Where men run
Not from each for other
Not against each other
But towards one another, prisoners in each others arms, free forever.
Where I can run through a desert
Bare feet, bare soul
Towards nothing
Towards myself
Where souls aren't trapped in bodies
The body is invisible
The soul apparent
A smile, omnipresent
Where dreams are alive
And life is a distant forest
One that none venture into
Lest it pulls you inside.
Where I am one with nature
I am the elements
I am the rain that soaks me
The sunlight that burns me.
But I wake up once again, searching for a dream that lasts forever
And enter the doors that lead to the forest
I put on a smile and take solace in the night
Where I can once again burn in my own sunlight
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Friday, December 04, 2009
Poop
Ever wondered why so many people like getting their photos clicked? On a recent road trip I undertook, my friends were getting their snaps clicked at the oddest of places with strangely strong enthusiasm. On bridges, at gas stations, under bare trees, sitting on sidewalks, next to trash cans, near pooping dogs. Everywhere. What really goes on in someones' mind when they go click? Is it vanity? To show the world that they've been there clicked that? To capture that brief and not so spontaneous moment of supposed happiness? Happiness that they hope they feel a couple of years down the line sitting in cramped office corner suffering the tirades of an a no good boss?
On it's own, a picture of a bridge, a bare tree, a sidewalk, a trash can or even a pooping dog is potential art gallery material. But maybe it is indeed difficult for people to imagine a picture without themselves in it. The same way it is impossible for them to not be opinionated, to not be impartial or objective.Maybe it is impossible for some people to understand the beauty of a (ahem) pooping dog in itself. They just have to be in the frame - albeit with poop.
Or maybe I'm a cynic, and someday I'll get my own pictures clicked standing over the rubble of my own strange vanity.
Trivia - The word 'poop' and its conjugations appear four times in this post. Well, five times now. Ah - six times (missed the title).
On it's own, a picture of a bridge, a bare tree, a sidewalk, a trash can or even a pooping dog is potential art gallery material. But maybe it is indeed difficult for people to imagine a picture without themselves in it. The same way it is impossible for them to not be opinionated, to not be impartial or objective.Maybe it is impossible for some people to understand the beauty of a (ahem) pooping dog in itself. They just have to be in the frame - albeit with poop.
Or maybe I'm a cynic, and someday I'll get my own pictures clicked standing over the rubble of my own strange vanity.
Trivia - The word 'poop' and its conjugations appear four times in this post. Well, five times now. Ah - six times (missed the title).
Wednesday, December 02, 2009
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
Pigeons
This thanksgiving weekend my colleagues and I drove down to visit Philadelphia and Baltimore. I in particular was looking forward to this trip with a lot of enthusiasm, not only for the thrill of going to a place where I had never gone before, but also for getting away from the vicious cycle of monotony and claustrophobia which I have found myself in for the past few years.
One of our places that we intended to and did vist was the Baltimore aquarium. In a now disturbingly regular trend of absent mindedness, I ended up purchasing one less ticket than the number of people on the trip. I realised this in the middle of a delicious panini and had second thoughts about leaving it halfway to grab another ticket. But common sense finally prevailed and I dashed out; the tickets were sold out minutes after I redeemed my reputation with the ticket that balanced both sides of the equation.
I decided not to go back to my lunch. Partly because I was sure the Panini would be in the trash can by then and majorly because I needed some alone time to grab a cigarette, explore the place around and give another half-assed shot to planning the rest of my life (yeah it's still WIP).
Sitting on a bench waiting for the show to start and for my colleagues to come out of the eatery with chicken-wing breath, I was flooded with a range of contrasting emotions. There was an old man sitting on another bench asking passers-by to drop some change in his hat - he clearly didn't like what he was doing and to be honest, I thought that he would definitely take up a job instead if he could.
A not so well-dressed couple came in to buy tickets but decided not to go ahead because they found it expensive. They smiled at each other, held their hands tighter and walked away leaning against each other ever so slightly. True romance.
A father came in with his daugter only to be welcomed by a sold-out board. While the daughter looked expectantly at her father with a hint of a teardrop in her eyes, he explained to her that they would catch the show the next day. (I hope they did).
With so many faces of helplessness around, one can't help but wonder if man is destined to a life of unfulfilled desires. A life of stifling compulsions, of hats with change and sold-out boards. Some have eyes to immerse themselves into and hands to clasp, others just have a hat to put back on.
How does one live with this baggage? Replace it with cigarettes and alcohol like many of us do? Replace it with God? I'm quite sure that processed vegetables rolled into a rizla and fermented potatoes and sugarcanes are not the way to go, as much as I am sure that God does not like playing second fiddle.
I then had a distraction that I am now most thankful for. A young girl cried out to her mother in a note of unadulterated joy that only her age is capable of- 'Look Ma! Pigeons!'. Leaving my intensly futile train of thought begind, I walked into the aquarium with my colleagues (their breath a cruel mixture of onion soup, chicken wings, pizza and spearmint. Yuggh!).
-
Halfway through the dolphin show I instinctively cried out in my mind 'Look, Dolphins!' A moment of disarming joy. At that very moment, I had the answer to my questions. I had found my pigeon. I hope to find one everyday. I hope to find one every moment.
One of our places that we intended to and did vist was the Baltimore aquarium. In a now disturbingly regular trend of absent mindedness, I ended up purchasing one less ticket than the number of people on the trip. I realised this in the middle of a delicious panini and had second thoughts about leaving it halfway to grab another ticket. But common sense finally prevailed and I dashed out; the tickets were sold out minutes after I redeemed my reputation with the ticket that balanced both sides of the equation.
I decided not to go back to my lunch. Partly because I was sure the Panini would be in the trash can by then and majorly because I needed some alone time to grab a cigarette, explore the place around and give another half-assed shot to planning the rest of my life (yeah it's still WIP).
Sitting on a bench waiting for the show to start and for my colleagues to come out of the eatery with chicken-wing breath, I was flooded with a range of contrasting emotions. There was an old man sitting on another bench asking passers-by to drop some change in his hat - he clearly didn't like what he was doing and to be honest, I thought that he would definitely take up a job instead if he could.
A not so well-dressed couple came in to buy tickets but decided not to go ahead because they found it expensive. They smiled at each other, held their hands tighter and walked away leaning against each other ever so slightly. True romance.
A father came in with his daugter only to be welcomed by a sold-out board. While the daughter looked expectantly at her father with a hint of a teardrop in her eyes, he explained to her that they would catch the show the next day. (I hope they did).
With so many faces of helplessness around, one can't help but wonder if man is destined to a life of unfulfilled desires. A life of stifling compulsions, of hats with change and sold-out boards. Some have eyes to immerse themselves into and hands to clasp, others just have a hat to put back on.
How does one live with this baggage? Replace it with cigarettes and alcohol like many of us do? Replace it with God? I'm quite sure that processed vegetables rolled into a rizla and fermented potatoes and sugarcanes are not the way to go, as much as I am sure that God does not like playing second fiddle.
I then had a distraction that I am now most thankful for. A young girl cried out to her mother in a note of unadulterated joy that only her age is capable of- 'Look Ma! Pigeons!'. Leaving my intensly futile train of thought begind, I walked into the aquarium with my colleagues (their breath a cruel mixture of onion soup, chicken wings, pizza and spearmint. Yuggh!).
-
Halfway through the dolphin show I instinctively cried out in my mind 'Look, Dolphins!' A moment of disarming joy. At that very moment, I had the answer to my questions. I had found my pigeon. I hope to find one everyday. I hope to find one every moment.
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
The seven year itch
It was roughly seven years ago that I started smoking. For some odd reason however, I simply hate the smell of tobacco these days. Odd, don't you think? Never thought I'd even as much as dislike smoking. Even had plans of working on a cigarette scented candle brand, tobacco based mosquito repellant and a davidoff-enriched sports drink. By the looks of it, none of that's going to happen.
What bodes not so well for cigarette companies certainly bodes well for me. I started working out big-time again. Did my first weighted-squats for the first time in more than a year without any pain in the dreaded lower back. Good. Gooood I say.
My breath smells good, lips are more lucious and the voice already sounds better.
Not that that's going to up my chances of a score, but what the hell!
On a different note, the peace and quiet at Albany isn't really that much of a help as I expected it to be. Far from helping me toward developing a concrete plan for the rest of my life, the quiet drives me to a muddle of incoherent paths emanating purely out of fickle fancies and unconvincing theories (my 10th grade English instructor would be proud). So for the umpteenth time, I've decided to lay low for a while. Yeah, again. (to be continued).
What bodes not so well for cigarette companies certainly bodes well for me. I started working out big-time again. Did my first weighted-squats for the first time in more than a year without any pain in the dreaded lower back. Good. Gooood I say.
My breath smells good, lips are more lucious and the voice already sounds better.
Not that that's going to up my chances of a score, but what the hell!
On a different note, the peace and quiet at Albany isn't really that much of a help as I expected it to be. Far from helping me toward developing a concrete plan for the rest of my life, the quiet drives me to a muddle of incoherent paths emanating purely out of fickle fancies and unconvincing theories (my 10th grade English instructor would be proud). So for the umpteenth time, I've decided to lay low for a while. Yeah, again. (to be continued).
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
Of tooth extractions, Hannibal and sunsets
I'm just in time for my pre-surgery checkup at the dentist. It's 12:30 pm, mid afternoon for some, early morning for me. Dental treatments and the run up to them are quite tiresome experiences. And when you wake up hastily at noon and rush to the dentist just in time for your appointment, you expect things to get done and dusted so that you can return home to breakfast. Not lunch, breakfast. As the stars would have it, my checkup couldn't be done as scheduled 'coz the air conditioner at the dentists was broke. 'Can you please come back in an hour sir?' Yeah sure. Strangely i'm not angry. I'm looking forward to going home to a hot cup of chai and 24 hour news , which by the way is way more entertaining than ever before.
I come home to a disgruntled member of the opposition party who's opened up a can of worms with his just published book.
(Nostalgia - 'Can of worms' was the first and only James Hadley Chase book I ever read. Passable pulp fiction.)
The book in question falls just short of glorifying the man held responsible by popular belief for the country's partition. The last time I checked we were a democracy. The author in question however, is expelled from his party and a state even goes on to ban the book. Freedom of speech anyone? I always though he was an outsider in the party, never did fit the bill.
I hastily put the lid back on the can of worms and rush back to the dentist. He's going to have to contend with my chai-breath for the forced hour long dive into national politics. But dentists are always a step ahead - he comes in wearing a surgical mask and I have to rinse before he dives in. Damn!
He tells me I need to get an X-ray done to figure out just how my wisdom teeth will be extracted. One look and you know these can't just be wanked out using the pakkad. They're either growing inside my gums or are too dilapidated for traditional extraction.
Cut to the X-ray guy.
I am told to remove my ear-ring before my face can be bombarded with potentially but seldom dangerous invisible rays. I suddenly think about that weird woman I saw on the internet with more than a hundred piercings on her face. What if she ever had to go in for a dental x-ray. I chuckle at the thought and wonder how many minutes it would take her to remove all those studs on her face before stepping up for the x-ray.
I am made to perch my face rigidly on a rectangular stand and bite on a plastic rod while the x-ray machine moves around my head, taking shots from all angles. There's a mirror for me to see how unpleasantly funny I look. At that very moment I realize that God has granted me another of my wishes- I always wanted to know what being Hannibal Lectar would feel like. Not that being a cannibal is on my wishlist, but it definitely would be quite something to know what goes on inside his head. The metal frames around my face are vaguely reminiscent of the mask Hannibal is made to wear on him, if not as ghastly. I'm urging to blurt out a 'Hello, Clarise', but neither was there a beautiful FBI agent sitting beside me to complete the setting nor was I at liberty to let go of the plastic rod in my mouth.
Note to self - God has curious ways of granting your wishes. Very curious indeed.
A couple of days later, armed with an x-ray of imperfectly set teeth I set off to get the surgery done once and for all. There are three extractions to be performed, one of them surgical - Fuck! The surgeon injects me with enough anesthesia to kill a two year old. My gums, lips and tongues get heavier by the second as the numbness sets it. I decide to shut out the pain by reflecting, retrospecting and planning the rest of my life while the surgeon goes on plundering and tearing at my gums to shunt out the guilty teeth.
All I can do is guess what he is doing inside my mouth - the anesthesia has taken effect completely and unlike hair salons, dentists do not provide for strategically placed mirrors for the patient to know what's going on.
Here's what I think happened -
1 - I was made to bite onto gauze filled with the most bitter potion I've swallowed in my life.
2 - I'm injected with insane amounts of anesthesia.
3 - The surgeon cuts at my gums, loosens my tooth and plucks them out.
4 - My gums are stitched up.
There, nice and easy. Oh did I forget there were two more teeth to go?
Somewhere during this plundering I realize that life's not about hitting back at or avoiding the pain and suffering you get. It's more about taking it in your stride knowing that you're going to come out a new person. Much like a tooth extraction. Not a very attractive bargain though, considering that I would continue to bleed for a couple of hours afterward, my face would be swollen for three days and the pain would be so incredible that I would have to skip a day of work.
Note to self - The 'Flash' theory propounded in a previous post theory still stands. Anesthesia begets flashes of genius. Er, flashes of... whatever.
Contrary to popular belief I also realize that you don't always walk into the sunset with a curvy brunette by your side after confronting your pain. I walked home in the sweltering afternoon sun, content with marveling at intoxicatingly beautiful women every step of the road.....
I come home to a disgruntled member of the opposition party who's opened up a can of worms with his just published book.
(Nostalgia - 'Can of worms' was the first and only James Hadley Chase book I ever read. Passable pulp fiction.)
The book in question falls just short of glorifying the man held responsible by popular belief for the country's partition. The last time I checked we were a democracy. The author in question however, is expelled from his party and a state even goes on to ban the book. Freedom of speech anyone? I always though he was an outsider in the party, never did fit the bill.
I hastily put the lid back on the can of worms and rush back to the dentist. He's going to have to contend with my chai-breath for the forced hour long dive into national politics. But dentists are always a step ahead - he comes in wearing a surgical mask and I have to rinse before he dives in. Damn!
He tells me I need to get an X-ray done to figure out just how my wisdom teeth will be extracted. One look and you know these can't just be wanked out using the pakkad. They're either growing inside my gums or are too dilapidated for traditional extraction.
Cut to the X-ray guy.
I am told to remove my ear-ring before my face can be bombarded with potentially but seldom dangerous invisible rays. I suddenly think about that weird woman I saw on the internet with more than a hundred piercings on her face. What if she ever had to go in for a dental x-ray. I chuckle at the thought and wonder how many minutes it would take her to remove all those studs on her face before stepping up for the x-ray.
I am made to perch my face rigidly on a rectangular stand and bite on a plastic rod while the x-ray machine moves around my head, taking shots from all angles. There's a mirror for me to see how unpleasantly funny I look. At that very moment I realize that God has granted me another of my wishes- I always wanted to know what being Hannibal Lectar would feel like. Not that being a cannibal is on my wishlist, but it definitely would be quite something to know what goes on inside his head. The metal frames around my face are vaguely reminiscent of the mask Hannibal is made to wear on him, if not as ghastly. I'm urging to blurt out a 'Hello, Clarise', but neither was there a beautiful FBI agent sitting beside me to complete the setting nor was I at liberty to let go of the plastic rod in my mouth.
Note to self - God has curious ways of granting your wishes. Very curious indeed.
A couple of days later, armed with an x-ray of imperfectly set teeth I set off to get the surgery done once and for all. There are three extractions to be performed, one of them surgical - Fuck! The surgeon injects me with enough anesthesia to kill a two year old. My gums, lips and tongues get heavier by the second as the numbness sets it. I decide to shut out the pain by reflecting, retrospecting and planning the rest of my life while the surgeon goes on plundering and tearing at my gums to shunt out the guilty teeth.
All I can do is guess what he is doing inside my mouth - the anesthesia has taken effect completely and unlike hair salons, dentists do not provide for strategically placed mirrors for the patient to know what's going on.
Here's what I think happened -
1 - I was made to bite onto gauze filled with the most bitter potion I've swallowed in my life.
2 - I'm injected with insane amounts of anesthesia.
3 - The surgeon cuts at my gums, loosens my tooth and plucks them out.
4 - My gums are stitched up.
There, nice and easy. Oh did I forget there were two more teeth to go?
Somewhere during this plundering I realize that life's not about hitting back at or avoiding the pain and suffering you get. It's more about taking it in your stride knowing that you're going to come out a new person. Much like a tooth extraction. Not a very attractive bargain though, considering that I would continue to bleed for a couple of hours afterward, my face would be swollen for three days and the pain would be so incredible that I would have to skip a day of work.
Note to self - The 'Flash' theory propounded in a previous post theory still stands. Anesthesia begets flashes of genius. Er, flashes of... whatever.
Contrary to popular belief I also realize that you don't always walk into the sunset with a curvy brunette by your side after confronting your pain. I walked home in the sweltering afternoon sun, content with marveling at intoxicatingly beautiful women every step of the road.....
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