When writing about any other such man, I would've been bland with my contrivances: an inherited fortune, an all-expenses-paid-for education, a world outlook that bordered on dilettantism while seeking out some moral higher ground to continuing to sleep with whores. No. He was not quite all those things—there was something different about him that may have never come across if not for a remark I overheard. He was a zealot, a man given to a cause, living out a straightforward life—debauchery notwithstanding—whose excesses were moderated with a sense of judgment spiked with spiritual devotion. He kept to himself most of the time, never indulging in small talk, and would often leave me wondered if he had nothing to complain about at all; whenever we met, he would ask me what I was writing about these days, whether I'd read any books lately, and with a sincere seniority, he would give me advice on what not to do in general.
I'd once heard that he'd been suspended for assaulting a younger colleague—it could not have been him. However, knowing that both were true—his unassuming nature as well as his record of being unnecessarily aggressive—told me that his "cause" was something to beware. Then again, I didn't find out that he was a terrorist until years later. He had a sister, he told me one evening over a cup of tea and a cigarette, a younger girl who was studying "something or the other" in Pune. Apparently, she'd had a thing for law—a gift for the polemic—but the voice of her parents had been drowned out by him: "I mean, you tell me, she is a girl. She is going to have a hard time. Just do something in literature, etc., get married, settle down, have kids. There is nothing more than is due a woman. I am supporting her. She is going to bear children. I don't see the problem!" The lines around his eyes and mouth pointed to a lack of any other kind of reason in him; he was convinced about whatever he was talking about.
Another time, a box of pizzas had arrived for my room. I had ordered it for me and a friend who had a night of talking/writing/drinking ahead of us, and we wanted to do away with the pretentions of having bread and salad for dinner. Unexpectedly, he showed up. He had nothing to say about the liquor in the room. He just took a look around and left. The next morning, I met him on the way to the Main Hall. Even as I walked up to him, he turned away and raised his hand. "Don't talk to me anymore," he said, "I did not expect any of that from you. You are drinking at this age?" In those two seconds, there was a bestial rage in him and he was speaking through gritted teeth. I said nothing, and soon, like I'd expected, the heat snapped and he cooled down. "I will meet you in the evening again for tea. Don't try to meet me or speak to me before that." I muttered something—I don't clearly recall now—and left him. I waited for about 40 minutes that evening but he did not show up for tea. I had work to do at the office and left.
The vainglorious disciplinarian that he was, I was a little surprised to see him during dinner hour at the mess. He dragged me away from my seat, the ghee still sliding down my fingers, while the others watched us for a moment before turning their attention back to their plates. He seemed agitated. "I need a favour from you. Will you do it for me?" What is it? "Well... OK, you must not tell anybody about this, OK?" Alright. I assumed it was something diplomatically fragile to do with his managerial duties. I was right: "I am part of this club in YK Nagar, and they need this packet delivered to this address here"—he produced a card—"and I am held up at the moment. Can you deliver it for me, please?" OK. By when— "As soon as you finish (he waved at the dinner table). Thank you so much." He left quickly. I have never heard from him since. The package itself was some sort of a chemical substance, and that night, I made sure I handed it over to the police and told them about this man who I worked for.
That was in 1995. I've had a daughter after that, and then my wife died in the bridge explosion two years ago. I hope you don't condemn the abeyance of my spirits because, even in all of this, I continue to wonder where such men come from. He had bought me that house in Krishna Nagar, he had given me a job even though I was underqualified to hold it, he had always been there to listen to me when I'd had anything to say. That was when I was married to Revathi. Now, she is dead and I am forced to question my faith in many things—why am I not in mourning? I don't know. I don't know who I am, or who I would have been if not for a lot of things. They say I must have faith, but faith in what? Faith in men just like me, I suppose, who come from nowhere and are expected to be somewhere.
Showing posts with label relationships. Show all posts
Showing posts with label relationships. Show all posts
Wednesday, 25 May 2011
The sons of Moirai
When writing about any other such man, I would've been bland with my contrivances: an inherited fortune, an all-expenses-paid-for education, a world outlook that bordered on dilettantism while seeking out some moral higher ground to continuing to sleep with whores. No. He was not quite all those things—there was something different about him that may have never come across if not for a remark I overheard. He was a zealot, a man given to a cause, living out a straightforward life—debauchery notwithstanding—whose excesses were moderated with a sense of judgment spiked with spiritual devotion. He kept to himself most of the time, never indulging in small talk, and would often leave me wondered if he had nothing to complain about at all; whenever we met, he would ask me what I was writing about these days, whether I'd read any books lately, and with a sincere seniority, he would give me advice on what not to do in general.
I'd once heard that he'd been suspended for assaulting a younger colleague—it could not have been him. However, knowing that both were true—his unassuming nature as well as his record of being unnecessarily aggressive—told me that his "cause" was something to beware. Then again, I didn't find out that he was a terrorist until years later. He had a sister, he told me one evening over a cup of tea and a cigarette, a younger girl who was studying "something or the other" in Pune. Apparently, she'd had a thing for law—a gift for the polemic—but the voice of her parents had been drowned out by him: "I mean, you tell me, she is a girl. She is going to have a hard time. Just do something in literature, etc., get married, settle down, have kids. There is nothing more than is due a woman. I am supporting her. She is going to bear children. I don't see the problem!" The lines around his eyes and mouth pointed to a lack of any other kind of reason in him; he was convinced about whatever he was talking about.
Another time, a box of pizzas had arrived for my room. I had ordered it for me and a friend who had a night of talking/writing/drinking ahead of us, and we wanted to do away with the pretentions of having bread and salad for dinner. Unexpectedly, he showed up. He had nothing to say about the liquor in the room. He just took a look around and left. The next morning, I met him on the way to the Main Hall. Even as I walked up to him, he turned away and raised his hand. "Don't talk to me anymore," he said, "I did not expect any of that from you. You are drinking at this age?" In those two seconds, there was a bestial rage in him and he was speaking through gritted teeth. I said nothing, and soon, like I'd expected, the heat snapped and he cooled down. "I will meet you in the evening again for tea. Don't try to meet me or speak to me before that." I muttered something—I don't clearly recall now—and left him. I waited for about 40 minutes that evening but he did not show up for tea. I had work to do at the office and left.
The vainglorious disciplinarian that he was, I was a little surprised to see him during dinner hour at the mess. He dragged me away from my seat, the ghee still sliding down my fingers, while the others watched us for a moment before turning their attention back to their plates. He seemed agitated. "I need a favour from you. Will you do it for me?" What is it? "Well... OK, you must not tell anybody about this, OK?" Alright. I assumed it was something diplomatically fragile to do with his managerial duties. I was right: "I am part of this club in YK Nagar, and they need this packet delivered to this address here"—he produced a card—"and I am held up at the moment. Can you deliver it for me, please?" OK. By when— "As soon as you finish (he waved at the dinner table). Thank you so much." He left quickly. I have never heard from him since. The package itself was some sort of a chemical substance, and that night, I made sure I handed it over to the police and told them about this man who I worked for.
That was in 1995. I've had a daughter after that, and then my wife died in the bridge explosion two years ago. I hope you don't condemn the abeyance of my spirits because, even in all of this, I continue to wonder where such men come from. He had bought me that house in Krishna Nagar, he had given me a job even though I was underqualified to hold it, he had always been there to listen to me when I'd had anything to say. That was when I was married to Revathi. Now, she is dead and I am forced to question my faith in many things—why am I not in mourning? I don't know. I don't know who I am, or who I would have been if not for a lot of things. They say I must have faith, but faith in what? Faith in men just like me, I suppose, who come from nowhere and are expected to be somewhere.
I'd once heard that he'd been suspended for assaulting a younger colleague—it could not have been him. However, knowing that both were true—his unassuming nature as well as his record of being unnecessarily aggressive—told me that his "cause" was something to beware. Then again, I didn't find out that he was a terrorist until years later. He had a sister, he told me one evening over a cup of tea and a cigarette, a younger girl who was studying "something or the other" in Pune. Apparently, she'd had a thing for law—a gift for the polemic—but the voice of her parents had been drowned out by him: "I mean, you tell me, she is a girl. She is going to have a hard time. Just do something in literature, etc., get married, settle down, have kids. There is nothing more than is due a woman. I am supporting her. She is going to bear children. I don't see the problem!" The lines around his eyes and mouth pointed to a lack of any other kind of reason in him; he was convinced about whatever he was talking about.
Another time, a box of pizzas had arrived for my room. I had ordered it for me and a friend who had a night of talking/writing/drinking ahead of us, and we wanted to do away with the pretentions of having bread and salad for dinner. Unexpectedly, he showed up. He had nothing to say about the liquor in the room. He just took a look around and left. The next morning, I met him on the way to the Main Hall. Even as I walked up to him, he turned away and raised his hand. "Don't talk to me anymore," he said, "I did not expect any of that from you. You are drinking at this age?" In those two seconds, there was a bestial rage in him and he was speaking through gritted teeth. I said nothing, and soon, like I'd expected, the heat snapped and he cooled down. "I will meet you in the evening again for tea. Don't try to meet me or speak to me before that." I muttered something—I don't clearly recall now—and left him. I waited for about 40 minutes that evening but he did not show up for tea. I had work to do at the office and left.
The vainglorious disciplinarian that he was, I was a little surprised to see him during dinner hour at the mess. He dragged me away from my seat, the ghee still sliding down my fingers, while the others watched us for a moment before turning their attention back to their plates. He seemed agitated. "I need a favour from you. Will you do it for me?" What is it? "Well... OK, you must not tell anybody about this, OK?" Alright. I assumed it was something diplomatically fragile to do with his managerial duties. I was right: "I am part of this club in YK Nagar, and they need this packet delivered to this address here"—he produced a card—"and I am held up at the moment. Can you deliver it for me, please?" OK. By when— "As soon as you finish (he waved at the dinner table). Thank you so much." He left quickly. I have never heard from him since. The package itself was some sort of a chemical substance, and that night, I made sure I handed it over to the police and told them about this man who I worked for.
That was in 1995. I've had a daughter after that, and then my wife died in the bridge explosion two years ago. I hope you don't condemn the abeyance of my spirits because, even in all of this, I continue to wonder where such men come from. He had bought me that house in Krishna Nagar, he had given me a job even though I was underqualified to hold it, he had always been there to listen to me when I'd had anything to say. That was when I was married to Revathi. Now, she is dead and I am forced to question my faith in many things—why am I not in mourning? I don't know. I don't know who I am, or who I would have been if not for a lot of things. They say I must have faith, but faith in what? Faith in men just like me, I suppose, who come from nowhere and are expected to be somewhere.
Tuesday, 24 May 2011
Microcosm of blasphemies
Smoke and Nebula have met once! I've come to believe that all smoke and all nebulae have some depth-any amount of depth that is some-and of Smoke's depth, I'm intrigued. He is rich, he is happily settled, perhaps happily joined, too-however small the chance of that may be-and has the one Cloud from that one meeting. Whenever we converse, he reveals not much; he is quick to crack a joke, he is quick to sprout in laughter, he is quick to philanthropy, and his demeanour only tells me he gives away so that he may receive in return the right to condescension. Agreed, altruism is a false virtue; nevertheless, Smoke is, by the looks of it, plastic: the veritable subject of any inquisition on the foibles of human nature, a true man-not the manly man, but the one who has known damage and, thereafter, recovered to completion, a true man.
Monday, 2 May 2011
Crest of a knave: A short story
Listen to my story, all ye assembled here in this hall of gold, listen to my story before I set forth with the lust for glory and decay in my blood boils over, its wrath absterging all shreds of loyalty and honour in me. Listen to my story, all ye assembled in this hall of light, for you would hold me devious culprit in this dark affair of travesty and injustice whereas I would hold myself, sans lea or passage, owed the duty of the last word before your judgment scars my destiny forever.
A thousand years ago, while I was still a young man of speed and spirit, I loved a woman of Troban beyond the wishes of my father or hers, and we were discoverers of joy unbounded in the arms of the other and wished, fools that we were, that it would remain so, impenetrable by the poisoned spears of our warrior-brothers or reigned back by the ties we still cherished with our mothers or by the religion that sought to punish us all for the evils of our forefathers; you remember the times, lords and ladies, you do, I know! Those were horrible days of great loss and much deplorable grief, days when freedom faded quickly from memory to return with the intoxicating fumes of khalam only at night.
Our companionship, as has always been, was soon sighted, slighted, condemned for no other reason than the rifts within our peoples, and me and she were soon flung apart, reprimanded and whipped until our flesh burned red with the fire of agony, disappointment and the promise we made unto ourselves repeatedly that there would come a day when our spirits would be reawakened by another foe, a promise that we would succumb to the threat of mortality that always spurs us on against another man, a promise that we would take up spear and shield, sword and gauntlet, and fight to the death all the men who stood between me and her, who stood between her and me.
However, that was not to be so, for soon, she was in love with another man. Oh, the sacrilege rent my heart in two and its tears flooded, I was stricken with not the monstrous affront to my being but quite something else, a curious mixture of acceptance and depravity, as if I had been rewarded with the admonishment of a great father who, with one hand, struck me down and taught me a lesson and, with another, picked me up and dared to walk; I knew not what to do, for she was no longer mine and the saddening truth of that alone lingered in all its palatable cruelty. That he was a great warrior of Troban meant nothing to me for I knew already that he would be the last to be slain as she must and will watch on, the death of a lover, a commemoration of the execution of love itself.
Soon, circumstance bore down upon me, carrying upon their broad shoulders much fortune, and I was swept like a broken vessel upon a strong tide to different shores, vast shores, peopled not with memories nor judgments but with purpose and direction, led by a great king in whose services I found employ and my faith once more in the need for allegiance and friendship in our bloodied lands. Here I stand before you, a great minister of the King of all Troban, and I, his aide, his confidante, his friend, his advisor, his hand that throws down only so it may pick up once more the young man it sought to make an example of all those years ago, and the woman you now see standing before you, pleading unto you that I be imprisoned for all that I have brought upon her... that woman... that woman...
Her husband, that man, that veteran, or thus she would hold, of many, many wars, hundreds of battles, he is now captured by the Lords of the Cult, and now she pleads unto you to imprison me, to sacrifice me unto your foes so she may remit what she herself broke. What would you do? What would you do?! Would you lock me behind bars and set me forth in a vessel so I may be received by my torturers and executioners or would you have me stand guard into the night? Would you handicap I, only a man, for the sake of his youthful follies and now besmirch all his sacrifices or would you give me my freedom only once more as I ask her... as I ask her...
Do you want me to save your lover? Do you want me to be the man you hated, the man you despised, because he valued justice more than concern so you could betray his love and seek consolation in the arms of another? Or would you rather that I was the man you were with once, and have me be the saviour you so direly seek?
Listen to me, all you folks assembled here, before you go about besmirching my name! I've a story to tell before you listen to the words of the woman before you and pass a judgment that'd only be made with incomplete information. After all, I am owed a word before I am punished.
Long ago, I loved a woman of Troban, and neither of our fathers were supportive of it. It was a terrible time, what with all the civil wars and other such needless battles causing more rifts than we needed. In each other's arms, we found the relief we really needed at the time, and not only did we find it, but we were entranced by it.
Needless to say, our fathers found out about it and tore us apart, calling upon all sorts of religious rites and says to condemn us further; they used us to vent the anger they bore for the world around. We might've understood their wrath, but what I knew I'd always hate and avenge was the wrath of the people who stood by my father on the day he passed judgment on us. That day, I swore I'd slay them all even if at the price of my honour.
Soon, however, something happed that left me like a shattered mirror: seeing with a thousand eyes the horror of her walking hand-in-hand with another man, another lover, so soon after we were forced to leave each other's side. I didn't what to do then, I didn't understand it, but I only told myself that this man would also die by my blade. He'd die while she watches him bleed.
After that, my fortunes in trade and other things began to pick up and I set off on a journey to a new city. All the people there were new to me. I knew then that they didn't deserve my blighted past, they didn't deserve to be at the brunt of my voiceless rage. I changed my lifestyle, I changed the way I was; I became more responsible and soon was employed by the King.
Now, I'm your minister, and your King's right-hand man. I've stood by you all, protecting you, saving you, nourishing you, pushing you to seek your dreams without fearing any foe. Now, this woman here is that lover I spoke of, and now, she tells you all to sacrifice me as ransom so she can get back her lover from those who've captured him.
He was a man of courage she said, and now, as fate would have it, the blade at his throat pierces at my will. Now, I ask you to tell me if I still will have your mercy and be allowed to decide for myself... whether I choose to mend my heart and leave it broken for your sake. Having known you good men and women for so long, I will take the liberty to assume a just answer.
Now, woman, I ask you: I was once a man who cared for justice, and that was the man you hated; I was once a man who cared for love, and that was the man you loved. Who do you want me to be now? Do you want me to be the one you hated so you can feel fine about leaving me? Or do you want me to be the man you loved so he can save your lover?
A thousand years ago, while I was still a young man of speed and spirit, I loved a woman of Troban beyond the wishes of my father or hers, and we were discoverers of joy unbounded in the arms of the other and wished, fools that we were, that it would remain so, impenetrable by the poisoned spears of our warrior-brothers or reigned back by the ties we still cherished with our mothers or by the religion that sought to punish us all for the evils of our forefathers; you remember the times, lords and ladies, you do, I know! Those were horrible days of great loss and much deplorable grief, days when freedom faded quickly from memory to return with the intoxicating fumes of khalam only at night.
Our companionship, as has always been, was soon sighted, slighted, condemned for no other reason than the rifts within our peoples, and me and she were soon flung apart, reprimanded and whipped until our flesh burned red with the fire of agony, disappointment and the promise we made unto ourselves repeatedly that there would come a day when our spirits would be reawakened by another foe, a promise that we would succumb to the threat of mortality that always spurs us on against another man, a promise that we would take up spear and shield, sword and gauntlet, and fight to the death all the men who stood between me and her, who stood between her and me.
However, that was not to be so, for soon, she was in love with another man. Oh, the sacrilege rent my heart in two and its tears flooded, I was stricken with not the monstrous affront to my being but quite something else, a curious mixture of acceptance and depravity, as if I had been rewarded with the admonishment of a great father who, with one hand, struck me down and taught me a lesson and, with another, picked me up and dared to walk; I knew not what to do, for she was no longer mine and the saddening truth of that alone lingered in all its palatable cruelty. That he was a great warrior of Troban meant nothing to me for I knew already that he would be the last to be slain as she must and will watch on, the death of a lover, a commemoration of the execution of love itself.
Soon, circumstance bore down upon me, carrying upon their broad shoulders much fortune, and I was swept like a broken vessel upon a strong tide to different shores, vast shores, peopled not with memories nor judgments but with purpose and direction, led by a great king in whose services I found employ and my faith once more in the need for allegiance and friendship in our bloodied lands. Here I stand before you, a great minister of the King of all Troban, and I, his aide, his confidante, his friend, his advisor, his hand that throws down only so it may pick up once more the young man it sought to make an example of all those years ago, and the woman you now see standing before you, pleading unto you that I be imprisoned for all that I have brought upon her... that woman... that woman...
Her husband, that man, that veteran, or thus she would hold, of many, many wars, hundreds of battles, he is now captured by the Lords of the Cult, and now she pleads unto you to imprison me, to sacrifice me unto your foes so she may remit what she herself broke. What would you do? What would you do?! Would you lock me behind bars and set me forth in a vessel so I may be received by my torturers and executioners or would you have me stand guard into the night? Would you handicap I, only a man, for the sake of his youthful follies and now besmirch all his sacrifices or would you give me my freedom only once more as I ask her... as I ask her...
Do you want me to save your lover? Do you want me to be the man you hated, the man you despised, because he valued justice more than concern so you could betray his love and seek consolation in the arms of another? Or would you rather that I was the man you were with once, and have me be the saviour you so direly seek?
*
Simpler version
Listen to me, all you folks assembled here, before you go about besmirching my name! I've a story to tell before you listen to the words of the woman before you and pass a judgment that'd only be made with incomplete information. After all, I am owed a word before I am punished.
Long ago, I loved a woman of Troban, and neither of our fathers were supportive of it. It was a terrible time, what with all the civil wars and other such needless battles causing more rifts than we needed. In each other's arms, we found the relief we really needed at the time, and not only did we find it, but we were entranced by it.
Needless to say, our fathers found out about it and tore us apart, calling upon all sorts of religious rites and says to condemn us further; they used us to vent the anger they bore for the world around. We might've understood their wrath, but what I knew I'd always hate and avenge was the wrath of the people who stood by my father on the day he passed judgment on us. That day, I swore I'd slay them all even if at the price of my honour.
Soon, however, something happed that left me like a shattered mirror: seeing with a thousand eyes the horror of her walking hand-in-hand with another man, another lover, so soon after we were forced to leave each other's side. I didn't what to do then, I didn't understand it, but I only told myself that this man would also die by my blade. He'd die while she watches him bleed.
After that, my fortunes in trade and other things began to pick up and I set off on a journey to a new city. All the people there were new to me. I knew then that they didn't deserve my blighted past, they didn't deserve to be at the brunt of my voiceless rage. I changed my lifestyle, I changed the way I was; I became more responsible and soon was employed by the King.
Now, I'm your minister, and your King's right-hand man. I've stood by you all, protecting you, saving you, nourishing you, pushing you to seek your dreams without fearing any foe. Now, this woman here is that lover I spoke of, and now, she tells you all to sacrifice me as ransom so she can get back her lover from those who've captured him.
He was a man of courage she said, and now, as fate would have it, the blade at his throat pierces at my will. Now, I ask you to tell me if I still will have your mercy and be allowed to decide for myself... whether I choose to mend my heart and leave it broken for your sake. Having known you good men and women for so long, I will take the liberty to assume a just answer.
Now, woman, I ask you: I was once a man who cared for justice, and that was the man you hated; I was once a man who cared for love, and that was the man you loved. Who do you want me to be now? Do you want me to be the one you hated so you can feel fine about leaving me? Or do you want me to be the man you loved so he can save your lover?
Friday, 22 April 2011
A reevaluation of (two kinds of) relationships
First kind
Last night, I had a weird set of emotions flowing through me - weird only because they were new, not because I thought they were wrong. First, I shared with T???? the short passage I'd written with 83 Ms. Perhaps it was me hoping to strongly that she would remark (directly) upon how it compared to V's monologue from the movie 'V for Vendetta'. Now that I think about it, T???? may have only been the usual inappropriately-unpredictable bitch she usually is, but I don't care: her response drove me wild. I hope it stays that way, too.
I don't know if I look like a merry-go-round on legs to some people, but I've had it. Some people are not worth it irrespective of how much I might need them. Be it M?, P????? and A????? for what they know about me, be it T???? for whatever I may have needed her for, be it anyone: I've realized that I've been a top-order fool to let myself be cowed down by my need to please others. More than the realization, more than the decision to "turn over a new leaf", what's important is that I continue to understand why it's important to feel that way, to live that way.
Second kind
That, in turn, prompts me to think how honest I've been with my diary, how honest I will be. I who write this diary – is that "I" different from I who embrace the reality, the interpretations of the interactions with which fills up the diary? A day ago, since when the questions have been lounging in the back of my mind, I had this fleeting vision of three layers of existence that I may interact through with reality (at least as I perceive it): the Outermost layer, which is composed of all sorts of spontaneous activities that I must perform, do perform, with any or little reflection; the Middle layer, which is composed of elements such as honesty, reliability and punctuality, amongst others – those entities whose evaluation for the sake of the self involves a comparison against past precedents (or, those entities that exhibit hysteresis by way of being 'path-dependent'); the Innermost layer, which constitutes (and is not composed of) the basal emotions such as joy, sorrow, anger, jealousy, etc. – those emotions that are directly influenced by variations in the quantity and quality of the spontaneous activities.
Why then don't I place these emotions in the Middle layer? Because the constituents of the Middle layer influence my immediate responses to the spontaneous activities; it is the case of an extended cause-effect linkage. Just as in thermodynamics, where there are mass-dependent (extrinsic) and mass-independent (intrinsic) properties, in this structure of the psyche, there is the segregation of response-inducers (RIs) into low performance-dependency (LPD) responses and high performance-dependency (HPD) responses. The LPD responses are actuated by our "sense of the self" in the Middle layer and the HPD responses are actuated by our "sense of the self" in the Innermost layer.
The LPD responses that contribute greatly to the formation of my long-term goals are less easily influenced by day-to-day activities (likewise for HPD) and their subjugation in favour of the HPD responses has kept me happy, etc., on a day-to-day basis but has taken me nowhere I want to be in the longer run. Further (?!), I need to be reliable unto myself first, punctual unto myself first, honest unto myself first, and so forth.
And, to answer the question first asked, this blog (transcripted), I hope, remains both immanent to each layer and transcendental.
Last night, I had a weird set of emotions flowing through me - weird only because they were new, not because I thought they were wrong. First, I shared with T???? the short passage I'd written with 83 Ms. Perhaps it was me hoping to strongly that she would remark (directly) upon how it compared to V's monologue from the movie 'V for Vendetta'. Now that I think about it, T???? may have only been the usual inappropriately-unpredictable bitch she usually is, but I don't care: her response drove me wild. I hope it stays that way, too.
I don't know if I look like a merry-go-round on legs to some people, but I've had it. Some people are not worth it irrespective of how much I might need them. Be it M?, P????? and A????? for what they know about me, be it T???? for whatever I may have needed her for, be it anyone: I've realized that I've been a top-order fool to let myself be cowed down by my need to please others. More than the realization, more than the decision to "turn over a new leaf", what's important is that I continue to understand why it's important to feel that way, to live that way.
Second kind
That, in turn, prompts me to think how honest I've been with my diary, how honest I will be. I who write this diary – is that "I" different from I who embrace the reality, the interpretations of the interactions with which fills up the diary? A day ago, since when the questions have been lounging in the back of my mind, I had this fleeting vision of three layers of existence that I may interact through with reality (at least as I perceive it): the Outermost layer, which is composed of all sorts of spontaneous activities that I must perform, do perform, with any or little reflection; the Middle layer, which is composed of elements such as honesty, reliability and punctuality, amongst others – those entities whose evaluation for the sake of the self involves a comparison against past precedents (or, those entities that exhibit hysteresis by way of being 'path-dependent'); the Innermost layer, which constitutes (and is not composed of) the basal emotions such as joy, sorrow, anger, jealousy, etc. – those emotions that are directly influenced by variations in the quantity and quality of the spontaneous activities.
Why then don't I place these emotions in the Middle layer? Because the constituents of the Middle layer influence my immediate responses to the spontaneous activities; it is the case of an extended cause-effect linkage. Just as in thermodynamics, where there are mass-dependent (extrinsic) and mass-independent (intrinsic) properties, in this structure of the psyche, there is the segregation of response-inducers (RIs) into low performance-dependency (LPD) responses and high performance-dependency (HPD) responses. The LPD responses are actuated by our "sense of the self" in the Middle layer and the HPD responses are actuated by our "sense of the self" in the Innermost layer.
The LPD responses that contribute greatly to the formation of my long-term goals are less easily influenced by day-to-day activities (likewise for HPD) and their subjugation in favour of the HPD responses has kept me happy, etc., on a day-to-day basis but has taken me nowhere I want to be in the longer run. Further (?!), I need to be reliable unto myself first, punctual unto myself first, honest unto myself first, and so forth.
And, to answer the question first asked, this blog (transcripted), I hope, remains both immanent to each layer and transcendental.
A reevaluation of (two kinds of) relationships
First kind
Last night, I had a weird set of emotions flowing through me - weird only because they were new, not because I thought they were wrong. First, I shared with T???? the short passage I'd written with 83 Ms. Perhaps it was me hoping to strongly that she would remark (directly) upon how it compared to V's monologue from the movie 'V for Vendetta'. Now that I think about it, T???? may have only been the usual inappropriately-unpredictable bitch she usually is, but I don't care: her response drove me wild. I hope it stays that way, too.
I don't know if I look like a merry-go-round on legs to some people, but I've had it. Some people are not worth it irrespective of how much I might need them. Be it M?, P????? and A????? for what they know about me, be it T???? for whatever I may have needed her for, be it anyone: I've realized that I've been a top-order fool to let myself be cowed down by my need to please others. More than the realization, more than the decision to "turn over a new leaf", what's important is that I continue to understand why it's important to feel that way, to live that way.
Second kind
That, in turn, prompts me to think how honest I've been with my diary, how honest I will be. I who write this diary – is that "I" different from I who embrace the reality, the interpretations of the interactions with which fills up the diary? A day ago, since when the questions have been lounging in the back of my mind, I had this fleeting vision of three layers of existence that I may interact through with reality (at least as I perceive it): the Outermost layer, which is composed of all sorts of spontaneous activities that I must perform, do perform, with any or little reflection; the Middle layer, which is composed of elements such as honesty, reliability and punctuality, amongst others – those entities whose evaluation for the sake of the self involves a comparison against past precedents (or, those entities that exhibit hysteresis by way of being 'path-dependent'); the Innermost layer, which constitutes (and is not composed of) the basal emotions such as joy, sorrow, anger, jealousy, etc. – those emotions that are directly influenced by variations in the quantity and quality of the spontaneous activities.
Why then don't I place these emotions in the Middle layer? Because the constituents of the Middle layer influence my immediate responses to the spontaneous activities; it is the case of an extended cause-effect linkage. Just as in thermodynamics, where there are mass-dependent (extrinsic) and mass-independent (intrinsic) properties, in this structure of the psyche, there is the segregation of response-inducers (RIs) into low performance-dependency (LPD) responses and high performance-dependency (HPD) responses. The LPD responses are actuated by our "sense of the self" in the Middle layer and the HPD responses are actuated by our "sense of the self" in the Innermost layer.
The LPD responses that contribute greatly to the formation of my long-term goals are less easily influenced by day-to-day activities (likewise for HPD) and their subjugation in favour of the HPD responses has kept me happy, etc., on a day-to-day basis but has taken me nowhere I want to be in the longer run. Further (?!), I need to be reliable unto myself first, punctual unto myself first, honest unto myself first, and so forth.
And, to answer the question first asked, this blog (transcripted), I hope, remains both immanent to each layer and transcendental.
Last night, I had a weird set of emotions flowing through me - weird only because they were new, not because I thought they were wrong. First, I shared with T???? the short passage I'd written with 83 Ms. Perhaps it was me hoping to strongly that she would remark (directly) upon how it compared to V's monologue from the movie 'V for Vendetta'. Now that I think about it, T???? may have only been the usual inappropriately-unpredictable bitch she usually is, but I don't care: her response drove me wild. I hope it stays that way, too.
I don't know if I look like a merry-go-round on legs to some people, but I've had it. Some people are not worth it irrespective of how much I might need them. Be it M?, P????? and A????? for what they know about me, be it T???? for whatever I may have needed her for, be it anyone: I've realized that I've been a top-order fool to let myself be cowed down by my need to please others. More than the realization, more than the decision to "turn over a new leaf", what's important is that I continue to understand why it's important to feel that way, to live that way.
Second kind
That, in turn, prompts me to think how honest I've been with my diary, how honest I will be. I who write this diary – is that "I" different from I who embrace the reality, the interpretations of the interactions with which fills up the diary? A day ago, since when the questions have been lounging in the back of my mind, I had this fleeting vision of three layers of existence that I may interact through with reality (at least as I perceive it): the Outermost layer, which is composed of all sorts of spontaneous activities that I must perform, do perform, with any or little reflection; the Middle layer, which is composed of elements such as honesty, reliability and punctuality, amongst others – those entities whose evaluation for the sake of the self involves a comparison against past precedents (or, those entities that exhibit hysteresis by way of being 'path-dependent'); the Innermost layer, which constitutes (and is not composed of) the basal emotions such as joy, sorrow, anger, jealousy, etc. – those emotions that are directly influenced by variations in the quantity and quality of the spontaneous activities.
Why then don't I place these emotions in the Middle layer? Because the constituents of the Middle layer influence my immediate responses to the spontaneous activities; it is the case of an extended cause-effect linkage. Just as in thermodynamics, where there are mass-dependent (extrinsic) and mass-independent (intrinsic) properties, in this structure of the psyche, there is the segregation of response-inducers (RIs) into low performance-dependency (LPD) responses and high performance-dependency (HPD) responses. The LPD responses are actuated by our "sense of the self" in the Middle layer and the HPD responses are actuated by our "sense of the self" in the Innermost layer.
The LPD responses that contribute greatly to the formation of my long-term goals are less easily influenced by day-to-day activities (likewise for HPD) and their subjugation in favour of the HPD responses has kept me happy, etc., on a day-to-day basis but has taken me nowhere I want to be in the longer run. Further (?!), I need to be reliable unto myself first, punctual unto myself first, honest unto myself first, and so forth.
And, to answer the question first asked, this blog (transcripted), I hope, remains both immanent to each layer and transcendental.
Monday, 11 April 2011
Do You?
The guidance is outside
You just have to say it so
It's been years
Will you still deny it, no no
Love will die and love will go
You'll still remain then
Squeeze it into your eyes
You'll still feel then
When you saw this weakness in the skies
Thought that was you, that you'd fly
Now you know that isn't true
All your dreamings rally on for you
Seen some years
Been those years when your words came true
But everything I feel's just a clue
I feel you've already been there
Not what it means to be here
The only difference is what
Might be is now and that much freer
Well you know their faces are clear
The windows are wide open
That you're staring wide-eyed from
It's always better at home
That's why we work a bit and some
We need the money to come and come
I'm so drunk i don't care if
You killed me right now
C'mon you're alive
Now you'll know it's true and how
All the songs under a violin bow
Are never for real
It's always better a holiday
So much better a holiday
So much better that way, oh!
You're gonna make somebody love you
Well do ya, do ya do ya wanna
Wanna wanna go
Where I've never met you before?
Do ya wanna wanna go
Where you've never never seen you before?
Do you?
You just have to say it so
It's been years
Will you still deny it, no no
Love will die and love will go
You'll still remain then
Squeeze it into your eyes
You'll still feel then
When you saw this weakness in the skies
Thought that was you, that you'd fly
Now you know that isn't true
All your dreamings rally on for you
Seen some years
Been those years when your words came true
But everything I feel's just a clue
I feel you've already been there
Not what it means to be here
The only difference is what
Might be is now and that much freer
Well you know their faces are clear
The windows are wide open
That you're staring wide-eyed from
It's always better at home
That's why we work a bit and some
We need the money to come and come
I'm so drunk i don't care if
You killed me right now
C'mon you're alive
Now you'll know it's true and how
All the songs under a violin bow
Are never for real
It's always better a holiday
So much better a holiday
So much better that way, oh!
You're gonna make somebody love you
Well do ya, do ya do ya wanna
Wanna wanna go
Where I've never met you before?
Do ya wanna wanna go
Where you've never never seen you before?
Do you?
Saturday, 5 March 2011
Ode To An Ex
Found in an old chat log.
--
I'm always wrong and you're always right,
When I come looking you're out of sight!
I could be done with your rapidfire crap,
But I'm only waiting for the jaws of the trap!
When you talk so much you fucking blink
Like a skunk let loose a quick fucking stink.
You think you're a smart and pretty lass but
Your birdbrain's buried in yo ex's horny ass.
Throwing pillows like you're a cute little girl
Show babydoll your bra and she's gonna hurl
We're waiting to yell when you walk down that street
Reply beetch! Reply beetch!
--
I'm always wrong and you're always right,
When I come looking you're out of sight!
I could be done with your rapidfire crap,
But I'm only waiting for the jaws of the trap!
When you talk so much you fucking blink
Like a skunk let loose a quick fucking stink.
You think you're a smart and pretty lass but
Your birdbrain's buried in yo ex's horny ass.
Throwing pillows like you're a cute little girl
Show babydoll your bra and she's gonna hurl
We're waiting to yell when you walk down that street
Reply beetch! Reply beetch!
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