the west wind

Separations

2012-01-06T21:18:00.000-08:00

1. Medusa

She drifted in and out of consciousness. In the haze of dawn, she realizes the strangeness, an otherness. A curious thing to find a body next to her, sleeping like a child not afraid of monsters under the bed. She stared at him, remembering the intensity of his eyes a few hours earlier, and she rises, but his fingers are caught in her hair. She untangles. This memory she did not want.

There is however, a moment of hesitation. 'What is this deep slumber, how does he surrender to the unknown?' This thought had crossed her mind earlier when they first met, then later, when they stumbled into each other... 'Does he not hear the seas raging in my head, is he not afraid of drowning? Isn't this too close for his comfort? My comfort? Is this all a dream?'

She liked him, maybe she loved him. But that was something she didn't think much about. So she let him be. Sleeping, but not stone. No more kisses. And no kiss goodbye. She slithered out of bed untangling her dark hair from his grasp.

2. Her Song

If only you would wake up
and see the distance between us
You'd close the space with rain on this desert

If only you would sleep
and dream about the ocean
You'd start a fire and blame me for the burn

Then maybe
you'd swim
and run
and run
to hide
here in New York
and find

If you follow the silence in the song
You just heard
All the words
I did not say

When I ran away.

3. And then...

Sometimes love is only a figment of your imagination. Sometimes love just is - something that can't be expressed, can't be fulfilled, can't be had - something that passes you by and settles on other people. All you have is the memory of the feeling that drifted by.

And then all you remember is the loss - how you let things slip out of your hands when you had the chance to hold on. The one who you let go. And who let you go.

Life Lesson

2011-12-07T19:00:00.000-08:00

There is only one reliable way to find out about a relationship: test it to destruction.

The Black Hole

2011-11-15T20:02:00.000-08:00

People think depression means a diminished capacity to feel. It is in fact a heightened sense of reality. A certain look, a word, the silence, everybloodything means something, it is a virtual flooding of the neural circuits - to the point of shorting the mains. And since your brains can't blow up completely, certain functions get affected, and it seems most of the time it is the motor function. Ever wonder why when you are depressed you get these amazing thoughts (ok depressive ones, but oh so expressive), but you just can't write them down?

It is a constant state of being... on. Something. Sleep is impossible with all that sensory information overload. Even emptiness (or what people confuse with an absence of feeling) is an actual abyss, with color (pitch black) and sound (silent). The apathy results from being overwhelmed, so you lie in bed all day and night. Or if it hits you while you were on your feet, you keep walking till you collapse. If you were working, you will keep at it. Nothing spectacular will happen, just a vague tiredness. Thoughts never translate to words, or actions. If you try, it's slurred speech, shuffling feet.

And sometimes this...

The trick is to keep moving on that plane where there's a slight dip in the intensity, just enough so you don't lose the feeling, and you can pick up a pen and write (or whatever works) about it at the same time. The trickier part is to stay sane while embracing madness. But isn't madness just too much sanity?

Yes, confusions and bad judgements are some side-effects. Please talk to your doctor before deciding to stay in the hole.

Tripping

2011-11-02T22:32:00.000-07:00

Being born on the wrong side of the 70s meant that you missed out on the golden era of rock 'n' roll and subversive movies, and grew up on 80s pop (and cheesy movies). Means you missed everything of consequence. More so if you grew up alone and your folks idea of music was limited to vinyl records of Boney M and Abba, and Ira Sankey hymns.

Still, it was the glory days of analog recorded magnetic cassette tapes... the TDKs and Maxwell tapes in C60, C90 formats. And being born in the 80s meant you had fingers small enough to untangle them when they got screwed up from repeated rewindings and forwards.

You're only hope for musical salvation was the radio, with dear old (!) Richard Coram on Dubai FM 92 playing the then golden pop hits - Feargal Sharkey with a Good Heart, A-Ha (Take On Me, Cry Wolf), Madonna (redemption came with Like a Prayer, understanding what/ why she was so peppy in Like a Virgin came much later). As it turns out, my musical education persists to continue in this reverse trend.

(In retrospect, I would now like to thank Mr. Coram for contributing to my musical sensibilities - after all he/ Dubai FM did provide slots for Kasey Kasim's American Top 40.)

So while George Michael pranced to Monkey, and Tiffany wondered if she were alone now (or then), and Belinda avowed that heaven is a place on earth (seriously?), a few gems crackled on the speakers with Queen's I Want it All being the (re)quest for the rest of my life. Of course, all this was not strictly linear, after all, at that age, you're bound by the fact that you had only two choices - FM 92, FM 93.5, and all music listening was limited to parental whims, sibling rivalry/ adoration, and whatever was offered by the DJ on shift. And the DJs, were they on drugs... Why else do you think they played Power of Love, Part-Time Lover, Would I Lie to You, Let's Make Lots of Money, I Should be So Lucky, Walk Like an Egyptian, and Help at 12am and then reverse the order at 3am? And I was deluded into believing this was MAGIC.

By the way, having an older sibling did not help much other than to tune the radio to the right channel. Georgie, Madonna, Kylie and Jason, BROS (what happened to them?), A-ha was all her, I just absorbed large quantities of da-da-da -da data by default.

But again, I would like to thank my sis for teaching me three chords and S&G's Boxer and Mrs Robinson. No thank you for the Carpenters. And I don't know whether gratefulness is required for Jefferson Starship's Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now.

And as much as most people relate the 80s with pop, there were awesome rock bands - Firehouse, Queensryche, Skid Row, Motley Crue, and the other bands with / without umlauts, and all with tremendous hairdos.

As the 80's synthesized its way into the 90s, the pop scene burst at the seams with the introduction of the boy band - New Kids on the Block. So shoot me, but I was 9 or 10ish when Right Stuff and Hangin' Tough were out... and this was something I discovered with no help. And I was young, and they were cute and young.. and though today it makes my skin crawl, it was one of those things. I did prefer Pet Shop Boys' music, but I don't think Neil Tennant stopped any girl's heart even when he sang about it. And to make this clear, I know all the lyrics to PSBs If and Actually albums, and not just NKOTB's 5 step program. And how can I forget UKs Take That and East 17. Or Chicago. Aah the 90s. Move over Richard Coram, MTV is here to take you on a joyride. And video did kill the radio star. (Apparently this was the first video aired on MTV in 1981, we in the Emirates got it in 89 I think. And it was the time when MTV actually played music).

All this very belated arrival of media contributed to late exposure to everything that is great - and time came when Roxette tapes were moved to make way for Def Leppard, Dire Straits, Bon Jovi, and many jagged little pills. CDs were still expensive, though the cassettes now had fancy hardcovers to prevent heat damage and that insidious whitish substance that grew on the tapes.

It is a rite of passage, taking apart the tape, spraying ear buds in your mom's Chanel #5, or dad's Old Spice, and carefully clean the tapes, then wind them correctly, and put it all back together... parents, note - this is a form of discipline all 10 year olds should be subjected to, cleaning tapes, tape deck heads - what better way to teach patience, diligence, motor coordination and other stellar qualities to a hyperactive kid, no?

Why all this useless meandering you don't ask? Don't.

But there is a pecking order. And it goes like this the fourth, the fifth, the minor fall, the major lift.... there should be a moratorium on all versions of that song (excluding Jeff Buckley's). Never mind. So a lame attempt at a correlation graph - song / album release year versus my knowledge of it's existence. Of course this trend would hold true for those born after 1971. I say 71, cuz that I believe was the golden year of music - after all Stairway to Heaven was released then - it's the 40th anniversary on November 8th. 1971 was charmed - consider the songs released that year:

Stairway to Heaven - Led Zeppelin
Imagine - John Lennon
LA Woman - The Doors
Behind Blue Eyes - The Who
A Horse With No Name - America
You've Got a Friend - James Taylor
Aqualung - Jethro Tull
Me and Bobby McGee - Janis Joplin
American Pie - Don McLean
I Feel The Earth Move - Carole King
Morning Has Broken - (Artist formerly known as) Cat Stevens (I just had to include this for the paranthesis)

Must I go on? Yes. I have been told that I have approval need issues. Whatever. Just check out the movies of 1971.

A Clockwork Orange
The French Connection
Dirty Harry
Love Story
Fiddler on the Roof
Panic in Needle Park
Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory

All this from the top of my head, no googling, god promise.

And you see I have a pretty eclectic taste in things, no biasing between rock and ballad, chase movies, musicals and chocolate drownings. See, no judging. So proud.

See what I mean about the 70s? And this was the beginning of the bang that sang the end. To think I was not even a possibility at that time is so... upsetting.

Dude, where is my graph? Okay, let me describe it to you. x-axis: Year/Band, y- axis: Year/Heard. Ok, this is not working. I am still upsetting about skipping a generation, living it 10 years too late, including all that free love and drugs, not so free but well-wrapped, textured, and whatever now. And despite this being the great digital age, because this is the digital age, I miss not having my tape deck, and really upset about not needing a modernistic shelf for records, cassettes, even CDs. So bloody upset. UPSET. And bored. Of Beiber on my radio, and other 2 second inane songs they seem to churn out by the minute these days.
Off.

Indigo Girls - Beacon Theater, Oct 13, 2011

2011-10-14T10:09:00.000-07:00

Now I feel for those people who have to write a review on events the minute after they're done. For people who have those kind of writing jobs. I feel sorry for them and at the same time, am also in awe - that some of them do it real well, give an impartial feedback, and write a spade a spade. I am also amazed by people who know exactly what they feel and are able to write about it well. I know a couple of acquaintances who could write a 1000 word literary analysis in 20 minutes flat. These are the people who have fun the rest of the time and crank out a thesis paper in just one night and graduate magna cum laude. I for one can't even write a yelp review about what I ate last night at a new restaurant (which I didn't).

So this is quite an chore. But as part of my recent self-imposed self-disciplining, and month of doing things other than destruction, this is going to be it. Also, this is the first time ever I went to Beacon Theater, so now that's crossed off my bucket list. Should've instead gone to see Donald Fagen of Steely Dan, or Dream Theater the previous night, but meh, tix were beyond me after taxes. And I'm saving for the Evanescence concert. The sacrifices we make. Life sucks.

But a change nonetheless. (Always wanted to use 'nonetheless' in a sentence.) Ok, enough putting off the actual review part.

Hmm. Not bad for a couple of middle-aged, homely ladies. I got into Indigo (i.e., heard their songs) only a couple of years ago, when I realized I had no 'happy-ish' songs in my collection, songs you can have a good time playing on your stoop and have people stop by and sing along. (other than Plastic Jesus). And I don't like country music. Folksy ballads I can take for 2 hours at a stretch, which I did last night. But hey, it is pretty amazing how synchronized their guitar playing is. And how you can still sound real good minus drums. Perfect harmonies, great acoustics. Not the foot stomping kind of music, but melodies you can sit and listen to in those plush seats. No pressure to stand up all the time and wave your hands. Just sit and clap (though that reminds me of being in a Southern Baptist church). And sip a cocktail, while looking at the chord changes (yes I was right in front, orchestra center). That's the point. An evening of relaxation, which again, self-imposed, trying not to give in to the urge to keep moving. Sure I could've stayed home, kicked up my feet and listened to Velvet Underground all night, but then I do that everyday.

Now I liked the singing, the guitar playing, they sounded real good- just like on the record if you have a good sound system. And quite fun in a quiet way, without the raging, or death wish lyrics. Amy Ray's alto blends real well with Emily Salier's sweeter tone, but then we all know that. They played a couple of songs from their new album Beauty Queen Sister - a strange (boring) song about horses or whatever (Feed and Water the Horses I think), another about their neighbor John, and the title (eponymous) song. Maybe more. Oh one song I can't recall - they resolved it like 4 times, each time the audience clapping, and they started over - so when the song actually got done, people hesitated. What a riot! (in my head of course). You shouldn't make asses of people who pay hard-earned money to see your show, either be good at creating anticipation and the unexpected, but don't trick them. Anyway, their old hits drew people to their shuffling feet - Hammer and Nail, Get Out the Map (now that was good), Shame on You, and some more that I don't know the names of. And of course they ended the show with Closer To Fine. Tamaam, as my folks would say.

Overall, a good show which didn't drive me to do whatever I'm driven to do. As expected.

Now I see I didn't mention anything about the opening band Shadowboxers. Well... kind of pop-ish, but again good harmonizing. Nothing got stuck in my head, and the audience's response was...American. Tepid, correct, polite.

So that's it. About the show. About the theater itself, well, it's ornate and pretty. Excellent acoustics. Water costs 5 bucks. Martini was $19. Well, it's not everyday you go there.

the door's open, but the ride it ain't free...

2011-10-11T18:14:00.000-07:00

I promised myself a post on the Boss. Or rather a song of his that every one in their right and wrong minds should know the lyrics to: the classic Thunder Road.

The thing about the ~~truly~~ greatest songs (or any other work of art for that matter) is that they draw us in and place us right in the middle of all the action, make us a part of it, we are in it, we are it. In Thunder Road, Springsteen is not just singing about his dreams, his love, or imploring his friend, it is our promises, and hopes that he is vocalizing.

The Born to Run album is definitive Springsteen - a masterpiece, and for all its heartache, it is so full of hope, unlike his later introspective and working-class-themed albums. Guess it is the youthfulness of it all. Happiness after all is just being with a girl/boy, having a car, and an open road. Let later albums (and growing older) question the direction of it all...but there's no need to think about that now,... right?

Thunder Road is the classic anthem for the dreamer, lover, and escapist in all of us. It is the opening song of the album, and is kind of like its vision statement. It asks of us a simple, yet crucial question 'Are you willing to take a chance?', and carries a hope, and sometimes urges, that we hold on to the dream -

'Well the night's bustin' open, these two lanes will take us anywhere
We got one last chance to make it real
To trade in these wings on some wheels'

This is a restless song, this is the yearning of youth, on the borderline of adulthood, wanting to grow up and escape, but still holding on to youthful aspirations - taking only the guitar, the car, and his girl on the journey. Yes, the only things that matter.

(So, what is in your backpack?)

And only Springsteen can make you see how simple and how incredibly hard it is to take that chance - in his phrasing of just a word:

'And my car's out back if you're ready to take that lo- -onng walk
From your front porch to my front seat
The door's open but the ride it ain't free...'

The lyrics are devastating, romantic, and encapsulate you in its redemption, the dream of a promised land that's at the end of this road. And all the fears that come with it, 'so you're scared, and you're thinkin' maybe we ain't young anymore'. Oh yeah...

For without risks, there are no rewards. And there is that promise of a better tomorrow, but no time to waste:

'You can hide 'neath your covers and study your pain
Make crosses from your lovers, throw roses in the rain
Waste your summer praying in vain for a savior to rise from these streets'

'All the redemption I can offer, girl, is beneath this dirty hood
With a chance to make it good somehow...'

Everyone knows what it's like to have these dreams, whose hearts we break to get there, the desperation of knowing, and not knowing. There are layers within the words that you get to glimpse with every listen, it's a fluid storyline, what you see depends on where you are on this journey. The lack of specificity in these beautiful lyrics makes this song not just Springsteen's, this is your song.

There were ghosts in the eyes of all the boys you sent away
They haunt this dusty beach road in the skeleton frames of burned-out Chevrolets
They scream your name at night in the street
Your graduation gown lies in rags at their feet
And in the lonely cool before dawn
You hear their engines roaring on
But when you get to the porch they're gone on the wind,

So Mary climb in
It's a town full of losers, I'm pulling out of here to win

If that's not poetry, I don't know what is.

The road to recovery...

2011-10-09T20:02:00.000-07:00

...is hardly paved, so when you fall, you break a lot of bones. And lose heart. Just don't take it out on your guitar. Use it to pave the way with songs. Bring along the songs, and let them carry you when you feel like you can't go on.

So here's the companion list for the long walk on this dust road. These songs make me stop thinking about everything else, and just listen...there's a newness in every listening. It's all about the beat, the melody, the riffs, the voices, emotions, and of course the words... So over to the Recovery List:

1. Bang Bang - Cher
Now this is a kick ass song though most people know the more mellow, yet ethereal cover by Nancy Sinatra used in the Kill Bill soundtrack. Cher gives this song a wildness, a wounded tiger quality.

2. Because the Night - 10,000 Maniacs
I like this version of Springsteen's / Patti Smith's original, Natalie Merchant conveys frustration, longing even, and some form of victory...something I can't define. Springsteen deserves a separate post. And yeah, the song's sexy.

3. Bittersweet Symphony - The Verve
Though I should be listening to "The Drugs Don't Work".

4. Rolling in the Deep - Adele
Wow,...this song makes me want to dance. Or throw things around. Strange song to dance to? For me dancing is foot stomping with a bit of head bobbing. So there.

5. As Tears Go By - The Rolling Stones
Simple melody, beautiful string arrangement, just lovely. A ballad that is kind of unexpected by the Stones.

6. Fallen - Sarah McLachlan
You'd be better off not listening to this one. But it reminds you of why you are here in the first place. This song is addictive, and may (or for sure) make you slip. So if you give in, it should be immediately followed by something more upbeat. Like Bruno Mars' Lazy Song for instance. Even if it's not your style.

So now I've to categorize the songs based on: 1. Must listen 2. Songs to avoid 3. To learn. Hmm..

#1 and #3 will take up a good 4 hours of your time everyday. These are the same 4 hours you would be under intense craving for substances. And now that the days are getting shorter, it is crucial to make this a habit before the dead of winter hits you.

I have now started listening to 'epic' songs - long drawn out music that tells a story either through the lyrics or creates one in your head - a kind of sonic image theater. There are also rules on how to listen to concept albums and such. First make a pot of coffee, black. Pour coffee into favorite mug.Turn on the music system or iPod, set to maximum volume. Lie down, wrap yourself in a warm blanket. Play song, slowly sip coffee, close your eyes (now this could cause some spillage now and then if you're a beginner). But close your eyes and soak in the music. This can also be done in the bathtub (without the blanket of course) if you have a bathtub. I don't. Coffee drinking in the bath is possible if you can make yourself a cap-coffee dispenser.

Anyway, In the Court of the Crimson King is an album by the King Crimson that needs to be listened to, in the closed eyes, coffee'ing way. Released sometime in 1969, this album is considered to be one of the best progressive rock albums, mixing jazz and classical elements into the standard rock/blues themes. Don't ask me what the songs are about, I haven't made sense of it yet, and actually don't want to. There are a lot of colors though, yellow jesters, purple piper, gray mornings, black queen, and 'Crimson King' of course... Well-worth your time. And someone who likes this, would obviously like Pink Floyd. And even if Meddle and Ummagumma is not everyone's cup of tea, it still shows a band's willingness to go down (or up) a musical curve. Even if they are experiments in sound with common household objects. After all, it led to The Dark Side of the Moon. So why complain?

Oh and need I say anything about David Bowie? And yes, the Yes. Queen. Guns 'N' Roses.

Another album I've been listening to is Scheherezade and Other Stories. Again progressive rock, 1975, by the band Renaissance (Annie Haslam). You really don't know when one song ends and the next one begins, so there is a bit of confusion regarding the parts. Listen to Trip to the Fair (10.5min), and Ocean Gypsy (also covered by Blackmore's Night).

For lyrical stories about the working class, Springsteen is the man, and his E Street band. His Born to Run album is the best ever in my opinion. Thunder Road, Jungleland just resonate... ok I've been listening to Thunder Road on repeat for the past week (and am right now). The live version with Melissa Etheridge (another great singer) is simply awesome - the harmonies are just perfect, their voices blend so well. Only Springsteen can sing in a higher key to accommodate Etheridge's range and still sound great. I was going to dedicate another post on this song... the lyrics, the music. I still might.

Another album to listen in its entirety is the Beatles Abbey Road - their last album, and the best in terms of structure, with the classic 16 minute Medley - I think there's about 18 measures of guitar solo, the first two bars by McCartney, followed by Harrison, then Lennon, then the sequence repeated twice. Very distinctive styles of playing ending with the memorable line... 'and in the end the love you take is equal to the love you make.' This is also the album that Alan Parsons worked on as the sound engineer, before he moved on to Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon and his own work. About DSOM, what's to say that's not been said?

On further thought, this list needs to be further classified into Albums, Singles, Bands and so on, and I still wouldn't be able to compile everything. Gives me reason to keep writing about it as and when I listen to stuff, and oh learn to play some of the favorites on my guitar.

And no Sting, I haven't forgotten you.

Fighting for sanity

2011-10-09T17:47:00.000-07:00

Anybody under the influence knows how difficult it gets to quit something that makes you feel good. But there comes a time when that feeling passes and progresses to something quite sinister. A question that has no right answer is whether Hyde is the true nature of Jekyll or the other way round. Both or neither? Is someone's nature in-built, or carefully cultivated, or something that can be razed to the ground and rebuilt over and over?

Why do people use drugs or alcohol as a litmus test to pass judgement on someone's behavior? Is it fair to use these substances as the casting vote for a character test when it's a fact that they have a detrimental effect on a person?

Guess if you are a kinder, better person when you are high. Though the possibility of that is slim if such a possibility exists at all.

I believe the worst drug there is is alcohol. Because it is legitimate, socially acceptable, and it actually kills brain cells. In addition to ruining relationships. Which leads to further indulgence to forget the complete lack of companionship. It also makes you forget the things you enjoy. Like writing, playing music. The dying of hand eye coordination.

To fight this abuse, you need support. In its absence, you need tremendous control, and hold on to the memory of loss; the loss of friends, money, pleasure in music or sunrises. Your losses are what started all this mess, your losses are why you now want to stop. And you would need a lot of distractions to fill the time, to stop obsessing about not having a drink every minute. The fallout of trying to quit is the clarity of nightmares... which makes it so hard. Especially if the reason for drinking is to have a dreamless sleep (or the feeling of it).

The idea is to take it one hour at a time. For distractions, I now have a new playlist. Songs are analyzed, lyrics are memorized, and practiced.

Once there was a way to get back homeward
Once there was a way to get back home
Sleep pretty darling do not cry
And I will sing a lullaby...

Boy, you're gonna carry that weight,
Carry that weight a long time...

Forever, most probably. But it is time to start fighting for things that matter.

mind games

2011-10-07T19:14:00.000-07:00

The mind is a funny thing. The more we crave for change, the more our heads resist, resorting to conjuring images and sounds of the past, stuff we want to put behind us. Memories are surprising, it jumps at you when you least expect it. An 'onslaught'. Now that's a word that feels just right. From the Dutch 'aanslag', to slay. Memories do that. They do that. Always violent, even the good ones bring you to tears. Especially the good ones. Deceptive shape-shifters too, they erase, modify parts and bring up a whole new thing you think are yours. They are and aren't all at the same time.

Why do walks down the pier bring to mind bright orange-fire sunsets on the Corniche? I've never seen sunsets like that before or since.

And why do memories of sunsets lead to memories of long drives through the desert to Ruwais or Al Liwa and you wonder if you were seeing things - were those sand dunes or a brown river?

Why does early fall in New York remind you of specific December mornings in Bangalore, sipping a filter coffee under a jacaranda tree?

Why does staring at an aisle full of Pepperidge white, whole wheat, challah breads, and the umpteen other brands and types create a longing for a time when buying bread was simple? All you had to do was tag along with mom as she threw a Modern Bakery's white sandwich bread, and Lupark Danish butter. Not the million varieties of Landolakes - salted, unsalted, sticks, cubes, quarts, spreadable (spreadable?? sounds like a STD) etc..And what's with that american indian mascot on the package? (I first thought it was a picture of Nataraj. Now I remember to wear my glasses when I go shopping).

See what violence memories induced by grocery shopping cause to the gut?

Anyway, tonight seems to be the night for memories, memories that a few glasses of whiskey awakens, and a bottle of vodka hopes to put to rest. But don't discount the music. Just compound the memories as the night grows older.

Brain Damage, Coming Back To Life, Fallen, Ordinary World, No More I Love Yous, Nothin' Else Matters, the list seems endless, and the images... i should stop. dammit I still have demons in my room at night... and they're feeding on my resistance.

It's going to be a really long night.

What happened last night

2011-10-02T20:26:00.000-07:00

Funny how we choose to ignore what happens right in front of us. Like at 4am, all the cops came in and paramedics, whole lotta people screaming outside my door, and I was like 'aah it's saturday night again...' and just peeked outside (stubbed my nose and toes cuz the medics are big guys and the hallway is narrow).

Anyway, this chick (the ex gov's stepdaughter) - smashed a bottle on her guy's head. Man, blood on the floor, etc etc, and a couple of reporters, cops, the works. Apparently they had a major row, and he tried to strangle her, so she hit him with the bottle. Good.

Since I'm so short on my entertainment budget, I'd take anything right now. See here for what that news guy (nice friendly Canadian - is that redundant?) reported about it:

http://www.nydailynews.com/ny_local/2011/10/02/2011-10-02_daves_stepkid_in_bloody_battle.html

Times like this, I don't want to leave MacDougal St. Hey 'Marie C.", you got a mention :-)

On music making, song writing delusions

2011-10-02T20:07:00.000-07:00

Anybody can play the guitar. On second thoughts, maybe not. If I were to apply that optimism to everything, then I'd have to believe that my old man can sing not just in B flat. (Maybe he'd do better at rap...). Or an eagle would have to consider the possibility that a sparrow could fly at ten thousand feet. Whatever. Not interested in discussing the infinite wonders of the human mind and what that means to the species in general.

So, starting over, not everyone can play the guitar, or whatever instrument of choice. But over time, anyone who does, can get better at it. Or worse. Like anything else, practice makes perfect. Point is, this 'perfection' is subjective. There is the question of style and sound. And the fact that no two guitars are the same in tone and depth even if they both belong to the same series of Martins or Taylors or the same tree.
At the same time, you can't blame a passable guitar for bad musicianship. But a good guitar can make you sound a smidgen better. Ramble ramble ramble.

There is one song that any aspiring guitarist worth his salt should know how to play. That is Stairway to Heaven. Now I know that is cliche, it is a song most of us learn in our teens to get into someone's pants. Or to show off at Guitar Center. But ever heard anyone play the entire song start to finish in any case? (Apart from the pros). Seriously, it is one cracking tune. And bloody hard to get right. And once you're past the doing things to get done stage, (note, I didn't include getting over the peacock stage - a slight narcissism and exhibitionism is a prerequisite to playing any instrument, it is why people play); it's time to really learn the song. Quite a lot of tricks in that tune, and a couple of basics of grunge rock. The chord progression is the standard that's in 90% of rock songs (Am - G- F), played different ways - you use the bar chords as well as the regular; you learn finger-picking (that arpeggiated intro), strumming, double-timing, how to slide and bend (the strings the strings) and a lot more... what an awesome solo too. Quite the workout for your fingers, hands, and feet. Quite technical. Quite emotional when you get it right...sniff..pass me the plectrum.

In the great Page's words on playing the ultimate rock anthem: "... the one thing you didn't do was speed up, because if you sped up you wouldn't be seen again. Everything had to be right on the meter all the way through. And I really wanted to write something which did speed up, and took the emotion and the adrenaline with it, and would reach a sort of crescendo. And that was the idea of it. That's why it was a bit tricky to get together in stages."

It is all about timing. Always was and always will be. And you have to keep at it no matter how long it takes to master all of it. If at all.

Still keeping at it. 1 year, 2months and counting.
Note: Two songs should never be played outside on your stoop. This is one. American Pie is the other.

Chasing Lights

2011-09-30T11:07:00.000-07:00

There is no right way to deal with darkness, except to look for a sliver of light that escapes through the cracks. But sometimes there is none. In times like these, a short circuit happens, neurons misfire, airways get obstructed, and destruction ensues. Injuries are inflicted, towards the self and outside, and memories get erased, though all the wrong ones.

Things that worked earlier have no effect. The night light gives way to regular ones, the walks become longer, lying down to rest just hides the inability to get up. And just when you think it couldn't get worse, the gloom deepens. Because the part of the brain that thinks too much just informed you there is no reason for it, and the same part can't remember the last time you really laughed.

Not being able to recall moments of joy, or be happy for things accomplished becomes a problem. Doubting that you've ever achieved anything, or believing the pointlessness of it all is a problem. Sleep is dangerous in these times. It's worse than the memory erasure, cuz all that space gets replaced with high def images, and those stay. But it is still worth a try to change these or fill the emptiness with arcane facts, useless bits of data, like it takes 47 minutes at 6 miles an hour to walk twice across Christopher St Pier up to Horatio St, and take a circuitous route to Carmine St. As if that really matters. Because all that resounds for those 47 minutes is You lock the door/ And throw away the key/ There's someone in my head but it's not me. Not Hit Me Baby One More Time. Thank you old man in the sky. Sorry Brit. (Though I imagine it would help from oding on self-pity).

So now it's back to 'Let's waste time/ chasing cars/ around our head'. Talk about this little light of mine hiding inside shadows.

2011-09-27T08:00:00.000-07:00

I do not have my mental health. I do not have my mental health. And I have accomplished something I set out to do. Alienate my friends and acquaintances. It is kind of a death wish.

I am taking 21 days. A season of fuck-its. Turn off the bloody lights.

Three years... and counting

2011-09-23T21:34:00.000-07:00

A lot seems to have happened, 'seems' cuz half the time I'm not even sure what's real. The darkness got violent at times, but we've become good pals, and go bingeing on everything together. We have a living arrangement with its usual ups and downs. Friends of the biped variety have had less patience and have gotten overwhelmed with this friend I keep, or keeps me, since he has an irritating habit of sneaking up on them and poof!(I included show cause clauses to curb this behavior, but no point), so they (the bipeds) have left. Winters have been long, Christmases were blizzards, springs had the occasional flights to someplace, summers were spent drinking hard and walking in circles.

Have I told you about my little blue radio? RayD is a good friend. He has a functioning brain unlike most people I know... (true, I don't know many people). But he reads me better and comes up with songs I hate myself for loving. Actually he is a sadistic bastard that makes me... um... suicidal? homicidal? depressive? manic? Check all.

B'cuz sometimes the ground caves in. The center doesn't hold.

Has it ever?

My iPod is another dear with a mind of his own, but I take the blame for that - after all I put all those songs in there, Hallelujah, Love Bites, Poison, Too Much Love Will Kill You, My Immortal... aah that order is suggestive... and I carry this guy with me. 'Shuffle' though, is a pretend function, I kind of figured out the algorithm to that one... now I know the order of shuffled songs if I start with a particular tune. Random is not exactly random.

So, anyway, it's been three years. In Gotham city. With or without my RayD and Pod men. Mostly with. Three years. That's the longest stretch I've stayed put in one place, without moving in and out of apartments like I'm prone to doing when I know it's goin' to be a long stretch... (must be the rent). But things are never a constant in this city, except perhaps for the morning coffee. Even that is unreliable, but I like it that way.

Constants are scary things. But I still need the coffee.

Three years and I've feared for my sanity on and off, for whatever's left of it. I've woken up wondering where I got the bruises, and scars (and why). I've discovered that coke in small doses is like viagra. I've read The English Patient 8 times cover to cover so far. I still watch the tango, and the manic Ferrari drive scenes in 'Scent of a Woman' every year. I listen to 'Where I Stood' everyday. I play Dido's Here With Me every night on my guitar. And know that despite over 60 hours (so far) of practicing Fast Car, I can't sing and play it well at the same time. I can never ever sing anything. I know Auden's 'Stop all the clocks...' by heart.

By heart, I haven't used that phrase in years, but yes, that poem I know by heart. I say it by heart in my head everytime I walk the piers and it is the one thing that brings tears to some forgotten pain.
......
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; .....

Never mind. Got distracted.

I haven't sky-dived (yet) cuz it was over a 100 bucks. I've paid 100 bucks for (apparently) jumping the turnstile. If I stop my daily quota of substances today, I could clear my loan in one year exactly. I could also die in that year from deprivation a la Winehouse, without the records and fame of course.

I've tried convincing friends to stay, keep talking, if only to get the noise out of my head and failed. Mr Pod puts sound in, he doesn't absorb the emanating static. So it's a weird key stuck between a diminished chord and G# in my head, and so irksome at times. I've been told to stop my obsessive humming at work more than twice. Maybe I hum wrong.

I've taken good care of my play list, the classics remain classics, newer perspectives and song-listening inclinations are carefully compiled in a separate folder. I am proud to say I have been faithful, and experimental at the same time. To Misters iPod and RayD Oh. Creates a lasting, mutually satisfying relationship. I now measure time in segments of crime shows. And I have learned that you know you're older when the nights seem longer than days.

Three years. The problem with anniversaries, passport expirations, and password changes is it forces you to consider time. Waves of new and past ghosts suddenly hound you and howl incessantly into the night. (Yes my ghosts are of the werewolf banshee types). The wails of were-bans.

And you never can seem to remember the loss, you only know the feeling.

Sure we know. The songs and obsessions tell you. And all the changes. The point is people don't really change. They just reveal the truth when they think no one is looking. Or reading. But we try. Someone who used to be afraid of the nightmares just sleeps with a night light. Or doesn't sleep at all.

And we all have a price to pay for giving up what is good for us.

Three years is a bitch.

How to shoot somebody who outdrew you

2011-09-22T12:11:00.000-07:00

This should be easy. they don't expect it. you're dead, remember?

(so they think. if they even waste a thought on you that is.)

it is easy. just rise from your grave now and then, as often as you please, and BOO. one of the perks of being dead is the possibility of resurrection. (into what reincarnation may not be your choice, though.) also, there's the element of surprise. aah, imagine the look on their faces.

it is easy. preferably use the same knife they used on you. it never loses its edge. only dulls their senses to apathy but what do you care about the effect?

easy peasy. prepare for a zombie fest, but refrain from outright murder of your darlings. after all, you need the perpetual rage to feed your starved soul.

talk about rage and revenge.

why you ask?
when you're shot dead, how can you love anymore? enough reason?
(apologies to Mr Cohen for 'wrongful' use of the phrase).

About dreams

2011-09-21T08:27:00.000-07:00

of the kind that happen when you are asleep...or think you are.

ever had one where your four year old self runs up to the mirror, sees a fat pig for a head and breaks it (the mirror I mean), but it (the big fat pig now) keeps reappearing in various shades of size, color, and expression, all accompanied with a BBCish crime series-Batman Begins at Inception to be Psycho kind of music?

All this in color, mind you. God forbid if the shards scratch your not-four year old 'sleeping' self...but then...

sigh... of course. Sleep is overrated.

writing the wind

2011-07-25T11:23:00.000-07:00

It must be the sounds in this place. She hears them clear, distinct. The chirping of that common sparrow by the trees, now by the edge of the bench where she sits; the wind through the trees, leaves falling, the slow waves incessant in their protest of being caged for others' pleasure. The waves. The waves. Though she prefers their wildness in other spaces, she makes do with these dammed waters. And the wind. The waves are just a distraction, a medium through which she can hear the wind.

What she actually prefers are mountains. And deserts. And... well, she can't stick to anything. Sticking needs two compatible surfaces, or one strong glue, neither of which she has in sufficient supply.

Water to escape, mountains to face, deserts to hope. We'll leave it at that.

It is the silence within everyday sounds she searches for. Or whatever's hidden in plain sight. This obsessive search started in some strange time even she can't recall. It must've been the summer after the sandstorm in the wadi. The day she heard the wind swirling inside a mirage. Though she did not feel it on her skin, there was the sound; the dry crackle, like intermittent short circuits inside the phantom waters up ahead on the dunes, parting it, like a lover's parched tongue on long-desired skin.

Now she sits here, trying to capture that moment when she first heard it. She knows it is futile; that the wind through these strange fattened lands have a color and sound different from what she knew. Here the wind cries at spires and windows that trap gods in their petrified states. Plaintive sighs. Yet it carries some memory of the desert, a longing for an infinite space, a desire to be wanton, free to howl or stay mute at will. For this place is just another form of a mirage.

old tunes...

2011-07-15T14:17:00.000-07:00

And here I go again on my own
Goin' down the only road I've ever known,
Like a drifter I was born to walk alone
And I've made up my mind
I ain't wasting no more time...
-Whitesnake

There's a danger in lovin' somebody too much
And it's sad when you know it's your heart they can't touch
There's a reason why people don't stay who they are
Baby sometimes love just ain't enough...
-Patty Smyth, Don Henley

To slow down

2011-07-14T10:40:00.000-07:00

I've been told to take it slow. A lot of times. 'Please relax', 'stop pacing, you're making me nervous', 'just lie down for a while longer', 'try to sleep', 'there's nothing wrong with stayin' in bed all day, both days over the weekend',... the list goes on. Oh and this one 'everything and everyone is slow and bores you, you think you are interesting?' was a nice one. And true. Touche.

What they don't know is that I AM slow, I do stay in bed all day both days on weekends (when I don't go for a walk), I don't have space in my room to pace, so I sit and netflix every (other) evening, I sit still on my stoop watching other people go by... how much more am I supposed to 'relax'? Sure, it does piss me off that my office desktop takes precisely 17 minutes to start up, 10 minutes to shut down (on good days), but I do sit very still and patient.

I AM very patient with others, and make exceptions for friends, ... until I don't. But this is usually 'cuz the compromise is not recognized and returned once a year at least. And then I get 'unreasonable' and lose them. My 'friends'. Baah. Nobody's loss either way. Not worth a post.

Strange thing is when the family, who you think are slow and decrepit, keep asking every week 'have you got a new job, a raise, a new place to stay, blah blah...'. Like a raise and new job happens everyday. Now can't they slow down?

But there is something to be said for slowness, a lot of people seem to be happy with it. Maybe that's it. I equate 'taking things slow' with contentment. And contentment for me means being stunted, not at peace, or satisfied. And of course doesn't everyone know when you hear 'Lets take things slow' actually translates to 'it's over, I don't like being with you anymore' ninety percent of the time? It means they need space and time from you, and preferably nothing to do with you at all, but don't have the balls to say it. Again, what a waste of time... but they're happy, how does it matter what I think? (Sometimes I think happiness is crawling inside the hollow of a dead tree trunk and hibernating. Or being dead).

If it were just semantics, then I have a point. To slow down means you are shutting down (physically) and shutting off (emotionally), creating a void between things and people. And asking another to slow down is like sentencing them to purgatory, to limbo. Like being stuck on a real slow, endless elevator ride that stops at every other floor but yours, and you're dying to get out.

Which could work both ways when it does stop - heaven or hell...but who among us dare presume it's heaven waiting at the end for us? Mostly hell, and limbo is just a practice zone.

On an upbeat (?) note, the only times being slow takes on a real worthwhile meaning is in a slow dance, and while playing an instrument. A slow dance is a surrender, a time to let go; and making music is more about the spaces between the notes than the notes themselves... even here most people misconstrue the meaning of the word 'rest'. It is not a time you do nothing, but doing something as simple and complicated as keeping the beat, it is a serious contemplation that creates a song, a heightened awareness of time.

Most of us can't do it.

Need for speed

2011-07-14T09:55:00.000-07:00

Not the drug, not the old racing game, but just the noun or verb for rapidity in motion. I hate going at a slow pace...it's like being stuck on a C train as the A passes me by. (I mean the express A of course, so this example isn't applicable on weekends).

Waiting for someone to finish a sentence is torture. Might as well not speak, like me. If you've got nothing to say, and don't, then it's fine. Which is why I rather go places, bars and all, alone. Sure timing is everything, when it comes to telling a joke, a story, etc., and doing other things, but the point is, when it's done well, a moment doesn't feel wasted.

Wasted time. Waiting for someone to call, speak, mail, when you expect everything to have been done a week before...arrgh, why does no one realize that time is killing them, instead of the other way round? But I guess, since time is just a construct of the mind and our personal clocks tick-tock differently, I should be more amenable to this tardiness.

NO. Why should I, when there is a constant 24 hour day the last I heard? Oh Burnt Norton...

Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present...

And whatever that means.

I am now analyzing the reasons for this rant about slowness. Here's what I've come up with so far:

1. I wasted a good portion of my short life doing nothing interesting... (maybe not, but it feels that way).

2. My brain works slow, so I move fast. The faster I move, I can escape this reality.

3. If I move slow, I could miss the action happening somewhere other than where I am.

...

The truth (however relative) is, this need to move fast hits when the moment is shared / linked with someone else. I eat, drink, walk faster when there is someone around... most times, the other person seems boring to me; or I feel I'm boring them, and when the latter feeling arises, I move even faster. (See, at least I care enough not to waste their time. Pat on back.) The anomaly is when boredom doesn't set in... rare, but yeah it does happen. Then I hang around, stop and stare, smell the roses or whatever.

But for now, time not spent doing something I like is wasted time. The truth (for real now) is that right now I'm waiting for someone to mail me something regarding work, but from past experience, this person has no concept of time. Sure they have more interesting or important things to do.

Not good enough. I'm the one always left in the lurch.

...And then one day you'll find,

Ten years have got behind you,

No one told you when to run

You missed the starting gun...

Sigh .... I understand you Floyd, and more than 10 years have got behind me since I first heard this song...

And I still haven't found what i'm lookin' for...

2011-07-13T10:26:00.000-07:00

But it found me. On July 5, 2011. Soldier Field, Chicago. U2. A 'space-station' stage setup known as 'The Claw', Bono, Edge, Clayton, Mullen in sonic blast, ... and a buddy I haven't seen in almost 3 years. Beautiful Day, Sunday Bloody Sunday, With or Without You...and an unscheduled encore One Tree Hill with a plea from Bono: "if we screw up real bad, please don't put it on the Internet." Screw up? What screw up??

Crossed five state-lines in 24 hours, by air and road - DC to Philli to Chicago, thru Indiana, to Detroit. A wonder we got home alive, by 4am I was hallucinating, and A was sleep-driving.

All worth it, the exhaustion, sunburn, endless airport check-in lines with all its hassles, connecting flights, navigating strange streets, getting distracted by beautiful architecture, people,...

Awesome. To still be impulsive just when you think you have become an adult, and fear that you would never again do stuff unless you storyboard it first.

Getting Away - notes from Woodstock, May 2011

2011-06-29T13:14:00.000-07:00

There are times when we need to leave the madness behind where it belongs. That is, if you think madness is something that happens in the world around you as you sit in silence watching it go out of control, while you drink hot coffee.

But most times we just carry the insanity with us. For it is the only company we keep, or keeps us. Some BFF.

That weekend in May was not to escape madness, but the drudgery of a dead-end existence, a 9 to 5 job, the sameness of everything, to escape time that is not relative but a fixed number of hours. Enter Woodstock.

2 hours from the city to Poughkeepsie, another 45 minutes by car. (Should take the bus next time). Anyway, on the hottest afternoon of the year, I got there. And did nothing. That was the whole point of it I suppose. I did have plans, but shelved it for fall... if I will remember then. It is amazing just how much we forget. I forget.

Walked around the quaint little town, filled with tourists, hell's angels bikers, flea markets, music,.... and old, old locals. Where have all the young men gone? Never mind. Checked into Woodstock Lodge, about half a mile from the Village Green (though the walk seemed longer in the hot sun), not recommended by the locals (I wonder why), and the last one listed in the directory. And the only one that had rooms available for the night.

What a time! Apparently, this was the only lodge with a bar that stays open till 4am. The rest of Woodstock sleeps at 9pm at the latest. And there's nothing else to do than drink, play pool, dance with old men, and listen to their wild stories. Stories told in slow, drunken drawling voices; of their celebrity neighbors in the Catskills, of Billy Joel buying this guy dinner, then realizing he was broke..so he plays the piano all night (yeah yeah, the piano man's perpetual penury story seem to be the same all time, and how he makes up for it)... of going on gigs with old-time bands and singers...stories under a clear starry sky.

There was the Big Dipper, or is it the Little Dipper, or both? Right over my head. Stars are not something you notice in the city. And even if you do, well.. you don't stop and stare for long. Stars are for quiet places, when the music outside gets inside you, and deep voices tell you tales. And other times of solitude.

Slow. That's what this place is. Where time has no meaning except in the changing colors of the sky. Where early morning dew on the mountain looks like rising smoke or falling rain. Where you follow babbling brooks in the middle of trees to see hidden falls. Slow. Quiet. Peaceful? Not quite. Lonely? Not really. You carry your madness in a backpack.

The Village Green

Hidden Falls

Millstream

The Blues Brothers taking a break

Open drum circle

Land of Lost Content - A.E. Houseman

2011-06-28T20:02:00.000-07:00

Into my heart an air that kills
From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?

That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again.

Lazarus Soul

2011-06-21T09:48:00.000-07:00

Dusk
the evening is purple red
and I wait for the music to drift in
through the broken ground.
i called, and though you were silent,
i knew you'd come.

Night
inside the madness a fire rises
burning holes in a sky, making space
for my future travel.
i wait, and see the desert you fear
to cross for nothing.

Midnight
it is all for nothing, your tears
won't revive bones sucked dry
in sandstorms.
i sleep inside a nightmare
with no refuge in hiding places

Dawn
it is not yet time, for words
that mean nothing to ears pierced
by shards of indifference.
i wait in silence in fire and darkness
to break through on my own.

Writing at night

2011-06-06T09:20:00.000-07:00

I live over a bar and the bass booms all night through my floor. So it is definitely not the peace and quiet. Nights are not peaceful anyway. And peace never contributed to anything in the world. Without the big bang where would we all be? Would we even be?

I don't know. Do I even care?
But why write at night?
(Why write at all, but that's been done to death... in my head anyway...and plenty have pondered and written about it. But then, everything that has to be said, has been written already... that makes writing about anything at all a futile exercise).

Maybe writing is a kind of death - or at least it feels that way - how we pour out our life through our fingers and stain a couple of pages - a form of blood-letting in the hope of better health; redemption, salvation. And it's always in the longest nights of our lives we seek answers, dare to hope, love, or give in to fears or despair.

Maybe it is the darkness... under its cover, we can take refuge in our dreams and nightmares, without having others glimpse our inner demons. And face them on our own terms. Like making love in pitch dark that makes strangers out of partners and lovers out of strangers.

Night writing is after all just complicated Braille.

Just people

2011-04-01T19:57:00.000-07:00

Friends don't exist. What you thought was real, was actually just an adjective you bestowed some person in some insane moment of your life. And when it is over, you get angry with the person. But it's hardly their fault, they never called themselves 'friend' until you did. And some didn't even after.

Who you are angry with is just yourself. For allowing yourself to trust someone with some part of you that was important. Because you believed that for you, just for you, this thing would last... until death that is.

And then you realize it was never the same for the other person. They always lived life knowing the practical - that things change, nothing's permanent; and they treat you that way. Casual. Superficial. Kind. Understanding.

You could be anyone else on the street. You don't matter.

There's no such thing called friends. Only normal, practical people.

This is the end...

2011-03-11T21:33:00.000-08:00

a long cold winter we had this year. everyone knows. and as much as you longed for a white christmas, and was overjoyed whenever it snowed, it was no fun the day after. morning afters are really never fun. everybody knows that. and it does take a while...

but it is over. like all good things. and bad things. like things. everything lasts for only a season, a fortnight, a day, a second. like everyone knows, nothing lasts.

absolutely nothing.
nobody.

so we have substances to make the moment last longer. just so we feel it lasts longer. but even that don't last. but it sure beats the hell out of relying on seasons and waiting for the sun to shine out your window.

and it wouldn't hurt that much if the ground falls from under your feet.
you could be flying.

and saving daylight.

though, if daylight needed saving, doesn't it mean the night is stronger, and better to rely on?

what the hell is this??

If only...

2011-03-11T20:04:00.000-08:00

Come pick me up,
Take me out,
Fuck me up,
Steal my records,
Screw all my friends
Behind my back
With a smile on your face,
And then do it again
I wish you would...

...I wish I could...
- Ryan Adams

What the right words and song can do... without even trying...

Chances are...

2011-01-15T23:08:00.000-08:00

A fight. A knock on the door. A phone call. Losing friends. An accident. The wrong words. Silence.

It may hurt like hell. You may not be able to imagine how you can exist in a world when it happens. And you may not survive.

But the unexpected is what changes our lives.

Requiem

2011-01-03T17:27:00.000-08:00

Light many lamps and gather round his bed.
Lend him your eyes, warm blood, and will to live.
Speak to him; rouse him; you may save him yet.
...
But death replied: 'I choose him.' So he went,
And there was silence in the summer night;
Silence and safety; and the veils of sleep.
Then, far away, the thudding of the guns.

- From The Death-Bed, Seigfried Sassoon

looking for a ghost on christmas eve

2010-12-28T20:18:00.000-08:00

He barged in. In tight leather pants, wild, careless hair over his beautiful eyes. He had a voice of an angel in distress or a demon escaped from the icy pits of hell. He could fly but preferred leaping from wall to ceiling when the mood struck him. Like a dancer suspended on invisible strings.

Soon, he was joined by an older man smoking a cigar. This man could fly, and to prove it, he had the scars, burnt skin and hands. All he did was drink. And write. What he wrote, the young wild man read aloud, half singing, half speaking in that deep voice. What he wrote was a plea to another friend, who had disappeared on the both of them. This dark night, they came here to look for a sign.

Together they sat, or one sat while the other moved about; both drinking straight shots of J.D. and some vile rum, waiting for an apparition to emerge from the cigarette smoke. To kill time, they drank, wrote, read, sang, and drank some more.

The cold gust of wind and fresh snow blows in as the creaking door opens. Nobody else seems to bother, but a chill runs down the old man's and the wild one's spines. Followed by a wave of disappointment. Busted. It wasn't their friend. But a face just as familiar. Death. They'd have to leave soon. Oh well, might as well get him into the conversation for a while, he anyway is just enough company when you can't find what you were waiting for. And they were running out of time anyway.

They waited. They performed their gigs, all the time waiting for the one friend who left long time ago. Death just sat there, a great listener. He enjoys a good show. As they got drunker and more eloquent, he took out a paper and made a note with an old goose quill he fobbed off some other drunken sod long time ago.

No ink. 'These old-fashioned things', he sighed. He turned and asked if he could borrow my Parker pen.

the morning after

2010-12-28T16:15:00.000-08:00

Christmas day passed by... and became something I don't remember much of except these...

the night, at around 4am... as hazy as I was

the morning after (and it snowed inside cuz some jerk broke the glass and slept in the garbage room)

how do i get to my place? (and how and why the hell did I get out?)

stairway to blizzard (five minutes after shoveling it off. Why did we bother?)

My top bummer songs playlist

2010-12-27T18:04:00.000-08:00

in no particular order... old and new favorites that I listen to when I'm depressed, which is a constant these days; or snowed in....

1. Broken - Seether & Amy Lee
2. High Hopes - Pink Floyd
3. Same Mistake - James Blunt
4. Cryin' in the Rain - A-ha
5. Pale Blue Eyes - Velvet Underground
6. Breathe Again - Sara Bareilles
7. Crucify - Tori Amos
8. Foolish Games - Jewel
9. In the Air Tonight - Phil Collins
10. Against All Odds - Phil Collins
11. Broken - Lifehouse
12. Poison - Alice Cooper
13. Tears and Rain - James Blunt
14. My Immortal - Evanescence
15. River - Angus Stone
16. Hallelujah - Jeff Buckley
17. Unsatisfied - The Replacements
18. Crash Into Me - Dave Matthews Band
19. November Rain - Guns 'N' Roses
20. Give Into Me - Michael Jackson
21. Time After Time - Cyndi Lauper with Sarah McLachlan
22. Drifting Further Away - Powderfinger
23. Never Say Never - The Fray
24. The Reason - Hoobastank
25. Running Away - Midnight Hour
26. Almost Here - Brian McFadden and Delta Goodrem
27. Too Much Love Will Kill You - Queen
28. Hollow Years - Dream Theater
29. Don't Dream it's Over - Crowded House
30. Here I Go Again - Whitesnake
31. Days Gone By - Slaughter
32. Everything Burns - Anastacia with Ben Moody
33. Let Me Out - Ben's Brother
34. Numb - Linkin Park
35. Waiting For the End - Linkin Park
36. Behind Blue Eyes - The Who
37. You Don't Have to Say You Love Me - Dusty Springfield
38. Friend Like You - Joshua Radin
39. Chasing Cars - Snow Patrol
40. Love the Way You Lie - Eminem and Rihana
41. Something Inside - Jonathan Rhys Meyers
42. Heart of Gold - Neil Young
43. Secret - Heart
44. Sailing - Rod Stewart
45. Live to Tell - Madonna
46. Mad World - Adam Lambert
47. Apologize - One Republic
48. Keep Bleeding - Leona Lewis
49. Here With Me - Dido
50. Open Arms - Journey
51. Fallen - Sarah McLachlan
52. Wherever You Will Go - The Calling
53. Ripple - Grateful Dead
54. Patience - Guns 'N' Roses
55. Hey You - Pink Floyd
56. Mad About You - Sting
57. Shine On You Crazy Diamond - Pink Floyd
58. Now and Forever - Richard Marx
59. Wild World - Cat Stevens
60. What Have I Done to Deserve This - Pet Shop Boys
61. The End of the World - Skeeter Davis
62. Cup of Coffee - Garbage
63. Nights in White Satin - The Moody Blues
64. Save the Last Dance For Me - The Drifters
65. Drive - The Cars
66. Unchained Melody - Righteous Brothers
67. I Don't Like to Sleep Alone - Paul Anka
68. Don't Know Much - Aaron Neville & Linda Ronstadt
69. Dreams - Fleetwood Mac
70. Hard to Say I'm Sorry - Chicago
71. Love Bites - Def Leppard
72. Two Steps Behind - Def Leppard
73. If You Don't Know Me By Now - Simply Red
74. Afterglow - INXS
75. Keep On Lovin' You - REO Speedwagon
76. Can't Fight this Feelin' Anymore - REO Speedwagon
77. Truly, Madly, Deeply - Savage Garden
78. My Baby Shot Me Down - Nancy Sinatra
79. Father Figure - George Michael
80. Whiskey Lullaby - Brad Paisley and Allison Krauss
81. How Do I Live - Trisha Yearwood
82. Forever Young - Laura Branigan
83. America - Simon and Garfunkel
84. Secret Garden - Bruce Springsteen
85. I Need You - America
86. Heaven - Warrant
87. Staring at the Sun - U2
88. Angel - Aerosmith
89. You're All I Need - White Lion
90. I'll Be There - Escape Club
91. It's Hard Letting You Go - Bon Jovi
92. Thank You - Bon Jovi
93. Trapped - Indus Creed
94. Don't Fear the Reaper - Blue Oyster Cult
95. Hellhound on My Trail - Robert Johnson
96. Diamonds and Rust - Joan Baez
97. Truckin' - Grateful Dead
98. The Riddle - Five for Fighting
99. The Zephyr Song - RHCP
100. The End - Jim Morrison
101. Uninvited - Alanis Morrisete
102. The Scientist - Coldplay
103. Far Away - Nickelback
104. All We Are - Matt Nathanson
105. Falling Apart - Matt Nathanson
106. Waiting For The End - Linkin Park
107. Falling Slowly - Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova

song for this year

2010-12-26T08:29:00.000-08:00

Drifting Further Away - Powderfinger

Don't go too deep into the flood
Don't stare too long, you'll poison my love
Don't shut me out, don't hold it all in
Don't let my venom get under your skin..

'Cuz every word and every turn and
Every sign points to your hurt
And every hour you're drifting further away.

...Don't banish me then bid me home
Don't tell me where I came undone...

In the dark

2010-12-23T21:14:00.000-08:00

In my country, I am common,
Not a welcome presence, just
Heavy like a wet blanket on a humid summer
With no electricity, hot.
Things happen. At dark.
It is night and so am I.

Oh but I remember the glowworms over my bed.

Here I am exotic, dark, a hooded stranger
In the constant glare of city lights,
A shadow, sometimes a black hole come too early
For the final starburst. Disappear,
Die into me. Sleep.
I am night and things are wild.

But now the darkness becomes me I can't breathe.

Does it matter what you call me?
This name is purple-black like a bruise
That never heals.
Invisible
To the naked eye. I.

It is dark, this night. Brooding.
And things happen I don't need to hide.

How do i live?

2010-12-23T20:11:00.000-08:00

Writing is futile when every breath and keystroke is a fight to keep walls from crumbling down.

What a lie. The walls were never there. What you thought were pieces falling were stones thrown at you for sins past and present. You fell. No. To fall down means at some point you were standing. Which you never were. Crouched in the darkened corner hiding from whatever light that could reveal your flaws, you never realized all the debris around was only your fault. They're your pieces. Nobody else's. You broke yourself, chunk by chunk whatever you thought was undesirable, and now you are shocked when you came tumbling down?

Now there's nothing left of you. Just an ashy breath and some broken sentences.

And nobody is going to come and clean up this mess.

Not even the delete key.

Picture of a perfect day

2010-12-20T19:26:00.000-08:00

1. 7a.m. An hour or more around the block in circles (or so it seems from 6th Ave, W3 to somewhere on 8th Av and back)

2. 9a.m. Coffee and breakfast at a diner... where they keep the same seat for you.

3. 10 a.m. Walk, stop, stare at old record shops, churches, guitars, puppies on sale, cream puffs, and drink more coffee.

4. 12 p.m. Listen to Velvet Underground, Lou Reed, The Beatles, Pink Floyd, Phil Ochs, and Dylan.

5. 3 p.m. Practice blues rhythms till dark.

6. 5 p.m. Walk to the park after sunset, stare at Christmas decorations on streets and random windows, browse bookstores and watch people go crazy deciding what to gift, while I inhale print.

7. 7 p.m. Conversations with bartenders, more music, food called home delivery.

8. 10 p.m. A book, a song, a coffee, a Jacques Torres dark chocolate.

And doing other things in between all that and after ;-)
... like laughing hysterically at abbot and costello and marx brothers. and crying at judy garland's rendition of the battle hymn of the republic. and watching carl palmer and stanley jordan, wondering if they have two separate brains - one dedicated to music composition and another to motor function...

SantaCon 2010

2010-12-11T14:14:00.000-08:00

The madness is still on... it's been on since this morning. The Santas are on a pub crawl - that the regulars have nowhere to go, so we stay sober and for nothin' better to do, take pictures, videos, and blog.

The scene outside my apartment:

Just heard a sloshed Santa calling this the MacDougal 'Saint' Alehouse.

There's a lot happenin'... drunk Santas, stressed cops, paramedics,... you get the idea. Kinda fun to watch. Not so much fun for the bartenders though... Santas are such slobs. Just tripped over broken bottles and god knows what... and more Santas crawling out of the woodwork. Merry Christmas.

Not yet. Just ho ho ho tonight.

How I love the madness on MacDougal Street.

Autumn in New York

2010-11-27T20:05:00.000-08:00

What the silence hides...

2010-10-21T18:15:00.000-07:00

The greatest hazard of all, losing one’s self, can occur very quietly in the world, as if it were nothing at all. No other loss can occur so quietly; any other loss - an arm, a leg, five dollars, a wife, etc. - is sure to be noticed.

-Soren Kierkgaard, The Sickness Unto Death

We lose ourselves... as if it were nothing at all. We stand, we lose, we keep standing, and by the time we notice, it is too late. The space left by the part we just lost becomes a desert, a void, or sometimes gets consumed by fear. Of the three, fear is the worst... an acid that eats away the rest of us slowly. Fear is the worst because it gives us enough time to ask for help, or remain paralyzed in loss. Either way, you lose.

Getting help is not something that builds your self, in fact, it contributes to the loss. For what you could once deal with on your own, is now something that you depend on other people's kindness and/ or the external environment. Which is very unreliable to start with. Paralysis due to fear is a spiral from which you never wake up and is infinite in its downward trail.

More losses of self. Self-esteem, self-reliance. It happens so quietly. Even killing yourself is not an option cuz it requires a self. And it's a waste of time to flog a dead horse twice.

The end of summer

2010-10-19T09:09:00.000-07:00

Some days are like this, when dark clouds hover and the higher you stand, the closer you are in danger of getting struck by lightning or some such. Like this.

These are the kind of days when you remember days like this, a hot 100 F, blue skies, about to jump into the nearest water body:

Regret of days gone by, however, should be avoided whenever possible. Preferably with the best chocolate ice-cream, staring at a bridge. Like here: (pic taken while chocolate ice-cream was being consumed).

here:

And even if the night seems empty, imagine the stars trapped forever just for you:

Oh, and bridges are not for crossing. Only for staring, burning and bypassing. Crossing a bridge is lame, anyone can do that, and people who do just don't seem too happy about it anyway.

times like these...

2010-10-06T18:21:00.000-07:00

No one should be alone. But people generally are. and nobody can help you except yourself blah blah blah. Whatever times these are, whatever time it is anywhere, you will always be alone. You always knew this.

But it kind of takes the wind out of you every time this realization hits. Feels like drowning.

These are the moments when memories of times when you were not alone seem like cruel jokes, lies. You hate yourself for trusting all those moments. Everything you believed in becomes ashes. Your fears are the only arms that wrap around you, and they leave deep deep scars. You hide them.

These are the moments when you know how weak you are, and you smash everything to pieces just to prove you're not. Every object in your room becomes a potential weapon. Every person a target.

Aren't you glad you are alone? Only you can see how you've fallen and shattered yourself.

A random conversation in the garden

2010-10-05T14:30:00.000-07:00

"You know, a Moroccan carpet seller once told me that even in the most abstract carpet designs, if you look hard enough, you will see that it is divided into four quadrants. The first quadrant symbolizes desire, the second suffering, followed by resolution and finally morality.

So first you've got to know what you want or what your heart desires. Not knowing itself is a kind of suffering, but once you know, things will happen that will make you want to fulfill, change, or give up those desires. Sometimes you've got to let things just be and resolve themselves, sometimes you've got to work at it. Whatever answers you get, at the end of the day, you will learn something. For better or for worse. And you become a new person with your own code of morality." *

That's what your carpet tells you. Sometimes the design is so complex and haphazard, all you see is a random madness, but always, always, there is a pattern underneath, quadrants tangled up in the warp and woof of wild colors.

The carpet is a window of your life. Look at your carpet and see what it hides - in it, or what you sweep under it. It holds answers even if you don't have any questions.

*Thank you for the anecdote. It is not verbatim I know, but it's what I got from your telling. And thanks to another...

About dark places

2010-10-05T13:02:00.000-07:00

For the thing which

I greatly feared is come upon me,

and that which I was afraid of

is come unto me.

I was not in safety, neither

had I rest, neither was I quiet;

yet trouble came.

- Job

Everyone goes through storms, some ride the waves, others swim against it, some others drown. We all carry scars – some hidden, some on our sleeves. Those who seemingly have conquered bouts of varying degrees of agony hang on to things that seem to be an anchor… though painfully aware that such objects are not permanent. And so we create spaces – tangible or otherwise, spaces where we run to for safety and protection… from ourselves.

But sometimes these very spaces become a deathtrap. The friend we look to for hope may not be around, understand, or may be helpless to an onslaught of our darkness. The terrace where we used to kiss random lovers, sit alone, or carry out an endless bargain with emptiness becomes a venue of our death scenarios. The words we used to write are now poison-tipped blank pages. The songs of our good times are now just a reminder of the things we’ve lost.

Loss. Loss may be the reason. A loss of self-esteem, self-reliance, the self itself, causes and perpetuates the darkness. There is an inability to make decisions. For now there are no choices, only options. A terminally-ill cancer patient wants life / good health over death. But the options are: 1. More chemo and live a little longer, but with side effects, 2. No treatment and die in a month, 3. Euthanasia or some such. Not good enough. But this is it. You’ve got a kind of cancer in your head, there are no more choices.

Not being able to make decisions based on given options make the nights unbearable and sleepless, and the days unlivable. All thoughts focus on one simple question: is life worth all this? Then the doppleganger makes an appearance. (It is always there, but moments like this, we see it). This shadow-figure is a double-edged sword and highly unpredictable in its opinions, comings and goings. Most times, it is a silent, calm observer, watching as we work ourselves into a frenzy of madness or descend screaming or quiet into the abyss. Sometimes it aids and abets in whatever we do or don't do. Mostly it is a portent. It waits until the moment passes or until we come to the final decision point, and then slips back inside... us. The doppleganger is a crack of light that reveals our dark places and drives us either to our death or to our recovery by making us view the stark reality of our desperation.

What is the point of all this?? Oh about the dark places. Inside and out. The sometimes violent dark. The accusing night of enveloping fears. You will never know or understand until you're in it. And even if you escape for a while by sheer will or plain dumb luck, the memory will haunt your sleep and awake moments. The darkness will always be close behind… making the light in front of your eyes a fata morgana. It will grow until it forms a cloak around you. It will soon be the only thing that is real.

It will consume whatever is left of you. There will be no place left to hide. There will soon no longer be a 'you' to hide.

in a dark place

2010-09-29T01:53:00.001-07:00

i'm running away.

away.

apt hunting - craigslist crib

2010-09-26T20:02:00.000-07:00

?# 1. stop advertising affordable apartments in west and east village. there are still some of us who hope without your help for the diamond in the rough or the other way round. mostly the diamond in the diamond for the rough.

#2. please, not all you people are volunteers in west africa, or pastors of a lost flock, or saving the world org, etc kind of people?* if all of you were actually where you said you were, new york city would be a much cheaper place to live in. and the rest of the world wouldn't go hungry or whatever. Also i wouldn't have to hear hell fire and brimstone and jesus in summer outside my window or on the subway. **

#3. oh, and if you were volunteers, you wouldn't be 'owning' an apartment in NYC in the first place. (On second thoughts, considering how much money you steal / get from the government, church and stupid people, it is possible; but seriously, are you not christian enough to show the apartment before renting it out??).

#4. Everybody 'cherishes' their apartment. And would love someone else to do the cleaning. Hire a maid for god's sake. The third world got that right for centuries till now, why can't you?? just ask for a fuckin maid.

#4. where the hell do you cyber people get time to post ads and pictures doin this shit?

#5. do you get paid for this?

#6. if yes to #5, can i also contribute at 15 bucks an hour? I can take pictures too. AND i can spell. (for the purpose of this post, all sentences begin in lower case. i am aware, not illiterate).

#7. if these people of existing scams don't exist - oh no. my nightmares are true. we are being taken over by some unknown force who can't spell and mass mails with minor changes.

* maybe. maybe not. should i list the countries not part of west africa?? ethiopia, sudan are not west africa for anyone's sakes... why west africa????

** strange, but all evangelical types come out of the woodwork in summer. wonder wot the hell these guys/gals do in winter... (so i have a problem with the street preachers. sue me o free country. My ears have rights even if my passport doesn't provide legal counsel. And the free ear plugs don't work.)

Slipping into the Night

2010-09-23T22:51:00.000-07:00

Some people make it through, come out in one piece waiting for the sunrise. These are the people who are lucky enough to be able to sleep through the darkness and awake dreamless, but rested. Or just catatonic.

Then there are the others. The ones who picture hope as being chained to pillars that they tear down in a rage just when the party is at its height. Hope seen like an 'H'. Samson got it right - being bound is a way to feel alive, to go through life breaking chains and jawbones, just cuz you can do it, never mind the casualties.

These are the night people, the restless people, the ones who walk with their shadows for protection and yet wonder why the shadows move differently from them. Their shadow runs all the way to the roof to jump and gets distracted by the skies, while they curl in a corner. The shadow watches their every move at every bar and follows them with whatever they take home. The shadow sees, the shadow knows; it remembers every meaningless conversation, every blackout; yet lets them slip through the night, to stumble through subways, parks and alleys... And over time, the shadow becomes substance.

Still, there is a code for these shadow walkers, you can't call them rules, it's something you make up as you go along. Or learn the hard way.

When in company, smile a lot, talk some. This helps in getting drinks on the house. When alone, wallow and drink some more.
Wear comfortable shoes. It's hard enough to stand, let alone walk when you're being more than one person at a time. Also, since you're following #1.
Keep track of the lies of the evening. Forget them once you're certain you'll never go back to the place where you've been before.
Deflect personal questions. Or remove yourself from the inquisitor.
Never allow someone else's shadow in. It could swallow your own, and you wouldn't be able to tell 'em apart after prolonged exposure.
Keep the radio on / always carry your iPod.
Never hold on to anything for dear life. Nothing holds you back. Not even the teddy bear.

When you slip into the night, try to slide. Climb back up and fall again. Don't bother to hide the wounds.

How the previous post looks like in my head

2010-09-04T13:06:00.000-07:00

Who would've

thought

it'd be

so difficult to

traverse these

paths on your

fretted back with

just the right touch?

--------------------

There are more

ways than one
-------------------

to tease you,

p l e a s e you,
-------------------

I know that. I

know. I know

--------------------

But I'm wooed

by the il-legit-im

-acy of darkened
---------------------

corners, by an

elusive sound

d r o w n i n g in

the rising smoke.

-----------------------

This is the time

To keep time

within swaying

doors, but all I

can do is derive
-------------------------

my own mean

-ing in your

sustained glance

--------------------------

I imagine my flight

I feel your fight

to hear my c| a| g| e| d

silence within the slow

measures of your sigh.

-------------------------------

These pages have circles

and mirrors inside and out, an urgent

rising, an infinite reflection with no rest

till we find a r e s o l u t i o n.

But this is a key in love and death in lust and life

And changing where I place my scars

Just prolongs the agony in empty spaces
left behind.

I can't

return anymore,

I can't return

to the first

m o v e m e n t,

tothemoment

we set this unbearable pitch.
This time and place can not be transposed,
to less-bled pathways to an unshaking ground, and if we try we will only
slip, be trapped, get entangled in this scale and slide fevered
into a whirlpool of shared dissonance till we arrive clutching,

gasping at the right clef, for air. Who would've thought
you thought I was the violent one dragging you to hell,
when the sheet music the dark music the raging music
in my head was a blind reading

of your hands on me?

Desire in the key of F#maj - a complex meter

2010-09-04T09:52:00.000-07:00

Who would've thought it'd be so difficult

to traverse these paths

on your fretted back

with just the right touch?

There are more ways than one

to tease you, please you,

I know that. I know.

I know.

But I'm wooed by the illegitimacy

of darkened corners,

by an elusive sound

drowning in the rising smoke.

This is the time

To keep time within swaying doors,

but all I can do

is derive my own meaning

in your sustained glance.

I imagine my flight

I feel your fight

To hear my caged silence

Within the slow measures

Of your sigh.

These pages have circles and mirrors

Inside and out,

an urgent rising, an infinite reflection

with no rest till we find a resolution.

But this is a key

in love and death

in lust and life

And changing where I place my scars

Just prolongs the agony
in empty spaces left behind.

I can't return anymore,I can't
return

to the first movement, to the moment

we set this unbearable pitch.

This time and place can not

be transposed, to less-bled pathways

to an unshaking ground,
and if we try

we will only slip, be trapped,

get entangled in this scale
and slide fevered

into a whirlpool of shared dissonance
till we arrive clutching, gasping
at the right clef, for air.

Who would've thought you thought

I was the violent one dragging you to hell,

When the sheet music the dark music

The raging music in my head

was a blind reading of your hands on me?
----------------------------------------------------------------------
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.

~T.S. Eliot [Four Quartets, Little Gidding, Part V]

Before Dawn

2010-08-27T19:04:00.000-07:00

It is the hour of purple before red.
I, awake, slide beside your warmth
for the first sleep.
You breathe a question about the light,
wondering if the shadows still lurk
in my darkness.
I listen. I watch.

It is the hour you know when tears dry.
I, falling, try not to speak my secrets
into your dreams.
Please keep breathing, sleeping,
It is the hour of enclosing arms
It is the hour when reds turn to purple streaks.
I curl. You kiss.

I heal.

Rain... it's that time

2010-08-25T10:58:00.000-07:00

For those of you who still think a-ha got it right... cheers

I'll never let you see
The way my broken heart is hurting me
I've got my pride and I know how to hide
All the sorrow and pain
I'll do my crying in the rain

If I wait for stormy skies
You won't know the rain from the tears in my eyes
You'll never know that I still love you so
Though the heartaches remain
I'll do my crying in the rain

Raindrops falling from heaven
Will never take away my misery
But since we're not together
I'll wait for stormy weather
To hide these tears I hope you'll never see

Someday when my crying's done
I'm gonna wear a smile and walk in the sun
I may be a fool
But till then, darling, you'll never see me complain
I'll do my crying in the rain
I'll do my crying in the rain

Crying In The Rain - The Everly Brothers (1962), cover by a-ha (1990)

Love, Loss, Music, and Alternate Realities - Part 2

2010-08-24T15:40:00.000-07:00

Making music and making love - it's a bit too easy an equation.

And so it seems in Vikram Seth's An Equal Music, another tale of love and loss entangled in a world of music. Sentimental and saccharine to a point of instilling diabetic coma in the reader, this book does have its moments. These are the sonic images of locations and the aural descriptions of making music that transport us into an another dimension. The story itself is ordinary - man in love with a ghost of his past, man finds ghost, rekindles old passions, gets burnt again. There are things that happen in between all that of course, but that is just the back beat.

Seth does not provide run-of-the-mill descriptions for his characters - these are musicians in a quartet and a lot can be deduced from the instruments they play, their music and their individual reactions to a shared music. As our Orpheus ponders: ..."ours is an odd quadripartite marriage with six relationships, any of which, at any given time, could be cordial or neutral or strained."

What the novel excels in is the meditation on the complexity of two profound loves: of music and of the beloved. Our narrator loses both at inopportune times - first his love through some unexplained form of behavior on his part, then his music at some concert. He is a calamity Jane of the high-strung type, but is somewhat redeemed because finally it is the music that counts.

And it is this music that saves us all from the loss of love, to gather some semblance of living in our otherwise ruined worlds.

Love, Loss, Music, and Alternate Realities - Part 1

2010-08-24T14:24:00.000-07:00

What is a world without myths? Just mundane reality with its drudgery. And so we turn to works of art. Salman Rushdie's The Ground Beneath Her Feet is a paean to works of creation - to rock 'n' roll, to love and death; treading the line between reality and fiction, a riff rising through the rifts in our memories.

Death is more than love or is it. Art is more than love or is it. Love is more than death and art, or not. This is the subject. This is the subject. This is it.

These thoughts and more trouble the narrator (Rai) in his telling of the doomed love story of rock 'n' roll stars, Ormus Cama and Vina Apsara. Rushdie's version of the Orpheus-Eurydice myth begins with an earthquake that takes the life of the music diva, leaving more than a couple of shattered souls. It prompts Rai - her friend / photographer / part-time lover - to meander through the fault lines of their shared pasts to wonder if it could've been any different. It causes the love of her life to lose his altered vision, the part that created scrambled versions of 'I Got You Babe' and 'Like a Rolling Stone' before they were released in the West. Rushdie's world is a collision of realities and crazed visions where the music is constant, and shifting all at once.

This is a violent story - of unstable love; love lost, sought, and found only to lose over and over again, marked with the irreversible stamp of death - of murders and suicides and slaughter. And death is not the only kind of loss. It is a loss of home, of never finding a place to call home, as Rai keeps repeating "disorientation is a loss of the East". It is a loss of the ground beneath a lover's feet, the ground we worship.

Beyond the parallels with the Orpheus story, is its inversion through the Indian myth of Kama and Rati. It is a Rati figure that gets Ormus back to life twice, but then in the end, Ormus fails to bring his Eurydice back from Hades. Is music or love not sufficient to get her back? Is music not enough to defeat death? Questions abound. And through it all, the music slips between realities and time, still singing its siren song to the grave.

Between the self and the other, between the visionary and the psychopath, between the lover and his love, between the overworld and the underworld, falls the shadow.

Anyone listening?

2010-08-23T16:08:00.000-07:00

There are songs and there are songs. What you shouldn't do is associate them with someone, some time, some place or something. Definitely don't play them on repeat when you're alone and sipping that drink. If you do, turn off the phone or leave it behind somewhere else. And try not to sleep sober because then the images will haunt you and you're awake anyway.

And don't write about it ever, never.
Don't write.

If you must, make copious notes on chord progressions and picking patterns instead. Don't try to think of a happy song, b'cuz chances are after 15 minutes of hard thinking, you still won't be able to name one. Then you'd go back to that playlist with untoward outcomes.

Don't write. About the songs. Or the places, or the times and associations that come with their music. Don't write with Sometimes Love Just Ain't Enough in the background. Or Queen, Floyd, McLachlan, U2, Evanescence.

The songs are not it. It's your ears messing with your head messing with your heart. Though Dido wonders if you're alive if your heart is a shield; just just don't let it down. Your heart.

Don't write about this heart when the music's in your head. Please. Don't.

The Angel's Game - not a review

2010-08-23T12:02:00.000-07:00

A writer never forgets the first time he accepted a few coins or a word of praise in exchange for a story. He will never forget the sweet poison of vanity in his blood and the belief that, if he succeeds in not letting anyone discover his lack of talent, the dream of literature will provide him with a roof over his head, a hot meal at the end of the day, and what he covets the most: his name printed on a miserable piece of paper that surely will outlive him. A writer is condemned to remember that moment, because from then on he is doomed and his soul has a price.
The Angel's Game, Carlos Ruiz Zafon

So begins the burden of the story, though the protagonist, David Martin, has no trouble churning words by the minute, page after page, year after year. Faust this is not, though there is a Luciferesque character in the guise of a publisher waving a deal (read lots of dough and no fame) for a story. Tickles the imagination of many an aspiring writer on a moral high-horse. Wouldn't we like to think that we'd jump at a contract that says you've got to crank out 6.66 pages a day in exchange for our lives? With this blatant clue to the identity of the publisher supplied by the overactive imagination of our hero, it is no surprise his deadly illness vanishes once he agrees to write. Oh happy day.

In The Angel's Game, Zafon toys with the idea that the act of narrating a story could be diabolical. The devil-publisher Andreas Corelli enlists David to write a literary project, 'a narrative that awakens the soul', 'a fable that will make the unwary fall on their knees and persuade them that they have seen the light, that there is something to believe in, something to live and die for - even to kill for.'

Beyond this, there is much rambling and schoolboy detective work, omens, violent deaths. All this to create a religion through words. Similar to The Shadow of the Wind, for which this is a prequel; the characters share a pervasive sense of the gothic and the macabre. The Cemetery of Forgotten Books and the Sempere and Sons bookshop make an appearance here, as is the sinister city of Barcelona, a character fit to contain the dark elements spun by Zafon.

The spooky epilogue and narrative rhythm notwithstanding (and the superb translation by Lucia Graves), The Angel's Game is at best a guilty pleasure for a rainy afternoon. Apart from the hyperbolic first page and subsequent forays into the art of literary creation for the benefit of the voyeuristic among us, the story becomes a victim of its own making - a casualty in the impressive number of bodies that pile up in the second half of the book. Seems like something written for a movie, fast-paced, dark, and instant gratification for our illogical natures.

Sometimes pulp is best left in orange juice. Go watch a movie.
(And yes, I bought the book after reading the first page. I always do. Read the first page that is.)

On Breathing...or the lack thereof

2010-08-22T19:51:00.000-07:00

Musicians are strange. Not that the rest of the population is any less weird. But singers / songwriters are strange when it comes to the choice of subject (song) matter. The case in point is their obsession with breathing - the process, the reason for, behind,... I could go on, but so have they.

#1. Breathe - Pink Floyd / Roger Waters
The dailiness and drudgery of it.

#2. Breathe in Breathe out - Matt Kearny
On the process... and as recommended by health practitioners for moving...moving on.

#3. Breathe - Taylor Swift
Oh the difficulty of it without someone... but you have to.

#4. Breathe No More - Evanescence
Someone about to stop..

#5. Keep Breathing - Ingrid Michaelson
Who cares what else is goin' on in the world as long as we keep breathing?

#6. Breathe - Melissa Etheridge
It only hurts when she's breathing apparently. Maybe Etheridge should consider treating her Ovation with a little love. (And I didn't quite get the connection between the song and music video, and I didn't care enough to check).

#7. Breathe (2 AM) - Anna Nalick
There's no rewind button, no taking back a breath that's already breathed. Just breathe.
(Also, why 2AM? The song mentions it just once apart from the title - it's the first word and that's it. Unlike the refrain 'just breeaaaathe'. Maybe another post about singers' obsession with 2 and 3 am in particular. Maybe not.)

And more... I've counted 34 songs about the intricacies of breathing so far. As Jimmy Page put it, the song remains the same.

Guess lung (dys)function fear is to singers as aphasia to writers. Guess I'm having trouble breathing...and writing.

The Faults of Friends

2010-04-29T12:11:00.000-07:00

Last day to submit paper. 3 more hours. And instead of tying up loose ends and orphan paragraphs last night, I spent 5 hours listening to a song on repeat. Result: Busted phalanges from trying to play chords that require man-sized fingers.

All this cuz a buddy sent me a song that I (obviously) fell in love with, resulting in the result stated above - and no paper.

Still obsessing about song. Can't get it out of my head. Must be a sign for things to come.

So I'm running away.
I'm leaving this place.
Yeah, I'm running away.
I'm running away.
And faster than you can follow me from this lonely place.
And farther than you can find me, I'm leaving
Yeah I'm leaving today.
And I, I'll never let you find me.
I'm leaving you behind with the past
No, I won't look back.
And I don't want to hear your reasons.
Don't want to hear you tell me why I should stay.
And try, and try to understand me
And try to understand what I say when I say I can't stay
I, I'm moving on from this place
I'm leaving and I won't quit running away.

I'm running away.
I'm leaving this place.
Yeah, I'm running away.
I'm running away

how life is now

2010-04-28T07:49:00.000-07:00

Moving on slow...

2010-04-20T18:56:00.000-07:00

15 pages. Trying to manage flow, content, goal in mind. Not necessarily in that order. Do all words ending with 'ly' just irk me or is it the context?

I don't have a goal.

Just this: Need advisor to sign paper which says 'Graduate'. or maybe just her name. Funny that the paper they sign to allow people like me to graduate happens to be pink. A sign?

Now the word 'From' looks different. It seems like a dress, a clothing material or something a girl would wear. All of which is not nice in my head. I can't start a paragraph with 'From', doesn't seem right. Where is Strunk and White when I need them? Online most probably. but it's not the same. I still prefer the 25 buck red hardbound book.

Is it the lateness of the hour, or that I've been writing since morning (translated to 9 hours today with 1 hour breaks??). (And this break don't count btw).

Too many things in parantheses. Blog editor gives squiggly and I don't care enough to find out if my spellings are right.

Don't know why I wrote this, except that at this point of inebriation, the word 'from' doesn't seem like a good way to start a sentence.

Proceeding with the paper.

not writing at all

2010-04-19T17:37:00.000-07:00

Instructional design is a painful subject. Instruction I hate. Design I can't. But having left a job, country, and spent a house and two years of breathing on getting an education in this field, you would think I had some love for it.

No love.

Over 200 instructional design models, 100 learning theories, another 100 principles on multimedia. Add these numbers to theories of practice. Now multiply all with the subjects you can teach. Or further - into specific skills from how to brush your teeth to tear your thesis when in need of toilet paper. Factorial analysis doesn't help here.

Instructional Design. I hate.

See what happens when you were supposed to finish a paper for graduation that will happen next week with or without you, and you've nothing to show for 2 years - except 20 pounds of excess fat from sitting around listening to inane songs like sowing the seeds of love...

Aaaaargh.

All I need is 50 pages.

Only unfulfilled love is romantic...

2010-04-10T10:11:00.000-07:00

... so says Penelope Cruz's character in Vicky Cristina Barcelona.

As if I did not know that.

All I want...

2010-04-09T10:19:00.000-07:00

With a great guitar comes great responsibility. Pause. Cogitate. That doesn't mean what you think it means you idiot.

If you had a child do you leave it standing in the corner? (Yes, for a while, and if you're like me, forever ... kids deserve it). Ok, if you have a dog of the NY variety (read disguised rat that yelps), you spend a fortune dressing it up in little sweaters and shoes for winter, designer bags to carry it around on subways in all kinds of weather, etc., etc., etc. Shouldn't you spend as much, if not more, on something that gives you pure joy and no hassles with regard to poop-picking and the like? Also, your guitar is attached to you, it doesn't run a mile ahead forcing you to jog or lags so far behind wondering at the intricacies of a bloody lamp-post.

I'm rambling.

The point is, all it takes to take care of your guitar is have these items with you wherever you go:

1. String cutters
2. Screwdriver (2 -in- 1: flat and Phillips)
3. 4 Allen wrenches
4. A string winder
5. Trem Poker (just in case you have a Strat or will in future, always always be futuristic)
6. Spare set of strings of course

All this and a flashlight comes in a cool kit like this:

(The strings are not included of course, the kit just has storage space for them and your picks). This costs about 40 bucks. In addition to these items, you might also want to carry these:

7. Guitar polish and cloth ($13)

8. Capo ($10 - $15)

9. 0.73mm guitar picks ($3 - $7)

10. Strap ($3 - $15)

So, about a 100 bucks give or take a few. Why I have included the prices is just for your info... and may be you can get me these items.

Cash donations are also accepted here.

Easter morning, April 4th 2010

2010-04-08T16:23:00.000-07:00

I am celebrating resurrection. Or rather, am on my way to purchase paraphernalia to help bring me back to life. Desperate times call for extreme measures. Like taking the slowest local train in NYC to get me downtown on a Sunday morning.

So after some detours caused by distractions and my incapability of holding a thought for a prolonged period, I get to my destination. Four hours later, here's what I have (in addition to an impoverished bank balance):

A Taylor dreadnought acoustic six-string solid top with a satin finish... a guitar by any other name. The deep sound kinda takes your breath away... when an expert plays it that is... I'm just tinkering.

Oh I should write about the long process of buying a guitar... later...

For now, these are a few of my favorite things la la la

What is life without writing, books and music, and books on music and writing?

Need to name my guitar. What?
It's a he btw.

At the Canyon

2010-03-25T13:44:00.000-07:00

Come one over folks, let me push you into the canyon... 12 seconds to the bottom

Narrow gorges run deep

What I hoped to do...

The shadows look like people...

Ok, no camera can capture the beauty of a set of rocks... at least not phone cameras (or is that camera-phones?) So no more shots of the Canyon at sunrise, sunset, and all points of day though I have it. A Pink Floyd song captures the kind of feeling:

There's no sensation to compare with this,

Suspended animation, a state of bliss...

Can't keep my eyes from the circling skies,

Tongue-tied and twisted, just an earthbound misfit, I

Next stop: El Tovar, where I had an amazing breakfast of smoked trout, eggs and fruit, unlimited coffee after my 'long' walk on the Rim trail. (I walloped the food before the thought of commemorating the presentation for posterity crossed my head. Taste I can't yet record with mobile device. (Awesome... the food. $15 with tip, but who has smoked trout for breakfast everyday?)

Hopi House, across the El Tovar

Lookout Studio

About 400 pictures, but I will refrain. Just this little birdie (how I wished my phone transformed into a Nikon SLR or some such to capture the blue and the flight).

Ok, I couldn't resist... a parting shot

Should go back again. Next time, I will hire 'friends' to go hiking down the canyon and back to the top. And steal some camera worth its salt to capture the night sky constellation and all that.

FYI, got a postcard of the Canyon and lost it. Promptly (aargh adverb). I figure the reason for the losing and not regretting was that the photographer was an Indian (non-American) dude ...some Singh.

P.S. Of all the places in the world, I had to be stuck on a shuttle bus from Mather Point to Abyss with this family chattering real loud in Tamil, and their two crying babies (twins I assume).

P.P.S. Come to think of it, I think there's some conspiracy afoot. Two days at the Canyon taking in the views, and my auditory nerves were assaulted with Telegu, Punjabi, Hindi and Tamil. The best of North and South I suppose.

P.P.P.S. The place is big, and traveling alone has the advantage that you can run or amble depending on your brain signals without it being interfered / compromised by another's.

Road to Grand Canyon

2010-03-25T12:52:00.000-07:00

On the way... Lake Mead

To Hoover Dam

Pacific Time and Mountain Time

Joshua Tree, at Kingman

Grand Canyon Railway Museum, Williams

Steam engine, Williams

Ghost cowboy town on Route 66, Williams

Las Vegas

2010-03-24T16:47:00.000-07:00

Where I stayed...Excalibur Casino

On my way to Mirage to catch the Beatles Love show... Paris and Ballys ahead

Yeah, I had to walk the BB in Vegas of all the places since I didn't here

Still walking in circles, Planet Hollywood on the right

The Forum Shops at Caesars

The Bellagio and it's dancin' fountains across the street

Can't remember what the pagoda was about, some Rockhouse it says

Flamingo, don't I love it when pics have the name

At the Mirage, playin the Wheel of Fortune (?) Lost 5 bucks

Aah, almost there in time for the show...

There. Amazing. No pics allowed. It is all in my head.

Made it back at around 1 am, thinkin' about the 6 am tour to the Grand Canyon.

San Francisco

2010-03-24T12:27:00.000-07:00

Embarcadero

The view I woke up to...

MoMA

Hyde St Pier... how I love ships

Seagull of the quizzical look

Lou's Blues, Fisherman's Wharf

Some parade on Market St, must be pre-St Patricks day celebrations

Walkin' against the crowd, Fisherman's Wharf

Flyin' high high... so free...

...and not so free... Alcatraz

Ghiradelli Sq, only if you wanna be trampled underfoot

Under the bridge

GGB from the bay cruise

Some silver jellyfish, Aquarium of the Bay

...looks creepy

Some other kind of jellyfish. What's the right side up?

Think this is from some hill in Sausalito

GGB from Sausalito

Haight St, kinda like downtown NYC...except they don't check IDs and people smoke up in public

Haight Ashbury finally

Spring

2010-03-24T09:53:00.000-07:00

What I'm supposed to be doing right now ('now' meaning this sunny, windy morning) is write 10 pages of my thesis, 3 pending assignments, walk my standard 20 blocks in half hour (not in that order), but here I am in my basement hole of a lab listening to Alice Cooper screaming 'Poison', drinking coffee and... writing... this... sentence. A starting system problem no cranking or jump start can solve. Maybe I should change the song.

Ok.

(Not changing the song, just on repeat).

Spring. The season, not the verb. New birth, new beginnings. Vernal equinox. Blah. The ides of March, March madness. Nowruz, Passover, Easter. April is the cruelest month. Blah. New sentence, old thoughts.

Every March - April, something happens. Not all good. If you're in school, it is midterms / end of the school year (meaning tests and exams again, depending on which part of the world you are in), or preparing for the dreaded passage to, or worse, rejection by engineering / medical schools / jobs. If you're 'lucky' enough to be working, end of 2nd quarter, possible promotions, salary hikes... or lay offs. If you belong to neither categories, something still happens. Mostly by proxy.

So this spring, since I belong to the afore-afore-mentioned category, I am supposed to be writing this paper to graduate. Instead I took a break and looks like it is spilling over. The western world calls this 'spring break', or a more apt description - 'study week' or 'reading week'.

Here's some of the stuff I read this break:

(This one's all hazy like the memory...)

... And why is this so clear? And polite?

Apparently, going to an Ivy League school means people assume you can read and make connections and correlations and conclusions. So here's how it works. You see numbers and words - this translates into songs... think Rolling Stones, Manhattan Transfer and all your idols... and...

... you reach the only possible conclusion - next time take your guitar and hitch hike all the way to Chicago.

Oh, and I studied real hard too, take a look:

So much for spring break...

From San Francisco to Vegas to the Grand Canyon and back to a basement at the Big Apple...procrastinating.

Back to my paper.

Of Mice (and not Men)

2010-02-22T18:36:00.000-08:00

Three blind mice. Three blind mice.
See how they run. See how they run.
They all ran after the farmer's wife,
Who cut off their tails with a carving knife,
Did you ever see such a sight in your life,
As three blind mice?

Three blind mice. Without tails. Someone was responsible for this mutilation, horrible amputation. And because of this, I'm disoriented. Dis-orient: Loss of locus, loss of alignment, position, etc., etc., etc. Disoriented by dismemberment. Dis-member: Loss of limb, loss of a thing in a group. So 'disoriented by dismemberment' would mean a loss of alignment caused by a loss of a member.

I'm talking about Apple's Magic Mouse. I went to my department the other day to print something, and I see these nice-looking white things all alone next to the nice white keyboards. Not attached. Nice. Now I'm all for any form of freedom. It is how I am supposed to function with this freedom is what disturbs me.

I have used Microsoft's wireless mouse long time ago. That was okaaaay. I mean there were still distinctions on left and right-click and scroll. (And switch hands without confusion). This however... such smooth contours, I had to google to learn how to use it: one finger for scrolling, two fingers for navigating...now the details are so... you know what (don't blame me, blame the tech writers who churn out this stuff). A 360 degree scroll is different from swipe, thank you. Wonder who thought of implementing this gesture imitation in technology for better usability, baah don't tell me, I can quote the paper right now, shame on me.

Anyway, this thing sucks. I never needed to reassign right to left functionality anytime (I mean for the Microsoft wireless mice), but now I'm forced to for the 'Magic' mouse. Because the bloody thing has a f#$%^&* smooth body like... whatever. 'Ambidextrous' design apparently just means it fits in both hands and it feels like home.

Now what I did: I moved the mice to different laptops to see if they worked away from paired devices. HAHA. It does, but only if Discoverable or some such option is enabled in your System Preferences. I could be wrong here but I didn't have the patience to prove this by repeated experimentation and higher sample size. I don't care enough. I wasn't moved enough. Neither to find supporting evidence nor oppositions.

After using this device for a limited time, the first impression of how 'nice' it looks or how 'clean' the desks look seems kind of irrelevant. Nice looking things just get you lost. And make you spend more time to print that paper that was due 10 minutes ago. I am superficial, I like the idea of wireless and all, no clutter et cetera, et cetera, but forcing me to spend a minute more on something than what I'm supposed to spend - that is - um.. unforgivable.

Give me back the tailed mice. With the distinctive shape. Or forget the tail, keep the shape. Us laggards in technology need the old.... or 'real' new stuff. Not amputations disguised as development.

Rant

2010-01-31T16:22:00.000-08:00

People make things up. They assume. We assume. Assumption is the mother of all fuck-ups. Or as someone said 'If you assume anything from what I said, you make an ASS of U and ME both.'

Scott McCloud’s Understanding Comics illustrates this: if we see two things next to each other, we draw a connection from one to the other. Our minds construct a sequence, a connection, a relationship. Even if the relationship is obscure, we’ll eventually find it (or make one up). In space, we call this collage. In time, it’s montage. In real life, it's gossip. Some call it conversation, others call it news. Or discussion or moral discourse for the betterment of my child/ the common good etc., if god forbid your parents / professors / idols indulge in this sequencing of events.

The reason for this sudden rant? I'm just peeved. I assumed someone would show up and they didn't; someone assumed I would have a certain drink and I didn't feel like it; someone else assumed something else just cuz I was sitting alone aaaaaaarghhh. So.

So I started up my laptop, and typed all this bull just to stop myself from kicking my own butt. Should step out. Should step out. I will write the rest of this post later.

Not writing.

Something for the wanderers...maybe

2010-01-28T10:00:00.000-08:00

So it is now official. A new touch-screen tablet computer from Apple, 9.56 inches high, 7.5 inches wide, and 1.5 pounds. Now I am not a fan of technology in general - I don't even have a phone anymore. I am real old-school and think that a phone should be a phone, a camera should be a camera, an mp3 player should just be an mp3 player... no hybrids and 2 and 3 and 4 in 1 packages work for me. It is like combining a guitar and a keyboard. Ok I know there is a keytar, but that is just a keyboard or synthesizer that you hang on your shoulders like a guitar - just a change of form, but no messing with the function, the bloody thing is still a keyboard.

Anyway, the reason I like the idea of a laptop that is 9.5 inches is that it is more readable AND it weighs just over a pound. A MacBook is about 5 pounds and you can walk for about only 30 blocks at a stretch lugging that thing in your backpack. Also, you just can't whip it out everytime you have this amazing thought in your head and you want to write it down (if you are the kind to have amazing thoughts, or delusional enough to think so). Also, the keypad on your iPhone/iPod is just too small. Yes, I have heard of these amazing inventions called a book and pen, but I'm sticking to the tech thingies right now. And believe me, it is a tad uncomfortable to walk and write in a legible manner, you still need to make a stop at the nearest coffee shop. By then the thought disappears or has lost its original epiphanic feel.

Ok, so with this new thing, I still may lose some time jotting down my thoughts or whatever, but for me it is the mobility it allows that attracts me. I will be able to walk 60 blocks. Yeah I am aware that I can walk without the encumbrance of books, bag, laptop, phone, but that's beside the point right now. This reduction in weight and addition of font size and hit size on screen... it is cool.

The real reason why I like it - I get that much extra space for more books when I cross international borders... I wonder why airports don't seem to change that ancient rule of 50 pounds per bag and only 2 bags at that. Maybe they should start weighing people and those of us who are below a certain girth and weight should get to carry additional baggage. And vice versa. You don't think? I think.

By the way, Apple should come up with a new name for this cool thing. iPad sounds like some female hygiene product. Come to think of it, it sure will be funny to see that men will have to carry Pads around too.

...and the art of breaking ties, or how to lose friends and random others

2010-01-26T09:57:00.000-08:00

#1: Move

Now there are a million reasons why people move from place to place, hop from job to job, bar to bar, and so on. Good and bad reasons. The majority consider the not-so-good ones to be forms of movement that hang on to prepositions (see previous post). These are construed to be cowardice or 'quitting' by the general public and also by well-meaning friends who question your motives (cuz they want you to stay... maybe you're the best thing that happened to them, who knows? Or, most probably they are just selfish and don't like the change your move could cause in their lives). In any case, moving from one thing to another may stem from your feelings of dissatisfaction, unhappiness, sheer boredom or hope. Yes, hope.

Whatever reason for the movement, you lose some good stuff when you pack your bags - the choices you make from what books and CDs to take and what to leave behind and so on. (There is a 44 pound limit). It is a well-thought out decision no matter how impulsive or irrational the move is.

Enough said, but the key to making a clean break is to move with one suitcase and a flight, and tell goodbye if you are so inclined.

#2: Stop answering calls. Do not call. Change your number.

In addition to moving somewhere, even if it is just changing apartments across floors, it helps to change your number. The people you leave behind need not know, and don't store their numbers if you are the type who drunk dials at 3am. If you don't possess a phone, even better.

#3: Create fake gmail, FB, etc. accounts. Or delete existing ones.

Now this is one way to still know what people you know are up to without them catching you (depending on their privacy settings, and if you care to know). But then if you are the one breaking ties, why would you even bother? No one's holding a gun to your head to hit Reply. And the Ignore button is there for a reason, right?

#4: Fight

I don't think this needs much thought.

#5: Get caught stealing someone's partner

Messy situation this. But works real effective if your intent is to alienate your women friends for good. Word gets around too. Who cares, in some circles you may be known as a player... for better or worse.

#6: Be an ass

Now this is the easiest of the lot, especially if you are one, you just need to be yourself. Say all the rude (but true) things to people about people, make them look stupid or whatever in public and tada... you will be sitting at that bar for eternity with just your venom for company. Being an ass, or making an ass of yourself indulging in risque behavior is by far the least taxing and surest way to get rid of the crowd.

#7. Be yourself

Now no matter what the shrinks and your parents tell you, honesty is not the best policy. Which means everybody you meet is a dressed up shadow of what they actually are and not the real thing. Barbie is more real than the rest of the world, at least she is meant to be plastic and stays that way. Anyway, for the world and his wife, we are at a masquerade every second of our breathing lives. So, in addition to #6, just being yourself also works a dream to get rid of everyone around you. (And for most of us, #6 = #7).

Whither thou goest?

2010-01-23T11:17:00.000-08:00

Being on the move is a great way to live. (My pronouncement of the day). Walk. Keep walking (or any other form of ambulation). It doesn't matter where, but as long as you are on the run, things don't catch up with you that fast, like age for instance. As far as I know, it is the minute you stand still that stuff like grief, doubt, despair, and a car hits you.

Motion shakes off things that cling and could later get stuck and drown you. Think about it. The stronger your heart beats, lesser chances of the bad cholesterol getting stuck. (I said stronger, not faster. And since I know nothing medical, disregard this analogy). Ok, it's like sex (now that I know). Anyway, being on the move lets the negative things trail behind you like a bride's train. At least it is external. It is when you are stationary that it engulfs you or you trip on it and break your nose at the altar as you say I do. Before that happens, do the Julia Roberts thing...run baby run.

Motion is good and I have JC to back me up on this (not that I need his backing for a blog post)... after all the gospels say he walked on water, not stayed put. And the hasty Peter did too. He started to drown only when he stopped and saw the waves and what not. See what I mean?

So, now I have come to peace with my constant need to walk, run, and relocate from apartment to apartment, job to job, place to place and country to country. It is just other people who add prepositions to my ambulatory words. Running (away), walking (out), moving (on), etc., etc., etc. To hell with them.

Lines I Like

2010-01-21T09:29:00.001-08:00

Go lightly down your darkened way
Go lightly underground
I'll be down there in another day
I won't rest until you're found...

The Ground Beneath Her Feet: U2, Lyrics: Salman Rushdie

...the right place was always the one she wasn't in. Always in the wrong place, in a condition of perpetual loss, she could (she did) unaccountably take flight and disappear, and then discover that the new place she'd reached was just as wrong as the place she'd left.

The Ground Beneath Her Feet: Salman Rushdie

Synesthesia

2010-01-20T15:04:00.000-08:00

Does the word 'mischievous' look like a dimpled grin and a glint in the eye or is it just a problem with my vision? The word 'blue' sounds so perfect for the color, that I see the color. (Now I have auditory problems too). And 'yellow' looks wilted to me, or do I just associate it with dead daffodils instead of the sun? Oh, 'sun' is orange-red, not bright yellow.

Wonder why the song Everything Burns brings to mind a silhouette of a woman, the sound of wind ascending and a flame that casts everything into a purplish hue? I like the image in my head, I don't want to spoil it by watching the video. I remember the first time I heard Desert Rose - I didn't even know the name of the song then, but the second I heard the intro and Cheb Mami's longing burden to the song, I told my friends that I hoped the music video would show a man in black driving a black Merc through the sand dunes into the sunset. Quite close it turned out to be (thank god), except that Sting was holding a camcorder or somethin' and the car was a Jag (I think).

This happens often. The images that rise from listening to a song I mean. Too often. But sometimes the mismatches are disturbing - what I see in my mind and what the reality is. Which is why I dislike gchat or whatever form of online communication. I hate cellphones too - certain voices (more often if it is an interview), sound like rocks crumbling before a landslide, or bread crumbs of the homemade kind. Dissonant in its presence and absence of sound. Both in online, or real-time conversations, a single word or phrases in a certain pattern, brings to mind a particular tone of voice or face, or color that I react to...

I have now purchased a sense of humor. And I have trained myself to have certain blindspots. As for dealing with aural disharmony, I have my iPod. (I don't take calls if I can help it. I can help it).

There is an instinctive dislike to a certain kind of voice, that I avoid talking to the person with the voice. Yeah it is rude, and yeah, the person might be 'nice', but it is nothing personal. (Though in my limited experience, people with the certain voice turned out to be not so nice, or just a waste of my time. I did not say stupid. So there).

Most of these things perhaps stem from associations, or how we remember (or choose to forget) things. I can't remember why I hate the smell of Jovan musk perfume, but I remember punching someone for wearing that 'scent'. Perhaps I hate the certain voice, b'cuz it reminds me of an unattractive mean woman. I don't know.

I shouldn't care too. Except that this problem spills over to other areas - I find that it takes me forever to write anything at all. What looks good on paper, doesn't look good online, and when I read it aloud, it sounds terrible - just no rhythm. Don't know if it is a good or a bad thing. Oh and what looks good on paper to me is something written in a black gel/ ink pen. Anything written in blue is not worth saving. And once I post this, the blog template makes me 'read' different from when I write this on the text editor. Text editor = white, blog = black. I like black. And red. White is not a color, it is a fear... of blank pages.

1st Draft, 2nd draft, ....nth draft....wonder when all my senses be in harmony? Maybe if they were, I would be well-coordinated. Or my sentences will be.

Random

2010-01-19T13:32:00.000-08:00

I don't make new year resolutions. First of all, who said it was 'new'? Or 'happy'? A 'year' I can pretend to understand - something that some people with lots of 'time' on their hands decided to do - count how long it takes for our planet to circle around a star once. Now this varies anywhere from 340 to 380 days. A 'common' year is 365 days.

So hello everybody, 'happy', 'common', 'new' year. Now did I mention I hate adjectives? Oh it was adverbs. Well, adjectives are next on my hate-list. I can put up with things like 'beautiful' woman, or 'fast' car. But 'slutty/ hot', 'beautiful' woman, or 'cool', 'fast' car? A car is just a car, a woman is just a woman... Aah well, ok, I will make exceptions, cuz after all not all beautiful women are hot, nor all hot women slutty. And I have nothing against cars, just that they are all fast compared to perambulation, but yeah, not all cars are cool.

Like I was saying, no resolutions. Just that I will post something on this blog. And drink more water. Less coffee. And no tonic.

Find a new blog template. Consider leaving blogger for wordpress, maybe, something to categorize these musings. Or have both, what do I lose?

And write about the songs I love or hate, whenever I feel like, just cuz I feel like it.

Well, someone told me yesterday
That when you throw your love away
You act as if you just don't care
You look as if you're going somewhere

Now I don't like this song, but the words, the words, this I like. Why? Don't know. We don't know why we like the stuff we like, but we sure can write a 100 words why we don't like something. And I don't want to get into explaining how our brains function when we listen to music, 'cuz I can't explain for one, and second, I don't care. Metacognition and all those fancy words may be considered cool (and is necessary) when you're writing a thesis paper, but I don't think I'll graduate on the strength (or weakness) of this blog. I don't think I will graduate anyway, but this feeling will last until I graduate and that time shall come soon and this too shall pass.

Question for the day

2010-01-19T12:40:00.000-08:00

Why does it seem as if my life is on playback, but I can't seem to deconstruct the pieces when I rewind and analyze? Reflection is overrated... and the more I indulge in it, seems like I miss large sections of the song. If life is a song that is. Is it?

What I have been learning

2010-01-16T10:24:00.000-08:00

I've learnt that 'hi, how are you?' does not require an answer. That the definition of a bore is someone who tells you exactly how they are when asked. Then why ask in the first place I wonder. Frugality is not a strong point out here even in these hard times.

I've learnt that in this part of the world at this time of the year, a shining sun outside my window doesn't equate to wearing just a tee. Brrr.

I've learnt that I'm afraid of the dark.

I've learnt that North doesn't mean the sky and South the sewer. But I still manage to get lost. Oh well...

I've learnt that throwing snowballs at a 2 year old maybe considered abuse, especially if the guardian who wasn't doin a A-rate job at 'guarding' lacks a sense of humor. Thank god for... never mind. Don't blame me. The kid was there. The snow was there.

I've learnt that no matter how you change the variables in a relationship to make it work, there is always going to be collateral damage. Who cares about the dead ones anyway?

I've learnt that once you lose a gift, it doesn't come back to you. You pay a real steep price to get what was once free. Write and it drains your life. Stop writing and you have killed yourself anyway. Oh and by the way, my muse is a guy. And like most men, generally absent. But once in a while he comes along, I give in, and he gloats as I lie wordless.

On an upbeat note, I've learnt that my 30$ radio has a brain. Or rather, it has something that can read my mind. How the hell does it know to play Too Much Love Will Kill You just after that call you made to break someone to break you? (And where were you Brian May / radio when I was falling? You chose to play Alice Cooper then... what a poison...) Point is, the radio has a sadistic sense of humor. You make up your mind to be strong and pretend everything is just the way it's supposed to be, and U2 belts out 'with or without you.... and you give yourself away'.... what else can you do except howl in despair?

Ok, that wasn't so upbeat, but the point is I love my radio, and it loves me right back... now there it goes again... Comfortably Numb. See? Hear? I guess the radio deserves a separate blog post.

Oh, I've learnt that the only choices ever offered in life that is good no matter what you decide on are chocolates.

Breaking

2010-01-15T13:56:00.000-08:00

Everybody knows this: people change. Things change. And you lose something in that change. Some things you gain (so they say, but don't ask me who the hell is 'they'). Anyway, in most cases, you are only cognizant of your losses. And these losses make you (again) lose focus, make you blind to the good around you, that maybe loss is a positive thing. Maybe there are no positives.

When you were young, you listen to Pink Floyd. (I use 'listen', I know it is incorrect, just that in my head, I still listen to Floyd, thing is, the listening now is a lot different). Back to the past. You listen, discuss the lyrics, riffs, the million versions, the whole shebang. Your shelves (or your floor, in case you don't have space or shelves) are filled with:

Cassettes you've recorded from the radio (this being the late 80s and early 90s).
CDs (yes, you now have a job and the second thing you bought with your money is a Philips music system that plays both tapes and CDs *and parents think you are not careful with your money, sigh*... Oh the first thing you bought is a guitar, in case anyone is wondering).
Books on PF, album artwork, lyrics (aah, what a little more money can buy, especially if you live on coffee)
CDs with different versions of all the albums (no, this is not OCD, just Oh..CD).

Hell, you even cried when you heard Syd Barret 'died' on July 13 2006.

Then something happened. Somewhere along the line, something changed. You don't listen with the same obsession. True, now you have transfered all the music in your CD collection to your iPod... but it's on shuffle. If Hey You or Amused to Death plays as you walk down the street, great. You still get the lump in your throat but that is a basic reaction, you don't anymore seek out to get that feeling. You still know that if Coming Back to Life plays when you're in a bar, it is time to leave. (God help you if it never plays).

You have grown up. You don't spend days trying to get that new song, you have better things to do...or choose nothingness. You have forgotten what it means to love. To love something so much you can't comprehend how you would live in its absence. (We're still talking music and Floyd here). Growing up means you know that obsession of any kind will make life hell for you, and who among us would want our lives to be hell? Growing up means to be able to live despite this loss. But how do you live?

Change jobs, change cities, have different men, but move, move so fast that you can replace loss with something new. Growing up? Or breaking down? Maybe growing up is just being in control of the things that break down, so much better when you are breaking it. At least you know the cause of destruction and loss - it is you. Better to know who is responsible than having to wonder what the hell happened that caused you your loss.

Does being grown up mean that you are now comfortable with the dying of things you love, or the killing of them?

Hoping

2010-01-15T13:24:00.000-08:00

It is a terrible thing to have no hope. Or rather, to be aware that you have lost it. The despair that sinks in is so unbearable, the heaviness so tangible, you shrug to get rid of the feeling - but - it's hopeless. Hopeless. Hopeless - this is different from less hope. There should be a better word to describe an absence of hope.

Irremediable? No, that means it can't be fixed or cured. Despondent? No, that is showing / feeling extreme dejection. Maybe we don't need another word.

Hopeless: despair and the cessation of effort or resistance and often implies acceptance or resignation (Merriam-Webster).

Hopeless = despair + resignation...leading someone to acts of desperation? I hope not.

Adverbs, seriously?

2010-01-09T12:20:00.000-08:00

I hate adverbs. (fighting the urge to write 'passionately' at the end of that sentence). So I'm looking for a stronger word than 'hate'. Detest maybe. I detest adverbs. There. That feels better. Sometimes I wonder why people write such things - it puts me in a rage, stuff like, 'She drank her vodka slowly'. Slowly? Can't you just say 'She sipped her vodka'? or something like that. People who use adverbs are either cowards or have a limited vocabulary, or both. 'He closed the door loudly, and walked away angrily'. Oh please, please spare me. Just say 'He slammed the door and stormed out'? Doesn't that make you feel... free, like it's off your chest?

Don't get me wrong, I too have sinned and fallen short of that perfect sentence minus the adverb. And when words fail me (which happens far too often), I resort to adding the 'ly' to convey an emotion I am not sure about. Maybe that's what gets my goat, that we hide behind adverbs to lessen, or to deal with what we feel. Not everyone is capable of handling the sudden onslaught of emotion. Cowards I think I said earlier, those who sin in this aspect. So there we have 'angrily' to convey rage, 'slowly' for procrastination or delay...oh I could go on. But I will refrain.

I don't know why I started this rant, must be something I read this morning. But I guess I should be open-minded enough to make an exception. So this, just this. The one adverb I can tolerate is 'seriously', but again, when it is used as a question and/or to convey sarcasm. Seriously? Seriously.

On (Not) Writing Poetry

2010-01-04T14:39:00.000-08:00

poetry: writing that formulates a concentrated imaginative awareness of experience in language chosen and arranged to create a specific emotional response through meaning, sound, and rhythm.

Rhythm, not rhyme, language to evoke an emotional response, not coffee cups or substances. sigh. I mustn't have been thinking. So much for that 'concentrated imaginative awareness'... it was all diluted oblivion. (Whatever that means).

and my fonts are all over the place. What the hell is happening??

27 Sep 2009

2009-09-27T18:36:00.000-07:00

what i remember:

18 cupcakes (18)

balloons of kings cigs (23)

wuthering heights (25)

macdougal's alehouse (30)

and today alone.

2009-09-02T18:06:00.000-07:00

always remember what died

each time

you hoped.

always remember what happened

when you thought

the water was yours.

always remember

your thirst

made others salt.

Shades of Memory - 1

2009-08-31T11:47:00.000-07:00

sipping vodka and remembering

the chocolate milkshake

that magically turned fresh bruises

back to mocha.

no more bruises

my blood is now watered.

Loneliness

2009-08-31T11:07:00.000-07:00

Walking down a street that you've walked for the zillionth time, not taking it in, looking at everything but seeing nothing, hearing people talk and laugh but listening to silence, sitting alone at a bench in the middle of the divider, watching sparrows and squirrels, not thinking, thinking...

Listening to the same playlist on the iPod, trying to drown thoughts, but the same song keeps playing over and over again, and the same thoughts rise and fall with the music.

Looking at the phone time and again, trying to remember what the ringtone sounds like, wondering if it does ring, what would your own voice sound like when you say hello?

Buying things you don't need just so that the person on the other side says, 'cash back?' and you can get to hear yourself say 'no'.

Playing the guitar till your fingers bleed, or till you get sick of your incompetence, whichever happens first.

The lamest thing is to drop hints to someone you hope will understand, and then realize what a mistake that is... that you really don't have someone.

2AM

2009-04-03T10:44:00.000-07:00

...and I'm still awake writing this song if i get it all down on paper its no longer inside of me threatening the life it belongs to

and i feel like im naked in front of the crowd cuz these words are my diary screamin out loud and i know that you'll use them however you want to

- Breathe, Anna Nallick

On (Not) Writing

2009-03-12T10:28:00.000-07:00

1. Why can't I write?

Nothing can be said about what goes on in my head when I write... when I used to write... It is a kind of madness that breaks out without warning and possesses you and drains you of life word by word, and sometimes leaves you stranded mid-sentence, word, or comma,... what torture.

Writing takes a lot of nerve, to think that you have something worthwhile to say. To hope that you may be healed if only you use the right words. Write and be whole, write and be damned forever. For once written, you don't exist, only words do... at least the one sentence you have saved to be the noose around your neck... or fingers.

Why should I write? Because I must.

2. But why can't I write?

Stuck. It is some form of fear that eats from inside out. The disease starts in a brain clogged with duties unfulfilled, that loan you'd have to pay in 7 years but have no idea how, the assignment you don't see the point of doing anymore, the people you don't want to talk to but have to. You don't attend parties bcuz your dejection may seep through all the alcohol and substances you imbibe and people may notice, you attend parties bcuz people may also notice your withdrawal, so you restrict your public consumption to 3 drinks, and return to the stash in your apartment...

Stuck. And yet the diseased brain recognizes the blank page, that thing which obsesses you to fill it with words - only now, you are afflicted, you obsess that it will remain blank.

3. Why can't I write?

To write well about something, you need to believe in it. Belief. And hope. In words. For the unbelievers and the hopeless. Words are for all those in need of it, to soothe, to scar, to burn, to love...So why is it that when you are in the depths of despair, you sit silent, so wordless in a corner? Is it cuz when dejection first started creeping in, you hurt someone with words when all you were asking without asking was their help to survive before the darkness hit?

If there is nothing to believe in, if I believe in nothing, how can I write? How can you write about your dreams if you don't dream? And if all you have are your nightmares, should you write about it? For to write about your nightmares, your fears, is to bring them to life.

And so the world was made from nothing - with a few well-said words.

4. Why can't I write?

I don't have anything to say. But then one late night the radio plays U2, Bono belting out 'with or without you'...'and you give yourself away.....' and it all comes back to you in a flash - the nights you locked yourself in a small room with only bottles of the cheapest vodka and cigarettes for company... writing. Writing because you couldn't sleep until the words were torn out of your daytime silences, writing bcuz it was a madness you used against the other madness that was always so close.

You hear a song and like a recovered addict crave for the words...except now you have to try harder, longer and require more for the same high. You can't write because of the pain of self-induced silence, and the doubt that the other darkness may have swallowed your words forever.

5. Why can't I write?

Maybe I should. Write that is. Just the same stories that have all been told before. Maybe in the re-telling there may arise something new.

2009-02-24T09:48:00.000-08:00

You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look
through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from yourself.

Song of Myself - Walt Whitman

Lost in Translation - Orhan Pamuk, Maureen Freely and Michael Scammell in Conversation

2008-11-20T12:54:00.000-08:00

What a heady experience to listen to Orhan Pamuk's views on translation, the current state of translation work in the US, what is lost in translation, the challenges and everything else...

http://wwwapp.cc.columbia.edu/art/app/arts/writing/news.jsp?news=494

eeeeeeee - learning

2007-03-12T04:22:00.000-07:00

We talk and talk of designing the perfect training material - one that is engaging, interactive, useful for learners, and so on and so forth. But that's all about it - just talk. Let's face it, any training we design is pointless, cuz universally - training is only training; in a regular organization where training is mandatory or where there's a specific policy that employees should undergo some form of training per year - it remains just that - some policy that is adhered to. (I hate this sentence - too long - 52 words!) Means there's no real motivation. None for the learners anyway. Strange thing is, we are wired to learn. Even against our will. By ‘learning’, I mean the stuff that we remember. Cuz the aim of most training/ learning/ education is to remember stuff so that we can apply that knowledge at a later date.

How do we remember irrelevant stuff, for example, that Hotel California was released in 1974, or that gravity was 'discovered' when some rotten apple fell on someone's head (and since that head happened to Newton's, we got to study that extra lesson in Physics - if it fell on some average IQd bloke, we might have just gotten a few more swear words in Websters). What earth-shattering difference would it make to me or to you that force = mass X acceleration? I don't believe that the principles of momentum, centre of gravity, acceleration has had any impact on the quality of Agassi's serve or Mohammed Ali's punch. But ok, this information does make a difference, or it gets stuck in my head if : a) I were a tennis player at the point of time when I was taught this fact. b) if this was taught to me while I was getting coached on my serve. c) if I wanted to show off this info trivia and wanted others to think 'Man, she knows stuff.' (Okay, I've gone too far).

So, anyway, information gets stuck in the head and becomes learning only in the right context. Just like I could understand frequencies and octaves in my physics class since I was studying music. (It didn't make a difference in my playing, but yeah I did well in those physics tests without much effort) And that’s the point – passing exams and tests. How else would we get from here to there? And what motivates anyone to learn (other than getting thru tests)?

Everything that was ever made were made for the lazy (I believe that). We all would like to spend less effort but get the most out of it. In short, I'd learn something if I think it will help me get a raise, write mails faster, knock someone out, whatever. So what should be the aim of training material we instructional designers should create, that is the burning question. Here’s what most people (90%) think about learning/ training and the courses and exams that come with the package:

I hate training programs, I think it’s a waste of my time, but it’s something that's got to be done. A do or be damned kind of thing. (zilch motivation) – 70%

Well, guess if I attend this training session, I’ll get a certificate. So when I apply for my next job, I can negotiate my pay hike. (money) – 10%

I can frame this certificate on my bathroom wall. (ego) – 5%

I do this training; I’ll get promoted next quarter. (money, ego) – 5%

And what the rest 10% (?!) think:

I need to know this thing. (ego)

I need this training, then I can do my job better than the rest. (ego again, the money is immaterial, if it comes along with the package, great!)

So all motivation (for adult learners atleast) boils down to money and ego / self-esteem. But hey, 70% of your learners are really not bothered. Now how do we tackle this?

Since the majority are not interested in the training, and just want to get over with it, the challenge is how to design a program to (not necessarily in the given order):

1. get them interested
2. teach them exactly what it is they have to know in the shortest possible time
3. keep them interested

Getting people interested is easy. Keeping them interested is not. If you can achieve point 3, then point 2 can be ignored – your learners will want to be there hanging on to every word you say, even waiting with bated breath…ok that’s again goin a bit too far…but ok, you get it? Now for the work:

Note: All examples are a reflection of what I've seen at work in the elearning/content development industry. And just my opinions. This is my blog, for god's sake.

Getting ‘em interested

Most designers think ‘icebreaker activities’ – asking learners (and the instructor) to introduce themselves, present the agenda, housekeeping rules and so on. As an instructor, I don’t think I need to know the names of 10 people to be able to teach them, but I do need to get them interested in the training material I’m about to present. So what would I do to break the ice? Break ice? And drop it on someone’s foot. That sure will grab their attention, don’t you think?

Ok, but seriously.

Let’s take an example:
Subject: Sales Training
Audience/ Learners: Call centre guys (and gals), 20somethings

So how would you, as an instructor, get their attention?

Option 1: Instead of having a slide showing – How to Make a Successful Call, change the title to ‘You Had me at Hello’ and an audio clip of Kenney Chesney singing that…

Option 2: Show a movie clip of…lets say… Jerry Maguire… oh ‘you had me at hello’ again (maybe a clip of Tom Cruise trying to pitch for a client is more relevant – by the way, you, or rather Mr.Cruise, have gotten all the ladies' attention)

Option 3: Show 2 video clips – one of a chirpy Call Centre rep, and a disinterested one. (How boring, but I guess the organization would okay that strategy than options 1 and 2)

Option 4: Ask a colleague to give you a call and pretend to be the customer (Do this when the learners have just settled down). Respond to the call as if it were the real thing. Alternatively, respond to the call real rudely and ask the learners their opinion. This way, you get the agenda of your session.

Option 5: Just before the learners enter the classroom, write a controversial statement (related to the subject) on the board, for example: Customers suck so I can reply any way I want, it makes no difference… This way too you can ask the learners to create the agenda of the session.

Option 6: Why have PPTs and movie clips and all that jazz in the first place?? Can't you just talk? (alright, I'm ranting. Not everyone can talk interesting).

Ok. That’s enough of a start. Please note: All options work only if you are a good trainer/ instructor and can carry it off.

Teach them exactly what it is they have to know in the shortest possible time

Well, this is not for instructors who like the sound of their own voice. The problem with getting the learners attention with a wonderful start is that most instructors can’t sustain that interest. They just go on and on and on…rather like starting a song on a high note and then going flat cuz you can't keep the pitch or raise your octave level.

So keep it short. It helps if you are an expert and know exactly what they need. Like Atticus Finch said ‘Stand in a persons shoes and walk two miles in ‘em’…If you’ve been a student who’s been bored to death (and remember it), I guess you’ll be kind. (you better be, else you’d get huge yawns, or worse, never be asked to train again).

Keeping ‘em interested

Well, activity, activity, activity. But why? As a learner/ participant in an Instructor-Led session, I positively hate it when the trainer asks me a question. This is more like an easy way out – instructors think they keep a class awake by asking them questions.

The key is not to keep the learners awake by asking them to do something, but to involve their minds. Why not ask them to think, reflect (as Poirot would say, and get the grey cells working furiously)? Easier said than done? Maybe. All depends on you, the instructor. How can you convince them that what you’re teaching, or about to teach is the only thing they ought to be living for?

Take a few lessons from Mark Anthony (or Shakespeare if you will) – A paragraph of Friends, Romans, countrymen blah blah, and he caused a war. He got their minds working, he spurred them to action by telling them exactly the opposite – yeah, but Brutus is an honourable man, yeah sure. Take Iago, for example – he caused the Moor to murder - how? The art of effective sentence construction. By not telling everything, but just enough. The decision to kill or not to kill, to commit suicide or not to, was entirely up to Othello, not Iago’s fault.

So - get your learners to think, and make their own inferences. The golden rule is this: Do not provide all information to the learners. People learn more from searching for the correct answer and not finding it than from learning the answer itself. Think Iago. You just provide the seed crystal (whatever that means).

Let learning be a discovery, an experience for the learners. You as the instructor, is only a facilitator, not the storehouse or dispenser of knowledge.

In the end, the key to a successful training is – know when to shut up and make an exit. Fast.

The Haunting

2006-08-31T11:17:00.000-07:00

these words should be free, unshackled, without form and rising out of a void like creation from chaos and a big bang. instead the visions arrange themselves around the language of pauses in commas semicolons and sighs. oft repeated. same words, same vision, same nightmare, same color.

the words inside are wilder than the strange winds that whirl around the unsuspecting soul caught in a pillar of lust impervious to everything but the sense of touch. Or the thought and vision of it.

these words surround you and hold you captive in their silence. for right now the only answer is to ignore these alphabet conjugations and forget what you see in the spaces and the shadows.

For what do you see but the words stifled by hauntings of hands that traced letters and secrets and drew patterns on your body? What do you see? Too many words you wrote on the other's skin, that now there can be no more?

shadow play behind closed eyes

2006-08-31T08:10:00.000-07:00

What do you see when you close your eyes? Do you see what I see? And if you do, tell me - how do you sleep at night, if you sleep at all? And if you sleep, how do you keep yourself from gettin trapped in a nightmare, from screaming and waking up in fear?

This worries me - if you don't see what I see, then are the visions that keep you awake worse than the colors and the gray that torments me? Is it a longer shadow? A darker, colder fear? Then I am the weak one, for giving in to my lesser nightmare, for waking in a cold sweat from a more bearable fire.

And i am ashamed.

On Writing (and Not Writing)

2006-08-30T11:35:00.000-07:00

scribble. why do i write? b'cuz its a visual form of speech? so are the blank pages a direct result of silence?

a place where the bridge doesn't burn...

2006-08-27T02:56:00.000-07:00

...cuz there wasn't a bridge?

Just a river flowing by, running by, as if it desperately had someplace to go to, someone to meet. And the sound of the water as it hits the shoreline- 'wish-wash, wish-wash...' yeah, you wish and and you wish and then it gets washed away. All that remains is mud.

This place is quiet. I am alone - there's just the river, the wind and the sky. And the birds for company. Night approaches and brings along a gentle rain. No stars. Not a single star. And thoughts go dark...

There is the temptation to walk into the water, or to walk away and never return. Then I suddenly see a kingfisher and forget the thought. Temporarily. I toy with the idea - on and off. Every movement is a fight against it, for though the mind is dead and has given up, the body wants to survive. In moments like these, you realize they are separate entities...and you know if the body gets too tired to fight, then walkin into the river is...no longer an option, but an action already taken.

Darkness is here. And even if there were a bridge, I wouldn't have been able to see it. I still can't see it. So now I just will myself not to look for it, tell myself to forget looking for it for there is none. And try to just breathe...one breath at a time.

Stillborn

2006-08-27T02:21:00.000-07:00

If words could kill a person, break down a life, can't it also define one, make it whole? For God is in the words; or is he in the spaces between the letters and the lines of text, holding it all together so we can make sense out of it? Then by tearing apart these words, do we break God into bits?

I try, I tear, I try again
and it doesn't make sense,
I tear it all apart
and then there is great silence.
But no peace. No peace.
So I save a sentence a word a syllable
in a sigh
and it tears apart something inside
giving birth to
stillborn screams.
Do I dare try again?

Why I asked you for an autumn leaf...

2006-08-16T06:50:00.000-07:00

When I think of autumn, I think of somebody with hands who does not want me to die.
- The Bluest Eye, Toni Morrison

So would you then pick up that dying leaf and breathe life and color into its veins? For me?

Colors

2006-07-26T22:12:00.000-07:00

Let me tell you about colors.

First came yellow. Bright golden sand in the afternoon sun, the sun white-hot, the sand golden, changing shades every second, a distraction...The color of light. When you see people in this color, you can trust them.

Blue. A lovely word that rolls off your tongue, a lovely color, a piece of sky. This you can stare at forever without taking your eyes off for a minute...

Red. Lust. Love. Loss. Blood. Passion. A rose by any other name?? This is a color that once you're smeared in it, there's no way you can get it off you. Or get it off the canvas. There it will remain under all the other colors you've painted over it to hide the shade. Other colors change when mixed with this one - you'd get wine red, lavender, lilac...so you need to be sure of what color you need. And deal with red in your own way. Blood congeals. The bruises change from red to purple to brown to yellow and disappear. Disappear. Maybe.

Black. Night. The color of a certain kind of fear.

Oh, other fears are orange-red. This is the fear that you can feel permeating throughout your body, like molten lava...it burns and freezes on you at the same time. The lake of fire. A kind of hell.

Words, Music and Images

2006-07-23T21:41:00.000-07:00

In the beginning was the word. Scribbled on walls, you think you are the first to dicover language, not yet aware of those ancient writings on other walls that weighed a life and passed judgement in just four words; not aware of their power. How a woman by changing a single word caused the exile from Eden, and gave a meaning for the word 'loss'.

Here, you just begin to discover, unearth, ascertain, learn...and what do you learn? That words have different meanings based on tone, time, thought, who said or wrote it, ...so you learn that you'd be a fool to trust them...you bend words, it takes on a new guise. And so you learn to tread carefully. You learn there's a virtue in silence.

Then you hear the words, and the sound astounds you, the music gets to you. The haunting has begun. The music haunts the silence you had wrapped around yourself for protection. Its the only way now for others to get through to you. Its the way you think you'd be able to get through...everything. So you teach yourself to listen to the music behind the words that people speak to understand what they really mean. But sometimes, the music is too loud, the words faint, and once again - its a kind of loss.

You make up for this loss with the images that rise in front of your eyes. But this is a last conscious move. For the images become indelible. And most times its not just another pretty picture. Sometimes these are just dark shadows that flit across the room, the spaces in your head. And these may lead to nightmares. Sometimes. Most times. A positive side to this is you don't forget. The downside - you remember...

The Funeral Planner

2006-07-21T03:50:00.000-07:00

When I'm dead, and assuming I'm not thrown out to the vultures and there'll be someone around to bury me, here's a list of how I'd want it done. [How I love making lists].

1. Red and black balloons. End of the 'service', please release 'em to the skies dear friends, romans, countrymen. (Did I forget to mention I want to be buried under a tree? Any tree that has red flowers, which will drift and rest on my grave every fall.)

2. Ice-cream. Death by Chocolate. Served to all kind enough to attend. (Folks, I'm real grateful, but not all that grateful - sorry, no booze).

3. Music - now this is difficult. Since I can't make up my mind about this, lets just say rock? No, don't throw stones, just play Everything Burns, In the End, Going Under and Coming Back to Life. In that order. Now those are for me. If you folks want something else, bring your own CDs and dance.

4. Now very important: 2 minute eulogies, I rather listen to the songs from down under than well-thought out lies. (Again, I've assumed someone will want to say something, and that someone will attend. With optimism levels as high as this, I'm goin to have a very long life.)

That's that. Finis. Let me get on with life.