The Horse in Shining Armour!

This post is about heroes and the death of the creative genius.

This is about how the "Weird" school of thought became a whore and how irony, situational and otherwise, was sold into slavery by the gloriously disdainful army of bloggers and their FB deep status cousins.

This is also about hypocrisy (mine) and about needless gravitas.

I have always found writing incomplete and obtuse thought out loud into a blog's receptive cyber pages extremely satisfying and strangely vindictive. It is therapeutic, all this virtual venting and whelps, each time, a delusional dopamine baby of a worthier self.

Truth is, it is hard to construct a complete and complex thought, harder to puke it out in the simplest of words. Its a love of the pathos rich panache. It is a fucking epidemic.

We were all (universal? yes. my blog, my truths) designed to be graceful creatures. After the feminine apple eating incident and the occasional misfiring of the species specific gift of mutation, we settled for lies and pretense; damning and avoiding the uncool, pretending all the time, insecurity growing by leaps and bound every generation. We then proceeded to wean entire nations on healthy dosages of elderly counsels on finding the inner worth; we were all brought up to constantly bitch! This post is a shining example.

A complete lack of substance is now the unconsciously accepted norm in non poor social constructs and circles. Children should be fucking expected to become rockstars from their nameday. Maybe the reverse psychology might just let the elemental but most widely subdued mental faculty of common sense to shine through.

But then how else do we communicate. We cannot afford to talk and think in the language of Shakespeare. No one ever did, except Shakespeare, even in his time. Verily I say unto you, mankind is doomed to lameness, surface deep thought, always has been. That is why, the apparently deep is so attractive.

We all have an inherent, self sustaining philosophical system, designed to arrive at conclusions and understandings of cosmic truth, from every little life experience. It is a process we glorify in. It was perhaps an integral requirement for the creation of a species with such an outstanding capacity for pathos. But we are also experts at kicking in truth's teeth, landing perennial low blows at the honest simplicity. The latter combines with the former revelations out-of-a-shoe box system and births an ignorant, short sighted and radiantly stupid school of thought.

Maybe Zevron is a seer, and he foresaw this, wrote a song on it and died.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dOkAU9gOm0w

Maybe I am an ace student of the aforementioned school of thought, reading  unnecessary  deep shit,  in a beautiful song...

Soul of Abstract!

Abstracting the abstractness!

Words, as instruments of the power of speech, were the pity of gods. For the outstanding absence of the capacity for a subtle disposition in the human race, puked them to disgust. Subtlety is a prerequisite for telepathy, which is infinite galaxies worth of cool(er) stuff than normal speech. But can you imagine the mental cacophony of mental voices it would always otherwise be in a thoughts only world, if the "speakers" were devoid of subtlety. So our species were gifted with the boon of speech and words, a direct consequence of which is our crassness which we often confuse with the misunderstood communication concept of being direct.

So we murder knowledge, repeatedly slaughter understanding and keep future generations in increasing amounts of pedantic darkness. Why else would we choose Latin - a dead language (as in nobody can any longer be bothered to speak it!), to name our fruits, vegetables, animals etc... The cool but direct vocabulary in invective is the only upside to the inferior gift of speech and words and a potential source of superior mental activity pointing in the general direction of salvation. For if we only ever had telepathy, we would only ever have thoughts and emotions and no words to cage them in. Thus caged, as these things are now in our minds, our emotions now successfully manage to convey frustration, hate and anger (occasionally love - as in fuck I am going to love the shit out of this little piece of shit) with a panache that a telepathic civilization wouldn't even have an inkling of.

If paper was not invented we might be now living in a world full of gifted - memory people (pedantic shit heads) and stone sculptor overlords.

So, given the emotion of thought that conceived them thus from divine minds, and therefore the inherent limitation of language / spoken out / written thought to convey comprehension, its no wonder that our minds devised the mental muscle of abstract thought, to understand and create the lord of templates. So that we might observe, experiment, understand and preserve the understanding for future generations.

One day as  the queen of weedy looking chaperon-es reigned all over mind,
I stumbled upon a way to abstract
the abstract concept or rather abstractness,
but cognitive drift is the hidden weapon for the cannabinoid lady
so as we speak, fly into the ether my mind, they wind
So the things understood they could retract
and my bastard brain, lost everything to distractedness

Oh yeah got it, just came back to me

Consider the miracle of babies learning to speak. Its more or a less a cognitive empirical out burst of unconsciously gleaned imagery and its hit and miss developed intuitive translations into understanding. So what we think we know is not built out of truth but just its various translations by our predecessors.

So now imagine that (to yours and your priests massive surprise) that some random probabilistic divine system has made you the Chosen One and one of your choices (For the preservation of simplicity (lol) lets assujme here its the very next choice you would make.) would decide the fate of your world. And the success rate of you making the right choice is directly proportional to the extent to which you can explain the centRAL precePT OF THIS BLOG TO your own brain; that once you completely understand all that you read upto this point, that understanding itself will provide all the answers to all the question asked herein and vindicate the notion behind this piece of writing.

If you made it this far congratulations and thank you for your patience. This post was a BITCH to write. Apologies, the original idea crashed and burned cos i missed the thought train that promised its corresponding enlightenment, so all that is there is a shadowy skeleton with the belly of the idea missing. Just a vague image in the deep, ignorant, rotten recesses of mind, will edit and repost when it comes back!

Little Lion Man!

Every piece of knowledge, I guess serves to act to create its corresponding intuitive component, intuition being the cognitive equivalent of the physical reflex mechanism, but the objective guiding this system's design is radically unique. The physical one is an immediate response system; the cognitive giant is a contributor to the souls pathos, helping man understand the fucking purpose of it all.


Strangely, I have, I think everyone does, but dunno that for sure, always tried to corrupt this process, as if i am comfortable blind.


Taste is that classy mental creative system that constantly seeks to develop ways to curb this corrupting process in the perception of new things and concepts or understanding existing ones.

Mumford and Sons  - Little Lion Man!

Weep for yourself, my man,
You'll never be what is in your heart
Weep Little Lion Man,
You're not as brave as you were at the start
Rate yourself and rake yourself,
Take all the courage you have left
Wasted on fixing all the problems 
That you made in your own head

But it was not your fault but mine
And it was your heart on the line
I really fucked it up this time
Didn't I, my dear?
Didn't I, my...

Tremble for yourself, my man,
You know that you have seen this all before
Tremble Little Lion Man,
You'll never settle any of your scores
Your grace is wasted in your face,
Your boldness stands alone among the wreck
Now learn from your mother or else spend your days Biting your own neck

But it was not your fault but mine
And it was your heart on the line
I really fucked it up this time
Didn't I, my dear? (x2)

Didn't I, my dear?

Ahhhhh......

But it was not your fault but mine
And it was your heart on the line
I really fucked it up this time
Didn't I, my dear? (x2)

Didn't I, my dear?

Chewing Cud.

Its hard to remain silent when inspiration strikes you. Harder to feign written coherence when she is accompanied by a weedy looking chaperon. This is truest when the inspiration that did strike with such tantalizing promises of distinction is of a highly ontological and therefore oxymoronic nature and more so if shes has among her shady admirers the great king of all wannabeees!


I am therefore I think and therefore I be. 


I Kid thee not!


While writing something of any value whatsoever, of paramount importance is the veracity of inspiration that drove home the seed which enabled the initial effort. But the soul of any piece is forged by the writer's thoughts, the quality of which is the piece's kiss of life!


If you however like to think recognition is over rated(!), by all means turn to blogging. Find in the rotten crevasses of a bloggers brain the key to human stupidity - bull shit entertainment.
The human mind never reaches full potential because it is soo bored so much of the time. Some brain cells just decide to call it a day!


All we need are challenging soaps, depressing sitcoms, and raunchy family dramas.




to be continued.

Ars WhatsNoticA!

Rhyme is capable of conveying meaning because its an application of meaningful repetition of sounds woven together discreetly to convey a meaning whole.
Our ancient penchant with rhyme stands testimony to our species's deep need to use the drums to inform the tribes members across the forests of impending dooms, urgent calls or simply that DINNERS READY!

 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ars_Poetica

This one does not rhyme at all, has a mutant for a scheme. Read at serious risk of getting revolted at its lack of rhyme scheme and the metaphorical disasters!

Listen to the roaring joy

Wean hearts from gloom

Hark! Their words, their doom

Lying women speak coy

Children of light

Of foot ,thought  and life light

Save us not this time 

For, last night death taught mime

Lazy men, brooding champions

Sinless hearts wrought with  effort

Glory treads on fields of carrion

On and on they marched to the fort

Of Castles dead are their songs

Of battles wed, are their tales

Blazing eyes and glowing tongs

When All they ever knew took sail

Long ago did the Westmen sail

Ghost and ghouls call their sin

Bawling babes left behind rail

Valiant champions flee the din

Gesundheit.

Stalwart species with stoic units. Hunters at night, grihastas by day. Fathers of kalaripayyttu, indirectly ensuring Boddhi Dharma's almost divinity and Jackie Chan's fortunes by their long dead in-the-forest capers.
Light of the east, lazy backwater navigators, inventors of the most laid back male loin cloth on the planet(the famous mundu). Kings, sages, warriors, fish curry experts...

It seems all that ancestral bravado was for naught! My stalwart lineage apparently also had a lot of apes, baboons, and bonobos in it, the coconut usage OCDs can finally be explained with this? Tall trees, fruits on top of tallness, arboreal competitive edge -> descendants eat, wear, adorn, lament, worship using coconuts in all.

Human grandeur is at best ephemeral, matters if it draws two things, feminine admiration(basic requirement for survival of any particular version / strain of species), and posterity. The former if backed with ample posteriors and dimpled smiles will almost always ensure the latter and  the original ambition is just a matter of time and application.

The fault lies with Socrates. Such a fucking cool name. Epitomizes gravitas, the bastard. Taught us all to think. I am just sincerely pissed off, because i just realized, there is not even a county for under dogs. You have to try, if you fail, it sucks. I am going to name my son Apollo and buy him a scooty, need to spite the Greeks, some how.

I shall build a house of cards, in a city of dominoes. I shall then laugh and caper around in my lawn as if there is no fucking tommorow. I shall do this one day before Armageddon is announced.

These would be the thoughts of a person, to whom evolution and hopelessness has just been mathematically proven plausible. I however, dont'buy evolution in its entirety. Some of it yes, not all of it(Redundancy). The advances in science constantly justify this angle of dubious faith and vindicate this shaky reasoning of mine. I believe in doubt, and hence must doubt all things. Quite easily done.

I am sick of science, loathe logic, find reason revolting; these rape life and existence of all potential meaning. Down with evolution _|_. The truth can make you blind with its searing, hope destroying edicts. Gesundheit McDonalds . Viva La wannabees. #DemonsOnTheLeftShoulder 


All this raving for no good reason


It was a hot day.


The heat does drive people mad.


# Redundancy , I am pretty sure is an evolutionary gimmick that clicked, because when hunters bedded gatherers there was no paper around and repetition was the only way to preserve knowledge, for those with inferior sources of cerebral food . See dont get mad at the people who state the obvious. Its a hangover from the times of their "fit as fiddle" ancestors who survived, fornicated and thus put in motion all the future creation of various permutations of themselves all with the inner calling to drive people looking for novelty or the simply impatient mad, mad oh so damn mad. But that is a story for another time and post.

Weird post titles are a bloggers salvation.

Gesundheit is the german equivalent of the benediction offered to people who sneeze. The great aortic pump supposedly stops for a moment when your common cold gets pissed off for being taken lightly and sends its heraldic minions through your nostrils to convert the pagans and damn the infidels. This stopping of aortic pump causes the needlessly cheerful folk to just LAY about with their blessings. The needlessly cheerful men need to be bred out of humanity. The times for deception is long past.

Handkerchiefs were thus wrought as the common colds textile formed nemeses. They used to keep the sinfully disdainful, people who derived maniacal pleasure in deeming the cold "common",  and asking the afflicted to come in for work the next day, regardless of the fact that all the Otolaryngological (of or belonging to ENT -head and neck, coined just now, please shut it!) floodgates are at NoahArkon 3, hale effin hearty.

Then it seduced evolution and birthed two virile Bonnie lasses, flu and pneumonia.

Gesundheit.

Disclaimer (Not for blogger posturing purposes, disclaimers are truly necessary sometimes) :

The facts, if any, in this post may be totally, absolutely, completely wrong. These errors may cause offense in some contexts. Please realize if so, its only because it was taken in the wrong context, and not in mine. I do NOT intend any offense whatsoever.

Except in cases where I am being bluntly direct about it.

Pot Candy!

Words that rhyme
Man's greatest crime
Cannabinoids now mime!
Rain, shine or thyme
And I sit and rhyme
Till the last noons chime.

Something written more out of joblessness than anything else! Doesn't have a general direction; the blues had struck, with despair rich vengeance. Enough to make sinfully pointless Mondays weep. Cheers!

A madness that awaits you

The truth that life baits two

Time's aphorisms these true

in silence we're doomed to rue

Just a pebble in the pond

Faithless fate enables beyond

For restless winds fearfully recreate

Awaiting death's final berate

Lost voices beyond the veil

                                                    Through endless twilights they wail

Listening to the silence profound

Watching reality slowly unwound

Endless furrows scour my mind

Fettered soul not one of a kind

Lustrous darkness once embraced

Withered will left forever crazed

Wanton rage seeks to win

 Wounded pride, its righteous rant

Fleeting light suffers this sin

The soft whispers, still they chant

Earnest desire and deathly pain

Hazy peals these, in me heart they ring

Listless thoughts then break this train

                                                         Forgotten grit in me soul sings

Praying for a deluge of light

For some days at least to shine truly bright

Beings of light thus battle spirits of ire

Mending endless follies they too tire

Sweet light born of wild hope

Souls of malice flee renewed hope

Redundant despair failing to impress

Waning strength thus taunts duress

Purpose born of a greater will

Born not for the dark to kill

Withered husk remembers lives persist

That endless nights are yet to exist

Cracks of dawn all the way

Gloom rules but for a day

 Deep down chaos may reign

As it was it shall be again

  

I apologize for the Oh-soooo-gloomy theme and the shifty rhyme scheme. The former happens on taking oneself way too seriously, the latter if you are not a poet.