Thursday, August 27, 2009

Twelfth minute of a clueless birth

Trust me I'm depressed. Something terribly clinical about it. As it is five minutes more to go for my birthday, I cannot help crying. I miss my parents, not really. But I miss a point. I am missing something quite pointlessly. Then I look around and see the amount of people I have pushed away almost everybody. I give creepy hostile sad vibes. I sleep amongst the awake and I grunt amongst the cheerful. There is a point beyond which the body and mind feel short of control. It is automated. It's a clueless start to another year and the only thought coming to me is of being stuck in this same state of the heaviness of nothingness and listlessness and inability and forced half efforts. There has to be a way out. Someone needs helping. I can't even write. Probably I should wrap up the blog, wall in front of me.

Monday, August 10, 2009

My air is a peppered pineapple

I was zapping through all the million t.v channels and safety mails telling us what to do and what not during Swine flu attacks. Some place had termed H1N1 as the micro terrorist. This is not a new thought, mind you. It keeps recurring every time when something is transmitted through air, be it through satellite signal viruses or anthrax germs or influenza. I feel it is not our water or land but our air that is the most exploited. It is actually like that pineapple, cut and wedged by multiple radio waves being transmitted, all the wireless networks, the television signals, the different infrared and bluetooth devices, all the light that travels in the medium of air, all the sound, the cigarette smoke, the bacteria etc. So much of activity inhabits the invisible air that is scary to gulp and swallow one breath full of echoes and smells, shooting waves and germs. A huge pineapple container stuffed with mostly not seen to the naked eye matter. I feel sad. Like SpongeBob sitting on a bus stop waiting for the water around injected in blue, waiting for it to naturally flow like blue flamed slow sickness. My air is a peppered pineapple. Heigh-ho!

Thursday, August 6, 2009

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

How I stopped head banging to Vengaboyz

We were sitting in the state of the art auditorium and 'western electric' was about to begin. I had absolutely no clue what they were going to play on the stage, I hated being there because anyways I wouldn't know what they were singing. Some of them are usually so nasal that its a pain listening to them live. You can't even zap. No control. But the only two people I knew in Bangalore were here and they were interested in this. Not only them, there was a booming crowd of some thousands who were all anticipating something exquisite. I had no clue again, I felt bitter and ignorant. But I have never failed! I just couldn't give up on this like that. Not to mention at least three more years of dreadful conversations and guitar holding men and women around me singing something that my ears refused to call music. It was one of the most belittling days of my life. I was something despicable I couldn't seem to reconcile with. Back then, I had more urgent solid tasks. One of them, I whispered to my own ears, was to listen to English music.
Yeah, it may sound so exaggerated but all I had heard before that was Vengaboys, Britney Spears and Jenifer Lopez. They were all banging heads like maniacs and all I could enjoy was colored light. Then started rigorous torturous ear lending to Yahoo free radio and somebody's ugly I-pod or mp3 player lists. Trust me, I couldn't tell Coldplay from Metallica and honestly, I didn't care. I would actually note down famous names and try and recall the songs when I heard them. Till date I haven't figured how many people actually could recognize some obscure(!) Pearl Jam number but would still go, 'Dude! the bassist was so kickass!"
Never mind, today I listen to 65% English and the rest is mixed. Today is not forced and I am not cornered by "Shit! you haven't heard The Massive attack?" What I learned is that its just a matter of knowing primarily. Then, liking or not. It doesn't matter if someone thinks Pink Floyd is god, there is absolutely no survival need to discriminate based on such exposure/information/aesthetic endeavor especially when today music can be reduced to a set of algorithms.
Don't even get me started on classical music. That's partly why I empathize and identify with pop lovers in India (no pop in India is not Sheryl Crowe). Balls to all those puritan 'rock', 'metal' lovers and their inherited guitars.. I will still listen to Shakira if I want to