublime will.

 Take me to your land,
enchant me, lend me your bicycle.

Travel up the world, Nadia,
 off pain and beauty,
to blindfolded regions.

In your palm, lay the world,
rest it on another,
free yourself, Nadia.

Drench yourself in
the mirage of clouds.

Nothing is what it seems, Nadia
Why did you try those things I just told you?

You are,
and now became,
who you are not.

You disappoint. Always.

Feet after feet,
pass the "use me"
they only have time to throw banana skin
and search for a ring they might have lost in it.

Trashcans/Dustbins can never be consistently rich.

-

Mount Carmel seems to have changed. The girls and women seem less lesbian and more ultra-modern. CommE has a bunch of snots now. Lord.

-

People just don't sound right when they try defining time. Nano, sociological, biological, metaphysical, pendulum; Blasted folks have other markers for no-time (an off-shoot of classical metaphysics I suppose.)

Hope is this that allegories, metaphors, similes, symbolism, adjectives and the breed are never wrenched out.

I want sojourn to mean sojourn, and nothing else, please! 

Touché

Shrouded monks

slither past gates

to make love with the night;

just as truth is pathless. 

Thinking and re-thinking is not refining, it's decay. - Shilet.

-

The lone engine's sound, the gang war of the street dogs past midnight, the suffocation of a surgery, conspiracy, courtesy, el mar, lost wallet, tendrils.

All of this dead-pan, you say?

-

Die felicity. Die! You just can't measure upto others. Die, die.

Things are rushed. Will we ever have time?

-

What does this cockroach want? Money, fame?

Why is it so darn sly!

-

Kamahkya! Just for the music.

Why is it queer, when it is not even queer? 

Why, humans have this innate affinity for branding/compartmentalising. 

It's a daunting task to put down any movie that isn't good by whateverfuckingstandard.

It isn't all that fair, and I'm just too reel-struck!

Dream One (1984)

I got engrossed in this movie called 'Dream One' (1984) that was on UTV World Movies yesterday. It's one of those bloody surrealistic movies that work on the usual cliches associated with dreams. However, it seems to replenish each obvious moment with a simple exploration of society, genocide, politics, gender and identity, urbanisation... and the league. It's so subtle and hardly pretentious, that you can give them all a miss, and just be rapt in the film's close-to real pictorisation of the randomness of a dream.  

It works on a young boy's fantasy filled with essentially surreal, magnified and horribly ethereal plot(s) that serve a full course meal for all the Freudians out there. I shan't talk much of the story here, for it might be a sinful act considering it's a dream that involves pieces of Alice in Wonderland, Zorro and the Nautilus . The characters evolve, or should I say, let us discover more about them as the interlaced plots progress, making for this movie that tramps about.

Time, morality, ethics, even space, are given a pass throughout and it moves towards a moot of survival and selfishness against these.

I tried googling the movie to find out more about its circumstances and after a few good minutes only did I learn, it's better known as Nemo, and was the first movie of French Director Arnaud Sélignac. Riddance to my amazement that the Englishman could have actually written such a movie back then. As for the actors, only Dominique Pinon (the obsessive lover at the cafe in Amelie), dressed 'Monkey' in this film, seems familiar to me. Nevertheless, the cast and crew have staged quite a bold creation. The sets of the film prod on the faked Appolo mission, I guess. Background score is rightly supportive and non-intrusive. The dialogues,  especially of the magician, Mr. Rip, haggle over a lot of philosophical parodies, while the young Nemo's is so darn Brit with all the bland exclamations intact. 

It isn't disappointing to see a 4.8/10  for this classic movie, that deserves an 8, on IMDB -seemingly the only site that has substantial info on the film. < http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0087784/ >  I might sound like a contradiction with all my sentimental echoes of the film here, but it certainly is different from all those kitschy movies on dream-ing/s/land. Being as banal and dumb as possible.

It just seems right now to remember it as a French more than an English movie. A delightful watch on a lazy late afternoon. Ahoy Nemo and the Nautilus!

Connotations to objectivity

// It is good to lose one's study.

// One's study is lost.

// Study=! // Study=0

The simple and the humble

< http://www.orkut.co.in/Main#Album.aspx?uid=7738492768174715746&aid=1245150252 >

A Malabar monsoon,
for some cherai. 
Simply kidilan.

Lofty ideals
lost to the sun.
A heart of physics
and a language of yearning.
Where in the world
should metaphysics be running?

That which is enraptured
by sight and smell and sound
of character and appreciation,
that qualify for ethics,
made for some slush on me,
and reasoning.

And that is glee. That is wallowing in the mire.

Okay, so is homeomorphism something that can be used to understand the 'material?'

Hey there, hey you.

Considering your internal and external frames of reference, you are both homeomorphic and homomorphic.
 What is metaphysically known as the "essence of a person." Yes, that which defines a person, however much they may have seemed to have contorted/stuck to themselves.

Thus the conviction in structures, more than patterns, gets accentuated for me.

(And you is every one. )

A post to be excused

`Runaway soul`_________<_________<__________^
|                                                                          \
The essence of my being lies within the soul,
|                                                                           /
and that is effectuated by this ________>_______


And in effect, I'm at sea, abjectly.

Do these things count for facts, or are they merely experiential?

For me, it still seems abstract. Further dismissing the unreal. Purely to put things in perspective than understand what exactly it is.

-

In those contradictions and gibberish does time exist for me now. I know not what is to be done. Ha, 'what can be done' is just a proposal; that again has layers and sub-layers.

Fuck this. I don't want to carry forth such mindless abstractions. I've learnt that meta talk needs to be avoided, you know.


Line break.

End of conversation.

< / Head  >

 Poetry <=> Prose

Self-indulgence. Gah.

But, I've always wanted to go on a North-East trip unlike many souls I know that seem to have taken a sudden fancy for it.

8th standard Geography, for specifics; when I did this project on the Himalayan belt and had to cut [ :-( ]  out breathtaking photographs  from a tourist guide book.

My almirah still holds two of those excess cutouts that could not be discarded.

Oh, and to lay out the defenses that may stem in the post. I'm thinking about people going, "Hey, even I liked the NE back in school. I've liked it all along, just that I wasn't vocal just like her, I've got XYZ for proof" and variations.

Homo sapiens-I don't want to do the judging. 'Tis tiresome.

It's official, I need more of Chennai life; home is always busy.
And the moment that became official, the reconsideration began.

Sometimes any reply to a rhetorical question as "Where will I get money to travel through the West Coast and the North East and buy myself an EOS 500d or a Nikon D5000 with an 18-105 mm," helps.

More like having statements with answers.

Exaggeration lies in this: Oh, my, god, I can't believe I actually have an appointment with a nutritionist.

Does everyone who write want (secretly, or otherwise) the reader to undergo, or 'feel' what they experience as they write? And most often than not, writing happens when they get overwhelmed by something/anything and so want people to hear it.

Strange enough that most forms hardly want to leave stuff for the reader; they have to compete against their imagination and spell out things. Then again, it doesn't matter if it's intentional or not, it doesn't get to be writing if it has failed with the reader, that's all.

On that note: The posts on writing (?!) need to be wrapped up. And so shall they. Soupy enough. :-|

A Night

Thunder passed over, and lightening was seen through the gable of the pitched roof as I tried to compose this a while ago.

The city is drenched, the farm-house nearby has its insects in their nests, dad is downstairs sleepily watching the match, and I wonder, all crouched, if more details need to be spelt.

After some mind-meandering, I seem stoned enough, well, figuratively. Not forgetting that this preempts a routine night. God save.

Writing

I'm trying! In vain!

I'll try another writing that I'm more comfortable with.

In irreverence of days and night,
muses of the world
slipped into slumber-delight;
leaving their artists sore, and infertile.

Crushing metaphors they were statued for
by the snore.

And then we know,
the muse was just we;
perhaps just an I.

Vertical Farming beckons. Let's say the world takes to it over the next 50 years. We'll benefit, and well, have to buy it.

Considering

• Capital investment is a huge issue even with UF with returns spread over a long period
• Fossilisation, replenishment of water, soil (natural) preservation, oxygenating of agricultural lands may take a beating.
• Cities may probably heat-up more, but the homes get to be cooler when you have mini-farms set-up. Apartment and kitchen farming isn't all that new, anyway.
• Sustainability of a farm is a matter of dropping a bomb over it.
• Actually, their geographical positioning isn't an issue, just that the local sufficiency of the urban becomes easier.
• But ex-agro lands of the rural may spin off industrial spaces with all those implications
• Green cover loss activists will be upto a lot of work, as well as the left/socialists
• The logistics of traditional farming get centrifuged
• Desert lands get revived?
• Grocery prices get customised as much as the growing according to the Food Pyramid?
• Hydroponics rocks.
• The ecosystem gets effectively exploited without damage?
• Infrastructural problems are bound to arise, unlike the traditional
• Dickson Despommier
• The farm flowchart is impressive

And, there lies my interest and call.

Fano Plane

How the fuck does one get rid of ones own metaphysical probings into every fucking thing?

Oh, yea, it's about getting proper. Using ones instead of I, your and such language.

The thing about writing about one's love for whatever or whichever is doggone papery. The grossness, and even the lameness is embossed all over.

-And gah, this was spun after reading things people wrote on that word.

Certains

Aside: I already get the feeling that the things I want to be on this blog embrace certainty of thought. Irksome.

Those things aren't getting here.

The freedom in writing, they (I) say, is about not having to write for anyone. But the revisions happen in my head, repeatedly. And in some struggle, things are given up, things are given a let go, and I type simultaneously.

Many years passed in listening to songs with lyrics.
The lyrics weren't understood most of the time.
But these days, there're these itches that make me google up lyrics of certain pieces that let me travel. It happens that I ultimately like them very much.

FL, I'm besotted with travelling again. Window seat on a second-sitting compartment. Probably some of the Ghats, some coastlines, some temple towns, some abandoned pier, some eucalyptus plantation, some Kalyanam Goshti, some notepad to write empty pages about the travel for readers of the up-market travel magazine I would be working for.

There's an underlying contradiction between Proverbs 9 vs. 10 and John 14 vs. 6.

We, Agnostics who are probably border-line Nihilists don't seem to care. The fundamental nature of truth is never our garb. We'd rather put down things than make them worldly let alone the need for any kind of reasoning.

Sometimes happiness and joy get reduced to the thrill of a monsoon travel. Well, any place that has the monsoons and where moving an inch would be travelling.

Banality Crisis II

Gah, do I have to name this child of mine?
Just call it anything, will you?
I've got other thinking to do.

Summer

Is supposed to be tough on the mind.

Dumb, numb, plum, and other -um sounding things.

And these were the days, my friend.
These were the days.

Resumption

Another lame attempt at a 'come-back' post.