Random decision

I've decided. I'm gonna make this blog function as a journal from now, and not just the free exhibition studio as I used to! Last night I didn't want to sleep, so I sat on my windowsill and drew 3 random sketches. I picked up a pencil after a really long time, but I'm quite happy about one of the results! I'll see if I can digitalize it and get it up here.

I'm an only son, with one female cousin, who's learning how to cut up and put back human bodies somewhere in south India. That does not, for some reason, exempt me from Bhai-phota. My aunt and my grandmother, again for some unknown reason, have decided to bring me the honour. That means money, so I stay cute.

Razor's Edge.

My first attempt at metaphor.

When the roads ended, he walked on.

When hope was foolish, he walked on.

His footprints fading, he walked on.

The tree lied to him, he walked on.

No wishful thinking, he walked on.

A taste of ruin, he walked on.

With introspections, he walked on.

With no directions, he walked on.

The branch had broken, he walked on.

When the stones gave way, he walked on.

The meanings lost, he walked on.

And through the frost, he walked on.

The trees were thinning, he walked on.

The question looming, he walked on.

The place was nearing, he walked on.

The answer waiting, he walked on.

He reached the meadow, he looked around.

His gaze was searching, his answer sure.

The glade was empty. He dug a hole,

And there, in peace, he rests his soul.

Untitled

This was done about a month back, but I forgot to upload it.

Youth is a quality of being, most naturally exhibited during time, and most difficult to retain post the time. Youth is bestowed upon a child at birth, a gift of purity from its sender, to cherish for as long as he dared. Yes, it is fear that takes youth away. Fear of consequences, fear of "what's-to-come?", fear of unfamiliar situation, fear of challenges, fear of being singled out, and fear of unacceptance. They all occupy greater and greater portion's of the thought process, pushing out the pure, carefree, lens in the child's eyes. He's worried about the answers off too many questions to ask any himself. He's taught to seek external approval for every step he takes, and to avoid steps which don't assure that. He's blinded and artificial eyes are fit into him. His being is poisoned by the venomous worry, by the external, ununderstood orders, by the concepts of power and control, by stubbornly injected doses of disapproval of all things not bringing profit, and the fear of condemnation.

It is important, and beautiful, to hold on to the gift of youth. It acts the x-ray for the gold plated filth in reality. It guides him through the murky mass of human contempt and envy. It sheilds him from the bullets of power shot down on him from all sides. It helps him remember what purity is, a thing forgotten so very often with age. It infuses him with molten hot innocence, that drives him through all decision-making, where others are stuck trying to gauge options. What happens in absence of youth is the being stops being, and starts giving an examination.

Youth, is what I wish most to retain, till my deathday. People ask me, "So, what do you wanna do? What are your ambitions?", and I don't say anything. Well, that is my ambition.

Deafness gone

After recently being told that my writing ability is not, in any way whatsoever, connected to my state of intoxication, I tried my hand at writing without the high. Personally, I still believe that they're connected.

Music isn’t actually just what we think it is. It’s difficult to gauge the depths of music with a normal mind, and personally I admit that I cannot do it unless intoxicated! When one’s high, Music really starts stripping down to what it is. She reveals her hidden nuances, her secretly guarded details of beauty. It is at that state that one realizes why Pritam could never ever become A. R. Rahman, and why Matchbox20 can never ever become Deep Purple. As far as I can recall, it’s the Bass notes that begin to matter most at the beginning. This is where most of the rubbish fall out, the ones with almost no bass frequency and shrieking treble sound. The subtle, powerful and everlasting bass notes welcome you to this new better way of perceiving sound. They flow deep within this stream of sound, but are ever so luminously prominent. Sometimes fading away, then returning with new purpose. The higher frequencies do their best to attract your attention, and you finally turn, satisfied, to their performance. With gritted-teeth and wild ferocity you emit every note out of your face, as it fades away. The music of the beats now snatches you into the regions where music controls your body. You shake your head, making your torso float and sway. Your legs join in a little later, one at a time, right first and then left. You feel the beauty of being able to move your two feet with two separate minds.

The dance is over. Techno music announces it entry with flat, overtone-less notes of medium frequency. They proceed in drawing a techno-ruled background for you to observe. Some weak yet strengthening bass notes keep you just on track. The medium frequencies now rule the sea. They blare out, not too rash, in a simple repetitive melody.

That's about as much as I could write in the limited time I had, but I think I shall resume this topic at a later, more comfortable time.

Riding the high.

So, what does one do once he/she has reached the top?

What does he do when he feels that he has outpassed feeling, and the world floats away at an ever so steady tempo?

His hands work without his consent. His eyes see without his control, the brain reacts without his awareness, though the music assures him that he'll be safe. He's slipping into higher levels of perception, and is unsure whether he'd want to leave the safety of reality behind.

Fear battles desire, he stops. Clears his head, and chooses desire.

Desire, to go higher and higher till it makes no difference whether he went higher or lower.

Desire, to ask the questions that he would shrink from in reality.

Desire, to laugh, to be free from all obligation and expectation. Free from rules.

Yet the music plays with him, toys with him, drops him down and turns away from him.
Sweeps him off, embracing him through the mountains of doubt and insecurity, he hopes to scale them someday. She lets him run free on the meadows of confidence and innocence.

Here he gets nutrition from the soil below him and the sun above him, grows, yearns, learns, laughs, cries, frolics and goes to sleep.

He wakes to find the tree full grown, and he detached from it.
He ripens and realizes that it's time to move on.
Higher things await him across the door from his world and comfort.
He moves on and she meets him.


She pleases him and takes his money. He is pleased, he goes on down the staircase, to the dimming lights below. He grabs the burnished doorknob.
The door creaks open under the fear-filled wrench he gave it.

The pitch of the road shines the streetlights onto his face.
Rainwater trickles down the manhole cover.
He walks to the manhole and jumps into it. Sewer-water - mankinds deposit of filth - surrounds him and drags him on.

Pre-script:

Six syllables per line, sometimes an extra unstressed syllable is squeezed in without disturbing the metre. The rhyming pattern is A-B-A-A-C-C-B. Unconventional yes, but this sort of adds a sting to the paragraphs' endings, in accordance to the main theme.

Death of a young man.

Troubled sleep, not too deep,

Occupied all his nights.

When awake, it would creep,

Discreetly, then to sweep

Him back to dreams, nightmares.

He would writhe, unawares,

Grotesque thoughts, ugly sights.

Morning sun, he would roam,

Droopy eyes, shuffled gait,

Streets unknown, lead to home.

Shifting thoughts, frothing foam.

Passing time, wasting days,

Working on with an empty gaze,

Pending work, cannot wait.

He is rich, Rolls Royce

Earning money, buying things,

No mistakes, has no choice,

Smart and suave, James Joyce,

Clinching deals, crunching sheets,

Turning cogs, march-past beats,

Empty mind, no Saturn's rings.

As a child, he would play,

He would dream, fairytales.

Making trouble, running away

To places private. Stay

over with friends, young boys,

Treehouses, wooden toys,

Backpacks and hiking trails.

Bruised elbows, marbles won,

Skipping rope, hidden treasure.

Trying to stare at the sun,

Learning to whistle "Your ma' hun".

Lie alone, in the tree house

With magazines that arouse,

The forbidden pleasure.

Then came college, too soon,

Don't do drugs, must do well,

Parents' hopes, money's boon,

Ivy League, no full moon,

Live up to the expectations,

Games and sports, meager rations.

Perfect grades, head did swell.

Then, campus interviews,

Swept him off to Wall Street.

Houses with ocean views,

Trousers, ties, leather shoes.

High society, finest wine

Bosses coming over to dine.

Matte finis, velvet sheet.

Trophy wife, still no say,

Books for Bed - Starter's Guide.

Two point four kids, valet,

Son - tennis, daughter - ballet.

Thus life went on, clockwork,

Never stop, don't think, work.

The child who lived, hath died.

"Angst" is it?

A (not so) little something I wrote for my school magazine.

Where things ain’t good till they’re wrapped in mink,

Where the baseless thrive and the simple ones sink,

Where truth ain’t cool and the Rich is the Saint,

Where dance ain’t good, till there’s UV paint,

Where music’s “dead” if it’s got no “groove”,

Where the Truthfuls stand and the Ass-licks move,

Where prayers get taped as MP3s,

Where machines replace the mountain breeze,

Where money-making is all that’s taught,

Where music, art and education’s bought,

Where boys must hide to sip their beer,

Where discipline is wrought through fear,

Where respect is bought by those with power,

Where the wise have left and the stupid flower,

Where a country can be a superpower,

Where nuclear weapons bear our final hour,

Where the government preaches “smoking kills”,

Where men live on by taking pills,

Where boys in school learn about success,

Where burqas are worn; men roam shirtless,

Where sex is hidden, and “geeks are lame”

Where stereotypes make us shun fame,

Where culture is fashion, and trends are set,

Where brands set prices that must be met,

Where one must live, and can’t escape,

Where girls pay money to stay in shape,

Where Quality must cost to stay intact,

Where men with muscles get “chicks” who are “stacked”.

Where you’re hanged for rape, but Globalization’s great,

Where Democracy is chosen for an ignorant State,

Is where we live and sleep and dine.

…

And yet, must we sit and just malign

The world, or can we still strive and shine

Amidst this, to bring back what we consider lost?

To be the warm yet gentle sun amidst the frost

Collected in the century’s unstopped snowstorm? Do we intend

To just sit and write rhyming verses to give vent

To our frustration, just as useless as the rest?

No, I don’t think so. But then again, thoughts are cheap.

I got back to photoshop after a long time, and made this out of a previous bitmap drawing of my hand (which i think is present in this blog somewhere). Honestly speaking, I like the result!

freefalling

The King is dead, long live his Creations.

Although I believe that some ninety something percent of all the blogs in blogspot will contain an entry related to this, I couldn’t not write about it. I’d been introduced to English music through Michael as a child. My 8^th birthday present from my dad was 2 cassettes, a Boney M Gold, and Bad. My playlist of favorite songs is anything but steady, yet he’s among the few artists, if not the only one, who has constantly stayed put there. I was also introduced to western dance by his music videos, and my (untrained) skill in break-dancing is undoubtedly credited to him.

His death does not sadden me, as I see it sadden others, probably because the fact that he’s alive (when he was) never made a difference to me; his songs and videos was him, to me. I believe his death will strengthen and reawake the passion in most of our hearts that we looked to him with. His fame and glory had been tainted with several insignificant and malicious scandals aimed at him, which too, one hopes, will be erased from our memories.

News channels proclaim that there has never been, and their will never be, an artist comparable to the sheer genius of Michael Jackson. Unlike most other times, I believe it understates instead of exaggerating his talent.

To the one who embodied Youth, Passion and peaceful Rebellion – your legacy to music will forever inspire and command reverence. I’d drawn a picture of him as a child, years ago, which may even be present someplace earlier in this blog, but as a tribute to the King of Pop, I post it again.