You have no idea.

I think we miss that touch so much, that we crash into each other, just so we can feel something.

-Graham

A simplistic way to look at the world would be to get cynical. The world, is undergoing a decay. Humans, are slowly getting lethargic about the whole “life” idea, and a slow madness is creeping through everyone. Humans perceived a world going complicated around them, but they were too egoistical to admit that they were simplistic, and therefore, they got cynical as a surrogate for being simplistic. But being cynical has complicated the whole problem. It is easy to be aware of and suspicious of of the world around you. Let us be simplistic, by defining the ideas of words, so as to avoid a misinterpretation. The “world” around you here represents all the components of a flow of information before it reaches you. The world, is to you, a provider of information, and generically speaking, there are two components to the world, one is the media and the other is the friend list on your social networking website. Basically the mass media and the people you are in contact with, (mental, sexual, spiritual, physical or actual). That is a lot of things to be suspicious of… makes you pretty much need to be cynical. Let us get cynical now. Cynical is merely the expression of suspicion where it was not relevant. But that’s fine, its better to be safe than sorry. Be cynical. Cynical of the guy next to you in the train who might flick your wallet, cynical of the guy next to you in the train who might be carrying a bomb, cynical of the guy next to you in the train who might demand you to show you your ticket, cynical of the guy next to you in the train who might talk displeasingly about politics, cynical of the guy next to you in the train who has more money in his shirt pocket than you earn in a month, and cynical of the guy next to you in the train who wants to spit out what he is chewing, and cynical of the guy next to you in the train who is likely to scribble bits of his love life over the windows, as a legacy of his presence in the train. And this is being cynical only on a train ride… imagine all the other places you frequent. You will end up being cynical of every single advice (defined as made up of suggestion, command and request in different degrees) that the world gives you. Because being cynical keeps things simple. You hate humanity, you resent the existence of every other person on the planet, you are someone not in need of society, and you exist all by yourself hoping to be independent of any kind of social, political or impractical pressures. You are a bastard (defined as an outcast) and you know it, and hell, you are even fucking proud of it. You positively celebrate your own attitude problem. You take sadistic pleasure in inflicting the society, psychologically, pointing out phantom problems just to make them cynical. Its just your way of advising the world. Because you are cynical.
What kind of damnation are you? You are an undiagnosed malady. You are an abomination and a joke. You are a tumor, and a vile invader of civilization. You are so done for, that you need allegorical references just to insult and describe you. You are that final scratch on the CD that renders it useless. You are a technicality and a line of fine print. You are as selfish as it is possible for oil to make you. You are as radical as a desperate housewife. You are the ship of the desert and the horn of the devil. You are the center of the wide cosmos, and you are whore at the core of the universe. You are a person who likes aliens. You have cast out everyone from your home planet, and made yourself independent, and unique, and recognizably singular. And you are proud of your own degradation, unashamed to be associated with it. You are cool man, you are just a cynical bastard, and there, now you are gratified.
What you need is advise. You get a lot of advice right, so you are cynical about that. It is the world’s fault really, none of yours, that they are cynical. They think that everything that you do is calculated, and therefore, they judge your intentions. So you pretend these intentions are true and get away with it. That makes you and them cynical. Hate the word don’t you. Cannot stand the word “cynical” can you… its irritating isn’t it, the way it rings in the head, “cynical”. The word “cynical” shall from now on not be used because it is unpleasant. There is a reason why you hate the c-word. It is because you are the c-word. It is an open secret that it is impossible to hate something that is not mirroring you in some way. Therefore, everything you hate is merely an aspect of your own design of the world around you. You c-word (hater).
Fellow media persons, understand, that some of the people have opted to stay out of the media. Being in the media industry, you have probably spent a considerably number of time complaining about the falling standards due to overpopulation of people with degraded intellects. So you know that it took effort on the sides of the people not in the media industry, to stay out. You serve them. You hide your manipulations from them, or attempt to, but you still serve them. You are their servants, and please treat them with a little respects. They are not objects of your exploitation. They respect their own personal space, and expect the media not to invade into those areas. Therefore, the media should not try to package any advice, but give it straight. In a simplistic, and not a c****** manner. Here, is a mild suggestion, with absolutely no degree of command or request.
It is a piece of advice that a lot of people have given you. You just have not understood it. “Be yourself”. Who understands things like that? They believe you are a static mentality, incapable of psychological movement, incapacitated against growth because of the social conditioning. “Being yourself” is a nice vortex to fall into. You end up “being yourself” in ways that are likely to benefit you under different circumstances, and you hit upon a logical formula for schizophrenia – because there are too many “yourselves” that you can be, and you have never really figured out what you really are. In fact, you probably never really figured out what “being yourself” means.
Lighten up. Ignore the world. As in let the world ignore you, like you don’t try to manipulate it in any way. Do not have an agenda. Have no clue what you are going to do next, think without speaking, speak without thinking, and exercise control over nothing, including yourself. Don’t become loose and incoherent and a rambling non entity, but be a lively, spirituated, human, who infinitely (yes, that is necessary) respects others irrespective of how much you respect yourself. You will become a realization and an experience. Even if you are not a great person deep down, your genuineness will make people less intimidated of you. It will make you more approachable. You will be the death of cynicism, a celebrated centre of the universe’s affection; you will end up just like Gandhi did – as a statue – which most people would consider a good thing actually.
Confused? That’s good. The convolutions were necessary for extracting it out of you. You were not deprived of food, water or shelter. What fundamental need that you have been deprived of, is the contact with other people, whether it be mental, sexual, spiritual, physical or actual. It is the collective delusion and paranoia of the world – the media they have built, because of its exploitative and invasive nature, has made everyone afraid of everyone else who is different from them, and has made everyone hate people who are not.
Imagine a meme river, a set of ideologies, resulting in the composition of the souls that humans have. The memes are the ideas that create your souls, and your philosophies are the philosophies of a thousand ancestral ideas, creating races of a varied kind amongst humans. This is the kind of racism invading the world. What you get is a Crash.

Different Things

kj

tid=2517240487796770451

Notes for critical analysts:

The average reading speed of (none average) human being is 250 words per minute. Find out yours here: http://mindbluff.com/askread.htm

The typing speed of the author is NOT 381 words per minute. Here is proof:



Say: “They are sleeping. They are always sleeping.” Think: Rethink. Outthink. Think critical. Think lateral. Think group. Forethink. Think outrageous. Think free. Think the unthinkable. Unthink. Don’t think. Give up the idea of thinking. Ting Tong! No don’t think so hard. Think hard. Think long. Think big. Think dirty.
Think Goa. Think long dirty streets lined by people going and coming, on speed. Think of their shirts that are possessed by light itself. Think of their faces that are possessed by life itself. You have always been in Goa. For a lighttime. Go-ah! All your friends are in Goa. Goa is full of your friends. Goa is where you go to show that you have friends… probably because of the whole goa “is where you go to show that you have friends” fad in the movies, but the movies went to goa to show that they had friends. So everybody is in Goa, everybody is a friend, and everybody feels the whole thing is like the movies. You have just been there, and reality has already began to fade.
So what are you doing in Goa? You are walking on the streets, lost, and heading towards the sea that is calling you. The legs of the men and women wander around up and down the streets in what looks like a random imaginary pendulum. While their necks are attached to heads that are designed for some heavy duty pan directional wondering. Everyone basically looks at you once, and greets you with a very cordial absolute lack of reply… its very polite and reassuring you know… its like ‘I swear to mind my own business, in return of which you swear to mind yours’. That is all that you need you know, so you comply, and you do not greet anyone either. And you walk right ahead, to where you were going, to the sea. You are done with the thinking. You think you want a smoke. So you reach out in your pocket for one.
Just one left. Ah well. You look in your pocket for matches. Some understanding hand reaches out and lights up your cigarette without you even asking. You like Goa for things like this. You nod at the guy with the dragon lighter, and turn back to face the sea. There you go. You take a drag. Leave it out, slowly, smoothly, a wisp of smoke, a flash of light, there is rain, the flash of light goes, the wisp of smoke dissolves, and you wonder what just happened. Oh fuck! You just got premonited!
Oh man, you run, run like you have never ran before, onto the beach, and you run to a circle of your friends, and you come to a stop suddenly, and you look up, and you wave your hands. And you say “Guys, I have something important to tell you”. But they do not listen to you. They are busy talking about trivial things. They are telling each other light bulb jokes. One of them asks, “How many feminists does it take to screw in a lightbulb?” and amazingly enough, everyone has their own versions of the joke. One friend, dreamily looking at the sky, lost and not interested in the joke session goes “Two. One to change the bulb, and one to write about how it felt.” Another friend, deliberately wanting to outfunny the asker has goes “One to screw it in, and two to talk about the sexual implications.” But it’s cheap, so everyone is polite enough not to laugh, and turn their attention to the next friend to be rude enough to deny the asker his reply “One to change the bulb, and three to write about how the bulb is exploiting the socket.” But that, somehow, manages to be cheap too, so he does not even manage to outfunny his friend, no everyone is looking for a good answer, a better answer, and then one guy who is actually looking at you goes “One to change the bulb, and two to secretly wish they were the socket.” Ooh, that was a layered cheap statement that was, that friend was actually being promiscuous while joking, that wasn’t cheap, that was understandable. But everyone else in the friend circle didn’t get that… so, everyone looked for an answer, and finally laughter thundered. Some guy just went “One to change the lightbulb, and one to kick the balls of any man who even tries to volunteer his help.”
Touché man. That was layered, cheap and somewhat funny because of the build up. That friend got a thunder of laugher as his reply, and he rained his smiles on everyone. And you wave your hands to stop them, you hands to the sky as if casting a spell, and the thunder of the laughter is intermingled with real thunder. That thunder that is secreted by the blanket of the night, and your friends turn to you, shocked. One of them asks “was that real thunder”. You are as shocked and have realized as much as they have. You seriously have no idea of what is going to happen next.
You don’t bother to explain the thunder. You go right ahead, expecting them to overlook it. There are more important things to be told. “Listen, if you had one minute to save the whole world, would you?”
So this is where it begins, you think. “You have one minute to save the world. Anyone who is willing to die to save the world, please raise up your hands. And your friends are shocked out of their wits. They do not know how to respond. They do not know what to say to you. They are thinking of ridiculing you. You decide to stop them short in their thought processes. “Ok, forget that, you have 54.5 seconds to decide which one you is prepared to die for me.” Nothing. People are silent. People do not react. They are asking you questions. Bombarding you with them. You pay no attention to them. You do not understand them. You are busy thinking something else. You are thinking you are telling them something important. One of them needs to die to keep you alive. And none of them are raising their hands. No, not one. The time is passing, it is going by, it is going by too fast. It is accelerating. More people are coming to you. More of your friends gather around you. There is a large gathering around you, wondering what you are saying, but not one of them is reacting fast enough. You look around, you see people and recognize faces, you feel like your orkut friend list is for once lively, and together, and around you, and real. None of them understanding a single thing you have said so far. But one hand goes up. Something in its brain just clicked. You look at the creature, and you say “hello, thank you. I knew it was you. I am never going to let you die for me. Remember that. Please, no one really needs to die for anybody. Its all just a figment of somebody else’s control. God is looking over all of us, and we are but his blood cells briefly meeting in our long journeys. We are important to him as a whole. But he cannot really take care of each one of us can he? Sometimes when we have supplied enough energy to God, we die out. We are left empty, and we are waste, and we are recycled, within the body itself, to create new blood cells. We are not friends man, we are blood. I love you. But I need to die for you.” You pause to get a peek at your digital watch. The one minute is up.”
And you raise your hands, waiting for the lightning that the thunder heralded to strike. It was a minute to your gesture of pretended magic that the skies had forged a lightning bolt. And it is that instant, that the throng around you chooses to react. In that instant when the lightning had already left the skies and came searching for ground. In that instant, a unit not even measurable by the natural brain, but a unit of time within which the natural brain chose to react anyway, the natural brains of your friends reacts, they all come forward, they all look at you, and understand you, and they raise their hands too, they are all prepared to die for you, and you look into their eyes, and they look into your eyes, and that is when you are no longer ashamed to admit that you are scared of what is going to happen, admit that you were aware of the lightning, aware that it was going to come down ever since the thunder happened, aware that it would send a lightning, straight at your head, aware that it was going to kill you, but what you were fucking not aware, was that all your friends would raise their hands to save you, and that’s when you show in your eyes to your friends to show what is in your eyes, and they see fear, and fear that bitch she is, spread out evenly amongst all friends, and everyone is blinded by their own fear, and everyone is aware in that blindness, of the blindness that is going to strike everyone, which is the lightning bolt finally reaching earth.
And their heads explode in the lightning bolt, an explosion of light, it reaches down, forming a cone over everyone’s heads, all your friends are reaching out to it, attracted towards it, and it is the lightning that strikes everyone at once and everyone collapses. They have been shocked out of their minds. They can no longer bear the electricity in their brains. It is causing a ringing in the ears. Their hearts skips a beat. They collapse. They pass out.
And you are on the ground too, thankful, that you are alive, thankful that your friends all chose to die for you, and that saved everyone – everyone shared the piece of the lightning, and everyone decided to bear it, and everyone managed to come up with an idea, unconsciously of course, of bearing the brunt of the lightning together. And everyone would survive this. You knew it. There was always another thing to wake up to. It was a thing that was hopeful. Although you would have a lot of explaining to do in the morning, waking up to a new sunrise was precisely the sort of thing that mankind needed to do… it was a primordial necessity. It was necessary to wake up… always wake up, always realize a new world around you, yes, there was no passing out and bullshit like that. Everyone would wake up. All your friends. The lightning hadn’t killed even one of them. It had just hit their heads. A hit that was supposed to be headed towards you. You thanked God that they existed. You were terribly grateful. You felt like you needed to do something to lighten up the mood – you needed it yourself, there would be a lot of explaining to do in the morning.
And then, just before you passed out, you see the skies twinkling with stars, stars that fall towards the earth, not made of fire, but made of water, long streams of it, with the thunder heralds the lightning which heralds the rain Hey! That’s not in order! But who cares, it is raining. Its water right here, nature apologized to you for not letting you go to the ocean. Nature picked up the ocean itself and brought it to you, and showered it on you, in a sweet sprinkling drizzle, that turned into a fresh, cold shower of water. Water that nature had purified on the way. Yes rain was what you needed. Rain was sweet. Rain was beautiful. Rain was understanding. Rain was comforting. Rain was always refreshing. Rain that didn’t even extinguish your light. You take another drag. You let out smoke strings in the rain, and you are content, and you pass out.
And you begin to think. Think. Clear up the clutter in your mind and think. Think again. Think for a sec. Think what you were saying. Say: “So what was I saying?”

This morning

Its just before five in the morning. I am going home from a friend's place. I had to walk along the footpath of a lake to get to the railway station. A police van was slowly crawling the stretch of the lake, god knows what they were looking for. They pass me by, I am not suspicious to them, and I do not resent it. The next thing I see apart from a couple of dogs is a teenager escorting his drunk father home (probably). I feel a rush of righteousness, and feel like consoling the kid. Then I get ashamed and mind my own business, and walk on to the tapri near Thane Station that is almost always open. The following happened while smoking and drinking a bottle of thums up.
The thing is, there is a bitch that roams around here with one puppy. There is something terribly sad about a bitch with just one puppy. It might be difficult to understand, but all those nipples and just one place for the milk to go, is a sad thing. The puppy in question, was not being played with by a boy, who was throwing it at a slightly older puppy, of another mother I think. What happened next was both terribly sad and terribly funny. Each sentance of the interaction between these two boys was loaded with perspectives kids get of our society. Convo in hindi, don't remember exact words, but here is an approximation?:
Kid 1: "Kyon kutton ke beech me ladayi karva rahe ho?" (Why are you making the two puppies fight?)
Kid 2: "Khel raha hoon" (just playing with them)
Kid 1: "Kaunse standard me padte ho?" (which year are you in?)
Kid 2: pulls the tail of the younger puppy
Kid 1: "Ki school hi nahi jaate ho?" (or do you not go to school at all?)

That is all.

The sax

Lino Mesca was a pretty relaxed charachter. He had flaming red hair, crystal clear skin, always had his saxophone at his waist, and drove a bright red aerocar. Aerocars had become very popular at that part of the earth's timeline. Everyone were using one of those. There were rules and regulations, but underground garages offered fixes and machinations that allowed for the aerocars to travel faster and higher. These were illegal of course, but very hard to trace because of rampant teenage interest in the Soviet and American classified military technology. Those aware of such military technology, were rampantly interested in teenagers, and ended up divulging more and more details of the classified technology to these teenagers when they were indulging in activities that most people think only teenagers indulge in. They were under the impression that it would be merely educational, and that it wouldn't harm too many people. Teenagers all over the world, promptly started walking into local patent offices with classified technology that the people in the patent offices had no clue about. This made loads of teenagers really rich and loads of secret service people laid off their jobs - who promptly saught the refuge of the teenagers, and divulged more and more technology. Eventually, most of the technology was patented, and the teenagers happened to share their patents for mutual benefit and the world became a better place to live in. This made red, flashy aerocars easy to come by. But Lino had installed boosters that could take his aerocar into outer space. It was cutting edge technology, even in this paradisic world, and not too many people knew about it. Lino was on his way to pick up Rapso. Raspo was a guy with a bandana fetish, a goatee, and real baby ram stem cells implanted in his head. the horns that were implanted, grew over time, which was a very interesting thing to attach to your body. He thought it signified his philosophy of life. He had a very weird philosophy in life. He believed that every single person on the planet was mad. He believed that the path of self discovery lay in identifying that particular brand of psychosis that each individual was a victim of. The brand of psychosis he identified himself as being a victim of, was identifying the particulars of self discovery. He was therefore a victim of a cycle where his self discovery would lead to his psychosis, and that made him particularly brand conscious of the type of cigarette he smoked. The Raspo smoked cigarettes. His friends thought it was cool. His friend circle was not particularly accpeted by the society. They were considered antisocial elements. He was smoking a cigarette when Lino stopped the aerocar inches above his head. And Lino said "Hey, come right up, I have to take you to a very nice place" and Raspo said "Ok, drop me a bean" and Lino dropped him a bean and Raspo took out his water gun that he always kept handy and sprinkled it on the mud where the bean had fallen... and a beanstalk grew till the aerocar, and Raspo climbed in, and just like that, they blasted off into outer space.
Only, Raspo didn't know they were going to outer space. He always knew Lino was crazy, and what followed was a small, unconscious mind game. Lino didn't say a word because he was concenterating on the driving, and didn't want to show that he was excited about taking Raspo that high. Raspo didn't want to show that he was excited by the ride that Lino was giving him, and wanted to show that he was composed despite suddenly going much higher up than normal aerocars do. Lino knew why Raspo was staying silent, and didn't want to be the first to open his mouth, because that would mean that Raspo had outcooled him. Raspo understood that the both of them were stuck in a deadlock of silence, and desided to change the topic.
"You are an abomination - a hideous creature, you are a malady and a cancer. You do not deserve the force of life to be alive within you, because you are an insult to it. You must kill yourself for who you are. You have no clue who you are and what you are doing."
Lino didn't understand a word of what Raspo said, and thought that it originated from the frustration of Raspo losing the mind game. Lino found it fit to retort "hey, look over there, three o clock, that's where I am taking you".
Raspo knew he was defeated. He looked at it and was amazed. It was an orb. Hanging in space. He didn't know if it was made of plastic or metal, but he knew that this structure was never mentioned in any of the space stations that he was aware of. "What is it?" asked Raspo. "Decomissioned Chinese space station" said Lino "Its our party pad, I'll show you around to the guys. Really nice, really empty, and zero gravity. Sweet place to rave man.
They arrived at the landing dock. Raspo ran to the door and looked through the glass panels on one side. It was crazy. There were lazers and spotlights randomly lighting up different portions of the interiors of the party sphere, were people were gyrating to loud trace in zero gravity. Raspo looked at Lino. "Should I knock or something?" "No, you drop in the fee in that slot over there, the door slides open. the fee covers everything, but you need to decide which chemichals you want before you enter" Raspo walked over to the slot and put in a few coins. The psychadelicia color scale popped out. It was the standard one. He chose his combination of drugs, and the door opened. A man with a mask was standing there. He had what looked like a long cylindrical shock ring. He could see the pointed tip. It looked scary. As soon as Raspo tried to enter, the man stabbed his back with the apparatus he was holding. "ouch! what was that for?" The bouncer gave a very comforting smile. "Your chemichals."
Five minutes later, Raspo was lost in zero gravity, amongst an undulating mass of raving teenagers. A cigarette had flown past some time ago, he was searching for a lighter. He heard the trademark tune of his friend's saxohpone and looked around. He spotted Lino wave at him as he went past in a bounce train. They were a bunch of people who collectively propelled themself inwards as soon as they hit a side of the station. Lino threw him a lighter.
Raspo lit up his cigarette, thought for a moment, and decided that he needed an aerocar which would get into space. He realised, just as he was passing out, that his particular brand of psychosis had just evolved. He imagined a thousand evolving psychosi around him, and looked at all the small details that contributed to it, and decided that the world was as mad as he was. He was comforted that he was passing out.

Apophenia

recovered from a blog that got deleted falling for the title of the post. Yes, the title of the post was the same even in the blog that got deleted. Cheers.




Lost is not about fate or mathematics or genetics. These are mere mediums to tell the story, to convey the whole point of the endeavor. The production, the way in which the shots are taken, the way in which the story is written, and the whole lost experience, all reek of this point – and if the whole point can be condensed to its bare minimum, to just one word, that word is psychology.



The series is made with a lot of understanding. It plays games with the mind. It knew, for example, that fans of the series would make screen caps, look up the allusions, dissect each and every dialogue, turn audio backwards, and try various other methods to extract information from the series. What the series does, is exploit information from you. This is a new trend, a new method of storytelling, where the audience is first fed information, and the meaning of the information is revealed as the story progresses. This format, makes it necessary for lost to keep referring to itself (the brief recaps at the beginning of episodes is where all the back info given in previous episodes is revealed in a condense form). Lost is however, not the only series that uses this method of storytelling, you can see this everywhere, in desperate housewives, in the Harry Potter series and in movies like the Existenz, Pi, the Matrix, and... The Others. Infact, it is quite a trend now a days, to exploit what has been fed in previously by the story in order to continue the story. What makes lost so different and scary, is that it is telling the story of the very psychology that it is manipulating. Comprehend this, dissect lost, consider its minutest propositions, because the story is being written with you, whatever you end up thinking, all the fan theories, every single bit of information that you receive about lost, is calculated, to a considerable extent, by the series itself. Slightly lost aren’t you?



It is necessary to begin with the very minimum and explain things ahead. The title of the series would be a good place to start. What do you think “lost” stands for? The series makes you think it is a story about a bunch of people lost on a lost island. The title is not extracted from this aspect of the story. Most of the characters in the plane are also lost in their lives, doing something they have no clue about. This strikes at a basic level with the audiences as being lost and having no clue what to do is a very basic psychological fear, which almost everybody will relate to. This is where the series manages to be one step ahead. The title extends to the story arc across the three episodes as well, the story unfolds and is planned in a way where the audience is misdirected, the audience is made to focus on a rapid succession of events, and this is where and why lost uses so many allusions. The audience is made to explore ideas surrounding genetics, and fate and mathematics. These are ideas suggested by the series, the series that allows you to be lost in its own story. You are made to lost track of what is going on… there was a monster in the first season, hatches in the next, and you definitely don’t know what is happening in the third season. It is a brilliant scheme, a plan that is working, not only for entertainment purposes, but on a very psychological perspective as well… I wouldn’t be surprised if the ending of lost involves the audiences in some way.



This blog studies lost. It studies lost with a new approach. It does not look at the story, it looks at the storytelling. Every single piece of information in this blog is derived not from careful study of the story itself, but is derived instead from a comparison between the keywords and motifs and themes predominantly used in the story, to the previous use of such keywords, motifs and themes. The blog traces influence of real life on the series, tries to analyze what the authors were thinking, and where they get their thinking from. There are a bunch of clues to these hidden in the series itself, the nomenclature of the characters (John Locke was a psychologist), the books read by the characters (Hawking’s brief history of time) and the iconic shots in the series (notice principle characters out to do something are always in the dark, holding up a torch, and looking for something when they hit upon something else)… you get the idea.



This is what makes lost so appealing… it extends out of the medium and invades your reality… it is so brilliant, that it was designed to make you come here in search for information about itself.

Continued later

From the diaries of Epi Fluffin Pooh



John and Michael headed to Reddy’s to discuss their fantasies. Reddy did not live in Cape Town, it was more fruitful to be gay in Bombay. His sexual orientation had nothing to do with the fantasies of John and Michael – both authors in the fantasy genre. He merely wanted to solve his problem. Reddy, had a problem. He did not know whether to recommend John or Michael to his friends. By the way, none of his friends in Bombay were gay. His friends were fanatics of fantasies, but were mindless, and did not know which was the better of the two. This interesting story, will be related here for those who are as curious.


So John and Michael met up at Reddy’s house. He stroked a magic lantern, and a genie popped up. The genie said “who do you want to be locked up in a room with?” Reddy said “I wish to meet John and Michael at once”. So John and Michael, obviously, had to meet Reddy. This made Reddy feel that genies were like the people from the make-a-wish foundation. He ignored this feeling of his, and wished, very strongly indeed, to meet John and Michael. So that is how, John and Michael met up at Reddy’s house. It must be noted here, for the purpose of the story, that John and Michael were on first name terms with Reddy, because all of them were figments of the reader’s imagination.


John was seated on the right, Michael was seated on the left, but Reddy. Was surprisingly enough, not in the centre. He was moving around, looking for something. I was therefore confusing about who was to the left or right, so let us just follow convention. John was to the right, Michael was to the right, and they were having a debate because they were perfectly happy and straight people having completely different fantasies, and therefore, they were likely to argue with each other over their beliefs.


John said you Michael, are disgusting. I do not think, that you believe in what you write. You are a person who has fallen in a trap of your own design. You strive to rise above those planes you write about, but have lost track of realism. You deceive people into believing they are reading the truth. You might choose to do this hoping that their beliefs will help them get the message of the book better, but you ignore those minds that will easily be influenced by you into believing your reality… and letting young minds stray is not a noble thing to do”
Michael found it wise to come up with a retort “you speak as if your fantasies are any less hypnotizing than mine are… your fantasies are brief, short lived, they take too much time to establish themselves, you have a large word count and yet you represent so little of anything in your works. Your works have no content, no meaning. They create nothing but short lived bursts of euphoria, it is a vague and dirty form of entertainment, prostituting the very form of literature that is its syntax, it is incoherent, and incongruent, it is a trip into the incomprehensible. It is escapist. The reader tries to escape his reality into a world where every allegorical reference comes alive into a concrete reality… and what are these allegorical references? Nothing, your works are even devoid of allegorical references… you have yourself claimed that you do not like anything with allegorical references, and therefore, the tales of fantasy that you tell are unnecessarily over glorified. They have nothing in them, they are empty and void of any true content. They let the reader indulge in comforting and deadly philosophies of nobility, and of heritage, and of war and racism. And your works are so empty, that you go ahead and corrupt the noblest of people to fall for heritage, the noblest of gods to fall to war, and the noblest of races to fall to racism. Your works are paradoxical and meaningless. They have no real emotions or real feelings. They are merely delusional. That is the horrific show you are putting up: you are merely satisfying an antediluvian human need to be delusional. Even their very production defies the old fashioned ideas that it suggest. This is bad literature.”



And John said “I do not question you on the grounds of literature, but on the grounds of real, human emotions. It is not psychologically advisable to intensify an experience, particularly in the fantasy genre, because that would corrupt the minds of the readers far more than an escapist fantasy story would do. And escapist fantasies are clean, they are distinct from the real life, they are something unattainable, and this is precisely what makes them easier to distinguish from real life. Your fantasy works worse magic on the people. It satisfies every single antediluvian human need, even those that are delusional. It slowly takes over their minds and haunts them, makes them paranoid, and resent the real world. It makes them aware of their own shame, their own bitterness, and their own fallacies. It makes them fall into that deep well of self pity, where they grope about in the darkness of their own sub consciousness. Your kind of literature is so debased, that a decent censor would leave nothing to be read.”



And Michael said “have you seen it! You have stopped being noble and grand already, you have realized that realism is the better concept, one that needs to be embraced”



And John said “This, is an effort, to make you understand exactly what I am talking about. You have managed, to capture into your reality, even a person like me, who is guilty of believing every single thing you accuse me with”



And Michael understood his flaw. He had lost. Or had he? He knew what he needed to do, He fell to his knees, cried out “Look at this awful drama!” and pretended to cry.



And John said “Come on Michael, be a man, stand up straight now…”



And Michael cried “well, you try being a human then”



There was a Flash. Suddenly, both Michael and John woke up in their own separate beds. They were happy. They had had nice dreams. They were inspired to write some fiction.



Reddy was done going round and round the room. He had found his way out. He had found a key. And the key was a word. A word he used to banish his demons. He looked at John, he looked at Michael, and he said “but you are both my fantasies! You do not exist. I refuse to believe in your existence”. Suddenly, there was a flash. Both Michael and John disappeared.



Reddy looked around and paused for a second. He wondered what he was doing. He smoked a magic joint, and a genie popped up.

From the diaries of Epi Fluffin Pooh

Propety of Reddy Inc, re-blogged here with permission.


What happened was, Tolkein and Moorcock headed to Reddy’s to discuss their fantasies. Reddy did not live in Cape Town, it was more fruitful to be gay in Bombay. His sexual orientation had nothing to do with the fantasies of Tolkein and Moorcock. He merely wanted to solve his problem. Reddy Bean, had a problem. He did not know whether to recommend Tolkein or Moorcock to his friends. By the way, none of his friends in Bombay were gay. His friends were fanatics of fantasies, but were mindless, and did not know which was the better of the two. This interesting story, will be continued later. The chronicler was misdirected due to things that are frankly, none of your business. The readers who are reminded of a strong influence of Adams, please consider this something that I actually intended to write:



Hidden and unrecognizable in the long string of hallucinations is the one reality that consumes, smothers and comforts you just like your dreams. This, is what I presume to be the one “true” story that I wish to relate: In my pocket is a ring. It is a ring that I keep, not knowing whether I am role-playing Gollum or Cirdan or Bilbo or Frodo or Annatar. But even Sam would not be interested in the one that I have – it is a small plastic ring, jagged on one side, and square holes in the middle. It is a crude composition – out of place from its surroundings. And it is not this ring that matters, it is everything that it represents. It is something that holds me on to a central power, one of perception, of comprehension, of nothing less, than a real reality. A reality that is consciously trying to isolate itself from you. A reality that wants to make you an outcast of a system of its own fucking design. A reality that is incomprehensibly real despite the oppositions, and the contrast, and the lies and the bullshit. A reality that consumes and smothers you even in the comforts of your sleep. A reality, that makes me aware of my body, of my most primitive needs, of my own conflicts, of my very instincts. A reality which hides behind the wisdom in the words “all that is gold does not glitter”. It masks itself by being the least pleasing thing to turn to. Real reality should be analyzed, quantified and the power of just being a part of it, should be encompassed within a ring that people should carry around just so that they remain in the real reality. Or you can pretend that his has already been included in the design consideration of an existing ring, which exists in the real world, and you will know when you find it. So go look for it, till you find it.



And I found it. It was in a tetrapack of real juice. I swear on the ring that this is real. I was sucking on the juice because I needed it. Real juice sucks, because it is not a substitute for water that you need when you are vomiting. It is not what you need, when you are where I was when I found it. I was in my living room, smoking a spring roll, which is a joint made out of hash, only you roll it in weed instead of tobacco. That’s some green peace for you man. I was smoking the joint and watching the television. I do not remember what I was watching, because I was doped out – like really bad. THC does that to you – that is its function. Because when you are doped out, you begin to tap into your own sub consciousness. If you begin to doubt this, then consider the same thing happening to a fake sub consciousness that you create for yourself in your complete consciousness, because social conditioning, urban myth, and whatever the idea of history is, makes you believe you have a sub consciousness. Either way, the shit is I know it is real, from personal experience, that watching television in a doped experience, makes you think a lot of things at once, which is why you forget everything later on, and which is why you will be slightly distracted from the fact that you are vomiting. You are emanating puke. Your chest region is an abnormality. Your mouth is lost in chaos. Your teeth are chattering away like a primitive madman, and your saliva drips down to the ashtray, while you think you will burp, and hot mash runs up your throat, through the obstacle course that your face has constructed for it, and out of your system. It gushes out and leaves you empty behind. It is the remnants of what you are supposed to consume to survive. It is your own food, half digested, coming out of your mouth, and mingling in dirty patterns with the ash from the ashtray. And the ashtray is turned over, because you move your hand in a hot sudden pain – it is the still burning ash of the hash brought in the gay capital of Bombay. It has fallen on your hand! Burning you, and you moved your hand turning over the ashtray, and you yell in pain from the hand but the yell is smothered by the vomit, and then the world flashes by and you have no clue what is happening to you and you pass out. And that is when you start remembering what happened to you. I remember my eyes opening and the light creeping into them. They showed a drastic scene – one of your own vomit in the ashtray. My eyes were not enough, I needed to come to my senses, Gather information from other sources as well… slowly, my body woke, the pangs of the burn were intense but subdued… yes, I could recognize the hangover, I jerked myself up to an erect position, and looked around myself. Oh what a mess I had created! I got up, and realized that I was dead. If my parents came home. I didn’t know what I was doing. It was a bad idea really, chainsmoking springrolls at home. There was some real juice that had spilt over into some of the vomit and the ash. I needed water. My eyes were burning. My hands were burning. My throat was burning. I didn’t find water, but fortunately there was some milk around. Milk that I had forgotten to drink when I had left home in the morning. From previous experience, I knew that milk was a really good drink to have in a hangover. I trusted my previous experiences, and overtly went for the milk. I put in to my throat hoping it would suppress that primordial thirst, and I sputtered out what came into my mouth. It was old milk. I had forgotten that milk loosens its taste if it is kept outside from morning to evening. Oh my god! I had lost track of too many things, I had to bring it all together, to focus, to do something useful. But I still needed the water, and I was still thirsty. I rushed to the bathroom, to the tap, and turned it on. Tanker water. Out to the living room, looked around, found real juice, tore apart its cap, and drank it. It tasted sweet then, and I hope never to experience that again. And when I had torn open the cover to get to the juice, the washer type thing in the cover popped out. It was this small plastic thing, it has spikes on the inside, which bites you if you wear it, it has circular ridges on the outside, like a long spiral staircase, and four, small, and uneven squarish holes. It looked like a crown with gems, or a castle with windows, depending upon the way you looked at it. But it was too small, so I thought it was the ring that I was meant to find. You see, it represented a lot of things.

exams over

Two years of media studies down, and the exams just got over, and I am exhausted, verbally, psychologically, and physically. This, is everything I have learnt:



Let us process a piece of information "Gynophobia is the fear of women". In the modern society, information is consumed at a frenzied pace. Information, when processed, generates even more information. We seek out information not for power, but for satisfaction. Everything from the ion to Britney Spears is a curiosity, a fetish of the system that needs to be satisfied. The satisfaction, is derived, by the processing of the information, and not the information itself.


You see, the author has to struggle to stay alive. The author is not at a position to claim any influence whatsoever over the processing of the information that is suggested by the text. The author is not only dead, but his works form an ironic epithet - he is buried under his own words. This is what, certain authors experienced and were distressed about. Then they had an idea… the information that they provide would always be beneficial to the providers of the information, else they would have no reason to effort the information provision. A subtle magic of influence and misdirection was woven within the very syntax, if not the text, and what we have is the modern mass media and the modern society.


That is the hypnotism of the media… it pretends and suggests still that the author is dead, and the meaning of the delivered information is only with the receiver, and that everything is open for interpretation. The media would have no function, no use, and no reason to exist, if it did not influence the people it reached out to. It is not wise to trust anything with so much power. Interacting with the media is like playing with fire. It is an activity that is dangerous for the psyche of an individual. Change your perspective. The author is not dead, he is alive and controlling, on many levels, levels you do not know or are aware of. It is necessary to understand the philosophy of “questioning everything”, it is important to question everything, but it is most important to question yourself, find out, as soon as possible, what is it that you believe in, and resist any change to these beliefs. Because then, you will be drawn into the vortex of decay and control, you will be sucked into the media and become a part of it, because these beliefs will lead to actions that will change who you are. It is necessary to be alert to every statement, suggestion, idea and philosophy that is offered to you… because these are the building blocks of your phobias that will get controlled. “Gynophobia” is also the contempt for women.


The media is not an entity of its own. It does not have a mind and cannot think. Therefore, it is easy to assume that all of the Media is controlled by some powerful people. Who exactly controls the media? Here is, an interesting proposition: pictures this: information begins to flow from one person to another, in a volume and intensity that is directly proportional to the technology of information spread available at that point of time. Throughout history, the rulers and the church were the most influential people. It was difficult to muster up and co-ordinate a revolution. It was the time for artists and authors to be influential after a few revolutions that were mustered. By the time the twentieth century came about, the press, film makers, and in the later half, musicians, were influential. More and more people were contributing to the media, and the standards of the media were apparently falling. Now a lot of people contribute to the mass media, and the very idea of a “standard” for the media is extinct. Information has its ultimate source in humans, obviously. The words “gyno” and “phobia” contributed to the making of another word which brought two idea complexes together, a conscious effort of someone. You get the idea right… so everyone indulges in this, everyone processes and contributes information to the system in one way or another, and the media continues to be a cancerous force, culminating in something really neat actually.


The media manages to be a representation of everything that everyone is. It averages out the differences. Both the president and the porn star will fall for that advertisement of a can of coke. The subtle web of influence exploits the hidden recesses of the consciousness, the very instincts programmed in our genes, the media directly reaches into your system, your head, and that is where the media is at its best. Knowing how you are personally influenced by the media, is the one true way to know exactly what you are. You will have changed, considerably, in the very process of finding out, but that, really. Is the best you can do.



PS: The author considers Gynophobia to be an obtuse and unaesthetic subject matter for contemplation.

Breakfast at Infantaria

Feels good man

a newspaper from the inside out

# There is just waaaay to much space for newsprint in a newspaper. The amount of shit a standard newspaper contains is like absolute information overload. Can be toned down a bit...

The viewer is the art form

Experiment Ap0iNagoad5

Q1) Comprehension. Read paragraph below and answer questions.



A Magic ball of life, of light, in the centre of a circle of light. A circle of light with many con-centric circles outside it… emanating it, causing them to be, setting each as an example,a precedent, a template, for a multiplefold explosion, if circles and orbs and spheres of light. It is that fire, not that mere physical fire that you see, but the very origin of that idea of fire in your head, yes, that idea of it that burns within your head, that arouses you into action, that kindles a feverish fervor, that evokes a furious force, that enkindles your very soul, yes it is that fire that you must think of… everything that you are should contribute to its conception, let all your ideas of fire flow through you into its very definition… yes, now, imagine every idea that is you is combusted and consumed by the fire, you follow into it to, you immolate yourself to the very idea of fire, and you break out, free, you are the opposition, you are everything that fire is not, you are water, and yet you use your own opposition, fire can flow too, faster, in a more fiery frenzy, the fire is everything, and everything is afire, your sub consciousness and your reality, your alpha and your omega, your id and ego all combine into that furious force that is flowing out in a frenzied rush of pure adrenaline. Yes, you are giving birth already, to the idea, an entity of the very air, for fire is within the air, and within the water also for it is the fire within the water that makes the hot flames emanate from a touch of ice, even the snow, is a powerful pyre, smoking guiltily of the dead dragon empire. The idea of fire is a being of real blood a blood made up of a rushing stream of other ideas; the idea has come into being. What is it? What is this fire? What is this explosion of? Of words? Of essays? Of art? Of language? Of mathematics? Of fertilizations? Of time? Of fate? Of souls? Of colors? Of physics? Of Misc (as in Miscellany)? Of metaphors, ironies, sarcasms and climaxes? Of the cosmos itself?

And there was the big bang. It all happened because the god and the devil were playing a game of poker. The god tried to explain to the devil that he had created the devil, the poker, and the cards, and that he therefore, would win. The devil said “fuck you, loser”. The god dealt the cards. The devil had nothing to put on the table, so he bet himself. The god, raised it by creating the cosmos and placing it on the table, and said “let there be a show”. The God, knowing he would win, revealed his five aces. The devil revealed his five jokers, and claimed the cosmos for himself.

Let it not be known that God lost. No, it would be a shame to believe that now wouldn’t it? God had, as everyone knows, created the devil and the poker and the table. Why was it easier to forget that, but remember that God created the whole universe? God had planned out the whole exercise, it was a part of the training of the Satan, that had just reached its conclusion. He told the devil “Look, you are finally ready, this has, obviously, been planned by me. Do not think you can control anything, I totally control you. And fuck you too, by the way. It is time now. You are done with your training. Let us play a game of poker again. I have an idea to make the game fair. A failsafe idea. I will not be the dealer of the cards. I will create another entity in this room, and it shall be peopled by three entities. She will listen to neither you nor me, and do whatever her wily will pleases. She will be fair to both of us, even us out, and keep us in equal opposition. She will be lady luck. And she will make sure that our game is fair.

And thus, lady luck was created, sitting in between the god and the devil, and looking at the universe in between them. And the cards were forgotten… god had really made her wily… she did whatever she wanted. The devil tried to seduce her, to win her over, to make her listen to him, and she appeared to be tempted. The god, being the self conscious, over confidant bastard that he is, tried to figure out exactly what was happen, and how he had planned all of this out. He was taken aback for a moment, lost in thought, wondering how come he had not seen this coming. And that was the weakness, luck exploited, the investigative thoughts of the god gone out of control, and the frenzied enticement of the devil gone out of control too… luck had made them go out of control with her very existence, and they were drawn to her, and she grabbed both of them, and entered the universe in a horrible orgy that is being played before our eyes. She encompassed the god and the devil within her, spiraled, and contorted, and twisted and turned, it was in her very character, and became a piercing arrow of pure energy, and she headed towards the docile shell that was the universe, kept on the table, and birthing the egg of the cosmos into a thing of life. And it was only then, that it finally happened. It was then, that the universe came into being. It is commonly known, as the big bang.

The paragraph that you happened to read one line ago, was just one of the ideas that contributed to your perception of the big bang. And you see, that exactly is the problem here. Every word here is not really a word, it is just a representation, a representation of a unique idea complex that you happen to have built over a long period of more than four lines ago. But words are a very petty medium really. Imagine, you typing out a series of words, hoping to convey something, ends up doing something totally different. Simple phrases like “I like that fire in your eyes” can have a lot of meanings, and that particular feeling that you want to convey is almost never really conveyed. Not a big problem really, big deal man, so there is no such thing as eloquence, like are you going to shut up and remain silent just because of that? {alternate kicks in} No, these tiny disturbances, changes in the ideas of what you want to convey, get distorted further and further as they go away from you… It is like everyone is stuck in a game of cyclic redundant Chinese whispers, and everyone ends up saying the same old bullshit, only it happens to be perceived as unique by people who are not aware that they are also saying the same old bullshit. So what happens is everyone keeps mirroring everything anyone else says, and point a finger at each other and say “Ha! You are wrong!” Imagine how chaotic a game of Chinese Whispers would be, if someone were to start the whole thing by saying “Ha! You were wrong!”

What if someone really was wrong? What if someone really made a mistake in that game… the mistake would be amplified, it would grow, it would expand, and eventually people might all end up saying “fuck you” or something like that, instead of saying “Ha! You were wrong.” And they would be under the impression that they both mean the same thing. Hey wait, here is the idea, applied to itself… if we find out everything that people were saying, over the ages, to mean the words “Ha! You were wrong”, you would end up with a perfectly detailed record of history, an entry that averages out all the influences on anybody who wants to say “Ha! You were wrong!” into a quantifiable, reproducible entity. From then on, it becomes an easy matter to extrapolate their belief systems, their needs, their desires, and their actions. It also becomes easy to extrapolate further information, like the social, cultural and geographical histories of all the chains of investigations, particularly identifying the ones that are co-related to each other. You culminate into understanding everything in the whole fucking universe, and that is when you take a step back and silently mutter the words “fuck you”.



a) Note down characteristics of image in the head immediately after reading the words “fuck you” at the end of the previous question.

b) Write differences between that picture and yourself.
c) Comprehend.



Q2) Write a short note on cyclic redundancy error. You may use google for the same.



Q3) Fool around on blogthings to keep your mind off all of this.

Apoinagoad.

A Magic ball of life, of light, in the centre of a circle of light. A circle of light with many con-centric circles outside it… emanating it, causing them to be, setting each as an example,a precedent, a template, for a multiplefold explosion, if circles and orbs and spheres of light. It is that fire, not that mere physical fire that you see, but the very origin of that idea of fire in your head, yes, that idea of it that burns within your head, that arouses you into action, that kindles a feverish fervor, that evokes a furious force, that enkindles your very soul, yes it is that fire that you must think of… everything that you are should contribute to its conception, let all your ideas of fire flow through you into its very definition… yes, now, imagine every idea that is you is combusted and consumed by the fire, you follow into it to, you immolate yourself to the very idea of fire, and you break out, free, you are the opposition, you are everything that fire is not, you are water, and yet you use your own opposition, fire can flow too, faster, in a more fiery frenzy, the fire is everything, and everything is afire, your sub consciousness and your reality, your alpha and your omega, your id and ego all combine into that furious force that is flowing out in a frenzied rush of pure adrenaline. Yes, you are giving birth already, to the idea, an entity of the very air, for fire is within the air, and within the water also for it is the fire within the water that makes the hot flames emanate from a touch of ice, even the snow, is a powerful pyre, smoking guiltily of the dead dragon empire. The idea of fire is a being of real blood a blood made up of a rushing stream of other ideas; the idea has come into being. What is it? What is this fire? What is this explosion of? Of words? Of essays? Of art? Of language? Of mathematics? Of fertilizations? Of time? Of fate? Of souls? Of colors? Of physics? Of Misc (as in Miscellany)? Of metaphors, ironies, sarcasms and climaxes? Of the cosmos itself?

The paragraph that you happened to read one line ago, was just one of the ideas that contributed to your perception of the big bang. And you see, that exactly is the problem here. Every word here is not really a word, it is just a representation, a representation of a unique idea complex that you happen to have built over a long period of more than four lines ago. But words are a very petty medium really. Imagine, you typing out a series of words, hoping to convey something, ends up doing something totally different. Simple phrases like “I like that fire in your eyes” can have a lot of meanings, and that particular feeling that you want to convey is almost never really conveyed. Not a big problem really, big deal man, so there is no such thing as eloquence, like are you going to shut up and remain silent just because of that? No you have to be careful, aware, aware of what slight tinge of meaning might do to the reader. Yes, you have to be smarter than they are, you have to use the strange averages in the idea complexes to assault them where they are weakest… you should appear to be a friend and deceive them. You should forget who you are and become everything that others around you expect you to be, you should immerse yourself in the meme pool, you should not become a contributor, you should spread yourself out and be aware of everything around you. Absorb the metaphors, the ironies, the sarcasms and the climaxes around you. You are getting the idea, now right?

Yes, then do it, exercise it, put it into motion, meander it, and rape it, and understand it, understand that it is still not eloquence… eloquence still ceases to exist, you cannot express any more by being a non-participant in the idea complex building game of life, no, let not the idea of “eloquence” be altered or screened… let it be pure and whole, let it be therefore, plain and simple… let it be within the idea driving an effort of eloquence, rather than the eloquence itself.
Ignore the specific and purposeful influence of subtle mechanisms in the ideas.
Forget every conditioning, you do not climax after every paragraph, get past your protection, inseminate the idea, the idea that is emanating from you, the idea that is your product, the idea that that is everything, that the author wants to convey, you flow from one end to the other, and in that other end, lies a nugget, of pure information, of reality, of truth, an understanding of everything that is not you, for you have drawn yourself out of the system, you have nothing to do with this alien idea, because you have no contribution to it, and it that recognition alone, lies the test of the eloquence of the author. What is the hurry of the reader to climax so fast? The author and the reader are boring each other now. Please, take a moment to understand what exactly is going on here. A point is trying to be made. It is suggested, that you put aside all preconceived notions of every single idea that you have ever had and look at every single idea in its own light, independent of the others, and then, what it means in interrelation to others, and only then, can you then comprehend, and not merely understand, how you can be eloquent. And there, reader, is your climax.

It is now achieved. Eloquence has just come, it has and invaded your psyche, penetrated your thoughts, and has made you climax also. Hell, it made you fucking pregnant, and even gave birth to a new notion. For Eloquence itself, has come to mean a dark power, an art of misdirection, a scar on society, the very point that is trying to be made. Do not fall to the subconscious control of the society. Do not play their mind games with them. Spread out, understand them, but do not participate. Isolate yourself really, wear your party hat, take out the yellow sunglasses, and sit back for a bout of pure entertainment. It becomes funny, to trace the patterns and the symbols. You are now aware, of what is influencing you. You have directions to overcome the control. You have many choices to make. You are there. At the point where you understand and finally comprehend, metaphors, ironies, sarcasms and fucking climaxes.

The alarm rings!

The god and the devil, sat down in front of each other, and decided to play a game of poker. The god said, "I made you, I made the cards, and I made the poker, and therefore, I win". The devil said, "fuck you, loser". The god got angry and dealt the cards. The god looked at his cards. The god decided to move in big and scare the devil. Bang! He conceeded the cosmos to the table. The table was promptly consumed by the cosmos. The cosmos became the table on which the game was played. The devil looked at it. He did not know what to match the cosmos with. He had nothing to give to the table. He decided to give himself. The devil kept his soul on the table. The cosmos promptly ingested it in anger. The god was furious. The god gave the universe numbers. The devil threw in his heart. The god gave the universe chaos. The devil threw in his limbs. The god gave the universe inertia, and physics. The devil threw in his eyes, the god threw in the light, the devil threw in his ears, the god threw in the walkman, the devil threw in its nose, the god threw in pheromones, the devil gave up, and threw in his horns, the god threw in appropriate protection, the devil, leaped inside the cosmos himself, and the god threw in climaxes, and called out "Show!".


The devil uttered the words "remember, you called first" in what seemed like a weird loser's swearword. But it was an unfair game. God had made the game, and the cards, and the devil, and the cosmos. God had made everything. God had all the cards. and the god was overexcited. He had won... against things he had created... it was like the exhileration of winning a computer game, so he showed his cards before his wirthy opponant could. The cards were no surprise really, an impossibility, but there they were, five aces. Five aces. Who has ever heard of such a thing. But it happened, god had five aces.


But the devil did not have a reputation for no reason. No sireeee! He was one maniac, one bastard, one asshole, you will sympathise with god, dear friends, because the devil, happened to have five jokers.

Microscopic analysis of the fish

Click To Play

I donno

Life cycle of the fish HCSP in retrieval vat. Images courtesy BiOscan

"You believe that your soul is not a participant in an orgy of realities" That is the thought. Let us go about considering it. The words that you read on this page, is not, a construction of your consciousness, or so you might want to argue, but everything you comprehend and understand after you are through with the words, are a part of your construction and your consciousness. You either do or do not accept this. Either way, the integrity of your consciousness is preserved isn't it? It is time you go to sleep, dream and consider this. Maybe you will have sweet dreams you know. Maybe there wont be words on this page after all, maybe we picked up the actual organisms...look with your eyes, but do not listen to your iris"

alpha-omega-numeral-five

There is a substantial differences between b-grade films and hindi serials. No one has any idea what these might be. This is an example on a charachter in a serial that came up after a search of google. A professor, whose paper I am going to answer tomorrow, has suggested that I know at least one episode of a serial. Listening to her suggestions on previous instances of answering papers she has set me, has only gotten me terribly dissapointed. I am, however, against my better judgement, going through a few websites on hindi serials, and am bewildered about the difference between b-grade films and hindi serials. Take for example, this "Many actors have had weird and scary experiences while shooting on outdoor locales, late into the night but Rushali Arora who is on a killing spree as a possessed woman, will appear in 4 episodes for Lucky, has a totally different tale to tell.


She plays a simple, village girl who is possessed by an evil spirit, out to kill Lucky in the serial of the same name, for which she is required to wear a crumpled, wet dress, long hair and sport white ghostly eyes. Elaborating on the white eyes, Rushali explains, "I have to use white opaque contact lens that renders me totally blind. To remain with it for beyond half-an-hour is an ordeal and so I remove the lens if there is a break between the shots."

Rushali has acted in horror and thriller serials like Aahat earlier, where she has portrayed the character of vampire and ghost. "But then the get-up demanded sharp canine teeth and weird costumes," says the frazzled actor, further adding, "now I have not only to use opaque lens, the location is also somewhere in the woods, shot at night and my role demands me to live in a well. It's so scary."

There is water everywhere and she has to rise from the well with water around her. It's the director and the unit hands who guide her which way to look and how many steps to take in which direction. "Now I know what it is to be visibly challenged and I empathise with their lot," says a harrowed Rushali."

what bullshit? Go to the page by clicking on the title. You will see a picture of her there as well. That, is all.

Dakshinayanam 2005-2006: Remote Control

Remote control



Recognize Paradox to celebrate Life

Ignore Paradox to celebrate Humanity

Invent Paradox to celebrate Science

Celebrate Paradox to invent Religion



(Recognize life to celebrate paradox)



Torture Man to invent Nature

Torture Nature to invent Science

Torture Science to invent God

Torture God to invent Religion



(Tortured Men invent Gods)



Romance for the sake of Immortality

Progress for the sake of Intelligence

Like War for the sake of Peace

Art for the sake of Art



(Immortality for the sake of Romance)



Journey to exploit the Road

Think to exploit the Self

Wonder to exploit the Miracle

Pray… pray to exploit



(Like Bees exploiting the Flower)



Interpret as a matter of Choice

Accept as a matter of Choice

Rejoice as a matter of Choice

Recover as a matter of Choice



(Choice is a matter of Interpretation)

Dakshinayanam 2004-2005 - Playing with infinities

Playing with infinities



The 12:25 local to Thane local arrived more or less on time.
Shivashankar ran in before it had fully come to a stop and grabbed a
window seat. His friends followed suit and all of them cracked a few
jokes on how childish he was and sat down around him (no one took the
window seat facing Shiva just to prove that they were not childish).
Shiva, Pramod, Nitin and Kartik made themselves comfortable before the
train pulled out of the station. The local was pretty empty, there was
only two other people in the first class compartment, and both of them
were more or less asleep.

Shiva and his friends were soon covered by a crisscrossed jumble of
wires. Three separate handsfrees had to be hung around necks, and the
headphones of three different kinds of music players had to be stuffed
into the ears with blaring music. Nitin got the old derelict walkman,
held together by pieces of rubber band. Kartik and Pramod shared the
earphones of a diskman between them. But Shiva was the real
technogeek. He didn't even remove his iPod out, but skillfully
operated his mp3 player by sliding his hands into his pockets.

Nitin, Kartik, and Pramod soon began to nod off because of the heat
and the hazy light streaming in through the dusty windows, and the
slow lounge that they were listening. But Shiva got out a book and
began to read. It was a little known book written by an Indian
professor named T Padmanabhan, called "After the first three minutes".
It was a book about the evolution of the universe, and Shiva was into
such things. He was mid-way into the book, and was now reading
something about density contrast in the universe. He was incredulous
as to how the education system's textbooks had managed to portray
absolutely amazing things like the basic fabric of the universe, in
such a boring way. Something he read made him ask himself a very
fundamental question, about the shape of the entire universe, and then
on further contemplation, its purpose. He closed the book and Gazed
out of the window thinking about it.

He snapped out of his reverie when his cell phone began to buzz and
made it uncomfortable for him to sit. Unlike the others, he had not
removed it from its pocket. He was in the awkward position of
possessing a mobile phone that was too inexpensive to flaunt. It did
not even have a color display, or a browser let alone a camera, but on
the other hand, calling a mobile with all these things a phone was
like calling a computer a typewriter.

He looked at the display of his Nokia 1100, and a very weird message
was being flashed at him, "God calling". Before he figured out what to
do, the call stopped. The signal bar in the phone was really low.
Shiva figured that some friend of his had changed his name in the
address book to God, and was now calling him as a joke. He slipped his
mobile back to his pocket, as the train approached another station,
and was feeling very tired, and the heat had finally gotten to him. He
stretched out his legs to relax, and it bumped into someone else's.
The seat opposite to his was no longer empty. A short man with very
large mane of tangled hair was smiling at him.

"So" The man asked, in a very slow, gruff voice. "You want the real
thing?" Shiva was in somewhat of a stupor, and so he did not find this
all that extraordinary. He began to accept things without being too
curious about them, like in his dreams, where amazing things go by
unquestioned. "What thing" he asked wondering where he had seen this
man before… looked like a professor. The man sitting next to him
considered him for a moment, with an amused expression in his eyes.
"The shape, and maybe, even the purpose of the universe." Ah. Shiva
thought, another fanatic with his view on the cosmos. There were
nutcases like these all over the place, and every one of them had a
unique perspective of the cosmos.

So Shiva sat back and weakly said "give it to me". "Really?" said the
man, "OK then, I don't do this to everyone who asks, you know… but
some are different. You see, the universe can either be finite or
infinite, you have to agree to that right?" "Yeah Ok" Shiva nodded.
"Now, if it is finite, what is outside it? – Another bigger realm, you
would say, and there would be another one at the end of that - and
suddenly you have an infinite progression of universes capsulated one
inside the other which would make it an infinite universe anyway, so
you end up with an infinite universe. An infinite universe would mean
infinite energy, that would mess a load of things up, like your
electricity bills will be zero, you will never have to refuel your
car, and you will have the technology to make ships faster than light,
and all the laws of physics will go haywire… just to begin with. So
the only way for a universe to actually exist, keeping its set of laws
intact, is to… is to have no way out." He finished somewhat lamely.
Shiva had not understood much, and the man seemed to fidget, looking
for a way to explain it better. "Give me your mobile" the man said, as
if something had struck him. Shiva, almost like a reflex action, gave
the customary response for this question, "No balance" he muttered
very curtly, and hoped that the very odd conversation was over – why
was this guy demanding his mobile all of a sudden? But the man seemed
to have guessed what was on Shiva's mind. "No, I don't want to make a
call with it; I just want to play a game." Shiva was now irritated. An
old man, almost thrice his age, was calmly asking for his mobile to
play games on. "Battery low", the other standard response. The old man
looked more amused now, and said calmly but sternly, "please." Shiva
reluctantly got his mobile out (not using it as much as his friends,
he had more than the regular amount of both balance and charge) and
handed it over to the old man. That face was definitely familiar…
The man took the phone, and relaxed. An odd shiver shook the
compartment. The man turned the phone around, and the world around
Shiva warped. Beams of twisting, contorting light were traveling from
him to his mobile, and he was sucked into it like dust gets sucked
into a vacuum cleaner. Shiva was not only somehow trapped in the
mobile, but he was the mobile. He could feel the electricity running
around his circuits. He could hear from the tiny slit that represented
the mouthpiece. He tried speaking through the earpiece, but only a
shrill sound came out. Where was he anyway? Where was the mind of the
cell phone? The processor? The sim card? Where was his real body
anyway? Suspended between dimensions, somewhere in Hyperspace? He did
not know the answer to these questions, but he could see the man who
caused it all to happen from inside the mobile screen, with the word
"menu" written in its mirror image. And he finally recognized him.
Quickly learning how to go about it, (it was actually very simple) he
manipulated the electricity around his various circuits and managed to
show the words "who are you??" on screen. Although, he already knew…
but Albert Einstein was dead long ago. Albert Einstein laughed from
outside and said in a loud booming noise, "I am God." Shiva replied
"Are you… Is Albert Einstein God?" "No, I am God, but I had to take a
physical form to enter your universe, and an illusion of this Einstein
man is a very fitting avatar for what I am going to show you." And
Albert Einstein/God began to press some buttons. Shiva knew what was
happening from his logic gates itself, and didn't need to see the
words in mirror image on the screen.

God-Einstein pressed the menu button, and then navigated till an icon
of a space-ship and three revolving alien somethings appeared, with
the words 'games' on top. Was God-Einstein really going to play games?
God-Einstein passed by space impact and stopped on snake II. And
selected it. Shiva was confused, but fortunately his brain was addling
itself in hyperspace, and it didn't bother him too much. A large
animation of two snakes intermingling and snapping at each other
played before him. Then a small, pixilated representation of a snake
began to move across his screen. The snake moved from one end of the
screen to another, and when it reached the end, it merely started over
again. All the snake had to do was search out for four dots in the
form of a diamond, which was the mobile phone equivalent of food, and
that was his only objective. He was looking at the classic game from a
very weird perspective, from the inside, but there was one thing
missing. There was no 'food' to consume. The screen was totally blank
save for the snake. God-Einstein looked at the mobile-Shiva and asked
him, now, tell me, where is the snake. He had figured out the earpiece
circuits by now, and said in a small, squeaky voice, "rectangular."
God-Einstein laughed. "Everyone thinks so – Ok then, what is the
length and breadth of that rectangle?" Shiva looked around. How was he
supposed to answer this? His circuits did not contain the pixels to
centimeters ratio in them, so he figured he could use old fashioned
maths instead (helped considerably by his circuits, of course). The
snake went across the screen once every three point two seconds… and
he was on level nine… that meant…somewhere like three pixels a
microsecond… he calculated a little further and…"something like two
point two by one point eight?" "Fair enough" replied God-Einstein,
"now, suppose I make you the snake, and the screen is your universe,
will the size of the universe still remain the same?" Shiva thought
about this for a while. He couldn't see where this was leading, but
the answer seemed obvious. "Yes" He said. "The size of the screen
would obviously remain the same, how would it change if I were the
snake?" God-Einstein merely smiled. No one ever got this right.
"Alright, tell me the size of the screen, and your universe, after
THIS."

And for the second time that day, Shiva became something far lesser
than what he was. From being the mobile phone, he was suddenly reduced
to the snake, and he could see (after all God-Einstein dictated the
rules of all universes, including this tiny one), not beyond the
screen, but within the screen, and then it hit him. He could move, he
could feel his velocity hurtling through space, he could turn around,
contort and perhaps eat himself, but in whatever direction he went, he
went on and on forever. For him, he looked like he was in an infinity.
He realized that from his perspective, there was no knowing when he
had reached the end of the screen and started over again.

God-Einstein's voice echoed from somewhere in the distance "What is
the shape of your universe now?" Shiva knew there was no answer. The
realm of the snake was truly shapeless. Like some bizarre planet with
a smooth surface and absolutely no landmarks, which he kept
circumnavigating without any way of knowing when he was starting again
had suddenly been stretched out into the mobile phone screen. There
was no beginning, there was no end, but it merely repeated itself
after… somewhere. And as if to answer him, a single fruit appeared
above him. And now it rushed past him… once every three point two
seconds.

God-Einstein spoke from beyond "That is how the universe is, limited
but without a definite boundary. It gives the illusion of being
spherical like the screen gives the illusion of being rectangular. If
by any weird freak of science (there are many amazing ones that you
don't yet know of) any of your people in your spaceships manage to
travel into the deeps of space in an endless and perfectly straight
line, their voyage will end, much to their perplexity, back on earth."
Again the light contorted and convoluted, and he was sucked out of the
mobile. He was back in his precious window seat now. All this was
wonderful… but there was something beyond the mere shape of the
universe. Now that God-Einstein was answering questions, why not ask
the more significant one anyway. "And what is its purpose?"
God-Einstein considered Shiva for a moment "I cannot answer that
question" he said "you will have to find out for yourself. I have
already shown it to you today. Maybe someday you will realize…" "Why"
Shiva asked "are you not answering this question?" God-Einstein
replied "you would lose trust and faith in me. The purpose would
considerably reduce the significance of your existence, and… your egos
would refuse to believe me… you might begin to hate me… and maybe find
troublesome ways to disobey the grand game plan…" Shiva was beginning
to lose thread of where this was going, and God-Einstein seemed to
understand this.

His avatar left the universe and Shiva was left alone on the seat. He
picked up his mobile and spotted that the snake was still moving. He
cut short the game, and slipped the mobile back into his pocket. He
was amused by the idea that God had played games on his mobile… and
then it struck him. The purpose… of the universe - God was simply
playing games. And the people inside it were too dumb to comprehend,
to understand, to believe or to even think of the beyond. Man was on
the inside; going round in circles, and God was out there pressing all
the buttons. Shiva realized that what he did for the rest of his life
would be totally meaningless and utterly inconsequential. It was too
much for his ego to take. And all of a sudden it was very important
for Shiva to live his normal insignificant life, and forget about all
those questions about the universe and the thing beyond… only the food
was enough for the snake. The station drew in, and Shiva decided it
was time to wake his friends up.



-Aditya MJ



D - SYJC