Passenger

They say the arrow of time goes only in one direction. And that the direction is shown by entropy, so says physics.

Physics also describes music as a collection of sounds. A capsule of notes and intervals and pitch and rhythm, if you will. 

But how do you go from ingesting this capsule to forming a memory? Where things are clear to the exclusion of all else.

And no one explained how ingesting this capsule makes time travel possible - as you are transported to different sands and smells, in a mere instant. 

And no one even mentioned about the tears that now well up and on the brink of rushing down your face. 

How could they have missed all this? 

Maybe they lived that moment and chose to let us have our own. 

Maybe they knew after all and did not have words enough to say it. 

Maybe they could say it, but chose to read words of another. 

Friedrich Nietzsche wrote: “For nothing is self-sufficient, neither in us ourselves nor in things; and if our soul has trembled with happiness and sounded like a harp string just once, all eternity was needed to produce this one event—and in this single moment of affirmation all eternity was called good, redeemed, justified, and affirmed.”

Maybe nothing more ever needed to be said. 

Triangle

First it hits you. Pierces a dense vacuum.

Then it jerks a solitary tear.

As a nightmare, it haunts you.

Then it builds yearning. A craving desire.

It becomes that next breath - you gasp and choke. 

And slowly the vitality is assured.

The paltry apparition of the same struggles against this wind of change.

Burn down what you worship. Worship what you burn down.

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.

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.

Freedom.

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.

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. 

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.

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. 

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.

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)

Oct 2020 Edit

More banned books : https://www.scoopwhoop.com/inothernews/books-banned-in-india/