Unwittingly on New Year's Day

I stopped making New Years resolutions a rather long time ago. So lets just call the timing for this a mighty coincidence.

The decision is to use this blog for flaunting my peerless wit rather than my writings which are scarce, often depressing and generally atrocious. And just for giggles, we shall assume that I am, in fact, right about my nonpareil wit.

Happy New Year and New Decade, who can tell me why we have a such an enduring obsession with capitalizations? ee cummings being discounted.

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Pumpkin Pies

"What are you dressing as?"

"The Lazy."

*cackle* *giggle* *squirm* *stare* *realize it wasn't all that funny* *realize you're inebriated* *get more inebriated* *grin*

Halloween is generally the greatest excuse to dabble in a little drag and get enough alcohol in you to clean the floors of Buckingham. For a few others, it's the trigger of contemplation of grim futures and of the endearing cycle of depressive thoughts and self-pity. But then, very soon, the death-fires dance on into the abyss, the colours green, blue and white return to their regularity and you realize it's now the 1st of November. You turn your clocks back an hour and glee in the fact that you have an extra 60 minutes to add to your day. That's enough to make anyone giggle and grin. If not, you need a drink.

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Haverford

[Another 10 minute poem written in Zurich. This one after a short nap and quick meal (also directly on the computer).]

Here I sit at the edge of Haverford

Watching the younger scuttle by

They brush past, they shrink on.

A wide gale of laughter,

My soft whimper of woe

Some boisterous, others unheard.

A hand whisks above the golden grain

Feeling wisps down below,

A tickling tendril totters up

Gushing giggles guffaw out.

The soil takes me in from the toes

I battle and win, but who’s to show?

They plunge down with sudden force,

The stabbing frost grasps me, clenched.

Such a feeling I have often known

Since the days of graying cold.

Now I court chirping birds

No longer being the one in Haverford.

[I came up with this while reading Beowulf. Go figure...]

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Undersaturated Overtones

[It’s been a while since I wrote something in under 10 minutes, sleep deprivation was the cure to that. Here’s a poem I wrote at the Zurich airport after the first leg of the journey to Chicago. (This is one of the few things I’ve ever written directly onto the computer).]

In a rush we scuttle and scamper,

Teetering from one end to another

A delicate feel of movement

But not much else.

Here we are, confined,

With no place to go.

It mushrooms within

Regurgitates itself time again.

You wonder at it,

Stare at its

Strange balmy pleasantness.

This is the end, here we go.

A feeble fluttering,

A sweet sensation,

An indication of final presence

Suffuses when surrounded.

Thinking of the inevitable

Just as we go.

Now we meet,

You and I.

After weeks of rumination,

Reflecting the inexorable

A breathless sigh in satisfaction,

Alas! we can go.

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NovelRace

[Here's a tiny extract from what I've written for the NovelRace. I've hit a colossal writer's block and might just drop out.]

It's a stale, permeating taste. Sucks you dry of all senses besides the light buoyancy of your stomach and the levitating tendency of your chronically lightened head. Wait fourteen hours for you next meal and you'll know the banal rotting feel of your tongue with its gossamer like dry surface. A certain peevishness seeps out from your choleric palate to everything around. Your eyes remain utterly focused, and your brows furrowed until the final sigh.

After removing myself from that familiar cesspool, I headed to yet another so as to play away my senses. A well-lit, unobtrusive corner in a large, labyrinth of a room is ideal for draining sensation. For company, a small cup with its inadequate handle, holding a strong brew and light froth arrived on a tiny saucer. A single sip diffused across the appeased muscle, delicately spreading its wily harshness to the extremities of taste.

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Grimly Fluff

[A future classmate complimented my blog by calling it friggin awesome and strangely adorable (I'm quite grateful that the adorable is at least modified with a strangely). This reminded me that I have a blog and so, thought to update.]

Vasudha recently wrote about her unfortunate but delayed realization that everyone is dead. Whether it be Feynman, Dirac and Fermi or Wilde, Hemingway and Buchwald or just your good ol' crazies like Vincent and Dali.

Doughlas Admas died. As did George Carlin. Michael Jackson died and discovered normality. While Brunetto Latini died and met a Minotaur in a fiery desert. My grandfather died at the wheel. My great-grandfather, in his sleep. All passed away, passed on, expired, departed, gone, no more, late, lost, perished, deceased, with God, asleep, slain, slaughtered, murdered, killed. In addition, this past fortnight saw the death of Eunice Kennedy and Edward Kennedy. Les Paul's dead as well.

I'm not really going anywhere with this since death is not much of a topic for debate. Nothing unexpected, just quite wretched. This was just a handy excuse, if ever you need one, to get the blues.

An explanation- the reason this is yet another fluff post about the on goings of life (or death, as it may be) rather than progresses in writing, is because I haven't written a damn thing of interest in a long while. Though, three weeks ago, I did join the NovelRace! But, in following the visible trend of disappointment, I haven't added a single word to the "novel" in a week. Instead, I picked up a different genre, mystery. Vicariously living fantasies of gruesome torture and butchery through writing may sound disturbing to some, but I found it cathartic. That too, should sound disturbing.

That's all for now.

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Careful

The clock showing 3 AM inspired me to write something, anything rather. I tried a new tack, I failed but the rubble is below..

Here I am seated-

In the silent corner,

Atop a minor dent.

Soughing breath,

Fitful hands,

Restive lids.

Careful, though.

Melancholy music

Of coloured song

Shuffles through,

Chances brick walls.

Notes whisk back,

Tousled and turned,

Ephemeral and ebbing.

Foot grazes carpet

With periodic tap.

Fingers itch

With tedious plan.

A bead trickles,

Diverging from a mass

Ending desiccated, defeated.

Darkness impregnates:

Crescent unseen.

Searching for abyss

Facing banal grey,

Philosophy forsaken.

Focus closer

Upon lined sheets,

Imagination mislaid.

Three assemble

In gradual procession,

Stare in silent pause.

Song fades,

Foot follows,

Eyes sigh.

Careful, though.

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Vengeance

God takes revenge. Evidence of fact:-

My IP address has been blocked from his site.

A few days ago, I wrote the first draft of a story on my laptop (up until now, I always wrote first drafts on paper). Before I could save it, my Mac decided to have its own first by crashing.

A day later, my Twitter account was hacked into and now it's been suspended.

The very next day, I was savoring the flavour of bile the entire night.

And today, my iPod died on me taking with it 20 gigs of my music and some great lectures, none of which I had backed up.

Here's some sage advice for you lot, never piss off old, bearded, sadomasochistic, egomaniacal men who only worked for 6 days in all of eternity. It could come back to bite you in the ass.

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Which one's the 4th?

Here's something I thought the world should know, I managed to piss off God. This is how. (In case you're a bit dim and it isn't clear, I'm Nik.)

We're having regular storms here, I expect to be smote soon.

UPDATE: Pitiably I can no longer access the site, I'm told my IP address is blocked. Well, at least I did a good job of pissing Him off.

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Brushstroke

Today, the kindergarten wall took a not so great tumble down to a ghastly pile of crap emerging from my personal Hellmouth set up by IT.

The wall mocks me in verse.

First you brush upon me

In hallowed white

But in the most impious way.

Then you burst upon me a slew of stain

From Satan’s personal palette.

This I can tell for some mortals admired

Except those of sane virtuous way.

But more I grieve as this was not

The end of your profanity.

You soon resolved to

Write upon my trampled skin

The names of books of wicked intent

None prophetic or of sacred verse

But of Irishmen and paedophilic mirth.

Irony struck when you wrote of a catch

For now you are caught in the very same.

Either desert me in this deplorable state

And be mocked by the world for incompetence.

Or amend me to a more agreeable sight

And lose your last penny to effort’s might.

Regardless of stance,

Leave your thoughts not to stand.

A week of nine days you have,

Before you’re caught in either catch.

If I feel masochistic enough sometime, I'll upload some pictures.

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Scapegoat

Here's one of the reasons I haven't posted anything for a while..

Using webcam. The purple goat ate my camera.

And yeah, I'm a lazy ass.

I was going for an old age map and ended up with a kindergarten wall. I'm nearly done, I plan on writing on it.

Oh and yes, I'm going to UChicago come September. GO TEVATRON!

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Plenteous Movies

Saw The Curious Case Of Benjamin Button day before. They managed to make a three hour movie out of a 10 page short story by Fitzgerald. And as expected, the story is infinitely superior to the movie. I resorted to chucking pop corn at the screen.

Aloo Chaat yesterday. Walked out after 40 minutes. Felt a little brain dead.

Monty Python And The Holy Grail yesterday. I want coconuts.

The Reader today. Haven't seen it yet, but I anticipate it'll be good.

Update- Got back from the movie. Kate Winslet was quite remarkable. Maybe I should read the book.

I'm off to watch The Full Monty now. Impotent men stripping, what could be better?

These posts have no purpose. I just need something to do in between doing nothing.

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High school graduate, I be.

Boards over and school's out.

Time to catch up on reading. First off, those thirty odd pending blog posts to be read. Then the fifty odd books on the read-after-boards-list. But it shall again have to wait a while. For, the next couple of days have been designated as Family-Time by mater. Nothing says family like arguments over my preference to use billiard balls while bowling.

Soon though, I'll be at complete liberty to regress into book hermitage or to wile away my time watching the spider population in my room grow (it's a lovely little ecosystem with ants, spiders and the occasional lizard).

Now I'll go brush up on Morse Code. Lack of practice due to excessive time spent trying to map my tongue print. Beginning to forget the order of my dits and dahs.

[You can blame the brevity of the post on Twitter.]

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Woolen String

I haven't had the time to do much lately but today I did spend a good forty minutes reading up on the Superstring theory. I would have wasted more time but I just didn't understand much.
I wrote down what I did understand and put it up here.

On a tangent, you know how Einstein said you haven't understood something until you explained it to your grandmother? It turns out, I don't understand algebra.

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Ad Libbing

[We were bored out of our minds and started ad libbing. Surprisingly enough, we kept it clean. And since I have nothing else to do, I am posting it.]

Nik: Can all mothers kill joy?
Bharat: Yes. Its their one common talent.
Nik: I see. I need to get the fuck out of here.
Bharat: Take me with you.
Nik: Where to?
Bharat: We'll get out of the country and go our separate ways.
Nik: Sure.
Bharat: I'm headed to Turkey.
Nik: I'll go to Italy.
Bharat: You could sail from Turkey to Italy. Go to Sicily.
Nik: Yes. I could do that.
When do we leave? The sooner the better.
Bharat: Yes. How 'bout tonight?
Nik: Ok. Lemme get my socks and my towel. That's all I'll be needing.
Bharat: No wait, I think I should inform my girlfriend before I leave the country. It'd be the gallant thing to do, right?
Nik: Yes, it would. Go on then. Hurry up. We dont have all night.
Bharat: You know what, she's probably studying right now. I'll call her tomorrow. Let's leave
I got my staff and towel.
Nik: Ok then. We're off.
Bharat: Yes we are.
[off the rocker]
Nik: [that happened ages ago. This is a continuation of the same]
Which path do you reckon we should take?
Bharat: Throw your towel. Let it decide.
Nik: It landed hobbes up.
The forest?
Bharat: Yes.
Bharat: Had it been Calvin I'd have called for a space ship. But Hobbes is the forest.
Nik: Fair enough.
To the forrest!
Bugger, what about food?
Bharat: Berries.
Nik: Adequate?
Bharat: We'll kill a few animals, all I need to do is tie this knife to my staff and we'll have a hunting spear.
Wait, did you get string?
Nik: Nope. Ivy?
Bharat: Yes, ivy.
Nik: We need hermit names.
Bharat: I'll be Cuchulainn.
You be Rimmugygr.
Nik: Works. Might scare the squirrels.
Bharat: Yes.
Nik: Hmm. We need to start a fire.
Bharat: My staff can be a torch too. Tie the towel to it, we'll set it on fire.
Nik: No! The towel is our hope for survival.
Bharat: My towel, it's special, it suffers no fire damage.
Nik: Fascinating staff you have Cuchulainn.
Bharat: Thank you, Rimmugygr.
We need to find you a staff.
Nik: I have socks. Don't require a staff.
Bharat: Chuck some stones and nails into your socks.
Nik: My socks are hardly ordinary. Don't need any rocks to make them hard.
Can be pleasurable.
Bharat: Ohhh, man socks
Nik: Yes, very manly indeed.
Bharat: Let's keep moving, I want to be out of the state by dawn
Nik: Let us eat first.
Bharat: Howbout venison?
Nik: Yes. I'll be back in a moment.
*Back with three dead squirrels*
I think I might have overdone it a bit.
Bharat: Nah, its perfect.
Nik: Ok. You need to cook yours?
Bharat: I'll stick it in the torch for a bit
Ah! the fur is smoldering. Just right and succulent.
Nik: I think I'll have it raw though.
Bharat: Suitcherself.
Nik: We'd better be off now. As you said, out of the state by morning.
Bharat: [In Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha they give a viking funeral to a rat they killed.]
Yes, I'm sure my mum has the police looking for me
Nik: [lol. Gotta read that book.]
I'm sure my parents have the entire intelligence force after me.
Bharat: [Yes.]
Nik: Cuchulainn, be wary.
Bharat: Halt and stay silent.
Nik: I think I heard a bee.
Bharat: Thats a tribal warrior.
Nik: Bee warrior it be.
Bharat: These people communicate using bee sounds.
Nik: Ah, we can fool him by doing the same.
Bharat: No, lets kill him. My knife thirsts for blood.
Nik: And my socks for rigor mortis.
Bharat:
*Throws the knife*
*Kills the warrior*
Nik:
*Lets the socks sit on the dead mans chest for a while*
Ok, They're both satisfied and tempered. We can go now.
Dawn approaches. We are close to the state boundary. We'll need a plan to circumvent the police. I'm certain, by now, they know our faces
Bharat: We kill them.
*Extinguishes the fire*
*Ties the knife to the staff with the towel*
Nik:
*Prepares self with socks in either hand*
Bharat: With Gaebolg I will kill them all.
Nik: You take the left flank, I the right.
Bharat: Works.
*Yells the ancient Irish war cry and charges*
Nik:
*Charges while singing Galway Bay*
Bharat: Ut ut ut ut ut.
No wait, that's Saxon. Meh, who cares.
*Throws Gaebolg*
*Gaebolg slices through the air and kills a dozen soldiers in one go*
Nik:
*Chokes a few men with her socks*
*Makes a few dozen sniff them*
Bharat:
*Kills the rest with his towel*
*Retrieves towel and kills another dozen*
Nik: All dead.
Bharat: High five!
Nik:
*Stares at Bharat*
Cuchulainn, you're a friggin hermit.
Bharat: Oh yeah, sorry.
Nik: Let's get moving.
*Dog starts following the duo*
What shall we do with the mutt?
Bharat: Let's domesticate it. Dog meat for when the squirrels die out.
Nik: Yes. Good plan.
It's male. Testicles always taste good.
Bharat: Yes. No need for condiments.
Nik: Yup.
Where in Chewbacca's name are we?
Bharat: We entered a portal. We are in Reykjavik.
You know what's considered edible here, right?
Nik: I know what's considered edible in Gultimysk. Is it the same?
Bharat: Is it fermented?
Nik: Of course.
Bharat: Splendid.
Nik: You still wanna head to turkey? We could live here for a while.
Bharat: Sure.
Nik: I believe grass is legal too.

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