freedom

If you saw a thing of incomparable beauty,
would you admire it
look at it with wonder
defile it
make it ugly
make it normal
Make it normal
Make it yours
Simply because you can
It might even be fun

the moon bleeds love

The moon bleeds pink the farms lie on either side welcoming like a thick mattress enveloped in black. Lie down on me envelope you in my moist embrace. The ac makes me sick the driver irritates. The silence could be cut if someone wanted to. The moon hides between black trees. The radio screams the milestone reads 45 The moon bleeds yellow between clouds the highway lies empty the speedometer hits a hundred and twenty. The car reeks of love and comfort. The radio screams… the boil on my butt is fit to burst. The moon is full and white. The milestone reads 17 and I can’t wait to get back home.

crowking

I am the crowking
deserted
I am the crowking
lost my murder

I am the crowking
hands in my pockets
I am the crowking
kingdom empty

I am the crowking
a crown of pigeon bones and rat skin
I am the crowking
alone

I am the crowking
nothing at all
I am the crowking
deserted

Pity me
Despise me
Hate me
Celebrate me

I am the crowking

Nothing

If I was to spin you my tale, you would feel revulsion and hate. I will spare you of these troubled emotions and skip to me as I am now. The crowking. Once proud and mighty. Now alone, standing with my back to my kingdom. The murders have cast me out. A king with no subjects is no king at all. My kingdom once all the sky of the western hemisphere, now a grassy patch of land and a solitary black tree. If a genie could grant me a wish, I would make one. If I had the power to change how things turned out, I would. By snapping my fingers, by magic. Make everything all right again. I could still do it. I could still get off my wings and do it. I could re-unite the murders lost to me. It would even be worth it but for now, I will wallow in self pity and croak my misfortune to the black tree and the grey grass. The black tree is my new palace. A palace for one. The grey grass my new sky. My wings are on my back and yet they are not. The black tree and the grey grass are all I have left. My places of rest, my friends, my dominion. The black tree stands barren. I rest among the hard branches and nest in twigs. The grey grass threatens to swallow me. I speak to them. all the time. The black tree and the grey grass do not speak to me. They hold their silence. Maybe they don’t listen, and so I can hope that they may not judge.

I am the crowking. Hands in my pockets back to the world.

Headrush

Headrush. And just like that, I’ve run out of words. Happy sad happy sad happy happy happy. Watch me dance. I entered the door and came out. A case of one forgotten ingredient. More important than any other. At a loss for words and feeling quite scared about it. Is this what its like to be ? Maybe. Moving on. I’m not, but life is.

The dogs on the street are restless. They haven’t howled in a few days. Or maybe I just didn’t listen hard enough. A productive night after a while. Not so guilty anymore. Tomorrow I might even play football.

Candlemass have re-united. The new self titled album has received uniformly excellent reviews. Seems kind of similar to the hype generated by Tempo Of The Damned or even Dance Of Death. Universally acclaimed in the first couple of months of release and then slowly people realised the songs weren’t all that good after all. Tempo has a few good songs while Dance got old very quickly. Still, it is Candlemass. It is the classic Ancient Dreams line up. I suppose we can hope.

If Napoleon was called Nappy, would diapers be called napoleons ? A friend threw this curve ball in my notebook. What do you think ?

the door

The door looks at me. Inviting me in. A dirty creamy colour with batman and the joker. With scotch tape stains and dust on the edges. The door looks at me and prays for me to enter. The handle is scuffed. Paint giving way to rusty hard iron. Offering myriad possibilities. I like that word. The cold hard feel of the floor inside. The tangy smell of life. Of sweat and soap and stale news. Green and white all bathed in neon. I sit, I stand I recline I dance. I see and I am blind. I laugh I cry I hurl abuse and immerse myself in mood. An attack of noises. Assailing each ear differently. Assailing each ear with sounds so intense as to drown you in them. The door looks at me. Pleading for me to come in. Please! It seems to be saying. Come in. Visiting the abyss on a dare, the walls a brighter shade of light. Traveling without moving ? Something like that. A ten ton hammer on my chest or the feel of blood on my lips. A delicate breeze on my face or a friendly hand on my back. The door opens into a new room every time. This music sucks but will sound so much better when I open the door and step inside. The door looks at me. The door welcomes me in.

today

Pin pricks on my skin
Wet sharp and pleasant
Death on the cards, Happy Ugadi
The devil and the goat
Biryani and blasphemy

The men are now a battered blue
The coffee is a muddy black
Crowley sits in front of us
Benevolent and willing

Red shoes riding evil breeze
Water warnings and coincidences
A buried chariot dust covered dying
Iced teas and drownings

Experiments in chaat
Recon missions in dark light
On the surface of the moon
In a canary yellow box

Whiskey weed and chains
Diving headfirst into the abyss
German steel welded industry
Insomnia and the will to kill

Today,
If the world had a vagina I would fuck it to death

drugs are bad

I don’t remember the last time I went to sleep sober. I tried to remember but I just couldn’t. Memory goes for a toss when you smoke up every fucking day. Or so they say. The last four days I’ve been sober and I’ve never felt so fucking miserable. Escape. I love to escape and marijuana lets me escape. Its just marijuana. Its not cocaine. Its not heroin. I’m addicted to marijuana. I’m turking in my room for marijuana. I’ve made fun of people for this. “How can anybody turk for marijuana ?” I know now. I feel like a wuss. This is my cry for sympathy but I’d be lucky to get a slap on my face. I don’t remember the last time I slept sober. I don’t remember the last time I took a break that I was able to sustain. Yes I do. Just now. My memory isn’t all gone. November – December 2003. I’ve been smoking the weed pretty much non-stop since then. When I roll myself a cigarette and smoke it my brain stops screaming. I can fool myself. I’m not addicted I just like the high. I fool myself.

Now is the time to climb on my soapbox and warn the children of the world about the evils of marijuana. I will not. Just one good marijuana trip outweighs all the evils it might contain. So fuck it. If you've never smoked weed then you have no idea what i'm talking about and you can be ignorant and happy. If you have smoked it, then you know what I'm talking about. So then, back to being a weekend warrior dear diary. Lets see how this goes then.

Napalm

Among The Wierdcong is such a kickass song. Fucking blistering album opener. M-16 makes Code Red look like pussy shit and Code Red wasn’t bad at all. Sodom are just fucking unstoppable.

Interesting Fact # 21642 : FreeRip MP3 jus brushes aside copy controlled OCDs.

People on the outside looking in. Not a cliché. Just a cold hard fact. What you gonna do ? Sister I been trippin’ in your sky.

A sense of apathy, tranquilized in a sea of daisies. Acid Bath mantras for everyone. Violence in my head now all the time. Oppressing the Masses ? My green shirt is not as comfy as it used to be. India lost in Bangalore. What a fun way to spend the weekend. The pretty girl is not here today. The cigarette smoke is.

The woman in the pink sari has a very pretty smile. Few women look good in pink. She looks light and airy, like she could fly away any minute. A gentle summer breeze ? She seems to be dreaming. Watching a spice girls video with a smile on her face. She is going to hate her Latte but smile through it anyway.

More hip hop videos. A techie talking wall street. The reggae man nodding his head. Waiting for the lawyer and eavesdropping.

Classic JC quote “ Doesn’t he feel like slapping himself when he hears his own singing ?” Wyrmboy on Richard Marx. I guess you had to be there. Phil Demell’s joined Machine Head as second guitarist. Violence ? Yes.

wishing and hoping

I rub my hands over the rough surface of my chest.
I finger the scars on my thigh.
I cling to my imperfections in the hope of salvation.
I hope. I wish. I do nothing else.

little girls and burnt arms

At the traffic lights around MG Road, its quite common to see little girls from the northern parts of the country begging. A rather large party of north indians migrated to the city a while back and when they found nothing else to feed themselves they quickly turned to begging. They may have been farmers in their villages but not anymore. Some still try to get by on the government emplyment scheme selling face masks, newspapers and things like that. Most have taken to the streets and beg for a living. Its a common sight to see most of the men missing an arm or a leg. This happened over a period of time and considering that begging is controlled completely by local goons it seemed like a calculated pattern of dismemberment. Now though, its the little girls. Two of them at two different traffic lights have burns on their arms. Both of them on their forearms and both of them on the left arm. Maybe the men with missing arms or legs weren't bringing in enough dough. Maybe I'm just being morbid and paranoid. Or maybe someone's out there burning the arms of little girls in the hope of making more money.

A third little girl with a burn on her arm will establish a pattern. The girls run away when I ask them the hows of the burns or get a confused look on their little faces and say they fell down.

I don't know what the point to this is, but begging in this city is organised and run by a few people. Again and again, it is the children, the innocents, with no one to stand up for them who pay. Right now, these children are paying with blood. I don't know how anyone can end this or even if there is anything that can help, but ideas would be welcome.

chance

613 songs on the playlist and I got Mad Season, Acid Bath, Alice In Chains and Lux Occulta in that order. Very nice. I have a feeling i’ll see the sun rise. Nice day. I was too lazy to do anything. Did nothing. Drank too much Iced Tea smoked too many cigarettes and kept hearing pop rock right through the day. They were all there. White Lion to Saigon Kick. I enjoyed it. I was even coming to greet Michael Learns To Rock with a smile on my face. The night promises to be interesting. Or very irritating. Depends on a few things.

I burst the blister that was on the tip of my finger. I bit into it. A small almost perfect circle appeared. The white liquid ran down my finger. It’s quite tasteless. It’s browning over now. Too small.

The clock in my car used to be late by an hour and a half. Now, all on its own, its fast by an hour.

The conversations I seem to be a part of seem like they should be in a movie. I feel like I’m living a movie when I have these bizarre coffee sessions that seem to go on forever.

The night was long, bizarre and anything but beautiful. Thankfully, Saturday was a lot better.

trainspotting

I’m trying to read Trainspotting. When Ewan McGregor jumps into the pot to retrieve his suppositories, its amusing. When Rents is wiping away shit from the retrieved goods, its not funny. It made me want to puke.

Last night I was all set to watch Jennifer Garner in Electra. I don’t know why so many looser superhero films are being made. Where’s that Batman Begins ? Anyway back to Electra, it promised to be terrible and then I realized I didn’t like Jennifer Garner. I knew the movie was going to be bad. Why the fuck did I get it ? Like shit, man! The CD didn’t play in the end. The audio didn’t work. I felt quite disgruntled. I watched Pi instead. Another weird little movie about this stupid mathematician. Still, the movie was good. The hero was an idiot. The soundtrack by Clint Mansell was awesome.

I also finished watching Kairo. Social commentary masquerading as horror. It has its moments. Again, it’s the soon becoming standard theme of loneliness in an urban setting. The Japanese are a lonely people.

np: Mynd Snare – Conditioned Human
Like holy shit man. This song rocks.

us

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Blood On My Fingers

3 in the morning. Making buttermilk. That was when I first noticed it. The blood on my hands. On my fingers. Yes. On my fingers. I don’t want it to go away. I don’t know how it got on there. Is it mine ? I don’t know. It’s just there. My fingers hurt in a strange sort of way. Maybe its just because I’m keeping them separate as I don’t want a smudging of the blood.

Blood on my fingers. I’m not bleeding.

yeno ondu

You know India Coffee House on MG Road ? There’s a crisis brewing there. A huge gap in the supply chain. The manager it seems doesn’t care. His exact words ? “I don’t give a fuck. Drink your cup of coffee, smoke your cigarette and go away. Fuck off now.” A sad state of affairs. Here’s the gap. The guy who pours the coffee in the kitchen goes off on a bathroom break. There’s nobody to pour the coffee into the empty waiting cups. The waiters aren’t qualified, the manager doesn’t care. What can you do but wait till the pourer of coffee comes back ? Now, I hate bringing up problems that I myself do not have a solution for. Yes. A rare moment of truth. I say empower the waiters. Let them pour the coffee into the cups. Pour it. Like nobody’s business. But only when the designated pourer is on his bathroom break. Empower the waiters. But who will ? The Manager still doesn’t give a fuck.

Tate’s changed the lyrics on the version of someone else with the full band.
The curd is far too cold and now my teeth are numb.
I could drive my fist through this computer screen but why would I ?
I could set my arm on fire. Well, why the fuck not ?
Why ? I don’t know man. Seemed like a good idea at the time.

My brain is slowly but surely shutting down. I should go and sleep now. I love Promised Land. I think its my favourite Queensryche. What blasphemy. Real World. One awesome song. Like Silent Lucidity with balls.

I saw half of audition. This movie’s going to fuck with my head big time. For sure. Its fucking horrible. Then I saw half of Kairo and its fucking scary. There are these fucking shadows that are just spooky. And this fucker who comes at you walking in shadow. Like fucking scary man. I should get some funny shit. Like a bunch of pink panther movies or something.

Heroin Chic, My Dying Bride’s moment in the sun
Or a disaster that should have been aborted at the start ?
Whore, a crimson angel on wings of desire
Or a killing of the pure ?
Do you care ?

I’m giggling far too much. At nothing. Scary shit. Damn these shadows. A cover should be an interpretation. I agree. Sound of silence like nevermore do it. An interpretation ? I think so. I just ran out of currency on my phone. This is so fucked. I need post paid. Wonderful. There’s a serial on Sony called Jassi Jaisi Koi Nahin. An odd looking young woman proving herself to the world. A constant underdog tag meant millions of women around the country identified with Jassi. So what if she looked like a reject from a Punjabi movie about retards. Anyone can win in India. Yes. I believe that. Say it enough times and you’ll believe anything. Drawing down the moon. The tea party is a fucking great band. Edges of Twilight I like a lot. And that acoustic thing with the Moroccan shit. Wyrmboy knows what I’m talking about. Heheh sorry. I’ll go look for something to eat then read for a bit. Enough of this for now. The time is 2:34am. Sleepy and hungry. Both of them. Sleep. Eat. Sleep. Eat. Eat ? Sleep. Fuck off now and read. Children are dying. That sums up everything wrong about this world. Deadhouse Gates. The Chain Of Dogs. Again. G’night.

weekends

This one was quite awesome.

Blind Girls, Chess and Cancer

The blind girl plays chess. Her friends look on. She’s the most attractive in that box of six. College romances abound. The potential for a cat fight is ruined by the advent of more friends. The tension dissipates. The girl with the straight brown hair is the cause for the tension. IBM looks like he needs sleep. Tattoo girl’s boy friend walks like Salman Khan. A gentle courting is in place. First time for both. The pieces on the chess board lie scattered on the table. The blind girl re-arranges it. The blonde American sits with the blond Indian. A confusion of identity. Everybody’s smoking. Everybody’s smoking. A man sits and reads the news by himself. Another Tuesday morning. The girl with the light brown eyes is lighting match sticks. She’d rather be in class. The call centre boys are here at the end of their shift. They should be home sleeping. Things don’t always work like that. There’s a boy in a dirty brown shirt. Sitting by himself. Smoking a cigarette. Cancer will the downfall of my generation. The music is strangely inoffensive. A pleasant enough day so far. More white skin. Where did all these foreigners come from ? Why are they here ? I notice the blind girl’s opponents. How come every girl today has great hair ? Not complaining, but how come ? I light another cigarette. Cancer will be our downfall. The chain smoking generation. My head hurts. I haven’t felt like this in a while. A lack of sleep. There’s a mad rush for the loo. A waiting line. The call centre boy is monopolizing the loo. The yellow girl is beginning to look frantic. The blind girl is still playing chess.

Project Bore

< style="font-family: arial;">Projector sounds like an uneasy mix of Moonspell on Irreligious and Children Of Bodom on Something Wild. Its all right but it has none of the intensity of their other albums. I may however grow to like it. That is the wonder of opinion. It can change. This is actually quite bad. Projector is Dark Tranquility’s One Second. Paradise Lost on One Second made a huge stylistic jump. I got one great song from that album and nothing else. Hopefully Projector will have one great song too. Nothing so far but hope remains. Projector’s kind of boring. Its half assed. Its as lame as the title of this little opinion.

Dance Dance Dance

Dance Dance Dance

Haruki Murakami

So what’s it about then ? I only have a vague idea. Is it any good ? Oh yes. Very good. I liked this book a lot. The story made me smile. It made me feel very sad but every now and then Murakami lets a ray of light pass through the story.

The book begins with the narrator dreaming of The Dolphin Hotel. A hotel he had visited four years previously. He dreams of the hotel and of some one there crying for him. He thinks of the woman he spent time with at the Dolphin Hotel. An enigma answering to the name Kiki. He decides that he must go back to the Dolphin Hotel. Find Kiki again. Dance Dance Dance is at its most basic level a search for friendship, companionship and love. The narrator moves from one setting to the next befriending people, connecting and all the while searching for Kiki. The one he lost, the one he let get away. Just one of the many that he has lost and just as always convinced himself that it wasn’t important. He comes into contact with a psychic 13 year old girl, an old class mate from school who is now doomed to play doctors and teachers in day time soaps, a one armed poet and the sheep man who tells him to dance. Keep on dancing. Something he tries to do to the best of his understanding and ability.

The book is also a strong statement on the capitalist leanings of modern society. Go ahead and put everything on that expense account. From high class call girls to dinners to fees for chaperoning your daughter. Everything can be put on your expense account and everything can be written off. Still, for the narrator it becomes more and more difficult to write off the expenses of his life.

Murakami writes with such a laid back sense of style that it becomes almost impossible to put this book down. Murakami excels in creating set pieces with two of his characters. The interactions, the oddities of every day life as portrayed through his characters have a strange sense of magnetism. The narrator’s relationship with the receptionist at the Dolphin Hotel is the lynchpin of the book. The slow setting of terms and the formal intimacy that develops between them is beautifully written.

In the end, Dance Dance Dance is a story of love, friendship, missed opportunities and a longing for something better out of life. All told in an unbelievably imaginative style. A great story told beautifully.

The Crossing Guard

As a rule I give right of way to the pedestrian. This has made me see something. When it’s a couple about to cross the road. I stop. Let them cross even though the male has made no move to cross. The woman is happy, smiling, the man looks fucking pissed. I even get the occasional mouthed thank you from the woman. The man is surly, disgruntled. Every time. Every fucking time. Why ? Have I hurt his ego ? Like fuck man, I could be running over you.. Won’t hurt to show your gratitude fucking scum. Learn something from the women who walk by your side.