Gibran and Gulzar.

There are normal days and then there are Book Fairs. And there are crazy ideas like abstinence. And there are crazier ones called rebellion. Albeit tiny ones. Last year I desired to marry a book fair. I am keeping the mistresses called art museum and uh, others out of the picture right now because, just because.

The ended up with me two books richer. The first is a very very thin volume of Kahlil Gibran's stories and poems called Between Night and Morn and it's about time I did one of those type out a whole of quotes thingamajig. I actually only did that once for Wilde. Dorian Gray.

Already getting lost and dreamy nostalgicising. So I open up a random page and it's all filled with the slot machine quality where I read three words and three pages of brand new blog material crap oozes out of me, sprinting and whizzing around in my brain with no exits around. I'm hoping the thoughts don't die of exhaustion while I copy word to word of the awesomeness I just read.

The story is called the Tempest and this is the excerpt which will show our fiery red spark of love and how he had me at the No.

"No, my brother, I did not seek solitude for religious purposes, but solely to avoid the people and their laws, their teachings and their traditions, their ideas and their clamour and their wailing.

I sought solitude in order to keep from seeing the faces of men who sell themselves and buy with the same price that which is lower than they are, spiritually and materially.

I sought solitude in order that I might not encounter the women who walk proudly, with one thousand smiles upon their lips, which in the depths of their thousands of hearts there is one purpose.

I sought solitude in order to conceal myself from those self-satisfied individuals who see the spectre of knowledge in their dreams and believe that they have attained their goal.

I fled from society to avoid those who see but the phantom of truth in their awakening, and shout to the world that they have acquired completely the essence of truth.

I deserted the world and sought solitude because I became tired of rendering courtesy to those multitudes who believe that humility is a sort of weakness, and mercy a kind of cowardice, and snobbery a form of strength.

I sought solitude because my soul wearied of association with those who believed that the sun and moon and stars do not rise save from their coffers, and do not set except in their gardens.

I ran from the office-seekers who shatter the earthly fate of the people while throwing into their eyes golden dust and filling their ears with sounds of meaningless talk.

I departed from the ministers who do not live according to their sermons, and who demand of the people that which they do not solicit of themselves.

I sought solitude because I loathe that great and terrible institution which the people call civilization - that symmetrical monstrosity erected upon the perpetual misery of human kinds."

And I fell for a madman. Another part from where he's explaining the difference or a lack thereof between the east and the west:

"Hypocrisy will always remain, even if her finger tips are coloured and polished; and Deceit will never change even if her touch becomes soft and delicate; and Falsehood will never turn into Truth even if you dress her up with silken robes and place her in the palace; and Greed will not become Contentment; no will Crime become Virtue. And Eternal Slavery to teachings, to custom, and to history will remain Slavery even when she paints her face and disguises her voice. Slavery in all her horrible form, even if she calls herself Liberty."

And thus, momentarily life was complete. And fleetingly love was felt again. And the decision to reclusify myself was cemented. This book was bought for a total of TEN Indian Rupees and a translation of Gulzar's poems is another which I have not yet opened except when I read through one too many poems standing at the stall, smiling like a doofus. Lines of love in the next installment.

Such happiness.

Tonight's the night.

Except being an allusion to just the awesomest lines in TV history, the words actually mean something. When the scholastic sword and swinging dangerously over your head and it's always a reminder of what actually should be done. Shamelessly blog about it and everything under the sun. And the black clouds, and the sun again, then clouds.. oh hell.

Constant use of public transport makes you question a lot of things and then curse still more. Going by the words of  Shaw, all great truths are first blasphemies or something in that line, I happen to realise as it so happens (in a very dictatorial leaning).. that the "right" to give birth should be reserved for a certain section of people. Perhaps it comes from the idea that homosexuals do not really partner up to make little people. Just like the setting up of the institution of marriage, there's a certain sense of duty/ responsibility or a necessity traditionally, to make children. While it can be argued that it's more biological than social, human nature does not really put up a brave fight in the face of social construct.

A lot of psychological leetspeak can be stuffed here but when it comes to being squashed against strangers in a lurching metro train, I'd take evil dictatorial misanthropic thoughts any day. The criteria for this "privilege" to have children can be various. But it always comes to who's gonna decide. I could put in a lot of hogwash but only in theory. Applying it might only be possible post-apocalypse. Perhaps in a novel of the Utopian sort.

Money always comes first when such things are thought of. But inherently flawed and perfect at the same time, since whatever criteria is set, in the end it will be wealth. I think that arranged marriage is such an antithesis to the process of natural selection (which is dead anyway, but a girl can dream), but gazing stoically at the gluey couples who don't let me read in peace, chattering away to marriage, my heart cries sinking a little bit lower that when mediocrity meets mediocrity, nothing's gonna matter.

This sense of personal liberty that everyone enjoys over their bodies, personal lives and whatever the hell they do all the time, it is just wrong. But the do gooder earthling in me tip toes on the fence among hate and the centuries of struggle the world has gone through to achieve such personal liberty. Sigh. Only in books, that is all. And films. And just the best thing to hit mainstream television. When it is fifteen days later, I shall be home and I shall feel being home in the way it was intended. It will be the night when things don't matter and only a godlike will to kill shall reign. Very, very sexily. Dexter.

This would probably feel a lot more psychopathetic if it wasn't for him, so thank you. Selfishly, Yours Truly.

 Another calm.

What have we here, laddie? Mysterious scribblings? A secret code? Noo, poems, no less. Poems, everybody. That laddie's making himself a poet.

Money gets back

I'm all right Jack

Keep your hands

Off my stack

New car

Caviar

Four star

Day dream

Think I'll buy me

A football team.

Absurd rubbish, laddie. Get on with your work. Repeat after me.

After a million times of listening to this over the years. And revisiting this after the end of time.

I discover I live here.

To some this doesn't belong but in a parallel universe I'd be belting this out drunk karaoke thinking it my own and only mine.

I think this is just going very chronologically. I cannot will not make sure because this is not the time of day when I google things. I just rant and linkblog. Ditto pitchy karaoke.

I realise I cannot completely relate to all the lyrics of this song. I think yet. And I hope, I just hope not, that I end up making it my own any time in the future, distant or tomorrow. I can sometimes superficially and semi angstify it as me.

And this just because. It's funny and I was in love with it once. And it's a random happy moment.
The whip. And because Hugh Grant is perfection. And it's the 80s.

If we're on the topic of love. It is not topical. I knew when I found surreality. 

Inspired a poem and a blog which only has two posts of promise.

And nothing else.

For when two people on this earth was enough. My version, my time. My own. If I lay here. If I just lay here. Would you lie with me and just forget the world? (We know the answer to that, don't we?)

Forget what we're told. BEFORE WE GET TOO OLD.

Show me a garden that's bursting into life.

Let's waste time. Chasing cars. Around our heads.

I need your grace. To remind me. To find my own.

All that I am. All that I ever was. Is here in your perfect eyes. They're all I can see.

I don't know when. Confused about how as well. Just know that these things will never change for us at all.

Because sometime somewhere in my mind it meant something. A little something.

Somewhere along in the bitterness.

And to the meat and potatoes of the grand dinner that is life, let us clink some wedding glasses against each other and kill the bride. This is it.

First in a line of who knows how many.

Makes your brain explode in a million and one shards of melted orgasmic happiness. Came across this live video where Vinnie Paul became my 20th birthday hero during the last few minutes of this epic gruesomely awesome fest of blissful hit repeat nights. Pantera has always been one hell of a pseudo mommy band figure where the sweet lullabies blaring on otherwise fine-ish but those occasionally musically drunk nights where it they are incredibly inadequate and you want to snatch the music and while it's oozing through your fingers, slam it on to your ears and pet it down hard and hope it just fuses into your being.

"Phil: This next song goes out to everybody that got fucked over on some BS that u should never have gotten fucked over on. And I know that most everybody in here. If ur livin today u got fucked over somewhere or another. You know what im saying? answer me, u know wtf im sayin? I wanna hear u sing but most of all I wanna see u move around. The more u stand still the more it looks like shit, ur better than that infact ur better than most of these audiences. Next songs called Im broken" Credits to ActinLikeaRobot in reply to Ango360 1 year ago 37 thumbs up. Well, thank you, because I started looking for a written for what wise words Phil dishes out :)

What is weird is that I'm saying this all monologue wise in an Australian accent which is not bad at all. Usually happens when there are big huge exams coming up and there's too much to read. But I think birthdays come right up there, mate.

Skid Row's Monkey Business is on the same league but it probably is not as guaranteable to make you feel okay. Badass, yes. My god, the image of Dave Sabo after the little chimp, I know for fucking sure, was the epitome of want the girls watching it on tv felt in '91. Cresendo rising in your brain the first 40 seconds remains in the goosebumps which last a lot lot longer. Makes me feel proud of the fact that that was the year I was conceived. Thanks, mum and dad. Truly thankful.

Sebastian Bach is also definitely one of the most beautiful men I've ever seen. To this day, he is right up there at age 44. Eddie Vedder's eyelashes if you've seen the right pictures are as heart beat skippy as the unforgettable guitar riffs. One of the songs which make life what it is is this. Coulda woulda marry that voice.

"Jeremy, The Wicked ruled this world."

I've been watching the other official video before but this one probably translates Jeremy's story better but that one feels like home. More ramblings by this recluse tomorrow. 3:30 am. Checking out.

Just an ordinary updatery.

“ I watched TV for a while. Maybe I could get involved in that world, or else kick in the screen. But this was our TV set, the one we watched, a lamp of sorts, a kind of household deity.” ~ Orhan Pamuk

This one made me guffaw out loud and almost topple over. Not very unlike my twisted views, the TV although not directly targeted, the attack seems obvious enough.

Being out of touch of sorts with the book world, Pamuk was one foreign sounding writer I had to read. The one I was anticipating on stumbling upon was Murakami. But I remembered seeing a picture of Pamuk with his writing desk and it stuck. So I was upon it, snatching and issuing. The desk had looked incredibly cluttered and he sat against a backdrop of a heavily postered wall and a cat for company.

Earlier in the day, while I reclined peacefully in a comfortable car backseat, chatting away amicably with my mother, things struck me bitterly with an unfortunate frequency. And I started upon a grilling mental monologue about everything that’s wrong with the world today along the route we took to get to the place my brother had spent the day at. Although it sounded a lot more hard hitting and world-change-worthy the minute it unadulteratedly rapped itself out on the humongous stage in my head. But now it’s mostly slush mixed into a later flash-back kind of a way with very pleasing guitar riffs and classical vocals for company.

The statements had started with a sufficiently sarcasmic ‘what the hell’ and ended with a question mark like a loud bang, hitting a nail on its head. Having mostly dealt with educational practices, the value of entertainment and existential crap, tangentially touching the previously derided outdated marriage customs, the soliloquy was mostly for discerning audiences, the existence of which is the lone topic of thinkussion there is right now.

Just put in a microchip in my brain with a tiny keyboard where I could save the shit I think. Maybe that’s called memory for normal humans but my ability mostly flew out when I opened my mind a bit too much. Maybe god did that. He also made the world what it is today so I could go on an unending rant on it and not think about the other important stuff, like what I am and are supposed to do with my life. Yes, what. WHAT. Yes, dear people-I-hardly-know-who hang-out-with -my-dad-occasionally, thank you for asking. I’ll send you an email as soon as I’m hit with an epiphany on how to earn money to clothe my poor ass in the future. You’re welcome.

Work on that smile a little more, it’s encouragement and not sympathy. Stop trying to smile while I half give-up half try to explain in a half interested attempt so you understand none at all, concluding that the alphabet in my mind with which I talk to myself is probably centuries ahead of your cuneiformed baked clay. Some long lost artifact which will be found after the hundred and seventeenth apocalypse, offering  hugeass mounds to the salivating futurist archaeologists and the source shall give up unimportant buzz compared to the boom my epics will cause, which hopefully will be conserved in a better and enduring way.

Talk about flights of fancy. But the blog title gives it away. So give it up.

Frances Hodgson Burnett is most definitely one of the geniuses to rise up after the last Ice Age. The two books I read, probably exactly a decade ago are childhood defining worthy. Thankfully I cannot find if it’s that very exact timing I assumed or my mind would be blown. And I need to keep with me mind howevermuch I can. The Secret Garden and The Little Princess were my very first favourite classics. Long before I realized not every classic is as good as they make them out to be. I could not go beyond the first chapter of some. That is small Dickens to some others.

Such beautiful, beautiful writing. And now that I revisit it after eons, the little Sarah Crewe seems uncannily like little Myself. Aww. And scary. Well, yeah. Another books I got hold of today is a collection of the writings of Woody Allen. Something of a genius himself. Think Match Point. I’m only thinking that because it’s the one I remember. The ones I caught of him that he acted in I couldn’t continue myself to watch. But fragments of some scenes stay. What is hard to imagine is how Lost in Translation was directed by a woman. Sofia Coppola also directed the Virgin Suicides. The former it is hard to swallow. For some silly reason which evades me.

So  I guess I’m now going to click forward some scenes in the movie and definitely watch the one in which she stares at the Buddhist monks, after she chances upon a wedding, and feels NOTHING. The big BIG emotional scare of a popular culture inspired romantic. But is there any other kind? They show Japan as so bland WITH the plethora of bright neons. It’s staggering. And kudos to the woman for the exceptional direction. Bill Murray exceedingly funny with every little twitch of an eyebrow.

It has some immensely well directed scenes, the one in the very beginning maybe. By the way, the view from the skyscraper. Whoa. Gets me everytime. Wait, I think I’ll pause my incessant typing and rewatch. YES. Eyebliss time.

The whole movie is one big example of existential rut. The first world white person superstar problems. Minus the superstar, what else is there generally? In major league cinema, that is. Rewinding from weird commentary, there is a moment where the sleepy middle of the night guy pulls her in a failure of a cuddle to sleep while she is still in insomniac thinking about everything stupor. And then he snores.  (While she pulls away and sits up to badass bokeh. Yes, I get pulled back to it.) Speaks an encyclopedia much. 

The cook your own sushi making scene and the epitome of strange unnamable relationships. 

"Well, she (the wife) is closer to your age.You could talk about things you have in common, like um, growing up in the '50s, maybe she liked the movies you were making in the '70s, when you were still making movies."

"Wasn't there anyone else there to lavish you with attention?"

 And this.

 

“ Why do you have to defend  her?”

“Well, why do you have to prove how stupid everybody is all the time?”

“ I thought it was funny. Forget it.”