Yes, I'm not supposed to be blogging. But yesterday I wrote out a short post which I put up on Sensory Overload. It's a simple proof related to the twin prime series. Check it out if you're interested.
I am confronted with a set of highly paranoid and partially ballistic parents and so, my net connection is on quota. Sweet.
Today I read an article about a court ruling in Maryland. In this particular case, a woman agreed to sex and then in the middle of it, that is after penetration, she said no. The man, Baby (it took me a moment or two to realize that was in fact his name), continued for 5 to 10 seconds after she had told him to stop. Baby was convicted of first degree rape.
My blog has been on a slow downward spiral for a while now. So, being somewhat sadistic, I thought to prolong the wretchedness. And here, I post a short poem which I wrote yesterday about being all out of inspiration and my dying blog.
In and around every niched corner
Above and beneath those dusty racks
It evades me still after these months past.
Scoured and sifted in hopes for an ounce.
But not one cares to cease in less than a scowl.
Searching within for the deep seated guilt,
Else maybe for the hatred of enervation
Or lastly for the hope of salvation.
But none yield ideas worth the written word
None provide inspiration for this dying work.
In a tepid attempt to express a pondering
I put down that which occupies us all-
The very truancy of occupation from others and all.
The void of faith now be filled with a specter, that of
Despair fused with far seeing hopes for a savior.
This is a video in which John Taylor briefly describes the working of the Corpus Clock.
An echo from a distant land
Leaves me without wary.
So I lie and dream of lower fares
For further foe, a few thoughts spared.
At my desk in Morpheus state
A sudden thud did rise.
Followed by three and yet another,
Finally the sands did dry.
No matter where we stand
Upon the world, escape eludes us all.
A scar, a scratch, a burn or mark-
Something to carry on.
The battle, some say, has been lost
But the fight we soldier on.
Others' words evince their hopes that
Darkness nears the light of dawn.
For the rest, like I, the current betrays
A clear vista to a perpetual war.
An eternal time of dusk:
The furthest point from dawn.
P.S.: I'd appreciate suggestions for the title.
Sex determination testing first began at the 1966 European Track Field Championships in response to suspicion that several of the best women athletes from the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe were in fact men posing as women. The International Olympic Committee introduced sex testing in 1968 at the Olympic games in Mexico City, after the masculine appearance of some competitors (many pumped up by anabolic steroids) had started to raise questions about the gender of athletes in female events.
Santhi Soundarajan, a 27 year old track runner, was stripped of her silver medal for the 800m at the Asian Games, suffered tremendous public humiliation and attempted to kill herself. Soundarajan, who has lived her entire life as a woman, failed a gender test.
Walsh, a Polish-American sprinter, was at one point the fastest woman in the world. She set more than 100 national and world records and was inducted into the American Track and Field Hall of Fame in 1975. In 1980, Walsh was killed during an armed robbery. The postmortem revealed she had male genitalia (although this did not prove that she was a man as she was also found to have both male and female chromosomes- a genetic condition known as Mosaicism.)
Dora Ratjen, notable for her deep voice and her refusal to share the shower room with the other female athletes, was Germany's entry (during the Nazi regime) for the women's high jump. She came fourth. Dora, who had been born Hermann Ratjen, had in fact been a member of the Hitler Youth and said that the Nazis had forced him to enter as a woman.
According to the IOC transsexuals, who have had a sex change from male to female, can compete in women's events in the Olympics, as long they wait two years after the operation.
[One night, Bharat and I were chatting while listening to Famous Blue Raincoat and came to the realization that whenever we listened to the song, two very similar videos played incessantly through our minds. So, the following is a guest post by Bharat describing the unceasing reel.]
The street was empty, blanketed by clear white snow. Lamps ran along either side of the road, emitting a gloomy yellow hue. Concrete buildings lined the pavements, appearing in the dark like one long mass of concrete of uneven height with entrances and windows cut into it. Lines of multi-coloured lights hung from ledges but did nothing to add any cheer.
Its four in the morning, the end of December
I'm writing you now just to see if you're better
New York is cold, but I like where I'm living
Theres music on Clinton Street all through the evening.
A window with the small light of a table lamp coming out of it. Inside, a desk of polished oak. Sheafs of papers were arranged in two neat piles on both sides and a small plastic clock and two pen stands were placed at the front. A glass of half-filled with scotch was placed on one of the paper piles, forming a wet ring on it. A man was seated at the desk, his features marred by the darkness, his pen forming a steadily growing blot on a blank piece of paper as he struggled for words.
The plaintive notes of a violin drifted in from the street. He glanced towards the bed at the end of the room. A form was huddled on it. He could not see her but knew she was looking at him.
The words came to him in a wave and he wrote furiously, as if the words would spill out into oblivion if he didn't pen them down immediately.
He stopped and looked straight ahead at the darkness.
Another room. Well lit, filled with people. He's dancing with her. She laughs when he spins her and they embrace each other. The people watching smile and clap. He grins and looks at her. She smiles back, but in her eyes there is a sadness, barely perceptible.
She's dancing with him now. This is a different room and there are no people inside. He puts a rose in his mouth and they gaze at each other's eyes. He smiles. Then she does. This time with her eyes too. The rose is thrown away and their lips meet.
And you treated my woman to a flake of your life
And when she came back she was nobody's wife.
Well I see you there with the rose in your teeth
One more thin gypsy thief
Well I see Jane's awake --
She woke up and came up to him, her nightgown shimmering in the poor light and the wind blowing against her so that the shape of her body showed. He glanced up at her and turned back to the table. She leaned and looked at the paper with no expression on her face and went back to bed.
She sends her regards.
And what can I tell you my brother, my killer
What can I possibly say?
I guess that I miss you, I guess I forgive you
I'm glad you stood in my way.
If you ever come by here, for Jane or for me
Your enemy is sleeping, and his woman is free.
Yes, and thanks, for the trouble you took from her eyes
I thought it was there for good so I never tried.
He pulled open a drawer in which lay a blue raincoat, folded and with a lock of hair resting on it. Untouched ever since. He closed the drawer and resumed writing.
And Jane came by with a lock of your hair
She said that you gave it to her
That night that you planned to go clear
Sincerely, L. Cohen
He put the pen down and rose from his seat. Then there was only an empty desk with a letter and half a glass of scotch, snow outside the window and the weeping of a violin.
I got a total of 19 hits yesterday, so I figured I'd post something regardless of it being the quintessence of crap .
What is the first thing you think of when you wake up?:
If Camus is right and life has no meaning to it and the pursuit of happiness is an endeavour in vain I might as well go back to bed.
Favourite fast food place:
The stash under my bed.
Future child’s name:
Vae Spurius (Latin anyone?)
Finish this statement, “If I had a lot of money I’d…” :
Buy every last copy of both books One Night At The Call Center and Five Point Someone and then have one helluva bonfire.
Do you drive fast?
I don't drive. If I did, I would currently be sitting on a sand dune somewhere deep in the Gobi desert for I would have gotten lost on the way to my neighour's place.
Do you sleep with a stuffed animal?
Yes, I enjoy the practice of taxidermy.
Last movie seen in a theatre:
Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. On the insistence of brother and mater, I yielded and ended up watching a movie which had one thing going for it: a drove mindless loyal fans.
What book are you reading?
Most recent translation of War And Peace and Three Men On The Bummel
Favourite board game:
Go and chess.
Worst feeling in the world:
Stubbing the same toe twice in a matter of thirty seconds.
Do you eat the stems on broccoli?
Yes. I like the idea of the head and stem being re-united in my esophagus, makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.
Storms - Cool or Scary?
Bloody cool. I love to sit out in the rain and listen to the sound of hopefully distant thunder.
If you could dye your hair any colour, what would be your choice?
Dirty green: for all those who abhor the colour.
Name all the different cities/towns you have lived in:
Delhi.
Favourite sports to watch:
Football and Twenty-twenty cricket matches.
Favourite magazine:
Economist, The New Yorker, National Geographic.
Favourite smells:
Fresh earth, paint, yellowing pages of an old book.
Favourite sound:
The crunching of autumn leaves, thunder.
One nice thing about the person who sent this to you:
No one tagged me.
So, to nothingness: it never fails to keep me company. :P
What’s under your bed?
In addition to what I mentioned earlier I have a game of Monopoly which has a decades worth of dust and dirt fastidiously layered atop it.
Would you like to be born as yourself again?
Oh hell yes!
Morning person or night owl?
Both/either i.e. I am often an insomniac.
Over easy or sunny side up?
A well done Sunny Side Up.
Favourite place to relax:
On the rocks in the park close to home, anyplace under the night sky.
Favourite ice cream flavour:
Chocolate chip, Cookie Dough, Vanilla with chocolate sauce and nuts.
You pass this tag to:
All those plagued by writer's block.
I follow in my father's great wake, skip for giant step. I've made it into a bit of a game, I imagine his six foot frame leaving a temporary indentation in the macadamized road and then plant my bare nine year old foot in the center of the impression. It keeps me amused as I accompany my father traveling from one palatial door to the next, gathering garbage so that we can relish the joy of frisking the waste in search of the seemingly worthless. Since it's an hour or so before lunch, I delight in the subtle savor of sizzling spices and herbs besiege my senses. The aromas that trigger desire intermingle with the stench of putrid festering foods of yesterday, which then delivered me the same momentous elation.
We arrive at the home of an aged spinster. She opens the door, hands my father the bleak bag that speaks of things dead and gives me a piece of candy with a wide gleeful smile etched into her wrinkled face. I take it with a grin and a slight joy brushes past me and dissolves her. As the transient dances with the permanent, my father reminds me of the inveterate liars we all are. The ones with argent and gold have been self-deluded into thinking the destitute are fortunate for they possess happiness. And the ones entrenched in penury are convinced that they are paying due penance for crimes committed in lives they remember not and may never have lived. Having received such declamations on several occasions, I lose track of father's words as I trace his path onto the next mahogany door.
We reach the threshold of a curious family that has an array of rumours incessantly pestering it- there always is a family that is preyed upon in a neighbourhood such as this where incongruity is looked at with askance and time is plenteous. Being a Sunday, the father, the crux of all rumours, opens the door. The man is undoubtedly formidable- towering over my father with shoulder built to support leaden worlds and thick eyebrows converging at the center, his dour look is an awesome sight. He eyes us and then hollers to his wife to get the garbage, a moment later his son comes up to him and tugs his shirt. But the boy spots me gazing at his red toy car and all thoughts of pater fade into abyss. He shows me the mesmerizing piece of plastic. It is unquestionably brand new- the wheels aren't frayed. It has several logos stamped on it and a faceless man seated in it. The scarlet paint gleams in the sun, taunting me. I grab the car and before the bliss seeps in and the boy leaks a tear, my father steals it from my fragile grasp and hands it over the austere man with a mumbled apology. His flinty features are slightly softened by a smile but his visage is still one that could make a man flinch. But for now, both men are cringing on the inside as they are stuck in one of those moments for which awkward is an euphemistic adjective. Ah! finally the wife arrives and hands over the bag of future prospects to my father. Both men breathe a silent sigh and we once again set off on our way.
All the way back home I am reprimanded for my ludicrous act and yet again my grip on father's words is loosened sometime after the first period for now I have added a new element to my game. Hereafter it is against the rules for me to step on leaves making it much harder considering the ample supply of withered once greens.
I was tagged by Bharat and since it seems I haven't posted for nearly a month, I decided to give my blog a bit of a stir.
A poem as a tribute to the all-pervasive, indomitable, sagacious BO.
[This poem is the unfortunate result of a exhausting, mind-numbing, dehydrating, stomach-churning and crazy Sunday (and a tad amount of plagiarism). Details should soon be up on Radhika's blog]
Bhow, bhow,
Oh my God, its Bo!
You only reap what you sow
You have hairy palms, no?
We shall go - play with Play Doh
Hona hai jo, hone do.
Listen to the crow crow
The Indian Space Research Organisation is called ISRO
You rise when its dark
The heavens break apart
And quote to thee,
Lucifer's child, the anti-lark
[Six, six six! The number of the Beast!]
Prepared is thy zoic feast
Thy arrows :
Will through bone marrow
And call to blithe mortals in a low baritone
'Minions, Armageddon nears
Look to the heavens, fear oh fear'
Bo, neo Zeus
Aam, seb, ganna juice
Das rupay, paanch rupay, teen rupay glass
Aao piyo, bahut hai khaas
A glass of sang-froid stands prepared
Vlad [the Impaler] hath not better fared
Slitting the throats of a thousand kind
Slaying more monsters than you can find
Woe betide thee oh Earth and Sea
O Bo, please set us free.
Credit for this master piece goes to She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named (aka: Vas), Freak-of-Nature (aka: Radhika) and Abominable Being (i.e. me).
[Disclaimer: Any mental retardation, hallucinations of pink elephants and/or spontaneous fires caused by the reading of this post is not the responsibility of anyone/thing other than the towel with yellow Polka dots in the junk yard across my home.]
22 comments Labels: friends, humor, insanity, lames ass poetry, Radhika, Sundays, Vasudha
“When you stare into the eye of Death, you don’t see death”, these were the words that besieged her mind as she drove her dilapidated Ambassador back home. But of course she was exaggerating, Death wasn't at her threshold it was merely at her garden fence; as per the four oncologists she had met with, she had six months to live if she went without treatment.
In her minds eye, her months were mapped out in accordance with her future physical condition. She knew she would not tell her family of her illness for another four months. For she also knew that if she revealed it to them earlier, they would manage to persuade her into wearing a wig despite her resolve to live and die a little sooner rather than to live a life in death and wait longer.
In compliance with her well-manufactured plans, she would be spending the next month in the Himalayas heading for Everest Base Camp. This dream of conquering Base Camp had been one she had shared with her father. She even remembered the exact moment they had conjured it- she had been spending the winter holidays with her family in Dehradun’s frost. As father and daughter sat in front of a toasty, crackling fire they read the evening paper and sipped scalding cocoa. On chancing upon an article that spoke of a climbers success on Everest, he revealed to the ten year old his adolescent yearning to breathe in the air at Base Camp. Right then the two decided that once she turned twenty-one, together they would realize his hopes.
Her mother had thought it was a load if trite but they had made elaborate, intricate plans and fully intended on seeing them through. However a year ago, in a four way pile up her father had met his unfortunate end. And along with this loss, the dream had dimmed in the light if insignificance. But now, on being confronted with her own death, she was determined to go through with their plans, only a year later than previously devised. She could visualize herself sighing the frigid, crisp air. And then taking photographs that would help fill the album that would be her parting gift to her mother.
After returning from the Himalayas she would head for The Four Seasons. She’d live in the world of the opulent for as long as her scant savings would support. And in the resort she would take in every conceivable luxury - from room service to spas - after the long arduous trek (always having lived in extremes, moderation had seemed far too mundane to her).
When she would near the end, she decided she would settle old scores, pay off debts, write her will and make her funerary arrangements for she would never forget the turmoil her mother went through the previous year.
Taking the final turn into the lane whose every nook she knew, she continued to awe at the absurdity of Death. Thinking of the inevitable, she saw not her burial site six feet under but the funeral itself: the people who would attend it, how they would speak of her, her eulogy and all the rest. It all eluded her for even as shadows faced her, she saw everything but Darkness.
Anger emanates from within,
Ruminations of reason and objectivism
Succumb to riotous hatred.
All before initiation, the argument
Lost to the irrational.
Logic and pragmatism peter
In the simplicity of rage.
But none occur without reason;
Incentive justifies for all but one.
One, solitary and despondent,
Carries on in penance.
[The movie Juno has managed to inspire my bleak and desolate mind to write a run of the mill blog post about adolescence.]
We don't know where we are going and we don't know where we are from.
As soon as adolescence materializes, hormones surface and your mind brims with questions which are far less than tangible. You inevitably question the existence of God (iconoclasm is quickly, if not hastily, adopted) and incontrovertibly loose your faith in Humanity. The hypocrisy of life and the speciousness of morality hits you so hard that it send you reeling for seven years.
Ironically though, while you loose faith in all the institutions that require it, you also become an idealist. Sanguinely hoping that maybe through the grace of something you no longer believe in, your cynicism and skepticism will be shattered in the light of the marvelous wonder of altruism (or anything a notch below egocentrism).
Those years of stupendous contradictions have only one road to salvation, humour. It is the solitary thing that will keep you from being obliterated; loose it and you end up as just another platitudinous piece of text in black and white.
13 comments Labels: adolescence, humor, insanity, irrelevant to anything significant, philosophy, same old, sense
[Like Vasudha explained on her blog, she and I declared a diss war on each other so as to mollify the grievances of your distressed and tormented souls provoked by your vainglorious selves.The following is her guest post.]
'But they couldn't touch him, he told Clevinger, because he had a sound mind in a pure body and was as strong as an ox. They couldn't touch him because he was Tarzan, Mandrake, Flash Gordon. He was Bill Shakespeare. He was Cain, Ulysses, the Flying Dutchman; he was Lot in Sodom, Deirdre of the Sorrows, Sweeney in the nightingale among trees. He was miracle ingredient Z 247. He was-
"Crazy!" Clevinger interrupted, shaking."That's what you are! Crazy!"
Howdy, world. Meet the freakishly brilliant prodigy sorts who we all wish to burn alive, then smother in pesticides and throw into the Ganga in vaguely anti environmental, totally mental act of sadistic rage - Nikita Nangia.Yes, a fine example of the effortlessly talented, insanely intelligent species whose unsurpassed cranial capabilities allow her to manipulate lesser mortals [me] and whose non existent self conscience let her do so guiltlessly and unfortunately for me, frequently. She be the one who has probably registered as many centuries as Tendulkar, though of the examination marks sorts, and thanks to her superlative mathematical aptitude, she can keep better track of them too. Did I mention this nauseatingly grey celled female might be going to either Stanford or Harvard this summer for a program on either advanced Physics or number theory? Her stark insanity compels you to engage in sad attempts at reverse dissing by making her out to be so good that people are repulsed. Ah, the wretch that is life.
However, even goodness has its blemishes and me being me, they are ingrained permanently into my memory, or whatever little of it exists. Nik's brain has a tendency to work overtime, and there are times when it decides enough is enough, organized workers are entitled to government benefits and a strike is in order. In euphonic terms - Creak, sputter and fizz. An essay in the ninth standard on Pocket Money and the Youth today ended up with our English teacher getting 100 odd write ups she had no inclination of voluntarily reading through. This, of course, was until she chanced upon Her Absentmindedness' piece de resistance. It talked about girls today being happy using the moolah for cleavage showcasing clothes [cloth?] and boys being happy at the girls being happy doing so. Now all this would have been very well, had the aforementioned English teacher not been a student loving sorts. For her, who imagined us to be cherubic little bundles of innocence this came as a mighty shocker [cleavage? Tauba, tauba!] and she hastily cut out the offensive word from Nik's paper. When the teacher subsequently left school, it was a matter of great deliberation whether Nangia's sly frankness had anything to do with it.
It is not only teachers who suffer, though. After watching John Tucker Must Die, she also seriously contemplated throwing rolled up thongs [don't ask] into her brother's room at periodic intervals while the poor guy was studying for his Computer Science pre-Board exam. Again, you could be pardoned for thinking of this as mere sibling irritation stimuli. The fact is, the woman is unquestioningly supercilious. There is no other explanation for her shamelessly flirting with a guy for over a fortnight, last December, and not being able to recall even the guy's name now. Same guy who might be lonesomely fantasizing about pristine white church weddings [No, wait. Guy.] or saying,"I do" after a torrid light saber duel. Tsk, tsk.
For a self proclaimed gargantuan egoist, her goof ups tend to be in sharp conflict with that and the jaw droppingly profound image. With her crap ass spellings and a natural aversion to spell check, Nik has a tendency to be involved in supremely deprecating self mortification. Don't believe me? Just get into a heated discussion with her over IM. She'll do anything to be one up, which includes trying to type lightning fast and getting in her point first. But the thing is, she'd have done anything but made her point when you see this prop up on your screen :
"I can NOT be wrong, ok? I am NIKITA NANGI!"
"Oh, shut up," Dunabr told Clevinger. Dunbar liked Clevinger because Clevinger annoyed him and made the time go slow.
I feel the sudden need to defend me mutilated ego; my reply :-
1) I did not write that girls today are happy using the moolah for cleavage showcasing clothes [cloth?] and boys are happy that the girls are happy doing so. All I said was, just as boys (read: all humans with Y chromosomes) have an unremitting attraction to cleavage, most girls have the same draw to shoes. Was it an infelicitous remark? (If so, bugger off).
2) Not thongs, socks. *says this very indignantly* (Btw, Vas failed to mention, I'm a remarkable liar).
3) I do (I'm treading shark infested waters) remember the fellow's name, just not his last name. *shrugs*
4) I bmale the kobyread!!
All the links were provided my She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named (aka: Vasudha).
24 comments Labels: friends, guest post, humor, She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Vasudha
[There isn't suppose to be a space between the 1st and second lines, can't seem to get rid of it.]
{A suggestion: read it slowly, with ease}
A wall of treachery divides
Instilling fear of what lies beyond.
Trembling at thoughts of a shaken wall,
Failing to realize
The sublimity of the illusion.
Yet the few with the leisure
of a double-ended view,
Our ignorance, perpetuate.
Duped, we may have been
But a generation new emerges;
Procreating hope.
The janus-faced divide
Spiraling to decadence.
Contemplation reigns havoc.Unbridled humiliation or
Unfathomable disgust?
Confusion of thought
Abounded by thunderous tumult.
Decisiveness shatters as
Resolves are made
And decrees broken.
To swing one way,
I brave the gallows
The other, a guillotine.
P.S.: The story behind this is hilarious but also rather embarrassing, so I'm going to keep it to myself... use your imagination?!
P.P.S.: I wrote this in 15 minutes flat, so as you judge and doom, be merciful.
5 comments Labels: blunders, Catch-22, confusion, poetry.. in a manner of speaking
[Old habits die hard?]
As the fog dissipates,
the future is foretold.
The prophesied disaster
Followed by sorrow,
Sorrow by the profane.
Vows succeed all,
But as pledges break
The cycle perpetuates.
The wrench of pain and grief crumble
At the sight of the inveterate.
But indifference, not
Admonition, emerges victorious
Over the incorrigible.
I've been tagged my Vasudha and I'm gonna bite the bullet.
The Rules:
Link to the person that tagged you.
Post the rules on your blog.
Share six non-important things/habits/quirks about yourself.
Tag six random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs.
Let each random person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their website.
#1 : When I wake up, and I tend to do so in wee hours of the morn, so does every other organic life form within a 10 mile radius as i blare rock music from my bathroom. I do this to snap myself out of REM (or non-REM) mode. [As of late I have taken to getting up with AC/DC's TNT resonating through the neighborhood]
#2 : As I mentioned in point one, I tend to get up early. But on a few rare occasions I'm so exhausted that not even the Immigrant Song has the decibel value to awaken me. So what I do is, I languidly spread out a towel on the bathroom floor and lay down and drift off into Neverland. I do this so that in the event of my mother coming to check on me, she would assume I'm in the bathroom (wide awake).
#3 : I'm venturesome when it comes to food. I'd be willing to eat anything at least once (even the Icelandic cuisine of Hakarl, which translate to rotten shark meat).
#4 : If I could, I would I spend all day reading books, listening to and playing music and writing whenever i find some source of inspiration. I have no trouble in putting off work, in fact I am an inveterate procrastinator.
#5 : I have oddly sensitive teeth and I haven't a clue as to why i just proclaimed that to the World Wide Web.
#6 : I talk to myself more often than I hold conversations with other living beings. And I used to talk in my sleep. Once I even did the entire sleep-walking, coherent conversing bit and only found out about the following morning, 'twas a rather embarrassing revelation (this is in consideration of the fact that my primary purpose in my sleep was to find a cow.. Don't hurry to get out your copy of Interpretation of Dreams, I'm blissful in ignorance and doubt).
[I could go on for another couple of pages, hell I could write a book longer than War and Peace (Did I mention my gargantuan ego?). But I am making an attempt at self-restraint.]
And now, I choose to torture the following innocent souls:
Ishmeet
Namrata
Lemonade
Raincoaster
Bharat
Sporadic Blogger
Traveling its preordained path, It brings closer that which I fear.
Its apathy causes indignation,
Pleas of mercy affect it not.
Traversing its perfect path
Being its only objective;
Misery, its primary incentive.
On reaching its destination,
It unveils the secrets of its land;
Casting loose either
Insidious sorrow or Utopian joy.
I now await to see
Which course the elusive shall take.
[SCENE: Me having an astonishingly intelligent conversation with a good looking guy (further referred to as Sisyphus).
I borrow his pen to write something down. Then I, for some inexplicable reason, fall into a trance and stare at the pen which reminds me of an incident (trivial) which took place when i was ten.]
Sisyphus: [curiously] What you doing?
Me: [snaps out of it] Oh! nothing (..) Reminiscing.
Sisyphus: [curiosity turns to bewilderment] Reminiscing?
Me: [laughs out loud] Yeah!
[speaks while looking at the pen] Profound pen thou art; you sink me into a reverie of days long gone past.
Yes, I said that. Result: he takes me for a raving neurotic lunatic (not that I'm not, but I was hoping for the revelation to be slightly more delayed).
Amazing how life, though quite simple, compels us to conjure escapable complexities.
P.S.: Whether or not this is fictitious, I leave for you to decide. But remember, reality is the one thing we always choose to deny.
P.P.S.: Reason for using Sisyphus as the pseudonym: I was thinking about the myth.
11 comments Labels: blunders, cryptic, humor, insanity, irrelevant to anything significant
I'm not one for writing poetry (specially when it is longer than 2 lines). So bear with me and these 6 odd lines of.. well, of whatever you reckon it is.
A haze of unreality settles:
As time slows, sounds quicken.
Words that are heard leave lips unmoved
A resonating echo of dampened cold travels the earth;
The unsighted winter makes lucid all,
But a thickened fog descends upon mind and sight.
Ecstasy rises from the forgotten explored.
The echo of melody, ephemeral-
Rapture revels in its transience.
As reverberating sounds clear frosty remains
Joyous euphoria blossoms green.
17 comments Labels: irrelevant to anything significant, poetry.. in a manner of speaking
This post is a little late in the coming (12 days if my grasp on time hasn't completely been lost), but I have the support of the fool who claimed, "Better late than never."
The New Year is symbolic of new beginnings, new hopes, new trials and (most famed of them all) new resolutions.
For maybe the first 15 days of the new year, people's spirits are high, either the outcome of new found optimism or maybe that of the holidays' festive mood or maybe it's just that strong spirit. But at the dawn of the 16th day, reality comes crashing down like a wall of cement built on a house of cards. The pessimism that plagued us previously returns, those violent and exotic shades of green and red disappear in favour of grays of the city's landscape of undulating concrete.
So my decision was to make a resolution, but on the dirge of the previous year; this resolution was to make none in the coming year. Worked brilliantly. There was very little room for error; all I had to do was eat cake when the countdown began.
I don't mean to sully the zest of the resolution hopefuls. So until the day of realization- I fare thee well in the land of bliss.
