Rethought + Ressurected

❝Although it would be nice to update you on life over the past two years, I am of the assumption that most of my readers have a decent knowledge of my current standings, body mass index and marital status and it is, therefore, not required of me to update anyone with anything, unless of course I feel the relevance of doing so. Slim chances, but a well-played disclaimer nonetheless.❞

Well, here it is:

To say that my writing and along with it, this blog, have (together) been dying a steady death would be a completely false issue of a statement. A point-blank lie.

I have been writing.

Just like any other species smart enough to comprehend the comprehensive illogic of survival, I adapt to changing environments. Some call me a girgit. Whatever the hell that means. But yes, I have been writing in the sense that writing to me has always been:

a) an outlet for expression (read: rant)
b) a creative way to make incoherence seem laudable, and
c) an oddly therapeutic exercise.

Though it may not seem it, my writing has taken form in smaller, less obvious fashion. With the advent of Twitter and it's condemnation (condom nation) of traditional blog formats, my writing may have suffered in word-count but has made up in wit. I'd like to believe so, at least. Through tweets, status updates and public comments on anything, I have managed to fulfill my aforementioned criteria of writing over the past two years and I regret nothing. But of course, I visit this boneyard once in a while and reminisce about days when I could compose an entire post. Compost. Bad linkage, there. I've always known that I'd return to writing stuff online. I just didn't know how or when. I had plans of starting a new blog because that would just be easier. Like how running away from your past is easy. Not that I have a past to run away from. I'm just saying. Maybe it's time to move on, and start writing about stuff a little more pertinent to my context; that of a design student entering an exciting industry. Or not. Or perhaps I should just continue with my loathing laments and aspire to write like Hank Moody. Yes, a fictional character that is too cynical for clinical (I'm guessing this is not one of those 'too cool for school' type phrases) and more importantly, a guy who probably has more than one STD.

The future of this blog is of concern to me. It lies unplanned and under-appreciated (by me, not you). It will need heaps of motivation. A kick-start. A 'spark' as I am told.

And if all fails (like most over-ambitious ventures in life), another hiatus won't do no harm... right?

Nostalgist

Where am I?

L is for Loser.

Or Lard.

With our summer (summer is a collegiate synonym for one month) break in, it was obvious (read: necessary) for me to enroll my more-than-lazy self into driving lessons and finally learn the art. Fart.

There are two types of car lovers out there;
(a) The ones that go crazy over cars and want to drive anything with wheels attached to them (even if it means their grandmother) and are more than knowledgeable about information like the make, specs, model numbers, origin, price, fuel consumption, mileage, number of airbags, percentage of infant mortality rate in that particular car and what not.
(b) And then there are my type. The ones who go, "Oooo, look at that car! Is that a BMW?" (Chances are it was probably a Tata Sumo)

I've never taken much interest in vehicles besides kick-scooters and younger cousins. I've never had the patience to remember the model numbers of anything in life. 3 series? Is that Nokia's new range of phones?
Numbers have always seemed to daunt me. I can barely remember two phone numbers before I have a system overload.

Anyway, similarly, I've never heeded the requirement to learn how to drive. I've always got by with public transport, carpooling, nice friends and mother dearest. I've always found myself venturing out into more useful ways of spending time. Such as having home-made challenges of maximum guava juice consumption in a single sitting or mastering MS Paint - blindfolded - or slightly more interesting events like taking facebook quizzes and answering lengthy questionnaires eventually to prove that I'm more feminine than I (and most people) think.
No, driving never seemed as important as any of the above enjoyable past-times. That's until it became a necessity.

With auto-rickshaw prices coming to levels that could possibly trigger my dormant asthma to return, and mother getting more and more irritable with her nearly 20 year old son begging her for a drop off at a buddy's place, it was clear that driving was the only way to stop the madness, the Sparta.

And so they've started and they've gone quite well. It's safe to say that I can comfortably drive around (with a legal license holder beside me) the place - sometimes with one/no hand/s on the wheel - and horn at J-walking pedestrians with relative ease.
My father hasn't offered me to drive the SUV yet. He's a man of 'time and place'. I think we both know that in this case, 'time and place' refers to 'no and never'. There's a glint of hope there that never dies, however.

Apart from the driving lessons, I've been spending my summer jamming with the band and explaining to people what Graphic Design is.

My usual tactic to answering their unsurpassable curiosity is to start with the very abstract and metaphorical or otherwise personal definitions for the term that you usually see on a lot of viral posters on the internet. "Graphic design is thinking made visual". "Graphic design is a cheeseburger". "Graphic design is what my mother tells her friends I do".
Witty, clever and usually inspiring to fellow members of the design world, the definitions aren't very friendly to the folk that are creatively challenged (those that need a logical definition for the universe and its contents). So I head for the definition about what graphic design is, according to Wikipedia of course (our everlong source of all things true) and at this point I've usually managed to confuse the poor soul even more. Now, when I know I'm at a good stage to brag about something I don't know too much about, I tend to take full advantage of it. In this case I spew in design-related lingo between every 3-4 words to throw people off. Words like: Gestalt, x-height, iStockPhoto and paresh usually work the best. Then for the final attack on the war of ignorance, I usually dive into competely alien topics like the importance of typography and begin lecturing about Helvetica, it's history and it's conflict with other sans-serif fonts like Arial. I also quote some very unimportant quotes from the Helvetica movie just to seem a little smarter.

"Wtf is a sans-serif? Isn't that one of your friends?"

By now, anyone who asks the next question either spaced out somewhere in between and is requesting permission to be excused to receive a phone call/visit the toilet/get the fuck away from you... or this person is actually interested in knowing more.
I'm yet to meet the latter.

It's strange. But being a design learner and argualby quite the enthusiast, it's hard for me to comprehend people who don't get my field. According to my father, I'm a communication designer, thus I should'nt be facing any problem in easily communicating what I do to people.
Sometimes, statements like these make you question many things.. starting with the evolution of man.

The rest of my holiday so far has been spent eating a little too much ice cream and downloading apps, widgets and other fancy things to customize my mac. I've also become quite the Twitter addict and you can follow me here if you're also a twit.
It's because of these various status update platform thingies that I'm beginning to become a blog-sloth. I promise to be more frequent with posts.

Like always...

Umberine

A semester nearly comes to an end and not a single post has been made amidst. That could be a good thing; There's probably nothing to complain about. But then I'd be lying.

So I'm not going to apologise for not writing. I'm not going to give specific reasons as to why I wasn't writing. I'm not being paid to do this. I don't really owe anyone an explanation.
But then I'd be lying.

I apologise. I've wanted to write but it just never happened.

I went and saw Opeth in Chennai for the IIT Saarang fest. I wanted to post about that and send the link to Mikael Åkerfeldt on his blog. Except that never happened.
We pulled off a massive fest in our campus. I danced, sang, played Rosita on stage and even beat the shit out of dustbin lids and not to mention, won some computer gaming related events. I wanted to post about that too. That didn't happen.

Anyway. No point complaining.

Time has been lost and time has been spent doing things one could only be reminded of now through countless Facebook pictures and what not.

Time is passive.

Pune has gone back to its state of dry, uncontrollable heat and its fake promises of rain. Two years have gone by and tomorrow, just like I did two years back, kids are going to be pouring into our campus, A4 folder laden, wearing their pristinely ironed shirts and formal shoes, arms tangled in a sweaty mess of timidity along with their equally mousy folk, all for an honestly stupid studio test and a nerve-racking wait for a not so nerve-racking interview. Phew. Two years have gone by and I can see growth in myself and my peers in almost every way possible. We're so much more mature. I'd like to think that at least.
The entire semester has served as an incubating hutch for the cynic that's been sitting inside me for the Lord knows how long. I've almost become living hatred towards so many things. And not talking to you is probably making it worse. Sheer happiness is a rare visitor to our dusty village here in Loni.

It's cool. There's a lot more to be optimistic about. The summer is almost in. Bangalore awaits me with good food, good folk, good fuck (i wish) and the occasional Sunday mass. I get to jam with good ol' Chechi as well. It's about time we put up a temporary halt to our 'temporary educational hiatus'. We need a gig. We need to tell people that we're still sort of alive somewhere in Koramangala and not just living off that one article that probably only went out to friends and family of the band. There goes the cynic again. Haha.
No, but seriously. Jamming should be great because if one's ever witnessed our jam sessions, one would know that it's not just a manifest of magic masala music but has flavours of football, alcohol, projectile drumsticks and great Mangalorian cuisine thrown in between.

I need to write more often. It's been squeezing out of me in every way possible. Whether its some silly note on Facebook or a reply to some cry about life being unfair on the college messageboard, I feel the urge to write something, always. It's also been a while since I've written a song. I should do that.

Ah. I'm going to go make an ambigram. Or something design-related like that.

Demotivate

It's not easy when you're the one motivating the one person you always sought motivation from. Mainly because you end up using the same words he did. The words which obviously didn't change anything. Or did they?

So your jury went well, what are you worrying about?

If only life was as happy as some people are when juries go well, would the world be a better off place. There's a misleading man of masks out there who's doing a splendid job of what he's doing. He's covering scars on your foundation with shards of 3 minute happiness. He's concealing the presence of requirement by taking advantage of the absence of your voice.
But damn, he's good at it.

It takes a lot to come forth to the dining table and criticize the hot food you're being served. But this isn't a dining table and we're not beggars. It's a battle for rights, not privilege. This battle, however, seems like it's been lost already. For there are once-thought enemies giving up the fight that they were winning. Where does that leave the losers?

We're a demotivated bunch of fools and we cry in lightless corners. There's no use in that, yet we still do it.
I stray way too far into my metaphorical world that sometimes it's hard to come back.

Back.

There's been way too much stuff happening in the past one week. And though I've been having my share of alcohol on almost every day since arriving here, it's not been getting my mind off of anything. Going back to college could help. But then again, that's where all this demotivation started...

Somethings stop where they started.
But there are other things that don't. They leave you to peace the day you leave the world.

I hope they've left you alone, friend.
Rest in peace.

Feeling Futile

There's an air of discomfort in the, well, air around you. It's like a mosquito sucking the blood out of your neck. You're draining but you're not going to realise it until you've been drained. The kill is just around the corner and today is not going to be your lucky day.

Random. What's with all the depression around here? I have friends who feel that we as designers (or at least we, as design learners) all seem to be sour in life. I agree, I've been getting a similar feeling since the day I got here. For one, I've become a complete cynic. I can't take you seriously anymore. I can't take anything seriously any more. And I've become far more irritable than ever.
Life was so much better when it didn't make any sense.

No, don't get me wrong. I'm not depressed. And if I am, then you can give me your crap that I'm in denial. But I'm not. There is this feeling, however... A innate sense of futility. Innate from the rebirth I underwent over here. It's quite stupid because I get inspired to do things in life and it subsides with the sunset everyday. Fuck. I need something that lasts over here. Nothing lasts.

---------------------------------------------

But then again life is so beautiful and I'm discovering it's beauty in almost everything nowadays. I need to stay away from this, this drainage of cerebral matter called a computer. It's a limit to my world and it's desire to expand.

Anyway. Listen to 'mae' on myspace (or if you can get their CD). They're awesome. I'm falling for them. It's different.

Damn, there are things I want to do right now. I need some motivation. I'm going to go out for a smoke.

Wasteland

What’s the craziest thing you’ve done lately?

18 years. No, wait. 19 fucking years of life on this planet and I still don’t feel like I’ve ever done something to be proud about.
I’m talking about love.

All this while, I’ve deluded myself thinking that I’m some desired commodity. An eligible bachelor to most… A fucking twat.
I’ve lied to myself saying that I’m not “looking for anything at the moment”. It’s a moment that’s gained far too much momentum. A moment that’s lasted an eternity of my tenure. A moment that needs to be smothered. Now.

But why is it harder than it seems? I’ve got cool hair. A definition derived from the re-emerging afro trend that died way too long ago. I’m well traveled and well spoken. Good grammar is hot, or that’s what they told me anyway. I’m a graphic design student. A right brained, imaginative fuck who won’t bore you with his textbook rules of life. My rules of life are made up on the spot during basketball games and stupid arguments. I’m a poet. A patient imbecile who rhymes circumstances to make sense of the negative spaces I create. I’m a musician. A fellow who supplies basic undertones and falsetto nightmares for two bands; one that has even reached a global audience. I’m an unauthorized charm. At least I’d like to think so. Husband of the year in some cases. The idiot of the 21st century.

Some major reality-checking happened last night. Oh, it was eventful. I came to the conclusion that I’m not a man but rather an uninspired, lazy, immature and eternally boring character. A bored character. 19 years without experiencing love. No, wait. I’ve experienced that before. Oh, that was eventful.
No, I’ve never experienced it like they show us on the big screen. The big screen that lies to you all the time but seriously calls for change within you. What’s wrong? I’m not spontaneous. And I’ve never had the balls in me to take that plunge into the unknown. That’s what’s wrong. Adventurous my left bum. I’m losing a grip on sanity here. But I’m enjoying it thoroughly. It’s taking me to that ugly little village called reality. Some people here call it Loni-Kalbhor.

Pathetic that it takes you a movie to thwack you all over and slap some sense into you. Well, it might not be ‘sense’ right now and it maybe far from sensible but it’s something that will pump the life back into me. Back as in from the holiday it’s taking right now. The holiday it took about 18+ years ago. Stupid life. I’m not paying for your vacation.

Pathetic that you’ve been faking it all your years and it required something even more fake than that to clear the haze that hindered your vision.

So what’s up? I’m emerging (trying to) into a new person, a so-called man. And this was fueled by a suggestion from one of my friends (as distressed in said situation as I) that we visit a brothel and claim our deserved rights to manlihood. A brothel? What kind of step into becoming a man is that? It’s taking you further away from the place you’re trying to reach. And not just metaphorically. Seriously, this brothel is somewhere on the outskirts of town.
No but jokes apart, I find it ridiculously funny that I’ve never had a girlfriend over the last how many ever years (I’m getting depressed just typing out 19 over and over). Pathetic and funny at the same time. Just like one of those bad jokes you have to laugh at. One of those jokes that I would usually crack. Hey, I’m a joker as well. Check.

Thank you friend, however. Your brothel idea may not have been the smartest plan you’ve generated of late but it reminded me about how I need to start doing crazy things more often. Like walk on the railroads on the way back from college. Cheating death sounds like an adrenaline rush. Like bunking second lectures and going out to get wasted on Tuesday evenings. Alone just by company but surrounded with befriending thoughts. Like confessing it all to that one person. Telling her how madly in love you are and what not. (No man, I’m still not telling you who it is). She’s a reason and an outlet to your new state. You need her for this. Tell her that.

One of these days…

Mostly… Besides all those above-mentioned points about how assholic I am… I’m the worst procrastinator you’ve met. Reform beckons with howling decibel, and for once it’s about time I take heed towards it.

Warning!

There's a foul stench in the air. Something like spoilt KFC.

No. It's that stupid looking kid over there.

She just bathed herself in her mother's bottle of Nº 5. She's got Roxanne's lips, redder than the cherry she's been desperate to pop. She's got on a skirt shorter than her infant brother looking up to her.
Don't look up, kid. She's not wearing anything below.

Sick. She's not just one person.

There are too many too handle, it's getting out of control. Like rats in Hamelin, they're infesting the ground we tread on. But they aren't rats, and this is far from a scenic town in Lower Saxony. This is mordern-day mass-murder. I've stopped blaming the televesion and the Americans. They only went so far. We've engulfed ourselves in this rat-hole. 'We' as in them. 'Them' as in that stupid girl with her posse of daft pussycats.

She's just 15...

What the fuck is happening?

New Design?

I think I need to mess around with the layout and design (maybe the colour scheme of the blog). It's getting rather monotonous now.

Should I change the name?

"You look like a retard in the blog header, George"

Why thanks. I only took half an hour to take the self-photo at the right angle and distance and only took about a month of clueless graphic editing for the image.

Hmm.

Weakling at a Stud Farm

Down boy.
You are not the man you think you are.
Your body is crumbling, your muscles are flaccid.
You've got blood stoned eyes, yet your vitreous placid.
You breathe in a pretense and exhale out fumes,
You're falling apart and it's not yet noon.

You blindly follow the man with the rod,
For you are a coward and he is your god,
You shiver with pestilence, with terror, with fright,
Oh, what a miserable plight.

You've been the follower all your years,
Been reduced to the dust, beyond blood and tears,
You're too weak to bring yourself back to the ground,
Too weak to even make a sound.

The women scorn you, the men just laugh,
But inside you there is a man,
A man with great power locked deep in his staff,
A mighty grip forced into his hand.

No, they will not see it, for they are astray,
They've been deceived and deluded like flies.
Like flies to a gas lamp miles away,
Curiously they will die.

---------------------------------------------------------

You've never been the person who has had any power to exercise on another person. You've never been granted that liberty. Or maybe you chose not to take it.
There's no fine line between a weakling and a stone man. There's a continental separation between the two.
So if I don't belong to one of the above, why do I belong to the other?

Because society makes that decision for you, friend. And note that you won't have a say in it.

Here's where you undo the misinterpretations of the daft and strip yourself off completely. Show your true skin and accustom yourself to the ever-retarding world around you.

You're a weakling.

So be it. For being a weakling is far better than being the oppressor of the weak. Atop the shriveled tree stump I stand upon, there is only scope for me to rise. And I've got friends to help me find my way up. You are the fall, the decline, the overthrow that will be renowned. For you are not the man you think you are. Your ego will smother you.

You are the true weakling.