Fuzzy Thinkin'...

I usually breathe a binary life. Reckoning quarters in my pocket. Shield myself from the bullet of thoughts. I grip my pillow tight with cotton smile, while dreaming. Tomorrow will be something brand new, there won’t be any scratch in god’s great banana skin.Tomorrow might be a day or infinity for me.

I was mesmerized by a scene in “Invasions barbares”. The protagonist before achieving the euthanasia holds the hand of the girl (who was poisoning him heroin) and mentions her as his guardian angel.

There is a big hiatus between zero and one in binary system, all are so blatant fuzzy.
Perhaps, I too need a guardian angel.

Inspired

So she took off her love and affectionately spread over the terrace. Hoping, a scorching heat will give them a meaning and a tinge of hope. He started singing Dylan’s “It’s all over now baby blue” and read the emails for the last time before purging. There were few symbols, signs, her cascades, faint perfumes, snail mails, cavities lying beneath his obligatory heart which should be punished and dethrone, might be burned in the midnight. He hates gadgets because they surmise and create fantasies before him. He banished the mindless jingles, the frothing jargons, never-ending tailmails,the restless nights, the daytime pageants, umbrella tree for her meditation, text messages, sailing while holding hands, countless contemplation and unborn children . Calling cards are also deported.

Memory should be erased which embedded as the fingerprint, concrete.
Will rise and vaporize one day?

To whom are you lying, Mr. Misnomer?

Wish I was here

I was moonstruck.
I was sitting beside my balcony and peeling mangoes and watching distant rain drops.
I was smug; infancy caught me between my two legs.
And then the albatross came and took off with everything possible.
She caught the crickets, tear them apart and sounded a “phew”.
I jumped into the fountain to be forgiven,

Hopefully after “bisorjon” there’s always a homecoming voyage…

Way back home

Long back, it was summer of ’97. Way back home. Reaping and repairing myself in the train journey.

***********1***************
Untidy scolding of this train
The boulevard from Tamralipta to Patoliputra
A lazarus pakhi sitting on telegraph wire
Needs water?
Actually going home in a twisting turning way...

***********2*************
Sometime amazed yet a discover
Heard the laughing of a cascade
Like she spreads her hair down..
An umbrella tree stands alone distant
Sunny day?

***********3*****************
This is a spellbound ask for living.
Demagogue fossils..
Playing hide and seek
Me and the king...
Silently she walks down...though I don’t miss her steps..

**********4*****************
Turning trees and trunks
Can’t figure out in today’s rain..
Drop of water tinged by the wing of the bird
On the window bar...drops..droplets
You might call this as love…

********5****************
A time of self dependency
Drained food..stores unlimited
A boy is going home..from school..strollin lazily..
King laughing in slumber..me laughing on him.

***********6*************
A fresh new soul
Fistful of smile in the black chin of sky..
Harvesting the seeds in cloud number nine..
My planet..my earth..way back home.

Swadhinota

I frittered today (as almost every other day, no wonder) in the lab toying with my notebook and some crappy shortest path algorithm for a tree (who knows which is which….), back home it was the glorified independence day.

One more holiday, “if Bengali, then mutton in lunch”, simian activities by game show hosts aka politicians, Roja on TV (most probably Swadesh this time, surmising), finding never land in dreams, tricolor cakes in five stars.

One entire year of famine, flood, food dearth, screwed up evacuation planning, vote stockpiling, more corruption, bribery, parties, pretending we don’t see anything attitude, hence more corruption ....

Personally, I am an epitome of irrationalism and insensibility. I don’t have any nationalist slogan for my country, yet I carry a tri-color in my bag. I don’t vouch for a hiatus in the brain-drain game, yet I feel something uneasy with “yeh jo desh hai tera”. The signature music of “Chariots of Fire” forever takes me to the impulsive homesick trip to “Mera Bharat Mahan” commercial.

Imitating myself, life is a fuzzy business.

Nothin's gonna change my world

Sounds of laughter
shades of earth are ringing through my open views
inciting and inviting me
limitless undying love
which shines around me like a million suns, it calls me on and on
across the universe...
~Lennon

waiting for the summer rain

Once upon a time, she was starving for him.
Well now, she has found ten thousand spoons instead the knife.

He was even hungrier.
In his delirium, he ties a thread round the tree to see the end.

The elaborated sketches, cloud number nine, magic wands,weird scenes inside the goldmine and insane dreams are unbound and free falling from infinity.

Symphony..for destruction

I let the melody shine
let it cleanse my mind
I feel free now.

But the airwaves are clean and there's nobody singing to me now.

~the Verve

Co-

So I took my life and tried to gaze a while. Going by the roads, boulevards, highway, malls. Saw a black crow whirling beside the exit sign. Mumbled a Bengali slang without reasons adjacent the yield. A school of BMW, Porsche, Mustang joined the ark tonight. Facelifts of the world population curved into the Chinese, Japanese, Koreans, Whites and Afro-‘mericans. Listening to “dyakho manoshi” of fossils and one blonde flew away in her convertible just now.

Too much ozone in the air, confine your obligations.

And yes, I like Dr. Pepper too.

Is n Was

He was comfortably numb in the wings of insanity and was building a cobweb cloud in his mind. Lost in the tunnel vision and doldrums of thin ice walk he was rubbing the words once shared with greatest precision and fervor.

What happened to the passwords formerly shared and cared?
What happened to the promised land on dark side of the moon?
Does the doorbell currently bear the same signature melody?
Iff the mobile still rings, does it show the name of his or mere a numeral?

Who locked the door by the way?

Little Wing

Well she’s walking through the clouds
With a circus mind that’s running round
Butterflies and zebras
And moonbeams and fairy tales
That’s all she ever thinks about
Riding with the wind....

~Jimi Hendrix

Someday

A decade ago, we were captivated by Suman Chatterjee’s songs of passions, nostalgia, whimsy and sadness. This is a callous and ruthless translation of one of his urban blues “Ek ekta din”.

Someday is effortless stuff
Like a springy cotton bed
From dawn till dusky night

Someday is too uneven
An absconding soul is following
Knock on the back gate, frozen bite

Someday a tempest comes
Holocaust swallows the sun
Clogged aviary sees a birds fight

Someday is ideal accounting
Pocketful of kryptonite
Still some bucks to lend

Someday everything out of order
Wondering shady cloud and rains
Thunder stroke similar to a letter of Che

Closed aviary listening a fight
Someday is colorful..awful
mimicing lips of you & the reddish flag

Someday is incubus
Black and white
A pale morning comes

Someday is coloring palette
Things are uncertain in thunder

Trapped bird with gallant wings
Sounds...
An obligatory storm is asked
Speaks...Dreams..Speaks...;

Till When...

Mr. X is very distressed today and for all tomorrows.
Where are his crusaders hiding?
Why the angels are not bothered…

And all I really want is some justice.....

Enough about me, let's talk about you for a minute
Enough about you, let's talk about life for a while

~Alanis

when the music's over...

Mr. X hopes to be a word man in the residual part of his life. He desires to scream as in Edward Munch’s drawing, he wants to lament for once, or for the eternity to be finished in the next reel.

No point in brood over for a phone call, or not a phone call. Both are deceitful happily in a ground zero status quo. No point in exchanging any words, a kite, or a gift of wings.

The flames are all long gone.

But the pain lingers on……

Mr. X is breaking the habits tonight; he might convince himself in learning the sacred language of birds.

void

You won’t eat me my love
Duskiness will entangle me
The passerby, a tick tock clock whirls twelve
A hypnotized generation, a nicotine frame
The castrated king counting coins
Will kill my spirit

Or else a nocturnal dine
The dry moon in its last lap
Falls over tongue of felony
An outlawed butterfly is chirping in my last breath

Will you eat me my love?

division bell

Mr. X sometimes asks himself, was all these necessary? He takes a halt seeing his face in the mirror, is there something could have been done? In his deep slumber sometimes he is sleep walking back again on the eggshell, to find the origin of the crack.

Time betrays everything; time is the menace, time is core of all the nuisances. Is the world irreversible? Why time sometimes takes the anti-clockwise path to dig more holes in memory?

As time progresses, the ground shrinks. Now there is a petite place left between them to exchange words, may be it is mere hi and hello or just a wink of an eye.

The world is black, the motion is too bleak and Mr. X is tattooed permanently.

Floyd n Me

It was only two days back; I was watching the Live8 extravaganza, the London episode and was surfing between channels. Auspiciously by the grace of mother earth I came to the VH1 channel (who was broadcasting the Live8 show) in the time of performance of Floyd! Being a Floydian (snatched the term from my pal Indranil, who also swear by Roger Waters each day and night) I could not believe myself seeing Waters and Gilmour both on the stage for the cause of the Live8. I was stunned for a second, touched myself twice to believe into what I am seeing and Oh Boy! The two gods started singing “Wish You Were Here”, together; Gilmour sang the beginning (till “…smile from a vale”) and then Waters sang the rest. Both were playing two acoustic guitars, ‘course Gilmour played the sweet intro. Nick Mason and Richard Writes were in their common duties. The sacred song finished and then Waters started “ Hello Hello Hello…is there anybody in there “. Personally, I believe for myself “Comfortably Numb” is the most heard anthem for me, I must have heard it a zillion times, if not more…I can recall each chord, each keyboard parts, all progressions, drum parts or the classic two Gilmour solos( If I make the sound by mouth, I promise I wont miss a single note J). Both sang the song, Gilmour played the second lead( one of the best of all times) with his sheer timing and brilliance and I was mesmerized once, feeling the tears of myself when Waters cried “the child is grown the dream is gone” and then Gilmour enters the show…

My life is indebted to music, it was once more proved. I smiled after a lifetime.

In music I trust.
In Floyd I trust.

If you meet the Buddha...

The most important things that each man must learn no one else can teach him.
Once he accepts this disappointment, he will be able to stop depending on the therapist, the guru who turns out to be just another struggling human being.

~Sheldon B. Kopp

Letter of Che

Bard in a closed aviary....

Dreaming, beware.

One more Moe. ron

I discovered Moe. quite recently by the blessings of Yahoo launch. The track was Havah Negilah from their latest album Warts and all (volume 4). With deep regards to my perennial ignorance to good music, I was hooked by the song texture and the energy they have put into. Very soon I started collecting various albums of Moe. (Dither, Headset, L, No Doy, Tin cans and car tires, Warts and all etc.) and simply to put, I am blown away by Moe. It is not owing to my fondness towards the amulet Jam bands or I love lucid transcendent improvisations always. Moe. is definitely an amazing piece of band hailing from upstate NY, with deep roots in funk, progressive, jazz, ala Zappa style and of course these guys love jams. I read from various sources, that their fans (knows as Moe. rons, analogous to deadheads or phish-net or pirates) never understood why they are still not so big like Phish or Panic because they are easily much more talented. Well this fact is true with many aspects of life.

Wormwood is an exceptional studio-stage amalgam from Moe. The rhythm sections are recorded on the road, onto which they dressed the song with various labyrinths of effects, mixing and clear melodies. They borrowed assorted influences from different resources (Dead, Zappa, Allman brothers, Dan, Phish) but never reproduced the same though. This is very obvious in tracks like the title track (pucca psychedelic) or the track Okayalright (funky trips) or Shoot first (Latino movement) or Bullet (remember Mike’s song of Phish?) to name a few. The lyrical contribution is also to be considered in the album. Wonderful melodic guitar leads and interesting bass works follow almost all the tracks. The guitar solos in particular is the biggest asset why I am speaking so high of this album. The jams are more complicated and woven very meticulously than repetitive predictable chord progressions, which might be signature symbol of jam bands.

In my former post, once I had a comment on the paradox between studio offers and on the road shows from jam bands. Well, Moe. definitely proved me wrong. Expose to their music, you will feel the sheer depth in their creations which plasters the fragile periphery of studio albums and live albums of jam bands. Overall it is a great studio recommendation from a jam band.

Did I tell you, these guys are alumni of my school :) ?

Band - Moe.
Album - Wormwood (2003)

Surprise!Surprise!

Mr. X sometimes wonders about surprises in life. It might be a pristine existential analysis of finding the meaning and quantizing surprises in his life, or to find out truly is there any blissful surprise remaining or not. Sometimes, he is so sure about any surprise, that no surprise can surprise him anymore.

Well, she took a birthday wish as a surprise, as a result one more hypothesis added in Logotherapy.

Our existence cannot be invented anymore, but how can it be detected?

Being smart is good, being patient is better

"I can think. I can wait. I can fast."

"That's everything?"

"I believe, that's everything!"

"And what's the use of that? For example, the fasting-- what is it
good for?"

"It is very good, sir. When a person has nothing to eat, fasting is the
smartest thing he could do. When, for example, Siddhartha hadn't
learned to fast, he would have to accept any kind of service before this
day is up, whether it may be with you or wherever, because hunger would
force him to do so. But like this, Siddhartha can wait calmly, he knows
no impatience, he knows no emergency, for a long time he can allow
hunger to besiege him and can laugh about it. This, sir, is what
fasting is good for."

~ excerpt from Siddhartha (by Hermann Hesse)

Learning to Learn

Mr. X. is always wandering about the lustrous silk route of pragmatic survivals. The realistic Mr. Y is forever on an excursion. They had taken a snap together years back, may be while they were unborn. Mr. Y might come back tonight. Both will have banquet jointly. They will talk about Mr. X’s future plans, flying kites, seagulls etc. Sooner when Mr. X will realize the charisma of the rational Mr. Y in his life, it will be late.

In the end Mr. X will climb the ladder of pragmatism and will try to gulp the pill of practical life style borrowed from Mr. Y. Mr. Y will pump his bike and off he goes. Mr. X will snooze habitually and will speculate if she still shares the same dreams.

What a long strange trip it's been

Imitating Mr. Y, Mr. X is also in a voyage now. The road is too uneven, bumpy and jagged like anything. As all other expeditions in life, this is also destined to be a round-trip.

Mr. X wonders, will he be quite the same person after this circle of life?

Will he be anything but the same person after this round trip?

Off he goes...