locked and the thousand and one keys thrown to sea

im addicted to soap
the bubbles that billow from
my detergent dope
my bathrooms awash
with a slippery hope
throw me a line
or
give me the rope

Sucking jujubes
In a bathtub a suicide. Drowning glory of a wingless swan. Bobbing in the soap. Dead for well over a night but looking alive. Up and down went its head. Oh how peaceful it looks, how serene, cried elise and producing a napkin from her valise, she wiped a tear. She shed those drops thinking great beauty poignant in the wash, great emotions swept her thoughts and she rushed out into the garden and picked a berry. At her window on the outside she paused. Lifted her head once to the sky and picked a chrysanthemum from the brush. A silent prayer of benediction of thankful humility. With a berry in her mouth, a flower in her left she wiped the mud on her right on the side of her dress. And rushed to our deceased friend the swan. She called him sweet and called him pretty. She called him darling and stooped to kiss his head. But alas. Our swan. My swan. Its dead. After the funeral (where everyone put on black) she only made one appearance, at the races. In a top hat and a strapless bra. Off shoulder gown and a ring each on her little fingers. As past her all the horses sped she clinked her glass and made a speech. To swannie my love of a few years past. He had no business going a swimming if he had no hands. Fanny Adams.

for when i know all speech is banned or unnecessary i will start yelling. as for now it is the satisfaction of gratuitous vanities that drives me to slur. of course now voices cant be overruled summaraliy like it were a pornstar talking of fidelity. but then whats wrong with a pornbabe on chastity. whats wrong then with no talk only quiet.
it is difficult to talk with jujubes in the mouth. no one told me so. i know. jujubes are a good trick.

the thing to do before writing anything at all is to go to grave quietly. when people of any consequence understand this it will be too late
Again I think they’ve fired the first volley. Teargas shells. To cry I feel like a disgruntled rebel. Why the fuck attack the eye. No matter really that this has happened, I remain unconvinced and the fighter. Every year im obstinately certain theres a discovery. This year too there could have been a search. Now the probabilities of finding upon search are quite slim because there is no knowing what I might do upon finding. If my search were a rabbit and I found it I would promptly put a rose in my knapsack and set out in search for the girl that lost it. But what would I do if I took it upon myself to find the rose. Where would I then find the rabbit that the girl has lost. However on the whole I like an improbable search. Or how else will I get up and leave. The adventure is just awesome. The feelings no dimmer in intensity than the mixed fright that might seize you just before you left earth for outer space. These surprises on a small planet are our apricot, plum and peaches. Nice little small little. What is surprising is that they have a seed at all. Now the leaves might be scattered or the plant uprooted, but what is important is that the fruit warn’t sour. It never is though to be honest. What happens is, through the eyes of snoopy, of course, a season comes and another follows, and so on and so forth. Not really come and go if you know what I mean. Just come and then lost in the fking ether if you are crazy what happened to them. Like it came and stayed behind. No one took it home. No one cared for it enough to look for it after stepping down from the ferris wheel. All these years all these years. They just came and stayed and I use my compass every time its back again to look for the past ones. Theres no finding them, theres no finding jack up the beanstalk.
Because even when running ahead on that overbridge, winning the race, I knew let no more be said. In the time to come il feel a greater pain.

Now if you think carefully though better you not, because all thinking is fraught with ideas of an antique stamp bearing marks of worries time immemorial. Bearing scratches of doggie paws with the bone on the inside of the door. So it appeared to me when in this august time of the arrival of her I read that all of them are lonely, dejected, depressed, dislocated, desultory, disinclined, indisposed with the sign of rain over the window, and their mind arrested in that sunny time back home. like they are ticklish with melancholy but not sure where to scratch. And it absolutely is no match for the reading public, the discerning readers, who innocently turn pages for inspiration and vigour to find a cockroach on the bed that was human before waiting for breakfast. Or a goat just about with his head above the water in the well that was quite a swimmer before. No no it wont do at all to say that lonely is the new lovely. No no to say im not coming back home. The lay reader doesn’t know that you are feeling bad, sorry, frustrated, disappointed, dissatisfied with no direction home. He is a cherub (if it’s a she oh then what can I say — bellisima?) who doesn’t understand these things. All of life’s mysteries were laid bare to him when that girl back in the time of apples for breakfast had told him peter pan wears no undies. Now all you metaphysical poets cant insist word in and word about this regurgitating heart of ours that you are very lonely. Write when you next to say that you’ve been in the rain and heard a mother tell her child, while crossing the street, are you blind. Couldn’t you see there was a puddle there. But stick mostly to descriptions of that child seized with the imp of mischief.

Very shortly il become a piss artist in las vegas, and while my show will be at late nights, only for five or six days, it will be on the margins. I don’t expect many to attend. Because this time it is not my gig, I am not headlining. This time while Calcutta turns out like vegas, il be staining the glass of my soul with an image of some icon, or be hanging upside down from a ceiling painting the temptation of Christ. Something that is of little worth at the present, while its being made, but which will draw great pathos in the very very distant future. Then obviously il have wonder and sympathy, things which I don’t understand now, and hence which il have to borrow. In that time il not be there.
This time the milky city will be someone else’s. Like a whore it will readily give love to those that come asking. It will ask no questions, it wont open a bedtime book, or between passions be afraid of flashing bulbs. She will tell whatever love there is is in this moment. Then die, and if you can, be unborn. It will not pretend that there is so much more. Calcutta will constantly remind there is so little. She will be ready for them that have suddenly become butterflies. For those that don’t know this yet, but soon will when past midnight of an undying day they suck the honey from secret mouths. And boys and girls will be surprised like they were sleeping in the meadow and a star brushed their cheek. For boys and girls when they sit in the lovely like the owl and the pussycat. My clock has sped up, and il find myself downstream. Very soon. Then too, as is now, il be wishing more than anything else for relief, for a crowd. For all my friends. For the bottle, and the bong. Then too il be wishing pujas.

defenestration (only if for love) no 1
he picked up a paint brush and with an elbow on a palm and
a palm under the chin
thinked how things really are
and how else they could have been
just that was the intention and the search
was for a way to begin
just then came the shout
dinner is served
have it hot and then we tuck in


ps— love is not a piggy and therefore needs no riding
sin is not the sinner and hence needs no hiding
if i like i need love and i need to love to like
but all that love there isnt only in me
it is around the world beyond the milky way on the road from my city
and all the aliens in between peck their sweethearts and they dont even have lips
if it aint beautiful it doesnt mean theres no beauty
and ugly is a word that begins with u
if you want to shorten it then of course its curiosity
but the short and long of it is that if you spread your arms to their limit
it will always be embrace and never be a gimmick
love may or may not have a limit but is everywhere between

there are these things that tunnel the light into my eyes. like a bright spike that pierces them and sends the light colliding with my soul. this light is a conscience transcending, reason defying, meaning bereft wake up call. like rock on today. and god knows what else, and what else about it than a smoke signal. from an island hidden among the waves while im at sea.
the epidemic is widespread, like elliot's yellow london fog, licking its tongue into street corners and curling up about the house before going to sleep. but these horrid morbid tales arejust stories narrated to pass the time, and men become dragons. god becomes the devil and each day becomes the next just as easily as truth becomes marmalade and my beautiful lovely jelly quivering on a spoon.
but the light from the sos fires seem like so many wigwams that have left a fire burning for a weary traveller at the end of day. im not the traveller not(yet). im waiting for travellers to return, and waiting all the same to travel with them that are waiting to travel.

my spleen is halving me.my heart will make me full.but the battle for me will be in my guts, i fear, and not in my chest.

standing in the sun, from my terrace i could see the dark clouds looming and while yet it was silvery in the distant sky, two doves flying away from me and into the clouds, like two eyes roving the skies looking for the secret of heavens in a cascade of water. what poetics beset my thoughts in the morning, but not exactly thoughts — thats just a presumption. what it is, is an excuse for illusion.

Gadhiara?

When before to leave all look for me.
But seeing how im not there their enquiries wouldn’t find me
Because ive lost myself here and to take me home will
Not be to find me

Polly’s lesbian rant no. 1
Polly: yaaaak that tastes awful, and all that the boys could do on hearing this was wondering aloud ' what the bone to the dog'.
lame thought polly and uncouth.

what appeared like a day labourer sitting at the window of a cargo van kept looking at me and then said something to his two colleagues without completely removing his eyes from me. there was an odd smile on his face and this same disconcerting smile was replicated on the faces of his mates after he had passed his comment. they all looked at me, and then drove off. i was leaning on the kerb railing smoking a cigarette and drinking a cola. i dont know if its relevant but i was wearing a black t shirt and dark denim pants. and although it really didnt go with the attire, brown shoes. i was wondering what it could be; but then they went away and i finished my smoke and the drink and left too. turning into p street where office is i saw a few kids, toddlers by standard reckoning but being of the streets they are old beyond their years for sure. here in bengal they go to tarapith with this cane strip on either end of which hang urns filled with water. bhole baba paar karega. i always wonder whether the practice is peculiar to the coast because the chant is from the cow belt. be that as it may, the children, two of them had this bamboo strip on their shoulders and on either end they had hung marigold bunches and with their mates in tow unmindful of the heat or of the sun they were chanting bhole baba... but not too loudly. i was distracted by them hurrying as i was on to work. i too am a child inside only that ive forgotten, but that is not relevant.

while coming here i was thinking how i struggle with words.things make sense only vaguely and i want to paint these vague impressions into a dictionary, they must mean something, appear lively and articulate, like a belly dancer, or a motorcycle, or a travelling salesman pleading his wares; to myself at least if to nobody else. and on a different note, to add to it, im going deaf i think. i cant seem to follow without things being repeated for my edification. and people are kindness, and im sometimes the shylock of charity. these contradictions are not really so. they are like tracks at a junction. they overlap with the car moving. so i chug along too as if pulled by this great force that draws me effortlessly. i am far away from the machine, but it has a gravitational field i cannot escape. i think it roars and growls and crashes and hammers, but as it turns out, she mumbles.

post modern quixote is what i think he said his name was. hmmmmm. he had a gold tooth and told me how he had almost been mugged once for it. therefore he said he no longer trusts strangers. i didn't think he had a great smile. but he offered me a cigarette or did he ask me for one. we got to talking and he said he felt all people were errant knights lunatic charging at him with their hmmmm. spears? okay i don't know either what that means was what i said when asked by him what those spears are actually called. i too feel they aren't called spears. oh lances maybe i remembered and he agreed instantly that yeah its lances is what they are. a silence followed and he broke it saying we'll meet and packed his bags to leave. he was suddenly restless i perceived. he had a bag well worn from use. he took it on his back and produced from his pocket keys. he had a bike. much like the bag. he turned the corner and entered his fairy tale.

i thought drunk
a man with a limp
how faaked in the head am i
i saw her eyes swollen
with love for me
now i suspect its a sty
rainbow there will be as there is must
across the impassive limpid sky
inside i see it in my mind
oh how god is kind
how nature is graceful
like a goat ruminating chewing

the antipodes of coming and going were seen by charles darwin from aboard hms beagle when far from the galapagos calculus of evolution and incarnation he was turning a placid sea down under.
i take it to mean some come and some go and there are the antipodes because when you are not here then you could be wherever the faak who knows.upside down or inside out.
but really i have no clue what goes on at farewells and unions.all i know sweeting is journeys end in lovers' meeting.
on this subject the fictitious bhagat singh walking to the gallows says a very poignant line and i quote
yeh unth kahan hai mr.mckinley...
yeah i could do with that.cause where the earth seems to be spooned out by the ocean there is land.
there will be time then to put powder on your face
and twirl your skirts and press your curls
and spend hours choosing the linen and the lace
there the time stops at spring and, makes boys like girls

Nocturnal inanities no.1

at a quarter to 1 at night if the phone's ringing and the tring echoes sinister through the corridor and rattles the small square boxes then dont panic.just answer it.maybe the newsdesks wondering if redressal is a word.

the millenium man can plainly say there will be blood,and the bombs that burst over his head will light up the dark grey sky overhead like kohl lights up in the morning the eyes of a girl that has stayed up all night.the anti-hero comes over the horizon in a helicopter whose blades seem like an ogre waving a sword over his head.the exchange is brief and the destruction lasting,the explosion hangs in the air with the smell of powder and the dust of the rubble like the moist smell of leaves in a rainforest.in that rainforest lives a girl that had once loved our hero but that was in the past.when the anti-christ drops down there are vultures in the sky and they swoop at the carcass with a raucous hunger and ravage the body of the evildoer with an ungodly relish.the girl looks up and sees the brown smoke rising in the distance like a snake along a wall.it gives her the creeps and she feels uncomfortable.her eyes are capable of mirroring the most breathtaking sadness but there is no one to look into them.and there is no one to watch our villain die and there is no one to watch the vultures at their meal and theres no one absolutely anywhere close by whom you could ask for directions or for water.the battle fought, a death mourned and the day drawn to its close all seem to rush straight into this tiny opening in the girls eye and disappear.as if nothing happened, no one died and no day finished and no vultures fed but only a small spec appeared on her lips or under her eyes and she wiped it off.

what will chairs on wheels do.move away.that happens a lot.you rise from one and come back from peeing to sit on another one.the elves have either removed it or have raised the elevation.there are benevolent and impish forces at work.

the engine room of my office is deafening at night.it roars with all the news that the machines are rolling with night after night throughout the night.i stifle a yawn and escape to my soundproof conservatory of paper and print.the machine bellows now with almost the agony and the excitement of all the stories it is going to throw at an unsuspecting public tomorrow.all the scandal and the denials.but on my floor it is just a drone as all the sounds of the night are.drones.a buzz that comes like a wave to the shore and recedes pulling away sand from under the feet.

theres this line i want to keep repeating all my life. like a magic wand that will amaze awe and scare people.i want to enter the many rooms i will to meet twisted bent and plain expressionless faces and ask why so serious.joker is wicked. he isnt evil so much,not bad,not wantonly dangerous,although he is all of these.he is not a bad man who wants to hurt you, or a selfish man who wants to harm you although he will end up doing all of these looking to have a good time. he is the dark knight the alter ego of batman with a ripped mouth and fixed grimace that captivates with a demented eccentric charm.joker laughs about the pain and makes merry in death.he is the jester and the fool. he tells bruce wayne an unstoppable force meets an immovable object. he could be romeo but he is always an unlikely hero.

quasimodo the hunchback was seen so ugly he won a prize and on the same night rescued the most beautiful and gumptious whore.im not sure whether it was the hunchback of notre dame that did the rescuing or if he just stood there while some knight swept down to carry off the prized maiden.the doubt no doubt arises from quasimodo's mien and the crooked view that such bending of perceptions engenders.taking a superficial view of things it can be remembered that hugo is now better known as boss.how shallow we are.reduced to penguins flapping about in muddy waters.
gumption is a word that became kate winslet in a movie i saw today afternoon.after a million slights and snubs and insults,winslet turned her mouth away and showed that rogue charmer the door and announced ive become gumptious.kate winslet is a major heartbreaker all right.

two boys with their arms around each others shoulders
more two boys,the sun sniffing gently the street corners
and breathing fire upon the wide avenues of summer
wind at noon in a dark colour
of the day. conjuring up the histories of love and languor
and hanging for a long time in the air like the smell of gas
in an unignorable moment
pelicans play in the sea
pelicans bathe in the surf
their mouth has a pouch to hold the fish
which they chew after lunch leisurely
my life that enjoys another birth
is rolling by unknown to me
i can see the waves come and the waves withdraw
constantly
but im only interested in them that are big
perceptibly

ever since yesterday when i turned my attention to the life of letters and the world of ideas ive been thinking constantly of writing something more.there isnt much to write about except gargantuan avalanches breaking on the tiniest hamlets.whwew.lord in a flash how easily we can imagine total devastation and of course it is belittling and heroic to think that it is a snuff episode in slow mo.the spool playing now covers romance marriage and the second loss of innocence and the cynification of reason.therefore this last ditch effort to record the sentiments and emotions of these thinning out times.the comet of course was visible but now you can only see its tail.between the scrawny hindlegs of a mammoth space dog.yes our lives are momentous like marathon collapsing at the finish line.not bad youd say considering that we arent even in the running for the nobel or the oscars or an olympic gold.we just jog and skip and dive head first into it.kick our boots off and think of doing it well.until of course someone wakes you up in the morning.this being shaken awake in the mornings is really pissing off.so im heading probably for the place where sleep lies waiting for us.

appendix to long neglected post-
it is understood there was drinking and it remains an ongoing evil that spreads unchecked among the bloggers.the reasons for such dissolute behaviour are of course at a variance with the weather in the monsoons as it has been observed that kids drink even on the days it doesnt rain becoming in this manner reflections of the irascible sardar who wrote of his time in the company of women famously remarking obviously not original that he drinks on two days...the other gifts of nature are women and roadside peeing.the first will turn into monstrous sexbombs sooner or later and the latter phenomenon will keep hostile aliens at bay. i have so far resisted all temptation to write about office and i still persevere in my resolve.i dont mind saying however that tears are gods way of telling us to wash our face.and so gandhi saves the day with passive resistance again as i refrain from violence.the violence that guevara says brings into being something new and that violence that is khali's neck twisting rapture.this ranting is a conscious mechanism not to touch a sore feeling that too violently wrenches at the pit patting something in my chest that flaps its wings about and shakes itself dry everytime it is swept away by a pretty duckie. obviously those who know about it will not be surprised that sarju bhai chews khaini,those who know bambi are generally never surprised,binoo just elicits a guffaw to just think that he wears sport shirts all the time although in all fairness it has to be said that his attacking stance at his left handed wicket is awe inspiring, and bittu looks to be doing all the nations and races numerous populous and unscrupulous till his children look like their mothers and he spanks them mercilessly.or maybe he will go to the bay and either swim or sink since either ways he's getting high unless he is wading in and out with a bubbly sea that rises and writhes about like a feminine catharsis in low gravity

june's about to end in july and all the days between have chocolate stains from careless eating
i remember the days by brown marks on the collars and the cuffs.like it were possible to keep track of time by the hours spent scrubbing shirts with detergent.opinion is sharply divided on the transience of time and only pondering philosophers and wondering children are allowed to say anything memorable on the issue.for me time flies,but so does the sikh.we fast approach one more olympics and im going to be in afrightful way if at an age past 90 i am specially interviewed for being around for some 20 olympics.but then that is nothing and it all anyway comes to it some time or the other.the other has felled quite a few indians and said has it written that to them we are the other.the mindboggling disputes that stir the nest of the disputatious hornets.suddenly there is a pause like deer lifting their heads on a suspicion of a tiger lurking.there of course is no adventure there but then travel writers and travel programmers dont understand this.they piggyback the carnivore on its naked chase after naked prey in the stripped wilderness, of africa mostly and thats why we probably accept all the visceral and primal brutality of that dark continet.the latest batman movie was received well but we guess that with a bit of intelligent digression on the idea dark we can safely arrive at the conclusion that the joker is after all the dark knight.batman is christian of course and thats not even news for the well read.christendom will rise up once more and open the doors of its granaries and abbatoirs so its women can eat and fatten themselves,since we are of the opinion that fat is a sign of taste.here and there people are climbing trees and boarding trains to go where i dont know if they'll get to meet up with us for tea or coffee.i mean that is the the only drawback otherwise they could pretty much go where they want,but i dont like unavailability.however i am not one to cavil over such physical things like distance and curvature and such nasa conspiracies like timezones and ist and spoil a good party.

I said love to wild applause. A mesmerized audience watched spellbound as I bled for the romance of our times. Slowly the blood dripped from the tiny wounds and it was raining. In the pause that I took to bring the word to my lips, the people had moved to the edge of their seats, straining to hear. The older women were certain they had heard it, they were sure they had heard me say it. The boys who had come with their girlfriends were getting impatient though. They all felt that I should just say it and be over with it. What has been said at the time of betrothal and at the time of an untimely death foreseen held no great pathos for them. But I waited and waited, waited till they almost couldn’t stifle the cough any more. Till they could not ignore any more the sweat on their noses or the flies that flew around their open mouths. Till the more emotional could no longer keep their eyes open without having to pretend that one of those flies had gone into them and rub their eyes. Just then I shouted. I filled my lungs with all the air that hung around me like a commuter from the door of a crowded bus and shouted. Love. It is just one unending syllable. Oooooooooooooooooo. And they went wild. Like a furious hurricane that sent everyone into a panic of excitement. I blew and blew the bugle. I was calling my yeomen to the battle; I was calling the horses to the battlefield, calling the river to the deluge. They erupted with me the moment they heard the l. they knew that at that moment when everything has come to an end and the matador stands with his arms in a clenched fist by his side, the sweat streaming down his face with his head lowered and the oppressive pall of the arena lying like a shroud upon the his still body, at that moment only one word can rend the lull and unleash the fury of a heart shut tight upon itself. That is the time to shout love. They know that the matador screams for love, in an agony of love only, for his greatest love is the fierce bull he has just driven his sword into.

How much harm can drugs do? No seriously. Albert Hofmann the Swiss citizen and chemist extraordinaire passed away yesterday, the 29th of April 2008, in the village of Burg im Leimental near Basel having lived a fecund 102 years. He is the man who chemically synthesized LSD, to him in 1935 a lysergic acid derivative which he called LSD 25. No he did not follow the find with Lucy and the sky. Instead he set aside his discovery for five years. In 1943 when he returned to it he met with luck. Inspiration came to him one evening on his bike ride home. He had involuntarily/accidentally absorbed a quantity of the acid. Upon realization of its potential, he administered to himself deliberate quantities of the substance in a series of self-experiments conducted with his colleagues.
It was around this time, three days after he first discovered the effect of LSD, on April 22nd to be precise, that he started writing about these experiments.
His work met with approval and he was promoted to the directorship of the natural products department of Sandoz (now Novartis). His study on hallucinogenic substances continued and he turned his attention to Mexican mushrooms. This led to the synthesis of ‘psilocybin, the active agent in many magic mushrooms. His curiosity now attracted him towards the seeds of the Mexican morning glory species Rivea Corymbosa which are called ‘ololiuhqui’ by the indigenes.
In 1962 he undertook with his wife Anita a voyage to southern Mexico in search of the plant ‘Ska Maria Pastora’ which in English translates into the beautiful ‘Leaves of Maria the Shepherdess’ (Latin ‘Salvia Divinorum’). The discovery of its active chemicals however eluded him. (Science has identified it since as diterpenoid Salvinorin A).
Albert Hofmann was not just the accidental creator of LSD as chosen by providence. And even if that was true it has to be said for him that he was a lifelong champion of its use and application. He called LSD ‘medicine for the soul’ and questioned its worldwide prohibition. He accepted that maybe in the hands of the 60s youth movement it had found addicts who were taking its consumption to reckless limits. But he maintained that proscription of the drug was akin to throwing the baby out with the bathwater. He remained a firm advocate of the therapeutic uses of LSD.
‘I think that in human evolution it has never been as necessary to have this substance LSD. It is just a tool to turn us into what we are supposed to be.’


For further reading—
The Road to Eleusis: Unveiling the Secret of the Mysteries
Co- authors—R.G. Wasson, Carl Ruck and Blaise Staples
Wikipedia describes this book as that ‘…which reveals the secret mystic elixir that is at the heart of these mysteries, and therefore, fundamental to the development of Western civilization.’
Also
Entheogens and the future of Religion- essays
Outside Looking In- discussion of his relationship with ‘LSD provocateur’ Timothy Leary.
See also- wikipedia- albert hofmann

as i lay reflecting on utopia, i realized that since humans can't be trusted to reform, it figures therefore that for those that are all three(here refer to blog previous footnote)god makes americans under george bush.

Drawing from a cigarette as I cast a sidelong glance to the burning tobacco, I remembered a similarly shot campaign that drew attention to the (guess what) dangers of smoking. So the next time (both if you smoke or not) you look at me or anyone smoking and sigh how I am risking my health, think that I am merely a stuntman, executing the dangerous. It is merely entertainment. It is either art in the French way, or propaganda the Chinese way. As the former it is to be accepted with a shrug and as the latter it is to be protested, the practice encouraged to reinforce personal freedom and the Olympic torch doused to register our protest.
Seriously, what can you do, except fart secretly and then sniff the air.
In the secret life it matters little whether you are racist or a homophobe, whether you give love for sex or the other way round, if you keep your prejudices to yourself even if you couldn’t care about conquering them. You enjoy yours, I have mine



Ps- the fart may still leave a bad stench, but if no one owns up we’ll have no one to blame. And if this utopian climate continues for some length of time we will have either
A society where no one owns up, or
A society where no one is blamed.

Ps 2- but this is acceptable only so long as farting is the most serious crime.

Corollary to ps
Society where everybody is to blame and no one owns up
Society where everybody owns up and there’s no point blaming. Okay okay I am stopping now

The gods keep waiting for a shower that jump to hasty conclusions, turn to cicadas that arrive at unsubstantiated ones, and make trapeze artists those that are indecisive

And russel hammond goes real real real. Your friends are real, you are real people, for god’s sake this light is real, this switch is real. I was transfixed. I started thinking, as did all America. At least those that are going to vote for obama. Barrack obama. Quite contrary to a poll that says that the majority of classic rock listeners will vote for the republicans. Although it matters, prima facie, little to us (do you really think). But seriously who do you think a classic rock fan will vote for…
Without being sexist, hilary Clinton’s lying through her teeth. The flotus running for cover from sniper fire. Wtf… and all this deceit while obama’s been putting his finger on the nerve of the American dark age. Black and white, and he’s not ashamed to show that he knows his rainbow. And wants to keep it beautiful.
To draw the cheese of this pun, he knows what is wright and what is wrong, and he ain’t afeard of fighting it. His speech is a landmark for our times, for multiculturalism and for equality.

More forays into north pole.
It’s the first time im seeing ice. Earlier pictures never made me think about the cold, I only thought it was nice. At -20 c the body begins to cave in upon itself. The skin turns to the bones for warmth.
Saw a polar bear. Must always remember there are no hyenas in Africa. Haven’t checked though.
Was told in my childhood that Greenlanders lick each other instead of bathing. Again now there’s good reason to doubt its verity.
The bear was all white except for the mouth. But for it even from very close it looks like a white mound. Mohenjo daro. That’s what I am planning to call this first bear if I can tell it apart from the many more I am hopefully going to see in the days to come.
Here too delusion. Every morning waking up in the hope of seeing penguins…
Eskimos!!! In my part of the world it would be a name for a fridge or an ac. Even an ice cream bar. Here it is all the company I will get provided the rest of my party don’t get frozen to death or lost in a snowstorm.
Trying to fathom the philosophy behind staying in the arctic circle. To me makes no sense unless one is evading tax or is a fugitive from the law. In which case I should book a plot here. Have to check with the natives, but first must think of polite way of asking.
Not that it was the first question that came to mind, but it will not be entirely out of context to record here that I havent yet been able to form any definite idea on how the inuits dispose of their dead.
I was told that they merely left the dead out in the open and in this manner their burial was a night’s work for the falling snow which entombed the corpse in a snowy crypt. Interesting… but however on further enquiries I have learnt that this practice is now on the wane because a few years back one such cadaver carelessly flung rolled down a precipice and snowballed into an avalanche that caused much damage in a hamlet at the foothills which on that night was holding its annual prom. Apparently, for years after that no girl in that sleepy village bore any children. Thankfully that has changed and on my trip to the village I saw amongst many other things a santa claus school that has its headquarters in san Francisco.
But that still leaves me with the original question. Discreet inquiries, where not rebuffed, for the Eskimo people are a superstitious lot living as they do for six months in complete darkness, suggest that there is a grave mafia at work which manages the lucrative space for burials business. This international cartel that has had previous experience in this trade in the deserts of Africa and Arabia before the coalition of the willing moved in exercises a strong control over their domain. For the locals this arrangement works out fine, but they were not sure about an alien dead body because that would involve interference from the government.
Although when receiving our briefs we were told to have as much fun as we could, one of the small bits that make up the list of our research objectives is to investigate the survivability of common Indian domestic pests in sub zero temperatures. For these purposes have brought along with us families of cockroaches, lizards and ants, christened respectively the Gandhi, bachhan and the yadav families. Till now all the animals have done remarkably well and have displayed the dogged tenacity that also distinguishes their namesakes. The hostile climate seems to threaten them but little…
Met a zamboni driver and later the ice princess, his snow vessel.
will record further as interesting things occur...

Nowadays I want ice lollies. Coming and going. It still isnt particularly hot but all the signs of summer are visible little by little. Again in the sun’s favour it has to be said that I haven’t stepped out all that much. Rest of the time I have myriad thoughts and one remarkable such was a dream I had of the North Pole. I traveled thither in a train that split the unmarked wilderness to the both sides of me with the grey track on either side of which were lush green conifers. Deep brown wood. On this journey I will have all the love that would be all I need. In the sparse strangeness of a new house, there is no suffocation of known spaces and things. Im living between the shadow and the silence. It was always night in the Arctic Circle. A snow clad darkness and an enthralling peace. The only time I have felt the heat has been during the power cuts. Someone pulls away the curtain in the morning and I wake up sunburnt. That happens in the mornings.
People have gone behind and forward in time, heroes have been photographed without armour and the world is a little more restive and belligerent, but I am still going for football. Erratically like the maverick rain of the past evenings, grace is a name of the lord. Furious, noisy rain that tore open banners and flyers and showed what nature can wreak on soaps (serial type), insurance, and beauty. From my balcony I could see. After the rain had stopped when the breeze was stronger yet. In the night I met the tigress and she saw me keep my coat and knew I was going to forget it.

Let me grab die graben
Said the german to his bitch
Krafft ebing has queered the pitch
But i am generous to a fault
And kind of desperate
so begged our soldier romantique

In the culture that has manipulated ours children have denied history as it happened and accepted myth as it should have occurred. Paradoxically theyve done nothing wrong and thus there is no reason to be shocked when I tell you or if you notice in todays papers that teenagers in Britain believe in Churchill and Gandhi as myth and take king Arthur, Sherlock holmes and Eleanor rigby to be real. Whatevers heroic can reasonably be considered unreal. And what is unreal is always heroic. In which Hercules carries the world on his shoulders and later becomes a cycle, we can observe an appropriation of an icon, and a desecration of a personality through objectification. And in that which Gandhi offers the other cheek and becomes a gangster’s conscience the working of a happy metaphor is all too evident. There is therefore at least in the eyes of a kid no difference between heroism in life and the heroic metaphor in art. The world as will and idea is a book and the truth as the word and the phenomenon is conjecture. So while we are ready now to fight monsters gargoyles daemons on the plains and highlands and look to slay dragons in placid blue lakes, and investigate and expose murderers and thiefs in our metropolises, and reflect on the misery of loneliness and the resignation of age, we are quite unable to accept that man qua man is actually capable of such villainy as made heroes out of Gandhi and Churchill.
Most notable here is what Einstein said on gandhi’s death. Prophetic physicist.

I have a weird relation with some songs.there are some of them that ive never heard, but about which ive heard that theyre awesome. I on learning of some such song would persistently find it. But then I am I suddenly realize very set in my opinions. Honestly. Bit stubborn one might say. But whatever…there. So once I have this song what do I do….i go straight ahead and dump it. Literally. Because im sure that I will not hear it unless by accidence and very rarely if at all by choice. The song im talking about now is teardrop. One day everyone was talking about it and I had to have it. And I did shortly. That must be more than two years now today. Today I heard it for the first time and was blown. Brilliant. You know what im talking about. I don’t know. In the past I had gone to it, but only up till the opening beats.

Im thinking that a bollywood actor is a cynical man. His belief in his work is dubious because he finds himself in the predicaments of outer space heroes. (say for instance neil Armstrong, Houston my pees flying all over the place). So the honest actor based on this hypothesis is a cynic who doesn’t believe in his job and the good actor given his dedication to the job is obviously stupid. But im certain that in real life this is not how the dynamic works.

4 lakh chicken laid end to end would stretch longer than the china wall. Maybe maybe not.
they would weigh more than all the protimas on dashami
and would be swifter than death by radiation

Sometimes baked with the yeast
A crop raised in the yellow
Or cracked out of shell
A daily harvest of feather and fur
Quiet at the table
unheard when the blade met the neck
gathered around it at our meals
we speak of life once in a while
that
if we are happy inside
then the stoic beast was able

rat tat tat the gypsy dream
the pink cormorant rubadub
sounded deep on a faraway hill
and plundered the night with his spear

I banged the door, and banged it again it wouldn’t shut and was off on the street to the liquor mart. Ananda and reet I dragged and they dragged me to park street where we would be free and drink from a pet bottle surreptitiously. Whiskey and rum, the concoctions prepared in the loo of birkmeyer and sipped glugged and swung on the lawns of the boys hostel to a chant from the rehearsal heard like a reconstruction from the lion king. a luscious warmth spread evenly through me, and feeling warm in cold and brave when really not that bold I could do anything. The rehearsal broke and all filed out in squares triangles and other shapes casual, formal and friendly.
We were on a mental plane where everything was flexible and elastic and rules were like clothes hanging from a line swaying wildly in a fantastic breeze. It was one kind of bliss in the self, the hyper consciousness of ancient seers. But there was no need for that butt pinching dare; im so often ashamed that im not me.