I am bored. To death.
I am infinitely and definitely bored.
I am sitting and counting the ways in which I am bored and even that is boring. Obviously this is a phase...it cannot..it just cannot be anything more than a phase.
But what if this is more than a phase? What if I am caught in a lifelong trap....one day falling through itself and running into the next..nothing to distinguish one from the other..nothing to remember or forget..Nothing happens out of pattern.
Where does monotony end and boredom begin?
I hate clocks tick tock-ing their way through existence...and now "I am so bored" is tick tock-ing round and round inside my head. Now that I think of it, it runs with a rhythmic beat. 1,2,3,4....I am bored..I am bored.
Drink water-I am bored...
Check mail- I am bored...
Take a bath- I am bored.....
The world breathes, lives and exists in a beat...I am bored.
How bored am I?
I can read a new book. Boring.
Take a walk. Boring.
Facebook, tweet, chat...social networking? Networking? Boring.
More people. New people. Boring.
On Monday, the week looks boring.
On Saturday the weekend looks boring.
Days are boring....
Run into a scooter. Shockingly boring.
I should tap people for new music. Boring.
Nina Simone. Boring (blasphemy!!!)
Stare at the wall and look for faces...where did the Cossack go? Boring.
Muse about abstracts..time..space..blah blah blah. Boring.
Toy with fixations. No wait...find a new fixation. Boring.
Accusation are boring. I said something, people understood something else. I should sit and figure out what I meant when I didn't say anything. Boring.
Alright, I should act mature and smart and intelligent. Boring.
Mind games. Boring.
MS Excel, Outlook, Word. Boring.
Google. Boring.
Apple. Boring.
Pears and oranges. Boring.
Crib about how bored and bored I am. Boring.
Life is boring. No rephrase- my life is boring. I am boring.
Dull. Dull. Dull.
I don't want to stay in. I don't want to go out.
I don't want to meet friends. Everyone is boring. All talk is boring. All coffee shops are boring.
All break-ups are boring. All new romances are boring.
This weather is boring. So much for being as fickle as weather. Global warming changes climatic patterns and alters English language similies. Boring.
Pigeon fight in the balcony. Frantic flapping of wings. Feathers flying. No blood. Boring.
Wishes and dreams. Boring.
Memories. Boring.
Read.Write.Eat.Sing.Dance.Drink.Dope.Sleep.Shop.Talk.Think.Run.Walk.Sit......everything is boring.
I googled "bored". I am obsessed, nay high on 'googling' yes.
A Dennis Prager says: "I am bored generally means I am boring".
I had beer served in a teapot on Sunday. Brown china tea cups followed. Momentary lapse of boredom.
But beer ain't my cup of tea.
Redemption?Rescue?None.....Boring.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
The Two Ends of Twenty....
So tomorrow, you enter the world of twenty.
Happy Birthday Amna!!!!! :)
She mourns the eminent end of her teenage years..but only just so lightly. There isn't much of a difference between 19 and 20 anyway.
She asks me, where were you for your twentieth birthday? What did you do?
And I think.....when was I twenty?
I am still thinking...I was in Delhi...I am more-or-less sure of that geographical detail..but what did I do? Who was I with? How did I 'celebrate' it? Cake? Party? What?
I am still drawing a complete blank.
Her mother's warned her that she is no longer eligible to throw tantrums. Teenage dramatics are now going to be a thing of the past. Alright. But teenage dramatics? Is being twenty a numerical indication of entering 'adulthood'?
And 'Adulthood'? Really!!!!
I can already see a lot of words (in quotes) getting tagged along with this number. Conclusion? It's NOT just a number. Our saying that is just a defense mechanism.
Will things change from nineteen to twenty? What does twenty look like to you?
Her answer? A bucket list of sorts....
A bucket list- a list of things to do before you die. And to continue with the morbid element here....The phrase 'bucket list' owes its origin to the idiom 'kicked the bucket' which, in turn, means to die. And how exactly did the bucket find itself getting associated with death? I leave it for another time..though apparently the association traces itself back to 16th century England (did a 16th century English bucket look any different from the present day English bucket?)
So well, at a day less than twenty, she is already making a bucket-list (of sorts I should add). Obviously I remember my list of things to do..We did not call it a bucket list back in those days (yes its been that long now and I guess we have only Rob Reiner to thank for the revival of the popularity of the term...). How many of those things have I done? I remember a couple of them...
-Watch Coldplay live in concert (present status: Not Done)
-Go scuba diving (present status: Not Done. I don't even know how to swim!!!!)
-Read all of Wodehouse (present status: Not Done)
-Learn how to drive ( Present status: Done, but I still do not have a license..and this was pretty sad an inclusion for a bucket list)
-A world trip (present status: halfway done with a fortnight of tripping through Europe)
I will dig out the list when I go home the next time. But I can already see that scarp of paper weigh heavier on me with silent accusations of things not done, a life not maximized and time lost.
Life becomes a list of things...drat!
Should I draw a conclusion? Do I have the time to draw one and dwell on it?
Down with the list anyway.
So twenty was and is no different than nineteen...I believe that.
But twenty is different (and radically so) from twenty six...
From the other side of twenty five, everything before looks easier and sweeter..Please do not argue with me about the beauty of nostalgia..blah blah blah!!!!
Its been seven years since I left school...the old slide by the jack-fruit tree in school was razed to ground. We grew up. Things died and space was created. Keeping up with time they say...I guess the new kids would not have known what to do with the slide anyway. Would they have googled it?
I completed my graduation and my masters. I worked for a year and then returned to academics. From this delusional return, I think increasingly that I am only wasting my time and not really facing the existential questions of (ahem...gulp) adulthood.
And now more than ever, I have to bear social pressures of fulfilling medieval gender roles and responsibilities. Marriage apart, at twenty-six, I am already being reminded of the ticking clock.
I am twenty six ONLY!!! That's me...
You are twenty six ALREADY!!! That's them..
So much of a difference between only and already...
The year of the proverbial 'quarter life crisis' is over but the crisis itself is not.
At twenty a lollipop would have been a juvenile idea. Rather, I would have forgotten about the idea and taste of a lollipop. At twenty six, making my way through one simply made my day..It was a beautiful lollipop I must add...with blues, greens and pale yellows swirling their way through its sugar sprinkled circle of a self.
At twenty, getting dunked in the mud and then kicked black and blue on your birthday would have been an uncalled for affront. At twenty six (while still being an uncalled for), it makes for a good laugh..
At twenty, spending an entire Sunday playing scrabble would have been a waste of time. At twenty six, spending an entire Sunday with those creamy white tiles and a scoreboard, no no wait...first running out in a good-by-Delhi-standards rain, checking through five shops for the game and then insisting on only buying the Leo Mattel one...that makes perfect sense.
At twenty, you dream of working, money and your own bank account. At twenty six, you contemplate about the inclusion of a provision in your work contract which would allow you to walk out when things get too boring.
At twenty, you have to figure out how to convince your parents to buy you a new laptop/ipod/android(take your pick please). At twenty six, you have EMI's to handle.
There are six years between twenty and twenty six. But right now, they seem a world apart to me. I cannot imagine moments of collusion between twenty and twenty six. But they exist I am sure...
But on being twenty, its a simple birthday wish I send across to my young friend...May you fall back in love with the lollipop sooner than twenty six.
Happy Birthday :)
Happy Birthday Amna!!!!! :)
She mourns the eminent end of her teenage years..but only just so lightly. There isn't much of a difference between 19 and 20 anyway.
She asks me, where were you for your twentieth birthday? What did you do?
And I think.....when was I twenty?
I am still thinking...I was in Delhi...I am more-or-less sure of that geographical detail..but what did I do? Who was I with? How did I 'celebrate' it? Cake? Party? What?
I am still drawing a complete blank.
Her mother's warned her that she is no longer eligible to throw tantrums. Teenage dramatics are now going to be a thing of the past. Alright. But teenage dramatics? Is being twenty a numerical indication of entering 'adulthood'?
And 'Adulthood'? Really!!!!
I can already see a lot of words (in quotes) getting tagged along with this number. Conclusion? It's NOT just a number. Our saying that is just a defense mechanism.
Will things change from nineteen to twenty? What does twenty look like to you?
Her answer? A bucket list of sorts....
A bucket list- a list of things to do before you die. And to continue with the morbid element here....The phrase 'bucket list' owes its origin to the idiom 'kicked the bucket' which, in turn, means to die. And how exactly did the bucket find itself getting associated with death? I leave it for another time..though apparently the association traces itself back to 16th century England (did a 16th century English bucket look any different from the present day English bucket?)
So well, at a day less than twenty, she is already making a bucket-list (of sorts I should add). Obviously I remember my list of things to do..We did not call it a bucket list back in those days (yes its been that long now and I guess we have only Rob Reiner to thank for the revival of the popularity of the term...). How many of those things have I done? I remember a couple of them...
-Watch Coldplay live in concert (present status: Not Done)
-Go scuba diving (present status: Not Done. I don't even know how to swim!!!!)
-Read all of Wodehouse (present status: Not Done)
-Learn how to drive ( Present status: Done, but I still do not have a license..and this was pretty sad an inclusion for a bucket list)
-A world trip (present status: halfway done with a fortnight of tripping through Europe)
I will dig out the list when I go home the next time. But I can already see that scarp of paper weigh heavier on me with silent accusations of things not done, a life not maximized and time lost.
Life becomes a list of things...drat!
Should I draw a conclusion? Do I have the time to draw one and dwell on it?
Down with the list anyway.
So twenty was and is no different than nineteen...I believe that.
But twenty is different (and radically so) from twenty six...
From the other side of twenty five, everything before looks easier and sweeter..Please do not argue with me about the beauty of nostalgia..blah blah blah!!!!
Its been seven years since I left school...the old slide by the jack-fruit tree in school was razed to ground. We grew up. Things died and space was created. Keeping up with time they say...I guess the new kids would not have known what to do with the slide anyway. Would they have googled it?
I completed my graduation and my masters. I worked for a year and then returned to academics. From this delusional return, I think increasingly that I am only wasting my time and not really facing the existential questions of (ahem...gulp) adulthood.
And now more than ever, I have to bear social pressures of fulfilling medieval gender roles and responsibilities. Marriage apart, at twenty-six, I am already being reminded of the ticking clock.
I am twenty six ONLY!!! That's me...
You are twenty six ALREADY!!! That's them..
So much of a difference between only and already...
The year of the proverbial 'quarter life crisis' is over but the crisis itself is not.
At twenty a lollipop would have been a juvenile idea. Rather, I would have forgotten about the idea and taste of a lollipop. At twenty six, making my way through one simply made my day..It was a beautiful lollipop I must add...with blues, greens and pale yellows swirling their way through its sugar sprinkled circle of a self.
At twenty, getting dunked in the mud and then kicked black and blue on your birthday would have been an uncalled for affront. At twenty six (while still being an uncalled for), it makes for a good laugh..
At twenty, spending an entire Sunday playing scrabble would have been a waste of time. At twenty six, spending an entire Sunday with those creamy white tiles and a scoreboard, no no wait...first running out in a good-by-Delhi-standards rain, checking through five shops for the game and then insisting on only buying the Leo Mattel one...that makes perfect sense.
At twenty, you dream of working, money and your own bank account. At twenty six, you contemplate about the inclusion of a provision in your work contract which would allow you to walk out when things get too boring.
At twenty, you have to figure out how to convince your parents to buy you a new laptop/ipod/android(take your pick please). At twenty six, you have EMI's to handle.
There are six years between twenty and twenty six. But right now, they seem a world apart to me. I cannot imagine moments of collusion between twenty and twenty six. But they exist I am sure...
But on being twenty, its a simple birthday wish I send across to my young friend...May you fall back in love with the lollipop sooner than twenty six.
Happy Birthday :)
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Painful Questions of Aesthetics and a note of thanks....
Alright, I got Apoorva to work on the aesthetics bit of the blog. It was my own idea of making her pay back for coercing me into getting this new form of virtual socializing with Skype. I even connected my Skype account with my Facebook account!!!
We made our way through backgrounds with everything from antique cameras and radios to abstract lines and sad looking birds, font sizes, themes, archives link position and format and just about everything.….
I was happy with this one (sepia toned?) background with postcards but she was getting royally pissed with the fact that she could not adjust the size of the background picture to her satisfaction (Skype chat line: LIKE HOW FUCKING STUPID IS THAT!!!!).
She wanted to move the “bloody postcards” around a bit to create better aesthetics.
I didn’t even know you could do that!!!
The result you see…
I can’t tag my thanks here (you will of course be duly and publicly thanked on Facebook)…but take it anyway Apoorva :)
And stealing from the Facebook thanks: "standing in deep appreciation of the crucial role you played in this resurrection...many thanks!!!"
But I am left wondering now….why am I spending so much of time of this blog? Rather on its resurrection?
We made our way through backgrounds with everything from antique cameras and radios to abstract lines and sad looking birds, font sizes, themes, archives link position and format and just about everything.….
I was happy with this one (sepia toned?) background with postcards but she was getting royally pissed with the fact that she could not adjust the size of the background picture to her satisfaction (Skype chat line: LIKE HOW FUCKING STUPID IS THAT!!!!).
She wanted to move the “bloody postcards” around a bit to create better aesthetics.
I didn’t even know you could do that!!!
The result you see…
I can’t tag my thanks here (you will of course be duly and publicly thanked on Facebook)…but take it anyway Apoorva :)
And stealing from the Facebook thanks: "standing in deep appreciation of the crucial role you played in this resurrection...many thanks!!!"
But I am left wondering now….why am I spending so much of time of this blog? Rather on its resurrection?
Skype-ing…
I know everyone has a Skype account.
I did not… But there were twelve other Gayatri Goswami’s floating around there, talking-chatting-calling-blah-blah-blah. I added the thirteenth.
Anyway, so my best friend has now shifted base to London. (I should footnote this….but this is not an academic paper….so well.) She is acquiring a ‘neutral-Indian’ accent and it’s another weapon I use indiscriminately now to tease her and well…just generally make fun of her. Poor thing has apparently become acutely conscious of it now, especially in front of her fellow Indian friends there…Any day now, I think, she will call me for some ‘tea’ and ‘cookies’!!!! (Please read it with a Brit accent?)
Fascinating how spatial environments play so crucial a role in the physical expression of a language. And how much of an acquired accent is a matter of social conditioning? But I digress.
So well, getting back, I gave in finally to her constant badgering and set up a Skype account a little while back. (I have trouble with Facebook and often find myself contemplating the option of account deactivation, albeit a temporary one…why did I now get myself a Skype account? Accumulation of more virtual worldly trappings!!!)
With my background explanation in place, I thought you should see just how much of an internet handicap I face….
After this, please appreciate the technological hurdles I cross every single time I write here…Thank you already :)
[2:37:22 AM] Apoorva Sharma: Finally u appear on Skye!!!!
[2:37:37 AM] Apoorva Sharma: accept my call
[2:37:49 AM] Gayatri Goswami: how the fuck?
[2:37:53 AM] Gayatri Goswami: awww jeeez
[2:37:54 AM] Gayatri Goswami: wait
[2:37:55 AM] Gayatri Goswami: stop
[2:37:56 AM] Gayatri Goswami: calling me
[2:37:58 AM] Gayatri Goswami: weird music
[2:38:02 AM] Gayatri Goswami: wait!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
[2:38:08 AM] Apoorva Sharma: well there is green phone button
[2:38:11 AM] Apoorva Sharma: click it
[2:38:16 AM] Gayatri Goswami: stop the music
[2:38:20 AM] Gayatri Goswami: stop calling me!!!!!
[2:38:22 AM] Gayatri Goswami: pleasseeeeee
[2:38:23 AM] Apoorva Sharma: on the right hand top side
[2:38:25 AM] *** Missed call from Apoorva Sharma. ***
[2:38:27 AM] Gayatri Goswami: phew
[2:38:29 AM] Gayatri Goswami: thanks man
[2:38:32 AM] Apoorva Sharma: ok then
[2:38:32 AM] Gayatri Goswami: i was feeling like
[2:38:35 AM] Gayatri Goswami: a retard
[2:38:40 AM] Gayatri Goswami: don’t drop a call just like that
[2:38:45 AM] Gayatri Goswami: i got scared and thot
[2:38:58 AM] Gayatri Goswami: some weird shit ass of an alarm went off!!!!!
[2:39:01 AM] Gayatri Goswami: jeeeez
[2:39:03 AM] Gayatri Goswami: :(
I did not… But there were twelve other Gayatri Goswami’s floating around there, talking-chatting-calling-blah-blah-blah. I added the thirteenth.
Anyway, so my best friend has now shifted base to London. (I should footnote this….but this is not an academic paper….so well.) She is acquiring a ‘neutral-Indian’ accent and it’s another weapon I use indiscriminately now to tease her and well…just generally make fun of her. Poor thing has apparently become acutely conscious of it now, especially in front of her fellow Indian friends there…Any day now, I think, she will call me for some ‘tea’ and ‘cookies’!!!! (Please read it with a Brit accent?)
Fascinating how spatial environments play so crucial a role in the physical expression of a language. And how much of an acquired accent is a matter of social conditioning? But I digress.
So well, getting back, I gave in finally to her constant badgering and set up a Skype account a little while back. (I have trouble with Facebook and often find myself contemplating the option of account deactivation, albeit a temporary one…why did I now get myself a Skype account? Accumulation of more virtual worldly trappings!!!)
With my background explanation in place, I thought you should see just how much of an internet handicap I face….
After this, please appreciate the technological hurdles I cross every single time I write here…Thank you already :)
[2:37:22 AM] Apoorva Sharma: Finally u appear on Skye!!!!
[2:37:37 AM] Apoorva Sharma: accept my call
[2:37:49 AM] Gayatri Goswami: how the fuck?
[2:37:53 AM] Gayatri Goswami: awww jeeez
[2:37:54 AM] Gayatri Goswami: wait
[2:37:55 AM] Gayatri Goswami: stop
[2:37:56 AM] Gayatri Goswami: calling me
[2:37:58 AM] Gayatri Goswami: weird music
[2:38:02 AM] Gayatri Goswami: wait!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
[2:38:08 AM] Apoorva Sharma: well there is green phone button
[2:38:11 AM] Apoorva Sharma: click it
[2:38:16 AM] Gayatri Goswami: stop the music
[2:38:20 AM] Gayatri Goswami: stop calling me!!!!!
[2:38:22 AM] Gayatri Goswami: pleasseeeeee
[2:38:23 AM] Apoorva Sharma: on the right hand top side
[2:38:25 AM] *** Missed call from Apoorva Sharma. ***
[2:38:27 AM] Gayatri Goswami: phew
[2:38:29 AM] Gayatri Goswami: thanks man
[2:38:32 AM] Apoorva Sharma: ok then
[2:38:32 AM] Gayatri Goswami: i was feeling like
[2:38:35 AM] Gayatri Goswami: a retard
[2:38:40 AM] Gayatri Goswami: don’t drop a call just like that
[2:38:45 AM] Gayatri Goswami: i got scared and thot
[2:38:58 AM] Gayatri Goswami: some weird shit ass of an alarm went off!!!!!
[2:39:01 AM] Gayatri Goswami: jeeeez
[2:39:03 AM] Gayatri Goswami: :(
Monday, July 4, 2011
Numbers in Purpose......
There is a crow’s nest in the peepal tree right outside my balcony. I am waiting for the crow to come back.
And then what?
Hmmm…no idea.
Five clips and one hair band. I finally managed to scrunch up my hair into a sad excuse of a pony tail (when did the horse’s tail enter the world of vanity?).
Lazy lizard crawls into its dark cool world behind my one pot claim to greenery in this hostel room…
I like the cover design of Amitav Ghosh’s new book. How can anyone plan and write a trilogy? Rowling is a freak...no rephrase- freaky genius. Ha!! Better!
Are these even blog-mention worthy details of a monotonous life?
No.
But space fillers? Length expanders? Yes to that!
And I return to my favorite- 'WHY'
Why did we establish this blog?
Why did we let it lie sad and dormant for soo long?
Why have we entered this phase of frantic blogging now? A sea squall-ish development?
And the hardest question of all- Why the fixation with numbers? To be more specific, why the fixation with getting a fatter number on the 'Followers' list?
(I hate looking at the right hand side of this blog!!!)
Somewhere in the last few weeks I think, purpose has cross bred with numbers. I marvel at all those people who have blogs with two three or four hundred followers. Where do these people come from? How did they find these blogs? Are they regular readers? If they are then I wonder how much time they spend reading these blogs online. And how can anyone write so consistently on a virtual platform? But these are semi-tangential questions right now really.
Anyway, so when we began the purpose was to just write...we thought we did not care for what others thought or felt about what we wrote, how we wrote and why we wrote.
Sadly, we missed the operative words in this first statement-of-purpose like sentence to self.
"We thought".
Yes...you thought...we thought..
It was only a thought. A delusional attempt to garb this modern extension of individual vanity and narcissism under nobler wraps of self expression with an undertone of 'the-world-be-damned'.
We were writing for ourselves. Or were we? The least I can say right now is that the delusion at least has ended...Where this delusion ends, there the reality of our world in numbers begins.
I recently watched The Matrix Trilogy and this realization of the numerical grip over our lives reminds me of the green run of numbers in the matrix (should I have written that with a capital 'M'?). Amidst these creeping and crawling numbers we live happily and quietly.
(I shouldn't have mentioned the Matrix here....its uncalled for...or is it?)
Each tiny aspect of our lives are caught in numbers...they are everywhere.
Dates.
My age.
My grades.
Your salary.
Your expected bonus.
Prices.
Rent.
Bills.
Your car mileage.
Gigabytes.
Days.
Weeks.
Blah.
Blah.
How does all this apply to the blog? Well like this....
How many hours will I spend writing this post? Should I care about the number of words or the length of this post? What number post will this be again? So how many people can I expect will read this one? How many will like it? How many will trash it? How many comments will I get on this post? Will this post change things for the blog and actually inspire someone to join the blog?
Comments.
Followers.
Hits.
Likes.
Dislikes.
Blah.
Blah.
Blah.
But I write for myself don't I??!!!!
Oh no I don't.
Lets get one thing absolutely straight....No one, and I mean no one, writes and maintains a blog for their own sake. With the very first word that you put on your blog its a delusional journey to make yourself think, rather to lull yourself into thinkin that you are writing only for yourself. You 'blog' to be read by others. Thats it. In other words 'NUMBERS'
If I were to extend this line of thought to all other forms of self expression, you may plead for artistic sensibilities getting offended with the idea of needing social acceptance and appreciation in numbers. But would I be lying if I were to say, that somewhere or the other, we all need assurances from others around us in our small limited worlds for the choices we make in expressing ourselves?
What is the point of expression if it is not received by another?
And so they run and walk...sit and laugh..sleep awhile and never quite drift away..Numbers.
Everywhere..
In clocks that time us and our lives.
In calenders that cross off days as they go flying by.
In to-do lists that fill the hours of a day and the days of a life.
In passivity and in action.
In words and minutes of silences.
In this, that and the other.
And then what?
Hmmm…no idea.
Five clips and one hair band. I finally managed to scrunch up my hair into a sad excuse of a pony tail (when did the horse’s tail enter the world of vanity?).
Lazy lizard crawls into its dark cool world behind my one pot claim to greenery in this hostel room…
I like the cover design of Amitav Ghosh’s new book. How can anyone plan and write a trilogy? Rowling is a freak...no rephrase- freaky genius. Ha!! Better!
Are these even blog-mention worthy details of a monotonous life?
No.
But space fillers? Length expanders? Yes to that!
And I return to my favorite- 'WHY'
Why did we establish this blog?
Why did we let it lie sad and dormant for soo long?
Why have we entered this phase of frantic blogging now? A sea squall-ish development?
And the hardest question of all- Why the fixation with numbers? To be more specific, why the fixation with getting a fatter number on the 'Followers' list?
(I hate looking at the right hand side of this blog!!!)
Somewhere in the last few weeks I think, purpose has cross bred with numbers. I marvel at all those people who have blogs with two three or four hundred followers. Where do these people come from? How did they find these blogs? Are they regular readers? If they are then I wonder how much time they spend reading these blogs online. And how can anyone write so consistently on a virtual platform? But these are semi-tangential questions right now really.
Anyway, so when we began the purpose was to just write...we thought we did not care for what others thought or felt about what we wrote, how we wrote and why we wrote.
Sadly, we missed the operative words in this first statement-of-purpose like sentence to self.
"We thought".
Yes...you thought...we thought..
It was only a thought. A delusional attempt to garb this modern extension of individual vanity and narcissism under nobler wraps of self expression with an undertone of 'the-world-be-damned'.
We were writing for ourselves. Or were we? The least I can say right now is that the delusion at least has ended...Where this delusion ends, there the reality of our world in numbers begins.
I recently watched The Matrix Trilogy and this realization of the numerical grip over our lives reminds me of the green run of numbers in the matrix (should I have written that with a capital 'M'?). Amidst these creeping and crawling numbers we live happily and quietly.
(I shouldn't have mentioned the Matrix here....its uncalled for...or is it?)
Each tiny aspect of our lives are caught in numbers...they are everywhere.
Dates.
My age.
My grades.
Your salary.
Your expected bonus.
Prices.
Rent.
Bills.
Your car mileage.
Gigabytes.
Days.
Weeks.
Blah.
Blah.
How does all this apply to the blog? Well like this....
How many hours will I spend writing this post? Should I care about the number of words or the length of this post? What number post will this be again? So how many people can I expect will read this one? How many will like it? How many will trash it? How many comments will I get on this post? Will this post change things for the blog and actually inspire someone to join the blog?
Comments.
Followers.
Hits.
Likes.
Dislikes.
Blah.
Blah.
Blah.
But I write for myself don't I??!!!!
Oh no I don't.
Lets get one thing absolutely straight....No one, and I mean no one, writes and maintains a blog for their own sake. With the very first word that you put on your blog its a delusional journey to make yourself think, rather to lull yourself into thinkin that you are writing only for yourself. You 'blog' to be read by others. Thats it. In other words 'NUMBERS'
If I were to extend this line of thought to all other forms of self expression, you may plead for artistic sensibilities getting offended with the idea of needing social acceptance and appreciation in numbers. But would I be lying if I were to say, that somewhere or the other, we all need assurances from others around us in our small limited worlds for the choices we make in expressing ourselves?
What is the point of expression if it is not received by another?
And so they run and walk...sit and laugh..sleep awhile and never quite drift away..Numbers.
Everywhere..
In clocks that time us and our lives.
In calenders that cross off days as they go flying by.
In to-do lists that fill the hours of a day and the days of a life.
In passivity and in action.
In words and minutes of silences.
In this, that and the other.
Angry Birds
(M: a word of clarification/caution...this is not about Justin Bieber.)
Alright, so we all know of Angry Birds. With over 250 million copies having been sold since its launch in December 2009, it would be rather surprising to come across someone who hasn't, in the least, heard of Angry Birds.
With that established,I believe that there are only four types of association that one can have with this game. My categorization goes like this-
>First, you have played the game and are addicted to it (obviously the degree and intensity of addiction will vary from one person to the other..and if you have problems with the word 'addiction' then well, give me an alternative to explain your bleary eyed self in front of the laptop/iphone playing the game while the rest of the world lives itself out and in through mundane boredom?)
>Second, you have an indirect association with the game...either you have heard of it, or read about it or have seen someone from the first category play themselves in an endless cycle that stops only when the pigs are all dead.
>Third, you are a subset of the second category...meaning you have had an indirect association with the game..you may even have sling shot'ed your way through one episode, but you are still confused about the rationality of it..you are still struggling (and for all you know, will struggle until the end of errr... the world or the green pigs) to deconstruct the 'WHY' of it.
>Fourth, you are one of the blessed few (a rarest of rare minority) who are just not concerned with it..(its an inconsequential thing in a world that is full of things and people that are nothing but transient?)
Where do I stand? Third group.
The target of all my questions are of course all those sitting firmly inside the first category and the most obvious question is "why do you play the game?".
Since this would entail an engagement with the larger question of virtual gaming, I steer clear of it...but only for now.
Angry birds right...well, why are the birds angry? The basic premise of the game, as quoted by the Wikipedia entry on the same (yes yes, it even has a Wikipedia entry!! Darn! Talk about twisted priorities!!!!!), explains that the game is about these bunch of birds trying to retrieve some eggs stolen by the green evil pigs and that the destruction of the pigs is their revenge. There is nothing wrong with the premise. Revenge would explain the sling shot'ing and bombardment of the pigs...I could even stretch it forward into the realm of the eternal struggle between the good and the bad. I don't dispute the philosophy of it. No no...my problem is more logistical in nature...my question is simple- How did the pigs steal the eggs?
They can't climb trees...so are we talking of some mutant breed of pigs which can clamber up trees, snatch some eggs and and race back down? Is this a projection into a degenerate future where the evil will manifest itself through beings we cannot conceptualize in totality right now? Will these beings be blessed with powers and abilities that are at once horrific and magnificient?
I would like to meet the creator of this game...where did he get the idea of these pigs in the first place...should I look deeper into things like religious beliefs and possible associations with dark magic in the life of this man?
Yes yes I know that you must be shaking your head in incredulous disbelief right now..alright, I admit I got a little carried away with the dark magic bit..but if I may please continue with my I-am-carried-away bit then, just think for a minute...suspend your rationality..what if this really has some connections with evil? What if there are deeper meanings hidden in the game? Like a possible preparation for an actual battle between the good and the evil to be fought in the time coming? Swords, flashes of fatal lightening, weird animals with hideous fangs, agents in black et al?
I shudder....time to change tracks and return to the question with which it all began.
So, why do you all play it? Hour after hour..how can you?
A very devoted player, when i asked him this question (knowing fully well that a philosophical answer would sit much better with me than any explanation that centered around things such as graphics or programming and the likes) said this- isn't it the same with everything else that we do in life? We start things to bring them to an end...a conclusion right? You read a book, watch a movie or listen to a song to finish it... to see what happens in the end...Its the same with the game. We play it to finish it.
Unbelievable....I had and have nothing to say to this line of answering. But to put it mildly, even as he said this I could see that he knew his logic was crumbling down and apart with every word. No tree-climbing-green-evil-pigs came to his rescue.
Even if I grant that you play it to finish it...what difference did it make? I read a book, watch a movie or listen to a song to finish it. Alright. But all of it makes a difference to me..I see something new, read about something new and so on...
But what did you get? Red birds flying like sling shots across a tiny sky in sometimes futile and sometimes successful attempts to kill the pigs?
I am told that there is intense strategizing involved- the arc of the shot, the force of the throw etc. etc.....Fine. And whats the practical translation of this intensive strategization in your life? That practice makes one perfect? Yeah right...a click on the mouse for the amount of time you spend practicing is more likely to end up inflating your physiotherapy bill in later life!
In my despair to understand this one elemental question, i googled this- 'angry birds philosophy'...(please don't laugh, I am really writing from the pits of dejection.)
The results tell me that this is a well thought out question.
Some examples (all from blogs primarily): that obstacles assume different forms at different stages, acknowledging them is the first step towards tackling them; that knowing the different birds and what they can do is to know your strengths and weaknesses and that alone can help you deal with problems and difficulties; that you must make the most of every opportunity and that team work is the best way to maximize human effort towards a set goal...Some one even went so far as to suggest that if you treat each bird as a child you would get excellent parenting tips from the game...How exactly? (I could tear my hair out in frustation right now!)
But the one result which was spectacular in terms of its incredulity was a project launched by the ISKCON group in Brazil which called itself 'Angry Birds Yoga'. The first lesson was titled 'How to eliminate the Green Pigs in your Life'. (I will of course post the link to this project at tne end of this..and maybe I should make in mandatory for those of you who have managed to reach this far in my tirade to check the link out...but then again, how will I enforce my authority and control over your actions through this virtual medium? Damn the shifts in power structures!!!!)
Each character in the game has been attributed with a quality in this project. So where the pigs are all evil undesirable traits we need to get rid of, the birds are the face of 'The Good'.
Moral? Copy the Red, Blue, Yellow and White bird. You shall fly into divine salvation on the wings of these birds...Oh errr...damn. they are all wingless aren't they?
One could talk about the absorption of symbols of popular culture into our daily lives...That alone could and would make some small amount of sense here..But still, Angry Birds as metaphors for parenting and spiritual teaching? I still need time and space to get used to this...And don't even think of crowding my space with flying angry birds!!1
This is turning out to be longer than I thought or planned...
I am already tired of writing about it and I have been at this for like an hour now I think...if nothing else, then i marvel at the persistence of those who play Angry Birds.
I guess its another one of those things which would fall into the category of 'each to his/her own'....
But it still beats me..Why?
(And the link:
http://pandavas.wordpress.com/2011/05/02/angry-birds%E2%84%A2-yoga-%E2%80%93-how-to-eliminate-the-green-pigs-in-your-life-part-i/)
Friday, July 1, 2011
Old Monk
A rectangular 15 inch world.
I delude myself with company..
Virtual worlds of partial associations and half truths.
Flashes of orange on windows that speak?
A sad grey of invisibility.
A click and a contact. Do I ever see them?
A link and a like. A picture and a comment….
A fiber and a world of twisted bondings…
Night sky…
Not black…here it comes with an orange tint.
Stars. None. They hide behind urban miseries.
What is this?
A rum induced stringing of words?
A run towards futility?
Loss of writing syntax?
No not poetry…
Jack and Jill…rhyme rhyme rhyme…
Why?
Maybe they should have stayed up the hill….
Doomed to a forever of falling down.
Why bother?
A break for more…
A wait for words to gather anew.
Rum. Water. Mix mix…swirl.
A medium lost and a habit being discarded.
Absent smoke.
She said….
Spinning. Spinning. Spinning.
A giant shadow. Small ant.
When will they fly?
Perception…gone wrong or found again?
A monk trapped in a lorry…
Chased in plurals.
Hidden in crates.
Pass a bus window...
And a mind that trips over to lost times.
Wait again.
Familiar blanks? Why write?
Someone reads…no one cares.
A paper clip scratches its head.
Confusion?
A programme that fails to make its way through the mire of mortal nonsense.
No binary ones and zeros.
No flowcharts to follow.
What do I do?
Save?
Exit?
The angst of a digital existence.
The three musketeers.
Too short a life shared.
Why did we begin at all?
A world so full…
They cursed us into unwanted changes..
Miss it. Mourn it. Remember it.
Sepia toned photographs?
Carry it around…
Weigh me down and bring me back to the surface.
Come back? Please?
A chrome death.
Temporary but.
A wait that chafes….
Tell me what you think?
Your words lost…your thoughts gone.
Quote Bretcht.
Quote Plath….
In another’s words….
Just tell me what you are….
I delude myself with company..
Virtual worlds of partial associations and half truths.
Flashes of orange on windows that speak?
A sad grey of invisibility.
A click and a contact. Do I ever see them?
A link and a like. A picture and a comment….
A fiber and a world of twisted bondings…
Night sky…
Not black…here it comes with an orange tint.
Stars. None. They hide behind urban miseries.
What is this?
A rum induced stringing of words?
A run towards futility?
Loss of writing syntax?
No not poetry…
Jack and Jill…rhyme rhyme rhyme…
Why?
Maybe they should have stayed up the hill….
Doomed to a forever of falling down.
Why bother?
A break for more…
A wait for words to gather anew.
Rum. Water. Mix mix…swirl.
A medium lost and a habit being discarded.
Absent smoke.
She said….
Spinning. Spinning. Spinning.
A giant shadow. Small ant.
When will they fly?
Perception…gone wrong or found again?
A monk trapped in a lorry…
Chased in plurals.
Hidden in crates.
Pass a bus window...
And a mind that trips over to lost times.
Wait again.
Familiar blanks? Why write?
Someone reads…no one cares.
A paper clip scratches its head.
Confusion?
A programme that fails to make its way through the mire of mortal nonsense.
No binary ones and zeros.
No flowcharts to follow.
What do I do?
Save?
Exit?
The angst of a digital existence.
The three musketeers.
Too short a life shared.
Why did we begin at all?
A world so full…
They cursed us into unwanted changes..
Miss it. Mourn it. Remember it.
Sepia toned photographs?
Carry it around…
Weigh me down and bring me back to the surface.
Come back? Please?
A chrome death.
Temporary but.
A wait that chafes….
Tell me what you think?
Your words lost…your thoughts gone.
Quote Bretcht.
Quote Plath….
In another’s words….
Just tell me what you are….
Yellow Cat Pillow
My mother made this pillow for me when I was about four or five years old...yes yes its hand made and if you look closely, you will see a childhood of spilled juices, sleepy dribble and stray pen marks on its yellow life...
Frayed red threads disobey the circles of its eyes.
The nose is long gone.
One side has three whiskers, one less than the other.
The collar is half gone too.
Much gone...little left…
I haven't let my mother stitch the cat back into respectability....in its abused disarray it reminds me more of things gone and lost. What’s missing is what I fill with half memories.
I am a compulsive chronicler…a hoarder of memories in tangible forms and shapes…
Where we judge our lives in memories and moments, I am constantly loosing them. I have difficulty remembering….I will loose half of what you say to me within five minutes of your having said it. I cannot hold onto thoughts, be they yours or mine…they slip through my fingers like grains of sand…a perpetual game of hide-and-seek…
I live in fear of forgetting...forgetting what to remember and forgetting nothing at all. I wonder often if I will ever have stories to tell. Will they come in quietly to me on a distant summer afternoon or will they shove their way through a cold winter night as I sleep? Or will I draw a blank? Will I loose all my stories?
A singular past and innumerable metaphors of living it now. A ghost. A knot.
We live in questions that haunt….wanting answers that are true. But where do we meet when your truth is different from mine? Where questions are futile and answers naïve, there memories trick us into believing.
I keep a scrapbook of sorts….I have tripped a little too often over what I remember and what I think I remember…I no longer wish to question myself with things I remember.
And so I hoard.
I collect…I preserve…I stick and paste memories from here and there into this little black scrapbook of mine.
Tickets from the ride up to the second floor of the Eiffel Tower…
A paper napkin with a silly doodle by a friend long gone and lost in living…
A postcard from long ago…
The first salary slip…
A photograph and a letter from a grandparent…
A entry pass from a western classical symphony
Movie tickets…dinner bill…
It growers thicker and fatter with the days that go by…I carry my knots with me…the more I live, the more the knot grows…
My ghosts walk with me…I leave some behind and others I commit to memory in this black little book…
And as I wrote somewhere earlier here…. knots will travel...knots will run...
but unravel they never will...carry those knots..lug them around. throw a few and gather anew.
live.
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