Think of a place I would go,

I’m daydreamin’,

Where the sycamore grow,

I’m daydreamin’,

And oh if you knew what it meant to me,

Where the air was so clear,

Oh if you knew what it meant to me,

Anywhere but here.

Oh now look to the east,

Great mountains remember me,

Oh I wound around you for miles,

I sat down right there and stretched my bones.

And oh if you knew what it meant to me,

Oh if you knew what it meant to me,

Oh if you knew what it meant to me,

You would see, too.

Oh the unspeakable things,

It’s land I can see for miles,

With only the wind whispering,

Land I can see for miles,

With only the wind whispering,

Oh land I can see for miles,

With only the wind whispering,

Oh I’d run as fast as I can

Land I can see for miles

Oh I’m searching,

With only the wind whispering,

Oh if you knew what it meant to me,

Oh if you knew what it meant to me,

Oh if you knew what it meant to me,

You would see, too.

Oh the unspeakable things,

Oh the unspeakable things,

Oh the unspeakable things,

Oh the unspeakable things.

Dark Dark Dark – Daydreaming.

Aldous Huxley, The Doors of Perception & Heaven and Hell, (Harper, 1954) at pp.12-13.

**

is an artist at heart. and detests the decay of lying.

Acquainted with the Night

Robert Frost

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain – and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height
One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night

…

Funeral Blues

W. H. Auden

[…]

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can come to any good.

…

And this small wheel in the grand scheme of things creaks again.

Thanks to the Penguin Book of the Twentieth Century in Poetry (Viking, 1999) for this.

Dancing to Sphere Monk, seeing Adolf and Benito poke Josef with a stick.

Later. Way later.

The trip was fun. 1700 KMs, three Royal Enfields, engine oil, roaring river valleys and little else. Photos up on Flickr when I move my lazy bum to unpack the SD Card. Trip-log shall also be posted, for the benefit of Traveler-brethren, hopefully. Lazyness, damn. 

Oh, and Im in the philosophical mood again. Cynical to be precise. It’s so easy to hate us, I see now. Humans are islands. Insular. Self-contained and self-obsessed. Obviously, we suck.

I need new war books. Fiction. Yes. And to decide between Stalin or Lenin, who was cooler? A new dictionary was a delightful find over this weekend. Websters Unabridged 2008 Revision exactly. Pretty good reading and a useful index at the back.

Well, thats that for now. A precise post.

By Bob Dylan

death silenced her pool
the day she died
hovered over
her little toy dogs
but left no trace
of itself
at her
funeral

**

and that was it.

Job interview! Yes, J-O-B! People want me to work for them. Sure? I ask. Anyway, it’s always pleasant listening to British english, and so an hour of the Lock Stock like experience chatting over arbitration clauses, M&A, and BITs was okay, it did feel like paddle treatment by Hatchet Harry at times, in the hateful sense.

Personally, life’s become a little gratifying (and I know this will change as soon as I publish this sentence) and I think we are more than just good.

Im happy for Vettel, the guy’s an year elder to me,  and won at Monza. A nice, deserving win. He drove an almost perfect race from pole. Hamilton’s an asshole, what with all the things he did to Glock and Webber. But then again, if they beatified Schumacher then Hamilton’s okay, I suppose. Villeneuve would agree.

And as I sit here again, to continue writing this post after leaving it in the middle eight hours ago, Moby flows. Thinking of a knee-wrecking experience. people who should know, would know. Ah. The long drawn out sigh like “Ah”.  

Thom York, what-o-what is wrong with you? Is it not a crime to make such music. Listenin’ to a band called Radiohead. These are mellow days friends, spent largely with Coldplay, Radiohead, Morcheeba and Beck. On a musically serious note: Radiohead’s Nude; Jigsaw Falling into Place; and Climbing up the Walls, are better than the LHC experience.

There’s a rumour of a bike ride to distant lands. Secret plans, Im told, so I’d stay shut till wheels start rolling. Bike ride means photography, losts and lots of photography for the hungry 40D.

yours,

shashank

P.S. Remember, more than the inverse of the life time of a Higgins particle, that’s how much i like it.