I write. It emancipates the shit outta me. It gives me rope to the other world. The world where I live freely. Emancipating the shit outta the souls that love to read what I write.
Lately, I haven't been writing. It indicates -> I can't write.
Hrithik Roshan, Deve Gouda, Hank Moody and the likes have experienced shit very close to what I am feeling right now. Lack of creative genius.
I can tell you where I've been, what I've been doing, what I've learnt and what I've got close to. But no man does anything till he feels he's been challenged. Yours truly just was. Times are hard. They get harder in anticipation of separation of beautiful and illuminating company of fellow humans. I've realized its got nothing to do with not blogging.
Been there, wrecked that:
I wreck. I distort the beautiful sounds of an acoustic guitar so badly, it turns into instant death metal and yes you can EAT mys hit. Fry mys hit, boil it, add salt and water to it. It still stays death. M-E-T-A-L. Ringin' my head.
Jumping from the 5th fret on the 3rd string to the 12th fret on the 1st string I'd like to say FUCK Y-O-U!
Not such a great post to start blogging again but whatever. I'm done polishing my writing in bulk to put it up on the web cause too many posts are stuck in the pipeline because of that. SO.
Piece of news: going for a vacation to India for two months. Plan to blog a lot from there, as usual.
TERP_CHAR
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Monday, November 2, 2009
From the totalitarian desk of a...
"You get my messages General?", like speaking across the line of intermittent midwifery, the rider talks to his homie.
"Aye."
"Marquee ye Jolly Rogers".
Shaking vigorously, the pair ride along vast fields of uninhabited land. Reminding each other of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Not so often, when they'd stop for re-fueling, they'd treat themselves to a nice hot cup of French Vanilla with extra sugar and cream. And on its sweetness, they'd mull till they'd cross another 500 mi or so. Many a time, they didn't know why they treated themselves to a coffee made of synthetic flavors, manufactured by machines not cleaned for half a year and more or less, it'd anyway leave a bad taste in their mouth. When he asked his ride, his ride told him it was because sipping coffee together was a way of reminiscing on the fact that maybe the world condemns the shit out of them, but they had each other.
"What is life?"
The rider would ask his ride, as if two post-renaissance philosophers would infuse in a random casual discussion, every late afternoon, under the almond tree while sipping on Jasmine tea.
"Life, as opposed to death, is a force that allows you to live. Living, my friend is an independent thought. When an individual doesn't define his life, the living is nothing but living. When he does define it, he calls it religion. But an individual's living is defined by how much love or hate he has brought upon himself. Thereby, acknowledging what he stands for. Thus eventually, defining life."
The ride continued,
"Aye."
"Marquee ye Jolly Rogers".
Shaking vigorously, the pair ride along vast fields of uninhabited land. Reminding each other of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Not so often, when they'd stop for re-fueling, they'd treat themselves to a nice hot cup of French Vanilla with extra sugar and cream. And on its sweetness, they'd mull till they'd cross another 500 mi or so. Many a time, they didn't know why they treated themselves to a coffee made of synthetic flavors, manufactured by machines not cleaned for half a year and more or less, it'd anyway leave a bad taste in their mouth. When he asked his ride, his ride told him it was because sipping coffee together was a way of reminiscing on the fact that maybe the world condemns the shit out of them, but they had each other.
"What is life?"
The rider would ask his ride, as if two post-renaissance philosophers would infuse in a random casual discussion, every late afternoon, under the almond tree while sipping on Jasmine tea.
"Life, as opposed to death, is a force that allows you to live. Living, my friend is an independent thought. When an individual doesn't define his life, the living is nothing but living. When he does define it, he calls it religion. But an individual's living is defined by how much love or hate he has brought upon himself. Thereby, acknowledging what he stands for. Thus eventually, defining life."
The ride continued,
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Such Wonderland I dream of.
There hasn't been much activity here. Not many archives I would look forward for. Let's face it, I'm dormant. Writers' block or not I'm not blogging. I'm tweeting more than I'm writing. Which in itself is pretty fucked up. I'm no shitting.
I just got fucked up British Airways, there unauthorized ticket sales have lifted my spirits to unconquerable heights at the same time, pushing me into an abyss. I'm fucked. Totally.
If you're still here, hanging on to hope, expecting some fucking action, please head straight to www.deruntermensch.blogspot.com
If this guy doesn't write some fucking Nietzsche some day, I'll die of shame. Read it if twitter or facebook is not an extension of your fucking life.
I just got fucked up British Airways, there unauthorized ticket sales have lifted my spirits to unconquerable heights at the same time, pushing me into an abyss. I'm fucked. Totally.
If you're still here, hanging on to hope, expecting some fucking action, please head straight to www.deruntermensch.blogspot.com
If this guy doesn't write some fucking Nietzsche some day, I'll die of shame. Read it if twitter or facebook is not an extension of your fucking life.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Its just Rock n Roll to me
A warm wonderful welcome to a day that is going to turn out untoward anyway. A happy little kid's smile fighting against a family of negative thoughts. Some espresso to keep you awake on the long morning ride, some for the same reason on your way back home after dusk. Some phone calls, some texts and some mails. Some lines from popular movies, some faces flashing before your eyes, vast evening skies merging into one another with different shades of red and blue, straight roads, right angled turns, deer crossings, javelina road kills, rabbit eyes shining in the dark, ranches on both sides of the roads, stable price of gas, very welcoming gas station clerks, White Mocha with extra whipped cream, sunlight hanging around till 10 in the night, almost negligible light pollution and one man who doesn't give a damn about what the world thinks but loves the shit outta you(I am talking abt the bro. No pun).
Funny, how a depressing eon of life can be held up against with just some elements that yield a glitter of hope in you.
I've learned some stuff. I always knew what was worth dying for. Now, I know what is worth living for. That is great progress I'd say.
Fighting light, in the dungeons on hot summer afternoons, darkness is always looked down upon. At times of darkness, when heavens are so far away in the best of your dreams, a moonlit sky boils the shit outta your survival instincts. The traces of fragrance from the body left over the talisman found en route to station of peace. Amrutanjan smeared, masala tea server should be the happiest.
The notes composed, crescendos indicating the uprising of a wave, again on a full moonlit night, make you sit there on top of that wave traveling along the sea shore drowning the son of a bitch surfer risking his beautiful life on a Sunday afternoon. KaaruKOOnda? I like the way it pronounced my last nime.
Muscle cars, clean streets, straight roads, gas stations selling beer, vast dry lands with bright yellow grass spread till the point of reach of your eyes, flights touching the skylines with empty rooms. Wine tasting on the patios, India calling, summer hitting. Wasting weekends and 4th of Julys, when the whole country is celebrating their freedom, I gaze at the fireworks and search under grass carpets for emancipation. I grope around for traces that angels leave when they realize they need a break from their pathetic job of soaking up floating confessions and saving the ass of reckless drunk drivers from the cops. Moping around instead of playing at concerts all over the world on a peace tour?
If there is life beyond 2012, 2021 maybe, I don't want to be where I am right now. Nor do I want to be at a place where I was for 21 years. I'd want to travel. Performing, singing possibly, being a part of a band with no specific genre. Taking everyone listening to me on a high, buzz their souls, then slowly give them a rope out of this world, making them say, "This, is MUSIC". Wearing All Stars and putting the pedal to the metal, while my kickass lead guitarist bends the shit outta his Vintage Gibson and the percussionist couldn't enjoy himself any more. I want to be there. Right about there. Acknowledging the friends and audience alike, strumming like madmen and unequivocal about hate, religion and life and death being just a part of vicious cycle. Then when no one is looking, pass on the live videos to Tarantino for editing then putting it up on youtube passing the message on to part of those music lovers who couldn't join us at that moment. And at that point when I kick that mortality bucket amidst the grace of that higher human being and join lost souls in search of transformation, posthumously on earth though - Get a tombstone, engraved "Memento Mori" and beckon 1000s of flowers of all colors. Those exotic fragrant flowers that bud from the gardens of the rich to those blades of wild grass that tear-out of the carpets of soil in the slums of big cities.
Life well survived, death well won.
If you liked this, my blog also recommends:
Immanetize the Escathon
u2 - Magnificent
Funny, how a depressing eon of life can be held up against with just some elements that yield a glitter of hope in you.
I've learned some stuff. I always knew what was worth dying for. Now, I know what is worth living for. That is great progress I'd say.
Fighting light, in the dungeons on hot summer afternoons, darkness is always looked down upon. At times of darkness, when heavens are so far away in the best of your dreams, a moonlit sky boils the shit outta your survival instincts. The traces of fragrance from the body left over the talisman found en route to station of peace. Amrutanjan smeared, masala tea server should be the happiest.
The notes composed, crescendos indicating the uprising of a wave, again on a full moonlit night, make you sit there on top of that wave traveling along the sea shore drowning the son of a bitch surfer risking his beautiful life on a Sunday afternoon. KaaruKOOnda? I like the way it pronounced my last nime.
Muscle cars, clean streets, straight roads, gas stations selling beer, vast dry lands with bright yellow grass spread till the point of reach of your eyes, flights touching the skylines with empty rooms. Wine tasting on the patios, India calling, summer hitting. Wasting weekends and 4th of Julys, when the whole country is celebrating their freedom, I gaze at the fireworks and search under grass carpets for emancipation. I grope around for traces that angels leave when they realize they need a break from their pathetic job of soaking up floating confessions and saving the ass of reckless drunk drivers from the cops. Moping around instead of playing at concerts all over the world on a peace tour?
If there is life beyond 2012, 2021 maybe, I don't want to be where I am right now. Nor do I want to be at a place where I was for 21 years. I'd want to travel. Performing, singing possibly, being a part of a band with no specific genre. Taking everyone listening to me on a high, buzz their souls, then slowly give them a rope out of this world, making them say, "This, is MUSIC". Wearing All Stars and putting the pedal to the metal, while my kickass lead guitarist bends the shit outta his Vintage Gibson and the percussionist couldn't enjoy himself any more. I want to be there. Right about there. Acknowledging the friends and audience alike, strumming like madmen and unequivocal about hate, religion and life and death being just a part of vicious cycle. Then when no one is looking, pass on the live videos to Tarantino for editing then putting it up on youtube passing the message on to part of those music lovers who couldn't join us at that moment. And at that point when I kick that mortality bucket amidst the grace of that higher human being and join lost souls in search of transformation, posthumously on earth though - Get a tombstone, engraved "Memento Mori" and beckon 1000s of flowers of all colors. Those exotic fragrant flowers that bud from the gardens of the rich to those blades of wild grass that tear-out of the carpets of soil in the slums of big cities.
Life well survived, death well won.
If you liked this, my blog also recommends:
Immanetize the Escathon
u2 - Magnificent
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
I hate this fucking world. I hate this fucking world.
The world hates me right back and I hate this fucking world.
My skin is burning hot. My skin is burning hot.
This life is full of taking shit I hate this fucking life.
I have to paraphrase
All the pain inside
Then I have to type on this motherfucking comp.
I hate this fucking comp. I hate this fucking comp.
There is something more than this comp that I hate and its this fucking world.
I hate the rotten socks. Which adorn the hallway of my room.
I also hate the garbage bag which is always fucking full.
I hate the fucking tenet, which lives inside my head
which tells me I deserve no more than a piece of shit.
I hate this fucking head which is full of chem imbalance.
I hate it so bad that I want to scrape my skull.
I hate the bitch who gave me hand. I hate her stupid fucked up curls and I hate her fucking accent.
I hate my fucking prof. I hate my fate. I hate this life. SHIVA HATES YOU ALL!
I pretend to be a poet. I pretend to be a rockstar. Inside my head God makes me believe I am actually worth a shit. I think I want to puke. In this early morning rebuke. I hate you.
The world hates me right back and I hate this fucking world.
My skin is burning hot. My skin is burning hot.
This life is full of taking shit I hate this fucking life.
I have to paraphrase
All the pain inside
Then I have to type on this motherfucking comp.
I hate this fucking comp. I hate this fucking comp.
There is something more than this comp that I hate and its this fucking world.
I hate the rotten socks. Which adorn the hallway of my room.
I also hate the garbage bag which is always fucking full.
I hate the fucking tenet, which lives inside my head
which tells me I deserve no more than a piece of shit.
I hate this fucking head which is full of chem imbalance.
I hate it so bad that I want to scrape my skull.
I hate the bitch who gave me hand. I hate her stupid fucked up curls and I hate her fucking accent.
I hate my fucking prof. I hate my fate. I hate this life. SHIVA HATES YOU ALL!
I pretend to be a poet. I pretend to be a rockstar. Inside my head God makes me believe I am actually worth a shit. I think I want to puke. In this early morning rebuke. I hate you.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Rollin' on a Mothership, bottleneck
Summer Breeze, comes to you
The sea never colors you blue
there ain't no much talk
in the crowd, about the man for the job
it ain't makin' no sense on the ship
searchin’ for rum, desperately running from the cold
the storm, damaged the mast
the sailors, livin’ in the past
shakin’ so nervously, the ship swinging side by side
sinkin’ in its own rhythm, livin’ with an old system
tryin’ to keep a tone, managing some skulls and some bones
makin’ the sea merrier, creating a wave, subtler
the transsexual is overboard, ahoy!
Better than earnin’ a penny, servin’ in an Irish Pub
Shamrock, Watchmen, Manhattan and the likes
Of the state, through the gates,
Here the air traffic is worse than an in Ameerpet
Made In India drainage covers, adornin’ the Wall Street
Across the Brooklyn Bridge
Evolving into an unsunny misty day
Or every other Saturday
Ball and bat
Hit the good cat
Bad dog, cookin’ up a new pot
Pickin’ out all the seeds
The way ya’ll treat the beads
Stickin’ in an old song
Life long, ting tong.
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