And suddenly there's hope, there's some light, and then the tubelight flickers and the lights are out. The scene is shot long, the hospital beds are filled with sufferers. Someone coughs, someone takes a mighty gulp of water, and there's a sense of brokenness as the clock tower strikes eleven.
You've been here long, you've been waiting, you've been looking for answers in toilets where some haggard souls have scribbled meaningful poems in 4 letters. You're not old, but you've begun to look older. Your stomach is an angry pit that starves, and when you throw something in it -- the soup pot declares mutiny. You don't care to shave, the man in the mirror looks away. You talk to yourself, you console the friend, you lose the friend. You take the thought of love and gulp it down your windpipe -- because you never felt it any. It's a sheet of white toilet paper waiting to be smudged.
You wished everyone, and sent them off to a kinder place, while you locked yourself in a room. You swam in a deep dark ocean of unconsciousness, with sharks, and a bucket of blood in your mouth.
And everything is meant to be this way. Then there will be a Holocaust.

I've realised that if you drink substantial amount of beer, and table hop in the beer joint, you not only realise that you get to meet a whole lot of people. But you also have a pretty decent head spin -- and have too many dog eared thoughts flitting in and out of your metaphysical self. Also if you eat South Indian food despite knowing that you will be having the same stuff for breakfast morning -- you're not only overdoing the facts -- but you're also living in a world of oblivion.
Somehow this tiny intriguing detail fits as a chip glass to my glass memory of last evening. This also stems some progress to my recently recovering life in Def Col -- and since my khopcha is the subject of curiosity I get visited. Which is fine, everything is decent.
Tomorrow's the Red Herring book launch, which means I have to shack up in the afternoon -- as discussed with Ami, we have to have a post-party. It was good to meet the crew from the old news rag. Ami and Sush, two extremely delightful people to have as company when your moind's resting on a sandy beach of consciousness, while the ebb and flow of beer caresses the shore. Sush was in an old element of hers, and it was fabulous apart from the tiny detail that she sent messages all over the world including Niv (or so she told me) that I had the hots for this Wild Child. And sent another to The Emperor asking him if he knew me. naturally he didn't reply.
Before that I was chilling with Eye and her friends, she was around this side of town, because the hours have really stretched for her this week at the rut.
Meanwhile, Mr Dead Flowers has introduced me to this really killer band, Black Keys. Since I've been pretty much out of listening to some new music -- this band is mind effing. They've been touted to be as good White Stripes, semi-indie, and know how to bend the strings when it comes to blues. He says he will drop in when he's around -- which will be damn cool.
Besides, all good.

The first night was decent, a bit obscure, but it was the first night at the new khopcha. And I seem to like the new setting, of course to set up requires a whole lot of work.
Kake, Randy as we now call him, and the Hobo boy, lit the housewarming flame. The trouble is it dragged on for a bit -- and I was mostly out, as my morning continues. But I seem to be up. Yesterday, an off, was basically gathering and dumping. Getting acquainted -- and making it live for a night.
Today it's mostly about what fits -- and where the posters go. Till now its fairly easy, and since I'm not a pansy, there are a few things that will really hassle me.
Apart from that there's relief -- relief of having a place where I can stack my books. I brought a small load of favourites, and its sitting pretty on the shelves. And, like I said, I need to bring a whole deal of stuff from the Big Surd's, when he gets back.
Sir Vaz is in town after from Scotland, and it's always good to have him around. He brings everyone together. It's just that with my terrible work shifts, I don't know how much I will get to chill with all.
But that's not hassling me much.
Having a place of my own will help me set a few things right to the agenda. Perhaps a book for instance. Catch up reading, but essentially get over the rubbish my mind's been for so long wandering about. I've said this before, but it takes time I suppose to rid the ghosts off.

The clown says anyone can post comments now!

"As Calcutta’s star begins to fade, with the capital of His Majesty’s India shifting to Delhi, Abani Chatterjee’s is on the rise. He is well on his way to becoming the country’s first silent-screen star. But just as he is about to find fame and adulation, absurd personal disaster—a recurrent phenomenon in the Chatterjee household—strikes, and Abani becomes a pariah in the world of the bioscope. In a city recently stripped of power and prestige, and in a family house that is in disrepair, Abani spins himself into a cocoon of solitude and denial, a talent he has inherited from both his parents.
In 1920, German director Fritz Lang comes calling, to make his ‘India film’ on the great eighteenth-century Orientalist Sir William Jones. When Abani is offered a role, he convinces Lang to make a bioscope on Pandit Ramlochan Sharma, Jones’s Sanskrit tutor, instead. Naturally, Abani plays the lead.
The result is The Pandit and the Englishman, a film that mirrors the vocabulary of Abani’s life, hinting at the dangers of pretence and turning away, the virtues of lying and self-deception, the deranging allure of fame and impossible affections.
Afterwards, Abani Chatterjee writes a long letter, in which he tells his story.
Witty, at times dark, and always entertaining, The Bioscope Man is that story."

Published by : Penguin Books India
Published : May 2008
Imprint : Penguin
Special Price : Rs 299.00
Cover Price : Rs 299.00
ISBN : 0143101749
ISBN13 : 9780143101741
Edition : Paperback
Format : B
Extent : 320 pp
Classification : Fiction

Checked out two posters at I liked at the market. very decent. One's of ol' Morrison and the blues-acid rock band, and the other of none other than the Stones. As gritty as ever, it's an ol 70s snap, when the ol' boys were just boys. I've called home and mum's bringing my Exile on Main Street poster, along with the necessary linen and the general details to pull the place.
I'm sort of thrilled. I paid the money yesterday. Fat Man has left the place, and avoided all sort of dealings going through a broker -- who would have skimmed off more money. I paid a decent lump sum -- as you have to on the first go -- but things seem sorted out.
Once Big Surd's back from Chandi, I get a whole lot of my wardrobe back to the new place. You see he's been ill, after his job got the better out of him. And he just fled town without tellin anyone cause he was so sick (sick in both terms.) His office's pretty desperate to get people -- a lot have left, some are joining or have joined my rut -- so they tried to coax me as well. But it doesn't make sense.
If I'm out -- I'll make sure I'm out.
Meanwhile, Nicks seems to be making a lot of sense lately. I'm not following what she says though -- but when I at least nod my head, it comes out of some approval.
I sort of feel sleepy a lot these days, I've been, somewhat willingly, on the morning now for the 3rd week. You see I get the afternoon.
A crazy thing, but thought I'd let you know. And one more thing now that we're a bit sentimental about being frank -- you listen and get written well dear bloggie. The other day I picked up a notebook to fill sometime at the coffee shack, so I started penning this story. Hope it makes sense, cause at the moment I seem to be just filling the pages.
Okay I'll head to do some work...

Everything is cool and gray. Just like a Leonard Cohen song while you sip tea. You're alone, and in some way you seem to like it. You're broken, like I was once. I seem to have pieced the puzzle and I know that it isn't this room, this life, why the watercolour weeps in the rain. In many ways I tried, in many ways I try, I'm chasing dragons, from one ring of smoke to another.
I know I don't fit in. But when was this about me. It's about you. Your dreams are glass. Your shadow is a curtain of doubt. And I know you will recover, like a morning after an evening storm. So sweet Persephone, take us to your underworld. It's one of these months, and then one of those. You will see the light, and I'll be back to live in my beer bottle.
My words smudged on the walls of a crumbling tower. And sweet memory and her petty calling -- what season could this be? I'm stuck in this very room with this one thought.
And I'm followed with another and then another. Remember the eyes I do not meet. Remember when we heard, or read, let us go there, when the evening spreads out against the sky.

It's nice and cloudy, a bit chilly inside the ice box. That never changes. But outside is pleasant, and since the shift ends soon. I'll be out. I'm about to get my own place to stay, and I'm a bit thrilled about that. A place where I can stack my books up -- and all the relevant stuff. At the sake of not soundin like a woman, I'll throw in a couple of lamps, put posters and do it up.
When I started working -- which was some good 4 years back, my folks didn't plan for me to live outside home. But circumstances changed, when job shifted to the suburban mess. And even though I've been living in and out of friend's cupboards, this will make things really cool.
The sudden, unexpected sight of what looks like monsoon, in the wretched May just makes everything pretty and decent. Although the humidity rises as well. But what do I care -- ice box will ensure that one of these days I'll die of a pneumonia attack.
I'm at a stage when I'm reconcilliating -- standing at a stage, all alone. And just before the curtain falls, the music softens to die, and I've wrapped the plot -- I shall disappear. I'm looking forward for that.
I've become too common. Too plebeian. Too susceptible to petty emotions. I need my writing back, my music, my films, my dirty fantasy women -- so I can dissolve in a room and sink. I shall then commit a spiritual suicide of self -- to resurrect like a Methodist actor.
So I can no longer be recognised at all. So I can forget you.
I'm quite done, with my headaches, with your headaches and how we all still sit -- and share misery like cigarettes.
I hope one day you'll listen to Desolation Row. See the beauty of a lit Victorian lamp in a dark room -- and everything smoke. Oh bliss. I can't write sense. Which is why yesterday, I bought a pen and paper and I wrote. To know what it's like.
I'm only good when it comes to write meaningless shit like this. I'm done with this murder, I feel like I'm done with this all.
One of these days...and one of these seasons.

I'm not really writing. I think about writing. Random things -- essential things. Things I like to talk myself to sleep. I have these arguments, conversations, poems, songs I take my head to rest. But when I sit to write them down, they seem to die perhaps in exhaustion of being played over and over in dreams.
What do I dream about? I dream about dragons, fairies, witches and dogs -- not in an Enid Blyton sort of way -- but exchanging them with people I'm with. They're good dreams, pointless dreams, but most time just a mere plea of confusion and anger.
What is it? I can't get myself to tell. I want you to read to go on and on. But I'll take my mystery to the grave, just as I know you will as well. You and I know that even we don't know what how glass walls keep our heads in order.
I've been messed. Messed as I picked the stray remnants of my mind that has broken too many nerves in order to understand a question I have an answer.
Over beer, smokes, special smokes, on dirty white walls, with a broken grey sky, I've looked. Looked, looked, looked.
And I saw nothing. In one room filled with ancient art, tired songs, rusty books, and a dripping tap -- I saw nothing.
In so many ways I try to tell, and I in so many ways I hate the thought of you. That everything is burnt

Good morning fellow miserables.

Last movie seen in a theatre:

The Simpsons (Can you beat that?)

What book are you reading:

Big Sleep: Raymond Chandler

Favourite board game:

Chess

Favourite magazine:

MAD

Favourite smells:

Oh I can't tell.

Favourite sound:

Dylan's harp

Worst feeling in the world:

Office

What is the first thing you think of when you wake up:

How many hours have I slept?

Favourite fast food place:

Italics, Flavours, 4S

Future child’s name:

Wait, son.

Finish this statement, “If I had a lot of money I’d…”

be thrilled."

Storms - Cool or Scary?

Cool

Favourite sports to watch:

Football

One nice thing about the person who sent this to you:

Aaki writes exceeding well. It's strange that I've known her for so long, and I've never met her.

(I'll stop here)

I'm back home. Folks called me back. I'll stay another day, cause I got nothing to really head back to work in a hurry for. They put me on morning now. The last few days were tough -- sleep was bare. In a strange turn of events, I was reporting a bit. Which was good -- cause I got to meet a whole lot of fellas I hadn't met for a really long time. Besides seeing my face on tv was fun (not when I fucked up, but the whole 'hey, look at me, I'm on tv bit.'
But things caught up. Work was some 15 hours -- but I guess I managed. I'm sort of tired at the moment, it's around 1. But I'll keep up for a bit, it'll take a bit to get used to daylight, and well that's what I plan.
Watched a cool movie, that my dad who had been talkin a long time back found for me -Vanishing Point. It's totally 70s, but you if you can download or something. You might like it. It's about an ex-racer driving across the American desert, when the cops get after him. The movie ends in a strange way. It's sort of cool the way it does -- a little existentialist.
Lately Percious and I have been playing a little game. It's truth and tell. Basically you get to ask the other person a question that requires some honesty. We were getting good at it -- and it makes me realise that how many times in your life, you actually want to ask a person you know. But never get down to it cause you know the answer won't be straight. And then imagine if you once in a while ask and you gt a straight answer. The game's not about lying, it's odd but important questions, and you get a drive home answer.
So Precious learnt my little secret. But you know, starngely, it felt good tellin her. Originally, this blog was meant to be a space like that. But I sold it. You see I'm the guy who sold his soul to the devil, who was basically a joker playing on the highway. So it goes as Kurt Vonnegut says.