Stop fighting the unseen demon.
January 11, 2005
January 10, 2005
Blogging is like revisiting an old song. It still sounds quite familiar, yet there's a lot you seem to have missed the last time around. Just so you know, Page and Plant are banging out "Babe I'm gonna leave you" in the background.
And yet I have nothing to write about. Everything's become so... so... [pauses. thinks. gives up] stale, y'know what I mean?
The college still smells the same, and the dust hangs around in low depressing clouds that smack your face when you try to avoid it, and leaves behind a line of sweat-caked dirt between the furrows of your forehead. It ain't pretty, folks.
I probably did something really stupid too. Some chick (a guy, as it turned out) posted some terribly obvious pieces of sarcasm on 'Free Speech..." and taking the bait, I became the green skinned monster Dr. Banner himself. It was vicious, I'm now surprised at the blood on my hands.
On a personal front, dad's majorly pissed with his only son. Censoring out the details, I'd just say that he's quite certain I'm going down the wastrel's path, one of sin and vice. Question- how do you covince a parent that you ain't doing so?
Also, Mr Shet has called him for a meeting. An actual Parent-teacher thing. Trust me, I have no clue what's going on.
Wow, in the past few hours, the entire ball of yarn has spooled out onto the frontyard, and my world is about to witness some major catastrophe. Like omens building up to he storm, I'm noticing how everything's crumbling around me. Scared; I am.
What would Mike Noonan do?
January 07, 2005
Music playing- 'My own prison' (Creed)
You always grow up on your Bangalore trips.
This of course applies to every place, I guess. But when you've been coming to the same darn place for the past two decades, it's still a matter of surprise when things like this happen.
-This trip, you realized that being grumpy ain't cool. That's because nobody gives a shit.
-You got some awesome loot, which includes the neat 20 gb mp3man and a bunch of tshirts.
-You finally said goodbye to somebody, getting over one childhood fear. It felt bad, but it also felt really good. (Bye cuz, have fun in Maine!)
-You saw dead people. Ok, not like Haley JO, but in your arms and out of breath. Chennai was a literally sad trip.
-You figured out stuff about your friends; how you're not like them, and also how you don't need to be.
-You rediscovered blogging. Your readership might still be in single digits, but atleast you're writing again.
-You got your closure with V_. She doesn't know it, but it's better this way.
-You grew up. (This would be the miscellaneous section)
Ah, and tonight you head back to college, back to the grind (there's an overused expression, if I've ever seen one). A routine you're used to, where you're recognized and meant to live on a reputation. Back to college, where Hwingers will welcome you with open arms, or plastic glasses.
But mostly, back home.
Goodbye B'lore, you've been a good companion. The weather was great, the parties were fun, and the artsy fartsy stuff was commercial as hell. That was all good, but I've got to leave you now. I'll be back, I swear.
Ending music- 'Until we say goodbye' (Joe Satriani)
Today, I got a compliment from a girl.
That's right, a girl.
[Foot-long smile refuses to leave face. Cheeks hurt like hell.]
[This one thanks to Gurumad]
The Demon asked the Creator, why are the pleasures of
Heaven only for the Gods? I have not choosen to be
what I am, and yet am bounded by the clutches of
Hell. Do you give privileges to some and not the
others? In what way am I, in Hell, not your child, than
the Gods in Heaven?
There was no answer.
How is it that you deem me unrighteous when I obeyed
and reign only in the flames of Hell? I am a Demon only
because I Obeyed... blindly. Yet you gift the
disobedient, the ones that dared question what you
told, the bliss and serenity of Heaven. Do you expect
me to stay obedient in Hell for all Eternity when i
know of Heaven?
There was no answer.
If I have to make all my decisions myself, then it
shall be so.
... and thus came Demons to Heaven.
The disobedient, meaningless Conquerers have trampled
into the gates of Heaven.
What is the Answer?
January 05, 2005
To whoever it may concern,
My nickname, Pi, is pronounced 'Pai', like 3.1415...
Let's say it together now- Paaayeee. Ok?
Not 'Pee', like diddling. And it's very embarassing when it happens in public. I haven't figured out a retort yet, so this should work for now. I hope.
Paaaa-yeeee. Now shorten the emphasis on each syllable.
January 04, 2005
It's Saturday night, and there's nothing left to do but plop yourself in front of the tv, remote in one hand, crossie in the other. You're too lazy to cook, so you order cheap takeout food and wait for it to come. The wallet's comfortably set a few metres from the door so you don't have to go looking around when dinner arrives.
It's all boring, but that's alright. These 'boring' periods are when most of your thinking gets done. The tv rambles on, and 2 hours of canned laughter still can't bring about the faintest giggle from you. The crossie's got three clues left, damned if you can get them.
Across 8: Sounds like comfortable clothes for the computer, maybe? (8)
You catch yourself staring into nothingness for a few minutes longer than necessary. A fleeting desire for productive work passes over you, but that's lost in the commercial blaring out into space, urging you to buy the latest stomach crunch apparatus, mingled with black and white dramatizations of why all previous apparatus were worthless. Seriously, don't they get the fact that their target audience is a bunch of fat morons?
Down 11: Old beer's stinky vapour? (10)
The food's all gone, and you scrape away the little disgusting cold cheese that's stuck to the cardboard; after staring at it for a minute it disappears into your mouth. No regrets. Channelsurf for 30 seconds before you realize that it's all bullshit, so you might as well watch the regional softporn for a while. The nausea takes over, and it's got more to do with the excess cellulite on screen than the odour that's coming out of your armpits. Switch back to [insertrandomchannelname] and watch [insertinanetopic] being discussed on [inserttalkshowname], like the world would change because of it.
Your mind wanders, and you think of the chick you bumped into that afternoon. It sure would have been nice if you had gotten her cell number because then you'd have asked her out to coffee and then maybe dinner and then long chats on the phone and drives through open highways, her hair being thrown every which way by the breeze and then you'd get married after dating for six months and maybe a couple of kids and that beachhouse you always dreamt of and by then you'd be a successful novelist/businessman/whatever and you'd buy a spanking new car and you'd still be madly in love and...
Across 14: This sport angered the ant (7)
Yawn. Your hand reaches out to scratch your knee, and you realize that your whole left foot's gone numb. The irony of the situation is amusing, now that you'll have to hop about for a while just to get the pinsandneedles out. A sleeping foot, hilarious. Might as well go and blog for a while, then crash into the usual 12 hour slumber routine. After all, tonight was named after you, wasn't it?
PS: Software, Flatulence, Cricket.
January 01, 2005
Neil Gaiman: "Why I love being a writer by Neil Gaiman.
posted by Neil Gaiman 10/24/2004 06:32:26 PM (click link to go to source)
I love being a writer because it is something you can do anywhere. Some jobs like for example being an astronaut you can only do in special places like in for example space rockets or outer space or somewhere like that eg the moon. If you were trying to be an astronaut in the supermarket people would just laugh at you and say What Is He Doing Is He Absolutely Barking Mad Or What? The same thing goes for people who pick grapes and the people who show you to your seat in theatres after the light is all gone down. They can only do it in their special place.
But I can write anywhere.
And on the day when the book that I stopped writing several months ago decided that it's all done with just being lots of notes and ponderings and so on and suddenly turned back into the book I'm writing, because today I wrote a couple of thousand usable words, and I have a pretty good idea of what I'll be writing tomorrow, then it's all good, and it's made doubleplusgood by the fact that I was doing it on the beach.
Although I'd feel just as happy if I'd done it in a coffee house, or the corner of an office, or anywhere really; and probably slightly less guilty. Oh well, only two more days of accidental paradise, and then I'm back to civilisation."
Tips for Writing a Short Story: "Novice writers are often given this advice on how to structure their short stories:
* Put a man up a tree
* Throw stones at him
* Get him down
When you come to think of it, it's good advice for any writer. "