Metal

A thick city, a thick night

Thick with concrete and people

Lights everywhere

Shining bright like day

And suddenly, the lights go

No shadows to be seen

In the darkness, there is the park

Thick with bushes

Abandoned

Forgotten

There in the darkness it stands

Now gloomy at last

Concrete overlooking it

But nothing touches

Nothing penetrates it

Though everything sees

A growl in the headphones

Some death metal on the go

Descent and Blackwaterpark

In the park

A shadow in the dark greens

Hoping no one sees

Hoping black forever

And death metal

Head banging and writhing from within

Stirring and shaking all around

Thorns tearing him apart

Nothing stopping

Those rugged brown shoes and khakis

That black tee is merging with everything

Shouting

‘I try to save thee

Instead I pillage to condemn thee’

Not knowing what he is saving from

Saving himself yet

No one hears him

He is the darkness now

Blacks and whites don't exist

There are greys
Millions of them
There are shades
Of blue and green
Blurred and vague
Obscure and always conflicting

But here we are
In this illusion of certainty
And control

People want their blacks
Shown apart from the greys of sadness
And then there is white
Different from the million shades of morning light

We want explanations for art
In easy to consume packages

All the songs should mean something
And then all are not welcome

All the little beautiful things
That make this existence worthwhile
Need to have labels assigned
To be worthy of time and efforts

Individuals can live their lives
As long as they fall in lines
Neatly with the code of morality
With the standards of the acceptable

As long as people are sorry
And regret every digression
Into the lists of the unacceptable,
People can be free

We want all of our memories
And what they make us,
Analyzed, catetorized and arranged into stacks

Every decision and where it comes from
Justified and reasoned well

Sunrise and sunset
Reasoned away

Mistakes, blunders,
And all sorts of fuck ups
Owned up and corrected,
Excused and punished for

Relationships
Forgotten or remembered,
Never both

We want feelings and intuitions
Put into words,
Organized and summarized

Love and indifference
Formatted with bullets

Just so that
There is no scope for humanity

Just so that we can live peacefully
In our tiny little shells

Safe distance from confusion and conflict
Of confrontation with the nameless and shapeless

We live in a world of greys
But only see black and white

A new breeze everyday

Ah, cool breeze
I've been waiting for you

I've had my ups and downs
Its been a long day

I've lighted a cigarette waiting for you
Didn't really work

I sat here
A concrete terrace, in a concrete jungle

I've been looking at the cloudy skies
And feared a drizzle before you came along

I didn't really know I was waiting for you
Until you came unannounced

Now that you are here
Now I know

But you are a passer-by
A welcome guest on a short stay

For I know I have to leave you behind
I am a passer-by here too

For I know you have places to visit
And oceans to cross

For I know tomorrow is a different night
And I will await a different breeze

For tomorrow will be a different night indeed
And tomorrow will see a different me welcoming a different you

My thoughts with Opeth's Sorceress

1. Persephone
Is that an instrumental to start with. Sounds clean

2. Sorceress
Doesn't sound.. sophisticated.. for Opeth stereotypes. Different. Interesting concept.
Did I get a message on the phone.. is it charged up.. the song isn't that deep

3. Wilde Flowers
Nothing important on the phone, as usual. Need to look at this thing lesser. Don't need a lot of this shit anyways..
Wait, this sounds.. richer, cool lyrics - Heads on funeral pyres.. Hmm..
That Opeth feel at last

4. Will O The Wisp
OMG, I came here with expectations and they are starting to be fulfilled. Shouldn't start with expectations.
But what soft sound to start with..
This is only getting better..
These lyrics are to die for..
Reminds me of my favorite ones...
Beautiful
And the guitar goes on through out the song. Consistency (probably what I was looking for)
I need to save this on phone..

5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10

Cigarette after the joint - Short fiction

A man was sitting at a table in a lawn. His name was Attila, John. His fingers held a cigarette, which he lighted right after he finished the joint. He was brooding over his life in the past, and how he was now - contemplating his retirement from his city and old life, job and wife. He had been sitting at this table at half past four in the evening, every day the last year and a half.

Around when john had smoked half his cigarette,Prof. Krishnamurthy Naik came down the two step entrance into the lawn and asked John if he could borrow the lighter on the table. In reality, Krishnamurthy just held the lighter in his hand and raised it, and half glanced towards the stranger while saying, “Can I?”

It was sudden for John because he was too relaxed, but he was not surprised enough to react in haste. He was used to the valleys and mountains through which his mind took him when he was off guard. He said “Sure”

This sounded more like ‘sha..’ to Krishnamurthy’s ears. But then, Krishnamurthy knew that he would have sounded the same given the breeze from the sea, the calmness of the place and his own mind.

It had been three years since Krishnamurthy was disillusioned about his career as a social activist. Some day at age forty five, it dawned upon him that the most important thing was for him to be with himself all the time.The world was becoming too political for him, hence petty. He drifted here and there and ended up as a small time legal writer in this beach village in the south-west coast of India, where his engagement to the real world was limited to his dealings with his employers and colleagues. It was a hour job which paid well, yet was mechanical for him due to superior experiences. He was free to walk his walks the rest of the time.

He took the lighter and took a couple of steps towards the edge of the lawn where standing underneath the coconut trees, surrounded by small plants and grass, he could feel the vastness of  sea, while taking in the breeze coming from over it. He lighted a clove flavoured Marthin, his favorite, not usually available near the beach. He took his time to leave the lawn after finishing the cigarette - it was a magnetic place.

Krishnamurthy came back the next day around the same time and took the same lighter from the stranger sitting at the table. John wondered if they could be still be called strangers.

This went on, more or less everyday, for several years. No one spoke after the first day.

This lawn was attached to a sea facing lodge. Winds blew from under its nose, for the lodge was located on a ridge on a small mountain. It was a tourist kind of a place - but the tourists tended to turn settlers while the residents migrated away. It was the summer, and windy. Or so it seemed because of the spaciousness of the beach and waters ahead. Or maybe because of the brightness of the sun facing the lawn. Yet it wasn’t hot because of the cool breeze. Krishnamurthy spent hours walking the pavements that were laced between these small single-storey buildings and the mountain. The pavements had a view of the ocean from across the lawns. The lawns themselves were small, but looked luxurious due to the scenic background.

One day after these several years where nothing had changed about the place or the people, a third person entered the lawn when John and Krishnamurthy had been smoking their cigarettes as usual, quietly as usual. He wanted to sell some tea, so the kid shouted “Chai” in his native accent. Krishnamurthy said “two cups" and so started a conversation.

A simple day

A simple day

A pretty normal day, in fact
You grab an invitation with both hands
Like you’ve taught yourself you have to
A simple way to live
Take what you get and be willing to lose

You hitchhike a ride, and then ride some more
You reach somewhere, a helping hand or two
Meet a few good people, just see a few

You get into the wild, breathe some air
Breathe in and then some out
Make sure you count them loud

You think through this and that
Some good, some utterly silly
Through this and that
You end up somewhat different

You think you do
But how much of the change did you see through
But how same you are all through
Questions to ponder, lessons to learn

Right here, right now was never so right
A simple day, a few simple people and some night

One more

One more heartbreak
In a life full of heartbrakes

One more failure
In a lifetime of them

How much can it hurt to endure some pain
Where everything seems to feel numb

So many heartaches, day in day out
How many more can I take

Some more laughs, here and there
Some of them are very well
Some more mirrors, looking at me
Endure some, endure well

One more heartache
I am loving them
Give me more
I'll make sure nothing breaks

She called today

She called today and that made me happy.

She doesn't call often these days. Kind of a thing you try not to hope for and fail. Miserably.

I don't call her much these days. She seems upset when I do.

Which is ok. Its not hard to imagine the pain she goes through hearing my voice. But I don't really know why it is so.

Maybe it is the memories. Or maybe just that I find ways to fuck up simple conversations. I don't know.

Whatever the reason, it isn't easy for her to hear my voice these days.

Which makes her call all the more important. It tells me that she is ok. Maybe.

But surely, she has gathered enough strength to bear with me for a minute, or sometimes ten.

This means she has that strength, which I think she has only when the spirits are high. Or as high as possible, given everything.

But it tells me that she is ok. Probably. That makes me happy.

Not to mention what it means for me to hear her voice. That is not important.

It doesn't matter why she bothers calling me though, as long as she does. Maybe she just wants to see if I am doing alright. Definitely nothing more.

Maybe there is more. Hope is such a bitch.

Shaped by Others' Thoughts

Or is it so?

Well, what do I know
But, but, when:

You understand an idea
Walk with it
Live with it
Meditate on it
Ultimately agree with it (or maybe fall in love with it at the first sight)

When you hope that it is applied in the real world
When you know that acting on that idea is just the way to be

When you comprehend an idea so well that it is internal to you - it is no more just someone else's thought. If so, is the idea not your own, irrespective of where it is coming from? Are property rights for real?

---------

This goes in the context of being influenced by great works of art - be it music, literature, cinema or other forms of expression.

Picture : Band logo of Opeth

Good People are Everywhere

Maybe not everywhere
Well, they are somewhere
You need to be attract them using hunting traps sometimes
But they are in abundance, don't worry

They are standing around, waiting for people to ask for help

Many of them are lazy, you need to force the help out of them

They are reading books, and yes you are welcome to hear everything about it

They listen to music, some of it is actually good

They are everywhere, where there are arts involved

They are in over-supply where there is a joint going round

Good people smile just for the heck of it

They don't give fucks about you, in a good way, of course

They have learnt the hard way -  advice is only good when solicited

And to their pleasant surprise, most people are good to them too

Some people are bad to them, that happens from time to time.
But yeah, as if they give fucks..

Notes on Meditation

It vibrates, the shirt. Not often does it do this. The chest feels like it is pounding. Yet you are still. The mind is dizzy, but with clarity. Clarity which comes when you are completely present. The breathing is natural. The eyes are closed. And you can't see. Not even with the eyes closed.

The heart beats. And you need to be completely still to feel it. You need a calmness which is hard to achieve, which is priceless. You need to breathe and let the breathing take you in. Somehow.

And then you can feel it. The heart. It is almost violent. But it is consistent. And it has a rhythm. You shouldn't hear it. You have to feel it. In your head. Physically.

Meditation can do that. Sometimes. If you are lucky.

A beach without you

Having a hand to hold.. That is something
There was no shortage of details in those rooms

The way the tables and chairs were.. Straight
The way the sun dimmed and burnt out..

The way the smoke shined against the black

The way the flowers were painted on the grass
The way she looked at them with a gaping mouth..
A happy mouth..

The way the walls were grey when the lights were out
Not a grey of this world..
The way bodies shine in pitch dark

How the wine was red and dazy
It was all sweaty and sweet
The way the wind blew on our faces
It was the last time I saw my fate

The way the beach looks without you
So many details on the beach

Credibility, lost

My luck ran out I guess
Every once in a while, a refill is required
Sometimes, nothing can fill this bucket of emptiness

I've done too many things wrong this time
This bucket of credibility seems short of quantity now
I always thought I can make someone laugh and now, there is just silliness

The past seems like a mess in my head
I try to sum up the numbers and square the circles
Nothing seems to make much sense
But what I do remember I can say for sure
That that was not an accident, it was me and it was you
It was always me and you that sorted things out
Mopped the floor once in a while and started a new mess
Because we knew that home was worth the effort
And running away is not quite the right way

But people get tired I guess
Sometimes the mess is too much of a nuisance I guess
There is no more the ventilation and breathing space
Trust can be lost I guess, no one to blame but myself

I've done too many wrongs to right this time
Too much lost to laugh this time

Discipline and where to find it

I am asking. Not lecturing. The single most important thing for a complete life. And it is so hard to find.