Black Pearl

We became strangers so familiar,
We'd politely nod at each other.

Converastions

People are indeed very different. Here's how I found it.

If i were mistakenly stuck in a freezer. what would I do to keep myself alive?

K: Find a way out, call for help, break into the hinges, etc...

Capricorn Rook: Run to keep his body from freezing.

Oyster Seeker: Masturbate

Rand and Polarization

Amongst other things, man invented Religion, Time and War. Over time, to not have a clutter of Religions (and their subsequent gods) - man invented Cult Ideologies. 

Ideology - is usually a line of thought that a person or a group arrives at for themselves and the rest to admire or even apply.  In my opinion all ideas are born pure, they are birthed to fill a void, to improve hope and to spread knowledge. 

However, man is a being who uses only a sliver of his brain. Over Analysis has led to muted instincts. The result, as we view it, is excessivism and polarized thinking.   
Before I digress into oblivion, what triggered this post was a link:

http://www.partiallyexaminedlife.com/2010/03/17/randinetics-the-modern-science-of-permanent-adolescence

Reading this post was a déjà vu. [ Cut to final year college lit class. (I was silently listening to the scathing words of my HOD who felt my criticism of T.S.Eliot's essay 'tradition and individual talent', made me unfit as a student of literature.)] My contest then and now has remained unchanged. Rand needs rescue now, or maybe people who read Rand need to be rescued form its addiction.

In my opinion, every writer should be looked at from a certain mandatory stand point. The author's life, personal (family, ideology), medical, socio-political scene at the time of his life, the economic state of the country and the author, influences of other nations and literature on the author - all need to be taken into account. 
{For example, Eliot was deeply affected by his incapacities and was ridiculed in social circles for being an oddball that stressed on him to create a dreamy image of who he wanted to be.
Rand came from a very wealthy Russian household, with everything at her beck and call, she saw it being snatched away and the people for whom her mansion was made home for. Not in the least did she feel that either they or she had deserved any of this. She had then concluded that for each man to get what he desired, he had to device his own merit - every one else was unworthy of it.}

Irrespective of what we want to believe, everything around us affects us, impressions our minds - and it reflects in our behavior, our humor, our tastes and our expression. Writing is an expression. You could take a book as a stand alone testament of work/ art. But the author behind it will never be dead as long as the book survives, as long as its pages are turned, as long as it has found a space in the shelves, or is made into a PDF  or is plugged into someone's ears as an audio book. Negating the writer is foolhardiness. It may seem I advocate Autobiographical criticism, but then - when your vision broadens, you shall know the right thing to do.

The second and more grave a folly is being a disciple or boarding a hate brigade. Rand was a self-centered, to an extent self-deceptive too, she was a fierce protector of her ideology. Agreed - she saw the world was black and white. It was filled with creators and parasites. There was no other way out for her and she represented her ideas as her charcters in her novels. For Eddie Willers did not find a place in Atlantis. She has completely forgotten about his survival ... when he was neither a moocher nor a creator. He was the shade of gray that she could not comprehend. She has flaws, but at no point, she advocated inhuman, corporate cold capitalism - it is always Laissez faire. This is her book, she wrote it, becase she wanted to. She in no words forces you to read it.

It is a cardinal rule taught by none - never forget what you think when you read a book, or assess an author. Making gods out of people has only disillusioned the people and belittled the innovator. Read Rand as a person in a time with an innovative line of thought and end it there. If you feel that her 'knowledge and attitude' work for you - great, if they don't, still better.

We are all 'human', with human failings and human successes.... and all of that is worthless when we are not there.

Conversation

Wise Capitalist: You are jealous of me and my good life.
K: I don't want your life.
Wise Capitalist:  Then what do you want?
K: I just want everything that you have, just better, just more.

Fact

It is intriguing and funny, how when too many people believe in the same thing, it becomes a Reality.

When too many people say the same thing, it becomes a fact.

Fact

Once you have tasted pure Lust,
Love seems a burden too heavy.

K, the Gymnosophist

Why me? Yup, I too have often asked that question, in vain. When the honest part of my brain knows it's all been my making. It’s been almost more than a year that I have not earned a penny, not worked a day and have been waiting and making futile attempts in writing to magazines and newspapers to hire my unworthy typing services. The result:

~Am lazy as a lump.

~I sleep in the afternoon.

~Eating is my only exercise. I wake up, eat, watch TV, eat, sleep, surf the net, Facebook the world, eat, sleep. 
~I haven’t seen the sunrise at all!

~Every time I travel, I feel like a firang who is being taxied along with a swarm of smelly people.

~I can not anymore travel to three destinations in a day. One trip questions my age and my stamina.

~There are weeks at a go, that I do not cross the inner court yard to feel the uneven tar under my shoe.

~My shoes are biting me – for I have not worn them for over a year!

~My fuss quotient is unusually high.

~My skills are getting rusty, haven’t written in a while.

~I now seriously believe I am not good enough.

~I have become that fat mule, I thought I would.

~I am now the maid; cleaning, swabbing, rearranging my wardrobe. Folding and unfolding my clothes. 

~The easy way out seems to be: hunt for a rich husband, shopping, and filling my womb. (I can't even get myself to strike that deal!)

~Self deprecating humor is on a high. I often hear myself calling me a 'numb skull, goof ball, simpleton....

~I, now, do not want to be rescued by another 16 hour job. 

~My consciousness is becoming more hostile to every thing that is Alexandrian - every thing ambitious, every thing preposterous, every thing that demands labor from me. 

~I am with utmost persistent snail pace working on the path of the Gymnosophist. 

~My mind is becoming increasingly naked, my lard is oozing out of my clothes and I am mutely resistant to everything that I won't see myself doing another year from now!

~Somewhere (in some part of my haughty soul) I mock people for their desires, their clock-in clock-out  hours, their cyclical workaholic routines. 

~Somewhere I vicariously live in NY/ NJ, walk down Liverpool street in London, eat a smoked salmon, drink wines, guzzle beers, sing in the snow...

~I yearn to be what I want to be...

for that I have to be come who I really am. 

And that is fucking scary, for it will take a lot more effort that typing this out.

Love: a concoction of passion and pity

{an odd feeling rises in her when he messages. there is something between them, like bitter gourd soaked in honey. The hitch is, only in it's purest form can the gourd be relished. Ergo, she tortured him, with her brunt brass eyes, then her impudent passion, then the lack of it and then with her frozen soul. he had been full of love, love that would make butterflies feel safer, she was an echo less abyss.}

~ she does not want to hold him,
^ he does not want to be held.

^ he had called her a home-breaker, a mistress, a raw green chilly.
~ she had asked him to bugger off and go lick some sugar coated frostie.

~ she had missed his verse,
^ he had missed her, in every act.

^ he had called,
~ she had thwarted.

^ still love you, in spite of you
~ still do too, in my own way

^ maybe we shall cross our paths sometimes. I will see you then.
~ See you when our paths he cross. Not before, not after.

^ Guess somethings will never change. I do not miss you.
~ I know.

^ I know.


{he returned, repeatedly, sans ego. his liquid love could never fill her mind. her body was a thousand pores, every drop of love would be absorbed and then drained away. he had a lot of love to give, and he had wasted it all on her. his passion for her made him dark droll man, and she wasn't an inch wiser.}

- - the conversation was left there - well rounded. they thought of the past, the cursed present, and an hopeful future.

the maybes' in our life can hold us ransom, either by our throats or by a fragile sun beam.

'Cest la Vie'

This one was completely unexpected : then again, it rarely occurs to my nimble mind what is and is not living life....

 

ingredients : 1 ounce of meringue love, 3 table spoons of ground dark chocolate regret, 1/2 tea spoon of cornflour failure, 1 ounce of passion fruit (skinned and chopped), pinch of salt and dried angry chilly.

Pushkar Diaries - 6

It took K 12 years to quell her fear and get back on the giant wheel! And this time too, it halted, maybe just for a couple of minutes, but it did halt right at the top. What K saw was worth another swallow of fear - fading lights of town-life, an expanse of camels, horses and sand, infinite sand, kissing the horizon, humming the shrubbery to sleep.