Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Third-person Internet Searchings of a Wandering Idiot

Why is it, he thought, that whenever a story unfolded from his fingers did it begin with something akin to: " --- happened." He thought, why do I always think of an action to begin my stories? Can it not be different, can I not make of my stories what Zeus made of the Chimaera?
Chimaera, she stood there- all that was and much that wasn't. Chimaera, the essence of feral bestiality, the indulgence of sin. Chimaera, that dark beast that seduces at night to devour in twilight.
"I moved on. Chimaera may promise depravities unknown, but the Kraken I prefer." So saying he brought up Alfred Lord Tennyson's Kraken.
"His ancient, dreamless, un-in-va-ded sleep," he intoned. "Do I detect an influence on Cthulhu mythos?"
So thinking, his thoughts turned to horror Lovecraftian. The ancient machine snarled at him, humming its quiet tunes. "The fan needs replacing," observed he. "This machine may be on its last legs, after all." As if to prove him wrong, the laptop swirled in almighty rage and summoned up the requisite webpage.
"Hmm. Reverse psychology works on machines too." Lovecraft, the master of his domain. Cthulhu reared from the ugly depths and in the mind of our unthinking author whispered those blasphemous words: "Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn." In his house at R'lyeh Cthulhu sleeps, waiting.
The aspect "Sleep" traversed the quagmire of his mind for something to connect with. It found Morpheus observing the young author.
"Ah, progress." Morpheus in his placid rage turned to our hero. "Finally you have sent ammunition my way! Let fingers falter and eyelids droop, let the sweet seduction of sleep swoop. Find your bed more pleasing to the eye, make your grave, and in it, lie."
Good advice, thought the author. But he had miles to go before he could even get out of his chair, and the laptop, slinky little slut she was, turned to him the eye of lasciviousness and beckoned him closer. "I pimp myself out to the internet. We are prostitutes," he observed, "in a world populated by neighbours who their neighbours know not, but who name someone half a continent away friend."
So saying he opened up Facebook. Sure enough, there were people in Europe, France, America, Java.. "Do I know you?" he asked, pointing at a likely candidate for his ire.
"I suppose not." He closed the laptop, and went for class.

Monday, November 21, 2011

Chaotica #2: The Unopened Bag

(Tripfest: The Chaotica series is about what I retrieve after tripping on.. whatever. Didn't get around to explaining that last time. Writing when stoned/drunk/droned is.. unique. This time, it's tharra, meat, and a few joints.)
The bag sat there like some offering from hell oh so resplendent in all its verdant glory. The thing about bags is how they turn out to be doorways to hell, if you've never picked up a stranger's bag then I suggest you don't.
But in the unlikely event that you do then don't stop halfway and open it all the way, let the contents spill out onto your bed and get it into your head that your invading someone else's world (which they don't know about, either) is not really going to affect the universe as a whole so get to it.
I opened the bag or tried to, and tired myself trying. The Problem lay in the heart of the matter that means a devil of avarice was floating not over my shoulder whispering sweet nothings from the ether. No, it was a pure motivation of kleptomania that blanketed the foggy depths of my mind.
Still the bag would not open despite my intentions to simply peek inside the doors of heavenly surprise. I wanted to peek so badly with all the fervour of love once lost and regained but the doors of paradise remained lost to me- me, whom Milton remembered- or was it the other way around? Paradise lost.
But a bag is not paradise in the same way cotton is not cheese or a deer is not a chair. The thing about deer, though, is the venison. I remember having some venison at a cheap little dhaba in a town near Pune and I remember the fleshy juiciness of the meat as I tore into that and sapped at its delectable sweetness while having to pour down some tharra with lemonade. Then the tharra hit me like then thousand fists of arcane fury ringing with all the solidarity of a single peal of the church bell I deign to visit on Sundays. The mysteries of life seem so petty and little to me then, who lay on a cot with hash in the hand, and since I always say hash in the hand is worth two in the tea, then all you want to do is sit down and smoke with me. The universe glittered at my eyes like a mean wench with a saucy stare, the kind that parts you with your money as wonderfully as the Joker parts Batman from his loved ones, or Hush goes ahead to perform a heart transplant on Selina Kyle and gets to say that he stole her heart in more ways than one.
Ah, Hush. Nowhere has a trickster emerged like him who can actually get past Batman on so many levels but then I digress since the bag is what began this post then I may make the most of the confusion my mind is engulfed in and thus try to make some coherent sense of my wrongdoings. I have mislead so many that my mind is more like James Frey's in his memoir A Million Little Pieces, but sorry James Frey; I may not have been the same kind of stoner you were but make no mistake I am in pretty bad shape right now since I must open the file in my Transcend HDD to see what the fucking name of your book was in the first place, and that brings me to my first and final original statement, that the bag wouldn't open.
That is a contradiction in terms since it did. The problem lay in searching for a zip when there was a flap and a flap when there was velcro, and velcro when all there actually was were simple laces tied together and inside that lay my treasure, and my pleasure, and my measure, and my pain, and my little store of rural hash that I needs must smoke with my beedis if I am to have any chance of missing my plane in the morning- so what happened to the unopened bag, that reliquary of relief, that potion of pleasure, my bag of bewilderment, but that it stayed in the corner looking innocent as ever and stared back at me with gimlet irises out of the eyelets that held its laces?
Oh nothing. It opened, like any other bag. Or did it, and my hash is still inside, unsmoked, unspent? Do I dare open its confines again for fear of knowing that I've already finished my store, or do I dare leave it around for less restrained visions to uncover?
While I confine myself to answering that question, I may take my five minutes of peace. I daresay I can find the button that allows me to save this post in the time being. It's not finished like the hair of a devadasi, who needs must grow it as befits her beauty.

Sunday, November 13, 2011

Chaotica Part 1

Yeah. Acid trips do this to you. A few quarters of scotch help a lot too.
Voulez vous?
'No, thank you. Do svidanya.' I rolled past the stairs, making sure to hit my head on the door, on the way out.
'Oi! Don't hit my door with your head- the poor thing's suffered enough.' So it has, so it has, sticks and stones can break my bones until I wake at a hospital door.
The day swam around me, and I watched the dragon make its way past on a cloud of perfumed smoke. Contrary to mythology it wasn't fire that burst out of its oysterpink maw, but a mist of rainbow devils. Horned they were in places not worth mentioning.
'Marduk, lordofthemorning. Awaken your hold and release your servant, I want to see the light.' Marduk, sleeping as he was chose not to hear me, and Morpheus grinned down at me from his cradle. The old god, older than justice, or lust, sneered at my pathetic attempt to veil his efforts.
But if we mortals don't try, then what is the point of pathetically saying that cogito ergo sum?
But bibo ergo sum is a different matter I cared to indulge my fantasies in. When the bottle resembles not the bottle but a scorpionstinger of mariachis whose guitars stay tuned for battle do you feel like thinking about the gravity of notdrinking. Notdrinking is the blessing of the working classes for then they will destroy themselves along with the institution that rears its ugly head out of the scourge of human disparity.
The darkling lust swept me off my feet and I felt my skin crawl as a snake whispered past on silent wings- no snakes have no wings, I say because feelest thou the tenderest grasp of a snakescale slither on your own flesh and you will know what I do not mean, or meant by the snakeswings. They talk of a feathered snake in fair Mexico city where the cubans have conquered and culturally imperialized but that word is incorrect yet fitting that pimps wander on the streets of Mexico offering only the taste of local cuisine like my wineglass Budhwar Peth where the dalal walks past on honeyed tones and offers you breakfast without buttered scones.
Could we think about dystopian worlds and words beyond all meaning without vomiting out a stream of stupidity that borders on ideology that I study in my arts and culture class every Monday, Wednesday and Friday? And sometimes on Saturday which I deign to miss. The future of mankind is no man's concern but God's.
Gods above and Gods below depending on which version of the bible you follow, I prefer the Satanic Bible.
To lose yourself in the glory of Satan's grasp is enthralling in so beautiful ways that beggar no description but rather demand it with every fibre of every gray cell in your brain.
It is the world of epicureanism where all exist for your pleasure and equally you for theirs but they still wonder at your independance for epicureanism lasts in every fibre of hell where all is indulgence and all is sin- damned are we to our endless nightmares and curvaceous figures of succubi lurking in the shadows with Naamah's red-tinged eyes in her kohl-painted face of many cultures as she dances to the harps of fallen greek heroes- Orpheus I would name but my uncertainty clouds my mind-
Dusts my rind-
Grinds my side-
Lights my hind
And I am left behind.
To totter in the dust the sweet dust of ages past, history preserved in every grain, like poets of the eons who seek for their mysterious tales but the silent listener you are.
Readers mine across the world, rejoice now in the light hurled that one cannot but his destiny avoid, (but if a bard then flick up a card and call out your song to the varied facets of my animus) so as to destroy that which can create, and can create the nautilloid.
The phantasms of Solomon danced across the horizons and thousands of djinn rise to his call, his call, his clarion, his horn, to do his bidding and break the earth.
And Ozymandias in his own ignorance- or his terrible knowledge and potent anger rises up to challenge both God and Man to defeat his creations- the sprawling deserts of ignoble torment that dare crossing and court death if you wish but I will relax in the shade of his grandeur and admire the man but am content to watch fools burn in the sun like vampires in the light.
But vampire bats burn not and they call human legends false.
Guns ignite the darkness like rays of hope and muzzle flashes blind you to the surrealism of the world, the whole of existance the unknown universe as I finally let my ears reach my mind to connect with the paucity of sound and they destroy me, vocimancers of lore, who in these days can be likened to the Green Hornet and his soundgun.
And I sit down, shadowmancer in my own right, of mine is the burden and the realm and the joy of nightfall and the beauty of twilight, of my indulgence is the light in the darkness of my soul and of my making is this blogroll.