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Sunday, December 1, 2019

Happy Thanksgiving

Music, this wonderfully weird arrangement of myriad sounds, is entertainment. At least on its shimmering surface.

But as Sisyphus' ordeal describes, we have our own burdens to carry up the mountain. To aid in this endeavor, we each have our own crutches - some find god, some work ceaselessly, some consume drugs, some sulk and some, who have exhausted all of their own resources, choose to not push that boulder anymore. There is solace in the fact that this fickle fabric of space and time that has wrapped each of us in cosmic causality, there are some of us, enough of us, to use music as a crutch to be able to lift each step.

This is not an admission of hardship or a wail against the saints of fate, far from it. This is an admission, if impotent, of the gratitude that this, our tribe, is able to move on, thanks to the propulsive force of this music. To some it is a friend who does not judge. To some, it is a surrogate parent, for when a soothing hand on a fevered brow was needed, but none a warm body found. This is acknowledgement, that we consider ourselves worthy of Mother Nature's blessing to carry on, drawing sustenance from her bosom - where many grew cold by the wayside.

With as much wayward grace as I can purchase, I say thanks. Tomorrow, even if the sounds stop playing out loud, they will remain with us in our hearts, our candles in dark corners. Reminding us, that we can swim in the rivers of nihil and still draw breath.

Friday, November 1, 2019

Bulls on Parade!

Hell has indeed frozen over. The hairs on my body stand erect in fear.

Rage Against the Machine just announced a handful of shows in March and April 2020. No, this is a big deal. I need to convince you its a big deal.

Rewind, back to 2004.

Second year of engineering. I had neither phone nor computer that I could call my own. Youtube did not exist as it does today. Internet connection was not a given. What the fuck even was 4G LTE?

Its hot, sweltering. Sitting in a friends apartment, I have hijacked his desktop. I was looking for porn to be honest. And I did find a folder "Videos". I see a bunch of blurry thumbnails. And my horny fingers click on this one.

Woodstock 99. Rage Against The Machine. Bulls on Parade.

Blurry as fuck. I see an immense crowd, a blow up doll (nice) and a mass of sweat and bodies.
And then the riff hits me.

Its very difficult to explain this - there are moments in your life that change you fundamentally. Tom Morello, that marxist magician of a guitar player, conjured this combination of notes and played them with such ferocity, he made them sound erotic. Very very erotic. An instant injection of testosterone. Everything went hot. I had to move. A lot. Maniacally.

"... Rally round the family, with a pocket full of shells....."

9 years in the US have made amply clear what those lyrics mean. What greed and inequality and racism is, has become clearer. From near and afar. What RATM is and means, is made amply clear.

And yet, that riff retains it vitriolic, mercurial, erotic appeal. It changed me that day. And it changes me still.

All of music is that perfect time when that perfect set of notes hits you. Like a haze being lifted from in front of your eyes, things gain piercing clarity. The rest as they say, is nostalgia.


Saturday, March 2, 2019

To celebrate a tyrant.

A vain man.
A jealous brother.
A disappointing child.
A betrayer of trust.
A domestic abuser.
A denier of medicine.
A murderer. Giver of trauma.

Happy birthday, you terrible being.
May you live a long life.

Sunday, January 14, 2018

A rare blossom

As time ticks into steady eternity
Nary a beat missed, silent rhythm merciless
Chained to this hourglass, addling towards the horizon. 
Glorious effort, satisfied beads stream.
Look back at the footsteps 
Impressions in the sand, effervescent though,
A voice so familiar greets

"So long ago did we meet
At a junction many moons past.
Have you my answers yet?
Have you value for your heart?"

And as the cadence seems to slow,
Mirrors rotate, flashing images gallop.
As a bead settles on my eyelid
Blurry picture and many a hazy words
Focus into attention.
Unsettling calm in a din, miasma of sounds

"Old friend, how frail you've grown.
At the edge of the ocean where we did part.
Speak of your travails
And the wonders you sought!"

"Truth be told, as our salutations faded,
A door I opened faithful to promise. 
And walked along the presented path.
Where I sought rare blossoms
And murals of rare desire
Sculpt the clay placed on the turning wheel.
Seek the light of love and life.

But my eyes were seized, by the fiery leaves,
every one of which, float away with the wind. 
Fortuitous exodus to the drum beat, to every step of design.
And as I came upon a stop, 
Shimmering surface dark, gleaming edge on the path.
A sigh exhaled upon the cold waves.
Stilled waves a desert reveal
Whose bosom you tread
Facing down the sun, bearing shoulders spent. 

Shared agony beckoning, I touched the reflection
And here I stand, alongside you.
To hear of the blossoms you sought. "

As the bead races past the eye
Crystals of sand stand out, each one
As the words spoken, reverberate, refuse to dissipate. 
Build up to a crescendo and melt away the links.
With a piercing note, into a million shards,
the hourglass liberates itself.
Shield my eyes, let the tremors pass.
With a passing glimpse, I stand on an edge, unspoiled and frail.
Fecundity abound, its secrets unknown.
I take a step to assure my senses,
See a fading apparition - drags away with it a torturous sun. 

I tread a new oasis, Eden of promise.
And again seek rare blossoms. 

Saturday, November 4, 2017

Phoenix Rising.

I feel the urge rising.

Not unlike the bile creeping up your throat, reacting to gluttony.

Not unlike taste buds feeling the scorch of a Moruga scorpion after a bout of flu.

Not unlike the soul put back into the volume surrounded by four white walls when a painting is installed in their midst.

Not unlike a long cold stove soiled by spilled hot milk and spitting oil.

Not unlike the first sight after a long absence is of someone you hold most dear.

The fondness after blooms after a parched summer of longing. I did not ask to walk on the cracked soil in unsheltered heat. But now, as I set my sights on an oasis, dip my calloused feet into the soothing touch of water, I look with gratitude upon something that I would have seen without notice.

I feel my muscles tense up in anticipation of the adrenaline fountain that is about to explode. Here comes the riff..... I have missed you so.

Sunday, August 13, 2017

nazis - go fuck yourselves.

nazis o nazis
you are a bunch of pricks
nazis o nazis,
eat a bowl of dicks.

instead of doing silly little salutes
go and read about melanin
humanity came out of africa,
your natural extinction can't be a sin

disabled by your ableism
you 2-book reading bollock scum,
read another book instead of burning one
your useless kingdom will never come.

the world ass-whooped your kind
you still hang onto a narrow history
your lessons aren't kind or good
your failure ain't a fuckin mystery.

sane people see you for what you are
your kampf is untrue and mighty dodgy
your stupid leader died in a ditch
and so will your ideology

nazis o nazis
you are a bunch of pricks
nazis o nazis,
eat a bowl of dicks.

P.S: I have hit the limit of what little creative ability I have, just writing this little nugget. If someone could set this to a lovely guitar tune and set it to a sing-along number, that would be lovely. 

Thursday, July 20, 2017

Somewhere I belong.

The consequence of the human condition is that you prop yourself up on the crutches of words and thoughts from others, when you are incapable of finding your own.

Facing a door to a basement, starkly lit and walking down without your hand being held was scary. So you catch a ray of light. And hold on to it. Tight. In the darkness, it reveals to you, your smile.

The fear of the unknown does not disappear. Its tyranny is diminished though. For even in a storm, you know where to find your own patch of sun.

I carry the ray of light they gave birth to. And so do a multitude of others. Maybe we carry a piece of them. For now they no longer need theirs.

Thank you.

Tuesday, July 18, 2017

The Mouth Licking What You've Bled

A list of books banned in India.

Hindu Heaven, Max Wylie (1934);
The Face of Mother India, Katherine Mayo (1936);
 Old Soldier Sahib, Frank Richards (1936);
The Land of the Lingam, Arthur Miles, (1937);
 Mysterious India, Moki Singh (1940);
The Scented Garden (Anthropology of the Sex Life in the Levant), Bernhard Stern, translated by David Berger (1945)
What has Religion done for Mankind, Watchtower Bible and Tract Society (1955);
 Rama Retold, Aubrey Menen (1955);
 Dark Urge, Robert W. Taylor (1955);
 The Ramayana, Aubrey Menen (1956);
 Captive Kashmir, Aziz Beg (1958);
 The Heart of India, Alexander Campbell (1959);
 The Lotus and the Robot, Arthur Koestler (1960);
 Nine Hours to Rama, Stanley Wolpert (1962);
 Unarmed Victory, Bertrand Russell (1963);
 Nepal, Toni Hagen (1963);
 Ayesha, Kurt Frishchler, translated by Norman Denny (1963);
 Lady Chatterley’s Lover, D.H. Lawrence (1964);
The Jewel in the Lotus (A Historical Survey of the Sexual Culture of the East), Allen Edwards (1968);
 The Evolution of the British Empire and Commonwealth from the American Revolution, Alfred Le Ray Burt (1969);
 A Struggle between Two Lines over the Question of How to Deal with U.S. Imperialism, Fan Asid-Chu (1969);
 Man from Moscow, Greville Wynne (1970);
 Early Islam, Desmond Steward (1975);
 Nehru: A Political Biography, Michael Edwards (1975);
 India Independent, Charles Bettelheim (1976);
 China’s Foreign Relations Since 1949, Alan Lawrence (1978);
 Who killed Gandhi, Lourenco De Sadvandor (1979);
 Understanding Islam through Hadis, Ram Swarup (1982);
 Smash and Grab: Annexation of Sikkim, Sunanda Datta-Ray (1984);
 The Satanic Verses, Salman Rushdie (1988);
 Soft Target: How the Indian Intelligence Service Penetrated Canada, Zuhair Kashmeri and Brian McAndrew (1989);
 The Polyester Prince, Hamish McDonald (1998);
 The True Furqan, “Al Saffee” and “Al Mahdee” (1999);
 Islam: A Concept of Political World Invasion, R.V. Bhasin (2007 – Maharashtra);
 Great Soul: Mahatma Gandhi and His Struggle With India, Joseph Lelyveld (2011 – Gujarat).

List courtesy of The Hindu. Link to full article.

The Adivasi Will Not Dance, Hansda Sowvendra Shekhar (2015 - Jharkhand)

Tuesday, June 27, 2017


How do you define a sense of belonging, of home? Most times I have tried to ruminate on the question, I come up with  - where I find love and all that entails. Where I am accepted for who I am. Its true. But then on trying to probe it any further, I kept drawing blanks.

I can maybe try to answer that today. Its where I am allowed to be my strongest and yet be at my most vulnerable.

Vulnerable - that very word conjures up a connotation of weakness, a sense of inferiority and a distrust, where strength is needed. Maybe it is all those things. But perhaps what isn't quite grasped in this harangue is acceptance. Acceptance of what you are at the germ of your person. It does sound simple enough, but its more like laying yourself naked. Revealing an oozing wound. In other words, being vulnerable. 

So when time comes, where you live in a commune of people who are as vulnerable as you are. And through what can only be described as limbic resonance, is this vulnerability visible to us. Through the physical senses we reach these vulnerabilities and talk to them. Laugh and maybe cry about them. Maybe take some walking steps together. And in doing so, feel relieved and at ease that we are there. 

So, here is my love letter to them and with some measure of gratitude. We adopt a facade to lead life, navigate its various vicissitudes and hope for survival. To you, I am completely bare. And here therefore, I belong.  

Saturday, June 3, 2017

Dead Letters

The interstate is no place for locked  memories and feelings to surface.

Barreling down the tarmac at more than legal speeds, looking for the next asshole who is going to cut across you and another lane to get to an exit they should have known was coming up - this isn't emotional milieu. For memories to come rushing out and images to fly across your eyes, safer places and substances have been known to mankind.

But then what does prepare you for anything? Not happiness, not tragedy and not nostalgia - none have an appropriate time and place. These lemons are tossed in your apple cart and all you can do is handle the tumble as best you can.

All I wanted to do, was say goodbye. All I want to do is feel him, before the light went out of his being. Lay eyes on him before the flames reduce him to ashes. Time to grieve helps but leaves ascatter shards that lacerate the stoic envelope at the most inopportune moments.

Survival instincts fortunately do mean that you box up the tear and press down harder. Away from your eye, and force your hands and feet to coordinate.

The car that cut across just makes its exit. Maybe they are rushing to be by someone's side in their fleeting moments. Hopefully they get to say goodbye. Hopefully the entropy of memories only finds pleasant form when examined.

As the engine ticks cool, under the canopy of the starlit sky, I allow myself a sigh of anguish and sing a borrowed paean. I loved that man, his flaws and all. For that, I can only say thank you.