a precise post

•October 6, 2008 • 2 Comments

Its changed. Taken a one-eighty all over again in a new direction. Yes, kind of like those Formula one drivers spin, and keep spinning, just not three-sixty but one-eighty. One trip to the Valley of Gods and its all so Aldous-ly again. David Gray plays. Crome Yellow smiles. The ochre, Oh! so ochre light. I have little to say and a lot to see. A lot to just witness, stare and get astonished at. Astonished; the imaginary-eye-brow raise astonished. I’ve been reading Aristotles’ life and square sonnets. Also that book on Comparative Competition Law to finish. Work. Good.

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.



•September 17, 2008 • Leave a Comment


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


and that was it.

random spots of shit appear on the windshield. Go wiper.

•September 16, 2008 • Leave a Comment

I am generally feeling really nice today, having had my cynical predictions proved right. Which really goes on to show how normal, those so-called cycnical thoughts were. All you people, you do not disappoint. Finally, I can get on with my life, more. What was that, you should never underestimate the predictability of human stupidity, hm, maybe. Anyway, alls’ well that ends’ well, and this was benissimo.

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.





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


•September 11, 2008 • Leave a Comment

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.

/A. Pope


•August 26, 2008 • 2 Comments

Hate is the last thing that’d come out of my mind. What, with all the peace McLovin’ do. What comes next is born out of sheer hatred, disgust, contempt and amaze at the sight and sound of a “parliamentary debate” aka a “pd”. Alright, so you would’ve taken out your guns by now and would be brushing the muzzle, i ‘ppose. Aye, ‘old it now. It’s just my opinion. It’s a “theory”. It’s one of those theories about nothing, or very small things, that is generally lost; only to be read later when one is stoned, or drinking the beer. And then the thought that follows “what a revelation”. Its that. Fuck, no.

So, a pd, sucks. Define the “house”, be called a “prime minister” even if you are the Archbishop of Canterbury, have more rules than you can ever keep in your head, are only  some of the many problems one faces. The “motion” is the key. There aint no motions ’round here, I ‘int tellin’ya. But most of all, tell me what it will be useful for, apart from speaking skills and quick thinking? Nothing. It’s one of those things you do in college, you just leave there, its endemic to college life. So, these people, who are okay at speaking and okay at quick thinking, what’d it do for ’em? Nothing. 

Maybe, my theorist mind is being parochial here right now, allow me the freedom. But, I just don’t get the point of talking and debating over something and in a way in which the substance doesnt matter, as much as the procedure. And, crap procedure for that. I mean is this how they debate in parliaments? I doubt it, becauses States still exist. So much for calling it “parliamentary”. If I could call pigs, ships.

Debates and personal opinions aside, life’s been good. Just. [ : ) ] . Those who know, know. I must make a mention of how Mo is making my life more beautiful and rubbery, ever since. Cynic self is thriving in the monsoons, with Fuller [Lon] ass taking over good ellipsis sessions. Good. Works for me.


•August 20, 2008 • 2 Comments

I havent been a prolific blogger. In fact, far from it. I am not writing away to the Republic of Bibliophilia, locked in my room, and all clandestine, like some. Instead I am happy writing my one line posts, that are read by none but I. Self pity aside, I shall be drifting into nothingness soon. The nothingness that follows a nice Radiohead session and the company of Joyce and Kerouac. Its nothingness, really.

Kerouac I can speak about, for hours. The guy’s a fucking lunatic – divorcing some thrice, at least, to just take a drive down to Frisco from Downtown NYC, through Denver, Chicago and all those all American towns. He stands over the edge of a trailer he’s hitched to Denver, and pees over overtaking cars. Kerouac’s Sal Paradise – the protagonist, if you can call him that. An even more interesting character, as per my understanding, is Dean. Dean, Moriarty.  He’s left the wives and children, he’s had his hand chopped off, driven around in a Hudson, loved the Garden of Eden, swam in beer, floated on mexican ma-ree-wana clouds  and been Sal’s best buddy. Quite simply, Dean’s the man. 

I, on the other hand, am drifting into nothingness.

Nothing more.

ellipsis sessions.

•August 8, 2008 • Leave a Comment

what the fuck is wrong with my room, acoustically? sounds like shock absorbers.

my hip-pouch of tea.