The Loss Of Meaning: This Chancy, Chancy, Chancy World!

Just like the many organs of the human body enable us to feel, see, hear and speak, the languages we write in, the stories we weave out of them, are given life when we use meanings and symbols to let them feel, see, hear and touch. Not everything is just words. In fact, there are a very few things that are just words – probably definitions of other words.

When you read something, when your eye passes over a sentence, when your brain understands what is being said in what context, you immediately form an image in your mind. That is when little words of four or five letters quiver with the possibility of an infinite interpretations. It is not mandatory, nor is it impossible, that a word, phrase or a sentence be interpreted in just one way. If so, everything would be so rigid, as if creativity had been subjugated to the death of imagination – as if creativity itself had ceased to exist. It would mean the eradication of signs, symbols, explorations, adventures, possibilities, myths, legends, mysteries, the eradication of fascination and wonderment! We are humans, and as humans, we are always curious. As much as we dig deep into the earth and fire rockets into the sky, it would be a sad day when we know everything there is to know. Purpose would be lost, meaning would be lost. Men and women will drop whatever they are doing: what is the necessity, after all? What happens at the end? What happens after I nail the painting into the wall? I will only be looking at it; I will not be able to into it. As much as we need to know, we don’t want to know everything. That is, indeed, a dreadful end to the quest for knowledge: the truth that you now belong in an old world, where you conquered every mystery there was left to conquer. You are king now, but a king of old men sitting by their sickles in the fields, but a king of old women who see no children in their bleak futures, but of children who fear growth itself.

And so, we have creativity, we have imagination, we have wrongs, we have mistakes. Only by weaning out a contrast between two apparently similar objects do we identify and define difference itself, and only with the emergence of a difference do we recognise progress. Change is the unit of time, time is the herald of change. If we hadn’t been able to detect change itself in the first place, time would be a futile requirement. The clock face would be a redundancy: you don’t see a changeless reality reflect the ballet of the three hands. That is why we see mistakes as the stepping stones to success – only, the proverb forgot to tell you mistakes are the the only way to success. The need for imperfection has never been so profound.

So there, I have established that meanings and interpretation are integral to civilisation.
But even in the presence of meanings, it is always up to us to interpret it right. Availability: excellent. Validity: eternal. Truth: can’t say. We have variance in variety. We have millions and millions of words floating around us in the form of speech and image, and it is up to us to understand them in such a way that the interpretation reflects our purpose in the need to understand it. Man does not simply look at the bark of a tree and launch into a list of the metaphors it brings to his mind. He will have his prejudices, his experiences that have fostered them; he will have his reasons, his dreams that have inculcated them; he will have his perceptions, his company that has required it. He will conform to something that finds logic in his beliefs. He will not so easily go against himself. If there are holes, he will plug them. He will construe in the beginning when it seems right and normal, and then he will construct in the end to make it seem so. The imperfection of the self recapitulates imperfection in the world. We cannot, at the same moment, account for all the factors affecting our decisions. We will have assumptions, some ignorances, in coming to our conclusion. Rigidity prohibits probability. If something is to stay so independent of the passage of time, it must either be extremely vulnerable to the subversive forces of nature – in which case it will soon die – or it must be unresponsive.

Take up this micro-scenario. You are reading a story wherein the author has failed to mention the time of day he is referring to. Suddenly, you come across a paragraph which seems to help you in piecing together different pieces of information to conclude that it is night time in the tale. Also, suppose that the words ‘darkness’, ‘loneliness’, ‘blind’, etc., are not mentioned anywhere. Even so, the conclusion only seems logical as to be night. That is the power of symbols: the author can choose to deliberately exclude straightforward adjectives of a phenomenon. Instead, he can choose to employ the imaginative power of the reader to build his or her own physical appearance of the scene and the characters. A good example would be Milan Kundera‘s works, which concentrated more on the mental make-up of the persons.

The need to interpret, rather than to take for granted, is only recognised by itself when exposition is limited. If the author takes time to expose everything about the scene to the reader, the reader will find it hard to from those mental images from which he or construes the message waiting to be conveyed. As much as the author’s imagination is exploding with newer and newer concoctions, he must limit himself to what is really necessary.

• If quoting fact A suffices that fact B follows, then fact B is redundant if printed.
• If fact A may or may not imply fact B, then fact C can be mentioned to corroborate that it is, fact B that is being spoken about.
• If fact A and fact B are both mentioned, fact C can be left up to the reader’s imagination.

But each meaning must exist independently – it can not depend on the other meanings. If a word is interpreted in one way, then the implications must be unchanging. The study of semiotics, for example, sometimes deals with the interchangeability of symbols, and how two symbols at the same time can yield one meaning. However, two meanings cannot lead the interpreter to the same symbol.

Anyway, I have narrowed down the plausibility of probabilities to the constraining of exposition. But, even then, there is a personal remaining to be made: whether to interpret, or not to interpret. This is a very foggy subject for me. In trying to quantify perception and understanding through the definition of cognition and recognising, I now find myself limited by an anticipation. Something tells me I am on virgin territory, fresh land, something new and unexplored! Where do meanings themselves stem from? When we know we have to interpret a riddle in order to understand its implication, why do we take for granted that there will be mystery waiting to be uncloaked? How do words give birth to ideas? Simply put, even if I were to be an expert on a matter, why do I inherently know that there will always be something unknown to me lurking in the corners of it?

If that was my black cloud, this is my silver lining: the thought does not shatter belief. It evokes curiosity and fosters self-inspiration.

An Autobiography

“There are a million good looking guys out there who have no talent. With me, music had to do the talking or I wouldn’t be here.“

– Bon Jovi

If it came down to me having to write an autobiography, I wouldn’t want to write a book. As much as I like writing, I’m sure I would find it too tiring to put it all down chapter after chapter – telling you of how everything was screwed up and then some girl came by and set everything right. I would just be shamefaced thinking I couldn’t set it right for myself. Or perhaps, autobiographies are more than that. Well, I’m sure you would’ve got enough of gyan and philosophical perspectives out of all of them in the market. But let me tell you something: mine would be a bestseller! It’s the dream, isn’t it? When you write about yourself and bind it and print it and publish it, you just hope your life is so screwed up people will want to dip their sadist beaks into your pot full of honey and feel good about it. You just hope your life has taken enough twists and turns, Jerry Bruckheimer, Gore Verbinski and Johnny Depp are going to have to come together for a fourth time to recreate the ‘magic’. You just, at the end of it all, hope the message you are conveying in the last chapter is worth the whole book; you hope that your lessons in life are different from what others learned. You want to be left out conspicuously like all of them, and you want to be singled out so ostentatiously for praise like all of them, and you want to be paid for living. I’m sure you never heard it like that, but I’m sure you know it’s the truth. But is there anyone who wants to live like that, for someone else? Autobiographies are objectification! When I believe that one’s actions and deeds are the sole legacy of one’s existence, an autobiography seems like a catalog, a brochure, that you look into when you want to know the price, when you can’t remember something about someone. It just seems like they are books that were written to plug a commercialistic hole in the print market. Autobiographies can be written, therefore they are written.

If you can’t learn a lesson on your own, you can never learn it. I don’t want to learn from the mistakes of Lee Iacocca! If I’m a grown man, I wouldn’t be making those mistakes, and even if the circumstances lead me to doing it, I will have to stand up for myself, take responsibility for myself. I don’t want to attend some college that teaches me about life. If you learn from mistakes, at least make them your own mistakes. You know you have one shot at life – make it yours. If wanted to learn from someone else’s mistakes, I am giving that third person a chance to live his life twice: through himself and through me. Well, I know that sounds selfish. But let it be: I’m only being me. There’s a give and take in everything, isn’t there?

Getting back to the autobiography, you must be wondering if this is some sort of a rant against them. No, it is not. I sometimes deviate from the topic at hand, but not so much I think this time. Anyway [:P], I wouldn’t write a book. I wouldn’t also make a movie out of it, no songs, no seminars, no workshops, no quotes, no memoirs, no articles, no essays, no inventions, no discoveries, no battles, no qualms, no settlements, no murders. I would want to be known as someone who was there on this world for some time and then left it. This is my take on life. Objectively thinking, so many things have happened on this good earth and so many have come and left, with many a regret and a satiation. What I do with my life is something for me to decide, and that shouldn’t be the way people should remember it. I came, I did something, I was happy, and then I left. The memory should be about how it affected their own lives. Whether they were happy or not. It is a gratification that does not reach me, it is a gratification that remains hugging the heart of the gratified. That is human nature as it should be. I might sound a tad too conservative or perhaps even fundamental, but that’s my choice. I will live my life because i received my chance. And you have yours too, and you shouldn’t forget it. Don’t waste time about me.

How’re you?

Pseudologia, Psychedelia, Pareidolia & Phantasmagoria

(The intriguing Ps, and why they shaped the world – not how.)

Where can I find you?

Pseudologia fantastica is the scientific term for compulsive lying. The person who suffers from it (suffers? or enjoys?) tends to encapsulate himself in a fictional world where he finds his greatest dreams fulfilled. For example, someone devoid of care and love from birth will invent fantastic tales about his heroic exploits: he will make sure he stays in the centre of all this, and he will make sure he receives all the attention. Pseudologia is a harmless little way to stay alive. Pseudologia is a harmless little way to go farther and farther away from suicide. Pseudologia is a harmless little way to face the truth and still be not ashamed of it. It’s a psychological compensation for all the downfalls and betrayals of your life, unless of course you decide to take it a step further and break the shell for yourself. Even then, it’s a good thing because, now, you’re exposed to the truth, you’re handed a pardon, and given the chance once more to learn for yourself about life and how bland it really is. In my opinion, compulsive lying shouldn’t be given a scientific name and be termed a ‘disease’ or whatever it is. It should be left alone to dominate the psyche of the little man to such an extent that he himself chooses to discard it in favour of the reality. Escapism works only when you want to escape, not when you’re dragged to the other side of the fence by a piece of rope that got hitched to your pants by mistake. And if you’re thinking what I’m thinking, the answer is yes.

Mati Klarwein's cover art for Santana's 'Abraxas'.

The 70s saw an obsession with the psychedelic genre of everything, although it was most prominently observed in the music of that period. Psychedelia is a state of mind wherein it is trapped in the pursuit of a perception it has not experienced before, and at the end of which is the ‘release’ of the mind from its overbearingly common environs. Many art works, especially those by Mati Klarwein, marked this change through vivid imagery and apparently meaningless depictions of everyday objects. I really don’t know how one describes a change in experience. If I had had any previous experiences of this sort, I could have done a comparative study to bring out the finer points of both. So, how do you describe a new experience? It has no precedence, it has no cause. It stems from a change in the ways of living of those around you, as well as a change in the times of the nation. In the 1970s, there were a few wars raging around the globe. AIDS was yet to be discovered. Apartheid was coming to a melodramatic close, apart from a few bremstrahlungg events. Women began to awaken to the true meaning of feminism, and why it was important for them to speak up for their rights. The Cold War isolated the north of Asia from the rest of the world. Cuba, by now under the firm grip of Fidel Castro and Marxism, became trapped in its past with mounting economic sanctions from the USA. As the world assumed a unipolar way of existence, so also the people living in it. The rigidity of trust collapsed into a wall of questions. You either had to belong or defect. And since everyone either belonged or defected, the society itself assumed a polarity: men and women began to look at everything from a newer perspective, one that involved more than just the personality of others, one that involved political ideologies as well. As they drifted more and more from what was, till then, normal, a new order was formed that had each one of us questioning our selves as to who we are. The obsession we had towards being in touch with our peoples, albeit in changing times, saw the birth of psychedelia.

Up is down is up is down!

I think I know where perception comes from, and I think I know what a change in our perception is capable of. I can go mad, or I can go genius. And how does that happen? Well, I think it all begins from a change in they way we see things (and no, perception is different). We perceive them when we establish a relationship with them and, in order to be able to revisit that moment in space and time again, we give the relationship a name. But once we have perceived something, the way we see them is a response to the stimuli of perception. We suddenly lose track of how could respond to what we see or hear. For example, we all know what craters are. And we all know what and where the moon is. But who is ‘the man on the moon’? It’s just a large crater on the moon’s one face, and we have perceived it to be a crater when we found out what craters were. But ‘the man on the moon’ still continues to interest us. We choose to go against the norm and change our perception in order to satisfy ourselves, sometimes our hidden desires. You have perceived your wife as having said something, and you have understood the meaning of it also. But you don’t like her, and you want your softcore revenge. So you take offense from what she said, you choose to understand it in a different way in order to try and score a victory. And that’s pareidolia. If perception is the sight and hearing of our minds, then pareidolia is the voice. It’s your subconscious rhetoric, it’s your utmost degree of expressionism. Pareidolia is the first step towards reformation. No one can simply take things on this lonely planet for granted. Most of them need reason, most of them need a meaning. These are the people afraid of change. But there are some of us who believe in ourselves more than anyone, and these are the people who are indifferent to change: they will always continue to be who they were, because that is their true self. However, there are a few who don’t know what to do. They are stuck in the pages of a paradox, and for them, the grass is always greener on the other side of the field. Like Jack Sparrow says, “A dishonest man you can always trust to be dishonest”. For these few people, pareidolia is a tool to change direction. In other words, pareidolia is the birth of revolution.

Phantoms!

Phantasmagoria, my favourite! Although it is more widely attributed to be a precinema cinematographic technique, phantasmagoria is simply the creation of illusions by controlling the direction and amount of light in a point in space. Light, a simple but important part of physics, is what gives us sight, and sight is our primary judge of the truth. Seeing is believing, isn’t it? Have you heard anyone say “hearing is believing”? Or “smelling is believing”? Even if you’re listening to a song over the radio or walking into a confectionery, seeing remains the only way of believing. It has been branded into the pages of our history. A puppet show comes to life only when you forget that they are wooden dolls suspended on strings. You have to stop thinking for yourself if you want to see, for sight is the oldest instrument to perceive the truth. Nothing can get in its way, and nothing should if you want to see what you want to see. But if I were to want to corrupt your beliefs on some things, I would first go for your sight. I would have you see ghosts, I would have you see spirits. I would have you base your beliefs in a new world, a world you know exists just by your sight. Phantasmagoria is but a device I could use to have think as me. Phantasmagoria is propaganda. You want to do something, I want to do something else. I am not interested in why you want to do it that way; all I want is for you to join me. And phantasmagoria is a projection of my truth on your wall of dreams. You decide next.

***

Pseudologia, psychedelia, pareidolia and phantasmagoria all work on the mind. They have evoked the greatest revolutions in art and lifestyle, and they have invoked the most significant changes in our lives.

They call upon us to identify and recognise changes in ourselves, the society and the world. For, without change, the right would remain right, the wrong would remain wrong, and life will wither and rot into death and decay. As much as anyone longs for happiness, and as much as the happiness is imminent and momentary, I will never want to stay stuck in such times. I can know happiness only when I have known sadness, and those elements of life capable of giving me them are always welcome. The only thing I will still always want to ask for is the mind to tolerate and live with them. Only then is it life.

And what I’ve written is something very metaphorical. The semiotics involved is limited, but inside my mind played a movie while I was writing all of this. These four aspects have always intrigued me, aroused my interest in a number of ways. Perhaps, after everything, this is just a madman’s outburst!

What say you?

Banded!

I’m listening to…

Aenima, Tool.

(Lyrics:

Some say the end is near.
Some say we’ll see armageddon soon.
I certainly hope we will.
I sure could use a vacation from this

Bullshit three ring circus sideshow of
Freaks

Here in this hopeless fucking hole we call LA
The only way to fix it is to flush it all away.
Any fucking time. Any fucking day.
Learn to swim, I’ll see you down in Arizona bay.

Fret for your figure and
Fret for your latte and
Fret for your lawsuit and
Fret for your hairpiece and
Fret for your prozac and
Fret for your pilot and
Fret for your contract and
Fret for your car.

It’s a
Bullshit three ring circus sideshow of
Freaks

Here in this hopeless fucking hole we call LA
The only way to fix it is to flush it all away.
Any fucking time. Any fucking day.
Learn to swim, I’ll see you down in Arizona bay.

Some say a comet will fall from the sky.
Followed by meteor showers and tidal waves.
Followed by faultlines that cannot sit still.
Followed by millions of dumbfounded dipshits.

Some say the end is near.
Some say we’ll see armageddon soon.
I certainly hope we will cuz
I sure could use a vacation from this

Silly shit, silly shit, stupid shit…

One great big festering neon distraction,
I’ve a suggestion to keep you all occupied.

Learn to swim.

Mum’s gonna fix it all soon.
Mum’s comin’ round to put it back the way it ought to be.

Learn to swim.

Fuck L Ron Hubbard and
Fuck all his clones.
Fuck all these gun-toting
Hip gangster wannabes.

Learn to swim.

Fuck retro anything.
Fuck your tattoos.
Fuck all you junkies and
Fuck your short memory.

Learn to swim.

Fuck smiley glad-hands,
With hidden agendas.
Fuck these dysfunctional,
Insecure actresses.

Learn to swim.

Cuz I’m praying for rain
And I’m praying for tidal waves
I wanna see the ground give way.
I wanna watch it all go down.
Mum please flush it all away.
I wanna see it go right in and down.
I wanna watch it go right in.
Watch you flush it all away.

Time to bring it down again.
Don’t just call me pessimist.
Try and read between the lines.

I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t
Welcome any change, my friend.

I wanna see it come down.
Come down.
Suck it down.
Flush it down. )

Symptoms Of A Writer

I’ve started writing my own little play now, only the second I’ve ever written. I feel like a writer already, and I can only look my keyboard condescendingly. I have begun to believe that only the old Remingtons will suit me fine. My day dreams consist of winning the Nobel Prize, and if not that, then the Pulitzer or the Booker. No, it doesn’t matter which country I am from. I will win all of them, and then will come the national civilian awards! I forget to feel hungry even, spending time sitting idly on a couch, making my acceptance speeches to the walls. If ever I write anything beyond the little play or the tiringly slow novel, they always involve big words, words whose meaning only I will know on the face of this planet, and hidden amongst those big, sardonic words are some whose meanings I know not. But you don’t know them either, so when you ask for a meaning, I can reel of something abstract and walk away with my chest thrown out. I am a writer now, am I not? But ironically, the greater a writer is, the crappier he thinks his latest work is. I think my first novel is a piece of crap! It hasn’t yet been published, but given the kind of books I have read, getting my work published should be a piece of cake. As much as I think it is worthless, yours is more worthless! I will only think mine is bad in a condescending way. When you look upon them and see something very complex and intricate, you should think to yourself as to my greatness! I think this work is valueless, while you think it is invaluable. How many steps above you am I?! That is where a writer will want to sit! He will want to sit atop the tallest building, and look down upon everyone and smile gleefully. For, a writer thinks of himself as a master of puppets, pulling strings as he wishes. He kills off a character if it seems to threaten him. Godliness will only turn him crazy, for that is the only thing that spares him his sanity.

Paulo Coelho writes in ‘Like A Flowing River’ of the eccentricities of the writer. If a writer were to see a girl in a pub, and if he were to scribble her a poem on a napkin, she would immediately fall for him. I only wish! The writer surrenders all charm, but only voluntarily so. His commitment to his work sees a twofold increase when he thinks he has hit upon the next big plot for the Star Wars. It is the conviction that stems folrm that commitment that builds his pride, his ego. If you say to a writer that you have a found a mistake, he will smile and ask you what it is, and then he will thank you. But inside, he will not be crying for the mistake. He will be burning, he will want to smack your temple with a sauce pan. If he is scornful enough, he will tell you it is not a grammatical mistake but an intended device which he is using to convey the personality of the character, and he will say that even if it is not true. Nothing can be wrong, nothing should be wrong. It is the veil the writer uses to protect himself from his faults, the mask he dons to make himself feel succesful. And if the mask is colourful enough, the world will fall for it. If the picture he has painted finds an empathiser in every one of his readers, the writer will win the Nobel Prize. But if he writes a story that is too abstract and far-fetched, he will die a pauper. And every writer knows this. None of them do it for the language. They all do it for the money. If money hadn’t been involved, if every writer was being paid a fixed salary for every month of his sad life, our literature would have blossomed, matured and withered by now: such is the power hidden within a writer. The money only makes him limit his skill so he can make someone else feel better. And when that someone else is feeling better, the writer gets a bit of that someone’s money.

The writer has only a few ways in which to make his money – not all forms of literature end with a million dollar prize. He has essays and articles, he has poems and novels, he has analyses and criticisms, and he has plays and dramas. The writer’s market is very flimsy. It does not have a fixed base, there is no such thing as a market share because it is the only market of its kind, demand always fluctuates, and there is no such thing as a supply. It is as if the writer writes something, the market is set up by the publishers, and the demand generates itself. He works in such demanding conditions and still finds it in him to produce a ‘masterpiece’. Whatever he writes, he will always have Hollywood in mind. It is the closest market that works on tried and tested economic principles and also has some place for a writer. If one of the writer’s books lands a movie deal, the writer gives up writng books and becomes a movie editor. Unless, of course… no, it’s always the case. Another thing is, when the writer has his photograph taken, he never look into the camera. He will always look away, as if staring at some insect at the wall, with an expression of either consternation or supposed-humility on his face. That way, people get two messages at the same time: 1. who the writer is, and 2. the seriousness he embodies. I’m serious. You can never tell what a writer is thinking at that precise moment. His eccentricities arise from this unpredictability. Every writer wants to stand apart from the other, and he will do whatever it takes to be noticed. If he attends a Hollywood party, the actress who walked in with him will always leave him for the lousiest bum in the room. And then, the writer, by now bald and overweight, will come out of his stupid little coccoon and make some interesting jokes with the producers. He will then walk to the directors and criticise some of their work, and then he will walk to the actors and actresses and pretend as though he has never seen or heard of them. All this while, he will be on his knees inside his head, hoping that the actress goes with him to bed. But the thing is, given his intellect, he will know that own’t happen. And he will continue to be eccentric, not knowing what else to do.

The writer will always write poems when he feels anything but happy. And a writer never feels happy. Once he begins to write, he will look to make that piece of work his best ever, or else he wouldn’t be wasting time writing it, would he? He will spend more time on the backspace button than the enter button. Although, you should know there are some writers who work the other way. These are the writers who wouldn’t want to edit any of their work – they think what they have written is the best way to put down what they have in their heads. And if someone finds a fault with them, then that someone is not thinking along the same levels as him. Anyway, time is of the essence for the writer. He will not think like a businessmen. He will not believe that wasting five minutes will cost him $5,000, but he will not waste time. If he is writing something, he will begin to scribble at one point. People around him will think he has gone mad, but to himself, the writer will have a reached a point wherein the plot has formed completely. The thoughts will now rush forth! And even in these stages, the writer will not want to make a grammatical mistake. He will not want to use the ellipsis much, even though it imparts some much-needed colloquiality to the text. He will write and write and write, but he won’t make a mistake. And you know what looks most beautiful to a writer? A large paragraph without a single mistake! And it has to be large, like this one or the one before it. And the writer, when he sees such a paragraph, will read the words out aloud as if to an audience. And in the end, even if he doesn’t bow down to applause, he will play some music in his head that makes him seem like Russel Crowe, from ‘The Gladiator’, when he kills the emperor himself. You will notice that I have called the writer eccentric, sad and heroic at the same time. My last question is, why not?

The one thing I don’t like about writers (like myself) is when they don’t know how to conclude an article such as this.

Banded!

I’m listening to…

‘Follow the God That Failed’, Metallica

Metallica (Black Album, 1991)

Care For A Poem?

Hello. I am a writer, or at least aspire to be one. I wear glasses, I think I am very verbose, use big words and dream of sitting lakeside, somewhere in Spain one day, with a Remington typewriter in front of me and a Lucky Strike burning away a few centimetres from my teeth. I day dream about winning the Nobel Prize in Literature, although I never see that happening with the way I am going.

Howdy! I am a blogger. I have more than one blog, but choose to publicise just one because the others didn’t turn out well, and let’s face it, this one’s not that good either. But even though I know that, I wear a mask of indifference and think what I write is the new shit – and that keeps me wondering as to why my name doesn’t appear on the “Top Posts from around WordPress” list. I spend half of my day ogling at the stats page, and jump around in my lonely room when there is a jump in the number of viewers.

Hey! I’m a software programmer, although I’ve never sold anything. I have my name in the market by word of mouth, and if do land an order, I never meet the deadlines. My room has a computer, a fully equipped Alienware system with oil-cooled processors! I also have an X-Box, some old newspapers, a picture of my ex-girlfriend, and some porno videotapes. I get paid on an order-basis, and that’s usually between $1,500 to $2,000. Most of this goes away on food and rent, and other miscellaneous expenses. Oh, and I get together with my other friends on week  ends and have some beer while watching a ‘Star Wars’ marathon for entertainment. Yes, always the same movie. Why do you ask?

Hey! I’m a stock broker, and my job is to make money. But of course, with the recent recession and everything, I’ve lost a lot. I couldn’t even afford rent and my kids’ schooling. The wife left, of course. What could she do? I’m happy the kids are fine at her parents’ place. Oh, it was my birthday yesterday! Yeah! Me, Ronnie and Chuck spent some time together in the evening, they threw me a party at the local, and then we headed for some fun at Missy Margaret’s. I hope the wife doesn’t find out, though. But what can I do? I’m fifty, for God’s sakes! Sometimes, you know, I have these moments in the evenings when I’m bored… I just feel like pulling my hair out – if I had any! Life sucks!

Who’s yo daddy?! Yo man, I’m a rapper for the Numb Nuts. We fire up the gangster scene, yo! Me? I live with my mom. How the **** is that funny?! Get outta ma sight before I thump ya, ya ******f****r! What did you say?! So what if I’m white?! Yo man, you gettin’ on ma nerves now, you racist ***-**-*-*****! Get outta ma sight!

Hee! I work at Wal Mart’s; I’m a counter clerk. Yeah, I know the work’s a little too much, but I enjoy it. You know what I do after work? I go that gasoline station right over there, yeah that’s the one, and me and my boy hook up for some fun! And then we go and have some ice cream together. He knows my favourite flavour, oh he does! He’s so sweet, you know? He gets me all kinds of toys, you know! Oh! He’s so sweet. But now he wants to leave me! Can you believe that?! But I’m gonna wait for him right here. I know he’ll come back one of these days. Maybe you should come over to my place some time! We can have some coffee and then some ice creams! What do you think? Wait! Where are you going?!

Hello there! I’m the Chief Statistician here! You can call me Whiney around here, you can call me that! Weird name right, ‘Whiney’? They always laugh when I ask them what it means! See, they all know I’m funny! I always knew I was funny, you know! <Giggle> My mom used to always stifle me when I was a kid, and I never really had the chance to open up when I felt like it. So I went to my friends and told them all about my problems at home… it all seemed so trivial then that I laughed about them. They used to call me Whiney’ too, you know! Argh! I love being funny! <Giggle> Oh, please, yes, sit down! What? I’ve been served?! But today’s Christmas! What?!

(My greatest fears in life.)

To 2009!

2008 is done. There must be a lot of blogs out there about how the year was, and how now everyone’s looking forward to 2009, and I was wondering how I could make my blog post different. I finally realised I couldn’t. Why? Because 2008 is now a part of our history, our legacy, and all the memories the year came to deliver to us are those which we can reminisce about while rocking gently on an arm chair, perhaps a cigar in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other, and a seemingly idiotic smile on our face. That’s what they will be, come to think of it, seeing as what a weird year it was. On a larger scale, a whole lot of terrorist attacks, economic recessions and monstrous bankruptcy bailouts rocked the global scenario, and on a smaller scale, families reuniting, families going apart, catching up with old friends and relighting older flames. I liked 2008 for what it was, and I’d like for it to be that way. I learnt some whole new things about life and all that it encompasses, perhaps delivered a few lessons here and there, fell on my face while on explorations, and got back up again. Anyway, all’s well that ends well.

Wish you all a happy, prosperous and exciting new year! God bless 🙂

– MV

The Year In Pictures

2008! (picture pile)

2008! (grid, and better clarity :P)

சிலப்பதிகாரம் ஆங்கிலத்தில்… புரியுமா?

நான் தமிழில் எஹுத தொடங்கும்பொழுது எனக்கு தொனவில்லை WordPressஇல் இத்தனை தமிழ் ப்லாகுகல் படிப்பவர்கல் இருப்பார்கல் என. இன்று நான் என்னுடய Dashboardஅய் திரந்து பார்த்தேன் அடிர்ச்சியுடன்! கிட்டத்தட்ட நூருதரவ என்னுடய ப்லாகய் தமிழர்கல் படித்துல்லார்கல். இந்தியாவில் ஆங்கிலத்தை தவர வேரெதும் மொழி அவ்வலவாக பேசப்படுவதில்லை. தில்லியாக இருக்கட்டும், கனியாகுமரியகு இருக்கட்டும், எல்லாம் இடத்திலும் ஆங்கிலம் பரப்பி உல்லது. நாம் யேன் தினமும், இல்லயென்றால் வாரத்திர்க்கு ஒரு முரையாவது, ஒன்று அல்லது இரண்டு ப்லாக் பொஸ்ட்கல் செய்யக்கூடாது? தமிழ் நம் தாய் மொழி. அதில் பேசுகிரொம். யேன் எழுதக்கூடாது? இந்தப்பழக்கம் கட்டாயமாக இருக்கவேண்டும் என்று அவசியம் இல்லை, ஆனால் இருந்தால் நல்லதல்லவா?

இன்று நான் ஒரு ப்லாகை பார்த்தேன். இப்ப்லாகில், ஒரு நபர், நல்ல அர்ப்புதமாக சிலப்பதிகாரக்காப்பியத்தை பற்றி எழுதி இருந்தார். ஆனால், முழுவதும் ஆங்கிலத்தில் எழுதி இருந்தது. நான் யொசித்து பார்த்தேன். அதுவே தமிழில் எழுதி இருந்திருந்தால் அந்த prose மற்றும் perspective எங்கிர கதையின் பாகங்கல் இன்னும் ஆச்சரியம் யெர்படுத்தக்கூடியதாக இருந்திருக்கலாம். என் நன்பன், விக்னேஷ் என்பவன், சில மாதங்கலுக்கே முன்பு எனக்கு நம் ஐந்து காப்பியங்கலை பற்றி சொன்னான். அவனிடம் சிலப்பதிகாரம் காப்பியத்தின் ஒரு PDF file இருந்தது. எனக்கு அதில் பயன்படுத்திஉல்ல தமிழ் சுத்தமாக புரியவில்லை. அதனால், என் கம்பியூட்டரயும் என் தெரிந்தக்கொல்ல ஆசையயும் internetஇல் பரக்க உட்டேன். அப்ப்லாக் கிடைத்தது, ஆனால் படித்ததும் ஒன்று தொன்றினது: எழுதினது ஆங்கிலத்தில் இருந்திருந்தாலும், தமிழில் படிப்பதில் ஒரு சந்தொஷமுண்டல்லவா? ஆ கம்பீரம்! ஆ வீரம்! ஆ மனபலம்! சிலப்பதிகாரம் என்பது ஒரு தமிழனின் கலாச்சாரத்தில் ஊரியுல்ல ஒரு முக்கியமான கதை, வரலாரும் கூட. அதை நாம் செரியாக புரிந்தக்கொல்லவேண்டும். அதில் உல்ல கதாப்பாத்திரங்கலின் வாழ்க்கைகலின் அர்த்தங்கலை உனரவேண்டும்.

ஆக்காப்பியத்தின் பாடங்கல் எனக்கு இன்றும் முழுமையாக புரியவில்லை. எனக்கு இய்யொசனைகலும் தொன்றியதனால் நான் இதெல்லாம் எழுதினேன்.