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.
Friday, September 08, 2006
Monday, September 04, 2006
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]
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.
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.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
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. | |
Sunday, August 27, 2006
"Etherized upon a table"
Each time I open the blogger and cant write, I will leave a note.
"I couldn't write again".
"I couldn't write again".
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
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!"
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.)
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
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!)
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!)
Friday, July 21, 2006
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! ""
"" [...]
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.
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.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, June 19, 2006
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!
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!
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