My White World. August 24, 2008

I would live in a white house. The rooms would be painted white inside and white walls would surround me. The windows would be sealed to maintain the interiors clean and white. I would want some walls to be glossy and some walls to be matte. The floor would be white, maybe polished plain white marble with no stains on it. Clean, pure, white. They would all have to be the same white, not off-white or cream, pure white. Everything in the house would be white too. I’d have white carpets below my white couches and tables. The furniture will be elegant and simple, no fancy curves or fancy borders. Simply white. I would want everything to be perfect, the corners of my furniture, the corners where of the walls meet, they should all be perfect. No cracks, no signs of wear, no aging, no hand prints, no odd marks, no dust and no dirt. My backyard would have white shiny plastic trees, and I would have thick white carpets in place of grass. There would be a thoughtfully placed pond with crystal clear water. It would have white leafed white lotuses, and white water lilies floating in it. In my living room I’d place white frames with glossy typographic art printed on matte white paper. My library would have all books with white hard-cover, and stacked neatly, alphabetically organized on my white book-shelf. My bathroom would have soaps, and bathing liquids, and other items in white containers of the same shape and size. The kitchen will have white drawers with clean white utensils. My dinner plates, silverware and napkins will be pure white no fancy prints or silly colors. My bedroom will have a white bed, white work-table, and white posters. There will be a beautiful white guitar, and I will be sitting right beside it wearing my white suit, admiring the beauty.

Universal Soul June 30, 2008

This existence is like a glass of liquid with millions of undissolvable particles floating around in it. This state of the solution is the instant of existence that we classify as ‘living’ or ‘life’, agitated, lacking direction, something that seems to be completely driven by randomness. Eventually, the particles settle, and collect at the bottom of the glass, and join to form a single mass of matter there. This is the after-life, all of our souls unite to form this single universal soul, it knows all, it knows what you ate for breakfast today, what I ate for lunch, who you’ve loved, whom i’ve hated, your bad and good, my bad and good, it knows all. You, I and all of the ‘living’ creatures become this soul when each of our earthly existence comes to an end. After we become the soul, we realize everything, as we will know everything that has ever happened. If A stole something from B, the universal soul will have the memory of both A and B, it will remember what it feels to have something stolen from, it would know what it feels like to live with the guilt of stealing. It will exist in pain because of all this knowledge, but everything balances out, and so it remains motionless, stiking down at the bottom of the glass.

future in molten gold March 13, 2008

sparkling skies with a hint of cold mist,
sun light painting rainbows in silvery due drops,
soft wings of colorful butterflies flapping,
and the tiny leaves glowing a neon green.
silent strangers jogging in the bright garden,
running, but not moving. 
orange, peach and golden yellow
the colors of some flowers vary slowly.
constant hustle of short trees,
some are thin, while others are oddly shaped, 
as if they were taken out of an art exhibition.
red birds chirping in harmony, tunes of dreams,
flying close to the ground, orbiting the feeders.
clean white plastic locomotives hovering in the vacuum above,
no noise, but there’s a strange melodic ambience,
distant sounds of clarinets and bass.
floating houses, and cloud-like rooms,
linked buildings, and conjoined living spaces,
form a pretty scene in the far.
crawling babies fill the space below, 
they are happy and playful.
our beautiful women observe from flying bubbles,
young boys ride their bikes on Escher-pathways,
some throw pebbles into the water mass nearby,
to form ripples that follow no laws of physics.
all of their faces show satisfaction and contempt.
they are all safe here. 
my white suit is wearing off, and needs polishing.

puffy tuesday February 26, 2008

it’s a great day, its sunny, bright.. not too hot, kinda warm.. kinda cold. But i feel..  a little like this

Pumpkin Man.. February 20, 2008

Here’s something that I drew for no particular reason. Enjoy. 

Salt – food or not? February 2, 2008

Well? What do you think? Is salt food? Hmm.. I guess it depends on what’s your definition of  food. For me, food is something that you can have a plate full in one go, with a bit of water, or some liquid, like alcohol, or maybe milk, vanilla flavored coffee? Maybe. You know. But salt? It doesn’t qualify for the prestigious category of “food”. Yes of course everything we eat has some amount of salt in it, but how many times have you heard anyone say – “well, I’m stuffed with all those plates of salt I had for lunch today” Bah! Never! I’ve never heard anyone say that, well at least till today. You can’t sit there and eat plates full of salt every morning, for breakfast, or night and call it your dinner. You’d probably die with too much salt in your brain and all that electricity it causes due to electrolysis or something. Or as Joe says – “…maybe you’ll pee solid and die with all that pain.” So that’s a clear fact then, that salt isn’t food. I’ll put it under chemicals. Yea. Let’s settle it there. Salt – not food, right?

she was beautiful June 15, 2007

she stood there. right in front of the mirror. stroking her hair. stroking it gently. enjoying the company of her beauty. the mirror would smile. at her silly act. this was her routine. she’d do this everyday. and the hair would bounce back everytime she played with it. and she seemed so proud of herself. after an hour or so, she’d start over and enjoy it even more. she’d stare at herself over and over. admire her smile. eyelashes. soft skin. beauty divine. a lonely pearl necklace dangled on her thin neck. accenting it even more. and her so proportionally carved out body. could she be any better. she’d refuse to wear anything. she feared that cotton would scratch her skin and silk would be too heavy. that unclothed body was like that of an angels. all she lacked was a pair of wings and a golden harp by her side. and she’d sing with her lovely voice. soft like no other. a melodic angel. and her white skin would glow. lighting up the dark room where she sat all day. rarely she would glance out the only window in the room. and watch slow seagulls fly across the shore. they always seemed hungry and never satisfied with fishes. she would listen carefully for unusual sounds that the ocean sometimes made when the moon’s gravity would pull the water up. above the sand lines. but she never knew what made those seagulls fly or the ocean sing. and she sat there. alone. but she was comforted by her own self. a kind old man would occasionally visit her there. and she’d be thrilled. he was very old and kind. they would dine together sometimes. he never spoke a single word. and all she’d do was continue to hum and watch him curiously. after the first few visits they got along very well and had become the best of friends. she had started to enjoy his silent presence. after he left she’d sit there again on her own. with her diary. a fountain pen. and a bunch of old photographs. laminated and kept neatly in the lower compartments of the grooming table. this table and a nice cozy bed which was never used, were the only furnitures in there. she’d sometimes write about the way she felt, but soon she’d end up writing the same things she wrote almost everyday. she’d write about a small girl. and other times she’d write an agonizing story of a young man who was brutally killed in front of his 7 year old daughter. she never knew why she’d write such stories, but she would be surprised everyday to find those same two stories written over and over in that book. and then she’d read it again. and smile in a confused way. but that was a perfect smile. the best in this room. the best in this home. the home for invalids. beautiful she was. so beautiful it makes me cry.

complete mountain expedition June 1, 2007

its a bad thing to end good things. and then it happens very often. so often that u get into the habit of ending it as soon as u get it started. i cud end this post right here and prove my point. but. i hate doing this. most of the times. but that’s what makes a good thing good. like that smell of a fresh pizza out of a coal oven, with its crust thickened and colored in a #C5A21, or that sound of a water evaporating over burning wet wood on a sizzler pan. it’s short. and that makes it good. the sound. only. but for me, time will define goodness. be it delicious food that lasts for 5 minutes, a football game of 90 minutes, or a bottle of beer that lasts for only about 30 seconds. somethings are best when they last the shortest duration. ooo.. even that 30 seconds of bang bang. power bang. that’s what i convince them with. or maybe like jimi and curt, who did their bit, real well. in their tiny lives. packed. punched. and weird. they’re all gone. but that goodness which lasted only an instance will keep them here. even now. even later in the evening. because it’s in your brain. already. like sparks which will ignite more substance then titanium melting in a hot furnace. short sparks. enough. a lightening. short. very. powerful. very very. strange things will be short. too.

safe crap, freedom and dog waffers May 31, 2007

now i’m slowly getting addicted to publishing crap here. n so, like every other paranoid android, i was wondering the worst case scenario of this stupid blog. my non-existant 6th sense tells me this is what’ll happen.

1. people will ban me from exposure to daylight. they’ll find my writings too sentimental, or plain mental. docs will declare that my writings

a rotten fishy pot May 26, 2007

he flew like a golden eagle among the five of the pot. shining. with silvery skin and black scars. he moved boldly. like he owned the tiny shrub. eating little and frolicking. all day. all night. the pellets meant nothing to him. he was beyond that world. and by far my favorite. she called him “jackie”. and i called him “yo”. his pouted face. i watched constantly. for 24 hours. like a professed scientist filming a rare species. a 3 year old watching its reflection in the mirror. stunned. thrilled by the likeness. i made a note of his every move. every moment. gazing at him within his confined universe. playfully lost in 0.5% chlorine. and then he’d hide between fake pebbles. he’d fall a sleep. for a minute. i’d tap his universe and he’d jump back to action. it had been hours. lots of them. and i was beginning to clearly see myself in this glass. a microscopic soul. living large. in a small world. but unlike me, he was much smaller. no bigger than a coin. and something bothered him. i could see his core shake. wobble. he was restless. maybe he knew what day tomorrow would be. an intuition. like sometimes you feel that way, and you know what the next second will bring along with it. hardships or joy. a toy or a boy. like that phone call from your father’s hospital. or a dream that reminds you of your guilty deeds. secret sins. a nightmare, it was for him. at noon. then at 4. i was busy with css. every minute was lost in painstaking strokes on cheap black keys. i had to get air. just like him. so i chose to step out of my confinement. to socialize. to eat free chicken and curry rolled in indian bread. a regular trip to the greens. and talks about unusual metals and rocks. i got my heart pumping again. my mind cleared off. fresh. like an old jack hammer that was filed and polished. shiny. silvery. and then i decided to move back. sweet confinement. everything the way it was when i left. and the rain had scented the moist air with wet mud. nice. nostalgic. and. i saw him. silent. unlike his usual self. drifting. speechlessly. motionless. like a storm that had sobered down. like titanic after the crash. not so nice. the shrub was no longer owned. the eagle flew way too far. beyond my reach. into the horizon. he had seen his last nightmare. and continued to sleep. in his own sacred universe. that was no longer confined within the convex glass walls. sweer dreams “yo”.