04 December, 2009

Win7

Yes it's been quite a while. Thanks to an MSDNAA account it is now possible to download a genuine and registrable image of Windows 7. I've been stuck with XP for too long.

14 November, 2009

Contended

Hardly the Winter of our discontent. As dusk falls ever faster I feeling more at ease with myself and the paths I tread. The other day we chatted under the pale stars to My Immortal. BJ-park, Salt Lake. Walking as usual with the shades of yesterday. Enjoying the present bonhomie as well.
Things are looking up. They had reached a minima some time back.

14 October, 2009

Another brief interlude

 Time mismanagement is an art-form which I have readily mastered. Currently I have EC191 reports to finish (forget about FETs for the time being), somehow pass the internal assessment starting from the 21st, start off on electromagnetic theory. Oh yeah, and Euler's theorem isn't really helping matters.
 Then there is the usual obligatory 'catching-up' on old friends (not a chore at all, but leaching into my time pool nonetheless), fits of insomnia where I do not manage to get started on any work before 1 a.m. and those phone conversations that spiral into a no-man's-land.

 Got drenched coming back home. With my graphics sheets at that. Bugger! Trying to unfocus on the anxieties. Spring Sonata should help. I'll enqueue it with Kreutzer.

11 October, 2009

phone call

A very old friend called after a very long time. From very far away too.
 Feeling an odd mix of elation, nostalgia and a sense of standing up straighter than before. Spoke of so many of the things we used to unload on each other on those interminable phone calls, the ever-present PNPC, talking of the littles loves and large lunacies (your harem of post-menopausal hourees e.g.) , mimicking random people - the more eminent the better and deciding that you are from China after all. The sound of your sister's slippers colliding with your posterior. And other such gems. :P

 The thing is . . . I had tasted a lot of the best things in life way before their proper times. And now most things I see today are in the light of yesterdays - jaded, laced with nostalgia and never being able to measure up to those I had known in the past. That precious camaraderie that never needed words, the silences that were never uncomfortable.
Ah well. I hope next winter will find me less a mess. Talk of being far-sighted. But till then my mind still veers to a darkened Xavier's auditorium and the magic of that horribly hard piano tamed under your blasted talons. And the sustaining pedal always pressed! Uff! Lol.

08 October, 2009

my anarchy

Opened my eyes to the morning light
Beheld your form standing, sublime . . .

You are a gust of anarchy
The splash of red on my cobbled streets
An azure window in lowering skies
A gem glimmering on the shingled shores . . .

I will scratch my silent screams into
the flaking walls of dingy lanes
Into the smell of the westering sun
on deserted courtyards . . .
And the redemption of your darkling eyes,
In dreams and the lilting song of dusk -
My fleeting muse for ever!

07 October, 2009

To you

To you my fleeting salvation.

The eyes of a goddess
Limpid pools of laughter...
Fire-fettered they flirt with the wind
Darting dark eyes of thine -
At times calm, like moonlight on snow,
Balm to scorched souls like mine . . .

"Aren't you attending a lecture? Don't let your mind wander..."

Wanderlusting through the meandering
bylanes of Anywhere
A mire of blogs, bile and bitterness;
Bereft of your elusive grace
Crushed petals, withered, brittle.
Borne on wings of amber wan
To fall like dying birds upon the meres.

The road is my own to stumble through
My highest reverence - just smile.
That I may someday learn to breathe
Than gasp and yearn for false dawns.

For now just the road before me
With pale streaks daubed in the sky above
And dark eyes in the gloaming of my mind.


Footnote: you were correct my infernal friend, should you ever read this. Nothing like being unrequited to blow on the old embers of forgottten lines. Like the old times . . .

03 October, 2009

Walk in the rain

Walking back home through Mayfair. Alone. Quiet snootiness of upscale residential buildings and goverment estates. Merc swerves past. Kompressor though. Autumn rain. Strains of Annie's Song in my head. Straining over it and the drizzle's fucked up whisper to focus on the cell. The ending of yet another folly. My miserable little travesties.
Again. Again.

20 July, 2009

play rights

The best things do not happen out of design.
So I had gone to hang out with a few friends at the JU campus. Turns out they were practising for some play, and I wasn't exactly unwelcome to join. Being part of a proper stage production was .. one of those things that flit by in more pensive moments. Really glad about it.
For now rehearsals are going at the usual Bengali pace (an hour late; with much prodding) at my old place. It's pretty run-down but there's plenty of room to practice. And I managed to bag in one of my old school buddies.
The thing's scheduled for the end of August. Gyan Manch, Pretoria Street. Fingers firmly crossed.

I'm enjoying myself in fruitful activity after quite a while. We discuss Ray and Antonioni in between parts, Agni holds forth on Ghatak's flaws, Prerna 'man'handles Adhi making them perfect as the hen-pecked hubby+wife,the director and I think of adapting Sophoclean choruses and eigenfunctions.
There are countless theatrical productions staged in my city. I wonder if this'll get off at all. But for now . . . I'm reasonably happy.

16 July, 2009

snatch 190

writing in brief snatches. stolen moments from past splendors.
  i'm tired. as usual. for now i'm just content to be adrift. the peaks are still there, high and remote. i see them, admire their loftiness. the urge to climb is gone. leaving behind an infinitely peaceful man.
  yes, i have dealt with my inner demons. i let them discard me for greener pastures.

let this be an over-hurried epitaph to most of the things that resonated in this blog. the sound and fury . . . the meaningless rhetoric and senseless delusions. the time is now for the little  streams and pot-holed roads.
 i am done.

16 June, 2009

counting the dusks

" I've heard newborn babies wailin' like a mournin' dove
And old men with broken teeth stranded without love.
Do I understand your question, man, is it hopeless and forlorn? 
"

And suddenly it all made sense - the senselessness of clinging to cocoons of familiarity, the coterie of compatriots and yearning after my lost grails.
       I'm loving the city more than ever, the ever-present symphony of honking cars and rumbling trucks. the curve of the bye-pass lights like a golden necklace that had fallen on the dark ground. torn from some ivory neck ...
       i want to read all books, listen to my infernal friend's poetry, eat at Mocambo and the dessert at Flurys (like the old days, remember?). talking glibly of guevara, Gabriel's Room and guernica. i'm remembering the two of you more than ever - in every scuffled tread, every dusty turn of the road and the pangs of solitude raked across the bared breast of a lucent evening sky. and others too...
the heady laughter that seemed to last forever, the thoughts that soared with the swelling tenors. the firm belief that i had only to spread my arms before the lusty wind to streak into the azure vistas. and of course lemon-tea had in the Messala-BenHur style.

 this is all about me now. as it well should be. i felt that by gathering the scraps of countless broken lives i would have a whole one to live for myself. As if the shards of a vase can hold a bouquet of faded lilacs wilting in this heat. i forgot - we don't get lilacs here so often.
    i have tried to live solely on the gasps of forgotten evenings and rare gusts of glory that passed away as swiftly as a high-school summer.
    i have aimed for the sky and now must contend with the treetops. Correction: i had aimed for all the skies in every world whose gloamings had warmed me.

maybe it was worth it.

   but even today . . . i cannot but feel a better man taking a detour through Middleton Row. a senseless homage to the ghosts of lost yesterdays.

"Suddenly I turned around and she was standin' there
With silver bracelets on her wrists and flowers in her hair.
She walked up to me so gracefully and took my crown of thorns.
Come in, she said, an'
I'll give ya shelter from the storm.
"

11 May, 2009

temples

she had made me cold coffee. while about the three of us fell the swift dusk of wintertime.
it had been excellent. the coffee.
now almost three years ago.

07 May, 2009

Flights of thought

There are many reasons to write.

  At times the soul bleeds itself into the words; a catharsis of sorts. In the pangs of a sudden dusk and the scrape of the wind over a deserted hearth. A time for the failed poets and stricken painters. Yes, I remember having written of them.
  And then you have those heady days when you're drunk on the rich red blood of youth. When the fires of life flare up at the myriad -isms (rationalism, humanism, socialism, secularism...) and ideologies. The old words mouthed by young lips.You look into the depths of an uncaring Providence and shout out the "I am here!" of Mankind. The fire of a thousand stars about to kindle the voids. Or so one thinks in the heyday of all those new dawns and glorious beginnings.
  The majesty of a sunset - as if a burning ship was carrying some mighty saga into the immortality of the blazing western sky.
 That strikes the flint in the mind and heart - to 'seek, to strive and not to yield!'
 There are the flashes of sunshine and the swift succor of raindrops. The true joy of relishing wild strawberries with fresh cream in the company of friends.

I remember having written on all these and more. In the numbness of solitude - the shambling walk down oh-so-familiar streets, talking in my mind to the ghosts of the past . . . living backwards to the best days that have passed us by. Through the world-weary pessimism of teenage ("pessimism is realism" and other such maxims, lol.), the biting sarcasm and humor of maturity . . . Musings has seen it all. From Dylan, Cohen, Dostoevsky to Pratchett, Gibran and Khayyam and to de Sica, Bergman, Ray and Kurosawa . . . the ideals that turned out to be childhood idols.

 Today ... today I write for the sake of writing. For the only sake that really matters - mine. To earn the respect that matters the most. Mine again. A mind wrestling with amendments, laplace transforms, blue eyes, fish eyes and the other beautiful names that have had me kneel at their altars.
   Everyone who walks on two legs dreams once of flying. I've fallen once, but I cannot resign myself to walk. Fly I will, for fly I must.
Soli bene gloria.

26 April, 2009

Summers that last forever

 The early morning is about the only time I can brave the terrace in summertime. Got up at 5 a.m. Presumably to get some work done but ended up playing Jedi Academy til Marka Ragnos' duel. So much for resolutions.

On a whim I unearthed an ancient music cd from the high-school days. "Best of the best" written with permanent marker in a schoolboy's scrawl.
The thoughts and images were always there at the back of the head; a sorta L2 cache.
Absentmindedly humming 'Seasons in the sun'. The tune, the cd and an undefinable something melting away the years.
  Xavier's Class 10 . God! An eternity and then some more.
       Shuffling through the songlist. The then familiar obsession with Dylan. A hard rain's a gonna fall. Following the Tambourine man through the smoke rings of my mind. The joy of a first six-string and of those summers that never seemed to end, of those that waited forever on Mama's porch.

 Westlife was a Xaverian favourite for graduation farewells. Since time immemorial. I wished our junior batch hadn't tried to be the exception. I can remember even now how we smirked and nudged in class 7 at "pretty girls are everywhere..." and thought pointedly of Middleton Row.:P

 The CD itself (like most things in life) has a story behind it. My fiery friend AT (&T) was wooing lady Silver with serenades (yes it came even to that). Problem: she didn't have mp3 playback on her cd player. AT had already burned the mp3. At his behest I made a couple of audio CDs out of the mp3 and kept the latter for my own.
    And it seemed then like we'd solved Schroedinger's equation or something.
   I'm smirking now. Sarcastically. Because that's the only safe emotion to let myself feel when thinking of the ghosts of summers past.
   And with the old songs bringing back old thougths, time it was for a long-neglected blog post. 



   

11 April, 2009

Note to self

 This scrap of no consequence is for happier days and longer hours at the keyboard. Of random thoughts, petty quibbles, imitating crows and other actions of daily life. Generally tend to forget some of the more brilliant (*hem, hem* :P) schemes I manage to come up with and postpone for times of lesser workload.

  1. A random Terry Pratchett Quote generator for blogs. I have a basic idea at the back of my head (using SQL) but obviously the actual coding will throw up a lot of bugs. Getting around them is half the fun of coding. There's a small voice telling me to do it in Python but I'm nowhere proficient in that. MySQL is easy and the first thing is the project and it's essential requirements.
  2. Finish til BST from Data Structures and Algorithms in C
  3. Do most of the exercises from Dive into Python.
  4. Buy the later Pratchetts after Nightwatch  - The Truth, Making Money.
  5. Play Jedi Academy. 

22 March, 2009

We missed the play, and other thoughts

Evening over this city. The lights in Citizen's Park seen from across Cathedral Road, like the port-holes of some ship ready to set off into the memories of last summer.
I walked and talked from the Academy's gates. We'd intended to catch Ruddhasangeet - a play about the stifled song of a repressed artist. House-full. Bugger.
A nod to the towering spires of St. Paul's glowing luminous in the suffused half-light of a metropolitan six thirty. Last summer another set of 'we' had taken a few pictures there. If I remember correctly; as correctly as my exaggeratedly accurate punctuations. It was always a pet peeve for the other 'us'.
On past swerving sedans before the Planetarium - all dome, fountains and underlights. Right turn.
Along pavements as shadowy as our thoughts. Of college, high-school, hopes - some lost, some still dreamt of, the little loves and huge redemptions, of recessions and affairs. Our lost Grails of summers past. Fish eyes, blues eyes and other beautiful names.
I've noticed that when old friends talk the ghosts of those absent are always close by. Silences more eloquent than words. I expressed my gladness at his having finally got a viable significant other. The others were . . . disastrous in any practical sense. Purely out of reciprocal goodwill (I guess) he continued to try and set me up with some Princeton hottie over cold coffee. Lord preserve my scant sanity!

And then suddenly it's the Exide crossing, Haldiram's blazing front, roaring traffic. Me daring them bloody cars to mow us down.
"Shaala, cigarette kheye kheye dom shesh. Uff!"

Along AJC, left at Camac, back along the beloved road. Almost like Dumas' musketeers - "alone now and alone forever on the road to Paris."
"There's this sense of belonging... the vibes. That'll forever make Park Street my home."
Ah well!
Back to work. Maybe I'll get a decent home-run there.

15 March, 2009

Angsty Angrenost

 Angrenost, the Quenya for the beloved Isengard, was the name of my first blog . . . way back in 2004. I'd toyed several times with the idea of restarting it but those were mostly the eyes-half-closed still-determined-to-get-back-to-sleep sort of idle musings you get in the pale caresses of the dawn breeze. Angrenost was a chalice! A chalice to pour out to the dregs the passions and emotions of a kid steeped in the traditions of the Force, ever-wrapped in the cloak of Gandalf, to whom namarie came as naturally as a "C'ya later", whose computer still ran on Win '95, discussed Asimov with nearby spiders, devoured children's Space Atlases while eve kiddier, designed hyperdrives on chartpaper, et cetera.
  The Domain of Alarond I had named it. Hence the name to which some refer to even on this blog. :) *nostalgic sigh*.
  It was a time when I thought the Multiverse was all about battles and kings. Five years down the line I've come to believe that it should be about not having those battles and being able to without kings. Five years of being hammered on the anvil of Real Life. Like the rest of us people.

 But why such thoughts today? Stumbling into the derelict place where I was raised .... I realised that this was my Angrenost - the centenarian crumbling bricks, mortar, termites and cat scat.  Something of myself in the rough age-worn walls bloated with damp and abandoned history.
 Someday, someday soon Alarond, Lord Greywrath (yes, I allowed myself those vanities then. Hard to stop now. *sheepish grin*) WILL take up  the -uh- family seat (Corleone rasp) at "Angrenost" in this world.
And then we shall begin on the parallel Angrenost again in the blogosphere.

 So, back to Darthin' in the free galaxy. Stardate: forever. Transmission out.

07 March, 2009

Revolutionary Road

 It's a road I've traveled often, criticised oftener. 7 kms off Diamond Harbour Road, past trees, eutrophied ponds, more trees, green fields. Oh yes, and cows. Cattel [sic] as some would say.

  And then came the 2nd of March. Currently I'm in a Guevarish mood with all the ragtag reminisces of a veteran revolutionary.
It began - cuz these things always have to begin with an "it began" - with Arko da punching the Princi. And then the kicks, punches, broken glass. Ripping apart the administrative block. Faculty and management locked inside from 11a.m. till 8 p.m. More broken glass. Battered shutters, riven locks.
Fan-blades in Picassoic positions. Police vans, INSAS rifles (I was fascinated by the transparent magazines), media and everything. A speck of colour (red or otherwise) in the drabness I've been bemoaning to all and sundry.

    This was another tale to which many are woven and many more will spring. My part ends here - student's forum formed, advocate arranged (Arko's dad of all ppl! bwahahahaha) , the omnibus FIR against 480 students dropped, unanimous decision to stick to non-violence henceforth and stick by the 90 accused of vandalism.
   Last look at Blue Eyes whose eyes are actually brown - the deep brown of burnt almond-skin.

 Adieu. My future does not lie here. Played my part, now for the path that goes on ahead. And doesn't wait.

21 February, 2009

"Aamar bhai-er rokte rangano ekushey February
Aami ki bhulte paari?"

Drenched in the blood of my brethren,
The 21st of February -
Carven forever in my memory.

International Mother Language Day, as adopted by the UNESCO in 1999.

1952, Bangladesh. Protesting the right to express oneself in the mother tongue. And the police firing.
As always, I'm having one of my 'proud to be Bangalee' surges.

03 February, 2009

bright eyed

 Bright eyes too bright for gazing too long
 Into too many false dawns of Hope.
 A wind in the grass, a lilt in the Skysong
 Soaring thoughts to a different strain!

 Eyes ever waiting, long past petty baubles
 Like reality, life and eternity.
 Ever so faint over a lifetime's rubbles
 Come the words, clear as a sunbeam -
 "Sur la pont, d'Avignon
  L'on y dance, l'on y dance . . . "

 Awaiting the lord's return from his crusades,
 Blind to the chatter of banal charades.

 I have wagered a thousand worlds and will again
 Lest a tear from eyes so clear e'er falls in pain.

01 February, 2009

Adrift and other abodes

"I would rather drift here and there without leaving traces. There are so many people in this big wide world and so many places to visit but there is nowhere for me to put down roots, to have a small refuge, to live a simple life. I always encounter the same sort of neighbors, say the same sort of things, good morning or hello and once again am embroiled in endless daily trivia. Even before this becomes solidly entrenched, I will already have tired of it all. I know there is no cure for me."
  -Soul Mountain, Gao Xingjian.

   I've got Photoshop CS2, Dreamweaver and the holy of holies - Adobe Premier Pro.
 This spring promises to be... promising. Drifitng from one adobe to the other it is quite the life. :D




26 January, 2009

Behind blue eyes . . .

 I solemnly confess to being more shaken than I care to recall. You see, I've always had a fascination for Order, the Jedi over the Sith, Light over Dark and that whole thingy. Yes, the occaisional forays into Vader-worship and Hannibal Lecter-idolising were . . . the exceptions that prove the rule. Lawful (occasionally chaotic)-good at the end of the day.

 Case in point:
   Today, 12:30. Weather suddenly too warm. Gariahat Pantaloons.
 Blue Eyes comes up, brainless head lifting up with a smile as I emerge from shadows (hah). Well, what can I say? The quest for my lost Grail continues - the ever-despairing search to unite the beautiful mind and the beautiful smile. Always seeking for the once-attained perfection that has been swept away into the West. Leaving the greys, the lonesome dusks and smoldering embers that vainly recalled what once was, and never more will be.
      The current specimen is . . . an urge I have indulged in. A passing similarity to the Temple's name, a simple soul and a smile that dredges up forgotten memories. Flashes of tucking in the blanket and fluffing pillows before a quiet 'goodnight', of wistful glances, photo-sessions and brimming mirth. As my Infernal friend observed, "You are hopeless."

  Anyway, the reason why I am shaken today to the core of my being: continued.
  Blue Eyes clad in sky-blue T (no surprises there) and three quarters,
  We retire gratefully to the coolness of pantaloons. Sits curled up with her legs folded to one side. Then comes my Fall into the Dark Side. On the paleness of the calf there was an oval patch - a faded scar. I glanced and glanced again. Unable to tear my eyes away from the light-brown Medusa. Gripped by an insane desire to grasp it, to clutch, to caress. Madness!
    I have never enjoyed S-n-M and other such morbid manifestations of the human psyche. Then why the obsessive desire to see how that wound was made, to be the one to make it, to be the one to nurture it's gash on the smooth curve...
  No, the monster stirring in me has to be held in check. Somehow managed the proper responses to the usual banal banter - lecturer-bashing, how reunions with school buddies are about the greatest thing ever, who the hell is Manasi Scott, hope you enjoy Beyond barriers; you're not coming? No sorry - family stuff.
   Blue Eyes' eyes are a rich dark brown, like burnt almond-skin. With black streaks. She had come straight from sleep. I noticed that some of the sand was clinging to the left eye's corner. Strangely fascinated by what would generally repel me instantly.

 Kaz calls. Godsend, I think. Only chap with some . . . erm, firsthand experience. Bugger eggs me on! Damn, like I need any encouragement!

   Feel the path diverging at my feet, past constrictions falling away in this terrifyingly new maelstrom of sensations and intentions. Blue Eyes . . . the Temple . . . and all my other lost Grails are tumbling together now. I can't hope to sort it out now - the usual attempts at logical analysis are leaving me more turmoiled than ever before. The temple's doing psychology . . . but this is too drastic a thing to reveal. The rant blog must be my sounding board.
 Tomorrow I plan to read this and glean some insight into what triggered this, and the way to cease this thing.
 Goodnight!

23 January, 2009

All for 150

Yes, yes. I'm still high on the post-150-years-of-Xavier's euphoria.
   After some maneouvering I managed to secure an alumnus seat with the rest of my batch. Trust xaverians to think up something - in any large gathering visibility of the stage is always an issue, as is the visibility of any large screen that projects the events. The people arranged for a number of medium-sized LCDs along the sides of the enclosure.
   The music was ... enthralling.
    Then of course we slipped back into schoolboys mode - mimicking the hapless guests as they spoke. There was a point when the words of wisdom were "aand we hab industrialisation... more jobs.... forward economy.... more industries.... factories...." I knew that Agni's gaze was mirroring my own exasperation and despair at things in general. An educational institution's 150th year celebration for crying out loud!
  The State Assembly speaker spoke wistfully about how before the college was co-ed he had to sneak out to meet the Loreto girls.Now that was something we all could enjoy....

 Later on the hulabaloo of informal reunions - Bachha, Buchu, Chandu, Arka, Biri, Ranjan, Sumon, Bhaduri Nata (who actually responded to Kaz's hello. Nota bene: for once the shirt wasn't torn under the arms.) and the rest.
   
   Let's get to the highlights. Other than the usual bonhomie, back-slaps, back-stabs, cheesy smiles and guttural guffaws and a juvenile mystery solved.

  1) I heard the best euphemism for liqour at the Alsoc event at 6. Mr Singh Roy compering: " And ladies and gentlemen to my left we have... well, I really don't want to say the words.... let's just say those seeking spiritual assistance may head there."

 2)True to our tradition I smuggled in a former classmate through the police checkpoint as he had never picked up the pass for the evening's event.

 3) We inadvertently forgot that despite being sexagenarians, the dignified gentlemen had nonetheless passed out of the same 'portals so dear'. When the snacks  were brought out . . . let's just say it put our tiffin-time orgies to shame.

4)Teachers boozing. No one passes up free liqour.

5) Gave the SXC people a snooty glare - 'we were here - walked the walk, talked the talk - aeons before you lowly creatures...' Caught in the act by Rai and her scathing tongue ("blazer ta boss to portei hobey na - nahole school-er xaveriana ta dekhabey ki korey?").

6) When the cries of "Three cheers for Xavier's" were taken up Kaz joined in while still on his mobile. I can only surmise the reaction to the blood-curdling yell on the other end. :P

7) No free food. Our dirty dozen took the shadowy  walk to Middleton Row. I sang along with Agni (Rudolf the red-nosed reindeer - completely random, but that was hardly the point) as we passed St. Thomas' Church and took the turn past LH to chase my phantoms away. Had our fill of food and khisti at Golden Spoon. Dylanish whine as we started off on "My weariness amazes me, I'm branded on my feet...I"


 Home. Exhaustion and elation. Watched Bunuel's Unchien Andalou.
   Nihil Ultra. Nothing beyond. A sword we have tried to live with and would die by. And be worth more than my meagre words can express.
 I knew then, more clearly than ever before, that if I were to ever reconcile my lost Grail then my life will be infinitely poorer. For me there is nothing beyond the Temple . . . and I will finish my quest.

20 January, 2009

Ever seeking

 There are times when one is wrapped in greys and maybes. And then there are those times when pure thought illumines the path to be trod. Whenever I have contemplated desolation for too long, there is but one poem to which I return: hopelessly idealistic and unashamedly epic in proportion in these days when half-sentences and jagged metaphors strew modern 'meaningful' poetry.
 Tennyson's words were sounding in my ears ever since last evening. After a prolonged tête-à-tête with former school buddies, mutton tikka rolls, chanachur et al. College, girls, breakups . . . progressing steadily to the capitals - Life, The Future, Idiotic Buggers, She's et cetera. 

 

"I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!
As tho' to breathe were life!"

  Wish that every day before drifting into dreamland everyone could say "I have drunk life to the lees...."
After a life of compromise it never amazes me that a person can still think such thoughts and aspire to such heights. There is a Roark in everyman.

10 January, 2009

Tystnaden and pools of sunlight

 It's streaming through my windows, and brushing aside the curtain's feeble attempt at keeping the sun out.
 The neighbors are thankfully quiet at this hour of the morning, else the beats of Linkin' Park, the wails of some devotional hymn and the concerted orchestral tutti of cawing (the crows hereabout dive-bomb even the pariah kites) makes quite the symphonic experience for the early riser.
 Faint, ever so faintly one can discern the few true birdcalls to enliven the heart of the city.
 The sky outside is one solid sheet of fire. My rooms face the east and I can still see the green-and-blue afterimages of the sun's gathering strength. Winter is passing.

 The sparrow are chirping! Trucks rumbling up the bridge, engines revving. I want this to last forever: me, the sounds, this room and the pools of winter sun on my bedroom floor. At times solitude is bliss and this is one of those times. Making the ivory tower worth the desolation.

 On an impulse I decided to retain the stubble that's now tending to grizzle.
I'm remembering inane things. A rather diminutive friend once stood stock still at the Ballygunge phari - nearly causing us to be run over by enthusiastic drivers. Turns. "Your eyes will haunt me." I tried to come up with some wacky retort. Unfortunately, evading being run over, all I managed was "You are shorter than a pygmy." Ah, the ignominy of missed opportunities to be scathing . . .
 There, Mr. Arora's Enfield's coughing its guttural 'good morning'. Hey, alliterations too - this morning must be charmed or something!

 I must soon murder the magic with my clawed hands for the rest of the day must be charaded through. Deliver stuff to Salt Lake (now that place haunts me - where every turn bears some memory), smirk and nod dolefully as required and contemplate pizzas on the drive back.
 Forgot to chronicle: the blogmeet with my old enemy went well. Reassuring to find that craziness can always be indulged in.
 A rare conversation yesterday. I'm still under the spell of wistful eyes and carefree laughter that flirts with the wind. 'Typical' as indeed so many say.
 But today I am glad of my worst friends and best enemies, of soup, cheese and pale sunlight. St. Xavier's deserves a visit, then I'll be off to my tryst with DA-block. And the evening chat with my lost Grail.
*Dons the helm.*
:D

01 January, 2009

Thinking ahead

Another year. Another slew of to-dos. First things first - Happy New Year my dear visitor!
Right now I'm bent on focusing my generally myopic view on academics. Other than that I have mulled over a few plans/intentions.

  • Take up Assembler from where I left it. I'm one of those people who get an innate joy in pushing bits around registers. :P I'll be using NASM for the dissassembler and DJGPP on WinXP initially. After PCasm is done, I intend to move over to linux assembly using nasm or gasm on Ubuntu. The language may not have any intrinsic value as many opine, but it will definitely help anyone who wants to know the 'why?' after the 'how?'.
  • We'll be having Introduction to programming using C this semester. Which is pretty much a cakewalk. I'll be honing up on gcc on linux while doing the college assignments. There are a few syntactical differences which I have to get used to on linux when migrating from Borland's IDE. Moreover, this'll force me to let go of IDE dependance.
  • Re-install Bloodshed DevC++ on Windows. At times an IDE helps. ;)

Who am I kidding? The list of hum-drum to-dos to fill the void of actions that have a meaning. Beyond skill-sets, grades and assignments. The little titters and daily masquerades that etiquette demands. The thing that chills me to the core is the unsettling fact that this new year's day was so much like the one before, which was like the one before it, which was . . .
Think beyond the new calendar, the sliding stocks, the daily litany of horror on the headlines. Those that have been there forever.
The sense of transition is that of a smooth cruise in a sedan. Not the hurtling sensation of motion of a gallop, or the reckless rush of a train viewed hanging half-out of the compartment.
I'm craving for a cataclysmic change like an opiate. Yet in my heart of hearts afraid of what it will entail. Every desire attained presents its bill somewhere along the way. And sometimes the interest accrued is . . . substantially devastating.

One of the few things I look forward to is receiving Neverwinter Nights - Diamond Edition. :D Over this last year I have seen the gifts passing through my clenched grasp like so much water. The words no longer come to my fingers as my mind grapples with the profundity of everydays, baked beans and christmas cake. But I can no longer make the glass glitter like diamond, parade sleights as skill and somnolence for wisdom. The last sky I painted was a flaming sunset, but my ride into it has fallen into the sere, the yellow leaf (hah! How vilely doth this muser qoute!).

The ivory tower of mine, once-vaunted, is now reeking of solitude. Not the splendid isolation of sages, but the miserable bile-in-your-throat nerve-sapping unsatiated yearning of the dark ones that lurk in shadowy nooks for ever, hating the darkness that clothes their frailty.

My eyes are dimming again, the macular degeneration accelerating blithely. But my mind sees frozen lakes, black denuded trees and snow-swept ridges which I should have stood atop. I feel the Keating creeping up, in stiff competition with the Toohey while a remnant of Roark struggles with blueprints. With no D. Francon in sight. Or maybe this is the last vestige of Wynand: "...to the spirit that is yours and could have been mine."
Funny, I had liked none of them unconditionally. It was Galt, always Galt.

Welcome visitor!