Saturday, November 28, 2009

Spreading the Good Word

The best part of the series "A Series of Unfortunate Events" are the dedications:

Daniel Handler has also written or contributed to other works under the Lemony Snicket persona that are not related to A Series of Unfortunate Events. He has stated "there's a chance some other matters may take up Mr. Snicket's attention, that he may research and publish, but I'm always wary of making such promises".

Noisy Outlaws, Unfriendly Blobs, and Some Other Things That Aren't as Scary, Maybe, Depending on How You Feel About Lost Lands, Stray Cellphones, Creatures from the Sky, Parents Who Disappear in Peru, a Man Named Lars Farf, and One Other Story We Couldn't Quite Finish, So Maybe You Could Help Us Out, a 2005 McSweeney's short story compilation, has an introduction and unfinished short story attributed to Lemony Snicket. Readers are encouraged to finish the unfinished story, and to submit their work to the publisher: "Our favorite ending will receive a fabulous prize of some sort."

In all of his A Series Of Unfortunate Events books, he does not have pictures of his face except in THE END where it is an illustration by Helquist but you can't really see his face due to cucumber slices over his eyes.

Friday, November 27, 2009

Out of nowhere I remembered a certain thing someone once said to me:
The ostrich-approach can't be all that ridiculous. They survived this far, didn't they? There must be something going in its favour.

 Okay, now for some fact-
"Contrary to popular belief, ostriches do not bury their heads in the sand. The old saw probably originates with one of the bird's defensive behaviors. At the approach of trouble, ostriches will lie low and press their long necks to the ground in an attempt to become less visible. Their plumage blends well with sandy soil and, from a distance, gives the appearance that they have buried their heads in the sand."

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

I am in a dangerously random mood. And I am having trouble suppressing this insistent itch to post something. Run!

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

I walk out of my house to go for my classes and see that the elevator is not working. I live on the 8th floor, hence this is no joke. All the same I descend the sixteen flights, praying furtively that three hours are enough to get the darn thing running. Once out of my colony, I am taken aback by the tetris-like traffic. But, living in Connaught Place, take it to be usual. A little way ahead I discover the reason behind it anyway.A staggering multitude of people are stubbornly obstructing the path to my afore-mentioned goal. A juloos. After trying to swim upstream despite the formidable opposition, I give up and turn around, this time walking up the sixteen flights.
I fail to see the humour. Miserably.
Try climbing up sixteen flights yourself and so will you.

Monday, November 23, 2009

Consider the following dialogue from a certain scene in isolation from the rest of it-
(right after the whole "tujhe dekha to yeh jaana sanam, pyar hota hai deewana sanam...")
Simran: "Mujhe yaha se le chalo, Raj. Mujhe yaha se le chalo."
Raj: (bewildered) Kya?!
I find it infinitely hilarious.

Monday, November 16, 2009

Came across these by accident. Love at first sight. Don't even know why.

Elevational Mass, 2006
Hot rolled steel
60 x 84 x 72 inches overall (152.4 x 213.4 x 182.9 cm)


Fernando Pessoa, 2007-2008
Weatherproof steel
354 1/2 x 118 1/8 x 8 inches (900.4 x 300 x 20.3 cm)

Photo by Joshua M. White


Tracks #41, 2008
Paintstick on handmade paper
40 x 40 inches (101.6 x 101.6 cm)


Untitled, 2007
Oilstick on paper
40 x 40 inches (101.6 x 101.6 cm)

Saturday, November 14, 2009

The chaos of the blank white
Forms an abyss
With an unquenchable thirst
For what is mine.

Pen poised, I resolve to relinquish
My right to the access of the mine.
My catharsis forms;
If only for me to burn it later.

My fingertips sing to the rhythm of my heart.
Words surge through, blue.
My feelings stain the ink.
An imperfect amalgamation.

The rhymes don't come!
Oh, never mind that catacomb of the almost-lyrical!
It doesn't matter.
I write for me. Alone.

The words come faster;
Pen ablur, calligraphy forgotten.
A whirlwind of my own creation.
Well, I don't mind the trap.

The kitsune of thoughts prances.
The crescendo magnifies it's flame.
The elusive will-o-wisp- I hold it now.
I made it so. In ink, with ink.

Period. Sweat. Gasp.
An ink-stained nose. Foggy eyes.
It's late. My personal "25 'o' clock".
And yet...

One empty line. Right at the end.
It leers to me, "Is that all?"
No, I won't take to taunt now.
I mar the last whisper of blank
With a "..." .

Thursday, November 12, 2009


"Meri pyari bindu, meri bholi bindu, mere prem ki naiya beech bhavar me gud-gud gote khaye, tu jhat-pat par laga de."

"Idli, appam, sambhar, khao, quick-gun murrugan ke gun gao, dishum-dishum aur dishkao, Mind It!"

"Mana ki college mein, likhna chahiye, padhne chahiye... romance ka bhi ek period hona chahiye. To ho romance period. Love and dance period."

Been singing these for over a week now.
Somebody shoot me!

Friday, November 6, 2009

Because I like the words

Late Goodbye

In our headlights, staring, bleak, beer cans, deer's eyes
On the asphalt underneath, our crushed plans and my lies
Lonely street signs, powerlines, they keep on flashing, flashing by

And we keep driving into the night
It's a late goodbye, such a late goodbye
And we keep driving into the night
It's a late goodbye

Your breath hot upon my cheek, and we crossed, that line
You made me strong when I was feeling weak, and we crossed, that one time
Screaming stop signs, staring wild eyes, keep on flashing, flashing by

And we keep driving into the night
It's a late goodbye, such a late goodbye
And we keep driving into the night
It's a late goodbye

The devil grins from ear to ear when he sees the hand he's dealt us
Points at your flaming hair, and then we're playing hide and seek
I can't breathe easy here, less our trail's gone cold behind us
Till' in the john mirror you stare at yourself grown old and weak

And we keep driving into the night
It's a late goodbye, such a late goodbye...

Based on a poem by Sam Lake

When darkness is no less than everything you've built become undone
There's no fight and no flight, disaster leaves your passion overrun

It's time to let go, it's time to carry on with the show
Don't mourn what is gone, greet the dawn

n' I will be standing by your side
Together we'll face the turning tide

Remembrance, can be a sentence, but it comes to you with a second chance in tow
Don't lose it, don't refuse it, cos you cannot learn a thing you think you know

A new light is warm, shining down on you after the storm
Don't mourn what is gone, greet the dawn

n' I will be standing by your side
Together we'll face the turning tide

Monday, November 2, 2009

I am now an enforced hypocrite... and I am not certain if that justifies it.

Also, as is obvious, twitter is my calling.

Sunday, November 1, 2009

If only there was a way of recording silence and playing it loud enough to drown out the noise.