Spilt Milk.

We that have done and thought,
That have thought and done,
Must ramble, and thin out
Like milk spilt on a stone.

                             -William Butler Yeats

Adam and Eve.

Marc Chagall

(1912, Oil on canvas)

I.Be.Scrooge.No.More.

Exams came and went. I went days without sleep, and I had to travel to a particularly godforsaken corner out on the outskirts of the city at 6 in the morning in the blistering cold everyday. It's so secluded, it's like falling off the face of Delhi. For exams. Tonnes of them. But, I live to tell. And the ordeal is over. Almost, barring one little bugger that will be dealt with on the last day of the year. And I shall know freedom. I shall taste the heady intoxication of fresh air after exactly 4 months. I will know joy. It is cold. COLD. I hate cold. If I had wings, I would definitely be flying south right about now. If I was an exotic furry animal, I would binge on chilly chicken till severe constipation kicks in, and hibernate till spring arrives. Sadly, I only screech like a bird and look like a polar bear. In fact, I have turned so white, high exposure shots fail to capture the thingamajig that is my nose. I am likely to be mistaken for the ghost of Christmas past. I hate being white. I had the best Christmas ever. Family flew in from places far and wide(with gifts that I am still stoked by), I met old friends from school. The kind of friends you feel like you "belong" to. That is something so rare, it surprises me now. I never realized how much I could crave for a sense of belonging. Strange, considering how wary I am of being tied down. Wary of feelings and words that evolve from strings to chains. Wary of people, wary of places, wary of time. Everything stagnates. I've been reading again. Heavy stuff. Makes me dream of strange things at night. I like nightmares more than dreams. I like cryptic ones more than anything. For two days, I've been strutting around in supremely fancy and equally painful pairs of shoes. And then bought another a few hours ago. I'm starting to look like those dainty delhi-brand GK-dolls I once coaxed A into running over in his snazzy car last summer, when we went out to smoke trippy shit. Retail therapy is chicken soup for a frozen-to-an-icicle soul. Adding a few books to the pile, I'm almost broke. Which is a strangely liberating feeling. I will now indulge in cheap thrills with valid reasons. Tomorrow, I will go shopping again for the third day in a row. And I will binge on chocolates with the voraciousness I remember being described in Les Miserables.

I feel numb. I feel hollow. I feel nothing.
The entire spectrum of my emotions has bifurcated into anger and apathy. Unequal parts.

There is a decision to be made. In view of my love for ultimatums and automated mechanisms, it will be made on the basis of the sequence of events leading up to midnight on New Year's Eve. I have no plans for the year end. I want to dance various parts of myself off. Including a major chunk of the brain that's giving me insomnia. The thing won't shut up and let me sleep. Opinionated little scoundrel. So... party, anyone?

Of Yearning.

There exists no room for discontent if there remains nothing to hope for. Nothing to strive for, nothing to peg your faith on to, nothing to plan your days and wrap your dreams around. One might as well live deliberately, if there is left nothing to win or lose.

But then, maybe discontent isn't a bad thing after all.

The Idealist Grumbles...

Choose your personal favorite cup of poison.

Guess what free will is all about. 

The Metamorphosis of Narcissus.

(The Metamorphosis of Narcissus - Salvador Dali - 1937)

I believe that art is not that which shows us the world as it is. It is that which lets us see a fragment of it through the eyes of the artist behind it. Which is why I nurture a strong dislike for the Impressionists and works from the Renaissance period. On the other hand, Cubist, Surrealist and Expressionist art fascinates me like little else in the world. It entrances. Hits you on many levels, bit-by-bit, blow-by-blow. It challenges your perception. Case in point would be the one above.

For the few who may not know, the legend of Narcissus goes thusly: Echo and Narcissus.

On the left, there is the figure of Narcissus, hunched over and peering into the pool. On the right, we see a decaying hand made of stone. It holds an egg, from which sprouts the narcissus flower. Notice how the two silhouettes are almost congruent.

And that, right there, is art.

an aberrant coup.

for there appears to be
a velociraptor
in my soup.

and I
shall eat it.
................................................................................................................................................................

i challenge you to make sense of the lines above the dotted one. also, this is completely justified since I have an exam tomorrow and randall munroe is my hero.

there. the cat flew right out of the bag.
it can fly, you know.

i have decided. i will write the exam sans any capitalization. i wonder if i can mess with people's heads if i keep this up long enough. again, observe the evilness that is me.

-ze rebel without socks.

Express Train of Thought.

Climbing up the walls --> Wallflower --> Epistolary --> Selective illusion --> Crunching numbers --> Paradox-8 --> Discretion--> Maskirovka --> Instinct v/s Impulse --> Discordia --> Ethics of Power --> Judgment --> Social conditioning --> Perceptual distortion --> Homogeneity --> Brownian Motion --> Relativity --> Intelligent Design --> Geocentricity --> Tree of Knowledge --> A religion with human guilt as a basic tenet --> Dark Ages --> Ice-Cream Assassin --> Blitzkrieg --> The nature of the anti-thesis --> Going too far right brings you to the left.

The last line won't let me sleep tonight.

Thus went a 20 minute bus ride. It's been one of those days. The ones that feature as a red cross on your calender. With cryptic notes attached and stuff. And to think, it all started with a song. A rather addictive one, in fact.

Happy people piss me off. Majorly. You know, the sort that spout sunshine in copious amounts from every thread of their being. By the power vested in me by virtue of being a devoted cynic, I hereby decree that any person found grinning a five-inch smile on a godawful, cold Monday morning be shot down mercilessly. Seriously!

But despite myself, I admit... this makes a pretty snazzy dashboard. Yes, clicked today. Pami's gaddi.

And,
this also featured as part of the fateful day that was. Gifted to a friend on her birthday. I think it's awesome. AWWW-SUMM. In an annoying American accent, no less.Inappropriate, did you say? I would totally wear this around town. And zoom in on random people to check if some of them are capable of not getting the pun. I have a feeling I'd be surprised. This blog is increasingly getting NSFM(Not Safe For Mom) by the day. I think I'll blare some more Manson out to the world now. I miss drag races and general nihilistic behavior. Also, I'm totally typing this to get into trouble. Behold the retired rebel that is me.

On a completely unrelated note, I'm tempted to slap a poetic license on to everything I've ever written. But that would be modesty. Good thing I don't do modesty.

*zooms in*

Closure.

Pennies and strings
and a button or two,
maybe a picture
perhaps of you.

Little lost treasures
I was carrying
in a pocket,
all these years.

Some gathered
to capture that,
which could not be
held in constancy.

A few things
to remind us,
that the past
can breathe life
into the present.

All of which
will be thrown out
with the trash tomorrow.

Except the letter.
.......................................................
That, would have to be burned.

On the Idiocy of Grapewine

Sometime during my much-missed goth phase, some-girl-from-college came up to me and asked me if was a witch. I said yes. She believed me.

True story.
.................................................................................................................................................

All goes to say, I love to do this to people. Feed their skewed notions of me with steroid-charged dog-food supplements. Makes the devil in my head do a happy little tribal dance. With the pitchfork and all. (He's called Travis, by the way. Very nice to meet you.) The boring halo-ed thing that sits on my left shoulder however, has never been considered important enough to have a name. She whimpers and cowers on occasion, and dissolves into general ignominy and irrelevance. I'm kind of serious about this.

Coming back to the pre-anecdoted incident, I think it's getting to be a hobby. Might have mentioned this before, but stupidity fascinates me. On occasion, I go out of my way to encourage it. Sometimes, I think I might be pushing my luck a wee-bit too far. That might actually explain the very interesting state of my PR.

To quote MJ:
"Why not just tell people I'm an alien from Mars. Tell them I eat live chickens and do a voodoo dance at midnight. They'll believe anything you say, because you're a reporter. But if I, Michael Jackson, were to say, "I'm an alien from Mars and I eat live chickens and do a voodoo dance at midnight," people would say, "Oh, man, that Michael Jackson is nuts. He's cracked up. You can't believe a damn word that comes out of his mouth."

So, I decided to have my fun with it. I no longer deny rumors. I reaffirm them to the point of caricature. To my surprise, they still eat it all up. Looking back on all the whack-assed things I've said, it amazes me how easily one can manipulate people. Give them what they want to hear, and they'd believe ANYTHING. They'd eat the dog-food right out of your hands.

I'm told one shouldn't give fate blue balls.
Really? Well... You tell me.

Signing out
-alleged worshipper-of-Satan/promiscuous-alcoholic-homosexual/alien-from-Pluto/Batman.

Sex and Candy.

Marcy Playground. Stuck in my head for way too long.
That's all.

Of Earthworms and the MNS Connect.

An andolan against North Indians? A controversy out of not referring to Bombay by its colloquial(and rather crass-sounding) name?

And now, an outright disruption of a state assembly session because Azmi took the oath in THE NATIONAL LANGUAGE OF INDIA! What next? Work permits to work in Maharashtra? Seriously? Last I checked, Maharashtra was a state. A part of India. Not a separate country.

I find Raj Thackeray too ridiculous to pass a serious comment on. I would merely choose to sneeze in his general direction. Sons of the Soil. Yeah, right. As is evident, earthworms have far more to their credit.

(Pretty little thing spotted on college campus. Prettier than Thackeray, at any rate. It's a caterpillar, after all.)

Once in an odd while...

Random acts of kindness by complete strangers leave me shaken and stirred. Such things don't fit into my view of the world.

And then, there are times when I wish I could believe them.

Your Touch, Cold As Ice.

Discovery--> Sappy metal music.
How very apt. Just what the (quack)shrink ordered. And Cheema recommended.

Also, is it just me, or is the vocalist a dead ringer for Morrison.
Dead-ringer, would be right. Looks like Morrison turned into a zombie and crawled out of his grave. Or was reborn as the spawn of Edward Scissorhands.


Also,names like His Infernal Majesty amuse me to no end. Right up there with Dark Tranquility, Within Temptation and In Flames. What is it with the Finnish-Swedish-Danish bands and moronic nomenclature? But then there's this. Pure genius.

P.S. Missing in action. Way too much going on, all at the same time. I'm tempted to rant, but then... luck should only be pushed so far. And that's what email is for.

From the Life of the Marionettes...

"Patience is the only thing in life that calls for absolute morality."

-Smiles of a Summer Night(1955)

Ingmar Bergman is incomparable. Brilliant direction + brilliant scripts = Beautiful, beautiful movies. Right from Through a Glass Darkly, The Silence, and Wild Strawberries to the one up there, all of his works have a certain quality that I have never chanced upon anywhere else. There are layers to every story, and there's always so much more than what meets the eye.

Go watch, if you haven't already. You have no idea of what you're missing.