A Plea

Here is an idea for smartphone makers to add value - like actual value. 

Don’t give us gimmicky camera modes that become outdated in 2 days. 

Or worry about how big a notch is on the screen. 

Give us a concert mode. 

Yes - a concert mode, which lets the owner of the phone not be an absolute dripping douchebag to fellow concert goers. 

Allow me to explain. 

Your screens are too bright. I know you want to challenge the capricious sun for lumens per square centimeter and down here on earth you even succeed. 

But it becomes a naval searchlight being focused at my goddam face when it’s a dark concert hall. 

You already have us humans hooked to our dumb phones so badly that we have to check them every 5 seconds, lest a rat run away with another slice of pizza without us seeing. 

And the hamsters that we are, we are prepared to violate every bound of human decency to follow our lizard brain. 

The fact that it drives some of us to have murderous thoughts about our neighbor, suggests that we have gone too far. 

Ergo, the concert mode.

In this mode - the phone will never ring. Or buzz. Infact, it will be airplane mode without the option of connecting to Wi-Fi. 

The screen brightness will go to Nokia 3310 levels. Barely readable. And the screen will be grayscale - none of them colors hanging about. 

The flash on your camera is de-activated. And your camera will only take 3 images for the duration of the concert mode. 

Here is the real secret sauce - the more fidgety and screen check-y you are, the longer the screen will remain in blackout. Not even the clock will show. 

So, if you check your phone every 2 mins, your phone will go dark for about 1 hour in concert mode. Lookey at phone every 1 mins, and it will be 2 hours. So on and forth. 

And if the owner identifies as an Indian male above the age of 45, this mode will wipe the data in your phone clean off if you even so much as take it out of your pocket. 

It’s only fair, to protect the rest of us and in the long run, the owner himself. 

Evil Ways

 We discovered music. We then invented genres.

After many a column brokered, metaphors tortured, and criticisms brooked we convinced ourselves that we are a civilized culture. 

While music presents no rules and leaves the beholder to ascertain the beauty in anything, we appointed ourselves gatekeepers to supposed purity standards. 

In doing so, we not only poisoned the well of elixir for any thirsty traveler, we might have forgotten the reasons for embracing art. 

It's not an extra-curricular, it's not just something nice on the weekend - it is continuing education. It is history, sociology, anthropology, economics and aesthetics all rolled into one - and another lens to look at the reason for why "us". 

Carlos Santana and Indian Ocean offer the unbridled joy for me so I may never be shackled by the cynicism of our own constructs. The joy of their art lets me be, instead of being suspicious of my own shadow. 

Some wise words to sum all of this up. 

Bleed. I Love You.

 Caffeine.

In this mayhem created by the hijacking of certain receptors by this innocuous chemical, one thought has managed to organize and reach unified clarity. 

My love for "Bleed" by Meshuggah is now complete. I am completely besotted by it. 

It took 15 years for friends to become lovers. All this while I thought I loved the song. And today I love it more. 

I can rationally try to explain this love - elements of which can be separately described, but not understood apart. 

The anthropomorphizing of an aneurysm in a human's brain - and the twisted poetry that is needed to paint the picture. 

The brutal atypical vocal delivery ala Jens Kidman - the masterful job to bring painfully alive the words.

The demented guitar sound, the spidery sonic scaffolding that binds it together. 

The rhythmic masterpiece that Tomas Haake conjured and immortalized in this song. 

But reason will still fail that centuries old fight to explain love. 

To borrow from the creators themselves

Heed - it commands. Heed my will

Bleed - it says. Bleed you will

It is falling prey to its charms. It is submission to its unrelenting assault. 

It is an admission of being in love. 

Thoughts on Autumn

This fog of my mind

Would you dispel it

O sunshine of autumn

This silence of the path

Would your music crease it

O swift brook from the north

This restless beat of our heart

Would your hands soothe it

O cool winds that hath travelled far

This parched land of our greed

Would you revive it

O dark chariots that ferry Life

This misery of our ways

Would you guide us out

O colored leaves of the Fall

Under the smooth grains of grey Winter

Would anyone heed our call?

Neon Lights

 Sometimes a neon light night will do

Expectations loom large

Cheap profundity abound 

And mirrors begin to lie

And the ears miss the ring of claps around

Masks on masks on masks

Ease of wit chameleon

And each makes obscures one beneath

Death with reprieve

When the music demands dance

And a scream is hard to find

A carnival of cheap thrills and sounds 

Those neon lights will do. 

Shesher Kobita

 I will not pretend to comprehend fully, for this will require many a moon to contemplate. 

But yet again, Gurudev, you have reached out and touched this brow lovingly and imparted sagely wisdom.

And for all you have given with a free heart, I remain in your debt. 

A meagre thank you is all this mendicant can muster, for garrulity shall not be my wont.

 

First Flight

 Last flight - Jan 24, 2020. 

Its been a long 400 days since that last flight. 

                                     

Amidst the spiraling death count and subterfuge of social distancing, an imposed isolation takes its toll. 

                                    

The human muscle was atrophied. 

                                        

But soaring high above the clouds, all worries were put to rest. 

                                          

These shades and hues remind of  an anachronistic permanence that 400 days cannot extinguish. 

And so, when the plane soars, the gaze lifts, and reminds us of what we are. 

                              

Love is love.

Cogito Ergo Sum. 

The recognition of self is followed inevitably by a realisation of self and self worth. 

Denying this self worth - by ostracisation,  by law, by conditioning - is often employed to garnish an emaciated entity with a facade of power. 

This veneer of monstrosity defines itself insularly and etches away at itself slowly. 

As sure as the flowing water will carve out canyons, this visage will depart. 

And whence one emerges from this cavern into the full daylight of life, transcendence awaits. For as simple as a breath of fresh air, is the axiom that we are all equal, announces itself. 

Real Big Sky

 Under the inky dome, stars wedded to it

My creation takes shape and form

I brought you forth and lived through you

And you became my crutch, night after day

Injecting you into my dreams to sleep with a smile

So shackled this imagination, so pallid its complexion

It aborts any sense of renewal, of vulnerable redemption and meaning

So, burn down what you worship

and worship the immolation, for this fire sustains life

And prepare to toil, to sow, to sculpt.

For the rivers carry a new song, and the sky deem us wondrous

Only if they shelter creations anew. 

Dedicated to Emma Ruth Rundle.

            

Happy Trails, Myles.

 You were the most perfect car in most respects.  It was a good ride - ruined only very slightly by your creators lack of quality. 

Goodbye little donkey. You've been a good friend.