actually enjoyed that last 20-20 match. both teams played well (i think) and the whole thing had that on the edge feel i normally associate with world cup football finals. hell yeah, i even cheered for the indian team (regardless of the fact that 1. i've never particularly liked cricket, and 2. i sent out a rather 'logical' SMS on why we should support pakistan). was a good game.
even better? i was expecting headlines this morning on how the indian players showed 'disrespect' to the indian flag by first pouring champagne all over it and then by not knowing which side was up. (i'm still not sure myself). no news, however, of any protests of that sort breaking out. hope this wave continues-cricket actually manages to turn interesting, the indian team actually manages to win something that matters, and the indian flag (and players) can get a drink once in a while!
cheers!
cheers!
page 88, ISBN 0-553-27747-2
"To speak of certain government and establishment institutions as "the system" is to speak correctly...They are sustained by structural relationships even when they have lost all other meaning and purpose...But to tear down a factory or to revolt against a government or to avoid repair of a motorcycle because it is a system is to attack effects rather than causes; and as long as the attack is upon effects only, no change is possible."
~Robert Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
and he then continues (later on in the book) to attack the 'foundation' of reason. and then defends it. and then attacks it again. seen that way, a little confusing, but it ties up.
zen. and motorcycle maintenance
people ask why i ride a yezdi. think this quote answers part of that.
""What's new?" is an interesting and broadening eternal question, but one which, if pursued exclusively, results only in an endless parade of trivia and fashion, the silt of tomorrow. I would like, instead, to be concerned with the question "What is best?", a question which cuts deeply rather than broadly, a question whose answers tend to move the silt downstream."
~Robert Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
maybe i really should think of getting that bullet.
hand of god
doors and windows
bleeding sunshine
daisy beds
all breathing fire
give me love and
give me madness
kill the graydom
with desire
rip the curtain
break the fences
fill the screen
with grease and mud
broken glass and
bits of crossword
let me touch
the hand of god
broken glass
and unsolved crossword
let me touch
the hand of god
responsibility
http://sethgodin.typepad.com/seths_blog/2007/06/responsibility.html
just read this link from saurabh's blog. though it is meant more for marketers/sales/advertisers kinda thing, its got me thinking. am i, as an artist/musician/poet taking responsibility for what i do? would i put my name on it?
sobering thought.
are you well?
one of my favourite EVER poems-put up because sanga is the most technophobic chap i know, and also because, well, i love it. am also sick and tired of telling people about it-now they can bloody read it for themselves. yay.
-------------------------------------------------------
Are you well?
I am well.
Are you not well?
I am not well.
Do you breathe?
Yes, I breathe.
Do you not breathe?
I do not breathe.
Do you love?
Yes, I love.
Do you not love?
I still love.
- Nunsanga
rahul and i
an old one again. was actually the 'prelude', of sorts, to 'cigarettes, tea ...'
_____________________________________________________
So much blood, so much anger, so much hate. So tired. And Rahul is screaming again. Wishing he could scream, rather. Wishing he could die. Wishing, hardest, he could write.
It's bleeding sunsets again. It is bleeding tomato ketchup and redemption and acres of cool green hills. Most of all, it's bleeding Rahul. He seeps through my defenses, pushing, coaxing, and singing to me in that crazed highland voice; singing of sugar and spice and all things nice. Rahul wants to write. I only want to sleep. Sleep till the end of the world and beyond. Sleep. Rest. Scream. I can hear the crows calling, calling me to join the empires in their collective belly. They, who have feasted on kings and sacred cows, would now feed on me. Strange honour this is, but surely honour still.
This city reeks of boredom. "Wait for the rain," they say, "it will wash away the dust."What thundering cyclone could wash away the gathered dust of a million years, settled like dew on a million souls? Grey voices. Grey voices in my head, and like the shadow of a whisper, Rahul's. Daring me to hope, coaxing me to madness, calling me home.
Delusions of grandeur are no escape. They weigh one down with responsibility; responsibility to a destiny that may or may not be imagined. They fuel a frenzied reading of the prophets, real or pretend. They lure me on with possibilities. Maybe things will change. Change, maybe, before I am broken.
Rahul is stirring. Shaking his dreadlocks, scattering dandruff and magic. He has slept for a long time. I have not heard his voice for an entire night.
I beheaded the dolls Marie gave me. Their expression didn't change as their heads reluctantly parted company with their rubber bodies. I wish they had. At least that would make me feel guilty for the desecration. For a change, make me feel.
The peak has been sealed off. They don't want people on the hilltops anymore. They only want their gods, their priests and their inflated racial egos. I won't be able to get married there after all.
But Rahul is free. He doesn't care for laws, of man, beast, or physics. Easy for him- it is my body that suffers for his actions. If I die, he will only go to another. He refuses to leave until then. But Rahul is my friend. I only wish he would stop screaming. I'm getting kinda hoarse.