On making stuff up

There is probably only a limited amount of art lying around. ONly a finite amount of beauty created during the beginning of all things. Nothing can beat on the graves of our everyday apathy to life and set our emotions a dancing like Beethoven's ode to joy, no song can make me feel as pointless as eye of the tiger, nothing will ever make me indulge as much in cognitive drift like Zimmer's Time (Inception OST.)

Among human destined roles, Ontological descriptors are probably the most unfortunate. The scribes, the crowd, the wayside peasant watching the army's march begin, Bilbo Baggins if by some chance he did not have a dragon in his tale (which justifies the Hobbit's literary existence by contributing a impuratus ex machina, failing which the tale could have begun by Frodo getting the ring as inheritance and a footnote explaining the events of the Hobbit) Those people condemned by destiny to be mere observers and not contributors. It really must suck for them.

So limited amount of art, and if a lot of it is already out, and if some forms of creativity is reactive of the only responsive type, as in it can create something only in answer to another challenging or intriguing piece of art, that makes plagiarism almost an inherent, tautological and sad certainty.

Then there are the amalgamation minds, who can only produce something different once they have truly studied lots of similar things. This might in some cases be a case of lack of skill, to bring to life that which is the minds true inspiration but trying to substitute with the known and the comfortable, and the metaphorical.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wuyQzvjXI70

Hubrees!

is what a really narcissistic harees                                                         cook would name his magna cum laude.

Hubrees is also an unimaginative, thoroughly lame play on http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hubris.

We will, for the purposes of this post's logical (and otherwise) constructs and their postulations, consider that Hubris is

That one trait (or a set of them , I really don't care) in a person, that he fucking glorifies in exercising, maybe it even defines him, but is an unforgivably obnoxious trait, thus according bearded bald men the right to classify it as something undesirable, which needs to be culled, in order to realize higher purpose(s).

It may be whatever he thinks he is really good at or what he thinks he absolutely and repeatedly deserves.


Perhaps deep in the apparently humiliating embers of our hubris, somewhere, lies our greatest strength; to temper it in truth, and douse in true humility, would be a task for a Zen monk brought up in ancient Greece, mentored later by the Late Steve Jobs. 

It is possible that for whatsoever peculiar particularity we might be potentially and repeatedly condemned, might, if done right, and in brazen conviction, may just lead to some sort of cosmic significance. We might just be born with one great strength and one great fault, both recursively linked deep in our beings, and covered with what we perceive as our hubris.

The quality and depth of posts is on a steady decline, but I am not sure I hadn't planned on drawing the blue prints of a crumbling edifice when I started this freudian blip (even if i say so myself) of a blog. (I love and loathe double negatives like these, depending on how full I am of bs at that point of time). The said decline might also be a result of the conscious tapering off of the rigorous rambling i used to engage in. I had a (laughable) delusion that, that was cool. Somehow.

Addictions are hard to kick, maybe because they are the love children of dopamine, ego and boredom. One simply does not kick kids, howmuchsoever loathsome. Even the ones born out of such unholy thresomes.

On Education, gurus and bullshit.

By killing the easy going guy in education planning...

In the beginning, when the processes intended to power human transcendence from ignorant derpish darkness to ignorant pedantic radiance, were first formulated, we erred, and we erred deeply...

When we first thought of bringing the light of knowledge to the apparently pig headed members of the tribe, by instituting the first bones of knowledge transfer, we put great store in the efficacy and moral uprightness of teachers. We ( conveniently ) chose to forget the twin ( consummately human ) virtues of ego and insecurity. We forgot that at the dawn of our middle aged lives ( the average age when some among us choose the profession of enlightenment also known as teaching ) we are all horribly patronizing bitches, more or less...

nota bena : above paragraph categorically absolves (almost  all) kindergarden and primary school teachers. I am convinced beyond all doubts that they are angels.

Publishing is perhaps the most critical and socially detrimental of all businesses. Only sound written work must ever be allowed to see the light of the day. Books are sacred, not media for anyone with enough spare time to collect his inferior thought processes and an insane supply of parchment and ink. We are a trashy species; we cannot afford to print and immortalize our crap (oops too late blogs were invented! ha you may not burn my crap)

So having successfully and incompletely disintegrated the problems at the heart of our educational system in the preceding paragraphs (you see don't you? bad teachers, bad books), this blog will now move on to "Why art, although rooted in hypocrisy (its sole genesiac soul being the human need for human approval ), probably holds the secret to human salvation."

This post is half baked at best (as all my other posts), might be edited and expanded ( refer aforementioned incomplete disintegration of basic premise ) without prior notice. Oh! do NOT hold your breath. Asphyxiation is the sole prerogative of drama queens / kings and smokers. Only we may die of the supreme-disdain-for-oxygen syndrome.

Castle Age

Suspension of disbelief is a literary forging mental technique, which I take to mean (because I am way too lazy to look it up and know what others think these three words used together in this fashion and context should mean) the writer of a fiction piece temporarily zapping out portions of his brain that react strongly to bullshit, and instead feeding their cognitive energies into areas responsible for daydreams, wishful thinking and creativity. These three mental faculties when used in conjunction, within a mental framework which seeks to use the written word to churn out yarns primarily featuring endless mutations of the writer's persona, form the seeding force for most original works of fiction.

As far as the Fantasy genre is concerned, this suspension  works best if bolstered by a countryside, which resembles, in looks and spirit,  a wedlock baby of the rolling hills of LOTR and the majestic, perennially morning mist adorned, mountains of Braveheart. The boom in-your-soul shades of kaleidoscopic green helps fuel the illusion. Now consider a Bentley in this scene. Looks right if its an episode of Top Gear, but feels fundamentally wrong if it is supposed to be the setting for a tale of love, hate, heroism and magic (the soul swelling, heart heartening and mind muddling type). For the latter you need horses (saddled and wild), towering men(just shy of six feet, I am from India; 5.11 constitutes towering here, you don't want them to be gangly. Also I believe this height is perfect for a sword sensei; not a big fan of greatswords and the chain-spikyball at end thing), glowing aura women (O.7 waist-hip ratio, with eyes that are ocean deep (if blue), raven sharp(if black), pathos rich and long lashed  (if grey), arcane suggestive (if green)  mandatory), elfin children and...Castles (also intended to include structures like forts, palaces,watchtowers etc.., ). The human element of struggle can be profoundly expressed in a world of thundering hooves, clashing sword shield combos, wise, grey bearded arcane masters, dragons, herald head hurling trebutchets and the like.

Pathos studded tales simply lack an elemental power in non Castle Age settings. Blood, sweat and tears are right at home in a universe where habitations, functional and ostentatious are made of dark oak, stone and glass.

Clinging to the past has nothing to do with this school of thought. This just is. Where there are dragons, lightsabres just dont cut it. (is it lightsa-bre or lightsa-ber here? Word editor says I am wrong. I think she's mistaken http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sabre).

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?