Pathos and Mythos.

When I was in the 12th grade, I read this story in English which spoke of some noble prince in some Indian kingdom who was so noble and good that his ashes turned to gold and flew around his kingdom like glowing gold particles. A lot of Indian tales generate an incomparable grandeur. I saw Yakshagaana today. The pathos, the helplessness and the sorrow conveyed through it was blinding. It may sound like an exaggeration but you have to be there to feel the curving of hands with arms, the music, the history, the larger mythos that surround the same. I suddenly felt like becoming Abhimanyu. A deep anguish marks the character killed by his own uncles and cousins, not by one but by scores of them forsaking all the rules and ethic that an Indian battle is marked by. Especially, such a macabre death dance as of Mahabharata. Balls to Indian legacy and honor. They were men and women. Real ones. Progenies of promiscuous liasions and consequences of guilt, sterility and tons of unfulfilled desire. Swishing the golden and red rod in his hand he conquered it all only to be slain by Karna, the bastard of the glorious Pandava family. War claims many but it is altogether different to fight your own brothers and marry your own sisters. Through these, emerges the lute melody again which generates wriggling faces with millions of wrinkles and unshed tears and a deep existential anguish of not belonging to nothing. It flattens conceptions of peace and beauty.

When you are fated to ill-fate, you blow nose

July 2008,

Blah, a bobo alien who is disguised in the form of a 17 year old girl lives in Bangalore, India (SOUTH india). She meets fathers with poppy eyes and building owners who don't particularly admire her. She loses one phone on an average every year. Generally, she has the flair of doing so when her birthday is near. Blah's room on the fourth floor floods every monsoon, for those who think only villages at ground level face water. She surrounds herself with messy things called humans and tries to inject them all with happy hormone. Eventually they all cry because she forgot to photocopy notes for them. She faces green phlegm which resides in her eye-cavities. It gives her sinusitis. The world thinks she is full of herself, gives a blah about them and that she knows blah but she thinks that she knows blah and that is why she goes blah blah all the time. Apparently she is from NORTH india. She just lost her prized phone and some money. So, she will reduce her flabby body by whining, starving and moping. These characteristics indicate the humanization of blah the bobo. She appears the honest-est when she blows her nose. That is when they finally realise that she is crying.
take care
love,
Blah

A whole list of Phew-hah's

There are a few Phew-hah's that hit me just like that. One of them is the disclaimers that my English teachers make. They make learning English so apologetic, broken and incoherent. Half the things they convey or represent, are from books and mostly they do not agree with them. I just feel like throwing them all out of the window. Leave your fears and knots by the door and then come and talk to me! I am sure no one will sue you for them. The other Phew-hah was everything is nothing and nothing is everything. It is so paradoxical and yet all pervading. From Buddhist monks to existentialists, all say it. And yet, I experience it only when I am punished for not greeting a man and am thrown out of home for swearing and scaring. These things heave upon you mind, blow the phew-z and then I panic. For a while I do. Then it all settles. Then I think of a solution and come back to soul searching. I am growing. I can feel it and I don't like the process, it is bitter somewhere, sleepless mostly, poor frequently with guilt trips to the bank. A lot many times I just regret too much freedom of arrangement and resources. It provokes the mind and words like "What did I do?" just come out for the wrong man. Too much of egalitarian illusions make me careless and when class distinctions are gone, I lose things like respect for elders, humility etc (LMAO). A girl should know her limits and responsibilities. And never should she talk like a rag picker on the road... never drink...never fight...rarely pop eyes at old monks... and she should be seen and not heard...and much more

Davidson and intervals

I was outside in Forum, at coffee shop Kalmane. Dead man coughing was stuck up in my ears. I met that random snooty film course guy who was suddenly all warm and chirpy. Nice. Next not knowing what, I actually went to model art shop. The harley davidson model out there is a beauty. It is a genuine piece of enviable elegance and shine. After twenty minutes of admiring all the other vintage pieces inside, touching an Austin convertible's rear carpet and actually holding the seven kg davidson, I left. I watched movie after long time in a multiplex. It got me into full puppy-love frenzy and little excitement. Words should be honest no matter what. Interval and sight of you was enthralling. I was waiting, for you to hop by. The yellow wallpaper scene of tied woman crawling on husband's body to ascertain victory came. I resolved to write to Macchar. In total austerity I read some Theravada. I managed the "a bit queer around here" play. The gay pride parade was playing in the mind. Harley, my boy, when veena plays and that sentiment arouses, old yellow bricks ring and drum, the afternoon weighs on sleep-deprived eyes like a drug. Goodbye

Panic at the window

People are funny, icky and weird. Some claim to be absurd and some claim to be gurus! I mean, they are hilarious, the shame out of the window. Not like I care two hoots about them. I only care if i want to. I only forgive when i want to. Yet, I like to believe in Bodhisattva. It is difficult master, to acknowledge a master. It is also difficult to believe in someone, something above you, beyond you. The extension of self, maybe, is immensely taxing. Worse, the regrets of what is gone, scrubbed off the memory walls and does not want to come back. All you can do is Laugh! Laugh so hard your teeth hurt and cheeks pain, drink some beer if you want and then ask "was mochten sie?" Be happy, that appears mature too. But be you! I am me. I am silent, chirpy, morose me. The hangover of a fuzzy night.