First Night Of Rain

The touch-me-nots played
shy all night, lest rogue raindrops
made them blush again.

Lucid Interval

Oh fuck this blogging shite. The social networking. The pseudo-writing.
Screw the story of the metamorphosis of the Malabar MoL.
Fuck everything that has kept me distracted like a child in a classroom full of pixies.
T.E.L.E.V.I.S.I.O.N
Films.
Books.
Bought by the roadside; at seconds sale shops.
Read off the computer.
Film Society.
T.E.L.E.V.I.S.I.O.N.
Computer.
Inter-fucking-net; data-fucking-one.
Fests. Innumerable fests.
Caution be thrown to the wind, language be best rotten.
Fuck everything.
(T.E.L.E.V.I.S.I.O.N.)


My results are out. I got fucked. Like, literally.
69 and all. Only a lot less enjoyable. (Apparently)
They do not portray me in the best light.
They have brought a sob track along.
So, it is an unqualified AVM tragedy.
The rains lash like they were the product of the combined angers of Tlaloc-Chaac-Kon and other such funny sounding gods. The government quarters' windows respect the anger and loosen their hinges to perform symphony for perfect Bollywood setting of a thunder-and-lightning-very-very-frightening situation.
(Who said life was never without background music?)
(Wait, that was me)


But,
like it always happens,
tragedy in succession.

FM Radio. And an interview with Whizkid Senior. Distributing munificently to all those who cared to buy, The Virtues of Hard Work and The Joy Of Winning University Gold Medals. (And also, a practical lesson in How Not To Talk.)
So,
As It Happens (TM), my mother was one of the listeners. As was *sheepish* I. The W.S. reeled out his academic achievements (he had precious else) about the ranks, and the medals, and all those.
And the rest as i now know, is the stuff 60's Kannada cinema would be proud of.

Now, you see i cannot, cannot mug. Not even if i were on a sinking ship, and you know, the availability of a safety jacket or a lifeboat depended upon rattling off stuff.
Medicine, my chosen profession(!), is all about it. Well, mostly about it.
And my chosen explanation for calamitous results is the one cited above, in italics and bold italics, merely to reinforce the grade of incapability. And for effect. Sue me.
But,
It's one thing to say you are not interested in certain things you forced yourself into because 'the Devil pulled it' and that it was a moment of glorious loss of insight.
It's another to acknowledge to yourself and people who care for you that you are completely, pathologically incapable of it. Especially when they think otherwise.
Despite your lack of interest, when you begin to detect the faintest whiff of incapability is when the truth actually sinks in.
It's when you see the world around you falling apart, looking none too good.
It's when you know, all your best was in the past.
It's when you know, it's an Eternal Sunshine moment.
It *might* not come back to you.

To tell you the truth, i am actually a little bummed out.
Morbid i sound. Morbid i have gotten.
You know, they say there is a period in the mind state of psychiatric patients when they are actually normal and think clear. These states are called Lucid Intervals. May be, just may be, i am in one such. I have been mad enough all this while. May be this is my lucid interval. And i am thinking clear and prioritizing well.
May be all i want to be is a nerd.
Yes.
I want to be a nerd.



P.S.: I know i will regret writing this. I just know it.
P.P.S.: I might not write for long. Here's one more thing i suck at.

Of Storywriters and Storymakers

So Vonnegut died.
The man who gave this blog its name without so much as batting an eyelid, stitched his shut for good. But then, like he told us, all things living and otherwise, are only coincidental.

I, and here i speak for all the Tralfamadorians (I push for this to be the name of Our Clan, in all solemn spirit), only hope he is in a better place. And exchanging notes with Mark Twain.

On a completely radically different note, i wanted to tell you all (look how insanely optimistic i have gotten) about this classmate of mine that has a royal crush.
Which keeps dying. (So it goes)
And keeps springing back to life,
thus influencing her moods rather visibly.

The story of The Malabar (almost) Princess and her (coco)nutso-ness about The Man Who Would Be King, follows in a few days.
So, wait.
With breath that is bated.
(Oh come on, cut me some slack)


But, not to digress from the reason for abusing bandwidth.
Kurt Vonnegut Jr., R.I.P.

The dark holds no terror

Sudden dimming of lights.
And then, darkness.

The initial catcalls, and the amma's.
Then, the shush-es. The din of shush-es.
And then, the silence.

Light flickering.
In hesitant spurts.
On a white screen; with a traversing black line.
Light flickering.
Exposing the diaphanous wings of the triwinged contraptions.

Islands of light.
Lighting up eerie faces.
White. Blue. Yellow. faint.
Showing curls, and bitten lips, and furrowed foreheads.
And chunky jewellery.

The high pitched crackle; like mustard in hot oil.
Arthritic, oil-denied furniture.
The creaks, the squeaks. Oh, the creaks and the squeaks.
And a lizard calling for a mate; or looking to join the party.

The rancid odour. Typical.
The stubbed cigarette butts.
The smell of grime, of the wanting to relax.

Loud, introductory sound.
Collective breath-holding.
Collective excitement.
Beginning of,
an adventure in,
suspension of disbelief.


Ah,
how i love the cinemas.

Parks and LSD

Now people, do not blame me for using footage yet again. This one, I had to use. You'll know why.

One of the tests of endurance that unfortunate medical students (the implication here being that ALL medical students are unfortunate; and not a mere percentage of the medical students being unfortunate) have to undergo is a subject called,

*eggs, the rotten kind, tomatoes, the mold infested kind, farts, the post-Sankranti scybalous kind, bottled scent, the Vrishabhaavati canal kind and curses, ranging in variety from the incestuous to the paraphiliac to the kind favored by irate truckdrivers*

PREVENTIVE AND SOCIAL MEDICINE.

This festering piece of godawful nonsense, also called Community Medicine, comes in an unattractive, garish-blue, unimaginably boring tome-that-leads-to-your-tomb called,

*(all those said above) and a deep, well gathered kwak-thoo*

PARK'S TEXTBOOK OF P.S.M a.k.a. THE HOLY (whatever book suits your religious inclination) OF COMM. MED.

Now this book is no walk in the, er, Park. It is studded, you know, like studddedd with lines that can make the hair at the back of your neck spring up in gravity-defying trich-s and get your ribs all worked up.
But, those are for another post. If at all.

For now, let us concentrate on how Park and Park, in a fit of affection towards the much harassed med studs (oooh, coolness) decided to pass on some nefarious information.

On LSD -
"LSD, Lysergic Acid Diethylamide, was synthesised in 1938 by Hoffmann in the Sandoz Labs in Switzerland. Its psychic properties were noticed much later in 1943, when he accidentally sniffed a few micrograms of it(poor thing, thought it was whitener perhaps).

* LSD is a potent psychotogenic agent.
* LSD alters the normal structuring of perception. The individual perceives the world in a different manner.
* There is intensification of colour perception and auditory acuity; body image distortions, visual illusions, fantasies, pseudohallucinations are common.
* Colours are heard and music becomes palpable.
* Subjective time is deranged so that seconds seem to be minutes and minutes pass as slowly as hours.
* Physical dependence does not develop with LSD; hence there is no addiction liability.
* No characteristic abstinence syndrome is manifest upon abrupt discontinuation of chronic use of the drug."

So.
Go ahead; tell me you are not tempted.

All this in a textbook. Seems nothing short of an advertisement brochure. These Park guys lived in Jabalpur. Something tells me, students there have more fun than we do here.

Cary Clack who?

Exactly.
He is pretty much nobody. But he grabs attention. (and No, i am Not talking about the Mr. World extravaganza and all that. Shutaap)

Apparently, the chap is with the San Antonio Express-News.
So?
Nothing.
Then what?

He said the following -
"Having to explain it means you probably shouldn't have said it"

Enough for me to stand up and clap hard.