OSHO - Strange Consequences

After Friedrich Nietzsche declared that "God is Dead", FUCK has become the most important word in the English language. This guy, whom I recently discovered (died in 1990) apparently carried the flag of Hermann Hesse, and all those people who follow the philosophy of self-realization. A prolific speaker, and a mesmerizer, Osho once said that "I love to disturb people", since it makes them think.

Shadows over Lahore

In the softness of the bed, I lay with the shadow - lifeless, yet full of life. I whisper in her ear, as it moves on top of me. I feel the fullness of her breasts on me, as I get carried away in the feeling. A noise of some kind similar to a call of "Halt". My palms sweat as I hold the shadow's, and then it whispers something in my ear.
I look in her eyes, and I shrink from three dimensions to the just two of the shadows. One with the sheets - two shadows holding hands. On the floor we creep, and to the window - we fly out. Over the trees, over the roof tops, and pigeon cages; over we fly. The soft October wind, the twinkling stars; the silence of night of a sleeping town - the stillness, the shimmering, and over them all, we fly; Floating in the wind, gliding on the waves, holding hands, as one shadow.
We land in this bright place, and suddenly, no shadows anymore. The life springs back, and the mercury bulbs shine on the ceilings. A chill calls out, and runs down my spine, and she holds my hand, and we fly away through the small window with irons bars in it. We fly over this small town, where everyone sleeps. The soft wind caresses my temples, and her breath breaths life in me, and we stay one as shadows.
Until, the cock crows, a caller calls out for daylight, and the sun brims out its beams from the east, and she parts leaving me where I was. Where I have always been.

December

Its December. The tree outside my window looks upon the only blossoming rose with envy. The rose notices the tree with the tears of dew. The scent scatters in the air at the first sight of the dawn. Sun rays appear in the dew as light rays from an emerald in a crown. The rose smiles. The tear slips down her cheek and into the green. The pearl is bound to be found - the depths are meaningless now.
A breeze blows like wind through a beauty's curls. The fragrant locks cover the horizon; bowing joyously to the crown. In the whispering of the tree the rose smile fragrantly.

a fist full of sand

Thoughts are astray. The glass is shattered. The eye of Sauron is watching ...?
Honestly, I have no clue what the hell is going on in life. I don't. I wish I was a pair of ragged claws scuttling across the floor of silent seas. I wish I was.

Apocalypto is a must see.

"Etherized upon a table"

Q) Whats brown and sounds like a bell?

A) TANGGG...

Curtains or Brain wave overload

The voices scream and howl, as thoughts are scattered like pieces of a glass on a wooden floor. The answers I seek are behind the curtains of white noise. A shadow appears that I think I recognize, but cannot quite recall. With confidence I claim I know what it is, but proof I cannot provide - the proof is behind those curtains.
All the arguments are here in front of me, wriggling on my desk, gleaming like a ray of light from a prism. They are busy in a ritual and each has its tail in the head of the other. I cannot tell them apart. I cannot use them to tell the truth. I cannot see behind those curtains.
aaah... But it is a great relief to have the belief that my thoughts follow a pattern of socratic reasoning. I may not be able to prove it to you, because the proof is behind those curtains, and you cannot even see them.
And sometimes an idea raises its head and the gail blows fluttering the curtains out of the way, and I can gaze across to the horizon for a dew drop like moment.
Everything becomes clear, and the fog disappears before the breath becomes stale again and the white noise cover my ears and eyes, and I dumbfoundedly stare at the mating ideas.

Etherized upon a table, i ask?

The air is fragrant again. The red roses are blossoming even though it is almost December. The desert is gleaming with joy and the spring has crept up silently to make the land fertile for hope, once more. My existence exists to smell the traces of her presence in the cosmos. I can breath her again - life is all colourfull once more.
I recognized her from miles away, when we knew nothing of it. It was like two broken pieces of a magnet; kept at a distance without a consequence, but when brought together they become one; defying the forces holding them in their places. She spoke of Juliet today as I listened with close intent. I was breathing her, her words were filling the air, as she was constituting an awakening in me. Her smile white as pearls of my imagination was beating blood in my body, as I saw through her.
I have not thought of any thought but her for past five years. She sits in front of me, as an incarnation of my struggle. I am close to holding her in my arms, and almost be forgiven. For the trees that have bowed to me, and the water that had sang to me, and the flowers that have beamed life at me when I had ignored them are ready to forgive me now. I will hold the glass of wine in my hands, but this time with a beating heart.

utterences

My time is frozen, and I am in time. The time rests in a moment which spans the boundaries of a unfaded memory. The horizon is a twilight of yellow light. The yellow mercury bulbs, which shopkeepers have put on to attract the customers. The people pace without no faces outside their shops. Shopkeepers hope in the yellow light of mercury bulbs; the faceless are customers who will buy time from them.
I wanted to be in the white light of tube lights - the omnipresent white florescent light which would jealous the Fire Fly. The light in which you and I will laugh the eternal laughter of Mozart.
I wanted to feel the yellow light on my face. I wanted to touch the horizon; hear the yellow laugh of the yellow star. I am blinded and now the horizon is there, and I am there, but the earth and the sky do not meet here anymore.

Ciabbata

I have realized that my quest is not for the answers to the questions, but for the questions that linger in my existence. There are things that I observe, and for every instance that I observe is a set pattern - a predictable pattern. I can predict, but this leads to an overwhelming question that what is the question for which I am observing it?
Apart from that, each new day in front of the mirror I see this guy, and think that if I were him, I would brush my teeth right now, and shave this fur of my face. I am consequently defined by what I do not wish to become. This is not a life, its a false positive of a life. How unstable can one be? My only effort is to hold of and ward off what is inevitable.
And then I have these memories, which basically define me. I am a function of this time that I have spent:
[Me=f(t)= Integral (first day of life to this day) f(t)dt]
When I first read about Gregor Samsa in Kafka's Metamorphosis, I thought of DDT. But that is beside the point.
How pathetically, I define myself with a mathematical expression. Its almost genius, almost.

Oppertunist me

I am being chased by this pernecious demonic creature. It tests my determination, but every time I beat it in its own games through the power of my sheer will.
I am driving a car, and my car is getting heavier and heavier, I cannot accelerate any more and its slowing down. I turn back and see the demon is in the car. I get out of the car and start running away from it.
It is an old house, perhaps my grand father's old house, and I am going to the terrace from the front stairs. The demon is around here; I feel it.
I see a man with no face, and I know its the same creature that has followed me - now disguised as David Blane. I argue with it and forcefully convince him to leave me alone - once again I have exercised my will to get rid of it.
What is this room? I cannot recall it? Is that Mephistopheles? So he wants my soul now? Technically I could sell it - I am not using it anyways. But, its a matter of principles and I will not subdue. So I bargain and defeat him in his own arena. I grin victoriously. "I am invincible".
I am in my bed room. I do not know this woman's face. But I do know that it is the same creature. She is trying to seduce me now. I notice she has such a pretty face. I am sitting on this easy chair, and she is standing right infront of me. Without uttering a word she takes off her clothes, and starts walking towards me. Just when she is about to sit in my lap, I think to myself
"I am invincible ..."
"...but its only a dream, so what the hell!!"
I let her sit in my lap and give in ...
A feeling of ecstasy rocked my body.I was awake now looking in the dark, and smiling to myself, "I am invincible".

The Clamor

The clamor. I remember being up at 7, and not being happy to the see the fog covered streets of my city. Curiosity is in my nature, and fog and mists are natrually a source of excitement for me, but in those days - those particular days - I had to be up and go play cricket in the ground next to that 150 year old Gothic style Cathedrel on sundays. The Clamor, among the mist of the church bells I cannot forget. It resounds in my mind even today, as it is only seperated from me by the mist in between - a mist of time perhaps.
And I remember, at one point in my life I also thought that the bell sound like Ub-40's "Dont break my heart", and I would just sit there and listen to the clamor through the fog. Who would have thought that I'd fall in love with a church-bell. Who would have thought that I'd miss my city so much.

King Lear just before Shakespear's tragedy

Ladies, and Gentlemen,
Finally I have started filming my version of the King Lear http://invince.blogspot.com/2005/09/king-lear-like-never-before-my-very.html and it will be posted here shortly; as soon as it is finished.
This effort is solely to demonstrate that Monty Python can suck my balls!!
(well not really - braging helps)

Legs for the elephants supporting naked conscious with a square "Unsatiated Desire"

The Elephents, 1948 by Dali

A figure in the window (and another in the sky) by Dali

The top one is the original by Salvador Dali. The one at the bottom is my version of it.

Stream of pissing conciousness

Once upon a time, there was a present day - today. Well, not today as in "whats today?" but this present year, or rather present time. So once upon this present time; as a matter of fact it could have been more than once. So, upon a time, this time, there lives a breed on this planet who cherish ignorance. Some call them trigger happy rednecks, some call them rednecks, and some call them republicans, and some even call them by their name - but the title is not important at this point in time. When that time, which is now, was upon us in the story that is being told, then that time is right now, so in this time, these people are disconnected with reality, or at least it can be said that what is real for the rest of the world, may not be real for them, or those people as our story goes.
The epitome of the ignorance shines in the fact that they have not converted to SI metric units, and use their trusted old pounds for weights. Which brings us to another convincing reason of obeseity in their society, why they weigh so much, or why they are so big; its because for every Kilogram there are 2 pounds.
Anyways, such a person believes that internet should not be neutral, and further more the unit of data must not be Kilo-bits per second (Kbps), it should be Pounds-bits per second (Lbbps). Hell, I am sure John Mc Cain is working on one such a bill.
Our story contines, and that guy sits over there smoking a sheesha. Sheesha is an interesting thing to be smoking. Well, not as interesting as a novel, or a piece of art, or when open sarcastic comments are not feasible you get away by saying "interesting", but close enough.
At this point I should be focusing on making this post interesting, because it is going no where, and I still havent found a punch line. So I am not going to continue this post. The End.
Wait, there upon a time, a hunter had a 100 piegeons. He could have bats instead. That bastard.

Transformation

"Ash to Ash.. Dust to Dust..or was it Ash to Dust ..Dust to Ash.??" [sic].*
Actually the transformation never takes place. Prometheus stays there tied; vultures continue to tear his flesh; complacency replaces pain; ashes remain ashes, and dust remains dust.


*Su-'s nick on msn.

The escape

When the ticks of the clock are not heard;
When the obliqueness
of the night takes over the stars;
when the darkness presents its dance
and the silenced thoughts sing in the ears.

I stare in the darkness
and sip through the glass.
The wine melts on my tongue,
and in the heart the poison descends.
From behind the tall figurines
the shadows emerge
(screaming the screams of innocent children).
They plot a visage of shimmering darkness.
Overflowing the cups of heaven, the darkness;
Slithering in the dark, the darkness;
darker than their hearts, the darkness.

The shadows converge and form a face,
and (in the darkness) its eyes can see now.
The darkness ascends the walls of my heart,
and in the glass I see myself.
I sip the wine,
till the glass is empty.

Now its only the heart
and my empty glass.

On the rationality of the Church, or Is Benedict XVI Chancelor Palpatine?

I was amused to hear the recent Pope's comments on Islam and violence - the pope does that once in a while about gay marriage, and birth control and the list is endless. My gut reaction was "the man is only doing his job" and I moved on to the more important things of the day. But after a few hours, and reading a bunch of different headlines around the world, I was forced to take the matter seriously.
I read the script of Pope's speech, and I concluded that there was nothing wrong with the argument he was trying to make. He was promoting the Greek and hence the resulting influence of rationality in the Christian faith and the church in generall. The entire matter was supposed to be platonic in nature, and it would have been if the Pope had not succumbed to which the entire church did a few 100 years ago - triggering a dark age.
The Pope's discussion as the church claims was a discussion with valid arguemnts about the superiority of reason and rationality (as we all know arguments form the basis of any discussion), but his arguments were not rational, or even depicted reality. He went on quoting this empror Manuel II from the dark ages. The arguement is strictly formulated by conviction and is not rational or (even based on the known history) at all. Hence the Pope did what a Head of an organization that gave us dark ages, burning of the heratics, crusades, does best - he contradicted himself, and the history.
Now don't get me wrong here - I have nothing against any religon.
My concerns are based on a report by BBC that has made a comparison between Benedict XVI and Darth Vader. I did some reserch into the matter, and I have a reason to believe that BBC is wrong - its not Darth Vader, its the Emperor Palpatine himself. I have a proof, and here I present it to you in the following lines:


Pope Palpatine I

Does this mean that the Church has been hijacked by the Sith? and "in grave danger, we are", or even worse, "I am your father, Luke"!!!? You decide.

no body knows where you are; how near or how far. Shine on you crazy diamond.

Many years have gone by in a struggle that consumes one day at a time; the days which are followed by the nights filled with the fragrance of confusion and dismay. The woods that have grown just outside my self, are haunted by the vicious monsters of isolation. I dared take a walk in those woods and now in the dark night, which followed the day of a struggle, I have no north-star in sight to trace my way back to myself. Each day I am devoured by the beasts who hungrily feed on me. Soon my flesh will be old, and those beasts of passion and ambition will not like the taste of my blood anymore. They will leave me on my own in the woods that I had cherished in the youth to walk the burden of the old age.

W.A: She broke up with me, because she thinks that I am a pervert.
D.K: Why? Why so?
W.A: Because I drank all the water from her water-bed.

the google paradox

It appears that this blog has changed its ownership. I have been posting third party posts on it - articles, video clips; crap in general. It is not true however. A person is defined by their memmory, and hence, Vincent is all that you read here.

I was surfing the search engines the other day and I realized that my blog is listed under the most perpostrous keywords. For example, visistude brings up my blog. Looking for "limit of 'infinity over zero', epestemology, or "etherized bastard" brings up this blog too. Now it may sound casual, but beware, because its not. All these search results are from google.

Now its common knowledge that google ranks and categorizes its search results in a democratic way. My blog seems to be an anomaly, since it is not about any of the above mentioned keywords. If I were to suggest that a democratic system by google approaches its limits in order to place a multi-faceted blog like this into a particualar category, because it is too broad to be narrowed down. Then, consequently, does this mean that a democratic society will also fail in realizing the potential of a diverse persona, because it cannot be generalized?
I hope not.

Paas raho by Faiz (a translation)

Stay with me my tormenter, my beloved
In the moment the night walks
Drunk on the blood of skies
Laced with the healing musk
Armed with the diamond-dagger
Mourning, laughing, singing
She goes
Verberating her crimson anklet of pain
The moment,
When hearts drowned in hollow breasts
Seek the blows of idle hands,
With longing
When the sound of pouring wine
Sounds like the sobs of weeping children
When seas of anguish
Become untamable
When silence rules
When the night walks
Mourning, haunted, dark night walks
In that moment
Stay with me
My tormenter, my beloved
Stay with me.

[by Cisco]

Annabel Lee by Edgar Alen Poe (1849)

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;--
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

She was a child and I was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love--
I and my Annabel Lee--
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud by night
Chilling my Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
Went envying her and me:--
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of a cloud, chilling
And killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we--
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in Heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:--

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea--
In her tomb by the side of the sea.

Monty Python´s Philosophy Footbal Match (Part 1)

Part I of the football match between Germany and the Greeeks.

Monty Python´s Philosophy Footbal Match (Part 2)

2nd half of a football match between the Greeks and the Germans - as portrayed by Monty Python.

"Etherized upon a table"

Each time I open the blogger and cant write, I will leave a note.
"I couldn't write again".

let me etherize this upon the table.

The workplace is a strange place. There are fixed number of variables in a workplace, which basically means that everything is set to repeat itself in a course of 1 week - from what people wear to what they do, and the excuses they come up to laugh about or frown upon.
Strange enough, but not striking, is the difference in workplace cultures. At one of our clients who happened to be a Hospital (no, it wasnt the man who was a hospital), have a salient cultural phenomenon: empathy emails. They are empathy emails not because of the sender's willingness to identify with the rest of the world, but rather the sender's desire for rest of the world to conform with him/her.
Consider the message:
"FRIENDS ARE LIKE BALLOONS [...]. SEND THIS TO ALL YOUR FRIENDS INCLUDING ME! SEE HOW MANY YOU GET BACK".
This email had a signature which foreshadows the kind of upcoming emails from her, if you have an insight to the American culture. The signature goes like this:

"Stop telling God how big your storm is.

Instead, tell the storm how big your God is!"

I am sorry but its the Chewbaca that understands english, and can still roar like thunder, not the storm.
There is another person with the following signature:

"Vision without action is merely a dream.
Action without vision just passes time.
Vision with action can change your life."

This person is not obese, she is FAT.

(contd.)

Darth Vince

I have seen the truth among the shadows, and have heared its whispers - a whisper which you are so close to understanding but never can. It is like that faded memory that you almost remember but cannot outline the details to yourself. Or perhaps, its like that fiber of meat stuck in between your teeth that you think you can remove with repeatedly rolling your tongue over it but you cannot.
I am on a path to rediscovery of myself. I once again understand the crudeness of human nature, and the nature of a conflict. I have found my competitive edge. Once again, I will haunt you in your dreams, because the first position that you have been dreaming since forever belongs to me now!
I have seen that through the force, and have heared it in the echo that echoes inside it. Passion is the key to strength which is the door to victory. The greatness is using the Force to your benifit and not just to be in harmony with it. Jedi order does not interest me any more. I have become the Sith.
Ok ? ? ?
Respect my authoritaaa!
(and I hate you Mater Yoda!)

An excerpt from "Brothers Karamazov" by Dostoevsky

This is the chat Ivan Karamazov and Alexy Karamazov have on an intimate meeting. Dostoevsky saw right through us - nothing more can I say.
"" [...]
They burn villages, murder, outrage women and children, they nail their prisoners by the ears to the fences, leave them so till morning, and in the morning they hang them -- all sorts of things you can't imagine. People talk sometimes of bestial cruelty, but that's a great injustice and insult to the beasts; a beast can never be so cruel as a man, so artistically cruel. The tiger only tears and gnaws, that's all he can do. He would never think of nailing people by the ears, even if he were able to do it. These Turks took a pleasure in torturing children, -too; cutting the unborn child from the mothers womb, and tossing babies up in the air and catching them on the points of their bayonets before their mothers' eyes. Doing it before the mothers' eyes was what gave zest to the amusement. Here is another scene that I thought very interesting. Imagine a trembling mother with her baby in her arms, a circle of invading Turks around her. They've planned a diversion: they pet the baby, laugh to make it laugh. They succeed, the baby laughs. At that moment a Turk points a pistol four inches from the baby's face. The baby laughs with glee, holds out its little hands to the pistol, and he pulls the trigger in the baby's face and blows out its brains. Artistic, wasn't it? By the way, Turks are particularly fond of sweet things, they say."
"Brother, what are you driving at?" asked Alyosha.

"I think if the devil doesn't exist, but man has created him, he has created him in his own image and likeness."

"Just as he did God, then?" observed Alyosha. ""


""[...]
"But I've still better things about children. I've collected a great, great deal about Russian children, Alyosha. There was a little girl of five who was hated by her father and mother, 'most worthy and respectable people, of good education and breeding.' You see, I must repeat again, it is a peculiar characteristic of many people, this love of torturing children, and children only. To all other types of humanity these torturers behave mildly and benevolently, like cultivated and humane Europeans; but they are very fond of tormenting children, even fond of children themselves in that sense. it's just their defencelessness that tempts the tormentor, just the angelic confidence of the child who has no refuge and no appeal, that sets his vile blood on fire. In every man, of course, a demon lies hidden -- the demon of rage, the demon of lustful heat at the screams of the tortured victim, the demon of lawlessness let off the chain, the demon of diseases that follow on vice, gout, kidney disease, and so on.

"This poor child of five was subjected to every possible torture by those cultivated parents. They beat her, thrashed her, kicked her for no reason till her body was one bruise. Then, they went to greater refinements of cruelty -- shut her up all night in the cold and frost in a privy, and because she didn't ask to be taken up at night (as though a child of five sleeping its angelic, sound sleep could be trained to wake and ask), they smeared her face and filled her mouth with excrement, and it was her mother, her mother did this. And that mother could sleep, hearing the poor child's groans! Can you understand why a little creature, who can't even understand what's done to her, should beat her little aching heart with her tiny fist in the dark and the cold, and weep her meek unresentful tears to dear, kind God to protect her? Do you understand that, friend and brother, you pious and humble novice? Do you understand why this infamy must be and is permitted? Without it, I am told, man could not have existed on earth, for he could not have known good and evil. Why should he know that diabolical good and evil when it costs so much? Why, the whole world of knowledge is not worth that child's prayer to dear, kind God'! I say nothing of the sufferings of grown-up people, they have eaten the apple, damn them, and the devil take them all! But these little ones! [...]""

""[...]

"One picture, only one more, because it's so curious, so characteristic, and I have only just read it in some collection of Russian antiquities. I've forgotten the name. I must look it up. It was in the darkest days of serfdom at the beginning of the century, and long live the Liberator of the People! There was in those days a general of aristocratic connections, the owner of great estates, one of those men -- somewhat exceptional, I believe, even then -- who, retiring from the service into a life of leisure, are convinced that they've earned absolute power over the lives of their subjects. There were such men then. So our general, settled on his property of two thousand souls, lives in pomp, and domineers over his poor neighbours as though they were dependents and buffoons. He has kennels of hundreds of hounds and nearly a hundred dog-boys -- all mounted, and in uniform. One day a serf-boy, a little child of eight, threw a stone in play and hurt the paw of the general's favourite hound. 'Why is my favourite dog lame?' He is told that the boy threw a stone that hurt the dog's paw. 'So you did it.' The general looked the child up and down. 'Take him.' He was taken -- taken from his mother and kept shut up all night. Early that morning the general comes out on horseback, with the hounds, his dependents, dog-boys, and huntsmen, all mounted around him in full hunting parade. The servants are summoned for their edification, and in front of them all stands the mother of the child. The child is brought from the lock-up. It's a gloomy, cold, foggy, autumn day, a capital day for hunting. The general orders the child to be undressed; the child is stripped naked. He shivers, numb with terror, not daring to cry.... 'Make him run,' commands the general. 'Run! run!' shout the dog-boys. The boy runs.... 'At him!' yells the general, and he sets the whole pack of hounds on the child. The hounds catch him, and tear him to pieces before his mother's eyes!... I believe the general was afterwards declared incapable of administering his estates. Well -- what did he deserve? To be shot? To be shot for the satisfaction of our moral feelings? Speak, Alyosha! ""

got is tot? No! humanity is tot!

Humanity is dead. We killed it. We the flag beares of human rights, and justice - we killed it. We killed it by our silence, when we should have spoken against it - we killed it by our actions through our indulgence into our profits. Are we blind? Can we not see?
I ask, where is the emotion we felt when something happened to us and when our eyes filled with tears? Humanity is dead, I say. Lets burry it and never look back at it again. Let there be no sign on its grave, so it can be forgotten. Let no child be looked upon with hope. Let these flowers wither now. And if someone ask us why we did that, let us point fingers at each other and blame them for starting it.
We have killed humanity with our own hands - with our hypocricy.

Whooaaa

Hey read this post about a guy who woke up one day with a light bulb up his ass!!

my felicity a spectacle,
in the autumn of silence.
If permited I would have told you.
Liberated from the dungeons of time, if,
I would have whispered to you -
the truth of apocryphal truths.
Desire for freedom;
Freedom from agony
is a confession of time;
intricate words in intricate fashion -
rehersed and memorized!
But let it be -
Let it linger some more,
and the dew which is wrapped
beneath the eyelids change color,
for dry-red stains are forever.

La donna è mobile

"La donna è mobile" ("Woman is fickle" in the Italian language) is an aria from the opera Rigoletto by Giuseppe Verdi, and it goes as follows:

La donna è mobile
qual piuma al vento
muta d'accento
e di pensiero

Sempre un'amabile
leggiadro viso
in pianto o in riso
è menzognero

La donna è mobil
qual piuma al vento
muta d'accento
e di pensier
e di pensier
e di pensier

È sempre misero
chi a lei s'affida
chi le confida
mal cauto il core

Pur mai non sentesi
felice appieno
chi su quel seno
non liba amore

La donna è mobil
qual piuma al vento
muta d'accento
e di pensier
e di pensier
e di pensier

I am not translating it in english, do it yourself, or ask Google to do it for you. If you wanna hear it, here is a recording of Enrico Caruso singing La donna e mobile.

Request for topics

This is the 4th day that I have opened the blog editor to write something, and still I am not able to write anything. It seems that I have lost my sense of identifying a good subject to write about. So I have a request for you:

If you are reading this please click the comments button, and give me a topic to write about. Give me anything; a noun, a person, a phenomenon, an anatomical part - hell anything!
Then I'll be writing again in no time - and you'll be reading again - premium stuff, I promise!

Fuck you Freud!

There is a mother hidden in every woman. There is a potential mother Terresa hidden in every mother. Hence, even if you are out on a crazy and wild night, it is recomended, that you go and tap these hidden avenues of womanhood if you wanna get laid. How pathetic!
It is a matter of genuine disgust that women so often are looking for two relationships in one package: they want to be a mother and a mistress at the same time. If this, my friends, is not the case then a viable option to them is to find a man who can be a figure of a Father, and a sinner at the same time.

Ennui

I think it can safely stated that I a bored. One must ask however, that why safely? Is protection an issue at all with boredom? To which a different One must reply that it is boredom from which every thing not safe sprouts out, or perhaps sprouts in.
We on the other hand, who are curiously monitoring this chatter between One and another One are left with no choice than to not to read.
Non-sense is the fist of all pleasures, rather fist is the mother of all pleasures - sprouting in and out.
I wish I can sleep. I can't sleep.

10000 year old refrain

The subtleties of human subsistence approach a dire turn as one examines the delicate relationship between emotions and necessities -- One exists to contradict the other, and yet they cannot be without one another.

"Etherized upon a table"

Since the searching on the movie The Da Vinci Code is up so much, I believe if I put the words "so dark the con of man" on my blog, it will drive my hits per minute's graph way up. So here we go:
so dark the con of man.

In the desert of solitude

In the desert of solitude, my love,
resonate shadows of your voice;
mirages of your lips.
In the desert of solitude, beneath the stockpiles of distances,
are blooming flowers and the roses of our closeness.
Rising somewhere next to me
is the heat of your breath,
burning in its own fragrance,
kindling slowly.
Far, on the horizon, Love,
the shimmering droplets of your dew glances are falling.
In the desert of solitude,
with much love have lips
of your memories touched
the face of my heart.
It feels now, even though
its a day of discord,
this sun of distances is going to sink,
and let the night come
when we will be together.

My translation of Dasht-e-tanhai (by Faiz A. Faiz).

milestone

So I graduated. I thought I'd have a feast when I would, but it was extremely different than what I had imagined it to be. It was allright, I guess. I didnt feel anything different; no butterflies in the stomach; no excitement; no rush of blood. I just came home and went to bed. Altough when I woke up around 9PM, I had sweat on my temples and the neck, and had this feeling of extreme content. I just laid there watching the ceiling for who knows how long, listening to the silence. My shoulders felt so relaxed and light.
I thought about it again, and a grin crawled up on my lips. I think that was it. It was this smile that I worked so hard for. I had achieved it.

arc-iology

Sometimes there are no words; For words are not the only form of expression known. Sometimes, you just want to sit infront of your screen, open up the blogger and just draw an arc with a lead pencil, extending in between the left and right diagnol of the screen.
And then, that arc must not be translated into words.

a world of difference

Somebody once said "Illusion is the first of all pleasures". I thought about it, and found out that my conclusions based on observation and experiences go otherwise. The fact of the matter is "illusion is the fist of all pleasures".

sigh ..

I read it. The wind had brought that whisper to me. A sigh, an utterance - a breath of rememberance that has travelled through this space, crept this web of cosmos; flown through time and then sat behind the bars in the window pane.
It is the rose that has bloomed somwhere outside my prison, which I cannot see, but somtimes in the night its fragrance makes me restless. I have read it again and again. The words are simple, and the message is short. There is a storm in me however, that has brewed since forever, and now your words have blown away my shelter from this storm in me. Soon it will start hailing and I have no where to take refuge.

"The day I died" or "The day I died?"

It was a warm summer day when I was shot. I was shot to death by loud bang of an unseen gun. I had never heared that sound before. The loud roar was as strange to me as an english muffin in Timbuktu. The bang heared was loud and perhaps was heared late. I felt my temples sweat - temples, forehead, and the back side of the neck. It was reminiscent of the nap that I took just after lunch. So now you know I was shot after lunch. I was shot with a full stomach. I know you are thinking that I am not a rebel then, perhaps. I was definitely not protesting poverty, or prison, or I wasnt even on a hunger strike. I was shot in summer. I was shot when tulips were in full bloom, somewhere. If you know me enough, you know that I have no interest in gardening, and I definitly do not know the seasonal flowers. The moving tragedy of me being shot is powerful enough to make me Quixotic. My death reminded of Tulips, so. I could have thought of roses, but roses are too alive to be thought of after being shot. I was shot and I was running out of time. I had a little time left to reflect on my life ; the things that I did - good and bad.
I was shot and it was the first time I was ever shot. My dear readers, I assume you are active members of the society and you know the moral dilema of doing something the first time. There is a huge pressure on your shoulders to do it right. I hadnt had a chance to witness a shooting before, but I had seen deaths on stage. As you may well imagine my dilema. I was supposed to say something before I die. Something meaningful. But I couldnt think of anything that would make a sense. It was like my reality was covered with a layer of white noise. Yes the exact noise that you see on the television when the antena is not plugged in. In order to say something, I had to focus to come articulate, which I couldnt do. Just imagine the dilema - a person shot with a bang by an unseen gun, who doesnt know how to die. So instead of reflecting on my life, I started searching for a mortal flaw in myself which had led to such a tragic ending. I thought, if I'd find one, I'll die like Lear. Alas, it is true that death confiscates any sense of rational reasoning.
I was about to faint when I realized that now I know the answers to all the questions about life and the unknown questions in the life. I found out why I felt the infringes of love, and the tickles of haterd for somebody, and I found out why I never ever liked Oakra, and why I walked away that day after I said what I said, which I never figured out why I said. I even found out the meaning of those tears that fell from those eyes, and those other eyes and the aligator's grudge against fish and the tears of aligator, and the apple that fell on the head while I sat under the tree, and I never sat under that tree - wait a minute! Is it that I now had the answers to all the questions ever asked by any person ever? Or was it my failing senses and now only sporadically firing neurons in the brain? I opened my eyes with a jerk that I felt but my body never felt.
I was shot by a loud bang, by a gun I have never seen. Was it the gun or the bang that killed me? I wish I could figure out its always the bullet that kills, and not the bang. It was too late already.

Je sais que, comme les autres, tu ne resteras pas
Je sais que, toi aussi, tu partiras
Mais quand même cette fois
J’espère
C’est pourquoi j’ai gardé au fond de mon cœur une lueur d’espoir
En ton honneur
Car il y a déjà longtemps que je monte
Vers le haut des murs du malheur
Que je tombe, je tombe en essayant d’aspirer le bonheur
Celui que j’ai laissé trop souvent
Celui que j’ai brûlé de mes 20 ans
En me disant, comme un pauvre imbécile :
« Demain, je serai bien plus heureux demain »

Et je donne des noms au Soleil, à la Lune
En espérant que demain plaisirs dénudés,
Regards frissonnants reviendront pour m’habiter
Pour alléger la lourdeur des jours à traîner
Et je danse, je danse sur les mêmes rythmes barbares
Et je pleure, je pleure en m’assurant qu’il est déjà trop tard
Trop tard pour le bonheur éternel
Trop tard pour le grand pays des merveilles
En me répétant, comme un pauvre imbécile :
« Demain, je serai bien plus heureux ».

This anxiety is killing me. I am counting days, and only 34 are left before I graduate.
I am afraid.

"Etherized upon a table"

There is no darkside of the moon really.As a matter of fact, its all dark.

V for Vendetta

"[...]Disdaining fortune, with his brandished steel
Which smoked with bloody execution,
Like valour's minion
Carved out his passage till he faced the slave,
Which ne'er shook hands nor bade farewell to him
Till he unseamed him from the nave to th' chops,
And fixed his head upon our battlements. - from Macbeth

Entropy and whores

You are what you chose to look like. People are fools, and you have every right not to enlighten them. People are happiest when they are manipulated without their will. Try it, if you do not believe. You will be dissapointed.
Each human will confess of his strife for betterment. Improvement, they will emphasize, is a characteristic of homo sapien. Why then, if a being lives for improvement, the society always heads towards destruction. The time changes, but never for good. What is this strange oxymoronic relationship between a man and his group.
We are creatures bounded to the physical world and the platonic relationships of the resultant co-existance. Entropy effects us on the same scale as it effects a falling glass.
Passing moments, days, weeks, months, years are the units of increasing entropy in our life. How then we validate our claim of gaining wisdom with the age? Infact, Alzhimer is our disease; the plague of the rationals.
The search for realization is a faint try to avoid a combustive increase in entropy of our concious mind. The knowledge and education are a hoax. The god is a balancing digit in a still unbalanced equation. With all these variables there is only one constant. There is only one truth. The death. Everybody dies, from our society to a mongring whore.

Nostalgia and pain

The novel is strange and yet so familiar. The theme is the same old of pain and despair. I even think that the author is overly influenced from Hermann Hesse, but I do not blame him for it. I skim through the pages as the story brings back the memories of my home town. My neck is still hurting and I have not been able to find a comfortable reading position, as I lay on the bed now.
It is a strange feeling to be able to identify with the protagonist of such a depressing story, and then first handedly feel a facet of that pain: an over powering muscle ache in the neck. I try to turn my head towards the left side but the pain is devastatingly unbelievable. I do not quit on the tries to move the head, as I find the intensity of pain hard to believe. The pain for a moment feels sweet too.
So I give up on the reading as I haven’t eaten in many hours, and the pain in the neck is well, pain in the neck. I think of going out and getting something to eat, but do otherwise as my mind portrays some elaborate pessimistic scenarios of going out at this late hour - Besides, nothing good can be expected of the ill fated.
I turn on the computer but there is no internet. I wonder “if Wordsworth’s lonely wanderings as a cloud were as lonelier as mine without the Internet”. I think of the Daffodils for a second and then change the thought as if I have embarrassed myself with just a vision of a happy thought; it feels unethical even to think of a colorful thought.
With these unclear thoughts I find it a bit hard to sleep, so I conclude that nostalgia and pain are related. I could question my conclusion, and in the back of my head I know that my premise is not rational, but I am too tired to be questioning anything, and I will settle on any convictions that will help me descend into a sweet sleep.

globalization, my ass!

Man is a social animal. Hence one has to befriend with cats and dogs in the abscence of real friends. Curse these distances - I miss my old pals.

Fredrich Chopin - Nocturne in E minor

A vision from the life past. A touch of breeze on my cheeks under the summer sun, as I stare at those snow covered mountains far away. The falling leaves crumble under my trembling thoughts. It is not summer yet. The deep breath reminds of the peace and the years spent unnoticed.
The exhaled breath; the days; the nights; the walks; the sleep; the touch of breeze - gone. Gone they are gone. Thoughts, tinted thougts; the mountains; the snow - Gone.

Donkey

I was skimming through an old diary and found this thing that I wrote a long long a while ago:

Endless hair,
stranded on your tail
Reaches your trunk,
Pulsating with current.
How can I bare -
the kick so supple,
on my balls;
not so rugged.
Run away with me,
be my ride.
Show me some teeth,
my beloved donkey.

rose nectar

There is a strong scientific evidence supporting the fact that rose-nectar is good for eyes, and eye sight. Therefore, gentle readers, it is highly recomended that you wash your ass with rose-nectar everyday.

Light,
sparkling, shimmering,
scintillating light.
Seven rays of distinct colors;
bright!
Far across the horizon,
a visage of shinning silver
Dreams.
Each one of them awaits you,
my Nightingale.

A Crazy Girl

Mundane is the shelter when doubts hail from the skies of life. She sits and watch us as we are absorbed into the mundane pleasures. A curious mind ask questions; she doubts her own intentions as meloncholy spreads through her existance. Her eyes darken, as my eyes dilate.
I notice and offer her some too, but her nay is strong and sounds to be out of place. She sounds as I am responsible for bringing her back to this earth from the boundless lands of her thoughts. She yells, no!
I forget her anguish in the shadows of mine own. I think about Demian's mark of distinction but see her face instead of my own.
I laugh - she will soon find out. She will find out that her misery stems from not becoming one with what she abhores. One has no option but to become one with what one hates.

Still Etherized upon a table

A year has past, Hooray; My blog is one year old. My thoughts are a year more mature; my wit a year more wise; my death a year nearer, and I am pulsating with life.
Let there be a celebration! I have written a chapter from my life.