Full of the idle thoughts of well fed, ill taught youth

Sun, 16 Jul 2006 20:59:54 GMT

[x-posted from Siri Simran's journal. Since I am Siri Simran, I'm commiting the violent and less than virtuous act of robbery, or theft, but somehow that's appropriate that Smugalug is the one doing the stealing. So round one, Siri SImran, for holding the moral high ground.]

I'm easily amused.

Sometiems you'll see fruit with tiny sticky labels reading "class 1 fruit" or "grade A produce". I mean, what is the alternative? what happens behind the scenes, hidden by a tiny sticky label? A host of human tragedies, unsung and unwritten - until now.

"I'm... I'm sorry, John, but, Dumpsy, Dumpsy didn't make the grade"

"No! No! I refuse to believe it! My Dumpsy - you're lying!"

"No, John, you have to face the truth - "

"No! I refuse! Dumpsy! Dumpsy, where are you, what have those SOBs done to you? Dumpsy, answer me, Dumpsy Damnit!"

"John, it's too late..."

"Oh, oh! The pain, my heart! Oh, ooh I can die now... Oh Dumpsy, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry I failed you..."

And so on. The competition to be Class 1 or Grade A must be fierce, but I do wonder what happens to the failures, the masses who, no doubt disqualified by their less than 10/10 appearance, flavour and sheer marketability, are forced to abandon their dream of appear on the local supermarket shelf, instead relegated to a life in perpetual anonymity, served up ignobly in microwave and ready meals, never getting the same recognition of the sticker, never achieving the same satisfaction of being carried home in a shopping bag, whole and content in the knowledge that it was picked because it had earned the distinction of being numero uno, Class 1, Grade A.

And our tragedy lies thus. That we do not recognise the achievement of the less-than-perfect. Who can deny that human civilisation as we know it will not grind to a halt if all the less-than grade 1 class A produce disappeared? No ready meals, microwave meals, ready prepared recipe packs, huh? Can you imagine such a world? Huh? Huh!?

So next time, you go about the daily grind and routine of food shopping, think hard, and pay your respects to those little sticky labels. They are the eigth seal, never mentioned in the Bible or anywhere else. And come the time to cook, peel off that sticker with the respect it deserves.

Please do not feed the marketing department amphetamines

Sun, 16 Jul 2006 20:32:06 GMT

Smugalug has undergone a dramatic new re-branding exercise to marketise the potential value of our core team assets. This exciting move creates additional customer to business relationship links in an organic way, synergizing our new responsibility oriented service attitude to the global dynamic of international business ecology, and synchronising our human intelligence with the massive growth in the use of network based technologies.

To serve is to grow, and to grow is to serve, and our promise to you is that our new brand identity will create more focused awareness of the unique aspects of the high speed transfer in autonomous systemic creativity process.

The construction of the yamma dadda gortomanium image encompasses the future as well as the past, possibly when grandma ate her dog, plus additional growth oriented social woransies for the hoopa loomcha.

Under the new flag of corpormatimainia, we hustemborolololo with sreeitha tavbanama, allowing the ooumnsgath to develop carsam.

Your involvement in this projectoresiminty unsvertavata manatasgavb rimnsnitoye jennhusghotty hujikammasdath monial. Hoomas garthytujad fragestten. Hudini never liked me but I sure ate dessert. Dumpsy, are you there to pickup the pickles?

And why should market copy make sense? Does it deserve that level of respect? Of making sense? It's not about making sense, it's about marketing. Big mind watch through the books of statistical judgement and create stories tailor made to suit every individual, then to sell sell sell. I'm sold, but still I'm not happy, and no number of empty promises will fulfill that desire.

You realise, of course, that it is strange when trees fall silent and people start to speak. Shut up for a little while, and you will hear nature talk to you, wordless and silent and perfect (yes, including that metaphroical tiger, who always crops up to eat unwary new-age flappers like me, except this time I've armed myself with a metaphorical .303 semi-automatic rifle and a 10x scope, plus outsized boxes of ammunition to drive the beast away). Yet fall silent, and listen to most people, and they aren't saying anything at all. Nothing. total nuts.

I don't know kindness

Mon, 22 May 2006 23:03:13 GMT

I have a nice shiny new white keyboard.

Thanks to my incompetence and sleep deprivation, I spilled a large glass of water all over (and into) my old keyboard, Since I needed to type, and had no idea how long keyboards take to dry (they apparantly recover fairly well, if left to dry completely), I decided to go buy a new one. In a way, I'm glad, it feels quite nice, and I can retend to have that new computer feel all over again.

Tip: if your keyboard gets wet, the best and quickest way to dry it is to unplug it and leave it standing on its side behind your PC, switched on. The hot air from your computer will do a dream job of drying the kboard.

Today is windy. As I stood, franking envelopes (actually quite an enjoyable activity), I though to myself that if I don't figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life before the termination of this temp assignment, I'll be stuck in back office duties for the rest of my life, and I don't want that. Hardly controvercial, but true nevertheless. So I have two and a bit months to get started on planning what I want in my future.

But I am having the most wonderful time. I'm buusy, sleep deprived, a little stressed at times (mostly because of the sleep deprivation), but I feel good. Really good. Bharatanatyam classes, each and every one is deeply enjoyable.

What news do you bring me from yonder, oh wind? What news?
Of flying carrion, torn from living bones, while vultures peck at tear filled eyes?
What news you've heard, oh wind, from yonder,
Of savage cruelty wearing the mask of nobility?

What news, oh rain, do you whisper to the earth,
Every mercury droplet its own capsule, containing more secrets
Than the forbidden walls of Byzantian palaces?
What news, Oh rain, silently insistant from cloud to ground?

And then, your drumming on the window, your rushing through cracks,
Slamming windows and empty doorways, drowning abandoned windowsills,
The phantom of fish flashing through roadside puddles, muddied
by passing crushing wheels of snail like traffic.

And through it all, we dig, tunnel our way through each other,
Blinded moles to our earthen prison, eager for the next grub, worm meal,
Murderous news pass by, because helpless we can do nothing,
Not fish in water, we're not innocent, just blind, squirming through earth.

Why, today was a strange day, I realised as soon as I stepped out from my door. The air felt... unstable, like the inhalation of a madman the instant before he begins to rant. Every sight I saw was fractured, unreal, a movie set full of amnesiac actors who forgot they're in a movie. The wind, the rain, the cold air, all spoke of something unsettled, stirred from sleep, a cloud of silt that drifts inexorably to suffocate clear water, obscuring truths and carving demons out of shadows.

I sat and thought about this. One phrase which I was told tonight, struck home. Kindness, to not do onto others what I would not have done onto me. The most basic precept of being human. I tried to apply it to myself. Well, OK, not perfect. But not horrible. Room for improvement, really. Then, applied to the rest of the world. Oh goodness. Wahe Guru. No wonder the air felt insane, because it is. Every day we breath in more of the insanity that goes around the planet, pretending we're civilised beings behaving in a more-or-less moral way. Oh, not perfection, that's not what is being talked about here. No. But are people so blind they cannot spot insanity when they see it? When they act it?

Amusingly, I've reached the place in Ghandi's life where he is imprisoned for resisting a racist policy from the South African government. In jail, Ghandi writes to his (youngest?) son, who is most probably like any other teenager, blood boiling, horny, on the verge of dashing headlong into life and adventures. Ghandi's letter exhorts him to study sanskrit, dig gardens (and don't forget to clean the tools and replace them into the right places), look after his foul tempered mother, his siblings, to lead the resistance movement in liu of Ghandi, look after his brother's children (jailed also because of civil resistance), and basically prepare to lead a life of total self denial (paraphrase: "if self denial became a habit, then you'll really enjoy it and it woud make you happy! Yay!"). For some reason, that really is quite funny.

Sun, 21 May 2006 08:41:48 GMT

Haven't written anything for a while.

Lots to write, but where to start? Mostly personal issues anyway. But I can say, that it's weird how the hot water tap in my flat runs cold before it gets hot, while the cold water tap runs hot before the water gets cold. Life is full of mysteries.

Been reading a biography o fGhandi. Never knew that as a kid, Ghandi intended to commit suicide. More amusingly, he was planning to do so through the ingestion of Datura, or aka jimson's weed, the seeds of which are toxic, to a certain degree, but also quite well know for its psychoactive properties. The thought of a teenage Ghandi tripping his head off is quite amusing.

Have job, have no money, have thesis, have no time, have lots to do, have very little desire to di anything at all.

A while ago, Manju asked me, if I weren't human (I said I didn't feel human most of the time), what animal would I most closely identify with.

A reindeer in siberia tripping on amanita muscaria, I'd think. Or perhaps the first ape to ingest mushrooms. A naked ape, in any case, naked and quite lost.

Nap time.

Oh yes, I will be moving this blog to a new user name. Same layout, same everything, though contents will be more, aahhh, "spiritual". Smugalug shall remain as the alter_ego, ever self interested, ever undermining the great spiritual quest that my sould is embarked upon, laughing as I slip on mystical banana skins and fall into open religious manholes.

The insanity of madmen

Sun, 30 Apr 2006 20:27:47 GMT

"Madness, I tell you, total madness. Confusion and derangement of the mind, there is no doubt about it. The brain, without necessary discipline, gone astray - nay, totally wild. No restraint on thoughts at all. Concepts loose and viscious, rape and seek mutual vengence on memories and expereince. Violence of electrical impulses and various nurotransmitters, without reason. Unacceptable! No being in the universe should be so cursed with the blessing of apparant intelligence yet suffer from the delusions contained in the mental space! No! Utterly unacceptable."

"Yes, Mr Williams. I agree."

"And moreover, knowledge! Knowing, the assimilation of facts and figures, the consumption of the real world, chewed by words into bolus to be swallowed by the eyes. There is no sense to it, my good fellow. No sense at all."

"Of course, Mr Williams."

"Of course, of course! This insane madness must be stopped at once!"

"Mr Williams, you are quite right."

"How shall we proceed? That is the age old question. Without a proper and firm understanding of the issues, my good man, we are as helpless as babies adrift on a sea of Chateau Neuf du Pap, and campaigne glasses will not serve us here. Not at all. To stop the enemy, we must think like him, to act as he would, to understand his motives and actions and take countermeasures before he has had a chance to move!"

"That is quite insightful, Mr Williams."

"Then it is decided. I shall proceed to create a serum of insane madness, concentrated to 120x5, which by my calculations should make 600. For the sake of humanity, I shall take this serum, and proceed to become of the same mind as the enemy. This sacrifice, you must understand, is the ultimate act of kindness, for we shall never - never! - give into the chaotic disorganisation of the psyche."

"Here is the serum, Mr Williams."

"Cheers, my good fellow. You have been faithful to me, and I would like to take... take this final chance to... to say......"

"Thank you, Mr Williams."

"My... this is all.. all much more than I expected... [glug] there. The deed is done. Now, we wait, for the enemy to reveal his plans through me."

...

...

...

"I see... I feel... yes, I feel! I can feel it! The enemy... he is... the enemy is, I can feel him, so close, almost like... I see.. I see a shape. It is monsterous. It is horrible, the scale is... ingenious. I would have never credited him with.... but wait. I see more. It is... no. No. It cannot be. NO!"

"What cannot be, Mr Williams?"

"He.. the... I am beyond words. This is too.. but there is nothing in the world that can stop him! Nothing! Don't you understand? Are you fool? We must... but the Chateau Paap du Neuf, we're trapped! He's trapped us! Oh Lord, it's a trap!"

"What is to be done, Mr Williams?"

"Nothing! We are doomed! Babies holding champaigne glasses in Pap du Neuf! Heavens, not all the glassware in Her Majesty's dining rooms can save us now! Oh woe! Oh doom...! We can only bewail the day we were given birth! Save yourself, for me it is too late, but save yourself! For all the is precious on this Earth and in the Heavens, please!"

...

...

"Mr Williams?"

"..."

"Mr Williams."

"... I... yes?"

"Your time is up, Mr Williams. We are finished for today."

"Oh, I... I see. Yes. I see."

"Thank you for coming, Mr Williams. I shall see you next week."

It's the sky orbs again

Sat, 22 Apr 2006 23:57:20 GMT

I sometimes feel torn between a part of myself that wants to do nothing but meditate on God - the sort of sitting still, in total silence, with absolute concentration kind of meditate - and the part of me that wants to go gettin' going doing stuff. I find this amusing, since it seems to fit the Sagittarius sign to a tee. Jupiter which is Sagittarius' ruling planet, i.e. Zeus, the go gettin' going doing ~~fucking and adulterer~~ god of lightening noise and pomp, and Charon, the rather tragic wise and noble centaur who taught medicine and healing to man, but who was wounded by Hydra's poison arrow and spent the rest of his (immortal) life in a ~~cafe~~ [oops] cave , howling from the incurable pain, and who then took Prometheus' place in The Great Place Below in order to save him from eternal punishment.

Please don't ask what suddenly brought this on. Stuff like this just pops up when the sky orbs are involved.

Why are we so fascinating?

Thu, 20 Apr 2006 23:14:49 GMT

I am fortunate enough that in the LSE study room where I work (on my thesis, that is) I sit next to two pretty girls. Both of them are humorus and grounded and intelligent. Unfortunately (or perhaps, fortunately) they are both spoken for, and have been for some time. I like them both dearly. One is moving away to Australia, and what I'll miss most is her laugh, which is infectious, and she laughs constantly. That makes me sad, somehow. I wish I made friends with them earlier. Still, I am highly resistant to the idea of making friends if that involves going to smoky bars or pubs and feel by turns awkward and aloof about alcoholic drinks and smoking.

Which is unfortunate, since that is how most socialising takes place, with smoke and alcohol, both of which I hate.

I am endlessly fascinated by noticing little details about them, details that are quite innocuous.

Sometimes i just feel like an alien robot who has landed on the Earth and need to explore the meaning of "be-ing hu-mon". A part of myself insists on taking itself apart from the rest of the hu-mons, prefering instead to watch. Not analyse, not remember, not nothin, just watch, as if the whole world was a dumb Saturday TV show, so be seen and forgotten, making little or no impact on the psyche. Which I suppose might explain why I forget people's names so easily. They make no impact on me, and details like their name just bounce off.

In a way, though, everyone is here to learn how to be hu-mon. Some are more able to operate with parameters defined by the dominant social ideological order and paradigm, others are not, but adherence to prevailing norms does not a hu-moon make. Which is where faith comes into it, I suppose.

This week has flown by, I don't know why, but it has passed so fast, I can't make it last, and now I know, that all my woes, are due to crapily written poems, which are cheap like fake gems, but they shine and blind with the intensity of neon signs.

Wed, 19 Apr 2006 13:32:59 GMT

I only like Queen's song because of its slightly psychotic overtones of a compulsive obsessive castrati singing about bicycles.

Today I bought myself a bicycle. And I want to ride it. More importantly, I want to ride it without running the risk of crashing or falling over.

And of course, I fell off the bicycle for the first time today as well.

The bike is fine. Whew. I have stigmata like marks on my palms, which is quite amusing.

Candle making

Sun, 16 Apr 2006 17:46:26 GMT

While volunteering at the farm for beekeepng duties, I came across a large bucket filled with beeswax cappings (the layer of wax removed before honey can be extracted from the combs), so I asked to take some home to play with.

To make beeswax candles, it is necessary to clean the wax, which contains all sorts of delightful things as: "fragments of cocoons, particles of chitin (Kaitin), pollen husks, propolis, dust particles, wax moth eggs, wax moth feaces, wax moth silk, pollen grains as well as solid and soluble bee feaces". So first, it needs to be gently boiled to melt the wax (which will float) and to dissolve all the crud (which won't). The temperature of the water should be kept very close to 80, to avoid damaging the wax.

The wax in a pan

I was surprised how much wax I got. Combs are very loose and light, and even after really packing it into the containers I had, I still felt like most of it was full of air. For bees, wax is a majorly expensive commodity. It take something around 6-8 pounds of honey to produce one pound of wax, and evey drop is secreted from wax glands, warmed up, chewed and carefully shaped into mathematically precise hexgonal combs. They use the absolute minimal amount of wax to achieve maximum structural strength and usable space. But here I go, melting it all down into a big blob.

It lifts off as a solid block. The crud in the pan was filtered,
and now serves as compost for my pot plants
(no, not that kind of pot)

After this first step, the wax still contains alot of crud, which is embedded in it, and it needs further cleaning. The second step was to put it all into a bag (I had one handy, it was the packaging for my new kurta from India, a stretchy cotton / nylon bag) and melt it. So I broke it up, stuffed it in, and turned on the oven.

The wax in the bag in the oven in my kitchen in my flat

The oven was set at 120 / 130 degrees, and once the wax began to melt, the bag will filter all the remaining crud. It smells heavenly, of honey and gentle baking, as the golden wax begins to drip down.

Drip, drip, drip

In the mean time, I used supreme DIY skills to set up the mould and wick. The wick I ordered a week ago, and just arrived. The mould is an empty, clean jam jar which had a wider top than the bottm so the candle can be removed. I was thinking of just leaving the candle inside a jar, but then thought it would be increasingly difficult to light the candle as the candle burnt lower and lower into the jar.

An hour and a half later, 300ml of golden wax was poured into my super chopsticks candle mould.

The camera didn't capture my huge grin

Almost immediately the wax began to cool from the bottom. At this stage, I didn't know, but for future reference, the mould should be warm and be left to cool very slowly. Otherwise cracks will appear during the cooling process, as different parts of the wax begins to solidify at different speeds. This is less important in making dipping candles, since that cools in layers, but for a big chunk of solid wax in a mould that is a serious issue.

Another thing to note - to release the candle, cooling rather than heating is recommended. Pouring hot water over the outside of the mould will only succeed in making a mess, as the wax inside becomes sticky and the candle is even less obliged to come out. Putting it into the freezer, though, makes the wax shrink, and the candle more easily removed (though a few hefty knocks was still required).

A beeswax candle, and I made it

The candle smells like it is a solid block of honey. And it is, about 8 pounds of honey was needed to make that much beeswax, and I'm sure it will smell heavenly when lit. Whether the candle will burn properly or not, I have no idea, since I'm no expert and chose the wick by, well, guessing. But even if it doesn't burn. I will still have a big block of beeswax to smell. Aaah, the fragrance of honey.

[edited] The Beetles of Doom and Smugalug

Sat, 15 Apr 2006 13:52:16 GMT

[edit]More information on the Beetles of Doom. And don't think it's funny, just because it's called a Harlequin, it's no joker, and I'm not clowning around![/edit]

Spring. I feel rather nostalgic for this weather, even though it's here. This feeling reminds me of a writer (actress?) who I heard on Radio Doom (name instantly forgotten) who was struck by wonderlust. she describes how she missed athens and felt totally nostalgic for the city... when she was in Athens. Same here. I really miss being youg, in London, in the spring / summer... and here I am, young, in London, in spring.

It was the full moon a few days ago (the 13th, to be exact). I've discovered that, at this time of the year, the moon shines directly through my room window onto my pillow. So I sleep bathed in moonlight, which is either very natural and nurturing and will bring me all sorts of peaceful vibes, or it'll turn me into a lunatic, howling at anything resembling a floating globe of light.

I was jus' walkin' down th' canal, as one does, and I saw this:

Some ducks sitting on a plank

Which I thought to be rather funky. Ducks, in general, are funky, unlike pigeons, which deserve death. Like varroa. They both need to be destroyed, but at least no one intentionally feeds varroa. On the other hand, tourists, and unfortunately far too many podgy natives (it's strange, but they are all podgy round here) insist on feeding those flying rats. I'm not particularly partial to hunting, but in the name of... killing pigeons, I'm willing to sacrifice my moral stance. Though I'm a bad shot and might accidentally shoot a podgy native or two as well while I'm at it. Sorry.

Anyway. Back to my spiritually enlightened walk along the canal. I have a habit of looking everywhere and anywhere but in the direction I'm going (yes, a sadly accurate comment on how I lead the rest of my life. I know it's very symbolic. If only I could figure out what it means, all these mystical symbolisms are so difficult to interpret), and I noticed a few tiny ripples. I took a closer look, and found... a ~~ladybird~~ Beetle of Doom.

[edit]No! Don't pick it up, you fool! It's a trick!
That's what it wants you to do![/edit]
A ~~ladybird~~ Beetle of Doom I saved from drowning in the canal
"Oh thank you Mr. Smugalug for saving me from downing in the canal!
~~But you really need to do something about your cuticles!~~
Now I'm going to destroy the entire ecological balance of SE London!"

If it was a magical ~~ladybird~~ Beetle of Doom, it would have promptly turned into a fairy manicurist and fixed up my rather mangled nails and cuticles as a reward. But it was just a plain, normal ~~ladybird~~ Beetle of Doom with ~~no magic manicure powers~~ eco destructive super powers. It would have probably ended up as lunch for the tiny black fish living in the canal. Incidentally, I saw a heron skillfully pluck a good few of these fish from the canal the other day, which I guess means that the water is actually rather clean. Anyway. I spent the rest of the walk watching the ~~ladybird~~ Beetle of Doom ~~crawling all over my hand~~ planning its campaign of eco destruction, to the bemusement of those passing me by, who had to avoid the crazy person in white staring mesmerized at his own hand.

I wonder what it feels like, to be crawling on my hand, which is about the size of ~~a football pitch~~ Heathrow terminal 3 (I hate football pitches, just because everyone uses them as a measurement of size, yet few people, me included, have any idea how large a football pitch is. I am far more familiar with the size of airport terminal buildings).

I left the ~~ladybird~~ Beetle of Doom on a leaf. It probably ~~became a welcome snack to some other larger insect~~ devoured dozens of smaller, hapless, harmless, cute and cuddly rare native insects before laying millions of Beetle of Doom Doom Eggs, but the hippy peace animal life loving fuzzy warm thing in me ~~felt good about it~~ will now squash all Beetles of Doom I encounter in the future.

[edit] The unstoppable campaign of the Beetles of Doom
continues, it seems only a matter of time before the whole
of England falls beneath their Beetle Dooming.

Tue, 11 Apr 2006 23:14:00 GMT

I'm planning to become a plumber, a carpenter, an electrician, a beekeeper, a yoga teacher, a healer, a cook, a writer, a poet, a painter, a seriously good husband, a father, a warrior, a survivalist, a servant, a slave of God, a bride of God, a photographer, a driver, a friend, a confidante, a wanderer, a woodsman, a builder, a stranger, an intimate lover, a techie, a millionaire.

Mon, 10 Apr 2006 01:20:18 GMT

Laughing with friends is good. Laughing with friends about oneself is even better, the more "serious" the subject the better. It's ridiculous how life seems to throw simple things at me and how I can't help but pour petrol on them like a crazed arsonist to make a massive bonfire out of the smallest spark.

Gotta love those censors

Wed, 05 Apr 2006 22:55:30 GMT

From the BBC:

Malaysia has a Muslim majority, but people of all religions are broadly conservative in their outlook.

Local television channels reflect this by censoring kissing so viewers are left to fill in the gaps when characters about to embrace suddenly appear in different parts of the room looking shocked or emotional for no apparent reason.

I know this is an old chestnut, but I just love the image of millions of children and teens growing up to imagine that somehow, when two lovers embrace, they are suddenly propelled separately across the room by an invisible force like magnets. Which perfectly explains their shocked expressions, of course. God never intended people to touch each other, of course.

Dream fragment

Wed, 05 Apr 2006 16:27:48 GMT

A fragment of a dream from last night.

A red, box like monster with a huge square mouth was waving about its long spaghetti like arms. Scientists in lab coats try to restrain it with chains and by wrestling with it but to no avail. It overpowers and devours them by throwing them into its mouth. In the mean time I feel a pull on my chest, an invisible hand grabbing my heart and tugging it towards the blood red maw gaping and gnashing before me. I resist, opening my heart, to accept the monster, but to no avail. My whoe chest was now being pulled towards the monster box. I realise that compassion and mercy was of no use here, and decided that I must breath. Breath. Breath and expand my chest, expand it so huge that it will totally overwhelm the box monster. As the air filled my lungs the monster shrank, the grip around my heart was released, and I was free.

I think I must've stopped breathing sometime during the night. The symbolism is not very subtle...

Thu, 30 Mar 2006 22:32:26 GMT

Yesterday I was thinking, hmm, maybe I do want to be a father. Which is strange. I've never really thought about becoming a parent before.

Lo and behold, today my inbox receives two random emails, one on international child trafficing and kidnapping, the other an astrology advert asking curtly, "how many children will you have?"

So I guess I'll be the father to many children, and kidnap more, because I'll never know exactly how many children I'll have (what?! No! I'll never pay that astrology site to find out! Never! You can't make me! bastards!).

"How delightful, more chil-dren!"

Sat, 25 Mar 2006 00:17:13 GMT

It has begun to strike me as odd that I don't feel after all these years (and there haven't been too many of them) that I can type out an entire sentance without having to construct it prior to writing it down. I think on paper, I use pens and paper as my scribble thinking space in the past, but I've never really bee able to compose myself spontaniously, as I do now. I suppose part of me is thinking," this is all just gibberish, nonsense that is pouring out of a mechanical word-factory part of my brain which is good a linking all thses little wordy bits together to make something that makes sense when read by uninterested passers by", but then I go back and re-read stuff I wrote in the past and they turn out to be surprisingly relevant. Now, it's entrely possible thatit's a case of post facto reality consruction - that what is relevant only becomes so after it's been noted. But as psychologists (or psychiatrists, i forget which. researchers, anyway) have shown, idiot savants are perfectly apable of churning out gramatically correct language structures (senatances, paragraphs, etc) which is totally meaningless, unless you are a post-modernist abstract linguist with a soft spot for absynth. Given that is the case, the part of my head (or my heart, or whichever part is responsible) writing this is not of the idiot savant variety, all atuomatic without sentience. But that makes me then wonder, which part of my head does contain my sentience? If I can ramble on in relatively coherent narrative like this one without having fleshed it out previously, while I have in the past relied on pen and paper and a lot of thought to decide "what exactly am I thinking?", then which part of me is in charge? Is there an alien author dwelling in my head that I have no contact with, like an isolated part of me that can only express itself through writing? That's unlikely, but possible. Or am I thinking so fast I can't recognise the process as it happens? Also possible. Then why was I so uncertain and hesitant before? Why until these words are spilled onto the page (or computer screen) do I keep asking myself what I am thinking? Perhaps taking form is a good thing, I don't believe things without form is possible for me to grasp hold of. Abstract notions for me must always be made more tangible, concrete, by taking a shape, even a physically impossible shape.

And I'm thinking of applying to be a counsellor. Who would I counsel? I'm now thinking of all sorts of reasons I would hate that job, but it still fits my intellectual interest profile quite well. It's a good place as a jumping board to other interesting things, and furthermore (shhh!) there is no legal requirement to have done any accredited traiing. Of course, having done so would greatly improve chances of employment, but even then it's a one year part time course. Or am I being snobbish about it all? Or perhaps I'm looking for something else?

H.I.G.H. ON G.O.D.?

Wed, 22 Mar 2006 00:07:18 GMT

Well, soon enough I'm sure I'll crash. In the mean time, though, it's a very weird feeling, this religious zealotry. Very calming, stable. Almost like... Hmmm. I wonder if this is what those over enthusiastic missonaries as they were burnt / hacked / cooked to death in various remote parts of the world? "Oh Lord, well, maybe next life..."

Today, I went to learn to ride a bicycle, Two wheels and a bell. It was cold, but I got on well.

Today, I also need to go to bed.

Jedi mind powers and psychology

Sun, 19 Mar 2006 23:14:35 GMT

Not for the first time, I've been thinking about what I want to do with my life.

My thesis will be completed in about 6 months give or take. I will then be without direction. Well, not totally, but it's high time I decided what I need to put myself towards. Bee keeping is all very well, but I know it's more of a hobby than something that can keep me alive, financially at least.

The strange idea emerged that I should train in pyschology, or counselling, or some such activity. Meditation brings all sorts of funny ideas into people's heads.

It's one area which I've found myself unable to come up with a good reason why I won't be good enough to pursue it, and the idea has been irritatingly persistant. Psychology?

But I am excited about it. It fits a deep desire I have to touch people, to change them, transmute them. Social alchemy, which is totally aligned with being a Kundalini yogi, and totally aligned with my beliefs. Nor am I so excited about it that I know it's more a flash-in-the-pan type affair.

Psychology?

It's not engineering. It's not farming. It's about people. It's about their brains, their minds, ultimately about their existence. The mind creates the world. And if nothing else, I'll be sure to pick up Jedi mind powers.

PSY220 Jedi mind powers and psychology

Objective:
In this course, students will learn to manipulate the minds of others through the use of "The Force", as well as obtaining information through unconventional means such as telepathy. Students will also be required to learn to whisper with a suitably hypnotic English accent.
Assessment:
Students will be assessed on their ability to avoid detection and capture by Imperial Stormtroopers. Students performing to a high standard will stay alive. Students who fail will be shot to pieces by turbolasers.

But it would mean further studying. At undergrad level. And more money. More time.

Time and money.

Psychology?

It just seems to fit too well.

prayer

Mon, 13 Mar 2006 23:49:44 GMT

Ever since I can remember praying for something, I remember that my prayer is along the lines of: "I pray I get what I want."

Now, anyone with even a hint of spirituality in them will recognise the inherent danger in such a powerful prayer. Capitalists of course would applaud such an exemplary case of grabitallformeism.

After a few years of doing this I realised that it's probably not a good thing. Unfortunately, at the time, I though it's a bad idea because I never specified how I'd get what I want. I never questioned the what that I wanted might itself be intrinsically, well, bad.

Getting what I want is of course a very fine thing indeed, if I ever knew what I wanted, but I rarely did. So mostly I got choices, and more choices, and more choices. I didn't want to decide, so I never got to decide.

As it happens, of course, anyone with a hint plus a bit more spirituality would recognise that that is actually how the universe works. People tend to get exactly what they ask for, the only question is how they ask for it and whether they know about it, since much of the stuff going on happens beneath the surface of conscious thought.

So I guess what I'm saying is, I haven't a clue what I'm getting, and I haven't a clue what I want, and it's because I asked to get what I want that I don't know what I want because I don't want to know what I want because I can't decide what I want.

Mon, 13 Mar 2006 15:39:14 GMT

Snatam sound file

Something disturbing

Sun, 12 Mar 2006 21:38:18 GMT

"Oh, oh hello? What do we have here? How delightful. There's a bunch of.. thingammies... what are they called? Chi... Chil-dren. Wonderful! Chil-dren. Hello, Chil-dren. Shall we go play? Let's go play."

[...]

"That was marvellous. Do you have any more of chil-dren? They were so deligutful but so... Oh, you've run out? Shame, oh shame! when will there be more...? That's not so long. Well, I shall return in a few days. Good day to you, sir!"

---

Badly misheard movie quip:

Heroic guy: "Well, this is art! And people are starting to die!"

---

Reincarnation

Fri, 10 Mar 2006 00:17:46 GMT

10 minutes.

Mercury went into retrograde about a week ago.

About a month ago, I would have given very little credence to the idea that the movement of planets could ripple through lives.

About a year ago, I would have given very little credence to the idea that reciting mantras would do any good.

About a lifetime ago, I...

I think today I found that I believe in reincarnation. Not as just an interesting, intellectual curiosity, but as a deeply felt certainty. I was alive before (though please don't ask what "I" I was before), and I am here now to do something really important. It's kind of like going to bed, then waking up in the middle of the night and remembering that the front door was left open as you let the cat out. It's cold, it's dark, and the bed is warm and soft, but you have to go and close the door. tha feeling of knowing, something important was left undone.

Unfortunately, I can't find the door, and I don't have a cat. I am at a loss as to exactly why I am up (metaphorically speaking) in the dark ight of my soul, in fluffy slippers (the rewards of good karma) and dressing gown, wandering around and bumping into things because the fuse has blown and none of the lights work.

One minute.

So. I am now quite sure that I am here for a reason. Like wandering around the kitchen, holding a squeegee, trying to remember exactly what I had in mind doing there. At least I know that much. Clean the glass? Put the squeegee away? Squeegee the floor? Perhaps I was meant to go into the bathroom?

The Uncertainty of the Poet

Tue, 07 Mar 2006 20:36:31 GMT

The Uncertainty of the Poet

I am a poet.
I am very fond of bananas.

I am bananas.
I am very fond of a poet.

I am a poet of bananas.
I am very fond.

A fond poet of 'I am, I am'-
Very bananas.

Fond of 'Am I bananas?
Am I?'-a very poet.

Bananas of a poet!
Am I fond? Am I very?

Poet bananas! I am.
I am fond of a 'very.'

I am of very fond bananas.
Am I a poet?

-- Wendy Cope

10 Minute writing exercise

Sun, 05 Mar 2006 20:34:51 GMT

Usually when I write, I take hours. Hours and hours sitting in front of my keyboard, time draining away like waste water.

Enough.

10 Minutes. If I cannot say what I need to say in 10 minutes, then I have nothing to say, and I've only spent 10 minutes.

At the end of the ten minutes, a further minute is given to clean up. No extensions

--

What is a relatinship? A relation, ship. A ship of relation, a relay-tion-ship. A ship filled with relayed tions. What are tions? Items. Relayed items. A ship fulled of relayed items. A passage of items, passed back and forth, items that make up they way we interact with each other. A giving taking stealing abandoning forcing sort of thing. Then stands the question, what is to be given what can be taken, willingly? A ship of passing back and forth of items. What items to give, to take?

The answer is based in truth. Every answer is based in truth, otherwise it is just a response, a reply, the form lacking the substance. So. The ship of relays must be based in truth. A giving and taking that is not willing, cannot last. The ship will become too heavy port or bow, starboard or stern, and capsize, or snap.

3 Minutes left.

To work out what is willingly given or taken, then, is going to guide the answer to this ship. Some give more, some take more. Willingly. Take is not better than give. But then, changes. What changes are there, to taking and giving, will alter the ship. A ship of fools will not consider the needs of willingness.

Submarines are cooler. A relationsubmarine would rock ass, especially if it had those 007 pincer mechanical arms, and made loud "Boop-Ping!" sounds.

Bells

Sat, 04 Mar 2006 23:16:25 GMT

It was the end of Friday. The week had not gone particularly well. Nothing was obviously wrong, but nothing was obviously right either. I had just wasted an hour of the precious weekend, on top of which I missed my Bhataranatyam class. I left school via St Clemets Passage, running beside the Royal Courts of Justice. It was dark already, sodium lights reflecting off the featureless grey office building beside me, a reminder of how drab life could be.

I turned a corner, and the air sang to me.

Click to hear the bells of St Clement Danes, Aldwych, London