Okay. We take a break now, but we come back very soon. We don't want to lose ourselves, just enjoy the hopelessness of the situation. Be recreated. I'll think of you. Okay, I'm being called now. But wait, oh nothing actually; fine.

It's just a bitter form of reality. I have 239 friends on Orkut -- almost all of them insist on sending this one forward -- and I'm dying unhumorously by deleting the same message "HEY ITS DIANNA" over and over again -- that Orkut will soon start deleting profiles, if one doesn't forward them. Cause if it accidentally does, I want mine to be the first.

I fucked up with the first limerick,
I might not be so slick.
Think I should write another one,
Or maybe copy some son of a gun.
What ends with -ick? I'll just ask some prick.

Simple, or difficult words, refuse me while I write this -- how can one say it, and not ramble incoherent prose to declare that this is absolutely, so beautiful. The documentary film, Gimme Shelter, features the Stones most controversial and famous concert, Altamont Speedway in Northern California -- where 3,00,000 people attended the free show, in December 69.

The tracks they play are available in the album Get Yer Ya-Ya's Out!, but the movie is tough to find your hands on. The name of the film comes from the title song of arguably the best Rolling Stones' album Let it Bleed (an in-your-face-answer to Beatles' Let it Be', when released). Gimme Shelter is that one song that every once in a time I hear it sends shivers down me spine, grants an invalid paradise of an excite-to-death ecstasy, and a perfect reason to confirm me being a voyeur.

"Everytime we do this song, something funny happens," quips Sir Mick when the Stones get down to playing Sympathy for the Devil -- and what a song it is, that challenges the ordinary conventions with stirring imagery of religion, politics and war to one ugly, but beautiful, cauldron of evil and absinthe. The lake of fire is bliss. Yes it is true that the song was inspired by Bulgakhov's The Master and Margarita.

The Hells Angels that were to manage the show, who were paid in beer instead of money, killed a man while the show went on. A numerous scuffles broke loose and The Glimmer Twins were almost sent home for inciting the violence with their music.

There's one long scene in the film where Mick's singing and one Hell's Angel asshole is staring at him, and his looks are sinister; as though in terrible contempt. Its now rumoured that ever since the fated show numerous assassination have been planned by the Angels on the Stones.

It's commonly alleged, more apparent fingers point from Don Mclean's American Pie, that the man killed by the Angels, were when the band play Sympathy. The concert confirms that it was during Under My Thumb, with the actual, only, footage of the killing.

It is also said that a young George Lucas was filming the movie as well, but his camera conked off in the middle.

There's one scene where the Stones sitting in a studio are recording Wild Horses, Keef lying on his back and Mick grinning, watch it to know it.

From Jumpin' Jack Flash to Robert Johnson's Love in Vain, it sounds maddening, surreal, almost dangerous and hell-like. Satisfaction riffs to blues Honky Tonk to Gimme Shelter with the closing credits, the movie glimpses an epoch you travel with unsophisticated mystification.

Limericks

A few thousand lousy poets fell into time;
Searching for words, sight and simple rhyme.
They grew cold, old, stained with death and dust;
Their spiritless souls, dismayed, snatched to a drunken lust.
Spilling ink into paper crime.

To be, or maybe

It’s difficult perhaps dear readers to call myself a stoner – perhaps since I’m not devoted enough to the art or the act so entirely; so kindly; so blatantly – I can’t even say it out all aloud that I am one. I wouldn’t like to call my self one – not that I would like to conceal this part of my identity, it’s just that I wouldn’t want to be labelled. Now if you are an asshole, you wouldn’t like to be called one, would you? The fact that everyone is an asshole is a separate issue. The larger truth is that I’m not hooked on to it, to which I’m very glad about (I just don’t wear a medal like some activists do), and I smoke very occasionally. It comes to me on its own accord, I rarely chase it, and when it comes the paradise that then opens is bliss, when it closes its like what it is now. There are also those who say they are ‘occasional cigarette smokers’ but they are the real guys who run a sham, don't trust em.
My very eyes give away – and even if I had never touched the darn blessed plant ever in my life, dear brothers, I still would’ve been called the fated name – and it’s more terrible because the name doesn’t stir any emotion in me. It’s an amoral substance. It’s just my languid fashion and coolness (I know I’m modest) that gets critiqued.
I’ve enjoyed it whenever I’ve sinned it; The Dude and Pirate are great friends, who in this despicable time and age have found some very sounding and convincing reasons to make this unfortunate hell a bit, er perhaps, humbler, if not to say the least.
For a stoner has principles – you have to agree sweetheart – the stoner community has unspoken laws that functioning sincerely – and it runs so splendidly in cities, that perhaps mafias could take in classroom lessons. If the mafias do work it, then it’s entirely on the stoners that they prosper. When you hear that fields of marijuana has been burnt then its some stoner who has fucked up, gone and poked his dirty finger up some legal issue. But a stoner maybe a stoner, but a stoner is not stupid – this you have to understand and understand very well. Now there are some moral elocutionists who would argue that the reasons why some get stoned are stupid. Trust me, the entire debate is a bit stupid, why would you want to get into it? People sometimes ask me, and well-meaning people, so why do you smoke? And there you have it; there are no reasons of course. But that’s not how I tell them, but I wouldn’t tell you how I tell em.
And you well might find some, pretentious sods, who will look straight into that whisky line when the glass is slanted in such an angle to the light, that remarkable colour mesmerising their eye, while they bow their heads and so humbly in a Victorian fashion and declare: stuff isn’t bad dude, it gets you smarter.
Trust me: even they don’t know what they are saying.
The easiest thing to do is when you get a j passed to you: smoke it. If you don’t want to: you pass it to someone else who is a bit keener than you. You don’t tell them that it’s incorrect, everyone knows it. It’s a bit of suicidal intent that everyone has to do fucking harm to themselves, and if that's not clear: they do it to chill. You can die from cancer or get killed in an airplane or in a car crash. You don’t go around telling people not to go on the roads or take a flight, do you cause you feel its incorrect?There are some, I would like to abuse them, yes I really do, but I’m polite, you of course know it, and if you don’t you must know it now, and if you don’t really care – neither do I. Who think that smoking up is cool. You must know: they also think rapes and assholes are cool. They at most times don’t know how to smoke it, even if they do, they fib till the end of the universe and back, that they saw purple monkeys and Indian Airlines air hostesses flying in a jungle. When you hear them, you know, what I know, but we don’t say it. We shrug our shoulders and say: cool.

A few days ago, self went with mother to a typical fancy farmhouse 'lunch' party, in the village, closer home, but on one fringe of the city. Well since Sundays are mundane, indulged in great self-misery, reading, randomness, thought it would be a pleasant change. I agreed to go along with mother; I've not exactly been a very great son.
So we made our way, reading and following a very difficult road map-directions that the host had prepared. All the biggest landmarks were missed, only the tiniest possible signboards that one could notice unless they wore microscopic lenses in their spectacles, could they reach. Still managed to find the way without managing to cross over to another state.
The farmhouse was typical: opulent; with all that fancy bit that I can't describe very well. The hosts seemed polite, I was told that the last I had met was when I was some 3 year-old. There was no possible design of imagination or memory, I could recognise them. But they seemed pretty cordial, with all that old world-mannerism, and the few who managed to reach on time -- reaching anywhere on time is a sin in our city -- family I suppose, were sipping "Bleddy Merys" and that talk.
The summer afternoon was brilliant, sipping white wine -- wondering when the hell we get out out of here -- when the hostess came towards where we were. After a bit of chat with my mother -- while I sat there bored, which I was accepted to be -- she asked loud enough so that I could hear, how old I was.
She strained her eyes on me, and says, he's a handsome fellow, I wish he was 3 years older. Which I thought was a strange thing to say. She followed, my daughter's in Canada studying, we want her to get married. She would have been really happy to have met him. Whoops, I mutter, with an embarrassed expression (wine in afternoons betrays). I look more blindly at her. She covers up, of course, since I'm younger and the case is losing, well we want to get her married in a house where we know the people. He's doing well; a journalist, and so good looking.
I gulp the darn drink. The hostess talks a bit more, and then carries on to other guests.
Damn, do people get married this way?
---------------------------------------
The neighbour is a good kid, he's another friend from my various sorts of circles of friends that I have. I don't have a one framework of friends, I like to keep it this way. I know I sound like an asshole, the way I say it, but all of them are pretty different. Most people have different friends from over a period life: the one's they make in school, college, work and otherwise. Mine are assorted by mindset, all of them are cool. Getting acquainted has always been easy, getting along has been easier -- the real shady sorts I avoid, unless there's a contention, but they fall out easily, I'm not a classist; but I'm no social worker.
So anyway, the neighbour got his friend along, where we usually sit to smoke, hidden from the view of the colony. For him it matters, since he stays a lot at home, he's afraid that his folks would get to hear about it from others, despite the fact that they are aware, like of his Bronchitis attacks; like of his pangs for nicotine.
The friend of neighbour, in a shitty manner explained to us his life, cursed sorely about what he's been up to and the crowd he hangs around with. Now in some spot of the village city, in a trendy spot, he and his friends along with a few girls spend their usual evenings. Now if you've grown up in the city, you maybe familiar with having your favourite spot near home where you talk shit, smoke your first and encounter a leak in your repressed becoming sexual life.
He cursed about this women till eternity and back. He was extremely fond of her, but he called kept calling her a whore, in a simple mix of Hindi-English. In fact, most of the way some talk about girlfriends, when you say it in the general term (which I don't use), and almost get excited when they say 'yaar, she smokes also.' It was quite a pity.
The neighbour's got bad company, he knows it better than I can convince him. The chaps aren't misogynists or any such thing. But the way the talk about girls/women, is not only orthodox but full of shit. This woman he talked about must be some hot chick who abuses and has flings. But abusing her in Hindi, which sounds coarse and crass -- makes you think, fuck this dude's the asshole, who feels her up but would sell her for a rupee.
Most assholes, I detect, are the one's that behave utterly imbecilic with women. Most of them come from well-meaning backgrounds -- I'm not talking about the where Ramjus crowd-meets-Stepehen sorts. Its a mindset mentality dichotomy, women in the city are getting bold with the choice of fashion and TV fashion. And I support their free-think but caution them silly sometimes of the consequences. Any respectable market and you're bound to brush an incident that cripples your movement to modernity. It just goes wrong.

They killed me a long time ago,
They killed me today.
They killed me with a spear,
They killed me with a gun.

For a few hundred years I stayed,
On a bed, in a tower, for a river.
While music sank in the consciousness,
The wine bled and the violins were scratched.

An army of hundred sins in the sky,
The smoke from a chimney,
The winter and her eyes.
They took them and left me with a dream.

Many died that morning,
Some even left the room.
The piano cried to the loose blouse,
They found coal in the gold mine.

What a thought,
I fell; I fell into life.
And all that was left were letters,
The window open, and a sigh.

There was no reason,
But they still found one.
They built a castle,
Then the serpent took that away.

The poet, the cat and the naked witch,
The Master and Margarita,
Spent a quite evening with the moon.
The grass, the wisdom and the passion.

We are reminded, we aren't alone

It's an embarassing, overrated and has-to-happen day. Thou shalt keep me merrier.

"I don't even know if I'm white with black stripes or black with white stripes." - Madagascar

There's something about Holi I just loathe. The whole getting smothered with charcoal, colours and glass -- you come home looking like a howling ghost. It's been like that since I was a kid, never ever went out with the rest on the streets. It never worked.
This time was different. Vaz called and we were going to a farm-place near the Village, along with the crew: Champak, lil Surd, Chazz and Polite Killer.
The friend's place comes after a hilly patch of road, scenic enough for Mary to keep you humble, while you search the endless horizons for dreamy souls. Endless beers were thrown when we reached, the process of getting coloured was easy -- the million kids threw some buckets of blue water, you didn't mind. The folks in charge were chilling in their own cheesy drunkenness, leaving us to hang around around the pool, some lot were getting drunk, the others having a good time with their drinks.
While I chilled on the lawns, munching some Munakka -- that Pirate has for breakfast with milk -- over couple of beers watching everyone thrown into the pool. Lost in complete haze of time, wondering poetry searching Kerouac, metamorphosing Ionesco to Kafka to one simple dream.
It was my turn to be thrown in. Although getting into water was not a good idea with the wintry breeze on a sunny afternoon -- the water took me in almost caringly, as though it was waiting for me, and I dived a perfect one. I swam a bit. Then came out lit up a cigarette, thrown back again. Found somebody's spectacles in it -- the few girls, in and out of the pool, seemed sweet but too lost in themselves.
The afternoon got Champak smashed, trust him to be the first guy. You of course know -- he starts laughing and he doesn't stop. Not the best thing you would like when the car's stopped by cops reasoning excuses for some dough. But then it was cool.
Reached home, had a hot shower, slept, woke up for dinner, some guests were there -- and it was great. The darn Munakka was working now, now I'm no regular pothead, but man this felt like 3 j's tripping you when you know you haven't smoked.
Everything went coolly, I was talking about serious things -- and then there were these small waves of raptures that kept the ebb and flow of my senses to the beaches of mind. The after dinner tea and smoke, made me meet the ghost of Kerouac. I blew smoke rings around the moon, followed the movement of dark shadows of trees and streetlamps on the streets, listened to Velvet Underground, Cream and a bit of Cohen -- and found reason at the end of a clay cup of despair. She was very kind.
----------------------
Got down to watching Polanski's Chinatown, was hugely impressed. Spending some evenings now with Virginia Woolf and Mrs Dalloway. The Wild Child is leaving the place, sort of sad. Will miss her for being there.
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Hey, the last post, you know, I've done all that, bu I'm not doing that anymore. So it goes.

I told you, plays

JEAN: [to BERENGER] Instead of squandering all your spare money on drink, isn't it better to buy a ticket for an interesting play? Do you know anything about the avant-garde theatre there's so much talk about? Have you seen Ionesco's plays?
BERENGER: [to JEAN] Unfortunately, no. I've only heard people talk about them.
JEAN: [to BERENGER] There's one playing now. Take advantage of it.
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Estragon: …Let's go.
Vladimir: We can't.
Estragon: Why not?
Vladimir: We're waiting for Godot.