Saturday, January 26, 2008
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Friday, July 06, 2007
I am The Moon
Hope, expectation, Bright promises.
The Moon is a card of magic and mystery - when prominent you know that nothing is as it seems, particularly when it concerns relationships. All logic is thrown out the window.
The Moon is all about visions and illusions, madness, genius and poetry. This is a card that has to do with sleep, and so with both dreams and nightmares. It is a scary card in that it warns that there might be hidden enemies, tricks and falsehoods. But it should also be remembered that this is a card of great creativity, of powerful magic, primal feelings and intuition. You may be going through a time of emotional and mental trial; if you have any past mental problems, you must be vigilant in taking your medication but avoid drugs or alcohol, as abuse of either will cause them irreparable damage. This time however, can also result in great creativity, psychic powers, visions and insight. You can and should trust your intuition.
What Tarot Card are You?
Take the Test to Find Out.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Saturday, May 05, 2007
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Friday, March 09, 2007
I wonder why, when I put up photographs of people or places I have clicked, the first comment anyone has to make is, who is that in the photograph, where was it taken? Tell me, even if I answered, would you remember as soon as you switched off your computer? Does it really matter?
Instead, why doesn’t anyone ask what the photograph makes me feel? Why I took it? What was the person who modelled for me felt? Why don’t they write what it made them feel? On the play of shadow and light? I mean there’s so much more to my photographs than just the name of the place and person in it.
Let me be rude enough to say as well, that if, after you see a well taken photograph all you can think is who is the person in it, or where was it taken, you don’t think very much now, do you?
It’s okay not to know everything you know.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Sunday, January 28, 2007
The King was king,
For many a year;
And was as senile,
As the infamos Lear.
The man was young,
And quite well read;
But his words kept pace
With the thoughts in his head.
The man and the King,
Through dark chance met;
A meeting that led each,
To his untimely death.
The man managed skillfully,
To piss the King off;
The Royal Guard was alert,
The King just had to cough.
The man was dragged.
To the large stone block;
And to the city square,
The people began to flock.
The man lay still,
Weighed down by the chains;
The King mounted the elephant,
In his hands, the reins.
The elephant was well trained,
And was quite old;
And on that fateful day,
It did as it was told.
The King rode up,
And the words, he said;
And the elephant, well trained,
Stepped on the man’s head.
What happened next,
Was rather a blur;
But it was enough,
To cause quite a stir.
As the skull exploded,
A large, sharp shard,
Pierced the elephant’s sole,
As the skull is quite hard.
The elephant reared,
And the King fell off;
The people later said,
“He died of a cough.”
The King lay on the street.
Dazed, as if under a spell;
He didn’t see the elephant stumble.
And on him, it fell.
The elephant died,
From the shock of the fall;
The King died too,
From the irony of it all.
The Royal Guard did appear,
In neat and ordered droves;
And pulled the beast off the smear
Of Blue Blood and Purple Robes.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
While skating on the ice one day I came across a bear.
She looked so cute, that oh my God, I could not help but stare.
She looked at me and lovingly, she blew a little kiss,
And then I blew one back at her but all I did was miss.
The kiss which missed, it flew away and landed on her dad,
It smacked him on his little butt which made him really mad.
He looked at me and said “You creep I think you’ve lost your mind.”
I winked at him and licked my lips and patted his behind.
He winked right back and held my hand and kissed me on my cheek,
It was so frightening that’s why I ran to take a leak.
And in the loo, I looked at you and gave a little sigh,
The polar bear it was too cute for me to say goodbye.
So back I went, I was hell bent on making this thing work,
I gave him candy, After eights, and Dairy Milk and Perk.
But then his daughter walked right up and slapped me on my face,
She raved and ranted on and on and called me vile and base.
He turned around and walked away
As if he did not care.
And so we end the story of the homosexual bear.
By Maurice and me, in a moment of boredom.
Friday, January 19, 2007
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Today was fun…completely different from what I expected it to be. All plans haywire.
And I was hungry like the wolf, sweet smelling fruits… A pity we didn’t make it to
Eleven bucks worth of heaven, synthetic leather for my seats, a pity we didn’t talk to the Green Planet guys. I still feel bad for having to brush them off like that. A bit of a walk, and some talk and a taxi ride for a while. And to a glass shop, and mirrors all around. Oh what fun…mirrors. Sneaky shop keepers, devilish ideas of letting loose a crazy ball in the shop…shattered glass all around. They deserve it.
And off to find an eyehole. Back to the road after. And an argument over hundred bucks. Keep it. Hey bhagwan, I have a card. Plastic money. Still, nothing like cash. *Where’s the money baby?*
And an auto ride home. There’s nothing like an auto ride. It would have been faster to take a taxi. But it’s an experience in an auto and less burden on my conscience when it comes to paying. The cold breeze against me while they race past and try to fit into every nook and corner. And we’re stuck. Some traffic jam. And I’m sure there’s no reason for it to be jammed at all. We wait, and wait. He puts on the blaring radio. I need to be home soon. We wait, we wait. The cars move a bit and we take a detour only get stuck again. The radio’s blaring, and they’re playing loud Hindi songs, from classics to Rang de Basanti.
Something clicks, and I begin to sing, and the traffic doesn’t matter anymore. And I’m happy. It’s a good day. And the cool breeze comes while he maneuvers the auto, and every lane has its own scent and smell. The sights and sounds, and smells and feelings are an experience you can’t get in the cushy comfort of your car. We pass the market and I see this man with such an expression of distinguishment on his face that he could have been a lecturer at Cambridge University. Only that he was sitting on the edge of his rickshaw waiting for the next customer to pull on.
Another auto ride, and a short walk and I’m home. I meet my old art teacher, an artist. Smiles, smiles. They’re all so sweet and genuine. Unlike many others.
It’s all good.
A wonderful day.
Nothing especially notable.
But a wonderful day.
Anyway, ho hum.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Saturday, January 06, 2007
Thursday, January 04, 2007
The brat sits across the table. Slurping loudly with the noodles.
The other brat, older, sits next to him, just as loud as always, sometimes even louder than the other brat.
A chair is pulled out, empty, waiting for someone to occupy it.
I sit opposite, trying to make no noise with the fork and plate, as if I didn’t exist at all.
"Hallo, Pooh," said Rabbit.
"Hallo, Rabbit," said Pooh dreamily.
"Did you make that song up?"
"Well, I sort of made it up," said Pooh. "It isn't Brain," he went on humbly, "because You Know Why, Rabbit; but it comes to me sometimes."
"Ah!" said Rabbit, who never let things come to him, but always went and fetched them.
"But it isn't Easy," said Pooh to himself... "Because Poetry and Hums aren't things which you get, they're things which get you. And all you can do is go where they can find you."
~The House at Pooh Corner
Well, I was never much of a Pooh fan. I was always more into the Disney Princesses. But the other day, I was introduced to the original Pooh by A. A. Milne and Ernest H. Shepard [I was told it was later sold to Disney], and I’ve loved it. It’s delightful. And so I thought I’d share my favourites here.
POEM written by Eeyore in a Quiet Moment
Christopher Robin is going.
At least I think he is.
But he is going-
I mean he goes
(To rhyme with "knows")
Do we care?
( To rhyme with "where")
(I haven't got a rhyme for that
"is" in the second line yet.
(Now I haven't got a rhyme for
Those two bothers will have
to rhyme with each other
The fact is this is more difficult
than I thought
(Very good indeed)
To begin again,
But it is easier
Christopher Robin, good-bye
And all your friends
I mean all your friend
(Very akward this, it keeps
Well, anyhow, we send
Oh, the butterflies are flying,
Now the winter days are dying.
And the primroses are trying
To be seen.
And the turtle-doves are cooing,
And the woods are up and doing,
For the violets are blue-ing
In the green.
Oh, the honey-bees are gumming
On their little wings, and humming
That the summer, which is coming
Will be fun.
And the cows are almost cooing,
And the turtle doves are mooing,
Which is why a Pooh is poohing
In the sun.
For the spring is really springing;
You can see a skylark singing,
And the blue-bells, which are ringing,
Can be heard.
And the cuckoo isn't cooing,
But he's cucking and he's ooing,
And a Pooh is simply poohing
Like a bird.
Monday, January 01, 2007
Sunday, December 31, 2006
“So that is that” replied the cat,
We sit alone and mew.
She looks so bored, I sit ignored
we don’t know what to do.
It all began a while ago
On this accursed night.
I sat by her, and tried to purr
And croon, in pale moonlight.
She looked at me, so ruefully,
and said, “I want some fish
A salmon steamed, or caviar creamed.
Some quaint exotic dish.”
I was so hurt, I looked aghast
At her great deceit
For here I sit, romantically,
And she just wants to eat!
I was so torn, I was so rent,
And quite heartbroken too
I looked at her, and mournfully
Let out a poignant mew.
She looked at me, disgustedly,
And said, “You foolish twit,
I asked you for a bit of fish,
Why can’t you go get it?!”
I tried to kiss and make up,
I kissed her furry paw.
She looked at me so viciously,
And punched me in the jaw.
“I ask you for a little thing,
You inefficient cad.
And yet you won’t give it to me
My god, you drive me mad!”
T’was then I knew that my love life
It had a little glitch.
‘Cos though she was a cat, I swear
She could be such a bitch!
T’was then I knew that my love life
I walked away, in dull dismay,
Tonight was not my night.
‘Cos she was rude, and I was screwed
There were no fish in sight.
And so you see, my feline friends,
That Love’s not good for you.
The woe and pain, drives you insane
Just like the women do.
By Maurice and me.
This is the new one with changes by Maurice. It's wriiten almost completely by him anyway, so whatever he says goes.
Friday, December 29, 2006
I sit in my crammed balcony,
The birds sing in short trills
It is calm,
Except for the constant clamor from a construction site in the distance.
Another morning dawns,
And there’s a chill in the air.
I watch the sun rise from the unknown –
A yellow – orange orb wreathed in clouds.
I breathe to take in the fresh smell of the morning and a kitchen already busy.
Thoughts of a new photographs slip into my mind.
And then, a harsh word from behinds jerks me out of my reverie.
An anxiety that doesn’t seem to leave,
A heaviness in the chest that cannot be explained,
Regrets for the past and a future already known.
Regrets that don’t change a thing, but don’t leave.
Sadness at inadequacy,
Of what was but isn’t anymore.
Thoughts of efforts not made, and of lethargy that swells.
Days of awkward meetings, awkward smiles, and quiet disappointments.
I look at the church, and think of what the night would have been.
The moonlight and the stars.
I look around me,
Bare walls, and softness that doesn’t comfort very much.
Remembering how you hated to be photographed at all.
How you liked this photograph once, but don’t like it anymore.
I never understood why.
I look at the little parcel of cloth, wrapping something as if it were sacred.
And I’m scared of the scent that might fade.
I fear the memories won’t burn even when I want to remember.
But will remain as dying embers.
I’m not trying to escape into your presence,
The effort will still be mine,
The lack of which haunts me now.
But there was something when you were here,
Content of happiness.
And now, I want so much to run away,
Run to you,
When I know I cannot.
* I’d like to thank Saptarshi. The last few lines are from his poem “Home is where…”
I realise it's pointless to mention, but the last line although published by Saptrashi first, is still my own. I've said it too many times before.
As if trapped in amber:
Immobile; like a little insect.
She looked at me, and smiled.
Then, the music began to play.
It was some orchestra, playing some classical piece, by some great composer or the other.
The music was very faint and coy;
As if not to invade my privacy.
Reduced to barely a whisper, it died out.
She looked at me, and smiled.
I could see the play of light on the wooden walls.
While the fireplace roared.
The pale, silver moonlight tricked in, and merged with the golden glow.
A portrait of an admiral on the wall;
Looking regal and haughty - expecting me to admire him.
I paid no attention.
She looked at me, and smiled.
Our hostess introduced her to me.
A friend, she said, a very close friend.
Our hostess’s voice, usually so nasal and annoying, didn’t seem to bother me.
She looked at me, and smiled.
I looked at her,
And left the room.
I was too afraid to say hello.
By Maurice [otherwise known as The Psycho Guy] and me. You can find his version here.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Friday, December 15, 2006
I think every word has a soul. I’m not sure, but I think it does. Every word I speak on this mildly cold winter evening will be there long after I’m dead and gone. [While I write this, I begin to think that I should really start thinking before I speak from now on] I think it matches the physics theory which says that energy can’t be created or destroyed. It only changes form. So my words with their little souls will be there always. It doesn’t matter what form they might be in or were in.
They will always be there.
And after I’ve said them, thinkingly or unthinkingly they leave me with their own little souls and travel through the world that is sadly ignorant of their presence. But maybe that’s a good thing, like Gandalf says about the Hobbits. Maybe if they knew that my words with their little fragile souls are there, they’d be out to destroy them. As if they were germs of a deadly disease called knowledge. Ignorance has such a grip. Conformity to ignorance is so natural now. What if the word with the little soul pulls them out of their dark ignorance with its light? What if it makes them think? It isn’t just one word. There are so many, but so fragile.
But sometimes I just think they’re scared of my words. Scared to break away from society, from ignorance that has become so natural. And when you say that you don’t know, they pass you a knowing smile. You always know they do.
And each word, with its little soul is part of my soul. And even though I speak the words and they leave into the world, my soul doesn’t deplete itself, but in some way is richer. It wasn’t there before and although it leaves me, it leaves something behind. Like a sparkling magic that makes me better than before. And even when I’ll have nothing more to say one day, their sparkling magic will remain, even though it might dim – for what has been.
And they know they have to go, have to travel from me, for they have already left their mark on me – their sparkling magic. They go, from me, to you. And they wait there in the corner till you are ready. If you could you would probably bury them alive, so as to remain in your comfortable ignorance. And maybe if you try hard enough you’ll bury them in that corner. But they’ll still be there. And when you say that you don’t know, they pass you a knowing smile. You always know they do. Every smile they throw at you will bring you closer to me. Even when I’m not there. And then, maybe one day, you’ll be unable to ignore them anymore, and you’ll speak them too. They’ll leave their sparkling magic on you and live and travel on.
I know they will live on.
This piece was inspired by Saptarshi’s “Little souls of mine’, and partly by Piglet and Lady Lazarus who I'm reminded of when I wrote this.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
A glimpse, magic, sparks glow.
Smiles flash by, wild laughter, life flows.
Neon lights, skin, hips sway.
White, black, smoke.
Guitar strings, chords, dark streets
Drugs, speed, weed, sweat, cold.
Up too high, too low, world spins, round it goes.
Bubbles, rum, warmth, heaven, gold.
Stars drift apart too far to reach –
Not in dreams though.
Passion, pain, and tears - I grow.
Sugar, spice, wine flows.
It’s just a matter of time till you explode.
Blood, sex, leather and birth control.
To be a rock, and not to roll.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Sunday, December 10, 2006
‘ The problem with beauty is that it’s like being born rich and getting poorer.’
– Joan Collins.
‘You’re beautiful.’ But I don’t really care. One day I will be beautiful to the eye no more.
Will I be beautiful then?
But then, is beauty only what the eye can see?
*All photographs have been taken on a Cannon PowerShot A85 4.0 Mega Pixel digital camera.
Saturday, December 02, 2006
Dreams are funny things aren’t they?
So what if you dream about something that would normally make you feel very guilty if you had thought about it consciously? Are you supposed to feel guilty because you dreamed about it? Is it something that you actually want which is settled deep in your subconscious so you dream about it? And because it’s in your subconscious and you want it anyway, you should feel guilty about it.
Or is it just something that came by and because it’s a dream it has no parallel with your reality and the person that you are. I mean you don’t control your dreams so well why trouble yourself over it?
Really, what should you do? And believe?
Friday, December 01, 2006
Thursday, November 30, 2006
I realized today that when you try to make someone else feel better, your own hurt and pain just becomes forgotten. Which might seem like it’s good but really it isn’t. It’s like a residue which still remains. It becomes insignificant and unimportant. But it’s like sediment which then begins to build up. And you feel mucky. You can’t let go of it. It’s like a bog, and you start sinking. Slowly.
Friday, November 24, 2006
The other day I was at Flury’s, having breakfast, and looking out of their wide glass windows [it covers one whole wall actually], and I watched an assortment of people pass by. As it happens to be one of the busiest crossings of the city there was every sort of person I could think of – workers, students, travelers, beggars, people who passed by giving haughty looks from their expensive cars et all. And one would think looking at this multitude of people I’d be humbled. Most writers write about how they’re humbled before the diversity of humanity. But I just wasn’t. I didn’t feel unimportant at all. I can’t explain it. I felt my life mattered just as much. It feels good to feel significant. I really didn’t feel like a petty pawn. I wonder why.
* Isn't the cake, amazing? To know more about it click here.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Thursday, November 09, 2006
I feel the comfortable numbness of my fingers,
As I softly touch the skin on my cold pale cheeks,
Wet recently by warm, salty tears.
I hear you laugh, and you’re happy.
I claw you down
And you cry for the pain I feel.
You suffer for my foolish, irrational ways.
I don’t know how I controlled you
I’ve snatched your laughter away.
With every mistake I surely must be learning,
But I look at the world and I notice it’s turning
And you’re still standing here chained to me.
I don’t know how no one told you for whom to unfold your love.
I don’t know how you were diverted,
You were inverted and no one alerted you.
I look at you now
I see the laughter that is sleeping,
And it’s why I’m still weeping.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Monday, November 06, 2006
Ruckus laughter, cool minty tea, dice and warm salty Mediterranean breeze,
I sit in the shade breathing the heavy scent from the rainbow coloured shop near my own.
A jest at my expense,
And I shift to make myself comfortable in a plush old armchair.
As I turn,
I see her hasten past my shop
Her head lifts to meet my gaze – for a moment.
Her eyes drop,
Covering her head she hastens on with hushed air.
I return to ruckus laughter, cool minty tea, dice and warm salty Mediterranean breeze.