Saturday, December 27, 2014

Self Compositions Update

Four [Three continued]

Someone was watching something on someone else's computer when someone else stood behind the first someone and said, someone, don't turn around for a bit. I was none of them, but the story seems worth the telling. Maybe it's an example of the levels some people have already sunk to, and so nothing they do now seems offensive. Anyway, I digress. 

College was fun. The notebooks of those days were written down, and back spacing wasn't an option. Striking out is harder than I thought. Puns remind me of my poetry (recent):

Red Light

Engage emergency brake. 
Breathe. How long?

59? 42? 23? 7?

Repeat procedure for sleep. 
Time not by a clock you must keep. 

Down To The Bone

Sun warming the clouds from above
Driving the cold down
Cold has none other way to go
Down to the bone

I want to be a solar cell
Rooted eternally
Basking in the sun warming me
Down to the bone

Rivers are girls
Crooning lullabies at night
When all else is quiet
And I feel alone
Down to the bone


The crowd is faceless
Reaching out with a million arms
Like a deity I meditate
The world fades to silence

In the silence I wonder
Is life all that we know
Or is it all we don't
The answer's mine to find

Decide to exist
Exist to pass time
Time will persist
I'll die and turn into grime 

Constructs of human understanding
Constricts of human introspection
Theoretical stabs at nature's being
Made-up truths are all we're seeing

Think before you act
Look before you leap
The way has been taught to us
The light has been brought to us

Venture into outer space
There's little room on earth
When you feel out of place
The universe is calling you forth

Come On In
A loose-rhyme spur-of-the-moment, midnight-half-dream-inspired free verse. Background playlist: 
Any Colour You Like - pink Floyd
For You Blue - Beatles
Rabbit Run - Eminem
Weight - Smith

Ends are around the corner
Every day life is ending
If you didn't make it,
 you can't hear this,
but if you can, come on in. 

Ones, singles, solos, misfits,
couples, duos, pairs and bros,
Tres, Quattro, more 'n more,
Everybody get in on the act,
If you can, that is, come on in. 

Points barely ever arrived at,
Arguments arrive endlessly,
Perspective is hard to have,
When you're ground to the floor. 
Rise up if you can, come on in. 

Don't ever be disheartened too long; the sun will come up tomorrow, too. We have so many distractions that we deem our lives long, ignoring its fleeting nature. Instants of time glue together and lead to "experience" but all if that comes to naught when the colloquial 'shit' happens. 

Isolation and loss of relevancies frequently overlooked in the ant-hill rat-race, followed by an increasingly intense sense of futility, consequently leading to inaction. Literal counterpoint: Action!

Random thought stored previously in notes: Second Coming over cyber space, since it's connecting everyone. 

Watching a Simpsons episode: 
I no longer want my MTV. Bart Simpson.  And hats off to iPhone auto- correct. :)

The couch gag is those Russian matoshka or something dolls. I've had this lurking suspicion about coincidences for a few days, starting from the ones leading up to the Corbett trip. AC knows "Corbett", too! Haha. They make me contemplatively contemptuous of courting the consequences of my constant quirkiness. :)

घर आ गए तो सब okay है । 

Let the sound come to you; don't run towards the sound. Lazarus, and now, specifically 95 FM, is rocking! Alas, they must play the pop-ular shit as well, like Korn demo'd in Y'all Want A Single. 


Younger brother last days gravity. 

Every minute gained in life is a minute cheated from death. M m f. 

Directions given, asked for, and taken with salt and pepper, whether generously or as per taste. Aggressive random associative digression. Hyperchondria when justified, even unknowingly, even to the end of life, and maybe even further due to reasons known or unknown, e.g. lack of recorder, whether human or artificial,or a combination of the two, such as this iPhone and I. 

History is changing whether we do anything or not, and as far as it is a record of the events past, it'll reflect both great deeds and small. A true and complete history is intrinsically impossible, since we as recorders are not present (and recording) everything humans do that potentially affects humanity. Apart from the arbitrary benchmark we set for ascertaining that potential, the subjectivity arising from free will sets each historian (or recorder) apart. See that? Star and end are not apart, by unintentional flow of thought. 42! 6-hourism!

Eyes on the horizon, stumbling at the rough road at my feet on my way there. Will get there with bruised feet and exhausted mind, it'll draw further away. 

What Do You Want From Me - PF. किसी चीज़ को  संगीनता से नही लेना चाहिए, including trips to Jim Corbett. :) 

I'll criticise apple for pausing comfortably numb when i start the camera,which I've creatively labeled kymaera. ;)

Portable stuff takes on more value as it becomes more portable. 

Chip away at the base, let the top topple. Put on the radio, wait for the fall. Work is work when it works, else it's play. 

What doesn't kill us makes us bitter - Chuck Lorre. 

As the world turns, things continue happening and lives continue being existed through, so why not keep changing as the world turns? Sometimes, the required action is no action. 

Debating the pros and cons of not recharging tata sky. Pros include this ( a reversion to all thinking == writing). Plus, music and other pursuits will get the time thy deserve. Cons, there aren't many. Same applies to iPhone signal connection. I much prefer it an inert carry- around. End of thought, time for lunch. D A: time is an illusion. Lunch time, doubly so. 42! 6-hourism!

Passing thru traffic in Bhangel, I think "that bike is in front of that truck causing the jam", then I realise we personify objects way more than objectifying persons. Grammatical bender intended. :)

Sometimes sleepless nights are slightly nightly nuisances but mostly they aren't ghostly. :) now that i have this awesome new toy to play with, especially! :) and the fly continueth to 'bug' me...

A Short Twisted Story for a screenplay 

A 19-year old is slightly mentally handicapped but self sufficient in day to day chores, with supportive parents and a helpful elder brother. In his spare time (lots of it- nature, TV, movies- the usual time pass activities of adolescents) he models paper mâché likenesses of his family. Over a period of time he dresses them/styles them correspondingly, and one day his brother observes him playing dumb charades with his puppets. He smiles and feels that his brother is creative; as he turns, the protagonist hears his feet shuffle and expectantly looks for eye contact with him, but he had already turned away. The protagonist turns back to his doll brother, who says ,"See? We would NEVER turn our backs on you. Who do you trust? Us, your creation, or them, your jailers?"

Cut to him in the front seat with brother driving, as they start to take a turn he calmly and firmly grabs the wheel at the crucial moment and the opposite vehicle smashes the elder brother into pulp. He smiles through slight injuries. No one suspects a thing. 

Some time later the gutters need cleaning (leaves and rainwater). The father climbs up the ladder and the protagonist smoothly knocks it out from under him with a well-placed kick. He grins at his father's dying face. He has planned it so that the father didn't climb the ladder till the mother was home. She returns to find him sitting and staring maniacally at his dead father's face. 

Quite some time later, he lives alone with the help of trusted delivery boys and magazine salesmen. His mother is at a nursing home, being old and fragile. He visits her weekly and gives flowers but rare words. She strokes his head and smiles. He returns home to TV, popcorn and his "family" in their usual (initial shot) places. 

The end. 


The tips of my nerves felt like they were trying to break through my skin, especially along my uncovered arms. I swung around my backpack and rummaged for my white shirt, and as it's cloth slid over my figuratively-on-fire epidermis, it felt like red chilli powder being deeply rubbed into fresh flesh wounds. My fingertips could barely touch anything without causing pain; the setting sun made them look red, and in my feverish state I assumed I'd been literally burnt by the omnipresent radiation. The wind carried a bite I'd never experienced, a plucking-at-your-insides sensation, and it smelled weird, too. It was the smell that made me carry on trudging after tucking my hands inside the sides of my shirt to at least spare myself the wind's bite. I had to find shelter for the night. चलो, I thought, the world is still spinning. 

A largely intact brick-and-mortar bus shelter loomed into view around a corner. The steel benches were gone, all metal that had seemed precious a while ago had been ripped and hoarded and ultimately resulted in the Near-Extinction. 

I laid out my backpack as I did every night - food out, sleeping bag unrolled, crossbow at my side, stakes in hood of sleeping bag, strap up everything else. Only when I was sure I could be on the defensive instantly did I settle down to eat. 

The decision to take to the hills instead of down the rivers had proved fortuitous. Being primarily built of wood and stone, there were many shops and structures that had minimal exposed metal barring their entrances - extrusions and parts like latches or hinges, which were easy to avoid once I observed the fingers melting off off one of my early companions while passing through the start of the mountains. All he had done was try to pry open the doors by jerking the sliding latch towards himself; his fingerprints were literally left on the latch. He seemed surprised, and observed his stripped-to-the-bone fingertips with an eerie detachment, frowning, uncomprehending, looking at the fingernails beginning to slide off the bone without half of the under side muscles and skin to hold them in place. When he tried to pick up the clothes and tissues we three threw to him, he started to cry. It took him three and a quarter hours to die, by which time his radius was almost completely exposed. It was a chance to observe one of our people go from up close, and we made no bones about it - despite there being so much of forearm bone on display.

The veins on the side of the neck and along the upper spine went blue the fastest. By the time the bluishness spread to the shoulders, death seemed imminent in under half an hour. It seemed, in our part of the world at least, that the weapon we had faced irradiated exposed metal to the point of turning it into a contact lethal weapon. The paint on vehicles, grills, furniture, fences, chain links - everything, it seemed like - blistered and ran down in sticky pools to the ground, and we ran across many unfortunate beings who couldn't even get far enough to escape the paint sludge of their doom. 

It was cold as I climbed to the roof of the shelter to take a look around, and I hummed that now-so-far Limp Bizkit song as I slowly and methodically surveyed the entire panorama surrounding me. The slope behind and above me was sparsely forested, and undergrowth was scanty. This high up, the soil was rocky rather than loamy, and in the greenish moonlight, the swathes of silvery barrenness reflected the shine of the moon for miles around. The valley in front of me had a river running through it, coursing through a couple of bends before disappearing down towards my right. 

A cloud obscured the moon, casting a shadow over the upper course of the river. Silhouetted against the moonlit cleft in the valley, a small stream of smoke rose steadily into the air. 

Tumultuous activity occurred in my brain. People? Possible. Cooperative people? Maybe. Sociable people, with a plan and more information than me? Can't rule it out; I was counting on making it to defensive establishments, if they had avoided death, and proving my worth in as many heroic descriptions of my survival as possible, to convince them to utilise my skills and let me earn my keep, as stowaways may have said. It wasn't the only romantic notion I had in my head regarding the future, but it certainly was the one that kept me sharp and going. I decided to check out the fire in the night itself. If I kept my distance and moved silently, I could have a look at the source of the fire, at least, if not it's nurturers. 


I was thinking, like Rodin's thinker. I didn't feel the slightest remorse in speaking my mind; and I was very glad she appreciated it. It would remain a friendship, but never one where we would fall into the illusion that a human being can cohabitate with another over a lifetime. Whatever works at the 'life' level supersedes the dilemmas of physics. But what is the conclusion?

At Ms (soon to be Mrs) GK's pre-wedding function, am bored out of my wits. 

Beauty in the Morning

I pray - nay, I wish - for peace
Moments of tranquility 
Deep as if from the seas
Strung together silently 

Awake to fresh dawn and dew
Barefoot on spring grass
Fingers flicking through
Air that has no mass

Looking, blinking, at the orb
That sustains our existence 
Away from society's snide barb
Slaves caught up in pretence

Look for the bright sun
Look for the flowing water
Find the pure zephyr
Seek the innermost purity


[Note: Phonetics DO matter in the written medium. The last word, live, is the verb form.]

Down To The Bone

Sun warming the clouds from above
Driving the cold down
Cold has none other way to go
Down to the bone

I want to be a solar cell
Rooted eternally
Basking in the sun warming me
Down to the bone

Rivers are girls
Crooning lullabies at night
When all else is quiet
And I feel alone
Down to the bone

Self Compositions

Bonafide certified party animal
Pleasure erupts at love carnal
The sun brings life to a new day
I stumble on as I can on my way

Future obscure
Reasons pure
Music sedates 
Death predates

It's not like I'm saying something new
It's the slough we all pull through
But the difference is in the way we do
Whether you rule the world or belong in the zoo

I'll go higher
Cool under fire 

My pseudonym is 2ace 
try to keep up with my fuckin pace
Y'think turtle won the money race? Shit it just got egg on its face

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