Friday, May 25, 2007

Pornographic phone calls, losers in an exam hall, bad throat, missing Aerosmith, stale cigarettes, thoughts of work, dust storm, chasing pale blue eyes, twisted words, random Orkut scraps, dreams of Keats, 'deficient output', a suicide, handwriting, swollen fingers, lemon teas, Neil Young, Jack Nicholson in The Shining and One Flew over a Cuckoo's Nest -- and what do you know, and just when life will get over, you'll stand there like an old fool being told: "Sorry Mario, but your princess is another castle."

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Monday, May 21, 2007

From Hell

Faustus: ...But, leaving these vain trifles of men's souls, tell me what is Lucifer thy lord?

Mephistophilis: Arch-regent and commander of all spirits.

Faustus: Was not that Lucifer an angel once?

Mephistophilis: Yes, Faustus, and most dearly loved of God.

Faustus: How comes it then that he is the prince of the devils?

Mephistophilis: O, by aspiring pride and insolence; for which God threw him out of the face of heaven.

Faustus: And what are you that live with Lucifer?

Mephistophilis: Unhappy spirits that fell with Lucifer, conspired against our God with Lucifer, and are forever damned with Lucifer.

Faustus: Where are you damned?

Mephistophilis: In hell.

Faustus: How comes it then that thou are out of hell?

Mephistophilis: Why this is hell, nor am I out of it. Thinks't thou that I saw the face of God, and tasted the eternal joys of heaven, am not tormented with ten thousand hells, it being deprived of everlasting bliss? O Faustus! leave these frivolous demands, which strike a terror to my fainting soul.


Tuesday, May 15, 2007

Dr Filth reappeared that evening. It was impossible for him not to do so. And as he lay on the wooden floor, he made a perfect smoke ring from his dark and unbearable lips while concentrating on the array of cobwebs. To his fancy, the windows were open as it used to be when she was there. He had been so miserable, he almost felt it was a lonely spirit that had spoken to him. There was nothing he could do but murmur 'macabre', when he remembered her eyeliner, and her beautiful eyes glancing at him. He quibbled about feeling love, as though he had found a coin in his always-empty pocket. He could do nothing, it was all the same thoughts even after reading a few thousand books from a thousand centuries.
Dr Filth had no idea that it was him who had coined the famous phrase, 'I hate Mondays', before it caught the fascination of the society. He would have been surprised to know this, he felt that pain was a fatherless child only he had parented in his one room of orphanage.
For, of course, he would drink his whiskey and nail polish every evening, but he was only a 100 years old or so he felt. He had distanced him so further from the company he used to keep, it didn't matter to him anymore to wonder whether it was still impolite to roll his tongue on women's cleavage in that quaint fashion to wish them a wonderful, promising evening.
He had been a famous, only his names weren't in the books. Cornelius Agrippa to Alister Crowley would crawl through his window at nights and give him mescaline for a few of his words, but he believed in working for a stranger truth that was still unprepared for the world.
His little room inside his little room, he scribbled every night and tore into tiny shreds as the first morning light touched his windowsill. It really never meant anything to him, as it never really did. He hadn't slept for a thousand nights, he cried with the violins, tasted the mud of her grave and wrote childish letters to the Pope. He felt weary, and he closed his eyes again, now for a bit longer period.

Friday, May 11, 2007

I'm tagged

Every now and then, polite and well-meaning friends tag me. This time its none other than Snake Anthony, a very very dear friend of mine. And so it goes, I will now reveal to you my 5 terrible truths.

1) I mentioned this a very long time ago, I wonder if it was exactly here, or another blog when I had first started, that one crashed, a real horror show. It really doesn't matter now, does it? Well to spare you the David Copperfield or the Holden Caulfield-trash, I have actually seen ghosts. I used to rather, not the Sixth Sense fashion honestly. While I slept in those sultry nights in a distant desert called Ajmer, in an old fashioned school, below a slow-fan, where water would turn warmer than piss, we had to walk in the middle of night to the water cooler. So it was a one windy electrictyless night in April, when I woke from a torrid chain of dreams. I rushed to drink water, but on my way back to the room I spotted a junior walking in the corridors that were reserved for only the seniors (a tradition if not followed meant hockey sticks). A fresh senior, I thought I'd rather stop and wait for him, cursing his stupid nerve. Dear readers, only a foot away the boy disappeared. I really wasn't scared, but it was quite freaky. The same night I dreamt of a batch mate of mine who had died in holidays, I still remember the way he walked looking at all of us.

2) We all go through a time in our life when we question the existence of God. Of course we're really no Nietzsche, but there's certainly a point when we defy the good lord. If not defy, sometimes we almost kill them. To be honest, I have a very confused perception. It's quite an irony, I mean, isn't religion man's first seduction before television. So I believe in it, some of it, very little of it, enough of it to keep me content. It's a belief, I guess, call it what you want.

3) My country depresses me, actually the entire humanity does. No Swiftian song and dance here, the trouble with the world is that it can't make up its mind. Happiness doesn't exist and it's overrated, and people never progress, the whole Sisyphean drill. What's the point of it all? And the basic principle of humanity is selfishness, whoever you are Gandhi or Mother T, if you suit your purposes (be it it for others even), is a terrible work of misunderstanding. I don't fantasise death, but life is as terrible as our office loos.

4) Most people find Jim Morrison overrated, but I have to admit that most Morrison fans overrate themselves. At one tedious and treacherous point in my life, I read every written word about and by him, his music was like Sir Ludwig Van for Alex. I have to admit, however you hate or love the matter of fact (depending on your politics), that the man was a genius. People confuse him largely with a brilliantly acted but wrongly portrayed film, The Doors by Stone. Morrison's music, poetry and intelligence stretched beyond time, it got cocky in a time commercialisation was still a whorehouse born child.

5) I used to be a poet. Now I bullshit. It's all a sham, really.

I tag:
Exile, Diamonds & Rust, The Dude, Dead Flowers and Devilled.


Monday, May 07, 2007

The genius and the mediocrity

Have you heard Dylan's 4th Time Around? The song is speculated to be a response to The Beatles Norwegian Wood, he confirmed it in a Rolling Stone interview. It's a beautiful song. Very sweet melody, enchanting words and it wraps you around its enchanting amoral tale. You must listen to it. The lyrics are like this

I stood there and hummed/I tapped on her drum and asked her how come/And she buttoned her boot/And straightened her suit/Then she said, "Don't get cute."/So I forced my hands in my pockets/And felt with my thumbs/And gallantly handed her/My very last piece of gum.

Well, honestly, life's like that. I mean seriously. I won't waste time telling you more, I guess it's one of those things that you got to figure out for yourselves. We're sort of getting spoilt writing here. We also promote mediocrity. I have a serious theory on this point, which I was telling Red Herring just today, this very afternoon, smoking cigarettes, and looking at the busy traffic on the road, everywhere in history all we've done is eliminate the genius.
I don't think the conversation reached to a matter of agreeing or not. It never makes sense in one go, but if you think about it, you really see my point. Or well any point for that matter.
So who are the real figures of absolute genius that have almost overthrown the world at their feet? Sure, you can say Jesus, Hitler, Gandhi, whoever, let's not really get into names, but why've they been succumbed?
Mediocrity doesn't really want a figure like that, so it gave birth to a son called the critic. The critic's purpose is to eliminate the genius. Now don't get me wrong, not all is black and white here. If the critic is a potential genius which recognises another genius, that critic is no longer mediocre and it falls in the fate of a genius. But if you look at religion, it's basically an edifice of an institution built by marketing wing of mediocrity to campaign it self.
Mediocrity is the real evil. We suffer it.
If there's a figure that's born out of religion that's genius enough, it goes wrong. Why? The world never wanted an absolute genius, the reason with human nature is such that it leaves no room for it. It cripples the basic fundamental with prejudice, filth and shame.
Blogging culture has made each one of us be read as New York Times columnists. What blogs do is promote mediocrity, we love it don't we? Read all the fuckedupness, write all fuckedupness, and be all fuckedupness, and the sheer joy to discover someone as miserable as you.
We all write shit between the jewels of our golden words, it all gets published by a click.
Any every great thought is subjected to mediocrity. If you look at it in politics, democracy, is another name for mediocrity. What else does it say? I'm no communist, no conservationist, no fascist nor a rhinoceros. I'm a subject of true democracy, in another word, I'm mediocre. If I had true sense I would establish, and that establishment, would either be consumed or withered, it depends really. Now look at ole Columbus, and what he really got.
There are flashes of geniusness in me, but it's limited. If the world is to be followed then the 20th century has proved it with it's experiments of lucid talk with its political idiom.
The absolute genius (this has nothing to with the Coleridge one) will always die. His death will never be of an average mortal. Be it an overdose, war or long life.
Yet the fascination for the genius will never die, it's quite simple, if the genius is alive we will kill the person, if the genius is no longer alive then we will mourn.
A strange paradox.
Everything and anything that involves more than 2 people is an exhibition of true mediocrity.

Friday, May 04, 2007

Guide to super-coolness

“If you don't know the blues, ... there's no point in picking up the guitar and playing rock and roll or any other form of popular music.”
“It's good to be anywhere.”
“Everyone talks about rock these days; the problem is they forget about the roll.”
“The Stones in a club is still the ultimate rush.”
-- Sir Keith Richards (Keef)
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