I am apprehensive about writing this piece because, for the first time, I feel I will not be able to give that night its full due. What started, as a dismal commemoration of being single one valentines’ eve, soon turned out to be the wildest night of my life!
We weren’t drunk, nor stoned. We were just wallowing… An hour passed with depressing songs of love. Love lost, lost love found, love lost and found and lost and never found…
It started out slow, a move here a movement there. Shoulder shrugging dance soon gave way to heavy head banging. No external intoxication, pure adrenalin! Suddenly, a pillow came flying my way, before I knew it, the four pillows on my bed were being ripped apart in the process of a pillow fight. There was screaming, it seemed in tune with Papa Roach (Last Resort). We wrestled with intentions of murder! There was sweat and hair all over our faces. We were hyperventilating…. almost asthmatic. Nothing deterred us. We were rolling on the cold floor, unable to breathe with laughter dominating each bronchiole. My body gave up; I now suffered from chronic hilarity! We were epileptically seizing in post traumatic laughter. It looked nothing like the pillow fight-ic arousal bits on American television. It was ugly.
Then it stopped… Time out… One could feel the tension. Though breathing, each knew that the other, silently prepared for the next attack. Eyes alert, were now Hi Tech cameras, programmed to spot and process movements in the split existence of a second….. Someone slightly shifted…. That was enough…. And the pillows rained, they thundered! Covers were torn, ripped into tatters; they were just slowing us down….props of nameless shapes were now used to smother faces and bodies alike. Each oppressor; overwhelmed and unrestrained.
In lieu of the chaotic, barbaric brutality, strategic symphony soon set in. Each doe-eyed the other. Innocent nonchalance could barely sustain to cover the exuberance boiling within….
They cornered me. I never knew where the first blow came from as I hit the cold ground, half struggling to get off my bean bag. The bag seemed to participate too. It was a wormhole, quick sand, one could never get out! The blows never stopped! I gathered all my strength and sat up. I snatched someone’s pillow. She was defenseless now! The others noticed that too…we were vultures, loyal to none but the meat of helpless prey. And we rained again, this time we were hailing! Pecking of the flesh till her skin turned red!
It had been hours, or so it seemed. After a point, our hands shivering with fatigue, just threw misdirected aims into thin air. At times, our own pillows would hit us, tiring mid way an attack. The laughter though, never ceased. It never ceased.
I will never know how it ended. How I closed the door and got on my bed. How the discarded cigarette butts reached the trash can or how a torn pillow cover ended up pasted to the wall. I will never know why my floor is sticky or how my beanbag is covered in icing! I will never know! And it’s beautiful to know that I will never know!
Showing posts with label College. Show all posts
Showing posts with label College. Show all posts
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Thank You for Drinking
I am currently reading this very ‘trashy’ yet oddly captivating book called ‘Bobbed Hair and Bathtub Gin’. It’s about these four female writers and their tumultuous journey in and out of the writing arena. I was, somewhat ‘questionably’, inspired by this contemporary exhibition of female defiance in contrast to the daintily worded cries of the corseted bosom in, say, a Henry James portrayal of Rebellion. As the Karenin wife or Madam Bovary would drape themselves in curtains while prancing about married men and horny suitors and Daisy Miller or Scarlet o’ Hara would trollop around spilling out shame from behind laced, heart shaped corsets, the feisty writers of this dynamic piece of work would bare it all in four beds in one night with silk and gin!
I personally like bathing at midnight. It feels almost poetic. A day ends and another begins. All in that instant.
Nights glazed in pining for dreams, soaking in a cold bath, I soon forget if its gin or swirling water. The cubicle is dark with only moonlight pouring in. I open the window to allow additional street lights. Cold breeze gently teases my bare body. I look out at stars and night. I sit dripping on the bathroom floor, legs folded, and my knees against my bare shoulders, feeling the rigidity of my collarbone against them. My bare back shivers as the cold door resists my body heat. My painted nails reflect the streetlight as my wet hair curls into my neck. As I rest my cold cheeks on one knee, I gaze at the fresh scar on the other. I gently encircle it with the tip on my fingers. I feel cold and beautiful. The scar looks like the number 8. Or infinity.
It feels bald and reminds me of the membranes inside egg shells.
This scar is my trophy, for a month long life of dreams. A dream, that led me to infinite nights of coquettish philandering with intoxication and absurdity. I wouldn’t know when I was awake or distinguish one night from another. I still think of it fondly. I long for another brush against that infidelity, something to exaggerate my delirium. A Euphoric fiesta of every thing good and everything sinful. An iniquitous blend of strawberry and cream, that so define immorality when together.
Painted lips and powdered nose, I knew I belonged only to that burning elixir. Looking fondly at my beautiful drink in its clear glass, I recite;
“I owe you nothing. And you are nothing to me. Thank you for curing me of my ridiculous obsession with love.” (Moulin Rouge)
I personally like bathing at midnight. It feels almost poetic. A day ends and another begins. All in that instant.
Nights glazed in pining for dreams, soaking in a cold bath, I soon forget if its gin or swirling water. The cubicle is dark with only moonlight pouring in. I open the window to allow additional street lights. Cold breeze gently teases my bare body. I look out at stars and night. I sit dripping on the bathroom floor, legs folded, and my knees against my bare shoulders, feeling the rigidity of my collarbone against them. My bare back shivers as the cold door resists my body heat. My painted nails reflect the streetlight as my wet hair curls into my neck. As I rest my cold cheeks on one knee, I gaze at the fresh scar on the other. I gently encircle it with the tip on my fingers. I feel cold and beautiful. The scar looks like the number 8. Or infinity.
It feels bald and reminds me of the membranes inside egg shells.
This scar is my trophy, for a month long life of dreams. A dream, that led me to infinite nights of coquettish philandering with intoxication and absurdity. I wouldn’t know when I was awake or distinguish one night from another. I still think of it fondly. I long for another brush against that infidelity, something to exaggerate my delirium. A Euphoric fiesta of every thing good and everything sinful. An iniquitous blend of strawberry and cream, that so define immorality when together.
Painted lips and powdered nose, I knew I belonged only to that burning elixir. Looking fondly at my beautiful drink in its clear glass, I recite;
“I owe you nothing. And you are nothing to me. Thank you for curing me of my ridiculous obsession with love.” (Moulin Rouge)
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
As I Rode from Perdition
I have never hated anybody in life. And, people say, that when you near death, you always find it in yourself to forgive. But I know now, that I don’t care. I feel vindictive. I want to hurt the people who hurt me that day. I find it odd that barring the importance of the helmet, this feeling of hatred for some selected people is all that the accident taught me.
I keep running it in my head over and over again. It seems to me that shock has robbed me of the most important second of my life.
Everything was going perfectly that day.
I remember turning to look for my cap. I remember turning back to say that I had spotted it.
I remember knowing that I was in the process of an accident. I remember not being scared, just confused. Falling felt almost comfortable. Time dilated as I felt every second of the swing as the bike began its side wards descent. I knew I wasn’t dying, my life didn’t flash before me. I think I let go of the bike and held her for a second. She wouldn’t let the handles go. All rationality required letting go of the swiftly skidding bike. I think I remember jumping off. Years of sports had harnessed my reflexes. I should have rolled and then skidded over to the middle of the road if my wounds are to be trusted. I remember looking over while skidding. The bike was on top of her as she skid on the road as well, headfirst. I remember thinking about her helmet. I remember knowing that I didn’t have one. I had to save my face. Almost instantly I pulled my head, with all my weight on my right hand and knee. I remember scraping against gravel and hot road as I came to a stop. I remember breathing in dust and tasting salty stones.
I saw the sunglasses my dad had gifted me. I remember wanting to cry. I couldn’t reach for them just yet. I looked back and saw her head exposed to oncoming traffic. Instinctively, I reached out and pulled her head aside. I felt stupid as people started to crowd. I wanted them all to go away. I didn’t feel hurt.
Her helmet was cracked in two like a flimsy egg shell. She was bleeding from her forehead. The sight of blood jerked me back to reality. There wasn’t any water to clean the wound. I remember thanking the helmet in my mind. Surprisingly I didn’t think of god or family. I remembered having no first aid for the first time in my life. I wanted to cry again. She kept looking at me. It was just the two of us there. Everybody else was silent noise. I knew I needed to say something to snap her out of her shock but I couldn’t bring myself to say anything.
I think I smiled. I don’t know why I smiled, but I knew that she would understand what I wanted to convey. She smiled back.
I didn’t know if I was hurt. Actually, I don’t remember feeling anything at that instant. I was just brazenly calm. Somehow, I remembered first aid checks. I asked her to move her hands and feet, to spot prospective bone injury, doing the same myself. Everything seemed to be functional.
I remember sitting outside someone’s home sipping plain soda. I remember hating the taste, but it was cold and I desperately needed to do something with my hands. I focused on the taste as it washed down the mud from my mouth. I faced away from her.
As I sat alone in some idiosyncratic peace, the memories flooded me with pure fear. I relived the incident again and again. I could feel my control giving up, as tears started pouring out. Fear is my only way of describing my state.
I saw her head, dragging against the ground with such force that only tatters of the helmet remained. Every time I saw the helmet, I feared for my life. All that while, my reflexes were the only grace that saved my life that day. Paranoia soon set in. I could feel the panic of the on coming shock attack. I had never been in shock. I faced away from everyone.
At that instant, my right hand decided to go numb. I couldn’t flex it with out excruciating pain. It exaggerated the panic. I started to weep like a baby for the fear of losing my right arm. My knee wound started becoming septic, as my knee revolted in pain. I hadn’t felt so much pain ever before. I could feel my whole face wet with tears. I needed comfort. Even amidst my best friends, I longed for another kind of comfort all together. I needed some one to hold me and hug me. I wanted to bawl without shame. I wanted everybody to know I was hurt and come to my aid. I was alone and afraid. I remember pitying myself. I couldn’t fathom how or why I was thinking about such mundane things. I wanted to snap out of it, but it felt too comfortable just thinking about the prospect of the men I loved being around at that instant.
Then I remember looking at my hand. I was moving my fingers and twitching my shoulders unknowingly. I wasn’t paralyzed. I put all my focus on myself. I felt her presence behind me, she was as hurt as I was, but more worried about me. I could feel her eyes on me. I knew she wanted to talk. I wanted to smile at her again. I felt angry at myself.
At that instant I knew something was truly important to me. Maybe it wouldn’t be my life’s motto, but at that moment it was everything I would live by.
I was important.
Here I was broken, and thinking about all the people I wanted around to pamper me, all the people who still didn’t care how close to death I was that day.
In my life, I have always given importance to things I can’t have. I have always run loops behind ideas that have only existed in my head and are in fact miles away from reality. Much of my trauma that day was self inflicted. It wasn’t the shortage of friends it was just the absence of the ones I had wanted there.
Not much of an insight from a near death Experience?!
I keep running it in my head over and over again. It seems to me that shock has robbed me of the most important second of my life.
Everything was going perfectly that day.
I remember turning to look for my cap. I remember turning back to say that I had spotted it.
I remember knowing that I was in the process of an accident. I remember not being scared, just confused. Falling felt almost comfortable. Time dilated as I felt every second of the swing as the bike began its side wards descent. I knew I wasn’t dying, my life didn’t flash before me. I think I let go of the bike and held her for a second. She wouldn’t let the handles go. All rationality required letting go of the swiftly skidding bike. I think I remember jumping off. Years of sports had harnessed my reflexes. I should have rolled and then skidded over to the middle of the road if my wounds are to be trusted. I remember looking over while skidding. The bike was on top of her as she skid on the road as well, headfirst. I remember thinking about her helmet. I remember knowing that I didn’t have one. I had to save my face. Almost instantly I pulled my head, with all my weight on my right hand and knee. I remember scraping against gravel and hot road as I came to a stop. I remember breathing in dust and tasting salty stones.
I saw the sunglasses my dad had gifted me. I remember wanting to cry. I couldn’t reach for them just yet. I looked back and saw her head exposed to oncoming traffic. Instinctively, I reached out and pulled her head aside. I felt stupid as people started to crowd. I wanted them all to go away. I didn’t feel hurt.
Her helmet was cracked in two like a flimsy egg shell. She was bleeding from her forehead. The sight of blood jerked me back to reality. There wasn’t any water to clean the wound. I remember thanking the helmet in my mind. Surprisingly I didn’t think of god or family. I remembered having no first aid for the first time in my life. I wanted to cry again. She kept looking at me. It was just the two of us there. Everybody else was silent noise. I knew I needed to say something to snap her out of her shock but I couldn’t bring myself to say anything.
I think I smiled. I don’t know why I smiled, but I knew that she would understand what I wanted to convey. She smiled back.
I didn’t know if I was hurt. Actually, I don’t remember feeling anything at that instant. I was just brazenly calm. Somehow, I remembered first aid checks. I asked her to move her hands and feet, to spot prospective bone injury, doing the same myself. Everything seemed to be functional.
I remember sitting outside someone’s home sipping plain soda. I remember hating the taste, but it was cold and I desperately needed to do something with my hands. I focused on the taste as it washed down the mud from my mouth. I faced away from her.
As I sat alone in some idiosyncratic peace, the memories flooded me with pure fear. I relived the incident again and again. I could feel my control giving up, as tears started pouring out. Fear is my only way of describing my state.
I saw her head, dragging against the ground with such force that only tatters of the helmet remained. Every time I saw the helmet, I feared for my life. All that while, my reflexes were the only grace that saved my life that day. Paranoia soon set in. I could feel the panic of the on coming shock attack. I had never been in shock. I faced away from everyone.
At that instant, my right hand decided to go numb. I couldn’t flex it with out excruciating pain. It exaggerated the panic. I started to weep like a baby for the fear of losing my right arm. My knee wound started becoming septic, as my knee revolted in pain. I hadn’t felt so much pain ever before. I could feel my whole face wet with tears. I needed comfort. Even amidst my best friends, I longed for another kind of comfort all together. I needed some one to hold me and hug me. I wanted to bawl without shame. I wanted everybody to know I was hurt and come to my aid. I was alone and afraid. I remember pitying myself. I couldn’t fathom how or why I was thinking about such mundane things. I wanted to snap out of it, but it felt too comfortable just thinking about the prospect of the men I loved being around at that instant.
Then I remember looking at my hand. I was moving my fingers and twitching my shoulders unknowingly. I wasn’t paralyzed. I put all my focus on myself. I felt her presence behind me, she was as hurt as I was, but more worried about me. I could feel her eyes on me. I knew she wanted to talk. I wanted to smile at her again. I felt angry at myself.
At that instant I knew something was truly important to me. Maybe it wouldn’t be my life’s motto, but at that moment it was everything I would live by.
I was important.
Here I was broken, and thinking about all the people I wanted around to pamper me, all the people who still didn’t care how close to death I was that day.
In my life, I have always given importance to things I can’t have. I have always run loops behind ideas that have only existed in my head and are in fact miles away from reality. Much of my trauma that day was self inflicted. It wasn’t the shortage of friends it was just the absence of the ones I had wanted there.
Not much of an insight from a near death Experience?!
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
My 'Read before Dying'
(*)- Have Read/ Am Reading/ Possess, but waiting for Death to near.
1. Tales of Belkin and other prose writings – Pushkin (*)
2. The Bell Jar- Sylvia Plath (*)
3. The unabridged journals of Sylvia Plath (*)
4. In search of lost time- Marcel Proust (Swann's Way*)
5. War and Peace + Anna Karenina (*)- Leo Tolstoy
6. The Crimson Petal And The White- Michel Faber (*)
7. 100 years of solitude + Love in the Time of Cholera – Gabriel García Márquez (*)
8. Dead Souls- Gogol (*)
9. The Scarlet Letter- Nathaniel Hawthorne
10. Rebecca- Daphne Du Maurier (*)
11. Catcher in the Rye- J.D. Salinger (*)
12. Atlas Shrugged- Ayn Rand (*)
13. Heart of Darkness- Joseph Conrad
14. The Golden Notebook- Doris Lessing (*)
15. Portrait of a Lady- Henry James (*)
16. Bobbed Hair And Bathtub Gin- Marion Meade (*)
17. Emile Zola*
18. Napoleon- Frank Mclynn (*)
19. Life of Pi- Yann Martel (*)
20. Sula- Toni Morrison (*)
21. Midnight's Children – Salman Rushdie (*)
22. Ethics- Benedict De Spinoza
23. Hunchback of Notre Dame- Victor Hugo (*)
24. Crime and Punishment + The Brothers Karamazov (*)- Fyodor Dostoyevsky
25. The Collected Stories Of Eudora Welty (*) + The Optimist's Daughter- Eudora Welty
26. A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius- Dave Eggers (*)
27. The Iliad + Odyssey (*)- Homer
28. Madame Bovary- Gustave Flaubert
30. The sound and the fury- William Faulkner (*)
31. Tender Is The Night- Scott F. Fitzerald (*)
32. The Book of Mormon
33. The Perks Of Being A Wallflower- Stephen Chbosky
34. Memoirs Of A Dutiful Daughter- Simone De Beauvoir
35. Year Of Magical Thinking- Joan Didion (*)
36. Joseph and His Brothers- Thomas Mann
37. Running With Scissors- Augusten Burroughs
38. Buddenbrooks (*) + Magic Mountain- Thomas Mann
39. The Life of Reason- George Santayana
40. Lust For Life- Irving Stone
NOT INCLUDING SHAKESPEARE, SHORT STORIES AND THE OBVIOUS CLASSICS (Dickens, Bronte, Thomas Hardy, Austen, Twain, Oscar Wilde, Hemingway, etc.)!
1. Tales of Belkin and other prose writings – Pushkin (*)
2. The Bell Jar- Sylvia Plath (*)
3. The unabridged journals of Sylvia Plath (*)
4. In search of lost time- Marcel Proust (Swann's Way*)
5. War and Peace + Anna Karenina (*)- Leo Tolstoy
6. The Crimson Petal And The White- Michel Faber (*)
7. 100 years of solitude + Love in the Time of Cholera – Gabriel García Márquez (*)
8. Dead Souls- Gogol (*)
9. The Scarlet Letter- Nathaniel Hawthorne
10. Rebecca- Daphne Du Maurier (*)
11. Catcher in the Rye- J.D. Salinger (*)
12. Atlas Shrugged- Ayn Rand (*)
13. Heart of Darkness- Joseph Conrad
14. The Golden Notebook- Doris Lessing (*)
15. Portrait of a Lady- Henry James (*)
16. Bobbed Hair And Bathtub Gin- Marion Meade (*)
17. Emile Zola*
18. Napoleon- Frank Mclynn (*)
19. Life of Pi- Yann Martel (*)
20. Sula- Toni Morrison (*)
21. Midnight's Children – Salman Rushdie (*)
22. Ethics- Benedict De Spinoza
23. Hunchback of Notre Dame- Victor Hugo (*)
24. Crime and Punishment + The Brothers Karamazov (*)- Fyodor Dostoyevsky
25. The Collected Stories Of Eudora Welty (*) + The Optimist's Daughter- Eudora Welty
26. A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius- Dave Eggers (*)
27. The Iliad + Odyssey (*)- Homer
28. Madame Bovary- Gustave Flaubert
30. The sound and the fury- William Faulkner (*)
31. Tender Is The Night- Scott F. Fitzerald (*)
32. The Book of Mormon
33. The Perks Of Being A Wallflower- Stephen Chbosky
34. Memoirs Of A Dutiful Daughter- Simone De Beauvoir
35. Year Of Magical Thinking- Joan Didion (*)
36. Joseph and His Brothers- Thomas Mann
37. Running With Scissors- Augusten Burroughs
38. Buddenbrooks (*) + Magic Mountain- Thomas Mann
39. The Life of Reason- George Santayana
40. Lust For Life- Irving Stone
NOT INCLUDING SHAKESPEARE, SHORT STORIES AND THE OBVIOUS CLASSICS (Dickens, Bronte, Thomas Hardy, Austen, Twain, Oscar Wilde, Hemingway, etc.)!
Thursday, November 05, 2009
Chronicles of the Psychedelic Reality VOL 1: My MUSINGS ON GRASS Chapter 3
Its night, but the sky has a mind of its own…
It isn’t black with stars, today it is blue, gray white with ripples like an ocean!
I want to see it and take it in…
Suddenly it seems painted and static…
Now I am falling to it...but now I am stuck mid way, hanging…almost able to touch it…I can almost feel the canvas, the oil colors, uneven surface...its rough but smooth...its like i am touching plaster of Paris...it isn't wet..i can taste the colors...the blues are cold...i can feel my cold breath...i want to breath with my mouth for sometime...the clouds are moving now, it seems someone dropped water on the painting and its trickling down…but its slow…very slow, maybe their gravity is lower than ours…
Now it looks like a sea..I can see a ship sinking in a whirlpool..
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
The sky has changed now...My sky is punctured…I seem wrapped in silver foil with a tiny opening…or am I in a pressure cooker?
Is god a cook? That’s demeaning; he should be more than jus one talent.
Has he been feeding us with food and knowledge just to make us juicy enough for dinner?
Alien abductions are god’s way of checking if the food is done!! Pick up one person, lick and put back…those who are done comprise of the unexplained disappearances!
Our days are spent in his microwave and our nights in his fridge and the rest of the time on the table…probably thawing!
Earthquakes are his moving us and rains are condensing water droplets on the cooker lid! (at least humans got the condensation part right!)
God doesn’t buy new food…quite the miser.
Or maybe we are in an egg…some one punctured a tiny hole in us and broke the sides... we are still fetal but can see outside through the hole…the clouds are the cell fluid (was it cytoplasm?), protecting us. Everyday some one comes to check inside the egg with a torch and moves the torch around from our east to west. Maybe they don’t have randomness in their world.
The clouds are covering the moon now…are we healing?
It isn’t black with stars, today it is blue, gray white with ripples like an ocean!
I want to see it and take it in…
Suddenly it seems painted and static…
Now I am falling to it...but now I am stuck mid way, hanging…almost able to touch it…I can almost feel the canvas, the oil colors, uneven surface...its rough but smooth...its like i am touching plaster of Paris...it isn't wet..i can taste the colors...the blues are cold...i can feel my cold breath...i want to breath with my mouth for sometime...the clouds are moving now, it seems someone dropped water on the painting and its trickling down…but its slow…very slow, maybe their gravity is lower than ours…
Now it looks like a sea..I can see a ship sinking in a whirlpool..
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
The sky has changed now...My sky is punctured…I seem wrapped in silver foil with a tiny opening…or am I in a pressure cooker?
Is god a cook? That’s demeaning; he should be more than jus one talent.
Has he been feeding us with food and knowledge just to make us juicy enough for dinner?
Alien abductions are god’s way of checking if the food is done!! Pick up one person, lick and put back…those who are done comprise of the unexplained disappearances!
Our days are spent in his microwave and our nights in his fridge and the rest of the time on the table…probably thawing!
Earthquakes are his moving us and rains are condensing water droplets on the cooker lid! (at least humans got the condensation part right!)
God doesn’t buy new food…quite the miser.
Or maybe we are in an egg…some one punctured a tiny hole in us and broke the sides... we are still fetal but can see outside through the hole…the clouds are the cell fluid (was it cytoplasm?), protecting us. Everyday some one comes to check inside the egg with a torch and moves the torch around from our east to west. Maybe they don’t have randomness in their world.
The clouds are covering the moon now…are we healing?
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
Chronicles of the Psychedelic Reality VOL 1: My MUSINGS ON GRASS Chapter 2
My reality, déjà vu and schizophrenia
Mental reality is faster than its physical counterpart.
I have traveled and lived all the physical potential I might have in this world. Visiting choices in my mind, I have experienced them indefinitely. Whatever my world has shown me, I have used to create multiple lives for my self, with infinite possibilities.
My physical body though, can only follow one reality.
At any present moment I send my mind in all directions to explore the infinite. But, as my body and mind are connected, my body is compelled to choose one of these directions to follow. It makes its choice on the basis of its environment and treads the most appealing path.
My body needs to meet up with my mind in some space to impart the necessary impulse for the mind to take off again. When my two realities (mental n physical) meet, they create an unimaginable yet veritable phenomenon. That’s déjà vu.
They are usually very mild and I don’t feel them in my life often, but some times when my reality (mental and physical) comes dangerously close to another mental possibility that did not take place, my reality is shaken and then the déjà vu is strongly felt!
Contrary to what I used to believe, my mind and body are co related. The mind is dependent on the body to follow and give life to possibility and create reality, while my body needs my mind to rush ahead and explore my choices and their implications.
If some day, my body decides that it doesn’t want to follow any mental possibility and refuses to move, my physical reality will come in contact with mental realities of other worlds around me and be crushed, making me believe in events that haven’t and will not exist.…
That is what people will call ‘schizophrenia’!
Mental reality is faster than its physical counterpart.
I have traveled and lived all the physical potential I might have in this world. Visiting choices in my mind, I have experienced them indefinitely. Whatever my world has shown me, I have used to create multiple lives for my self, with infinite possibilities.
My physical body though, can only follow one reality.
At any present moment I send my mind in all directions to explore the infinite. But, as my body and mind are connected, my body is compelled to choose one of these directions to follow. It makes its choice on the basis of its environment and treads the most appealing path.
My body needs to meet up with my mind in some space to impart the necessary impulse for the mind to take off again. When my two realities (mental n physical) meet, they create an unimaginable yet veritable phenomenon. That’s déjà vu.
They are usually very mild and I don’t feel them in my life often, but some times when my reality (mental and physical) comes dangerously close to another mental possibility that did not take place, my reality is shaken and then the déjà vu is strongly felt!
Contrary to what I used to believe, my mind and body are co related. The mind is dependent on the body to follow and give life to possibility and create reality, while my body needs my mind to rush ahead and explore my choices and their implications.
If some day, my body decides that it doesn’t want to follow any mental possibility and refuses to move, my physical reality will come in contact with mental realities of other worlds around me and be crushed, making me believe in events that haven’t and will not exist.…
That is what people will call ‘schizophrenia’!
Monday, November 02, 2009
Chronicles of the Psychedelic Reality VOL 1: MUSINGS ON GRASS Chapter 1
God, the Physicist
Consider a tree. Assume that the system of leaves, twigs and trunk isn’t what it appears to be. Maybe god wanted to save space and energy, so he made reality on both sides of the ground. The system of leaves and branches for us is their underground system of roots and our sky is their soil! They breathe dust and worship the core. They bathe in hot lava rivers and sleep in bright yellow nights. They are not people but they aren’t any less either.
When people die in our world, we bury them or their ashes are washed away, their bodies disintegrating into the ground mixed with our crust slowly pass over to the other side and are recreated in the world beneath our feet. Similarly, energies that are extinguished there are ‘born’ here in our world.
Death seemed like gods blunder to me. The energy of our life and soul never appeared recreated. Our infinite essence vanished with the limitations of our body.
But I guess god defines our ‘surrounding’ differently. It’s a balance between this world and the one beneath. Energies are conserved when both are taken into consideration.
And hence we finally explain what we assumed to be creation’s biggest paradox
Consider a tree. Assume that the system of leaves, twigs and trunk isn’t what it appears to be. Maybe god wanted to save space and energy, so he made reality on both sides of the ground. The system of leaves and branches for us is their underground system of roots and our sky is their soil! They breathe dust and worship the core. They bathe in hot lava rivers and sleep in bright yellow nights. They are not people but they aren’t any less either.
When people die in our world, we bury them or their ashes are washed away, their bodies disintegrating into the ground mixed with our crust slowly pass over to the other side and are recreated in the world beneath our feet. Similarly, energies that are extinguished there are ‘born’ here in our world.
Death seemed like gods blunder to me. The energy of our life and soul never appeared recreated. Our infinite essence vanished with the limitations of our body.
But I guess god defines our ‘surrounding’ differently. It’s a balance between this world and the one beneath. Energies are conserved when both are taken into consideration.
And hence we finally explain what we assumed to be creation’s biggest paradox
Saturday, May 16, 2009
An end too soon...
I sit on my bed, reading old letters and diary entries, trying to recollect the eventful journey these past three years have been. I feel desolate, somber somehow. I didn’t think I had it in me to be serious, ever. A feeling of emptiness floods me. I don’t really understand it. I have had a full life in college, there is nothing that I regret or still crave. What is it then that fills me up with this sense of losing something I never had?? An implication of being incomplete.
I was many people in college. I could afford to be. I experimented with people and their reactions. I took it as a ‘course’ to prep me for people I met later in life. I made choices, drastic ones, mostly impulsive. My choices did not have lifelong implications and I am not done exploiting that yet. Isn’t this what we all crave for?? A life of full authority but negligible liability..??
I made friends that in true definition are my family now. I loved them like I have never loved my own siblings. I met people who detested me. I let people hate me and enjoyed loathing them as well. I experienced diversity in regions but unity in thousands.
I took quantum physics and I butchered the subject so badly that it ashamed my teachers to fail me and allow me the massacre again. I politely threatened my ‘acquaintances’ to let me play innumerable basketball matches. I didn’t care till the time I was on every team playing my energy’s limit daily. I bullied juniors to tears from under the ‘invisible’ cloak of a department interview.
I painted on my walls, crude derogatory testimonials to the institute and its rules. I didn’t bother to remove it; the look on their faces was precious. I was penalized for coming late, in an uninhibited state of intoxication. I came that way again. And again. And again. And then they just gave up.
I lived with expression, with compassion and ambition. Then I lived like a sloth, surviving on the endless flow of TV series, enjoying their lives when mine seemed too demanding and laborious.
I gave up the right guy for reasons pertaining to matters of the heart and more. I loved the wrong guy for three whole years, suspending all my ego and self respect at his disposition. I got rejection and heartache, but I just held on. I held on because I knew it didn’t matter. I knew this behavior wasn’t anticipated. I was expected to walk out with my head held high. But my way was just so ‘different’ and implausible, that I did it just because I could.
College happens to be that one place where everything is possible. One is not too young, yet not old enough. It’s a place where responsibility doesn’t have to accompany every thought of risk and possibility. Whether it’s plunging into a career field completely unknown or taking a leap in love, falling head first every time. It’s a time when friends are made for the mere enjoyment of company, and not some underlying iniquitous purpose. It’s a world where trivial feelings of worthlessness, disappointment and betrayal have a face and are not hidden beneath masks of the pleasant disposition that comes with maturity. Every body is an equal, standing an unbiased attempt at self actualization and success. No problem is insignificant or petty, and if it’s too big then ‘li8’!!
Graduation marks the end of a life without consequences. It’s hard to let go. There is so much more I haven’t risked yet. I am not over my quota of this mad but lucky gamble.
I was many people in college. I could afford to be. I experimented with people and their reactions. I took it as a ‘course’ to prep me for people I met later in life. I made choices, drastic ones, mostly impulsive. My choices did not have lifelong implications and I am not done exploiting that yet. Isn’t this what we all crave for?? A life of full authority but negligible liability..??
I made friends that in true definition are my family now. I loved them like I have never loved my own siblings. I met people who detested me. I let people hate me and enjoyed loathing them as well. I experienced diversity in regions but unity in thousands.
I took quantum physics and I butchered the subject so badly that it ashamed my teachers to fail me and allow me the massacre again. I politely threatened my ‘acquaintances’ to let me play innumerable basketball matches. I didn’t care till the time I was on every team playing my energy’s limit daily. I bullied juniors to tears from under the ‘invisible’ cloak of a department interview.
I painted on my walls, crude derogatory testimonials to the institute and its rules. I didn’t bother to remove it; the look on their faces was precious. I was penalized for coming late, in an uninhibited state of intoxication. I came that way again. And again. And again. And then they just gave up.
I lived with expression, with compassion and ambition. Then I lived like a sloth, surviving on the endless flow of TV series, enjoying their lives when mine seemed too demanding and laborious.
I gave up the right guy for reasons pertaining to matters of the heart and more. I loved the wrong guy for three whole years, suspending all my ego and self respect at his disposition. I got rejection and heartache, but I just held on. I held on because I knew it didn’t matter. I knew this behavior wasn’t anticipated. I was expected to walk out with my head held high. But my way was just so ‘different’ and implausible, that I did it just because I could.
College happens to be that one place where everything is possible. One is not too young, yet not old enough. It’s a place where responsibility doesn’t have to accompany every thought of risk and possibility. Whether it’s plunging into a career field completely unknown or taking a leap in love, falling head first every time. It’s a time when friends are made for the mere enjoyment of company, and not some underlying iniquitous purpose. It’s a world where trivial feelings of worthlessness, disappointment and betrayal have a face and are not hidden beneath masks of the pleasant disposition that comes with maturity. Every body is an equal, standing an unbiased attempt at self actualization and success. No problem is insignificant or petty, and if it’s too big then ‘li8’!!
Graduation marks the end of a life without consequences. It’s hard to let go. There is so much more I haven’t risked yet. I am not over my quota of this mad but lucky gamble.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Entries of Change
My next post is about a dear friend. He has unknowingly been a source of inspiration to many around him, including me. The entries are completely fictional, mere ‘paraphernalia’ in my endeavor to describe him. I have written them as an observer of his life in college.
I call him ‘R’ on popular request!
15st August, 2006
“It's my first week in college. R catches my eye because of his peculiar behavior. He behaves as though he is trying too hard, yet not hard enough. He has an old friend, who provides him with an innate sense of security. R tries hard to keep this friend happy, he feels protected around him.
His friend mocks him in public. I can see how much this offends him. R once tried confronting his friend, only to be subjected to more mockery and condescension. In a way he expects too much from his friend, in a way he expects the least. He appears trivial and docile. Insignificant things affect him to tears. He does not understand moderation, Pity is all he gets. Oddly, pity satisfies him.”
When we are somewhere new, we find solace and comfort in a known face. Contrary to people finding that reassuring, there is a sense of stagnancy and dependability involved. By relying on that friend completely, R shut all his possibilities of change. This friend wouldn’t view him any differently than what he had for the past 5 years. Any change in R’s personality would only have him endure allegations of pretence and charade from his best friend. Even though it’s comfortable, people need new beginnings to constantly reinvent themselves.
Without amendment, one remains the ‘Mistake’ one is.
15th August, 2007
“I have been talking with R at great lengths. He understands his need to turn over a new leaf. He works for it. He writes about it every day, writes so that change is engraved in his being. R struggles with the physical and mental changes he needs to bring about himself. Focusing on his fitness and looks provide him with a sense of control over his life.
R was always very social. He just needs faith and confidence. Above all, he needs new friends. People who will hear and respect him for that changed man he strives to be.”
We all need a noticeable ‘pre-change’ phenomenon to get accustomed to and finally embrace change. For most of us, a change in our physical appearance usually precedes any form of change in our outlooks or personalities. This is primarily because any visible evidence of our success is the most encouraging.
Even if we do get past our fears and conquer change and its monstrosities, one atrocious joke will never make the same audience laugh again, no matter how much you polish it. Life has default resets all along. When you shift schools, college, jobs, partners, etc. but, the real challenge is being able to reset with the same people, in the same place with the same prejudices.
All a man is, is what ‘people’ perceive him to be.
15th August, 2008
“I see R now and he seems happy. People love to be in his company. His charms are effortless when it comes to girls. His chivalry gets him both admiration and respect. He is the most popular person on campus. There is no one I know who dislikes R. I wonder how he did it. I wonder if I am made of the same ‘stuff’ he is. I applaud his victory. I applaud his perseverance.”
R made new beginnings and new friends. People loved him for his neutral perspective and polite disposition. His positive and enthralling attitude absorbed seas of humanity into the zeal of his temperament. He let go of his past inhibitions and dared to venture into his faith. I say faith because it’s sometimes ourselves that we find the most worthless and testing.
Sometimes, an attachment to one’s past inhibitions and reticence are admonition to evasiveness and bland insipid comfort. To embark upon a journey of self actualization and conviction to that extent, is the true sign of defiance against monotony, that which truly ends life.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
D's Ego
Note: This is my worst article, couldn’t put it any better. The inspiration himself though intriguing is a scumbag. Just had to write it for reasons associated with closure. But then, it’s my blog after all!!
This is a story about people who, in their ego, find it so hard to accept competition and failures that they’d much rather alter their lives than subject it to penitence and apology.
This is a story about someone named D.
D was very notorious yet popular and admired when he was in school. He knew every body there and was comfortable being what he chose to be. He had no shortage of friends, the ones who understood and accepted him for his flaws, whereas everybody else was in awe of his strapping and gregarious personality. He loved his friends with a degree of loyalty that summons salutation, and they returned it equally sustained. He had the Innocent and impish manner of a child, who was protected by the ‘wall’ of his dear ones.
When he began college, it was the first time he had ever been in an entirely new-fangled environment which was absolutely oblivious to him. His past had not educated or cultured him for this possibility. But, being bright and fiercely avaricious (for lost popularity), he soon got the attention he deserved.
He was handsome and outgoing. Ego and assertion were justly expected of him.
But this is where his malevolent traits found the better of him. His ego ‘subjugated’ him not only to dominance (endurable by people who knew him) but to condescension and pomposity.
This, as I call it, was the turning point for him.
People with more control over their Ego would have found an amiable way out of the tribulation. But D Chose to stay put. All he ever had in his life was his Ego and his friends who ‘respected’ him for that.
I lost contact with him for a year after that, but this is what I know of him now.
D wasn't good at making lasting impressions on people. He wasn’t popular outside his small circle of friends. Other people, who were less admired than him in school, flared brilliantly in college, but D got left behind. His personality did not allow for him to feel jealousy or regret, nor did it allow him amends. He couldn’t accept the fact that he needed to control his ego. He couldn’t allow himself to be jealous of the same people he had patronized. All he could do was change his area of expertise and his audience.
D chose to completely shut out that part of his life. He wouldn’t consent to comparison, at his loss. So he changed what he wanted. He didn’t want love or any form of recognition as a lover. He decided he got enough of that from his old long gone friends. If some one did offer him that, he would reject it without thought. He could be second to no one. He pronounced every thing he didn’t have ‘unworthy’ and ‘undesirable’.
“A pit of snakes.”
D put all his devotion to his career and education. People said, he was meant for great things and would become a great professor some day. People who barely knew him and were just being cordial. He convinced himself that nobody’s love was good enough for him and that he wasn’t good enough to love anybody back. He felt love as an emotion would just be an obstacle to his new found aim.
He didn’t take risks because he feared rejection.
He never understood that love and tenderness would have not only made him what he is now, but so much more than that.
There are some people, who have an undeterred faith on their ego and a firm belief that no matter how flawed and iniquitous their actions might be, they have reason to believe it justified.
What I have observed from my interaction with such people is that they have an inability to feel emotions such as jealousy, regret, shame, sorrow, guilt and denial. All they primarily feel is ego and to some extent, vicarious hatred. This inevitably leads them to their own downfall.
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
Someone's Battle
For all the years since its inception, the village of ‘Pixxiland’ had been suffering ‘tyranny’ as the elders still choose to describe it. From what might seem trivial to those perceived as rules of consequences, all seemed unfair to the ‘Pixxiling’ population.
One day, they avenged it all. About 2000 people gathered and brought their one man army of the dictator to justice. They ‘defined’ their freedom and ‘earned’ it too.
This is not a story about truth being victorious, BUT of how in the process Ms. T. Pixione earned her respect and lost it too.
“That night, I participated in a revolution no less in comparison to history’s definition. It was a feeling of pure exhilaration. The mob, the dictator, his minority and the saviors of the republic, not one element absent from the eventful night that it was.” recalled Ms. T.
Ms. Pixione did not plan to go for the gathering and she was certain, many like her didn’t either. The reason she chose to attend was out of mere curiosity. She did not have a personal grudge or bias towards anyone. It was shameful to admit that she wasn’t even aware of the cause for the outrage. But, like many, Ms. ‘dazzling’ T soon caught on and joined in indignantly. The next three hours of her actions gave her immense pleasure while they lasted, but slowly killed her with guilt and time.
Ms. T. Pixione was Joan of arc that night, in all her glory and fervor. She rummaged through the crowd sparking off tiny flames on her trail. She roared obscenities, stirring whoever came her way. She was the ideal mob, unaware and unassuming. As people started to notice her, she gained buoyancy. Ms. T had a mob of supporters!! Never in her life had she been so important. This impelled her to her next step. She was a demi -god in Pixxiland with followers whom she couldn’t let down. Gradually, her obscenities initially directed to thin air paved way for aimed slander.
She basked in the admiration of her supporters.
Then other people asked the dictator for explanations for the injustice done upon them. She waited patiently. They talked of taxes and laws, the gardens and benches, a bickering about the wrongful ownership of the banyan tree and something about compulsory government gifts during the holiday season. She had nothing to say. But she thought about registering for the scarf she so wanted. The reason for this revolt still seemed vague. Ms. ‘Vivacious’ T was here for the thrill of ‘fighting’ for justice. Her actions were justified in her mind. Ms. Pixione was fighting for something right. After all, 2000 people couldn’t be fighting for triviality!
“Ah! Why don’t they stop complaining so that we can get on with the revolt?” Ms. T was losing her patience at being sidelined in the endless complaints of village folk.
Amidst this pondering, Ms. T saw her people hailing another leader. He was more vocal and visible, so ‘her’ people directed their admiration to ‘his’ bravery. She was getting left behind in this revolt, becoming obsolete in this fight. She needed to win ‘her’ people back. Something drastic needed to be done.
Ms. T now wanted to be remembered in the history of Pixxiland, as the elders would tell it, a sole savior.
Here was a dictator who had apparently made many suffer. She was fighting for them.
Having thought this, her next action too, was justified.
Ms. T slowly picked up her shiny yellow rubber slippers and aimed it at the tyrant. If she missed, it would be foolish and Pixxilings would end up laughing at her. With all her might and paradox carefully resolved, she threw the slippers, one after the other, at the dictator.
One of them hit him on his head…
… And the Pixxilings cheered!!
“That rat!” She soon found other things to throw and when the time was right she started her slander ritual again. Ms. T. Pixione was back in the game. She started with choicer obscenities and insults. The mob was hers again.
This went on for four hours.
When the people yelled ‘resign’, Ms. T yelled louder!
.
.
.
When people got their way, she applauded.
.
.
.
When the dictator finally fell, she rejoiced!!
.
.
.
Ms. T Pixione fought someone’s battle and came back a winner!! It was a day of independence and freedom, to all it meant so in Pixxiland.
One day, they avenged it all. About 2000 people gathered and brought their one man army of the dictator to justice. They ‘defined’ their freedom and ‘earned’ it too.
This is not a story about truth being victorious, BUT of how in the process Ms. T. Pixione earned her respect and lost it too.
“That night, I participated in a revolution no less in comparison to history’s definition. It was a feeling of pure exhilaration. The mob, the dictator, his minority and the saviors of the republic, not one element absent from the eventful night that it was.” recalled Ms. T.
Ms. Pixione did not plan to go for the gathering and she was certain, many like her didn’t either. The reason she chose to attend was out of mere curiosity. She did not have a personal grudge or bias towards anyone. It was shameful to admit that she wasn’t even aware of the cause for the outrage. But, like many, Ms. ‘dazzling’ T soon caught on and joined in indignantly. The next three hours of her actions gave her immense pleasure while they lasted, but slowly killed her with guilt and time.
Ms. T. Pixione was Joan of arc that night, in all her glory and fervor. She rummaged through the crowd sparking off tiny flames on her trail. She roared obscenities, stirring whoever came her way. She was the ideal mob, unaware and unassuming. As people started to notice her, she gained buoyancy. Ms. T had a mob of supporters!! Never in her life had she been so important. This impelled her to her next step. She was a demi -god in Pixxiland with followers whom she couldn’t let down. Gradually, her obscenities initially directed to thin air paved way for aimed slander.
She basked in the admiration of her supporters.
Then other people asked the dictator for explanations for the injustice done upon them. She waited patiently. They talked of taxes and laws, the gardens and benches, a bickering about the wrongful ownership of the banyan tree and something about compulsory government gifts during the holiday season. She had nothing to say. But she thought about registering for the scarf she so wanted. The reason for this revolt still seemed vague. Ms. ‘Vivacious’ T was here for the thrill of ‘fighting’ for justice. Her actions were justified in her mind. Ms. Pixione was fighting for something right. After all, 2000 people couldn’t be fighting for triviality!
“Ah! Why don’t they stop complaining so that we can get on with the revolt?” Ms. T was losing her patience at being sidelined in the endless complaints of village folk.
Amidst this pondering, Ms. T saw her people hailing another leader. He was more vocal and visible, so ‘her’ people directed their admiration to ‘his’ bravery. She was getting left behind in this revolt, becoming obsolete in this fight. She needed to win ‘her’ people back. Something drastic needed to be done.
Ms. T now wanted to be remembered in the history of Pixxiland, as the elders would tell it, a sole savior.
Here was a dictator who had apparently made many suffer. She was fighting for them.
Having thought this, her next action too, was justified.
Ms. T slowly picked up her shiny yellow rubber slippers and aimed it at the tyrant. If she missed, it would be foolish and Pixxilings would end up laughing at her. With all her might and paradox carefully resolved, she threw the slippers, one after the other, at the dictator.
One of them hit him on his head…
… And the Pixxilings cheered!!
“That rat!” She soon found other things to throw and when the time was right she started her slander ritual again. Ms. T. Pixione was back in the game. She started with choicer obscenities and insults. The mob was hers again.
This went on for four hours.
When the people yelled ‘resign’, Ms. T yelled louder!
.
.
.
When people got their way, she applauded.
.
.
.
When the dictator finally fell, she rejoiced!!
.
.
.
Ms. T Pixione fought someone’s battle and came back a winner!! It was a day of independence and freedom, to all it meant so in Pixxiland.
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