Everybody says I've changed. Or that I'm changing. Well, my good close friends also of course say lots of other things like I'm a cheapskate, a cracker of lame ones and saaddd jokes, a horrible atheist, scaredy-cat, OCD patient, and what not else. But the ones who have known me for a while now, take that run around and always come back to the same point. That I've changed, or am actively changing.
When I ask if its for the better or worse, they say they can't say. Hmm. So not only am I changing, but its also one of those mysterious, we-dont-know-many-details-but-its-happening-for-sure kind of processes. Like armageddon, melting of the ice-caps, and WW3. Like I'm afflicted by an unknown, possibly dangerous and volatile illness. *feels cool and stuff*
Its made me a bit curious about myself now. I shall proceed to examine the hitherto ignored, but eternally hyped and revered contents of my active consciousness. The best way for it that I can think of is rummage through what I've been seeing, hearing, reading, doing and kicking.
I observe things quite differently nowadays. I talk very little sometimes, and listen to absolutely nothing at all. Those periods of resting one's mind by creating a temporary complete vacuum inside? They come to me quite often and irritatingly so. Usually when I'm in company of chatterboxes, who obviously get offended. Like when I say Eh, what? Pardonne, mademoiselle? to the guy who's enriched my previous few minutes, talking of his troubles and misfortunes and other trivia I care nought for.
I notice a lot of ineptitude everywhere, and especially in places of authority. It upsets me now, unlike before. I used to shrug it off, or adjust to it. I'm immune and somewhat distant from it in a while. I used to be so bothered and fretful later, before. I see the ineptitude of several teachers. I see the gloriously garlanded and exquisitely exhibited tomfoolery of my hostel warden, and I wonder just how many degrees of man God has created. They're like great big walls relentlessly guarding their minds and brains from the sun. It doesnt matter how much you beat against those walls.
I listen to a very select mix of songs. Most of it stuff I didn't hear when I was in school, or even till a few months back. A couple of songs by each artist, instead of entire albums and collections. There's Jimi Hendrix (All Along The Watchtower), Led Zeppelin (Rain Song, Stairway, Over The Hills), Metallica (Unforgiven II), RHCP (Can't Stop). A few more, but I cant recall now.
I behave quite differently now I suppose. I'm somewhat ruder sometimes. In the sense, I have little patience with some people. Needless to say they're not very happy with this, but the real strange bit is that I dont care enough to bother with that. Maybe, thats really rude and uncouth and the evil lurking in me. There are friends with whom I've lost some degrees of intimacy. I'm not as close to them as I was. I regret that a bit.
I want to do a lot of things. I think I know what they are. But I'm not getting started. Which feels a lot worse than it ever did before.
Oh, and I'm judgmental too. I judge things. By my own standards of right and wrong, of okay and whaat-you-did!?, and of admirable and worthless. So now you know I read Ayn Rand. Not wanting to sound cliched, or pseudo-this or -that, I believe in it simply because it makes a lot of common sense. And it requires effort and achievement, rather than continuing the same manner and adjusting. I like to believe its all true and possible. My boldly-going-nowhere-at-all-at-full-throttle life needs some sort of fixed point ahead.
I do crack good jokes sometimes, you know. I'm not completely lost to you, dont worry.
And I'm happier now, than I was before.
And thats that.
And I'm re-reading Catch-22.
------------------------------
Claimer: This post contains, I think, the most number of 'I's ever put by me in any post. Aside from the tag some posts back. You are fully expected to go ahead and be as critical, cynical, bash him up now! and sarcastic as you wish. We are all just prisoners here of our own device. Hee hee.
There you go. I laugh like a girl too.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Dark Sarcasm In The Classroom
He couldn’t believe his eyes. That his world could come to this. What had happened suddenly to the busy streets, the lush green gardens? Where were the men going to work, the peddlers selling wares, the women hanging laundry? All of a sudden…? No. It had not been sudden, he realized. He had seen it happen, seen it come about, rise to this level of destruction. He had seen it, and so had everyone else. They hadn’t sensed their future, just as he hadn’t.
He walked past the street which used to be filled with iron, steel, gold smithys, filled with carpenters, builders. It used to be filled with the clank of metal on metal, as man converted nature to his use. The sounds, however loud, would soothe him. He found an unusual happiness in hearing them. They conveyed the victory of man over nature. The idea of taming materials given by nature, and bidding them to serve us, had excited him. But the street was empty. Now? In the middle of a working day? He walked past a few people. Walking slowly and without purpose, without aim and without direction, as if they had no where to go, but still moved propelled by the desire to do something. Why weren’t they walking faster? Why did their shoulders droop? Why don’t they walk erect, proud and arrogant, real and alive? Why, he asked, looking at one of them. He didn’t bother to reply, trudging away.
He knew why. It was the sickness. It had taken too many lives. It had ended too many beginnings. He walked into another street. It was where the artisans worked. Used to work. One building would be stacked with the works of the city’s greatest artists. There would be painters, of sublime skill, provoking emotion and thought merely by the stroke of their brushes and the hues of their colour. There would be works by sculptors, of men and of women, that made one gasp to see their brilliance and might. There would be potters and there would be poets too. It seemed a strange mix of people working together on the same street. But they always sat together, inspiring each other as they said, only half-jokingly. The colours, the verses, the designs, the smooth stone of the statues, all had inspired him. They inspired him not by being fancy or possessing god-like imagery. They inspired him because they invoked wonder and awe, through their portrayal of humanity. He’s one of us too!, he would think as he saw the great statue of a runner, put up in the centre of the city quadrangle. Now the streets were empty. What could have done…? He chided himself for coming back to that. He knew what it was, didn’t he? Why must he keep not believing it. Just that it seemed too incredible to him. That their end, for this is what it is was surely, could come in such a way. So swift, so complete, and yet so expected if one saw the trail that had led to this.
His wonderful, beautiful city had closed in on itself. The galleries, the museums, the rich streets hadn’t emptied all by themselves or even suddenly. The disease, the sickness, had done it slowly over time. First the museums had been closed. The galleries shut down. The king’s decrees were to follow the path shown by him. Not to venture out oneself. He didn’t fancy the diverse art created by so many artists. He ordered them to work in his direction, to develop only his choice of art. He applied the same rule to administration. All would work as he directed, or they would not work at all.
They did not work. They turned to wine, gambling, and to other ill-pursuits. Noble men, men of ideals, and if not ideals, then men of simple duty and honest mind, all turned to vices. Their heads no longer looked up proudly. They hung in perpetual shame, lips curved in a horrific smile of the next shaming act they were to indulge themselves in. They did not look ahead anymore with eagerness to the new day. They only saw a now. And they only knew how to end the day as quickly as possible, and bury its sorrows. For in their new world, sorrow was all that ever lasted. The streets emptied slowly.
He knew the day wasn’t far away. The day of the end. When Atlantis would finally go under. He wished things would change. But it didn’t seem like that could now happen. How had all reason fled? All sense? He would stay, he decided. And fight on. He picked up a piece of paper he saw lying on the ground. He had always loved to write. He wrote this. A plea for help. It gave him strength.
----------------------------
Whatever their futures, at the dawn of their lives, men seek a noble vision of man's nature and of life's potential - Ayn Rand.
I was born intelligent. Education ruined me. - Popular T-shirt slogan.
No dark sarcasm in the classrooom. Teachers leave them kids alone. - Pink Floyd (Another Brick in the Wall)
He walked past the street which used to be filled with iron, steel, gold smithys, filled with carpenters, builders. It used to be filled with the clank of metal on metal, as man converted nature to his use. The sounds, however loud, would soothe him. He found an unusual happiness in hearing them. They conveyed the victory of man over nature. The idea of taming materials given by nature, and bidding them to serve us, had excited him. But the street was empty. Now? In the middle of a working day? He walked past a few people. Walking slowly and without purpose, without aim and without direction, as if they had no where to go, but still moved propelled by the desire to do something. Why weren’t they walking faster? Why did their shoulders droop? Why don’t they walk erect, proud and arrogant, real and alive? Why, he asked, looking at one of them. He didn’t bother to reply, trudging away.
He knew why. It was the sickness. It had taken too many lives. It had ended too many beginnings. He walked into another street. It was where the artisans worked. Used to work. One building would be stacked with the works of the city’s greatest artists. There would be painters, of sublime skill, provoking emotion and thought merely by the stroke of their brushes and the hues of their colour. There would be works by sculptors, of men and of women, that made one gasp to see their brilliance and might. There would be potters and there would be poets too. It seemed a strange mix of people working together on the same street. But they always sat together, inspiring each other as they said, only half-jokingly. The colours, the verses, the designs, the smooth stone of the statues, all had inspired him. They inspired him not by being fancy or possessing god-like imagery. They inspired him because they invoked wonder and awe, through their portrayal of humanity. He’s one of us too!, he would think as he saw the great statue of a runner, put up in the centre of the city quadrangle. Now the streets were empty. What could have done…? He chided himself for coming back to that. He knew what it was, didn’t he? Why must he keep not believing it. Just that it seemed too incredible to him. That their end, for this is what it is was surely, could come in such a way. So swift, so complete, and yet so expected if one saw the trail that had led to this.
His wonderful, beautiful city had closed in on itself. The galleries, the museums, the rich streets hadn’t emptied all by themselves or even suddenly. The disease, the sickness, had done it slowly over time. First the museums had been closed. The galleries shut down. The king’s decrees were to follow the path shown by him. Not to venture out oneself. He didn’t fancy the diverse art created by so many artists. He ordered them to work in his direction, to develop only his choice of art. He applied the same rule to administration. All would work as he directed, or they would not work at all.
They did not work. They turned to wine, gambling, and to other ill-pursuits. Noble men, men of ideals, and if not ideals, then men of simple duty and honest mind, all turned to vices. Their heads no longer looked up proudly. They hung in perpetual shame, lips curved in a horrific smile of the next shaming act they were to indulge themselves in. They did not look ahead anymore with eagerness to the new day. They only saw a now. And they only knew how to end the day as quickly as possible, and bury its sorrows. For in their new world, sorrow was all that ever lasted. The streets emptied slowly.
He knew the day wasn’t far away. The day of the end. When Atlantis would finally go under. He wished things would change. But it didn’t seem like that could now happen. How had all reason fled? All sense? He would stay, he decided. And fight on. He picked up a piece of paper he saw lying on the ground. He had always loved to write. He wrote this. A plea for help. It gave him strength.
----------------------------
Whatever their futures, at the dawn of their lives, men seek a noble vision of man's nature and of life's potential - Ayn Rand.
I was born intelligent. Education ruined me. - Popular T-shirt slogan.
No dark sarcasm in the classrooom. Teachers leave them kids alone. - Pink Floyd (Another Brick in the Wall)
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Saturday, February 03, 2007
In Response
As I was tagged, so do I comply.
--------------------------------
I am thinking about...
Something vitally important to the universe. Now look what you've done. Come and spoilt it all with your questions. It will change everything when I remember again what it was. Everything. Every.
I said...
Too many things too late. And then I had to suffer a bit. But by celestial reservations, into each life some rain must fall and all that. So its okay.
*marvels at his ability to insert just a couple of lines of sentimentally profound baloney every other post or so, and convince the chidden mass of a deeper, graver side to him*
*marvels at his remarkable talent to spoil it all by not being able to keep things to himself*
I am...
Who I am, for once. And that is more than most people can really declare.
I want to...
Break free! Dhik chik dhik chik dhik chik dhik - Freddie Mercury
I make with my hands...
Bread and butter. Or jam.
Even sandcastles in the air sometimes. Damn those little kids, they keep jumping on them. Jealousy and corruption is ruining the world, I tell you. My creative energy is squandered in repeatedly abetting such follies of erring humanity. They know I'm talking to them. Curb it now! *directs a strong, steely gaze of such intensity at their computer screens that they feel his wrath even through the ridiculously delicate bandwidth of his internet connection and sink deeper into their cold thrones, their swivel chairs*
I wish...
To once just get away with something outrageous. I wish to not be caught at it, or exposed before it, or apprehended immediately afterwards.
I wish to be able to control my giggling.
I cry...
Aaaah, never mind. Only when I'm really helpless. And I cant even find my iPod.
I hear...
The Rain Song - Led Zeppelin.
Birds outside, the fan whirring above, and my fingers falling lightly on the laptop keys.
I wonder...
How so many people exist, without passions, self-joy, and the eagerness for another day of 24 hours of it all.
How depression comes about. When there is a sun smiling every morning. When there are birds, and blue skies and the full moon (obviously not together). When there is Led Zeppelin.
I regret...
Nothing henceforth. Promise. In fact, just to convey my level of seriousness, pinky promise.
I confuse...
Others with what is simple to me. And myself with what they call obvious.
I dance...
When I try to wriggle into my old 30" waist jeans.
When there is a mirror and no one watching.
I sing...
To chase off crows and permanently scar the childhood of little kids. Come join me now. Muhahahaha! Muaahahaha! *evil laugh*
I am not always...
Silly and ridiculous. Sometimes I'm funny. Sometimes I make sense. And sometimes I dont talk. I can even play pictionary.
I write...
For my own happiness and well-being. It keeps me functioning somewhat normally, and I am constantly reminded of the one individual creation I have.
I'm glad so many people care about it.
I need...
To know what I love. So I can pledge my life to something. Give me something worth fighting for, and I will start a war.
To play Hotel California. Full and without stupid mistakes and wrong chords.
A Corn'n'Peas Subway. Its been too long without! I shall go today.
----------------------
I shall not tag anyone this time. Class over kiddies, and no homework this time. Go.
*shouting and squealing for joy the little dumbnuts run out the door, falling all over the floor and embarrassing themselves and others*
--------------------------------
I am thinking about...
Something vitally important to the universe. Now look what you've done. Come and spoilt it all with your questions. It will change everything when I remember again what it was. Everything. Every.
I said...
Too many things too late. And then I had to suffer a bit. But by celestial reservations, into each life some rain must fall and all that. So its okay.
*marvels at his ability to insert just a couple of lines of sentimentally profound baloney every other post or so, and convince the chidden mass of a deeper, graver side to him*
*marvels at his remarkable talent to spoil it all by not being able to keep things to himself*
I am...
Who I am, for once. And that is more than most people can really declare.
I want to...
Break free! Dhik chik dhik chik dhik chik dhik - Freddie Mercury
I make with my hands...
Bread and butter. Or jam.
Even sandcastles in the air sometimes. Damn those little kids, they keep jumping on them. Jealousy and corruption is ruining the world, I tell you. My creative energy is squandered in repeatedly abetting such follies of erring humanity. They know I'm talking to them. Curb it now! *directs a strong, steely gaze of such intensity at their computer screens that they feel his wrath even through the ridiculously delicate bandwidth of his internet connection and sink deeper into their cold thrones, their swivel chairs*
I wish...
To once just get away with something outrageous. I wish to not be caught at it, or exposed before it, or apprehended immediately afterwards.
I wish to be able to control my giggling.
I cry...
Aaaah, never mind. Only when I'm really helpless. And I cant even find my iPod.
I hear...
The Rain Song - Led Zeppelin.
Birds outside, the fan whirring above, and my fingers falling lightly on the laptop keys.
I wonder...
How so many people exist, without passions, self-joy, and the eagerness for another day of 24 hours of it all.
How depression comes about. When there is a sun smiling every morning. When there are birds, and blue skies and the full moon (obviously not together). When there is Led Zeppelin.
I regret...
Nothing henceforth. Promise. In fact, just to convey my level of seriousness, pinky promise.
I confuse...
Others with what is simple to me. And myself with what they call obvious.
I dance...
When I try to wriggle into my old 30" waist jeans.
When there is a mirror and no one watching.
I sing...
To chase off crows and permanently scar the childhood of little kids. Come join me now. Muhahahaha! Muaahahaha! *evil laugh*
I am not always...
Silly and ridiculous. Sometimes I'm funny. Sometimes I make sense. And sometimes I dont talk. I can even play pictionary.
I write...
For my own happiness and well-being. It keeps me functioning somewhat normally, and I am constantly reminded of the one individual creation I have.
I'm glad so many people care about it.
I need...
To know what I love. So I can pledge my life to something. Give me something worth fighting for, and I will start a war.
To play Hotel California. Full and without stupid mistakes and wrong chords.
A Corn'n'Peas Subway. Its been too long without! I shall go today.
----------------------
I shall not tag anyone this time. Class over kiddies, and no homework this time. Go.
*shouting and squealing for joy the little dumbnuts run out the door, falling all over the floor and embarrassing themselves and others*
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Masters Of War - Bob Dylan
I've heard enough number of anti-war songs by now. They usually portray an equivalent set of emotions - anger, disappointment and cynicism.
But then I just discovered Bob Dylan. And 'Masters Of War' is a wholly novel experience. The venom in his voice, which pours forth his undisguised hatred and despise. I wont give the full lyrics here. Download the song and listen to his delivery, to understand why.
Like Judas of old, you and lie and deceive.
A World War can be won, you want me to believe.
But then I just discovered Bob Dylan. And 'Masters Of War' is a wholly novel experience. The venom in his voice, which pours forth his undisguised hatred and despise. I wont give the full lyrics here. Download the song and listen to his delivery, to understand why.
Like Judas of old, you and lie and deceive.
A World War can be won, you want me to believe.
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