Leave Me To My Mistakes

This is a public apology for all the ridiculous typos that seem to have infested my posts.
I should have known better than to let them get the better of me.
If only Spell-Check had the extraterrestrial ability  to pick out words that don't fit the context. I can't really help it if I type 'life' in the stead of 'live'. I'm only human! Damn you, Spell-Check. I know they're both words, but why don't you possess the intelligence to know when the word DOESN'T FIT THERE?
Anywho. You know what they say about bad workmen. Fortunately, I, am not a bad workman. I genuinely do have bad tools. Or the wrong ones.
Let's not dwell here. I know this blog is called Ravings of a Know-It-All, but I don't have to keep wanting to prove its legitimacy to you.
I'm going to start typing slower in the future, I swear. I'd say I'll start double-checking everything I type, but even I don't believe that. I'd hardly expect you to.
Imagine my embarrassment if you found any typos in this post.
Sigh.
Fingers crossed.
With love.

Hello, I Love You

If heaven had a voice, it would be his. If heaven had a bard, he would be it. If heaven had a beauty contest, he would win it.



If he were reading this right now, though, he'd probably be laughing. For the place that he belongs, is not heaven. He was too adventurous, too intelligent, too...completely out of his mind, to have to be sent there for the rest of his existence. But I know better than to say he's in hell. Hell, is for the unimaginative few, that do wrong without thinking it through, or knowing why. No, he is in a very special place. One, in fact of his very own creation. And the name of the band to which he belonged (I dare not call it 'his band', I've heard that annoyed him.)- should provide me with ample proof of the place I mean.



Beyond The Doors of perception, you will find him. You will find the curly haired genius I'm raving about.

You will find Jim Morrison.

And you won't find him alone. When I shut my eyes and think about what it was that made Morrison, Morrison, the answers fall into my lap, like they were waiting to get there all along. His poetry and his voice are only part of it- an indispensable part, but a mere fraction, nevertheless. There was more. There was alcohol, women, Robbie Krieger, and the police force of the United States of America. The backdrop to his fame. And that's what you'd find with him: that familiar bottle, the air of a high (I mean that quite literally, actually) and a thousand gyrating women, who'd been shipped specially from Hell for him. Or Heaven, if they gyrated Monday through Friday and worked in a soup kitchen on weekends.
Nevertheless, I'm digressing.

Why is it that Jim Morrison makes me- and so many others, feel the magic that music made him feel? I don't know. I don't know what it is about him, that makes me think he's the most beautiful man I've ever seen. I don't know what it is about his lyrics, that makes me laugh, cry, reminisce and float. I don't know what it is about his voice, that makes me feel like he's singing only for me, like I'm swimming in the richness of his tenor, and there's nothing to the world except the things he's singing about.

What I do know, though, is this. No ordinary man can life a life as dramatic as he did, write some of the best poetry of his age (and ages hence), and make a living out of messing with the heads of every solitary person in the world- and not succumb to the unending glamour of insanity.
What I would give, to live in his time. What I would give to be able to experience what he gave his audiences each time he went up on that stage. Everything. And more. But, I suppose, that's the beauty and the sorrow of a live well-lived. There's no going back, and there's no moving forward.

So I do what I can do best with him around me. I play his music, listen to his voice, and write poetry of my own.

Because, love, this isn't The End.

One day, someday, we might just meet. And that's a hope I'm willing to live in.

Come on, come on, come on, come on
And Touch Me, babe,
Can't you see that I am not afraid?

Sometimes, it's just about the words.

I haven't done this in a while.

Not that I returned as a result of some incurable withdrawal symptoms, but I've always found that starting dramatic is helpful. Either way, I must confess, I did not come here with the intention of typing out a new post. I came here, to delete my account. That's right.

I took said decision purely on the basis of a host of pointless yet, I must maintain, logical doubts, that began unashamedly entering my subconscious and poking at it with iron rods. "How do you know if anyone's even reading this?". "What's the point of a blog, REALLY?" Sometimes a snide, "Don't flatter yourself.", with a characteristic scoff that I'm mostly used to throwing at people outside of myself. You know the drill.

But then, the inevitable happened. I logged in, and found that I didn't know how to delete my account. That's right. I don't know how to delete a blogger account. (If that's even what it's called.) Laugh away.

And so, I did what any helpless, cyber-challenged writer would do. I gave up, and wrote this instead. Predictable, I know.

Because, I decided today, fuck it. I don't know how many of you are reading this, or how many of you know who I am, or if you did read it, and absolutely hated it. I am narcissistic, I am a below-clinical insomnia, and I am overflowing with words and ideas, sometimes pointless and misplaced, that would bear no context or relevance to any place else, or anybody else. So I'm going to write here.
Irrespective.

So if you're reading, hey.

Alone

In a cage a single man

Soldered off from the rest

Sits in silence and, it may be said,

A peaceful acceptance

Of the unending

Solitude- his foe, his friend

Since the day he opened his unforgiving eyes .

And so the sights of war

Of play and of friendly spirit

Seem to him like trials

Of a foreign world far and beyond

His own, of iron wrought.

In the world live men together

Loving, laughing, speaking, fighting:

A team, a group, a family

A government, an army -

Tied by the silken threads of

Warm sentiments intangible.

And so this lonely man,

In his dark and cold prison cell:

Seems to them like they behold some

Strange and frightening manifestation:

Of the face of pain and of sorrow.

And as the world kills,

Screams, stabs:

Each man trying to make

The world his own:

The lonely man sits quiet

And still, living for himself:

No blood, no hate, no love

No gore.

The steel in his gaze, the stead of his stance-

Are virtues to the general brothers unknown.

I stand and watch these

Strange apparitions

In a silence that confounds me:

For I am a lonesome, caged soul

In a shared world born:

So I think of what I

Have been told.

Of what I see.

And finally facing my own soul,

I question the truth of the world in its whole:

What is the answer to my question,

The one we have always known:

Are the children of the universe

All for all, or one for one?

Lost in Translation

A typical experiment involves a few very basic and essential components:

• A Set of Variables:

For example, if your experiment is to verify that white light is made up of 7 visible colours, you will perform the experiment considering that: A prism will cause dispersion, that all the colours of light travel at different speeds in glass, and that you are aware of which colour is which based on your visual perception of them. These are things about your experiment that have already been discovered, or that you have observed. and will form the basis for your findings.

A social experiment is no different. You must consider the majorities, as opposed to the niches, and assume that for a homogeneous group- say college students, the general reactions will be the same. More importantly, it is essential to predict that subconscious involvement will be wholesome, regardless of the relevance of the experiment in question to the subjects.

• Apparatus:

For the aforementioned experiment, what we shall need is a prism, a white-light torch, and a screen- keeping it to the bare essentials.

All you really need for the Social Hypothesis, is this country's most dispensable resource. People. People are the premise for every social experiment. And, preferably, a cyber forum. Facebook is most suitable, considering its universality, and general heat-of-action scenario.

• A Stimulus to the Procedure:

For the dispersion to be set in action, the white light needs to be shone on the prism. Simple. One step. After that, the dispersion is passive, as is the colours appearing on the screen.

More psychologically speaking, the primary stimulus is the inclination to perform the experiment in the first place. Say interest in light, or curiosity about the results.

That said, these alternate, curious experiments require stimuli, too. Physical stimuli. Like, say, going with the Facebook analogy- a changed status. Or something equally earth-shattering in teenage and cyber terms.
What it also requires, is a mental push. A conversation that goes something like 'I bet you can't put this up on Facebook', followed by a mild argument, and ending with 'Ooh, I want to know what people will say'. And, if you're a little smarter than the crowds you walk with, a hypothesis about a proposed result.

• The Result:

And then the wait. To see that screen, to read those comments. To see if people knew you would achieve it all along, or if they're surprised out of their wits by your unexpected prowess.
The reaction. Watching as they fawn over you, ask you questions, dwell on the intimate intricacies of your life, while you've already moved on.
You're already solving a new integral in your head.

But all this is lost in translation, isn't it?
I guess you could go ahead and call this an experiment, too.

Que sera sera.

BHAG(at)-O!

Revolution 2020.

Not a revolution by any gross stretch of imagination. Not even a substantial creation.

One would assume, that after churning out four mind-numbingly ridiculous excuses for novels, Chetan Bhagat would recover from his pitiable bent of mind that leads him to assume that he is capable of producing any work of literary- or even minorly distinctive- merit.

If not for the sake of saving some face with literary circles across the country who have, now, a newfound pastime in dissecting (I would add 'and condemning', but that, I would assume, is a default with those who've made their lives of studying, or even reading as an enjoyable hobby, the works of Shaw and Shakespeare. Or even Arundhati Roy.) his works: he might have some consideration for his (This is about the time I experience physical heartache) fans across the country. This is his fifth- for lack of more appropriate terminology- book, his fifth great milestone after he so famously (No, no, it wasn't famous when it happened. He wrote about it in 'Five Point Someone' remember? Right after he stole the keys from his Dean's...oh that's right. Everybody read the book.) discarded his Engineering career for a career as a writer.

If you think you've fulfilled your calling, I'm sorry, Mr. Bhagat, far from it.

Revolution 2020 sees, once again, the same character stereotypes- the same North-Indian, khaata-peeta naujawan, with family problems, education problems, that done-to-death mindless Engineering persuasion. The same aye-haye girl, with her airs and graces, and her chiffon dupatta. Boy screws her. And then screws her over. Many years later, when he's rich and successful, he moans about the true meaning of life. Once in a while, someone opens up a college. Or sees God. Or has a fight with his best friend. (Actually, scratch the "once in a while" for that last. That's not really a once-in-a-while thing for us anymore. Is it, C.B.?)

And then, of course, the Trump. Each book begins with a disclaimer. A personal anecdote, or an unashamed claim that the story up ahead is true- making that the only thing you think about as you read. Touche, Mr. Bhagat. Run away from the unidimensional insipidity of your writing by kicking sand in the reader's face.

Alright, I'll cave: Five Point Someone, was well-enjoyed, though the giddying praise for it was overrated beyond all sane limits. It was one of those intriguing Indie-student-type novels, where people say 'fucker' and 'chutya' removed from context or meaning, in purebred Punjabi accents (But hey, who am I to stereotype? Chetan's already doing that for me.), that I know I'll never enjoy. Still, kudos for taking the first step in that direction. It takes something, I'm assuming. Something more brave than sheer lack of ideas- which is, unfortunately, what I see it as.

But honestly, quit trying to fool us by printing the same novel over and over again with a different cover and different names. I know we seem to eat up your crap now, but we won't stand this for long.

How long do you think horny, hungry eighteen year-olds who're stoned out of their wits and made to study from textbooks (Which, by the way, are far less linear than your work) till they can understand nothing more than the 'Arrey yaar' English you use, will realize that all your books are- exempting, pardon me, the photograph of you on the back flap- the absolute same? I mean, at least try plagiarizing from someone else's work next time. Doing it from your own- especially when your raw material isn't spectacular- is unbearably narcissistic.

I'm not asking for something better next time. No, I know better. But maybe, maybe, just to mix things up for your poor, addicted readers- you could try making the musckul-man hero Tamilian instead.

Love, always.

It is With the Deepest Regret.

To,
Many.

Subject:
Termination of Services.

The Pied Piper of Hamlin:
I find that your flute is an unnecessary waste of state economy, and a nuisance to local residents, no less. Besides, any instrument that does not get adults to follow you around, is played in vain.
PS: I have grown-ups at my feet all the time. Have you ever seen a flute in my hands?

Gepedo:
And here they thought you were a good puppeteer. They were blinded by your absurdly sentimental story of transformation, weren't they? I have a better card to play. They call it a Foreign Passport. I don't need you anymore, because I can puppet far, far better. The trick, is to not let anyone know whose hands pull the strings. You know the rules. You're wooden puppet became a real boy? Well, I can swing it vice versa.
PS: Try not to get so attached to your damn puppet next time.

Ariel:
You are hereby banished to the ocean for the rest of your existence, for insulting the country's customs and sacred tradition by wearing clothes that I could only imagine you picked hastily off a beach. Also, you are not to get your voice back. I don't know if you've noticed, but I don't like people in my state having voices.
PS: While you're at it, I'd also like your Prince. I can scream louder than you, now.

Thumbelina:
Run for your life. No, no reason. You're just really small, and I can squish you. That makes me feel powerful. So get away before it's too late.

The Fairy GodMother:
No more magic for you. That's my turf. Hand over your wand.

Anybody whose surname doesn't start with a 'G' like mine does:
I don't like you. Boo-yah.

Your services have been greatly appreciated.
Sincerely,
S.

(Note: This letter has been sanctioned by the Prime Minister's office with no prior influence, and free of personal or miscellaneous bias.)