The Non-Post Post

I did intend to say a lot on here, spit out venom, angrily lash out with fire at all the people that are the reason I'm on here in the first place, But I figure, I'm not going to say anything after all.

They aren't worth it.
This isn't worth my time.
I do have a life, I just have to dig it out of the cobwebs,
Involving myself on a personal level with others, Unfailingly gets me here every single time.


Also, there suddenly exist two classes of people, on one hand the first group that seems rather too keen to prove me to be an angel, a do-gooder, even a good hearted person if you will.
The second seems to thrive off their ability to make me feel useless, like a demon crawled out of hell itself. Like the useless moss growing off tress.

Should introduce both the groups to each other and let the debate begin.

Follow me into the cellar

Well, it appears I do need a hand.
So if you'd follow me into the cellar, I'll be happy to show you the plan marked important that takes up most of the west wall, don't mind the bat I attempt to conceal behind my back.
Well it goes like this.
I'm a Nigerian Prince and have an excellent opportunity for you to do something worthwhile, help a person in need, double your money, enlarge your penis/breasts AND completely satisfy your women in bed.
Interested yet? No? Well that's the where the bat comes into the picture doesn't it?

We all have grandiose ideas that need some platform to be launched on, Seemingly my entire life seems like one major experiment waiting to burst forth from the ideation phase.
I need a brother, a manager, a therapist, a publicist, a publisher and a fellow musician. Oh and while I need all those people, I also need me cloned a couple of times.

If any of you are familiar with the Japanese anime called Naruto that came out in the early 90s, The protagonist, this little kid who was regarded as a person with unlimited potential, employed this technique, wherein he could create shadow clones of himself, shadow replicas if you will, that he could command. The interesting part of this is that he eventually learned that the experience each of these shadow clones gained became a shared experience with himself as soon as they were called back. He soon began creating hundreds of shadow clones and setting about to the toughest tasks he could find, thus multiplying his experience earned.

Err. I seem to have lost the plot again.
I think it was along the lines of the fact that this one life just doesn't cut it.
just a few decades, what the heck are we supposed to conquer with it? Why not throw in a few shadow clones?

What do you aspire to? Money? Fame? Fulfilling the old artistic sense?
Do you take up music? arts? photography? Or do you hope to churn out tripe of the sort you've just read with the hope to monetize on it!
A significant percentage of us work day jobs with the guilt that we're secretly letting down our true calling. The rest of us have been too jaded and corrupted into thinking that we have a talent, but then some of the latter category unfortunately have financial backing (that should account for all the new age Punjabi Pop Singers, glad not to have left them out).

I guess the final push is tough, the nest has now become too comfortable. With a comfortable job, a lifestyle to maintain, social lives to upkeep, every day becomes another nail in the old proverbial coffin.

The beach

She beckons, she seduces
The dark, the all knowing.
The comforter, open armed
Once embraced, peace forever.

In her depths you'll lie,
Tender mental surrender
Worldly problems be gone
Peace, how I've missed you. Come hither.

No nostalgia, no sadness
No heartbreak, no joy
Just all encompassing dark,
Utter and complete surrender

Grandfather Blues

I missed knowing one of the men who could have truly inspired greatness in my life, all by a fraction of a decade. Now, to put it "technically", I was around, albeit at the innocent age of five, there's only so much information you can absorb from someone with such a strong personality.
With a natural ability with instruments and an almost instinctive skill in music, he could play about eight instruments, that I know of, his favorite being the violin and the trumpet.
I've grown up on stories of how he could sans instrument, write out orchestra music in all its complexity and sight sing, one of those true old world abilities lost to most of these progressive software reliant modern musicians (Me included).
My earliest memory of him, has to show of his devotion to his job as my caretaker. Whenever I played in the small little stretch of land connected to my building, he'd watch over me with eagle eyes and the moment I got out of eyeshot, yelled out my name at the top of his lungs. His job, one that he'd taken on himself, was to protect me from everything! Speeding cars, bullies, open sewers, cow stampedes, cyclones, planes falling from the sky and even from the devil himself. He did this with a flair that cannot translate into any of the words my language may employ.

Another aspect of I fondly remember is that he drank like a fish. It could be the rose tinted glasses i wore at the time, but i remember him as a warm, happy drunk. He drank his morning and afternoons away and loved the night. My first introduction to Igor as a character came from his 'friend' or as I now understand 'drinking buddy'. After he was done with his morning rituals, he would dangle himself half out of our window and yell out his name. "VINCENT!!!!!!!". Only a true Goan belonging to a historic time now gone by yells out a friends name every morning as an indication that it was time now for said friend to pay a visit to the local bar and get a bottle of the local stuff, country liquor.

Thus they sat, in the cherry morning, laughed amongst themselves at unknown inside jokes, stopped to eat and sometimes even through the golden light onto dusk.

He had figured out, that life was what you made of it and yet, life was a bitch.
Life gave you the blocks to make it with, but each block being a bit tainted and spoiled.

Did i mention he lived his life in poverty? Oh yes, extreme poverty.
Being a musician back in the day didn't pay enough to raise four children, especially by himself. So he begrudgingly took up a job as a compounder in a doctors clinic, that would be the man back in the day who actually gave you the pills after the doctor had written his prescription.
Also, did i mention that he was an academic genius? The man was a bachelor of science, which in the day equaled to a Harvard education. Doesn't fit in with the poverty does it? Confounds me til date.

It is hard to describe the sense of nostalgia I feel recounting these memories, fully aware of the fact, that did he really exist today, there's a distinct possibility that we'd be mirror images of each other. My father tried hard to become everything he wasn't. So much, that he used his failed attempt (if i know my grandfather, i know he probably didn't really attempt anything) at musicianship to not be one himself. My father became restricted and controlled, didn't throw his life away drinking and always strived to provide, so much so that his motto for life was "if your children have no food to eat, you work, rob, cheat, but you carry out the responsibility you've taken on".

I've of course, become everything my father isn't, so hence the logic applies that i'll revert back to what made my grandfather. From his wacky sense of music, to his love for life to his disgust for the drudgery of living.


Sometimes, probably the only time I self admittedly would believe in a concept of heaven, would be the times I'd secretly wish he was still around, watching in approval of what I've become, secretly sitting by the window of heaven with Vincent and a glass of heavens local liquor in hand, smiling to himself.

Escapism - Love

I pity those that haven't been killed by the icy tentacles of this demon we know and recognize as love.
Love is a great big bowl of emotion, that gets us on a creative high that would make LSD pale in comparison. Love gets us to accumulate incredible amounts of endurance and strength, Yet.
Yet, at the very time same, knocks us flat. For years after we've killed the demon, his remains haunt us.
Crippling us to understand and realize. Crippling to think and breath.
Crippling breath itself.
Romance dies, giving rise to the half mutilated zombie of romantic depression.
It robs us of the essence of what makes us alive, leaving us submerged in an ocean of our own unintelligible waste.

Yet, all these experiences are what makes us necessarily, us.
Do we mean to now retroactively change what we've become? This will necessitate us reverting to an earlier person, much like we roll back an operating system to an earlier state of being.
Through all the heartbreaks and depressions, we've actually quite graphically moulded out personality to accordingly suit us.

Now we live as damaged people, in the world of the underground. Far from the eyes of society. The society that fools themselves about their happiness anyway.

Yes, we're the lucky few. The ones lucky enough to be 'chosen' by the demon love. We fuck up our subsequent relationships, we taste bitterness in life itself and every breath we take is sulfurous, but on the upside, hey, we're creative geniuses. Some of us anyway..

We can only hope that when the next 'right person' or the 'right now person' comes along, we've recovered enough to even try. And in the eventuality of it working out, for you to sustain something without your demons unveiling themselves at the most inopportune times.

Blessed are the innocent who never feel love, for theirs is the kingdom of 'real' free thought.