The Dreaming Tree

It come when least expected,
or desired,
a naive eye that dwells upon a curve for a second too many,
or the meandering wind,
that throws strands of hair on a reminiscent cheek,
or an invading scent breeding familiarity,
first they trickle, glimpses, flashing little light bulbs,
playfully instigating the memories,
first comes the heat, the sweat, the entangled limbs,
then,
then a definite breach, a crumbling dam,
gushing through with vengeance,
a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
rapid, but not violent, not oppressive,
the debt of pain,
the insult of gauche,
all victim to pleasure,
surrender to intimacy,
only to find liberation in defeat,
moist palms, beaded temples,
and a smile etched in granite,
then suddenly,
the flood recedes,
the breach goes from saviour to sinner,
the mind wanders, desperatly searching for inspiration,
the eyes dart, all efforts thwarted by the dam,
now tall and strong, cunning and elusive,
the heart broods, begging for a few moments more,
of breathless pleasure, drowning,
no more touch,
or warm breath,
only a shadow on the mist,
of a smile etched on granite.
And as the sun settles,
the shadow will die,
slowly,
unless we peek over the edge,
and realize the sun never goes away.

Do you know this man? I wont be surprised if you don't.

His name is "Dimebag Darrell" Abbott. He was one of the brothers who founded Pantera. The first time I heard Pantera, the ex-glam now thrash band seemed more trash than thrash. First it was a wannabe-Van Halen and later a wannabe-Metallica (or deth).But they were instrumental in forming the Groove Metal genre and for that they deserve full credit. Unable to completely embrace thrash but, still carrying a very heavy sound with their ex-glam rhythm really helped them.

Dimebag was shot dead on stage by an ex-US Marine in late 2004,along with three other people on the stage. This was during a concert, this bloke stepped on stage fired more than a dozen rounds and also killed a 23 year old fan who tried to deliver CPR to Dimebag. He even had the nerve to stop, reload his firearm and continue shooting. He was stopped when an officer killed him with a shotgun.

In an article by William Grim called Aesthetics of Hate:RIP Dimebag and Good Riddance, he sides with the shooter commending him for his efforts. Grim is called an orthodox culture maven. The expert. He in fact writes for magazines that have wide distribution networks. He adds that Dimebag was killed by a culture that he created.

A former (elite) serviceman killing 4 people and then having his life end in the most disgraceful fashion, shot by a member of a sub-ordinate law enforcement agency. And then an intellectual praising him. Brilliant, and the United States continues to look for elements that egg high school shooters on under pillows and chairs.

A firefox music add-on yesterday just marqueed the text "Dedicated to Dimebag" when Machine Head's Asthetics of Hate was playing on my computer. I was shocked. I did not know that the man had died, not that I was a fan. But he was good, that's true. In fact the song is supposed to be a big FU to William Grim.

This reminds me of a certain degree of grief people feel(atleast I do) when a childhood hero has lost something.
Like when Hansie Cronje died. Or more recently McGrath's wife. Or the Chris Benoit tragedy, even if he was a make-believe business' mascot.
Anyway, RIP Dimebag.

My "My Generator" jokes, originally hatched in class are back.

Q) Why did the motor not allow the generator to be crowned Sarkar Raj?
A) Because power cannot be given. It has to be taken.

Having a sharp sense of hearing is a real bummer. Seriously. It has its advantages and with some Time Division Multiplexing you can eavesdrop on a number of conversations, and think at the same time. You also have the added advantage, if you can think fast enough that is, to hear things people normally say with a hope you don't hear them.

You know, the

"what did you say?"
"oh nothing... I was talking to myself"
"very well then, I won't return your silver plated, diamond studded, platinum tinged hunting knife"
"did YOU steal it?"
"are you accusing me?"
"how did you know I lost my silver plated, diamond studded, platinum tinged hunting knife?"
"you just said you lost your silver plated, diamond studded, platinum tinged hunting knife"
"how did you hear it?"
*sniggers and leaves banging the door on the way(if indoors)*

type of conversations.

This disadvantage of course, in my case, is something you need to live with everyday..eerrm..rather night. Night is the best time to experience stillness. If its late enough, turn off all electric devices around and just lie on the bed, soon to be drenched in sweat, but in absolute stillness. If you listen carefully you'll hear the bed sheet crumple, the mattress very slowly bearing you wait, the plywood under letting out soft creaks of displeasure. And if your watchman's awake, his heavy footsteps on leaves, not necessarily dry. Sometimes even on grass if its crunchy enough.

The not-so-nice part is living three storeys above the action, everything sounds a bit too..well.. misplaced. You need to listen carefully to figure where the noise is coming from.

Another grievous and often disgusting habit, when you can hear real soft noises you evidently tend to speak that softly (when the time comes to speak softly, of course). Which leads to accusations of other people being hard of hearing. I've thrown that term around on a couple of people so many times I'm sure they're sick of it. I'm trying to hear less by pumping large amounts of metal into ear plugs.. doesn't seem to be working.

Anyway, point remains that despite the bummers, listening can be great fun. And you can always tell women you're a great listener.

An average American gets married so many times that they made a reality show out of it. And in spite of my best efforts to avoid it, I ended up watching one. Its that mystical attraction that the disgusting has. Like how a few of my friends love "Nothing In the World" just because its a Paris Hilton song and listen to it only to criticize her vocal abilities.

Anyway, the show is called "For Better or for Worse". Quite a rhetoric, any American show about marriage has to be for worse.

Also seen recently is an advertisement about American Green Cards and how the country hands over 50,000 green cards in a drive to increase average IQ levels of the country.The approximate transcript says something like "Now, even you can Live,Work and Study in the USA and live the Great American Dream!!"

Great American Dream eh? They should call it GAD. There's already a band called Gatsby's American Dream that's called GAD.

Not so surprisingly, medical fraternities would squirm at GAD. It stands for Generalized Anxiety Disorder. Which of course means that you worry about absolutely everything and believe the world is snapping at your arse ready to snatch you state of peaceful existence drown you into cauldrons of misery. Not so surprisingly, one of the main sources of GAD could be WMD in Iraq.

Other versions of the Great American Dream include a startling discovery by a female American Senator, made popular by a youtube video, that claims "..we have seen societies being destroyed by homosexuality, which is more dangerous than terrorism.." . There you go. Generalized Anxiety Disorder again. Really? Can two men making out cause the fall of towers? or the absolute annihilation of countries?

I would love to change my impression about the world's foremost superpower and believe me I'm trying. Maybe I'm not smart enough.

Yes the blog has a new name.

When I was a kid I was always afraid of learning science. I had this constant fear that one day, somebody would disprove the existence of the atom. That all we studied would just be a waste of time. I figured it would take someone really smart. But that wasn't my biggest fear.

My biggest fear was that it would be me.

I was afraid of hammering on foundations I considered virtual. That all these castles we built in the air would all filter through as mere illusions cultivated by a string of creative storytellers. Only for me to snip their yarns and spin my own. In fact its a opinion I still harbour, however appalling it may be for a man of science and engineering.

Increasingly these days my questions divert to the intrinsic fabric that binds together all our desires. Our wish to work in jobs that pay and our pursuits for emotional reinforcement. Its not easy tossing these queries at yourself, they are questions you would avoid in a state of sanity. I have reasons to believe that all this peeking officially defines me as nihilistic. And although I have great respects for Nietzsche and his opinions, we must be aware of the fact that betrays him, he went mad.

Of course my philosophical positioning between bluntly Epicurean and the always-present but recently accepted Nihilism is quite a paradigm shift. One that required millions of pendulum laps, but evidently occurred much before my brain could absorb what nothing meant.

Another issue that has caught my fancy very recently is a challenge: to view life without time. To actually refute the existence of a past or a future. It sounds absurd and elongated contemplations may lead to the absolute disposal of the theory, it is exactly that issue that fascinates me. In fact, the entire concept is so absurd, I'm ready to think about it.

We are all puppets. And we all have strings, whose strings? Nobody knows. One of them could be yours itself. Only if we had the room to step back and look at everyone at the same time, we could deduce an approximate picture. Only if we had the room.
I'm like everyone. Just that I can see the strings. And I hope you see them too.

Don't you hate it when people say "don't you hate it?' and you actually don't hate it?

No I haven't been learning Italian and yes those are the only 3 words I know. 2 if you discount Italiano.

Being a Punjabi is always satisfying. That's because even if you believe in celibacy, you always have the food, to err.. please. And when I say that last night's dinner was in Little Italy, I hope readers don't relate the foreign fixture to the equivalence explained above.

After pulling down a place called MyLungi (or as the fancy folk call it, Melange), the Mumbai chain, Little Italy, opened up here. And all that Garfield really made me want lasagna.

Initial impressions were sadly not so great. The place still looks a lot like Melange, although to be fair, I don't think a total makeover should've been on their list anyway. The decor was confused. It was not exactly Italian, and it certainly did not make me feel Italian. I must admit the Gujju birthday bash on the table next to us did not help.

My least favourite part comes now though. An employee came over, poured us water and lit a candle on the table, with a sadak-chap plastic lighter. The one that poor autowallas use. The cutlery was classy and everything on the table looked rich. And then the plastic lighter. These guys really know how to ruin stuff. The ambience was decent and quite likeable. And then I heard Bryan Adams. Italian retaurant, Italian food, difficult to comprehend menu and really nice Ohm speakers. Everything was right. Then they play Alanis Morisette. Then Celine Dion.
AAARGHH!!! Someone tell them all these are mainstream Canadian artists. That means they're from Canada. Which is about 67million handspans from Italy. Some Italiano music would really add to the ambience. I'm not talking Opera and Pavarotti, but atleast some O sole mio.

The staff was well dressed, not Milan Fashionweek stuff, but good enough. The funny part was the when I asked a bloke what he'd recommend, the answers were B.13 and C.29. Quite convenient, would rather have them do their homework and learn names along with the numbers. And show people that you know names.

The food was brilliant. I absolutely loved it. And although all the pizzas being ordered tempted us, we stuck to pasta, lasagna and some farmer bread thing. Considering the prices I'd want everything to be perfect, no slip-ups. Not the case evidently. But the food was great, and the cooks deserve a pat on their backs.

I could feel its chamber burn my skin through the denim. That .357 is a real devil. Turned 3 zombies into ketchup. The undead sure got the un shot off by the magnum. I'd love to call it my babe, but its too darn powerful. And all that chrome. Its a man, a full grown evil flesh gnawing man. People say they hate because its too slow. But thats a truckload of bullshit. It would be faster if you could recover from the recoil, its like hitting a wall at mach 5.

Two more of those blood sucking leeches, I let the Beretta take them. After all, this one is the pet, the most docile, most likeable gun. It wouldn't hurt a fly, unless you shot at it of course. I know the boss is coming, I can smell it. Plus the AI is growing tired of getting its scary creatures gunned down like kids in an American school. This wont do, the machine has an ego as big as its code. Couple of more jumps and I'm in full view of a bunch of apartment windows.

Full view.

It hits me like missile from Moscow. Snipers. Bloody snipers.

My legs freeze and I can't move a muscle. The first muffled gunshot rings through the walls and ricochets of a dumpster. I lob a bunch frags and scram. Just one hit through the arm, the good one though. I hunt for a health pack and for all you know the AI might've just planted this one under my foot.

Fool! Of course they did!

I rise to see the boss on me, a Benelli levelled at me. 12 gauge. I'd survive it if I were a blue whale. The air would kill me most probably though. But fact remains I'm no blue whale and thats still a 12 gauge. Dodge just one shot, just one, I keep telling myself, by the time the shotgun's back you'll have the magnum bury a bullet in his crotch.

And then I see something else. It's not a his. Its a her. And she's smiling. Says I've done well. Stupid bot, smiling at me, 2 million lines of code and this is what they come up with. I could think of better female bosses hanging by my thumbs. But I've gotta give it to her, she's got me cornered. Quick draw it is, my end or hers.

In a split second the gun is out of my pocket and ready to roar. She laughs, loudly. Dares me to shoot, she dint need to. Half the barrel is empty and she's still standing there, can't believe it, not in a million years. She throws me her shotgun, this time I make full use, finishing all the shells with secondary fire. And everything went through her. Every single piece of lead hits the wall behind. This time she snarls and screams, "I'm the AI stupid! And you're in my world!". Then comes the pounce, coup de grace.

Epilogue 1: This piece, however fictional it may seem, is a true real life dream. Not nightmare of course, because I had saved the game just before the sniper trap.

Epilogue 2: I really need to cut down on the gaming.

You know what better than mindless first-person-shooter gore?
Mindless first-person-shooter gore with Thrash Metal in the background.
Welcome to the world of Machinehead+Quake. A world of double bass pounding rockets with plasma gun riffs.

A world I effing live in.

P.S: Shhhh! Don't tell anyone, I'm supposed to be writing CAT tests on the comp.

You may find this hard to believe, but I actually like Vista.
lightning
And the new Windows Media Player!
God kills a kitten

In flight Bhel puri.
Himesh Reshammiya ringtones.
Reliance phones.
A Ba on my side.
More reliance phones.
Business talk.
Pilot bashing.
Tea enquiries.
More Himesh Reshammiya ringtones.
One million Bhai/Ben per second.
More Tea enquiries.
70 year-old men in flaming red shirts.
70 year old women in shorts.
Still more Himesh Reshammiya.
Bharuch Peanuts.
Wannabe vegetarians.
Alcoholic fantasies.
Lots more Himesh Reshammiya.
Reliance petrol.
Reliance cornershops.
Reliance contraceptives.
Reliance lingerie.
Fat people.
Very fat people.
Fat people walking to the park.
Rich fat people driving to Talwalkars.
Parrots.
Torrents.
My window.
My bathroom.
My friggin TV.
Guess who's home, baby. Guess who's home.