day

random

2008-11-13T11:15:00.000-08:00

like the pillow on the bed next to the green bedsheet, i sit next to the green bedsheet with contemplating sounds of the digestive noises stomach makes when you are not sure about your own hunger sitting next to the green bedsheet and a fluffy black wintercoverup. who is not excited by holmes, is not a complete human being.. :P and your home, it lies next to the nest of puppies of the dogman and maddogs. these submissions drive you crazy at times, almost when its done, you realise its not yet started.

theres an inspiration

2008-11-12T04:38:00.000-08:00

there's an inspiration every now and then, the so called inspiration, that one does . exams are one such insiration. they lead you into go-thru of rhetoric of irritability and imagination. so. the girl smiles at the end of the road through my window. and a bus goes throught the noise of the footsteps of the window. and you sit here. type. record. with this digital camera like transformation that you ve become. reels and wheels transformed to letters and ears. And the loneliness of examinations updates itself through the add-ons, the tutorials. that remind you every now and then that examd are not the end.. they are just a symptom. on the brighter side of it, we have the brighter side. you get exposed to so much shit. break your inertia towards things. let yourself be organ-ised till things get over. look for more creative possibilities of dying the tutes and exams in the most goodlookingways. and finally, go to the whereveryouwant places and do whateveryoufeellike things. thats would be the eventual happening, if it occurs.

freud, sherlock holmes

2008-11-07T18:00:00.000-08:00

freud and holmes seems like similar entities tring to do similar jobs. jobs of guessing the most unguessable with a scientific determination, mostly in the most surprisingly accurately, and at times they seems to acknowledge their own mistakes.
what triggered me, write all this is the following: :P
how can holmes make his judgements so correctlly, about individuals, basing his arguements upon the facts, as he calls them.? he guesses rightly mostly (as if he's living: but still, possibility exists that his deduction is perfect, as i read thru) : he guesses even the mistakes we tend to commit, and whats more: he bases his own orguement upon these guessed-mistakes. they might not be mistakes always, there's always a certainity that all that holmes considers as facts might be mere accidental happenings, and so are freuds. but then, what's interesting is that basing their arguements on these unmistakable obsessional accidents of the humane, they come to sensible conclusions. So, as i see it the humane, seems to be innately obsessional, in events it involves with : the parapraxes, the clues one leaves while trying to not leave any. isnt that li'l striking similarity.
the one who trys to hide facts. conscious. parapraxes. the way holmes stuns us. the way freud digs into us. may be holmes just triggered off freuds psychoanalysis. or freud, the holmes of our mental lives.

maddening

2008-10-25T04:54:00.000-07:00

shit.
the world moves in different directions. different levels. different phases. phrases. in different phrases. low and high. yes and no. here and there. now and then.it depresses you, only cuz its depressed. its depressed cuz in you there is world thats depressed like the one out there. lets write the depression. live it. celeberate it, for it gives us no choice at all but to live it. but to hate it. but to like it too, cuz in it there is existance. in it the living goes on. chiocelessly seemlessly. pitylessly. in it we live those lives that love us. those we love. in it we see the manifestations of the narscious self destructive selves that give us pain. that seek pleasure. that run the heads that run our heads. that seek the pleasures we have been seeing. that eliminates the pains we seek. that eliminate the pains we run towards. we should psychoanalyse the selves. we, the hundred bunches of crazy fuckedup ones sitting weeping loittering here and there everywhere every time in every possible pain and place. in every probable whining and sinning. we, the depressed souls. me and you. me. you, nomore depressed, cuse i was no more depressed then. but now we are, me and you. the faces that we saw them see us. the faces that we hid from the faces that would see us. the faces of all those everlasting deaths. deaths of faces that we made to show off how nondepressed we were. how depressing they were. the faces that tried to analyse and reanalyse our faces just because they were faces too. whats there in this goddamn face. smile. tear and thats all? the eyes that shrink and bulge, at the same time and the lips that soften and widen in the same moment we can make it too. like we make a doll out of some mud. like me make all that we can make of all that we might have had.like all that. i ve to bath now

goa and all that

2008-10-13T01:59:00.000-07:00

to cover distance like a crazy pig is a funny thing and an interesting one too.. and a resting one, so to say. delhi. haha.. the unreconciliable fact that i was am being there and to reach a kanada speaking peoples faces in less than a meal or so, is a real schockingly nice thing. started off, by new faces, the faces that i ve seen long back, other than familiar ones, like that of the bloody relations: the other ones' the more interesting little kids and girls. yuoung girls, those i knew as childrean they were. meeting them all, is not bad either. goa, starts off with battles. thats an old saying i said to myself, almost. long back. now it came true again. though i just watched all the fights with the kids, not cuz i was scared i'd get beaten up, but more cuz i'm kinda shy n all that and then there's no point fighting such a thing, i thought. then twop more fights. lots of bikini girls around. beaches. beach mei anaek stories. and another day, end up here in ananatapur after long. with everyone not bothereing me much abt strifes. just that at times they feel i am mad or something. and othere times, i am a genious obviously. but more of all, the exciting thing is bangalore. i ll be theer mostly. mostly , almost there by day after atleast. meet rashmi. put date. meet sudamsu. abshek. though i ve not told much, anyone abt this visit. and then, meet places. places that saw me. places i saw. i would be pleassured and pleasent to see them all. its nice to see them all. from a boy, knowing nothing, to a bhai, like. its not bad fun. and to see bangalore, here i wait. mg. and every thing else.

scream of consciousness: confessions of a troubled conscience

2008-09-26T09:34:00.000-07:00

who's dumb? scream. consciounce. conscioussness. world. is there another way look at world..
some times i would be hopelessly dumb. but how? hopelessly. whats that? dumbness. that i see a way a grammar of looking at things. is there something like dumbness. may be not. not atleast the other things that exit really. then how's someone dumb.? better understanding of the world? whats that? as if it betters day by day? is nt that dumb? why?whynot? may be not.. cus things /people are'nt like really dumb like me or you? they live. we live. everything exists. time. space. murder is that a dumb thing? conscience? consciousseness? whats the point me typing?
yes and no. we can see the world, not really in categeries may be. may be not. i u.me them. good bad. worse. terrible not bad. all that. world's dumb? may be i am?
but can we be gods? like escaping freudian slips. freudian truths.? may be.. but may be we cant.
world is fucked up. that seems sometimes true. may be not too.. then what is it i wanna type. dunno. then how does it matter.? scream it out conscience. thats what i choicelessly drive myself into. norrow broad? thats another screamatic q. lets wonder. ponder. wilder dreams i've seen. it matters that i exist.. we exist.. it choicelessly matters at times, even if the w is fked up or not..
hedonism. may be that drives me. we cant generalise u see.. may be that drives me, as i am. but freud.. i cant reject.. may be he shd be relooked. but how.. some basic. yea. universal. eralised. morals. may be, even if not 'morals' may be conscience. it drives us. i call some dumb, may be out of conscience. may be out of hedonism. may be both are same. may be they arent. but. base of it. i exist. i like to exist. and may be all of us do. and may be so murder is wrong for me. but how was it right? bot for me, as a i. for some it was. and they showed it that way. then. if some one points gun on me, i 'd feelmurder is both good and bad in the sense that i would probably not mind risking someone's life for mine, or something else just cuz i love existing like anyone else.
well. thats lots of thought mastrbtn. but. murder is bad. now. at this point, if i dont over imagine.
ahh.. but whatsoever. vote for hedonism. to all those sages who convinced and still convince me on whatsoever, cuz thats what it is. i am convinced to love to live to love to live to live.

!@#$#$#$%

2008-09-22T20:24:00.000-07:00

Some times we are fucked.Waking up in the spell of sleep, and sleeping while sun is on. Sometimes the word is F. Waking under the songs and tunes of m.s.subbalakshmi’s morningsongs. And sleeping while everyone is still coping up with photons. And only when you look at all the pictures, you see them. The old days. Like the good old one’s. And the bad now ones, as if. To keep up whole night and watch 2 movies and all that would probably mean typing all this. I would probably encrypt this. And sometimes we are more f-ed. Arundathi girl sick. I completes my lost tutorial. Not bad a book it is, only when i look at it back, the stone gods shit. And typing all this would give me a typing practice too. Experimenting days and nights with days and nights and sleep. Its a nice thing. A new thing no one would ever know. Haha. Let the dogs scream into the distances assuming my own presence. I like Bangalore. I miss it at times. To miss it means that feeling unknown that you feel, that kinda sense of loss and all that. Probably you see only that cuz its like pronounced some times. Like the nights like the last one. Rahul! Get up! Its morning. I can tell you, it wouldn’t arouse similar feelings in me, that sentence, now on. Its like sleeping all the day and all the night and waking it all too, like walking through all that in one go. Thats a nice thing. A different one. Like linguistic differences and all that. Got up late yesterday. Ahh.. let me not use yesterdays todays and all of them, that seems to stop making sense to my head now. This morning. Like that bright one, one could imagine in opposition to the night i was awake. Continuity. Continuity, it makes you think different and difficult at times. Got up last evening, around six or something. High. Then thoughts. Types. Movies. Some music. No talks. Type. Type more. Type stone gods book review. Think. Watch more movies. Finally completely saw minsara kanvu., that telugu merupu kalalu. That actually similarises the book i was trying to comprehend., or may be its just my projection. Its seven thirty time now. Morning. Sleep sounds heard. I like it sometimes when i don’t sleep and don’t get it either cuz i might have overslept last two three days. Thats a funny thing: last two three days. People here study a lot. Not all of them, may be., but mostly, if you go to the library all that you see is people studying, especially in that reading room. Thats a funny thing. To read all the time. Have you ever read all the time? What does that mean? Why? I don’t wanna think of how. I can see how. Sometimes all that one can do is, just fucking wait. Wait like a crazy pig that runs around the world preaching some god damn shit to whoever ignores it, just because it has to wait and thats a nice way to wait cuz its a crazy shit. I think of rushme and prithvi and jsph and tarun and aswwini and tejas us and all of them all of us. It leaves a bitter crazyness to wait to meet all of them sometime. And all that you can think of is that crazy pig. I can wake up now. Its morning. Moreover i haven’t slept and there seems like i have a class in some time. Its a good thing to do: attend class. Sometimes all that one can do is wait. Like who imagined or would ever imagine myself being thinking of doing something here in jnu in ma in history in modern history here in this god damn political shit. Who would ve guessed it all. I miss sg playa especially, that image of it, all the more. The smell of forum, smell of the dark dingy rooms we were part of, dark dingy theatres people heads beds and ideas that surrounded us all that romantic piece of crap, all that sparks into the head in a microsecond or so. Just in that much time and then bhooo its gone. Like the wind that blows in anantapur when javed came. Like the wind that i magined in Bangalore on one fine afternoon taking breath in and breath out, waiting, wanting and fearing. The images, some of them no one never forgets. Like the sg playa smell when you get depressed, like the sg playa smell when you have exams, like its colours when they decide to send us into holldays like all that shit, i still can live it all typing it all as i see it all as i try to show it all. The chicken, the hotels of eight rupee dinners, the street lights of psychology exams. The flunking, the narratives created, narcotics imagined, hallucinations felt and went, another day. Another fucking day living with no one talking no one taking no one. And all months spent thinking. Thinking to not think and all that crazy philosophical gibber. And all that crazy walk-alone-nights walk-alone-deppressive mornings, undeppressed switching off the head. And all that. And there would have been time, yet for a million indescissions. And yet i could have typed all this different tonely, lonely. After reading dostoevskys story telling hideousness and raskolnikov and how i went on long night walks Alexander. What a badam milk we would have ruminating the pasts of freudean fortenightly dreams and stream of consciousness walks that would lead us everywhere all those free legged thoughts that would time-travel us thru the ideas each know, waiting for the tea shops to open. Waiting for the nightssleep to stop and waiting sitting down ahead of the closed hotels and shops of sgpalya that slept men inside them and how brilliant is it all to ruminate it all , here and now at such a distanted time and space. In jnu after a sleeplessnight before a sleepy class and in the morning-dog-barks.

dalhi

2008-08-23T23:51:00.000-07:00

woke up in a disappointement of a bangalore dream. after a dis apointment.needed to write assignment abt indian IAS ICS kinda crap. so it more depressing. late daysze. fuked up timetables. too much to read and think. think about reading. trying making time.few frnds. not many. literature all the more interesting, its becoming. misses things at times, not home, bang n all that. wana read some lit., not so dry history though, though it seems like, at times. new perspectives on indianpendence, some shocking ones though, like new ones, with rigrous study n all that. exteremely dis-organisedd though, me. it helps to be so, or else how to imagine reading so much. having my li'l small ways of reducing it all.was thinking of all, when i gets up from a dream: tjs,aswni,tia,rushm,arndt,mike,prth,rj,trn.. that night tht unkown day that unkonwn afternoon, those li'l big write-ups on all those that was tryin to happen, all those masked words,happy words masking sadness, all that.. done with this ias shit!

how deadly..

2008-07-05T08:14:00.000-07:00

lot of it. insanity sometimes. a loneliness at times. random people. long talks. longer pauses. no more luxurious.
sg palya like muslim houses. dogmatic talks. talks filled with muslim dogma. anti-left dogma one more end.
oh busses.. binaries of metros. metros nice nice. simar was much nicer.
a day with puy. last night in that muslim suberb. muslim godma. i mean it, if you really ever understand that word.
should get tickets soon for back.
how hot it is..! terribly hot. rained too..
oh that girl was really nice. she was beautiful too. that one i met in the bus. that muslim school girl who got down at jamia and showed me way to meet puy. she was extremely nice i think.
dont even know her name though.
a night -yesterday night- of that stay with ones i never knew. all old stuffy muslim buildings. they are hot too.. here every thing gets hotter with extra humidity added to hotness.
jnu camput not so bad though.. oh!
oh! the way i got down and speedened my walk as soon as i got down paid auto guy and more importantly as soon as i heard someone scueech a telugu voice how i ran and asked them, meery telugaa.. and how they started talking like we meet there everyday.. how funny and nice it was.. to find the air of known language between the english stupidity and hindi suprimacy and telugu intimacy and bengali papdi chat..
see.. this makes you mad too attimes..
how excitedly i heard the voice of that girl.. and how i felt as if i feel not so lonely again in that lonely travelling auto..
its all crazy macha..
one guy asks me, here like some gk question,"what is your mother tongue?" and how naive i thought he was and how i dint answer him its telugu and how he thinks i am so naive to not only not know the mothertongue of ours, which is hindi, inspite of not being able to understand it i dont even know the answer..
haha! how funny sir..
deadly delli.
...may be marxists practically understand the Alienation effect thru delhi. and so come here to understand it..
by t way whence ma train back?

deadly delli

2008-07-05T08:12:00.000-07:00

delhi. i tell you, deadly thing it is..

intensions

2008-06-28T06:58:00.000-07:00

haha. finally its may be, nice to write again tenatively. haha doesnt always mean haha u see.. i like auto biographies. not the ones u read here n there. the real ones i mean. my interest in freud is increasing again. as if it was the same all while.. rainy days, you see.. rain comes and goes. its all funny. the rain. the same moment the whole thing rains. not just ouside your heart.. haha! how poetic, would that what i'd say? how pathetic fallacy, is the literary nature of it may be. how can i waste time like this? hehe.. dont you? thats sad.. i ll not tell what it is that is sad. lights go and come inthe litten sg palya. like they go and come anywhere else in the world, except in america: a place where there's no darkness.. how allusive?! haha. not at all.. what a dialogue you!?! i should probably remind myself of that face book scrap and get flattered about how my blog is nice and all.. thats human nature you see, gentlemen.. :P. the reminiscences of dostyovisky havent yet left me all..
that was a nice movie.. babies day out n all.. thats not at all bad, and kid was also not real it seems.. some one told me in atp. that was a nice movie then.. but now i ve not seen it recently..
you see, i act as if i am bringing out some philosophical truth thru a dubious monologue... haha.. i know so many words in english..bye me

spacetime change

2008-06-10T01:34:00.000-07:00

took off a bus quiet unwillingly, till i reached here. my unwillingness accompanied no terrific reason, except that i wanted a spacetime change. this very thought of breaking one's own inertia is at times intimidating, for me atleast. the bus too, quiet unwilling, as it was, was struggling to keep itself unaffected by those roads, with not so many humps, first the passengers doubted the roads, then the driver's abilities and finally the bus itself, whose seats almost were moving in accordance with their busser self.
And the nights auto driver who demanded for 30 and got it paid started to gossip about his brother's habitual drinking that ruined him. and so he was taking care of his brother, who went down to get something from the auto i was going in, and who had previously scared his brother's passengers like he scared me, by repeatedly demanding 50 rs.. his brother all-sad was genuinely looking for a sort of telling-it-off to someone. so was i there.
and just now it was, as it sometimes does, tried to rain. and thats the only reason why i came out in search of rain.. with its disappointment, since it didnot rain, i am here. here waiting for all sorts of godots.. and the secret remains undisturbed like all nice secrets of the world, and the secret is.. haha its a secret and you'd know if i ve ever told you, like i did..

crazymess

2008-06-08T06:14:00.000-07:00

A day of lone homeness, with that old servant lady. Cant help remembering all the days, which accompanied all the hummable songs, that never went out of my mouth in solitude. All those hummable classical noises. I might have to run to home or something, out of all the pressure, that comes from all sides, to pop me out of this place, like the blood that comes out of that bigant's head when you poke it with a pin. How i love and loved, those songs, and all those whoever associated with those little noises..!
It all seems like a huge dream that's there always. here and there. now and then. all those rememberable poems that went along with the faces that looked like the manifestations of those poems, seemed to empty their colours of faces with the running of watches they wore. they all will still run, into red, blue and green. an year will go. so will ten years. then.? then i am here typing all this, about ten years back. ten years back, thats when i might have been thought of writing this all.. but what was i, then? probably a 5 th class boy. lrg school. first time to that school. those horrific days of tuitions studies marks and little things that would make you happy forever. like thinking about the day, when you would go from all that which pained you. haha.. images of those dreams, like those of thoughts mixed with pictures and small sounds. and finally get up to only find it all waiting for you somewhere there. here... and as it runs ten more years.. those watches, what would i write. i would write about today, about those dreams that almost teared me today. like all those daymares. about all the inertia of time that had finally reached a threshold level. about those hummable classical things, like all those tunes and all that including poems that are good to think of. about the place i would be in, about the place i would in, then, a hill. green colours around, here and there. that wouldnt matter much to me, then. yeah.. that rain, then infinite rain with death like cold, those i'd be with, at that point, all those of those distant times, says to me, 'type this all..' so that you can read it again then, read it again, thinking about the fortune doers, we have been. thinking about the day we thought for, that we would be in. thinking about all those vision and mission like sentences uttered in times of intensified miseries, mysteries and thoughtalks. and all those that i would tell you then.. then i would go there, near that computer.. then say, 'look what i knew'

daypression

2008-06-04T08:35:00.000-07:00

today. had to get up by seven thirty(though i only lifted myself into the air against the gravity, inertia and all that only by 8.20). Got up then. Had to search around for the book to go through. history. puys place closed. so pointlessly walked all the way thinking of all that that sg palya can make you do, only to call her when i was almost there and turn my back with bookless hope. sad start as you see, gentlemen! but my spirits were all still trying to be so high in midst of bathless dirt which i hate during mornings, that i was in. So out of pure narcissistic impulses i went on enjoying the terrible taste that i get when bathing is not there. thus the exam hall i went along with those two, j. and ch. was also not a terrific expedition for the day which awaited me with some more bitter chocolates that would make me wet my eyes in the next last half of the day. night, may be. As one sees, everything is almost connected, except that the connecting factor seems like an absurd improbability at times. I wonder why i wet my eyes. Out of narcissistic impulses may be. its hard to live with this disorder you see, NPD. with mild attacks of hypochondriacal schizophrenia. and delusions, accompanied with no real
hypochondria. That was the day, almost like. in the fumes of all that shit-like-smelling things. After I go there. the exam. write it not so badly, atleast not as good as my psych shit. Out of all old traumatic events, whose smells were still very much felt, i should have guessed it all in the morning, that dint let my Nietzschean inertia, choose me sleep. As this very failure of inertia of sleep makes me now, type all this. type it all with so much dedication and all that, as if its my head dictating all these to my fingers, as if my brain is pouring it all here. this stinks,you see.. Finally, in the evening i had to take this bath, to atleast sleep in damp for an hr or so.. after spending it all there in warm solitude, then, ahh.. then i wanted to sleep. which i partially did and partially couldn't out of all thoughts, impressions, interpretations of my own absurd self thats making me type all this shit..
And head aches in the middle of all that, me out for my personal doctor. personal hospital thats the best headache curer. hospital: not so short walk in that long road looking at all those colourful faces, where i see this real nice looking girl and near my personal medicine, that i eat as days like these, the pani puri gampa. then i have it there looking at the dog thats there in that girl's purse. it was nice. hehe.. so i told hehe. then ate pani puri to go back home in search of the second slapping event of the day, that triggered off the grand wet in my eyes.. and the kid sleeping next to this tchch tchch sounds like a eye-closed-cat making shhh shhhh sounds in midst her even more depressive day trys sleeping to calm her first dep.

day?

2008-06-02T11:33:00.000-07:00

day it is? is it a day, not in us, in here, where the light is just absolutely almost unpresent.? no. its not. its night. with the sjoo sjoo sounding, sleep breaths kids make when a sleep, in a wghoo wghoo fanned room, where ktchk ktchk sounds are often orgasmated between the keyboard's keys and my finger's tips.
what to do to go to sleep? one of my relatives, or may be my aunt, -another one- used to say you read means you will get sleep. and the same one, or may be someone else, used to say one time writing equals to twenty times reading. To accelerate the intensity of the sleep that would sleep me tonight, i shall probably have to write, to make the sleep come, twenty times faster than read-to-sleep technique, Zavaedasthura at times, propagate.
what all you night, you have to day, first. And versa vice.
sleepy.
delirious.
not-so-sleepy.

sleeplessly,
nocturnal Homo sapian.

junenoon

2008-06-02T04:34:00.000-07:00

june is the day. its a month but, the month where you waanna pee so badly and all. thats why one should always look for trees properly.. but thats a terriffic thing, to keep looking for trees into treelessness.
I seems to sound pleasanter now.
wish i had a gun..

new blog

2008-06-01T22:57:00.000-07:00

:) defining newness seems too absurd now, with me, flirtatiously typing in, these words here and there, now and then.
This is just an effort to start off, start off, triggering some shots in head.
How much i have tried to do this, in last few days, to sit here like this and type.. How much i still don't want to type all this..
flights screaming in the distances, all the last screams, they can, into my ear, before they cease to produce such a reverberation in my ear's drum.
can we drum our dreams? what weird dreams are those?!
Breaking the same broken thing again and again in dreams,and serving the similar intensity of effect, as it happens, when it really breaks. my phone and sole.
in the shadows of light that go of and off, ting and ting, as they go on and on.. like they do, at times when you make a poetic effort to notice them..a conscious poetic effort to effect the soul in so-and-so patterns.
i cant still believe i am writing this all, killing the time, skilfully, romantically and literally.
Lilly? she is dead and gone now. even her memories almost fading there, like, you don't feel the same shock all the time, except that it increases at times, uncontrollably, unlike this time. and that's a real good thing. the way the shock decreases as the time and proximity approximates, and deproximates, like the uncertainty that positively ascertains itself, when you look into the distance thinking about the lost girl.
How it feels to loose? like me, writing, now? like me, killing it all now? like you too, killing it all now?
what are we killing?
nothing.