Extraordinaire! (?)

Beauty is relative. Beauty is absolute. It hallucinates playfully in the cerebral recesses of the beholder and languishes in the sanguine synaptic ahA!s of the critics.

Human attention however is that one critical cognitive concept that remains unadulterated since the dawn of sapience. It is always drawn in by willful or accidental differences to the boring norm. The tiger who wants to play with your jugulars, the priest offering eternal salvation, death metal, the legendary dragon who wants to eat your face, the faux pas exposes of the legerdemain of public heroes...the seemingly clever French literary foreign bodies... all draw in and retain  our focus as long as they are novel according to recognized intellectuals or cool according to the wanabee punks of the world.

The trigger for this post is this thought holler of  Salman Rushdie's

http://www.nytimes.com/2013/04/28/opinion/sunday/whither-moral-courage.html?pagewanted=all

I know he wrote the Satanic verses. No I haven't read it. No I do not approve of the Stygian title. Yes I am willing to reserve judgement till I read it.

I am pretty sure there is an evolutionary reason for this (the why's and how's of paras 1 and 2). Further cyber mumbling pending research. To establish suggestive verisimilitude, I shall also have to dig up pertinent examples from this quarter of millennium. Will this comprehensive incompleteness stop me from posting this title on the social network? I don't think so. This is, I think a corollary of the basic premise of para 2 when applied to an individual universe. More research on this required as well...

Daeonlun Sunshield

Under construction.

Love was blue, and vile was black
Roses turned red, when silences calk
With souls sold, this tale was wrought
Mercy bled when justice was bought

Patterns of light fought shades of suns
Peace and hate, the battle worn sons
Karmic balance, lousy beauty bright
Dragons wept as angels turned wight

The StarSmith Song

Again this is not an atheist stunt, language has severe limitations, mind has very few, so some words considered by tradition to be associated with the divine, are used here in purely pagan Greek Olympus constructs. Please exercise imagination and an (absolute) lack of sheer solemnity.

I know you've got a soul of fire
Stars seek you now deathly dire
Dragons yearn for your lovely love
Lustily perhaps from purgatory above


Now run my love, run for the dark
Void lives in the lovely deep dark
Sweet light has promised again to find
Humming truths to the sinfully blind


Proud light once again is born
From darkness and despair duly torn
Grit and soul mock errant bliss
Wily children taunting undue duress

Valour loved hope in lost ages past
Cheating fate, tricking prophetic past
Quiet din will now find you again
Blasting saints from heavens vain

Spoilt child, vain childSin born from love so wild
Mighty powers now rage sublime
Mystery born of scheming time


Chords of loss, strains of love
Soul's music wrought above
Purpose born of light's will
Born not for the dark to kill

Moo.. haw! BAT!?

There is something deeply wrong in the social network, people take everything posted on facebook as a personal statement. Its hilarious given the random nature of the posts, from instant do it yourself CPR techniques to beautiful landscapes marred by cliche snippets of deep, really deep worldy wisdom.

Wrote this disaster of a rhyming widget when I ODed on some piano tracks featuring lost love. Had to get all that despondent yearning out of my system. Even put a hash tagged disclaimer at the end, to prevent viscous mislead, with some self deprecatory humour. Did not work.

Got strange reactions, people messaging me to ask if i had a breakup, and friends stoning unrelated stupid nonsense posting of mine the next day (okay it was a picture of Illeanas' what can I do? i fell in love with her since Barfi! It should be karmically illegal to have such huge doe eyes, it looks okay on bambi, it plays havoc with common sense (mine) when humans display such doey prerogatives), positively lambasting my reason for existence, which usually goes unpunished all the time; whining that it is unbecoming with all the other posting i have done in the recent past. 

Cannot people write nonsense just for the heck of it anymore?

When foul rhyme seeks pristine disdain
And cadence fey finds sanity vain
As the light splits, and true colours are born

So my love for you, from chaos will be torn

When I learn to simply rhyme my love

Thru rain and shine, on weedy thyme my love

Ballads will I write thee you whore

Sonnets to death you, will I so bore

Sinful dreams abound in me mind

Your ooo la la lovely swaying behind

A golden sun born near me lungs

Living rhythms climb heavenly rungs

Beauty claims and then lets all, all go

Beauty's darling love child now let me go?

My love,did I just call you a whore?
Lofty dismay loves rhyme sickenin sour

Long days I loved the simple deep dark

Flinging truth from heaven's ornate rooftops

Poisoning time letting the pedants bark

Wanting Lilies, loving Roses among many many bottle pops

Quiet noise loved my rhythm then

Blistering lovely truth rained on fools when

I am happy now, as only wise men can be

For i've learnt to groove like bumble fuckin bee

#This May be continued if suck prevails

This rhyme is so not a love fail

We rhyme simply for rhyme's sake

Deep in mind when wily boredoms bake

Again not an atheist stunt. Divine terms must be thought of in pagan constructs. You just do NOT mess with the metaphysical!

No Rhyme, Less Reason

Celebrating the ever changing name of my blog (something that I like to think is judiciously governed by my sense of lesser lameness among several evils mental chi component), and
the so many things in this world I have no flaming idea about, this is the the story of the wise man from fey.
Fey, the only land where nonsense makes sense, was his home since time immemorial. Which is a very long time, He got bored and decided to leave, seeking truth, beauty and awesomeness.

The wise man we are speaking of was a manic depressive who set out to see all the beauty this universe had to offer. He packed his bags, was ready to go, stepped out, stretched. He looked to the skies in polite wonderment of the ubiquitous cosmic ponder "What is life?" You see he had a habit of thinking no end of himself, he also had a compulsion of thinking no end of many things, of all things. The story halts at a point he realizes he is a blithering idiot. He is left promising undying loathing on his stupid alter egos

This is also the story of glorious gollum reborn bound to muggle earth (parallel world to middle earth) to finally seek his long over due vindication. Because if you think about it, he failed at a test, that High Kings failed to stand against, and still lived a horrible life for more than half a millenia. Even Frodo failed that test of overcoming the lure of the ring, it was Gollum's mindless intervention at the end that saved middle earth. Technically. And Frodo gets to party with the elfin ladies forevermore, Saurons dandy with Shelob. muggle earth is a place where karma is now on Ismagol's side.

The Wise Man from Fey(faeuh'h)

Mercy whipped by powers true
Whipped to pieces he gathers rue
Enslaved soul now weeps anew
An angel in disgust from the heavens flew

Bound by time and karma twice
Bound thrice with great avarice
Dark light creeps out again
This tale with intrigue shall rain

Bleugh, blah, bleh , boo, meh
Cried the wise man also from fey (h)
Deep light and mystery afire
Choked his veins and smothered his ire

Quiet noise and deafening silence
Smiled askance when in his mind
With a stoic heart and simple truculence
He set about kicking everyone's behind

"Verily I say this unto thee,
Great vengeance will I visit upon ye,
With cannons, hisses and a big bee
Till all Vendettas go wee hi hee

Sinfully ludicrous are these my crimes
The passing wind, mere blimp in times
Stand now fool and embrace my ire
Set the dogs onme? I ll set them on fire"

Sinners kicked him back to life
Pain weds strength, beauty loves strife
""You don't know whats good for you
You think a lot, but you DON'T,do you?""

There's a darkness living under my hair
Humming gangnam style in MY lair
I am the boy who ate the sun
You should now in all haste RUN!


Pretty lights you can dance in me mind
Through sinful days and beatific nights
Twisted thoughts me soul they wind
Blue wraiths war vermilion wights

When night falls and fell deeds awake
When stars die and the seas take sick
Your puny behind, on a merry fire I'll bake
With gunfire, brimstone and a big big stick

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.