Emerald Pond

Mi Regreso.

2009-01-04T07:29:00.000-08:00

The dissection of Rip Van Winkle's morale brings out several alluring traits. For starters, the henpecked husband that he was, he probably couldn't have spent the heydays of his life in a better way other than snoozing under a friggin' tree. Making himself unavailable to the rest of the world was probably the greatest benevolent task he accomplished in his otherwise mundane life. While he was dreaming of the great pig in the sky, the world turned over and around several times, bruising and wounding itself on its way. For all those years, like a diplomatic speck of water does on a lotus leaf, he established his existence. What better way to drag oneself into the pages of legend and folklore and be reminisced by the succeeding era!
Unlike anything aforementioned, reasons for my departure from the emerald pond was utterly inconsequential. Let's just say that I broke my pen, and it took a while to fix it. And now I'm back. Mi Regreso.

Images and Words.

2007-01-15T10:31:00.000-08:00

I am sure that the mail about this picture(and a few more in the series) has reached most of our mailboxes. And as is the trend now, any mail with even a mildly interesting fable will shuttle across the information highway till it reaches the point where we send it to trash at the look of its subject line.

Now the first time I got the mail, it had more of a chronological labelling of the events(genuine or gyan) shown through a series of snap-shots. Keeping aside the statistical jabber, the conclusion drawn from the series was highly subjective.

The passion called photography.
Insanely stupid acts people do without getting high.
Amazing photoshop-ing.

Now as expected, the mail hit me the second time in the day. But this time I noticed a difference. Below the usual series of the images, there is an apparently inspiring one-liner on the lines of "The will to do is the greatest. Believe in yourself." Some enlightened soul has decided to do justice to the images and replaced the descriptive jargon with some fodder for thought.

And fodder for thought it is. It has lead me thinking that is it that necessary to molest a picture's pristine complexity by drawing a definitive conclusion out of it? Doesn't that completely disregard the viewer's independence of open interpretation?

Chronological or sequential descriptions are a different story altogether as they are written to serve a different purpose, from a photo-journo point of view. But I find this dogmatic approach towards viewing photographs utterly retarded. I fear the day when Taj Mahal or the Everest would have to come with a billboard that reads "Dangerous Beauty" or "The Power of Love". Why does everything in life has to come with a punchline?

Let the images be their own words. Let them speak, make them free.

Fireworks

2006-12-12T22:48:00.000-08:00

The decision came all by itself.

PM : We appreciate your depth of knowledge but I think there is a little more dedication needed to be put in this project, since its the crucial delivery period. (The "crucial delivery period" has been prolonging since the last few months.)

PA: (Expected to say something, at least a lame excuse, but keeps mum.)

PM : Ummmm........ Is there something bothering you in your work. If there is, please discuss it with us, we can help you out.

PA : No sir, actually the problem is with me. I don't like this work.

PM : (Blinks twice) .......Okaaay.....

PM :(Regains composure) But see you have to be diligent towards any work.

PA : Yes sir, I totally agree. So I decided to resign. (And in my head, a thousand fireworks exploded.)

PM : (The blank stare is back.) Ummmm....but see no matter what company you join, you have to be diligent...(So its the Loop.)

PA : I am switching my field of work. Mostly to ads.(I think if I would've said "I want to be an astronaut with a pink bow, it would've had the same effect.")

PM : .....Okaay....

" It's a great thing when you realize you still have the ability to surprise yourseIf.

Makes you wonder what else you can do that you've forgotten about."

Plan K or B?

2006-10-16T10:07:00.000-07:00

Excerpts from the diary I found in the middle of nowhere, as if it has literally fallen from the sky.

"Plan A: Do Karwa Chauth.
Plan B: The Mars Bars are always there in the fridge.

See if you really want to ceremonialize some ritual with much righteousness, then do it more recurrently. I am the perfect instance of all the reasons why we shouldn’t be just waking up one day and putting our life in a different box altogether. It’s not the question of pushing it to the limits, because embarrassment awaits at the finishing line. Yes I shall come to it, patience my dear.

First of all I’m anything but a morning person. The pesky alarm went off at 5, much to my agony and here I am, sitting on the bed limply, like the vintage bedposts. This is my only chance to gorge my solitary meal for the day, before the sun comes up. And no wonder it seems to be in a hurry to brighten up the sultry alleys and damp attics of this concrete jungle.

My only fire-exit for the day: Sleep!
As much as I can stretch it , as long as I can prolong it. Nothing else has been this effective in alleviating the pang of hunger, if you don’t count manic depression.
So I finally woke up bypassing the morning, riding on my REM Cycles. Quite literally.

The noon was quite uneventful. Though I did learn abut the different harmonics and octaves of noise that my tummy can make when starved. As if it has grown a mind of its own and noisily revolting against this divine protocol. The Mars Bars were calling me like the veelas. All my strength went behind restraining myself from gobbling up the rich chocolate bars, rather than dealing with this ‘ungodly’ routine!

Finally, evening and my dear husband(who’s been generous enough to fast with me, to give me “company.” Now that’s sweet. ) arrived. The Grand Finale, the Celestial Epilogue.
Stringent steps were followed, panchalis were chanted. Legends were narrated. (Girl does KC for guy. Big-hearted brother homies make a bakhra out of girl by hanging a ‘tin-foil moon’ in the terrace. Girl dumb enough to believe it. Breaks fast. Hapless hubby pops off as an unprecedented outcome. Damn! Now what??!! After a series of unfortunate incidents, not Lemony’s Snickets kind though, girl gets back guy form the dead. Although after reluctantly swapping places with the maid for quite a while.
Moral of the story: Do KC or be ready for the swap!) I’m sure some chauvinist pork has penned this down.

It seems that my alimentary abyss has formed an angry vacuum that’s trying to digest me form the inside. The thought of you getting sucked into your own tummy is not remotely funny….or maybe it is. Who cares!!??...I’m as hungry as hell!

I can see the finish line now. I feel like a triumphant athlete, sans the mind-numbing hunger and the funny grumblings. How was I to know only embarrassment was lurking behind that seamless and velvety ribbon!

The final chapter of the ritual involves seeing your man in the pearly-white luminescence of moonlight. An age-old formula of courtship. The final few metres, the last few leaps. But the moonlight seems a tad dull today! Or is it just me??!!....what the……

The pale and palpitated face of my in-laws focuses into vision. They were trying to fan me, put soaked jal-patti on my forehead, slip some juice through my non-reactive mouth and feed me some of my beloved Mars Bars, all at the same time. And you can call me the smallest person alive, but my sheer stupidity and the resulting mayhem made me burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.

And that secured the last, big fat nail into the coffin. My in-laws took it for a fact that the day-long abstinence has catapulted me across my limits of sanity. My ghoulish laughter was a result of the sheer cerebral imbalance that my senses were pushed into! I was the martyr; my legend would be narrated on this pious day henceforth. I made a quick effort to control my giggle and assured them with the sanest tone possible that I was fine and there was nothing to worry about.

After my dramatic performance of passing out on the terrace, my hubby had to put up with me and carry me all the way down passing the amused and sympathetic gaze of the tenants. Few of the concerned ones (or maybe the ones fishing for some more amusement) knocked on our doors and wanted to make sure that I was alive and kicking myself in humiliation.

Moral of the new-age metrosexual KC: When there’s a Plan B, follow it! It’ll save you a few bashful moments."

Return of the boy shaped Memory.

2006-10-08T21:02:00.000-07:00

My grandma was narrating me a story of the times when I still haven’t learnt to bottle up my memories for future cherishment and retrospection.

I didn’t have any idea what she was talking about. It was as good as listening to the story of some everyday brat visiting his grand ma’s place and plundering everything to recommence with his plan of world domination. She was narrating the incident as if it has happened moments earlier in the other room.

It is then I realized that I am not the sole proprietor of my memoirs. The memory that I perpetuate is a mere morsel of the treasure that lies deep within the catacombs of the known and strange faces. Memory is like that glue in disguise that binds us altogether, for better or for worse. Our life gets fragmented and makes a perfect fit in somebody else’s jigsaw puzzle. Like sand, when it flows, seldom has it accumulated into a molehill, but has osmosed into every nook and corner of whatever came in its way.

Maybe its out there, disposed as a harmless footnote in somebody's chronicle. We never bid each other adieu when it slipped away from my pocket..... And maybe in some sardonic way, it’ll come back to me, my prodigal son.

Coffee Quarantine.

2006-10-06T05:46:00.000-07:00

Wake up and throw away the coffee. It makes you sick. Did we ever need coffee when we used to gambol in the backalleys during the summer holidays and come back home covered in an inch of muck? Did we ever need that shot of caffeine when we used to partake in those "School Sports Day"? We used to wake up an hour earlier than the usual, brimming with exuberance and anticipation. Going to school in the white uniform was never more appealing.

We never needed coffee when we used to wake up to listen to the punctuated chanting of the Mahalaya on the radio at wee hours of the morning. Or stay up late on New Year's Eve, and witness the fireworks with a gaping awe.

And then came the coffee.

We drank its blood and it devoured our soul in a swig.

How come for all this while we never dozed off in the middle of a hide-n-seek game or felt remotely slumberous during the shimmering fireworks? .....we don't learn to react to a stimuli till we're introduced to it. Addiction to dependency, wealth to craving. And then we fabricate our mighty fort around it. We have bartered our juvenile hullabaloo to caffeine with a life of sluggishness and hackneys.

Its time I throw away that porcelain and get some lungs.

No more coffee for me. Goodbye and goodnight.

Lyrics that just refuse to leave my Head (And they just keep on coming...)

2006-09-20T06:00:00.000-07:00

It's like rain on your wedding day
It's a free ride when you've already paid
It's the good advice that you just didn't take
Who would've thought ... it figures

It's a traffic jam when you're already late
It's a no-smoking sign on your cigarette break
It's like ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife
It's meeting the man of my dreams
And then meeting his beautiful wife

And isn't it ironic... don't you think
A little too ironic... and yeah I really do think...

- Ironic(Alanis Morissette)
The lyrics looks like its been stolen from The God's Cupboard of Blueprints for Making Lives. I guess when fact transcends the horizon of brutality, it becomes funny. And I laugh at my own misery. Sometimes this life seems to be in an unrestorable deadlock. Listen to this when you are in one and you'll too enjoy that crooked smile!

The Last Episode: Episode II

2006-08-28T10:54:00.000-07:00

Neurology Ward, Manipal Hospital: The sunlight made a crooked entry through the venetian blinds, seeping through the cold tinted glass of the 11th floor westward window. The hospital was a throbbing, palpitating, gasping, flat-lining city in itself. A city for the ailing and the recovering, a city of prayers and high hopes.

The fuzzy feeling (and to some extent numb, thanks to all the anaesthesia) was slowly getting to me after I managed to put a dent in my skull and engrave a "lightning" scar between my eyes. Which, narcissistically speaking, I kinda like!

The doctors here speak in a hushed voices and sometimes tries too hard to quip….I guess to pave the way for far graver facts waiting for their hapless patients in the next corner. I was told to inform them as soon as I feel a salty fluid passing through my throat. That would be my CSF(Cerebro Spinal Fluid) leaking from my cranium, something that’s supposed to stay inside the think-tank. In short it would be something without which my grey cells won’t survive, if you keep aside my genocidic sense of humour.

My head was feeling heavier than usual (either it was the sedating medicine or all the concrete debris that has gone inside) and I decided to listen to some good ol’ music. As I was dozing off with Satch’s "Friends", I felt a pop between my ears. It was like a teeny soap-bubble soaring in its own wavering path all the way from nowhere and popping off at the mere kiss of my funny-bone!(such lethal it is, my funny-bone) And while I was trying to give myself a good reason for this unexpected phenomena, a puny warm-blooded snake slithered through the back of my nose and made its way into the throat. My whole world stopped with a grotesque clamor.

The music turned into noise, the subtle hum of the air-purifier turned into the rattle of a turbine. And without notice, the numb sensation from the scar spread all across my face as I broke into a cold sweat. My world was toppling down in a classic-dominos style, or so I thought. And I could do nothing more than to just sit and wait for the coin to fall on the right side. I tried with all my might to convince myself that it just a test flight of my imaginary. But sometimes your mind is your worst enemy.

If I press that buzzer the docs would come sweeping into the room. Then they would have to open up my skull and try to fix it, as they once mentioned casually. And it’s not a pretty thought.

I numbly pressed the buzzer. First the nurses came in, followed by the Gabriels in their white toggery. "Open your mouth wide, stick out your tongue. Look at this light, can you follow it?" The voices seem to be coming from the other side of the tunnel. After a couple of minutes, which seemed like half of my lifetime (and I was convinced that it was drastically and ruthlessly cut short), the doc looked down at me with an amused face. What a sadistic bastard! "Its just mucus flowing down at the wrong time!" A harmless booger played my spectre of death for a while, and gave me heejie-the-beejies!

But suddenly the humiliation stopped bothering me anymore. I realized that the day was brighter than ever, the sun shone like there’s no tomorrow. Correction, there is a tomorrow.

My feet wanted to run, run as fast as I can. My life rewinded back a decade and I was running back home before the streetlights were on, my father’s protocol. Fields, swamps, ponds zipped past me as I ran faster, harder. I was going back home. I really didn't care for any other truth in the world.

The Last Episode: Episode I

2006-08-28T09:44:00.001-07:00

"OYE COME FAST…THERE’S SOMETHING UNDER MY CAR!!!""WHERE??!!!""LOOK BELOW THE CAR DAMMIT!!""O god!!...O shit!!!.....O …..god…Its still there.....alive!!!" It was small enough to fit in my palm.

Its neck was hanging limply, as if being soothed and comforted between two invisible hands.
The mouth was opening at inaccurate intervals to gulp down the last few gushes of air. Legs writhed and twitched. I even forgot to pray; maybe it wouldn’t have helped anyways. Maybe my prayer wouldn’t have worked anyways.

The pain was receding as a cold comfort was settling in its small demeanor. It was a life, meeting its end, on my palm.

It was more than just it. Maybe the news of his untimely demise would not have stirred much emotions in the canine world, but he has shattered my heart into smithereens.

My bounds of mortality, my shackles of being the insignificant other have caged me and left me to watch what I could not see, remember what I did not want to.

The Monster of Rhymes II

2006-07-24T22:26:00.000-07:00

I jump I fall
I'm scared, I drawl.

I dream I doodle,
I like to eat cold noodle.

I laugh I cry,
I also like fish-fry!

I try too hard too much,
To think, to budge.

I drink a glass of water and lime,
To make this stupid thing rhyme!

The Monster of Rhymes.

2006-07-19T22:37:00.000-07:00

Is it offensive to be defensive?
I wonder when i'm pensive.

Drifting shifting paradigm
Shrieking soul in mime.

Am I pugnacious?
O goodness gracious!

Pitter-patter clatter clatter,
Does the sense even matter?

With Eddie in Mind

2006-07-19T03:10:00.000-07:00

Right now you are breathing,
Right now your mother is cooking your favourite dish and missing you,
Right now you are walking in the space between two crashes.
Right now you are thinking what's coming next,
Right now you know there's only one thought in your head.
Right now the world is changing you to be more competent,more effcient.
Right now you are struggling.
Right now you are still dreaming your favourite dream.
Right now there's a bullet in your brain but you're still walking,
Right now you are not here but somewhere else.
Right now you are breathing.

Nursery Crimes.

2006-07-09T22:33:00.000-07:00

Tic tac toe

Friend or foe.

Jack and Jill

Have started taking pill.

Ba ba black sheep, have you any wool?

"No I'm a skinhead now, it looks more cool!"

And up above the world so high,

All the diamonds have been stolen from the sky.

Along the way...

2006-07-07T03:52:00.002-07:00

thanks rout . . . . this list should be handy in case the fairy godmother finally makes her grand appearance!

i'm thinking about. . .

what could've been. . . if my life would've followed Plan B.
I wonder whether the words of Gita still holds good; " . . . . whatever's happening, its for the good, whatever is going to happen, it'll be for the good. . . ."
because sometimes they just don't make sense, the words just don't balance the equation. Contrary to the good ol' albert.

While i'm crawling across my room. . . .

00mins : "mockingbird" is playing on my winamp; how would've Hailie felt after listening to the song? The best gift a father can give to his kid or a cheap media confession to alleviate the guilt within?

02mins : damn i have to go through that article in this month's Top Gear issue about the new line of Hemis. and when will i own the sinful gallardo?

04mins : how do i kill the wretched twins in "POP - The Two Thrones". . . should i slash then jump or just die?

05mins : is she thinking about me now?(yes its a selfish thought.) or is it just me? what did she mean when she said that? what am i doing here? why am i thinking all this?

08mins : he he. . . . thats a funny piece of lyrics!

10mins: where is all this going?

I want to . . .

live off a suitcase(or something that's more convenient to carry.) and visit all those places in india that don't qualify to be put on the map, or even on a humble milestone.

give in to objectivism and buy anything that glitters and ride anything thats lamborghini.

be the last one to give up, on anything.

live this life like those fire-crackers; explode when you're at your best.

I wish . . .

there were no language boundaries.

all the people in this world would agree on any one point, anything.

there were more stories with a happy ending.

I hear . . .

anything that inspires, amuses, relaxes, depresses, pscyhes me most unexpectedly.

the croak-symphony after a heavy downpour, the chirping cacophony at dusk, the threats before a catfight, the howling calls at three in the morning.

I wonder . . .

the amount of talent and sustenance it takes to create a masterpiece.

whether i'll be able to raise my kids well.

whether words are malleable enough to take the shape of our thoughts, or do they get distorted on their way?

whether its really important to stop all the war; we have never lived in a world without them! Then how can we presume that it'll be a better place without them?

I am . . .

a very complex alogrithm of alternatives and probabilites guided by the contemporary environment.

I dance . . .

whenever the music makes me.

I sing . . .

if i need to :
remind myself of an important lesson
share a secret
turn a lie into truth
walk through my deja vu-s
get high or if i already am!

I cry . . .

when love goes wrong(in movies or in reality)
when animals are in pain
when i witness something so beautiful that i cannot take it.

I write . . .

to remind myself what i was and what i am now.

I confuse . . .

myself by reading too much between the lines.

I need . . .

to understand somebody well enough to turn words redundant.
to be a better son.
a safe ventilation for my pent-up fury.
a different set of occurrences.

I tag mysore. This'll be good!

The Red Kitten at the Green Signal.

2006-07-04T08:05:00.000-07:00

Why did the kitten cross the road?

Possibilty #1. She was following her feline instincts and closing in towards a heap of defeathered chicken skin and rejected gut, lying in the dirty canister outside "Hafiz's Meat Shop".
Possibilty #2. She was being chased away from the heap of defeathered chicken skin and rejected gut, lying in the dirty canister outside "Hafiz's Meat Shop".
Possibilty #3. She was the Christopher Columbus of the kitten world and was out on her brave little "Castile"-ian expedition.
Possibilty #4. She was just a poor kitten lost in the concrete jungle.(The kind of situation that used to form the staple fodder for the Disney animation movies.)
Possibilty #5. She was just plain suicidal.

But it doesn't matter now; her fate has been written by the bloody tread-marks on the sweltering asphalt road. 0950hrs.

Like a victim being raped by a group of junkies, each taking his time and turn to make use of the situation and his phallus. She writhed and squiggled in pain, her puny body disfiguring. And the busy commuters took their turn, as the signal turned green. Their cars as mighty gesture of braggadocio. They took their turn.

It was like any other day on the road. Burning eyes, honking symphonies, revving two-strokes, running pedestrians, sweaty and dusty people hanging on their lives and the bus, reluctant school-goers. And somewhere beneath all this choreographed mayhem, she counted her last breath, remembering all whom she loved, begging Him to forgive all her mistakes and take away her pain. And God smiled upon her.

A true incident that left me horrified after witnessing the sheer nonchalantness of the thriving civilisation we live in.

The Drug in Us.

2006-07-03T04:23:00.000-07:00

Psychological Effects : The effects can vary greatly, depending on factors such as previous experiences, state of mind and environment, as well as dose strength. Generally, it causes expansion and altered experience of senses, emotions, memories, and awareness. It does not produce hallucinations in the strict sense but instead illusions and vivid daydream-like fantasies, in which ordinary objects and experiences can take on entirely different appearances or meanings. At higher doses it can cause synaesthesia. The drug sometimes spurs long-term or even permanent changes in a user's personality and life perspective.
A "trip" can have long lasting or even permanent neutral, negative, and positive psychoemotional effects. The experiences can range from indescribably ecstatic to extraordinarily difficult; many difficult experiences (or "bad trips") result from a panicked user feeling that he or she has been permanently severed from reality and his or her ego. If the user is in a hostile or otherwise unsettling environment, or is not mentally prepared for the powerful distortions in perception and thought that the drug causes, effects are more likely to be unpleasant.

Witdrawl Symptoms : Some people discontinuing its use report extremely vivid nightmares while others report that they feel as though they're intoxicated while awake. Emotionally, those experiencing withdrawal often feel like they are on the verge of tears for no particular reason, have little self-worth, and thoughts of self-harm.
Other studies suggest that the incidence rate of withdrawal symptoms are mild and comparable to that of placebo, citing escitalopram as "very well tolerated". Many emotionally intense experiences can lead to flashbacks when a person is reminded acutely of the original experience.

Now tell me thats not how you feel standing inside her love.

(Excerpts from medical reports on LSD[Lysergic acid diethylamide])

Lyrics that just refuse to leave my Head.

2006-06-29T22:19:00.000-07:00

There are times when you listen to a song, then you listen to it some more. And then it just refuses to leave your head. Haunted by the song(rather the tune and a few scattered words), you go googling and hunt down the lyrics just to find out even more reasons not to shift+delete it from your cerebral archive. You sing-along with it, it makes you wiser, it gives you the gooseflesh. Its worth the effort to gather the bits and pieces of these songs, because they are not just that, but fragments of our memories attached to it.

'Cause I am hanging on every word you say
And even if you don't want to speak tonight
That's alright, alright with me. . . .
'Cause I want nothing more than to sit
Outside your door and listen to you breathing
Is where I want to be.

- Breathing(Lifehouse)
I found this song at a strange point of my life. The lyrics ironically reflected my own condition and my own desires. When I was realizing that "i've-been-here-before" incidents are not just deja-vus, but one life's pattern coming in full circle. I was starting to recognize my own life's chaotic but predictive pattern, and getting ready to write my own prophecies.

'Twas in another lifetime, one of toil and blood
When blackness was a virtue and the road was full of mud
I come in from the wilderness, a creature void of form.
"Come in," she said,"I'll give you shelter from the storm."

And if I pass this way again, you can rest assured
I'll always do my best for her, on that I give my word
In a world of steel-eyed death, and men who are fighting to be warm.
"Come in," she said,"I'll give you shelter from the storm."

- Shelter from the Storm(Bob Dylan)
. . . And thus Eve was created from the Third rib of Adam. My ass. If this myth was indeed true, then I have to admit that the third rib of Adam was a spectacularly exceptional artifact. But it contradicts the very fact. If One rib can create a creature as divine as woman, then how come the brain gets all the dirty work?! And all the hapless rib does is to absorb friendly nudges from his fellow drunk homies. A flight of fantasy, I must say. This song is a subtle and to some extent biblically inclined ode to the greatest beauty on earth, womanhood.

Till Armageddon no shalam, no shalom
Then the father hen will call his chickens home
The wise man will bow down before the throne
And at His feet they'll cast their golden crowns
When the Man comes around

Whoever is unjust let him be unjust still
Whoever is righteous let him be righteous still
Whoever is filthy let him be filthy still
Listen to the words long written down
When the Man comes around

- When the man comes around.(Johnny Cash)
When I see the dust flying off the ground with every breathe of mine, I realize that I have fallen, on my face. This song speaks about him who rides their crazy horses, and leashes them. And when he's gone, they wait for him to come back, and take the world on his shoulder. So that they can live in peace, beneath his shadow. And he offers me a hand to get up and start walking, again.

Where are you going? Where do you go?
Are you lookin' for answers to questions under the stars?
Well if along the way you are growing weary, you can rest with me
Until a brighter day when you're ok.

- Where are you going?(Dave Matthews Band)
The power of unconditional love. Really really stupid stuff. Good for nothing. The worst magic Lily Potter could have ever given to Harry. Messes your brain up like a psycho monkey on your office desk. But there's only one problem, the power knows no bounds.

Nobody else here baby
No one here to blame
No one to point the finger
Its just you and me and the rain

Nobody made you do it
No one put words in your mouth
Nobody here taking orders
When love took a train heading south

Hey if God will send his angels
And if God will send a sign
And if God will send his angels
Would everything be alright?. . . . .

- If God will send His Angels(U2)
What are your friends and family for?. . .I mean other than to be with you through your ups and downs and the flatlands . . .they are there to crib and listen to you crib. Its a beautiful symbiotic relation. The rambling always goes up the food chain, not the other way round, as Capt. John Miller(Saving Private Ryan) once mentioned while walking through the scenic meadows of Normandy. No human can live without it, irrespective of your tag of a believer or an atheist. This song was one of the first of its kind(I mean the lyrical ones) that really made me think. Think about what's happening around us, and more importantly, inside us. Will it really make a difference if He does picks up the phone? Will world be a better(again, a relative term) place if He starts answering our prayers? Or maybe He IS answering our prayers, just the wrong ones. This is a war with no enemies, no sides involved. Then who's fighting whom? That is something for us to find out, as we walk along our respective paths leading to the same station. Maybe one day, we will be able to answer our own prayers . . . . maybe.

Staring at a million city lights
But it's still Penny and I all alone beneath the sky
Feel the wind brushing slowly by
If I could soar I would try, to take these wings and fly
Away to where the leaves turn red
But no matter where I am instead
Singin' along to feeling alright
We'll make it by in the pink moonlight
It's always Penny and me tonight

Cause' Penny and Me like to roll the windows down
Turn the radio up, push the pedal to the ground
And Penny and Me like to gaze at starry skies
Close our eyes, pretend to fly
It's always Penny and me tonight

Penny likes to get away
And drown her pain, in lemonade
Penny dreams of rainy days
And nights up late, by the fireplace
And aimless conversations bout' the better days. . . .

- Penny and Me(Hanson)
One of my favourites. Callow and utopic. Pecisely why my favourite.
First time when your heartbeat seems to be controlled by her presence in the room rather than by you. With much confusion you enter the forbidden bubble-gummy gooey trance.

And then its time for the crash. Its deep. Its bad. Its red. The gum balloon has inflated too far.

So what do you do? . . . spit it out or keep chewing it till you're ready for the next bubble?

How does it feel
How does it feel
To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?

- Like a Rollin' Stone(Rolling Stones)
So how does it feel?. . .to walk in circles?. . .to keep running till the road ends?
What goes around comes around goes around comes around . . .
What would you do if you realize that you're not afraid of anything in this world?

Well, I am an idiot walking a tightrope of fortune and fame
I am an acrobat swinging trapezes through circles of flame
If you've never stared off in the distance, then your life is a shame
And though I'll never forget your face, sometimes I can't remember my name

Well, there's a piece of Maria in every song that I sing
And the price of a memory is the memory of the sorrow it brings
And there is always one last light to turn out and one last bell to ring
And the last one out of the circus has to lock up everything

- Mrs Potters's Lullaby(Counting Crows)
An exceptionally sensible song of the modern times. Talking about everyday mundane lives through metaphor and allegory. There's a part of everyone's lives in the song. Distantly close.

I am the Blind Walrus.

2006-06-26T23:38:00.000-07:00

I hurt myself today
To see if I still feel.
I focus on the pain
The only thing that's real...
The needle tears a hole
The old familiar sting.
Try to kill it all away
But I remember everything...

And you could have it all
My empire of dirt....
I will let you down
I will make you hurt

If I could start again
A million miles away,
I would keep myself
I would find a way.

-Excerpts from "Hurt" by Johnny Cash.

It is in your darkest hour that you realize.....In every stone sleeps a crystal.
For I remember the Dream, when I used to say:
"Man is the dream of the dolphin".

The Hardest Button to Reach.

2006-06-05T04:48:00.000-07:00

In the dead of the night, while the whole Kingdom sleeps, playing with the shadows, he enters the princess' chamber.The Great Thief in the High Sahara...and with his hands that he taught to slither, takes all her wealth away .
The princess runs to the window to see him tip-toeing across the tiled roofs. He stops for a while, turns back and smiles. The big bad moon casts no shadow over him. The glitter in his eyes is unmistakable. And he whispers, "You'll find that I’ve taken nothing, that Love can't replace in the blink of an eye." The princess seems to be hypnotized by the petty thief. And without warning, he melts away in the shadow of the great desert.

Now this is just a song by Sting recurrent in my head for quite some time, cuz as they say, Somebody's already said it better!

i'm not looking for any answers, cause there are no questions, no clear ones at least....its not really possible to question beyond your perception, your belief. All I could see was the curved figure with the dot lying low. The rest shrouded by the clouds. First you start knowing, when you stop knowing, you start believing.

The Butterfly Effect certainly is true.... It is breathtaking and petrifying to witness how much storm a flutter can brew up. All you can do is to live through it, leaving nail-marks on the stone or the easier option being letting go of the leash.

"...terrified, petrified, stupefied by you." Very beautiful indeed.

So complicated, so twisted that its always beyond your grasp. No matter how much the donkey runs, the carrot is always ahead.

Run, run rabbit run

Dig that hole, forget the sun,

And when at last the work is done

Don't sit down it's time to dig another one....

The quest will never end, it might devour many lives, delude others...but it'll go on.

Delusion of Perception

2006-04-06T04:09:00.000-07:00

Are the left-overs of right called wrong? How do you judge a random act?
Through whose eyes should you see, the pre-meditated nothing-to-lose murderer's or his hapless corrupted narcissist chopped up victim's?

In a world where the bittersweet fact slaps you right across your face and whispers in your ear, "There's nothing called charity in this life .", how can you possibly elect yourself in the board of jury? And very evidently, the supreme place of the Judge is already taken.

How do you paint a truth, when the only colours you have are black and white?
It is a scary situation.

You take a pre-determined, bathing-in-halogen path and everything that lies in the shadows of those lights are things-we-dont-talk-about. If the blind leads the blonde, can you really call that a help?

And there lies my train of thought, derailed and capsized beside the track.
To be continued....

forgotten

2005-12-22T22:15:00.000-08:00

Hovering around my murky attic
Obscured by granules of memoir.
Withering lights still form shadows on the floor....

Corporeal yet shrouded in disbelief
Anarchy in my dream rules supreme.
Nascent fire surfaces from deep within.

I see your forgotten face,burning bright in the sky.....

Alphabets

2005-10-30T20:25:00.000-08:00

The letters of the alphabets are always black. But the words they form are gray. The raindrops on the blotted paper inspires the ink to engage in a swirling dance of illegibility. Once what was mightier than a sword moulds away in the form of unbiased, harmless rivulets on the undulated terrain of the tainted page.