holyscrap

::::the present equation for the passing eyes and its flashing concern::::

2007-08-04T13:06:00.000-07:00

Hashed and whisked away, i sit at a new moment, in a new life, a new sense, sensation.
mystic language is used to say it in the raw form of expression, plainly, in the hope that empathy will find you.

peace? thats not quite what it is that i've found. i'm sure my language will start to change too in due course. to wake up one day and realise that you speak a different language from yesterdays, and think in different routes, though the old ways are never forgotten entirely.

maybe it will only be me myself, entires this, from the future vantage-point: all these words that i've arranged here. a simple arrangement of alphabets, in accepted combinations and groups, each containing associations to domesticated occurrances and concepts. domesticated like wild animals that are made to learn or follow what we want from them.

i love her.
i love all things.
i need to show her my love for her.
i need to learn to live in the world and show her that i can behave. that i can subsist and live effectively.
i need to show the world.
i need her.
i need the world.

make no mistake, she and the world aren't opposite weights of the balance.
i have to save the world, where i live and live off of and was born and will die.
i have to protect her, who i am with.
i'm with her, she with me.
i'm with the world, and the world with me.
she, part of my world.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

purple hazhar

2007-06-29T12:51:00.000-07:00

there's a point of aggression you reach whatever it is that you're doing. be it football, be it carpentry, be it an interest in wildlife, be it living with a family, be it going to college, be it being a good human being, be it being a bad human being, be it eating an apple, be it herding a conversation through the path you have in mind. rush of blood to the head. cast in a blurrrrr. its a state without any distinctions. a mad run through city with no signs. a state which possesses deer locking horns. cat-mother eating kitten-offspring. when family, relatives, friends and acquaintances, all get together with you and relate their report cards. whrrrrrrrrrr+++++++++++============----------------................................,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

crack this

2006-05-31T11:34:00.000-07:00

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~for anty pics------------------------

the moment
the day
the time you realized that everyone you never got along with are dead or gone.

no transmission from Guru Balan

GURU's CENTER FOR NATURAL HEALING
-joint specialists available at this place of healing

he says- the president of Zimbabwe has not died. is not dead. psycholab into your head. blue collar workers from the psycholab have licked buttercup mushrooms drenched in parsley and claim it tastes like exposed iron.

A forest of trees axing themselves. Salvador Aali Sir Realist.

The cows are getting castrated
while we're
giving positive vibes to the host.

"Where to apply the vibrator machaaaaannnnnn?"

who's veed are we visiting?

A: excuse me, do you sell porn?
B: no sir.. no cell phone, only recharge.

nice link: http://youtube.com/watch?v=1VqIRmhIf60&search=steven%20segal.bloody

A Quotable Quota

2006-05-22T04:10:00.000-07:00

"But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air."
-Gray

there must be a balance between long-term and short-term solutions. while it is unfair for a student with neither affinity nor interest in a given subject to be given priority over others simply owing to the community s/he comes from, it is also unfair that only expensive private schools equip children well enough (steroids?) for the race of the rats. most children do not even have the privilege of completing middle school, though perhaps they are flowers on an unseen, unsmelled course through life..
Ultimately, as the above link will illuminate, "The paths of glory lead but to the grave". however, given democracy, may all be allowed to run in the race. the problem of course, is that the track gets crowded, and if the waterboys join-in into the race, who shall serve the athletes?

2006-05-05T06:49:00.000-07:00

ever read something you wrote ages ago and felt this awkward/embarrassing/"oh-fuck-that-couldnt-have-been-me" feeling? of course... hehe.. well, i think when im on stage before all the people i know; when confronted by each and every surface that triggers a different colour of the chameleon in me, all at once, some sort of transcendence takes place... some kind of liberation. i seek liberation baby!!!!

orkut and the beachboy

2006-04-28T08:13:00.000-07:00

15 fuckin hours online since ten last night 'cos of blogger and bloody orkut (courtesy varun... am i to curse him for inviting me, or myself for asking to be invited?). fifteen hours and counting... my dad woke up at six earlier this evening and i was still online. he got a little worried i'll cause him bankruptcy (this piece of shit floptop wont connect to cable so i gotta use tata-indicom "walky" or whatever to connect) and i got a little worried myself cos i suddenly realized that i'd missed lunch and that i could'nt focus my eyes too clearly. besides, so many hours on my ass is asking for things like piles which i'v till now, thankfully, never experienced. so i turned off the comp with great difficulty and decide to walk to the beach. my uncle who's staying with us for a bit, said i should take the bike and go since he was done with using it (thats right i have'nt given it for service yet, in case you'r reading, vin, i'l do it tom morn). i said 'no way', half with the little intelligence that surfaced my ocean of lethargy and half wanting to impress him that i was capable of walking the five hundred or so meters to the beach.
if there's one thing orkut did to me since last night, its that it gave me some kind of courage or something (?) with which i no longer felt it difficult to make eye contact with the ppl who i walked past. but then of course, i started getting conscious of this and it got difficult anyway.
i reached the beach and sat there for a long time, after-images of the comp-screen buzzing between me and the darkening sea. i started feeling ignatius bowel movements and thought I'd play the squatter. squatting's like the whole boys hostel/gym room joint shower thing they talk about. but modesty (penis envy? thats right guys seem to feel it too after having seen 'giant arab phallus penetrating teeny teenage vagina' in the old days of puberty and desi baba) got me after all. so i try divert my attention and step into the water. 13 hours of orkut disintegrating from my system as cold waves lash at my feet. naaa... it was just my imagination taking me for a trip.... the water was kind of warm.
ever looked down completely as you walked down the waters edge? especially when the ground's nice and flat. there's no real point of reference and as you keep walking, it feels like you're getting nowhere. a treadmill experience. works when you're facing the sky as well, and there're no trees or buildings near by.
when i finally decided to head back, i saw that there was that tall-ish cliff of sand formed today which i had to climb in order to get off the tide area. but my feet were wet and there's nothing more disgusting than that wet sandy and sticky feeling as you walk back home from the beach...yuk! so i keep walking looking for a place where people have already done the dirty job of collapsing the cakelike cliff. but then i got impatient and decided to make my own way. as i walked home, the sand eventually rubbed away.

the following's my journal entry for august '04 as it is:
on the way to the beach, i walked past a leper. an old man with thick spectacles, lying on the sandy roadside. i saw his missing toes and sleepy head and shuddered. the rest of the walk also comprised of a man with no legs, dragging himself on a wheeled board. i hit the sand and took a long walk and didnt sit at all and watched the waves hit my thoughts. there was no breeze and the whole event felt like a cold and damp wall. i stopped at a point and turned to some distant shore.
a parade of hooded snakes swept towards me. they broke to a slither just in front of me and kissed my feet. a numbness caught hold of me spreading beyond to even the world outside. i broke into a run to shake loose (yes there was a time when i pulled such stunts). my head was brimming with frothy liquid. i walked through the city-slickers climbing their ladders leading to clouds and to somewhere unknown. on the way back i noticed the missing toes and fingers and i felt like i'd get jumped by the man's soul and i walked faster.
i had an extra long bath and thought id seen enough to write a few patterns of words. i know that when i sleep tonight i'll fly around in that white silled with lepers and half men.

blog for blog's sake

2006-04-28T01:08:00.000-07:00

Sleepless in bed, tossing and turning happens with certain amount of practice and precision:
phase one- acclimatization, lying on back and getting used to "horizontality"
phase two- quite fed up of ceiling fan and light from window; turn sideways onto left shoulder
phase three- left shoulder starts to revolt; onto tummy with right cheek on pillow, right arm like fetus position with palm near face and right knee raised as though running in sleep
phase four- (due to stiffness/pain in the neck) left side takes on the duty of the right....
Fingers start twirling the edge of the blanket creating a cotton hurricane.. A whirlpool or one of those void-like passage-ways to dimension-x..
Finger starts twirling hair as brain relays images of all the curly-haired creatures that have flashed by.. they start flashing..
Fingers start ---CENSORED---

Groggily facing wash basin mirror, specked with toothpaste-foam sprays from the past days. rinse mouth and start cleaning tongue with old brush kept aside for the purpose. dizzying waves of tingling permeate from tongue, inwards, like weird scene from matrix when mercury-like mirror consumes anderson/neo. stomach churning. skies fill with clouds like devil has possessed (eyes turn mighty red).
left hand shoots to lower back and begins scratching vigorously... taken over by archetypical reflex the same that probably causes ticklish dogs to scratch their sides/the ground/the ticklers' hands.
goosepimples, hard nipples and watery eyes. no longer groggy. alive. more alive than ever after during the rest of the day.

Loner in a crowd. hands start to thump beats on thigh, or starts mouthing words to most pop-ish song on random access memory.

(Now that i'v mentioned em, they'l never happen as they once did. i'll stop the twirling from guiding me to sleep, etc.. sacrifice of the blogger to PRICED reader.)

From bacteria to fish to amphibian to terrestrial to ape to ..... blogger! ..doing theatre, studying literature, riding bike, satisfying sense of well being with occasional take-a-look-around phases or by harmlessly pondering solutions to hunger and poverty in the world, even indulging in occasional charity with no considerable damage to contents of wallet; playing and appreciating music; talking, ETC...

Occasional take overs of the past.

I was walking from my classroom towards the lunch hall in school one day. i was a little late so i was pretty much the only one outside lunch. "silence" was being observed in the hall. i waited outside so i wouldnt be spotted walking in 'insensitively'. i looked at a tree -dont remember of what sort- and got carried away.
"for a minute there i lost myself". i think i forgot it was a 'tree' that i was looking at. i think i forgot that there were 'people' close by. i think i forgot that i was 'standing' on my 'feet' and 'moving' my 'hands'.
'Me'?
I think i pretty soon forgot that i had 'forgotten' even.
Thats what i think happened.

Gestalt patterns of stimulation?

on a supple DREAM and general observations

2006-04-22T10:57:00.000-07:00

i never did ever venture beyond a simple "it was good/great/splendid" or a "naaa... balls to that!" in my opinion about movies, books, plays and such stuffs.. but how company changes a person! i find it now, so hard not to compare and find fault (even while forgetting to pay any actual attention). and when i am thinking back upon the thing, i start looking at it in through the very narrow chinks of the walls of the wise criticism that the wise ones around me have wisened me with. its a fucking curse i say! but no! never will i give in to shittiness of it all..never commit suicide....i'll never go about it with an 'o, for a life of sensation rather that of thought' or beg to be scuttling crabs with no conception of its scuttling. im glad for thought, for what are we but for thought? perhaps if i think enough (dont try such stunts, karthik, you say?) then i'l solve the muddles born of little thought; like saying that if the apocalypse and destruction in human instinct is the natural order of things, then as natural is an effort to make things better, and so, that such an effort is worth it; or like saying that if the libido is the path through the jungle, then surely the ego shines the light there (oasis lyrics come to my mind).
anyway, i really enjoyed the DREAM. i tended to feel a little bored of the ever-winding plot, but im convinced its only because i was once part of an msnd production with 8 shows, many more run throughs and a lot more rehearsing... however, i must say that i would not have understood what was happening if i hadnt been familiar with it. how the fuck do i know, you ask? :p and i'd show you the tongue again if it werent occupied with more important employment. the mixed cast and their multi-lingual speech- bhashas from all corners of india were brought together- was really...ummm... super duper interesting! i particularly felt such joy and pr.... pride and joy when the mallus did their thing. however, here it comes, i wonder how much the audience that wasnt familiar with the play could have gotten out of the play, besides the "visual and musical treat" that it offered to the ears and noses, respectively. i mean, how much of the elemental story ... that is, the story in its original script form, could'v gotten across... to take a balanced stand upon the fence, a lot did come through, at the spirito-sensual level (!) ... the chemistries, etc... the sets were too frikkin good, and the actors were so amazing i neednt even think of going there!! they were pros! my personal favs besides (ofcos) bottom, were the female fairy (so agile and about! ...and pretty too), and good ole malayali obe (i wish i could reproduce some of his dialogues here, but neither my mal of that level nor my memory proves helpful).
to sum up, i went to watch a certain enourmously-talented-&-imaginative-without-me-having-tosay-so tim supple's midsummernight's dream with my dad, and saw so many people there... bala, krishna, tara, sunder and andrea (tho only-sigh-from far), mr.and mrs. ramnarayan, prashanth and roshan from college, etc............................
i also happened to really enjoy the show notwithstanding the many distractions from within and without. well, thats theatre, innit?
p.s. i got a free complementary fan and odomos (if anyone reads all this its those who know already, but.... wha'eva)

its just a matter of love

2006-03-26T08:25:00.000-08:00

i got this pic forwarded to me calling it the only solution to the problems facing tamil nadu.
i realize i havent been following the news, nor have i applied for the voters id. and i aint the only one.

rhyme and rhythm

2006-03-25T10:59:00.000-08:00

the flat marble floors in someone else's house,
wooden floors are comforting in comparison.
the bloom of the wildest flower.
boats shaking on the lake like the side-to-side shaking of smiling heads from 2d cartoons.
the air-pressure lowering in the house as your guests leave.
the hope in pretension is that by pushing it, you might actually exhaust
(it lessens the pretension when u talk about it).
in khaallage we gotta learn names like brecht.
the lengths of lines in poems form forzen digital equalizer displays
....more of a reason than rhyme or rhythm.

It kinda worries me, y'kno?

2006-03-24T12:58:00.000-08:00

this is about buses. the public buses. ladies-matrum section on the left-hand side and free seating on the right-hand side. i dont give a damn if there is or isn't a gents-matrum section. thats not the issue.
it's more about the share-auto where five guys cramp and squeeze against each other on that ass-sore of a wooden plank while the stern-looking middle-aged woman hogs the entire seat. if they dont put up with her fat aura she'll simply look down the road towards an auto in which they will. the poor rik-guy's gotta make a living, hasn't he? im not concerned that the rikky didn't stand up for five very accommodative customers. he's not to blame.
this is about the way i felt when the 80+ years old woman in the thronged 29c gave me a sharp look cos when she dozed off on her seat (the one i was being thrust against) her head had nowhere else to fall but my fuckin crotch. well, you know how the fuckin buses are! the goddamn sweaty, suffocating, clautrophobic masses crushing you from all directions. and of all the people, this old sack (way worn and past her menopause to be worrying about whatever it is she was worrying about) has to give me such treatment.
hold on a sec. "of all the people, this old sack..", i say? so if it were the pretty young wench i would deserve the treatment i got? but it was'nt my fault at all. ok, agreed. the bus was crowded and the woman fell asleep. ok, granted. but yet, notice the words as they naturally surface.
this is about the tension in the air when a guy and a girl have to talk and they're not/not yet in love with each other. i cant say about when they are.
this is also about any group of people that are made to sit in a circle. the x-chromes end up on one side and the y-chromes on the other..... the y-chromes......yyyyyyyyy????

pun gun

2006-03-19T03:51:00.000-08:00

i refuse to go to the toilet

Alfie

2006-03-09T23:03:00.000-08:00

here's an essay i wrote on "The Love Song of Alfred J. Prufrock" in prep for the darned isc board exams. i did half the syllabus well and neglected the other half... a nice gamble if u feel you're attuned with luck or existence or 'the experience'... i got all the poems and stories i'd studied for, however since i always had this habit of leaving aside the paneer pieces for the end of the meal i left prufy for the last as well cos i seemed to have spent enough time on it and enjoyed writing about it like i pigged on the cottage cheese... and as it turned out i lost too much time on the roti and daal and the restless bitch of a waiter took my plate and paper before i could write more than one paragraph of my essay or dif my fork into the juicy paneer. thus i now burden .... ??? .... with my full essay. we had only a half of the poem to study for. the brilliant bits about the scuttling crab and the eternal flunky and the mermaid were not prescribed.... so i didnt consider any of that in the following essay. the following is only reflective of the pressure my then english teacher, good ol sumithra akka, and everyone in general put me through to write atleast one god forsaken essay... so if you cant make yourself go through it make sure you've atleast read the poem.... its a real brilliant poem

“The Love Song of Alfred J. Prufrock” is T.S. Eliot’s exploration of love and life as experienced in the complex modern age of man where, all around, the ‘whole’ seems reduced to a few seemingly personified parts. Everything in the world portrayed in “The Love Song” breaks composite realities down to meaningless and disembodied bits; swallowing the whole, and reducing it to powerlessness. The poet presents such a world as seen through the mind of an individual who is disillusioned due to a lack of self-worth.
The protagonist, Prufrock, is a troubled, middle-aged man from a middle-class background. He depicts traits of being clever, self-important, insecure, nervous, out of reach of the cultured world--- yet feeling its demanding pressures, judging of others, and driven by a vivid imagination that magnifies his situation to greater degrees than he can cope with. Prufrock is troubled, because he feels that the people around him are sizing him up in the same way that he has sized-up the world around him, and feels threatened. The tragedy in the poem seems to be that his notion of being judged is born out of Prufrock giving himself more importance than the people around him do. In other words, it is he himself who is judging everything----including himself---rather than the people around, on whom he projects his own habit.
Prufrock is in love with a lady, but is unable to articulate his feelings even in his own mind. His thoughts fluctuate around his proposal of love to the lady in question, and these anxious mental vacillations spread to everything he sees, constructing in everything a formulated finiteness. He projects this process of de-valuation onto others, making him feel brutally analysed. He eventually loses touch with reality and the totality of the universe, and his fear of others makes him withdrawn. He thus fears that all that is visible in him are his inadequacies, and gets stuck with possibilities of rejection. Attempting to cushion himself from the difficulty of any confrontation with reality, he evolves a stagnant mask-universe around himself, where the real remains ignored; where a sullen stillness and timelessness numb him into inaction. He wonders, do I dare disturb this universe?
“Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;”
Eliot thus begins the poem, by setting through its first line the tone of a dramatic monologue, acknowledging only the main character who narrates his story, and the reader who listens---dissolving the poet himself; and creating a negative atmosphere.
The reader is invited by Prufrock to the walk that he takes to the house of his lover, to whom he wishes to propose a relationship. He creates the dreary atmosphere of an evening that motionlessly lingers, as though ‘etherised’, over-shadowing the larger picture which is symbolised by the sky. He seems almost trapped in the moment, and himself, unable to connect with any larger reality. The comparison between the “evening… spread out against the sky”, and a “patient etherised upon a table”, discusses the contrast between the present and the continuous: the evening and the patient signify the momentary aspect of time, while the sky and the table signify an ever-present and perpetual quality. The idea of the vastness of time as an all-encompassing entity, in the presence of the limited present, and the use of “etherised” builds up an atmosphere of weariness.
Prufrock draws out the walk through “half-deserted streets…. that follow like a tedious argument of insidious intent”. He describes the streets as being neither occupied nor deserted; neither full of sounds, nor silent. But they are “half-deserted.. muttering retreats”, incomplete, and adding to the deranged quality of the moment. He introduces the first tangible idea of his conflict through the description of “one-night cheap hotels and.. restaurants with oyster-shells”. One side of the conflict is the self-consciousness and unease that he has to go through when he is in such situations as staying a night in a cheap hotel. These present situations that question his self-worth due to a deviation from the ideal path, that Prufrock perceives society directing him to. The other side is that of high values and quality of life, such as restaurants with oyster-shells, which are the highest ideals of society. Prufrock sees through these high values by characterising them with sawdust, implying that, like a stuffed toy, these values have no reality. However, he still confesses being helplessly pulled by this kind of a path. In fact, his continuous emphasis on this kind of a life only exposes his consciousness of it. Prufrock’s allusion of the street seeming like a “tedious argument …of insidious intent” is probably a mark of his diffidence, of the disagreements between partners.
The street, the conflict, and the argument finally lead to an overwhelming question. Prufrock evades the question. It could be the question of proposal, that of human dignity, or something larger, but Prufrock delays it and takes us elsewhere.
“In the room the women come and go-
Talking of Michelangelo.”
Shifting tense and creating a frozen reality, Prufrock introduces the jury to his existence. These cultivated women, who form the cream of society, are those present at the house of his lover. They are represented as hollow, pretentious, and irrelevant, yet highly affecting him, just like the ideals of society. They talk of such pre-planned and meaningless subjects that only the ‘cultured’ talk about, while putting down all those, such as Prufrock, who come from outside their circle. Coming from the same background as his lover, these women strengthen Prufrock’s insecurities by seeming to aggravate his need for the qualities that he sees as being expected of him. The role that these women play is parallel to what a part of Prufrock’s own mind is dictating to him. It is essentially he himself who is trying to attain class and culture.
Outside the house, Prufrock’s mind suddenly slips to objects of lesser importance. The subjective way in which they are perceived, however, only adds more strength to the atmosphere of the poem. He observes the fog hanging in the air and imagines it as though it were characterized with all the mannerisms of a cat: “Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening…made a sudden leap”. The fog resembles Prufrock himself, reflecting his isolation and his tendency to evade. It moves through the night; licks its tongue into the corners of the dirty streets; lingers upon pools, letting soot fall on its back; slips by the terrace, making a sudden leap. Finally, seeing that it is a “soft October night”, the fog curls once about the house and falls asleep. The fog touches everything, but feeling that it is the wrong time, covers up and falls asleep. Furthermore, the description of the fog as yellow denotes disease and a sense of constraint or paralysis.
In the next stanza, a completely new complexity arises in the poem: the question of whether Prufrock actually leaves for the house of the lady at all; whether he even physically travels anywhere. This new development is a result of a sudden tone of procrastination in Prufrock’s conversation that tends to place him in a time prior to the undertaking of any action, from where he is possibly still planning and imagining the visit:
“And indeed there will be time for the yellow smoke…;
… time to prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
.. time yet for a hundred indecisions;
and for a hundred visions and revisions,
before the taking of toast and tea.”
Prufrock puts off having to confront the lover with his proposal till another time. The uncertainty of how the future might turn out and the risk of rejection bears down on him, immobilizing and softening him. He rationalizes his lethargy and fear by thinking that there will be another time, and more time. Time in which he can recreate and better himself, and make a face to meet the faces. Time in which he can prepare and orchestrate himself better. There is also a doubt created in the reader of who the poem is being narrated to, in the line “a time for you and a time for me..”. Could it be to another part of Prufrock’s mind? However, it is most likely that Eliot is only trying to incorporate the reader’s world into that of Prufrock’s.
Prufrock comforts himself in the face of fear by telling himself that he has all the time in the world. But sadly, the taking of the toast and tea may never happen; his song of love may never be sung. Prufrock, who has set himself in a pattern of evasion and hesitation, is perched on the idea that there will be time “to turn back and descend the stair”. Prufrock’s fear stems a lot from thinking about the pain and insult of being judged by the people of the house. He fears they will comment on his baldness, his frail body, and other such ‘weaknesses’ that he is so insecure about. He may present himself to them finely: “my morning coat mounting firmly to the chin, my necktie rich and modest”; but the people whom he fears will pick even a small and simple pin and set him against it. It is more Prufrock himself, however, who picks his weaknesses, so to speak, than the people around him, for in fact, he may not matter to them at all. He asks aloud, “Do I dare disturb the universe?” The universe where he need not face his fears; where he need not see the truth that it is, after all, only he himself who is putting forward demands. He is a prey of society, for he feels there is one.
Prufrock seems to wish that he were a part of his lover’s world---the society---but it is beyond him, and thus he negates it altogether. He insists that that he is familiar with all aspects of that world---“For I have known them already, known them all”--–and claims to have reached the premise of being able to dismiss it altogether. He imagines himself having measured out his life “with coffee spoons”. This exaggerated and illogical statement expresses Prufrock’s desperation to be in control of his life, an entity too large and puzzling for him to even comprehend. He is covering for his incapability to enter her world, as he picks out various images from it, and speaks of them as though he were beyond them:
“I have known the voices dying with a dying fall…
and the eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase….
and the arms that are braceleted and bare (but in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)”

All Prufrock pictures of her world are incomplete bits of images---arms, eyes, voices, music, etc. This alone goes to show that he is indeed totally unfamiliar with it. Thus, the sole reason why Prufrock even needs to bring up the question, “so how should I presume?”, is because he is unable to accept who he really is. A strong conflict arises between his image of himself as knowing all---which he unfalteringly clings to---and his true self. He lowers his own value and is unable to see his own world as being compatible to the world of his lover. He sees everyone’s life as being surrounded by indestructible fences that often do not merge or open. Prufrock ostracizes himself and is unable to even begin a reformation, for he doubts the result of disturbing the universe. He intensely desires to open up to the lady: “spit out the butt-ends of my days and ways”, but he plainly cannot picture how to begin, or how to go about doing it.
Eliot has said that the most interesting verse is that which constantly approaches a fixed pattern without quite settling into it: ’It is this contrast between fixity and flux, this unperceived evasion of monotony, which is the very life of verse’. This contrast is presented in the careful construction of many of the lines, and is also a part of Prufrock’s psychological tendencies: the lines advance into a pattern as Prufrock’s own thoughts are creating an idea, but as soon as he is almost reaching a solid statement, the line and rhythm falters, and Prufrock shrinks away.
Throughout the poem, Prufrock is vague about his intentions, but he uses distinct images to communicate to the reader an extremely honest and unrestrained representation of his most intense thoughts. Prufrock’s irony suggests a general human condition besides being directed at himself---his fear of ordinary living is measured by his own standards.
-10.10.2004

2006-03-06T08:57:00.000-08:00

as an eighteen year old with limited experiences to recollect, i feel that one of the greatest thrills is to succesfully deliver a line that hits people. im refering to comedy but its just the same with anything else i suppose- and likewise on stage as well as off it. its not so much being in control of the minds of people and feeling a fleeting spark of power... perhaps its that to a small extent :) ...but more than that, it's feeling that you're atleast worth that one line in all its effect. and when you're doing an entire charecter, you feel stretched -there seems to be so much hidden inside. you can realize and break your own limits. the guru keeps emphasizing that the actor must push the charecter in all possible directions so in time, you can filter the behaviour, traits, speech, etc.. down to the essential.
i guess its the same for HIGHLY inspired writing. atleast with me, its mostly a whole load of shit when read from the frequency of a normal impotent mind. all those realisations seem like meaningless junk.... just plain junk. but then on a closer look, there are shades of amazing clarity which you have to extract and apply or supply into more sane words.
working with the cast of "Rural Phantasy" by the Madras Players has been a real learning experience. in the midst of people who have done numerous more plays and have found themselves as actors, i often lose confidence in myself and end up extremely self-conscious. but when i see that everyone seeks their material from the same sort of instances... i guess its a matter of time and shaping up before i might reach their plain.

a few pictures, then!

"a fleeting spark of power", as caught by Keshu and Farhad(the knob of knobs) from an emergency fire exit window of a tamil nadu express compartment.

the tripod counter-terrorist hot on persuit of enemies through paki hide-outs with Arvind, Danny uncle's bodyguard.

leader of the al-baqwas martyrs' brigade

the spirit of teachers

aaa haaa haaa....

rustling vinyl

2005-04-16T00:52:00.000-07:00

The best sound you ever heard. The single ripple of the present moving across time and illustrating with music the thoughts you thought would never be freed. The most divine instrument with fingers caressing it and liberating the truth with notes made of amber and white clouds. A magic band waves in the air and a new meaning is found in life. Three heads are better than one. Heads keep increasing in number in this strange land. The more the merrier. Beyond merrier. Intense calmness garnished with a silent but heart-chilling excitement.

its all fuckin

2005-03-16T05:08:00.000-08:00

this post is devoted to the fact that i feel like saying fuck.
go ahead tekkus.
FUCK!!!
that sure feels good. i wonder why. who gives a flying fuck. as long as you feel good.

the blues dont let go, no it dont

2004-08-07T00:54:00.000-07:00

What is this thing called blues? When I hear it played, I know it. when I hear it played, I feel it. when I hear it played, I just have to half or fully close my eyes and frown in sheer ecstasy. It’s overwhelming. It has not much to do with musical knowledge. The most greatest of musicians couldn’t play a note of blues, if he aint ever felt it. it hasn’t much to do with perfection in terms of flawless notes and breaks and stuff. But it’s perfect. When the blues man sings the blues note, he passes on a surge of such intense emotion and power to you, but backs it with some nameless and soothing substance that just about keeps you from falling dead with the shock. The blues is raw. The blues is real. But what the freaking hell is the damn thing?

the thing about us

2004-08-06T08:33:00.000-07:00

I thought I should write about social classes and history, cos im extremely inspired by this history class I had today. My teacher, kumar anna, is one of those exceedingly learned chaps. Iv heard he reads like thirty or so newspapers and magazines and some books everyday. He reads for eight hours every day as a rule. The wonder stops not at his learning but is furthered in his brilliant connections and outlooks. I’ve had another such history teacher too, but will bring her up specially another day. Anyway, it’s only the roused feeling burning me from the inside that I have at this point, but I don’t know enough on the subject that I wanted to write about, to do justice to it. I’m thinking, though, that I should put down the feeling however it is, so I can at least do some justice to that.
I guess I should start at home. the divisions in society are blurred and furthermore differ greatly from people to people. Id say that i come from a middle or upper middle class family. There are a couple of cars at home, a couple of servants, two car-drivers, a day and a night watchman, and a gardener. We often seem to be getting kinda tight, but we buy a sufficient amount of goodies so as to be able to call ourselves mindless consumers, and are able to tap enough of good water from places we’ve never seen, while the neighbourhood stays thirsty, and we don’t even need to feel the guilt of snatching the water and other such resources, cos the system makes that possible too. My dad is a settling writer and my mom is a part time teacher. Any money that we have is that from some institution that my granddad setup, but has today nothing really to do with. There’s a lot of smelly politics there. Basically, none of us really earn for our lifestyle.
Having had a considerable amount of exposure to the severely poor section of india, I developed a conscience, but having felt the softness of my bed and the comforting fan above, every night along with the “safety” of four or more walls, I seem content with intellectualisation and cant go out of my way to act. Somewhere, the very thought of an upheaval in the hierarchies of societies scares the hell out of me. im in love with the comfort of taking for granted life. I don’t have to think about where my food came from, who’s keeping me here, or even who I am. Im supported from all sides to be here. There’s this part in my, however, that’s suddenly co cynical to being here in this way. I suppose it started the day I came across Marxism in class nine. It was so beautiful that I first couldn’t except that the world, hundred and fifty odd years later is still the same. Except that the power manipulators are today capable of masking themselves more efficiently. In many cases, serious questioning must start with cynicism.
Im at a loss of words because im feeling a bit weak in the mind, and need some time to heal. I’ll get back to this post and even try to put it into a clearer and firmer stream. So: to be continued…..

existence shmexistence

2004-08-05T07:29:00.000-07:00

i study at a krishnamurti school. if you dont know what it is, find out. because you really dont need to. just like all the other things you do, think or say, or whatever else. we had a talk about questioning and illusions in life on class today, following our watching of a krishnamurti video. a lot of stuff being said in the video didnt agree with me, but what appealed was the man's constant picking on people having to question everything. the talk that followed, once it heated up enough to eat, was an interesting one. we spoke about the need, if there was any, to question things, and our questions on questioning. john lennon in "strawberry fields" talks about how easy it is to live with our eyes closed. i so bloody agree that i could break down and cry. do we take life for granted and be passive actors or whatever the fuck we are, or do we just question things? cos you see questioning aint simple. if you get into the process of it, you'd start to see that there's no drawing lines, and its excruciatingly cyclic. let me illustrate. say you have a problem and are depressed. you ask yourself why you're depressed. you question what depression is. you then try to determine the difference between feeling something like depression, and feeling say liberation. so then you wonder what feelings are. it leads to what life is, and what you are. can you trust what you see, hear, feel, taste? just cos someone's in front of you talking, and holding your hand, how the heck can you be so sure they're there? cos someone told you and assured you? who're they? how do you know you exist? you think and therefore you exist? well then who are you to think, and how do you know you're thinking? there are questions for every frequency or level of thought. none of them have answers, if you realise that no answer long enough. life's so uncertain. if you give up, or decide to forfeit the battle, you can use such things as faith and hope to help live. otherwise, you're constantly tormented by seemingly unanswerable questions, and cant live on normally. i guess you could always go mad. there are many of those types. here's a little story which i think is or is not the way it was; precision doesnt matter, and so doesnt everything else.
life began. it thrived. it evolved. it learns to communicate using snarls and growls and a lot of teeth-showing and arse-sniffing. then one day, one fortunate or unfortunate- what does that matter? -species of creature learns to use symbols to communicate. symbols as in sounds, words, etc. being assigned to select concepts . we thus learn to give symbols to everything around us......... money, luxury, technology, development, and million blahs. how reliant are symbols? you read these words -who?- but are my thoughts actually reaching you through these words? i myself dont understand my words sometimes. how do you knoe that my definition of one of these words is the same as yours? how do you know the dictionary defines in words you understand? for that matter how do you know that the colour i call yellow is what you call yellow? why im saying this is i want you to try something out for the sake that it may or may not matter, but that certainly doesnt matter. close your eyes and imagine that you're an animal. forget language, and symbols. when you see those alien looking green things outside with green growths, dont see them as trees, but see them as alien looking green things with green growths. better yet, dont see, hear, feel, taste things as anything, just forget to think. try to experience without registering. live like an animal. life seems strangs and surreal. try it out.
i feel that going mad, hysterical, illogical, crazy......or even having an uncontrollably devastating humour is an interesting way of living. the mad to crazy things make sure you dont end up a fool, and the humour makes questioning fun.
there's another last thing i wanted to raise attention to. that's jim morrison's outlook on life. says he, "no eternal reward will forgive us for wasting the dawn", and "im gonna have my kicks before the whole shit house goes up in flames" . interesting.p.s. read the "hitchhiker's guide to the galaxy" for some brilliant and amusing concepts.

For a straight thought, on the dot….

2004-06-27T03:46:00.000-07:00

Of communism by day; of wealth and state by night.
Of a world with equality, people in harmony, natural soil with fertility, happy dreams with less desire, air so pure and thoughts so clear. Of unadulterated tears from unclogged drains.
And when the night decides to walk with all her beauty, and captures dreams and launders it in diamonds and clean backyards and shapely women in fine attire…..
Nothing’s fixed, not even fun or the sun…
There’s no fixity, not even in the flow of a stream headed west.

save the frikin earth???

2004-05-30T08:43:00.000-07:00

I look outside the window at the eastern sky stretching wide, over the coast. A search for comfort and well-being lands me in devastating premises.
Clarity never seemed so cruel, standing afar. A thousand industries burn me from the inside and eat away with the entrails of a staggering body; staggering towards a greater and more evasive unknown. The mind runs outside, that it may seek some comfort there, but the external is a more threatening reflection of what’s locked inside. Cringing in the torment of a new-born, slipping from the womb into an infernal pyre, making out from the chaos nought but its own being. Explosive implosions.
Incomplete to call it what man has made of man. It is a greater tragedy, but made with such grandeur and magnificence.
Magnificent is this, for it IS. Every pinch of every spice adds to the delicacy of the situation.
But what when it, this existence, begins to consume itself? Does it fight to prolong itself, once it sees its great reflection? Should it? must we?
Shall the glaciers melt already, having felt the heat of rising man, and bury us with ocean? Or shall it hang atop the mountains awaiting a strange, twisting plot?
Will a man being suffocated, in confrontation with death, sit down in acceptance of his fate?
Happiness has its hands cuffed to sorrow, and bliss has its hands cuffed pain and suffering. Cuffed, for it is more ideal to realise happiness always, without ever having met with sorrow, and bliss without pain and suffering. surely then, this enchanting existence must be cuffed to its own end, however abrupt it may appear. Must we accept the signs of the end with no further ado? Or must we fight for existence? How to proceed knowing it to be the intended end?

In love with this dream,
In love with this stream.
Aware of the awakening dawn;
Of the enclosing sea.
Shall I slay the sun and dream forever away?
Shall I flow back to the mountains, forever to play?
Even while knowing that the sun is unreachable, and the mountains lost forever.

A creator puts himself into his creation. Once it is made, he feels attached to it. Harm to the creation, is harm to the creator, however much it maybe said that the creation once created, is an entity apart from the creator. To let the art go, to the artist, is to let himself go. The artist here seems to be an exceptional one to have made Life a self-swallowing piece of art.

the begining

2004-05-24T06:03:00.000-07:00

it begins with confrontation. and flows through stormy unease only to be forced into a shore of acceptence. he looks into the mirror and smiles. he looks at the people around and smiles. he looks at the world and smiles. he realises that he is the same as the mirror-man; he is the same as the others; he is the same as the world. asks the woman, "then what is it thats unique to the individual?" "nothing," he replies. we're all one. he doesnt know if we're all part of something bigger, that question is left to you, "but we're all the same." all are alive. life is existence and to live is to embrace this existence. for existence is far greater in depth and meaning than nothingness.

to be contd....