Rabbits are supposed to be good with mazes. They will figure out an entire maze by trail and error.
"Our love is bunnies. It will find a way.", I tell with a false gusto.
Then as I am driving back - a thought occurs to me, what if we are in "The Shining" ?
I often ponder on what about those chats that we never had. Stillborn words. You will not see me for what I am. I am blind to your beliefs.
You believe I dont understand you.
In another parallel universe, I am you, and you are me. That might be poetic justice (and a lullaby in prose).
I have struggled to read in 2021. Actually, I have struggled to complete books. I have over 40 books at 5-50% complete.
That speaks to a state of mind.
2021 had 27 physical books spanning 6406 pages
vs 2020 with 22 books spanning 7166 pages
Vs 2019 with 29 books and 5177 pages.
Vs 2018 was 35 books with 10816 pages.
Aiming for 20,000 pages in 2022. Yes you heard right. And I possibly wont make it at all. Also I aim to read a lot more poetry in 2022.
This is a delightful little book.
A story about the present day around us.
It just sucks you in - totally.
Hard to put down - but not in a thriller sort of way, but instead in a narrative sort of way.
At 146 pages brings my 2021 total to 6406 pages.
Easily my best read for the year. A book that moved me by making me aware of myself.
A stunning read around death - its implications, how to operationally prepare for it, how did some starwarlts die (or deal with their upcoming death) - and towards the last chapters, the author's own moving meditation on how is age is creeping up on him.
A book to read. Then read again. And again.
Image from FirstPost
At 528 pages brings my 2021 total to 6260 pages.
A fantastic set of stories that in typical Murakami style will suck you in.
At 192 pages brings my 2021 reading to 5732 pages.
I often cook for my daughter. If I am in her city, then at least one meal. She seems to love my cooking, and there is great happiness for both sides in sharing the meal.
Sometimes, I delude myself, that I am also leaving her with tons of fun memories with her dad.
And then, I look back at my mom. She is/was one of the best cooks (not because she is my mom), that I know of.
And yet, I rarely, if at all, remember her cooking. I still pay a tribute to her cooking, because I really copy all her tricks and dishes.....but memories....nah.
The point is.....I delude myself.
Thats the post.
I had never heard this song until today.
What a taut composition. Joshi sir and Manna Dey both hit the right notes.
Fantastic song.
He's gone. He rarely spoke to me. I did not beseech him.
Today, I held his hand, and gave a soft squeeze. Buddhism tells me that for another 8 hrs or so cognition can remain. Mild, maybe. Even so, yes.
Maybe that hand squeeze can tell him what he actually meant to me.
The poet sees the world differently
Usually for what it is
She seams the words that describe that sear
She can also see the world around her crash
Into a ball of tar
Because that's what we all end up usually into
The poet hears the jarring through the crevices
She is aware of my rattled insides
She listens to the hum of my heart
As I hugged her and complimented her writing
She said, "You don't understand me at all,
I am weighed down with this burden."
Being a poet is not a volition
Being a poet is a personal tragedy
This curse has just begun.
I was talking to mom about Talat Mahmood, Madan Mohan and the music of the era. She spoke with the ferocity of a prayer.
I kept hearing her, and a thought crossed my mind. This is what life is, it is never going to get any more real. We are all in a continuum.
This is a classic. Especially for those who love Bukowski, like I do.
Its random, at times rambling, but its seethingly honest. Scathes.
Definite Read.
At 263 pages brings my 2021 total to 5540.
I look at her, and think of all the times I reassured her, with my lips covering hers. Today is different though, Its me who is anxious.
Her fists are tight and utterly still.
It feels like she is gone, but no one ever goes - right? We all live hidden amongst a million broken pieces.
'Pencils have stories inside them, and they’re safe as long as you don’t stick the point in your ear. Just hold it next to your head and listen. Can you hear the wood whisper? The ghost of the pine? The mutter of lead?’
An exquisite book, thats weird and also unsettling. There is a grim background to the whole story. Its also a movie on Netflix.
The book depicts Tokyo and makes you fall in love with it.
A simple and haunting book.
At 276 pages brings my 2021 total to 5277 pages.
A highly recommended read.
This tiny book is one of the most fascinating meditations on trauma and the impact it has on your psyche and the body.
At 161 pages, its a very small book, but its a very heavy and graphic read.
It should come with a trigger warning.
I would read this again at least a few times in my life.
Brings my 2021 reading total to 5001 pages.
On most days, I walk. I walk to clear my head, and my lead - both.
As I pass through a particular stretch through my trail - I pass a point where almost everyday I see two fresh red pills stewn along the path.
How do I know this is fresh? Because on certain evenings I see these crushed by walkers. And on other days, I see these two red pills in their full shape.
So my sherlock brain goes, someone from the wing adjoining is throwing these pills every single day. From probably the higher floors, since these pills seem a little away from the wing.
Someone is rejecting their red pill.....also possibly rejecting the blue pill. Someone is rejecting suporting this journey. Two pills at one time - this one is a slow rejection of their life.
What would I give to have a leisurely chat with this person. There is so much she can teach me. (I am sure its a she :-)
I finished this gem from Murakami - a fantastic collection of short stories. Totally loopy, as with all of Murakami.
A fantastic collection of stories about men, women and their strange equilibrium.
At 288 pages, brings my 2021 reading total to 4840 pages.
Completely worth a read.
Another very interesting listen on a topic cost me around 60 minutes.
Worth a listen. I come from the American school of thought, that every side deserves a listen.
It did make me pause and ponder.
Again on StoryTel. This one is in hindi
At 1hr 37 minutes on StoryTel, this is an interesting listen. In Marathi.
The first half is rivetting, but the second half slows down and is more dramatic than needed.
Worth a listen to brush up your Marathi.
Listening to this classic from Yanni.
It has some unbelievable harmony, and then the interludes.
The rain must fall. What a song for this December day.
Dont miss the violin centerpiece towards the last 2 minutes.
I am driving
With my daughter
To her school
Where she will find her future
Or might not
Sometimes, the future is the now
We both laugh, chat and gossip
We see the world around, but observe nothing
As we reach the school, we are in a log jam
We are part of a collective going somewhere
Reaching where?
In some other cars, kids are sitting silently
Staring ahead at whats oncoming
Mothers and fathers gazing here and there
Anxiety ridden in their eyes
Until their parking spot will appear
The future holds only what we can percieve it to be
And today
Its uncertainity, and fear
Our children will have to rewrite this
Reclaiming their present
From the depths of their past, which we scrambled up.
I have posted on this before.
But listening to Khaled singing Aicha (the live version) on the same Marshall room crushing speaker is the most sublime feeling.
What a absfking vocal range.
Walk like an Egyptian was one of my first English songs. Loved it then. Love it today.
What a composition. And the walk itself :-), when did we stop being goofy?
And girls singing their heart out.
* When I first heard this song, I could not make most words out. For a long time. Today, I can make out almost every single word - how we evolve.
I was listening to an old classic 1988, if I remember right - One by Metallica on a Marshall room crushing system - and what fun.
Music is such a leveller.
I remember sitting with you on that railway station, waiting for the train. There was a small eating place behind us. I don't remember the name on its board; I don't remember noticing it (name) either.
I can still recall how the platform and its metal tracks resonated with measure - announcing the oncoming train, at least a few seconds before it happened.
We sat in silence. We were together, and yet alone. We were silent, and yet there was talk in the air. There was wind blowing, but the air was still. The train came rolled in, we both got in. Each of us thought we were going somewhere, and yet today we know, we reached nowhere.
The conversations have dwindled down
The tea seems less sweeter now
The air always seems like the second wind
On some days, there is no chirp
On most days there is no chatter
On all days there is no chummery
What remains is the voices in the silence
Like the walnut kernel without the walnut
Empty, but with a neat heart shaped hollow
This is what getting "used to" seems like
This is what getting used seems like
This is what being useless seems like
One day the shadows will again play
In the dark, there will be shapes
Of a dream that once we had built.
I am going to end this year with over 40 incomplete books. Some part of me is clear, that this is not a matter of pride. It reflects on a state of mind.
A perpetual restlessness. The equanimity is gone. Floating on a sheet of oil.
I did read some of my finest books (from my life) this year though. And that gives me solace. Especially a few books that changed the way I think completely.
This restlessness extends to podcasts. I have over 20 pods that I am listening to at any given point.
Thankfully I dont watch content, else I am sure - that would be a watershed as well.
My big improvement for next year is to slow down my mind. To be ok with the present. To take it a day at a time.
We shall see.
This one just took my breath away. What a rendition
She is thoroughly enjoying the song. She is into it, which is sometimes rare in a classical performance. What spirit, this is divine.
My first time hearing this. My earlier fav of the same raga and composition is by the majestic Ashwini Bhide Deshpande. This one is so different from that.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uEqYzdz3Zvg
I was reading poetry
Waiting for a flight
That would take me to another nowhere
Into the here came in a young couple
Tamil and in love
With a lingo that only Chennai can have
Peppered with the super
And the macha
But if only that, it would dilute the drink
Their spirit was more basal
Fun, light, opening each other
Laughing at jokes, that I would never
Love does that
Makes the inane seem profound
And the profane seem round
Neither very stylish
Nor very classy
And yet so much in love
For a brief moment, the old me,
Paused, smiled and inhaled
This could indeed be heaven for everyone
The poetry I was reading
Was about dislocation and distance
That too - shall one day come with the kingdom.
I have been listening to the song on repeat "Kisi Rail Si Guzarti hain".....I have posted on this before.
It has some totally inspired lines.
My one favorite line remains, "Kisi Lambe Safar Ke Raaton mein, Tujhe Alaav sa jalatha hoon".
(In one of those long journeys, I light you as the bonfire that helps through the night.)
And then Swanand Kirkire (who is usually a lyricist) has sung this beyond redeemption (redeemption can be positive too).
Give it a listen. Be enthralled.
Another StoryTel find.
Its a regular thriller, but the way the drama unfolds just fgruips you.
I am falling in love with this art form.
I really want to learn this.
Its 90 min listen. Go for it.
The artists are just fab.
I can read Marathi, but not fast enough. So I have started listening to books (thanks to StoryTel).
I finished this book, and quite liked the production of this book. Its stellar. It just pulls you in.
I am broadly a liberal (or so I think), but this book made me hear the other side of the argument. And actually clarified some doubts that I have myself had around the whole Godse-Gandhi saga.
While you are on the app - also listen to Amit Schandilla's episode on Godse within their India Unchartered history series.
I cant (and wont count pages here), but this is a 1.40 hr book and I loved it. We may or may not agree with it, but its worth a listen.
This week I had a meltdown (which is very unusual for me!!), realized that I am way too fat (and unfit), and I dont write enough.
All three should change - starting now, starting today.
While my external conditions are sound, I have never felt so low as I have felt this week in many years now.
The slow steep climb starts.
I am listening to the covers of Metallica's Black album....and what a list of covers.
Totally floored.
Go for a listen.
https://open.spotify.com/album/7N32mF0BlA3BOhlSyCiHgf
Picked up from Twitter, but could not ring more true.
Czeslaw Milosz: “Obviously, all biographies are false, not excluding my own. […] They are false because their individual chapters are linked according to a predetermined scheme, whereas in fact they were connected differently, only no one knows how.”
How do you take a great song, you have composed, and make it epic?
Sing it yourself. Here Rahul Ram is singing "Tu Kisi Rail Si Gujarti hain"
What a stunning version....
Koi itna pyara kaise ho sakta hain,
Phir saare ka saara kaise ho sakta hain
Tujse jab milke bhi udaasi kam nahin hoti,
Tere bagair gujara kaise ho sakta hain
From https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HS7kvqtqzZ0
I remember we met on that particular October day. Hot, sultry as tropics can be. It felt like the heights of summer.
As we were driving between homes, the rains let loose. It poured. We both tried to laugh about it, we thought it was a sign that things should cool off a bit.
We reached the restaurant and ordered food. Something cracked, like it always does, and you seemed to lose all appetite. It felt like the fall.
We tried to make it light hearted - our chat, but never really starting off. Always knowing the chill was around the corner. A bit like autumn.
As we decided to part away, you said we should rebuild, we should recoup, like how nature does. In your words "We should make spring happen."
Its been years, and what started on that day as a cold harsh winter, remains to this day. The seasons also froze. There is no thaw in this cold.
My need for physical silence dramatically increases.
The noise drones into me, the noise drains into me, the noise dreads into me.
My second read of this Murakami book.
All I say is read it, own it, so that you can re-read it.
Keep reading.
Fantastic book.
Definitely 10/10.
Brings my 2021 reading total to 4552 pages.
Growing up I was never a history buff. But my deep education (or interest) into politics, has led me to read a lot of history in the past few years. Especially contemporary history, the past 100 years. I have finished books on WWII, Indian politics and the state of the nation.
So was very keen to read "The Murderer, The Monarch & The Fakir" by Appu Esthose Suresh and Priyana Kotmaraju.....
Its a new exploration of the assassination of Bapu, or "aims to be a new exploration".
I actually did not enjoy it much at all. Except for some bits here and there, nothing really got my goat. It does not conclusively say anything, it does not draw you into another possible world (which history should do).
So overall 6/10. I would not recommend this read to anyone.
Brings my 2021 reading total to 4214 pages.
To each
Their "freedom" means something different
To some
It just means the ability to be free
Absolved from the worries
Or burdens that can chain us to our present
To some
It means self expression
Or identity
Or just plain simple acceptance
Then to some
Freedom is self governance
As a nation
As a land
As a community
An autonomy
On days that I really am aware
To me all freedom means is
Choosing my silence
Working as late as I want to
Indulging my smoke
And sipping whiskey on the side
One day I shall achieve my freedom.
In episode 48 of MWRH, we ruminate - on why tokenism might not matter in the larger business landscape at all. the only place tokenism seems to work is around large societal issues - and in those examples all tokenism can do is possibly educate and increase awareness (than alleviate the problem).
Do listen.
I write because it shows me how I think. Thats really it. This blog is my own ode to my own being in posterity, my own failings, and the drunken walk through life.
I was out with a few friends yesterday, catching up.
And yet, I felt lonely, silent and aloof. Which is often the case with me and my tendency to zone out, but yesterday it occurred to me - that when we "try" and be happy, its a counterintuitive approach, does not work.....but if we "try" and have fun, you are left holding a grenade.
I am struggling to write.
In the past month, that is. Its a combination of being distracted and being mapless. Words dont come out, the poetry is stifled, the songs dont matter - and yet I continue to trudge along.
Would you continue to trudge along if the heart did not beat well, or if you gasped for breathe, or had severe constipation?
Point is - I know something is broken. I am not even taking a pause to fix it.
I must have heard about 1000 singers or even more in my lifetime. Spanning both Indian, Classical, Western, Pop....and the ilk.
And if I had to rate a voice - and the perfect notes, and the almost perfect pitch.
If there is a voice, which is divine personified....its Mehdi Hassan.
Ranjish hi sahi.....
I saw this visual
Of a man falling from the sky
A free fall
Onto the earth
And then to ashes and dust
In all of about 3 seconds
What does a man falling
To his death
Think in his last 3 seconds?
Does he contemplate on death?
Or see his life pass by?
Or realize it was a half life
Maybe he knows
The game is over
And there are no lives left.
Time to shut the console down.
She met me as I was dying
And said "don't go"
That's an odd thing to tell someone
Who is already belted for the ride
I smiled and told her, the countdown has begun
"I have nothing to remember you by", she said
I am leaving you the tin box,
One that contains all my poems,
Hold them, read them,
Air them like you would air your sarees
These poems contain more of me
Than my everyday self did
They explore the vision,
They explode my war,
They decode my words,
They encode my journey
One day, long after today,
These papers will melt into dust
"These poems shall become mine, ", she said,
"I will appropriate them,
I could not lock you down ever,
This tin box shall be forever sealed."
Nowadays I ride solo
The roads still suck
And yet, there is peace in riding
Into nowhere, into just air
The wind ruffles you
The wheezing sound muffles you
And the inner silence rumbles a bit
Strange demons get out
Those that you avoid
Like you avoided a path
During childhood to escape a bully
This bully, though, is in your house
|Is it a he or a she?
Let's call her a she
She is already living in with you
It's always been, in sin
She talks to you
Just like a lover would
Sweet nothings about sweet nothings
Until she wields the saber
And invites you to a talk
You wont win this walk
"I wont win" with her,
I know that
I submit. I clench in my defeat
The demon still plays
She still says and says
I still drive
This long drive to another place
This long drive to another time
This long drive away from the here
This long drive to the familiar.
Something is odd. I checked my comments section and see 100s of comments waiting for moderation.
Some spam, but some from real folks.
I am sorry - I will clear the backlog in a day or two and publish.
Keep writing.
I know of someone
Who is incarcerated
In prison for life
Without the possibility of parole,
That means he shall die
In that prison cell,
Or an equivalent prison cell
He is about forty-five today,
Has been in prison for five
Stares down another 40 years of prison
I would one day want to talk to him
A long leisurely chat
Where we talk about his crime
Or lack of it
His penitence,
Or the lack of it
Purpose in life
Or the lack of it
And finally, meaning
Or the complete lack of it.
She sat across
Dressed in what was pink
And yellow,
She spoke of an era
And of the bread today,
We debated about actors
Who are no longer around,
And yet, still very much around
Almost always around
Our own lives might be ephemeral
And yet she said "make the most of this gift"
Shooting conversations
Into an empty room,
Into an infinite universe
Accompanied by everyday noisy vehicle sounds,
We smiled, we paused
And contrasted our lives
The still moments reminded me
In 50 years, neither of us will be around
Most likely,
No one will remember us too
Not in their every day, at least
And yet one fine Friday,
We laughed, and we definitely lived
Pink, Yellow, Purple
Life exists in all these colors
I am old. I am mid aged.
At an age, where you know, that there is lesser ahead than behind.
In the past 2 years I have discovered so many things in terms of tiny (but powerful) feedback, about myself. All of us carry this mighty picture of oneself, where we believe and assume that we are the best versions of ourselves.
I have slowly come to realise that some of me (or actually a large part of me) is not really even close to the best version of what I can or should be.
I am just a regular joe, who lucked out....especially with friends and family.
If you wait long enough, you see your heroes fall....If you hear patiently, you will see yourself fall.
One of my famous blocks is back....Writing block.
I need to find my feet on this writing thingy again.
I have been reading a lot this year. Not finishing books - and hence my reading list post here is such a weak list.
Over 40 incomplete books. Shows my state of mind.
I have been off visual content. No more Netflix for me, not this year yet.
I do miss watching OTT somedays. I do want to be normal too :-).
For folks who liked Satya as a movie (I did growing up), this book is such a rivetting read.
I came back with a renewed appreciation of movies. I want to go back to watching movies (stopped since Jan of this year....no movies, no OTT). I cant seem to figure out time to accommodate this fun thing.
Do read it. Worth your time.
Brings my 2021 read to 3970 pages.
If Claudio Donoso wrote a hundred books, I would buy all 100.
She is so outstanding that I get goose pimples reading her.
She is 18/10 by a hammer and a hammer (:-)).
This brilliant book of short stories is like one of the best books that I have ever read.
Go for it.
At 112 pages bring my 2021 reading to 3764 pages.
18 on 10.
At 240 pages brings my 2021 reading to 3652 pages.
I finished this book and quite liked this. Its a great reminder of how screwed our diet is. I loved the book, but cannot implement much. And it sends me into this existential trap - why cant I do what is right?
At 304 pages brings my 2021 reading total to 3412 pages.
This song by Gulzar - RD (one of my favorite pairs in the world), is so stunning. Lata Didi and Bhupinder make this poem so everday, that it becomes sublime.
Listen.
Notice Lata Didi's range.....
I have been experimenting with sound, vocal range and some kindergarten level drama.
I am loving the experience of sound and drama both. Checkout the podcast at www.mwrh.in
I wish I was in the entertainment industry. Really do sometimes wish that.
With or without you....U2 hums in the background.
Time moves along. I watch the kids play downstairs. The flowers in the garden are in autumn bloom (is there something called autumn bloom?)
The everyday hums. The silence rattles (Rattle and Hum was the title of the U2 album...actually no...it was Joshua tree).
We are both aging. Winter is almost upon us. The summer is at least six months away.
Wonder what will we see when it thaws. If it thaws too quickly, we might get a chip. Thats on my shoulder.
And of course it is Pandit Rajan Sajan Mishra :-).
I have so many memories associated with a stained coffee cup. Actually, the smudges of my own lips on the mouth of the cup.
I have this strange habit of observing the cup rims, especially as I am sipping coffee. In that moment, I get sucked into the pattern, become mindful and then also juxtapose myself against the situation playing in front of me at that point.
I developed this strange habit a few years ago, and it has now become a rabbit hole.
I was listening to some Michael Jackson classics again, and cannot but gush on how great the sound sounds.
Dirty Diana or The Way You Make Me Feel......
Classics made only for performance. Which means, these pieces shine out on a stage with a performer in tow.
I was talking to a few friends yday. And the convo veered towards when have we all had random encounters with complete strangers. All of them had stories of being hit upon or even better.
I could not think of one example in my life when I had even had just a proper chat with a complete stranger.
Not one.
That is the post.
If you want to know who your friends are, Get yourself a jail sentence.
- Charles Buwoski
I got myself one, a few years ago. And I now know the answer. Possibly. It feels like despair.
I was talking to my mom and she was reminding me that I need to visit a particular temple. She knows that I am an avowed atheist (have been so for over 30 years) and she still never fails to remind me of the "divine".
Frankly, I am so left on this atheism spectrum that I might even make atheists uncomfortable.
I often wonder, how does a temple fit into an atheist framework.
Very unsure. Something to meditate upon.
I am terrible at singing, abysmal at dancing and a total disaster at acting.
Wonder why some of us have so many filters? That is a rhetoric question.
Remember the other day, we were speaking of a friend of yours who had just died. We felt the anguish of a loss. Of a day, when some of our friends remind us that we too shall be ephemeral.
We hadn't felt low, but it did feel as if we had just grasped a simple truth around our lives.
Some of us die. Some of us are alive. Still.
Sometimes my skind does not smell like me. It smells like you. And you smelt of the ocean. "Like a fisherwoman", I would say and laugh.
The ocean still grumbles every night.You are long gone. And my skin is losing its shine too.
One day when you are reborn, I will know you from your smell.
Someone asked me this recently - why are poets so miserable?
The assumption was that I am a poet....and I am miserable.
I dont think that clubbing is right. I am a contemplative person by nature.
Does that make me miserable, yes sometimes, but thats not because I am a poet.
I will revisit this soon.
I have often wondered, should I tattoo your name on my arm. And then it occurs to me, that if I die in an accident, and my arm is intact, they might mistake me for you.
Would not be the first time though, that has happened.
Those who are close to us, when they die, divide our world.
From The Things I have Been Silent About by Azar Nafisi
Take Madonna's Vogue and listen to it on your best earphones and speakers. This song is from 1990. Is a Dolby Recording.
Now close your eyes and press play.
Listen to the sound travel all around you (literally - this is 360 degree sound). This is from 31 years ago.
We have newer songs who dont have this soundstage. And now you know - this is how Dolby was so far ahead of others in the way it recreated sound.
I am listening to Vogue on LoFi (Spotify), now imagine listening to this on Apple Hifi or Tidal streaming.
And that my friends why music can be such a fun rabbit hole. Explore and have fun.
Fun Fact : Always choose a movie hall that has Dolby Atmos. It is worth the price you pay.
I must have posted on the original at least 10 times. It will always remain dear to me. Always.
I have been listening to the coke studio version often.
Definitely watch the video. Worth the watch. And add this to your favs. Its beyond fab.
Bilal and Faisal.......
One question on this song....does he span two octaves. I thought he does.....
One day we shall be, one day we shall be, one day we shall be.
They chanted this in unison.
It sounded like an echo chamber.
This came in via twitter, but I was reminded of this passage again, and why I like Murakami so much.
Once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive.
You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain.
When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in.
—Haruki Murakami
Image from New Yorker
What all do you let go?
Where do you let them go?
How do you let them go?
When do you let them go?
What if its like opening the dam? You think you are letting the river go. Actually you are letting it in.
Today she said "you are so trippy",
Though I wonder what does this lead to?
I recall the time we smoked, and you were hippy
Today we are one - tomo we might be two.
Forgive me dear Buddha. My intentions were noble. Its the art that is crappy.
Hope you have a good laugh, dear Buddha.
A war is always personal. Always. I mean personal in the sense, that only "I" know of it.
Very hard to baseline it against anything or any other experience.
Thats the post.
Read this old book on a whim. Actually re-read it.
Its interesting, but not as much as I loved it the first time.
On a scale of 10 probably 7.
An easy fast read.
At 416 pages brings my 2021 total to 3108 pages.
I just finished Salt Houses by Hala Hyan
Its a strange book. The first half is a slow build up, the second half sucks you in.
Its about 3 generations facing war and conflict. There is a human story here, though the characters could have been more developed. More well formed.
I liked this immensely. Made me very introspective on what identity and belonging mean in this ravaged world.
I also liked it, that the book forces you to inspect your own understanding of the world around you.
On a scale of 10, maybe a 9. Definitely a spell binding read. Especially the second half.
Do grab it.
At 320 pages brings my 2021 total to 2692 pages.
Today as I did my silent walk, I was meditating on a bunch of my losses. I feel like a soldier who capitulated....and then is seeing the writing etched on my prison walls.
What I lost, means very little to anyone else, and the whole world to me. That is a strange contradiction to have, as you find your place in this universe.
I have been brewing my own coffee for years. I usually would put the filter or the french press for cleaning - and use a brush or a scrub to clean it.
And then....
I recently acquired a new Moka pot. I now clean this Moka pot with my hand, my fingers. And the amount of fat(oil) that coffee beans leave behind has been such a revelation.
It's almost akin to grease.
I am intrigued. Why is coffee not used more in soaps or cosmetics or anything that requires fat....Like why not coffee ghee?
Seriously thinking.
Daughter is turning out to be quite an artist. (I mean only in the sense of drawing and painting). She is not that good yet, but she is self taught.
She has started teaching me. So I will post some of my completely novice sketches.
Good memoirs seem to be this year (strangely constructed sentence). I meant this year is incarnate with some great memoirs.
This one is stunning.
18/10 as I always say for outstanding books. Very similar to the Semezdin Mehmoodinnovic's My Heart.
This one is about Libya and a person's intimate connection with his imprisoned father. Such poetry in motion. Such a moving slice of real life.
Totally loved this book.
At 304 pages brings my 2021 reading to 2372 pages.
Images from the Guardian.
Have been struggling in the past few days. With health. With mental fitness.
Nothing dangerous, but an ailment all the same.
One day this too shall pass. Hope this "one day" is tomorrow :-)
Ha ha...the title was a click bait :-)
But yes, Pakistan is infinitely better in its music, and its food. I wish we could travel and mix more freely. I dont no grouse with that people. They are me.
If you dont trust this, listen to Coke Studio Pakistan......beats Coke Studio India by a million miles.
I have been listening to them almost the whole day today. Not for the faint hearted, but their Qawalli's are Gold. Stirring.
As addicitive as Sufi can be.
https://open.spotify.com/track/6nkjhWoTpFHsfolWK1fmBY
Give it a listen, esp if you like Sufi Qawwals. I can listen to this for the rest of my life - on repeat :-)
When you withdraw from a transaction or a situation (like the kind John Galt made fashionable), you often take away participation from the farce. From the personal tragedy that might be unfolding for you.
Versus, when you lose - you kind of give up or just wave the white flag.
I am not sure which is better - but I always seem to be prefer the John Galt model. Then you can watch with a dispassionate eye, as the enemy infiltrates you.
Withdrawing is possibly more stoic too.
I am obsessed with Auschwitz, Gaza, Libya, Turkey, Partition....and almost every war torn story. And its not war that I seem to be really fascinated with. Its the displacement that it seems to cause. I find a great kinship with the displaced.
How do you explain this?
How do I explain this?
I am reminded of this funny incident a few days ago. My dad was telling me that you will find kinship what the things that are from your previous birth and karma.
As I think about this, I chuckle with amusement, but wonder - how do I explain my great sense of wonder with displacement, even to myself.
This happened some time ago. I was sitting across of him.
Neither of us talking. Me pretending or even actually reading the kindle. He just sitting with his eyes closed. Intermittently, those eyes would open, glance around and shut down again.
Either he was visually challenged, or never figured that I was still stealing glances at him. In those moments, I saw a deep resignation. The sigh and sign of a man who has started packing up from the scene.
What part of him or his body made me feel that way, its hard for me to nail down. Maybe his shoulders, or his neck, or his expression.
As I think of it today, again, it was his gaze. His eyes. They were looking inwards into his nothing self.
Listening to Aicha live on a system that brings my house down....is so satisfying.
Speaking Persian (or a variant of that) is the best thing you can do to your diction.
What a vocal range Khaled has. In a single sentence, he probably transcends an octave.
Listening to Didi after this song....and phew his range. Of course these are songs I have heard for a good 20 years. WATCH THE VIDEO BELOW...goose pimples.
What perfect harmony and such great improvisation while the song is playing. Just watching him sing on stage is such an experience.
Phew!!
What a stunning song. Totally blown away.
I love Eddie Vedder and now his daughter.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iQ18DXg7b7c
Found this on Youtube. Simply stunning.
But cannot find it on Spotify. Found it on Amazon Music though. Addicted to this sound.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zMBD4ONmBk0
One step
forward
two step
sideways
three steps
stumble
four steps
imbalance
five steps
the song is fading away.
I was always bad with maths as a kid.
And then, as I grew into an adult - the list of open questions in my head - grew and grew. So much so, that I had to number them.
I have to learnt to count enough - that math is second nature to me.
It takes years to build a home (use it as a metaphor for whatever else you want to replace it with). It then takes many years to embellish it. Another many years to engulf a soul into it.
And then it takes a day to bring the house down. Just a day.
What does it mean? Nothing, much. Thermodynamics is correct - entropy is more natural than we shall ever realise?
And yet - we all contribute to that road rage.
One day, someone will remember my home.
The monkey looked out from his cage. Other monkeys were wildly swinging in the wild. Total wilderness and chaos, till at one point a predator swooped in one of the younger monkeys. And that set the cat among the pigeons.
Every monkey worth their salt was now perched on a highest tree trunk.
While this monkey (our friend) sat calmly in his cage. Untouched and unbothered by this chaos.
He often dreams of freedom, but he also tells himself that where else will he be regularly fed, and where else in the world - can he sleep a good 8 hrs - without ever being disturbed?
The joys of being caged in are just another crack in the perspective.
I hear you. You are damn funny. You are so magnetic. I am green with envy.
I observe every aspect of you. Is it your tone, your language, your eyes, your hands, your gestures, your timing.....? I can't figure it out.
Finally, I zoom in on your little finger. Love is like that little finger.
I read folks write happy poems, and I feel envy.
I want to write happy poems too. I cannot seem to do that at all.
Same with writing comedy into my fiction. I just cannot. It does not come naturally to me at all.
I met you after years. You were now a doctor. We got talking. We never touched upon what mattered, and what we lost. We meandered.
At some point, you said, "is there something ailing?"
I said "yes".
"Tell me, I might be able to help."
"Its my heart. I have a hole in my heart. You might have been able to help. That boat though sailed a long time ago."
And I chuckled and add, "And you don't need to be a doctor, to be able to resolve this."
And the more I listen, the more it draws me in.
And today, I heard Touchdown by Bob James for the first time.
Totally bowled over.
Phew!!
Freedom (both personal and societal) is lost in inches. A bit like the frog in the boiling water. You never know that you are about to be fried (and lose your freedom).
To gain back the freedom, one has to go through a huge reversal. That journey is always ardous.
Today, I really meditate on what is lost, and why I never fought, and never fight.
We drove till what appeared to the end of the world. We expected to find a dead end, a cul de sac. What we instead found was a restaurant. Turns out after all, that Douglas Adams was on the money.
We drove upon a friendly road
Before we had our lover's tiff
We thought the cul-de-sac was a node
We turned into a free fall cliff
Listening to a live version of the Bruce Springsteen "Born in the USA" and its raucous fun.
Its probably one of the best anti-war songs I have heard in my life.
At what point does, my pursuit of understanding become a mechanism of my own ego reinforcement?
It probably does. I recognize it.
At what point does it border on the unhealthy?
Why is "happiness" so hard for all us, including me?
For me personally, its not well defined too. I am not running to a goal, or a plan. I just have a vague idea of the destination, and hoping that just driving around - I might magically see the destiantion.
This has challenges. I don't think, I will not be able to recognize it when I see it.
So I don't know happiness. Dont know how it looks like. Dont know how to drive to it. Dont know how to stay put, if I reached there.
This problem compounds exponentially if you are willing to go into your own rabbit hole.
I am listening to one of my favorite songs. Its by Kabir and sung by the brilliant Maestro Ashwini Bhide Deshpande.
Kehi Samjhaoon,
Sabh Jag Andha Re......
I dont know if its only me, but I distinctly remember seeing "Benetton Home Shopping Catalogues" in the early of the 90s at our homes.
Few, but a few, here and there scattered.
I can't seem to find any images on google images. Are there not remnants anyone has?
Is it just me, or a figment of my imagination?
The boats were enough for just one of us. We sat in two different ones.
It was supposed to be just a half an hour row to the other shore. The shore which housed our temple.
We clasped our hands, said "see you on the other side". At the shore. New beginnings. A better history.
One of our boats rowed faster than the others. We landed on different parts of the shore. That meant a uniquely different history.
Who's to blame - you, boat, the boatman, the rowing, me ?????
I know the answer. The river.
We danced, and you said fine.
We drank, and you said wine.
We bet, and you said mine.
We thawed, I said clandestine.
My mom tells me, I was a very content baby. Even on the day I was born. I needed the food, and I needed my sleep. Singularly focussed.
The journey from then to today has been one of slowly devolving and slowly adding more discontent into my life. Possibly.
What it would take to slowly go back to that equilibrium?
I was talking to someone, someone much older than me, and he said "don't say what you don't mean". It was meant to cut off simple feel goodies like "take care, love you."
Now that person could have said, "don't say what you don't fully mean....", which would still have been easier.
My sense is when I usually (used to) say - "take care, be safe and love you", that usually signals that that's what I mean for the other. It's impossible for me to ensure any of the above, including "love you", because semantically "love" can mean such different things to each of us.
I still tell some people sweet goodies.....but I am careful. I don't want the other person to trip.
I usually mean well for others. In fact, I always wish well for others. Including those who I dont get along with. My sense is, them hitting the ball out of the park takes nothing away from me.
So coming back......How do I now convey this to others? Especially to those I care for. That I care for, they mean a lot to me, and I do "love them".
I don't have an appropriate answer. Nowadays, I just say "bye". Most times thats my refrain, even to the daughter.
In the past 5 years, f/b I hear has shocked me.
And it shakes my inner core. We all carry an impression of what each of us are.
And as I hear things about myself, I realise how broken I might be.
It's like a great punch in your stomach. I am telling myself; I have to reinvent myself, through these bleak times.
Shaken and stirred.
Am listening to Pandit Rajan Sajan Mishra....and they will continue to be one of my all time favorites. They always bring me such immense peace.
I am listening to Raga Kaushik Darbari.
Sometimes in the middle of a chat I completely float away. Out of no dis-respect to anyone else. Its more my own sense of incredulity - is this chat real? Is this what I have become? Is this what we have become?
That uttter sense of disbelief that this is "me". Total and complete sense of isolation.
Feels like ADHD, but actually its the complete opposite - you are actually very deeply mindful of the chat in the moment, observing it as a neutral person.
I was speaking to someone way older than I am. We got around to speaking about my writing (and hence eventually a bit about this blog too).
So the chat went something like this....(recreating from memory)
She said, "Why do you write?"
"It helps me collect my thoughts and ideas."
"Is that it? Or is there a deeper reason?"
"...and for posteriety?"
"Posteriety for whom, the daughter?"
"Possibly, even for myself. If I am 60, I want to look back and see how I evolved."
"Ok. I am old, but I would be hard pressed to find my evolution from my writing, unless I was a writer. Which means unless I wrote full time, or enough in a day, its very hard to document a real journey."
"Hmmmm"
"Are you sure this is not an attempt to leave legacy?"
"Possibly. Yes. That too."
"Why would people want to remember you or me? I am going to gone anytime soon. When we remember, we romanticize things. There is an inherent asymmetry in how we reminisce."
"Do you contemplate on not leaving behind any legacy? Or is that not even worthy of contemplation?"
"I just have one question, that I ask myself when I am faced with having to make a decision.", "and the question is", "Why bother?"
I recent came across this conundrum. I am sure I am too old to encounter this for the first time, but then I am the King of Ostriches. Here goes....
https://www.philosophyforchildren.org/lessonplans/shallow-pond-charity/
Also hear Peter Singer speak here....
I have my views on charity. This helps me think a little more.
Listen to Seher by Farhan Rais Khan to know what possible fun classical music can be.
One of my fav albums growing up was Together, by the father son duo of Ustad Zakhir Hussain and Ustad Alla Rakha Khan.
Some of the most sublime pieces of tabla poetry.
Listen to it. On repeat. Its mesmerizing.
Album was on Magnasound :-)
I paid Rs. 45 then, one the best Rs.45 I must have spent in my life.
I experiment with my cup of coffee. I adore my coffee - as in the cup I brew. It's one thing in my day that I totally look forward to.
I savor the drink, tinker with the cup, watch the vapors as they emanate from the cup. All of this with a mindful tranquil - this is my most natural state of meditation and mindfulness. I am alert; I am enjoying this moment, and sometimes wish - life is just an endless coffee soiree.
And then - I realise I must rush back to the world. To the maze, I call my own. To a story that is so non-linear, that it's almost absurd.
To wit - this is how the end of the journey feels like. Always. Which journey you ask? Aw, sorry. I meant this one, the journey called "hope".
Sometimes life is just about enduring. Or at most times it is.
Its not the stoic in me, who is speaking, but its the idiot who chooses, and then chooses again.
And yes, "Choice" in itself is not a choice at all.
What a merry-go-round we have constructed.
One day the FU moment will come.
And finally.....Adamski singing Killer. (actually its Seal singing)
Be careful you can blow the windows away. I mean it.
The bass is so so funky. Such an eternally beautiful song.
Can move anyone to tap his/her legs. Always.
On the same system, listen to Missing by EBTG - The Todd Terry Mix.
And feel the floor shake up.
What a lovely song. And fairly timeless.
Listening to Seal's Crazy on a room shattering speaker is something of an experience.
The notes are pure - you can hear his octaves moving.......and the vocals dancing......
We are never going to survive,
Unless we are a little crazy
And then the total bass thump of the drums as the crescendo builds up.
I work very hard at work. I also work very hard to be a positive pleasant person. My natural state is broadly optimistic.
And yet, there is a fair bit of me, which people close to me see - they can easily think I am a cynical bughole. I can be a cynical person.
I don't know what to make of this world. I dont have the learning or mechanism to make sense of this world.
I am impaired.
I was talking to someone much older than me. She is in her early 80s. I was very humbled that she chose to speak to me. What I learnt was even more of a leveller.
She told me its very hard to face up to a life - in which you know you probably dont have more than a few years left.
I said what about - if she hits a 100? She said, even if she could, she did not want to, because her quality of life had substantially deteriorated.
That made the whole chat so poignant. Two souls sitting and contemplating mortality, without knowing what it means to even do so.
When we used to talk, it used to feel like a song,
There were the right tones and hitting the high notes.
Many years since, today it feels so convoluted and long,
I have all my daggers in place; and you have your jagged coats.
So daughter starts online school today. In the first class, she asks the teacher, "do we have homework?" and teaching says, "no async task, this year".
Our smart fairy, notes it down in her notebook as "no assing task, this year".
What can I say - she is beginning to sound more and more like me.
So my daughter is in an online class. And I hear her tell someone her age.
Thats the end for then.
Later, I am talking to her during dinner, and she says, "my teacher was asking me to manage the ages", and "I told her my age."
So, I tell her - "terrible English, what are you trying to tell me?"
She says, "No, this is what really happened. My teacher said, manage the ages."
This convo goes on. But to summarize. Her teacher is from Pune and was telling her to manage the "edges".
And she figured it, midway during her class (I mean the daughter figured it out.). She continues though proudly, "but I just wanted to frustrate my teacher".
Sometimes I am so proud of raising a racist bully :-)
So my daughter loves to listen to ghost (and I mean really terrifying) tales. She also loves listening to real crime stories.
So my dad goes and gives her gyaan. He says, "Beta, if you keep doing this. You will be soon corrupted, and like the stupid Americans kids, you will start killing people with a gun too."
So the daughters sucks this in.
Some time passes, and she catches me dad watching some news and other channels. In all of it, there is some violence.
And she shoots at him, "So tatha, how come you don't get impacted by violence, you watch it far too often too."
And my dad sulks, tries to escape and finally shuts the TV.
What can I say - the daughter is a sharp shooter :-)
You and I had a thing
Would you call it just a fling?
You and I had a bet
What would you have staked, if we had just met?
Its easy to frown on smokers and smoking.
Would I give a piece of me - for 7 mins of introspective silence? Sometimes yes. A walk with a smoke in your hand can sometimes clear up your mind. I dont smoke, for me its coffee. A strong decadent dark roast. I sometimes drink coffee at 10pm at night.
Sometimes we dope up on poison, to blunt the pain of our every day. And that insight, is my smoking gun.
In this strange world, I often do seriously contemplate - what would go wrong - if I did not "fight" for it. As in, I did not put in the effort. My philosopher side, assumes this has some sort of butterfly effect, but my practical anarchist side - screams what a load of bull.
Nothing would matter. Not even bit.
I need to redefine the rules of my gameplay.
Today as I was walking, one totally random aunty (she must have been around 70), gesticulated at me (with total disdain) that I should walk on the other side of the road.
Picture this, I am walking towards her. She is somewhere further along on the road. She is stationary; I am walking, and she gesticulates to me - to move to the other side.
I crossed over, but never understood - why, what, and the inner meaning of this sign from the universe.
Silence is like a personal game. A poem that one likes. At some other times like a sorrow that one keeps even from oneself.
If you have not heard Pagglait's Phire Faqeera, you are missing something magical. Its a masterclass in harmony. I never thought I would say - but I like Raja Kumari and Arjit both in this song.
What a composition. Lyrics.
Listen and then repeat.
Listen to this God inspiring version by Metallica from the new movie...Jungle Cruise.
I need a (music) system to blow my apartment complex down.
There is nothing more rewarding that watching two artists (in music) duel with their instruments on stage. Like the violin duel that is part of "Within Attraction" (another Yanni song).
It does have to be watch, you can listen too.
There is sheer joy when artists match each other note for note.
Also listen to #41 by Dave Matthews Band for the samer reason.
Listening to the violinist on "The rain must fall", I am reminded of how fab she is (its a she) as compared to an everyday violinist.
Her skill is way beyond what us mortals can ever hope to achieve. And yet she is a mortal herself. She is a normal person who also pays rent and loves coffee.
And me realizing that she is capable of "greatness" is only because of a simple mental switch in her head. She knows that life is all about "greatness". The everyday plebeian is noise.
And that is my 2 pice definition of what art is.
Listening to Yanni since morning. And currently its playing "The Rain Must Fall" one of my all time favorite pieces.
And I realise how much I miss having a earth shattering music soundstage at home. I want to listen this at the Acropolis.
You and me are constantly at war. It seems important, and at times silly - but we always have a new bugbear to beat to death.
In the recent months, years I have meditated immensely what is it that we are fighting for? What is at stake? Why do we summon our gods to war?
I have only one answer. We fight for territory. We annex the space between us. We capture the silences that surround us..
Imagine you and I are neighbours. I construct a 2 floor house on my land, that presumbly obstructs your light and air flow. My intention is not to shaft you, but thats how it unfortunately comes out.
You are very happy with my choice. You complain to the town managers. I am served a notice. They ask me to raize a floor of my house.
I grudgingly do it, but in a way, that makes the whole place look ugly.
I also complain about trees on your land. They are an invitation to monkeys.
This......
Goes on.
We are both never happy. All we do is define our happiness in the context of another person's land. The world is now a much more unhappy place - for both me and you.
And the earth tumbles in its pool of entropy.
My forever memory of her, is someone who was cool and composed as she endlessly made dosas. Silently eyeing the shape of the pancake, slightly adjusting the flame, and at times looking into the blackhole of the skillet.
Always perfect dosas, just the right edge of crisp and the right tinge of burn. She never seemed to mind the heat or the flame. Even as she sometimes made thirty odd dosas for the hungry wolves.
The heat never bothered her. She was the one who held her calm against the fire.
Today the coals must be so missing their adversary.
You have always look at me with a question. I don't blame you for it. I am a difficult enigma (maybe the word should be knot, rather than enigma....enigma makes it sound nice). Its hard being with a person who does not talk much. It harder being in the same room as me. Its hardest being in the same conversation as me.
I know. I wilt. I brow my forehead.
Your questions have been my bane. Why? When? Who? Why not? How much? Will you? When will you? I dont mean for that sound as a complain or a refrain. You had every right to ask those questions.
And I have stillness and quiet in these times.
Today morning I learnt something about myself. Today, I am ready to answer all your questions.
It melts into wonder
I came in praying for you
From Dave Matthews Band #41
For those who think it's fashionable to diss Lata Didi, I would say listen to "Jaane Kya Baat Hain" from Betaab.
Phew!!
I hate high-pitched female voices, and yet, in this song, I think Lata Didi crushes it.
Of course RD Burman is a genius. The lyrics are more in harmony than sense, and yet you love this song so completely.
Listen to the strange percussion working like a metronome in the background. It sets the tone. Expect the high and love the lows of the voice. Its essentially a percussion only song, with interludes of string whenever the singer is not singing.
This composition should be a case study in why some of RD's work is timeless and always will be.
So I invest a lot into earphones and speakers. Those are just like books. One out of 5 or even 10 fires. The remaining 9 are an investment into your education.
But as the sound evolves.....in your ears, you can listen to more instruments. And feel the blush. (Yes blush is the word I used).
Reason for this post - thinking of indulging.
My test songs would be
1. Malyali Da
2. Herb Alpert's Rotation (or Rise)
3. Dirty Diana
4. Some RD number like Jaane kya baat hain (from Betaab) or Hum Tumse Mile from Rocky
Confession - I already have something in mind. Vaccilating between shooting the "buy" button and shooting myself.
Ha ha :-). I wonder how my spouse or kid even tolerates me. Maybe they love "Malyali Da" thumping through the roof too :-)
Dirty is sometimes a dirty word,
Just as a swear sometimes looks boomerangs inside,
Fluttering like a hummingbird,
Its been raining, watch out for the tide.
Can the doctor herself be the malaise,
Like this animal inside me eating me up,
I hear voices, I sometimes hear the cries,
One day I shall escape from this cup.
3 aspects of pain. 6 stages of grief. 9 parts of desire. 36 steps to courting. 116 moonlit nights.
How many levels to cross over, before I deal better with my memories?
*116 moonlit comes from a Gulzar poem
He had let the ash mix with the gravel. That had been her fervent wish. She wanted to be always in the garden. Along with ash, some heavy metal and some small splinters of bones too had been part of the mix..
Today, a fairly large walnut tree stands in that spot. It does not bear much fruit - possibly none at all. No one expected the walnut tree to even flower in that location. He had planted that on a whim..
He had heard that Kashmiris usually plant a walnut tree - every time a daughter is born at their homes - and then harvest it when she is about to marry. (Actually chop it dead for its wood). A sort of levy for the expenses of her marriage.
Thats the original (but maybe apocryphal) tale that made him plant a walnut tree at that spot. Its years now, and he often wonders - will there be a time and occasion to ever chop this one.
Maybe she will live forever. She did not ever want to be married. She did not want to ever be chained.
Irony, she is now a tree. In my garden.
On that day - I remember I was talking into the phone. Explaining something about myself. Trying to keep the conversation going. It must have been a few minutes as I continued speaking, and then realized that there was complete silence from the other side.
I tried calling back a few times across days. You, on the other side had gone completely quiet.
Silence is like concrete, with every passing day - both the sun and the rain - make it more insular.
Exile me, cut away the conversations. One question, for you, just in case you die, should I come to your memorial, or should I silently say a prayer?
In the garden of Eden, there lies the ingredients for what might look like a sin.
In the same garden lies the devil and his fruits.
What looks like a divine cauldron is actually nothing more than everyday life.
When I watch children play a team sport, like football or basketball, it occurs to me that this game can unleash the inner beast onto the court/field. In a strange "beast" sort of way.
Notice how a 3 foot kid, gently and nimbly dribbles the ball - lays a decoy for his opponents - has a silent run into the goal (or post) and then just like an animal attack quietly.
There is something very spiritual about this. Almost superhuman.....just that these kids lose this in some sense as they grow up. Or most kids do.
These are games where our minds are our frontiers.
Sometimes.
When we retort, we construct the world in our response. The world is what I created it to be.
Most times.
The world of my creation is just mine. It ceases to have a foundation. It floats on a column of air. Ready to be tumble dried amid this pandemic.
End of times.
The world will revert to mean. It will be what it is. One object at a time, it will reclaim itself. I will set it free from my story. And on that day, you shall notice that the wind has stopped blowing.
I remember us trying to step to the beat,
One step too quick, one step always short.
Years later, as I think of the king who married his tweet,
That he never knew that the ship had escaped from the port.
I had banished MJ from my playlist for a good part the last 10 years, post the allegations of his behavior.
I have (had) a value system to cancel artists who were misusing their power.
Its only recently that haltingly I am going to back to artists who were cancelled by me.
And as I write this - I am listening to MJ's Smooth Criminal on a crooked ass thumper of a music system. And not to forgot the absolutely unbelievable dance moves on this song.
And the song is so crisp. The production values are so stunning. Quincy Jones being the genius he is. Listen to some of his Motown classics.
And now Spotify is auto playing - Dirty Diana, which is another complete work of a mad genius.
Lets say the snake at Eden was truly from the devil's cradle. The ornate villian whose only job was to lead to sin.
What intrigues me - there must a backstory to this snake, right? Or a postscript?
He (was it a he?) must have something.
I need to lend him a voice. The devil's counter narrative.
There is a coldness in the air. The sharp bite of silence.
I don't know how to slake my void.
If you are in a lost mood, please do listen to Rotation by Herb Alpert.
Guaranteed to spike you up.
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