Wicked! Miles Davis

One Mr Sebastian Kruger's rendition of Miles Davis at work...

Jazz

Jazz - Anticipation,

The wise double bass - elderly yet playful
knowing
he knew you would be there that night...
like the father of a grown man
you're still his child, you know.

The cymbals and the brush..
they're not your game
making love - still flirting with your wine glass.
They conspire.

The piano - an out of place ballet dancer..
speaks some other language..
she doesnt know their dialect..
but she was always a star
she's here to perform.. she has another show elsewhere..right after this

The sax..
The norweighan scream of silence..
the scream of the butterfly?
or a thick glob of violet, pouring out into your glass
is that what you drink?

why do you come to meet these well known strangers.. why do you want to know how they know you?

does it matter?
she's sitting right before you...
is that why they had come too?

I was hoping...?let it be ?
does it seem like i'm looking for an answer to a question i cant ask?

SK

July

A cup of coffee; drops of monsoon rain
Come crashing down heavily on the window panes.
Strange emotions follow that we cannot explain;
'Tis just another day in July.

The horizon sports all shades of grey,
And though there's sunshine somewhere along the way,
The brightness - will it be here to stay?
Meanwhile - we are as melancholy as the sky.

Thanks to the rain, 'tis muffled, unclear
But still suddenly the radio catches your ear
-A nostalgic melody that you overhear;
There's a giddy feeling inside you can't deny.

Thoughts of different genres stringed together
With imaginary threads that withstand the weather,
All unique yet similar, like birds of a feather,
Come into view; you breathe a heavy sigh...

An awkwardness follows, which you tacitly condone;
You are neither joyous, nor sad - in a twilight zone.
Are you searching for someone or would you rather be alone?
Mysterious contradictions - you are left wondering why...

And yet, relentless, defiant - the rain will march on!
Perhaps till the scorching summer memories are gone.
But will our vibrant Sun resurface at dawn?
'Tis just another day in July.

SR

Leaning out from an airplane window

Surreal.
Multiple levels of a world well-known.

Pacifying colors and burnished serrations with blinding centers.
now convex, now concave fractals of mercury.
flakes of life and dirt on the finely striated moltenness.
wrinkles on the old, blue-tinted man's face.

Flocks of angels kneeling for the friday evening prayer.

A puncture-hiss of white above all.

Static.


-- RS

Hunter S Thompson – The Man and the Cacti plant

“San Francisco in the middle sixties was a very special time and place to be a part of. Maybe it meant something. Maybe not, in the long run . . . but no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world. Whatever it meant. . . .

History is hard to know, because of all the hired bullshit, but even without being sure of "history" it seems entirely reasonable to think that every now and then the energy of a whole generation comes to a head in a long fine flash, for reasons that nobody really understands at the time — and which never explain, in retrospect, what actually happened.

My central memory of that time seems to hang on one or five or maybe forty nights — or very early mornings — when I left the Fillmore half-crazy and, instead of going home, aimed the big 650 Lightning across the Bay Bridge at a hundred miles an hour wearing L. L. Bean shorts and a Butte sheepherder's jacket . . . booming through the Treasure Island tunnel at the lights of Oakland and Berkeley and Richmond, not quite sure which turn-off to take when I got to the other end (always stalling at the toll-gate, too twisted to find neutral while I fumbled for change) . . . but being absolutely certain that no matter which way I went I would come to a place where people were just as high and wild as I was: No doubt at all about that. . . .

There was madness in any direction, at any hour. If not across the Bay, then up the Golden Gate or down 101 to Los Altos or La Honda. . . . You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning. . . .

And that, I think, was the handle — that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn’t need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting — on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. . . .

So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark — that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.”

The quoted text above is the famous “wave speech” that Hunter S. Thompson often cited during interviews and is from his book Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. I had read this book a long time back and like many young people had idolised it for all the wrong reasons. At that time the only thing I felt was this deep connection with the author who talked so passionately about drugs. The man himself, unlike Timothy Leary (many say Leary was publicist and a media-monkey) was very unpredictable. His biographer has said that, “In any given situation, as soon as he feels there's a system closing in, he'll destroy it”

Anyways, I have too many things to say and too many images in my mind about Hunter S Thompson but the one thing that has interested me most is the way he had arranged his own funeral.

On August 20, 2005, in a private ceremony, Thompson's ashes were fired from a cannon atop a 153-foot tower of his own design (in the shape of a double-thumbed fist clutching a peyote button) to the tune of Bob Dylan's Mr. Tambourine Man, known to be the song most respected by the late writer. Red, white, blue and green fireworks were launched along with his ashes. As the city of Aspen would not allow the cannon to remain for more than a month, the cannon has been dismantled and put into storage until a suitable permanent location can be found. According to widow Anita Thompson, the actor Johnny Depp, a close friend of Thompson (and portrayer of Raoul Duke in the movie adaptation of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas), financed the funeral. Depp told the Associated Press, "All I'm doing is trying to make sure his last wish comes true. I just want to send my pal out the way he wants to go out."

Peyote cannon. I know he lived on the right side of the sixties, but a peyote cannon? What could have possibly ushered him to peyote? Only thing I had known about peyote before this is that it is a source of mescaline, which unfortunately, I have never experienced. I got reading about peyote synthesis, peyote cultivation, peyote communities, legal issues with peyote, its history and they are all mind-boggling.

Peyote (Lophophora williamsii) is a small, spineless cactus whose native region extends from the southwestern United States (including the states of Texas and New Mexico) through central Mexico. It has been used for centuries for the mystical effects experienced when it is ingested.

Peyote is reported to trigger states of deep introspection and insight that have been described as being of a metaphysical or spiritual nature, and it is also said that the trip is more spiritual than acid. Often used within religious groups and native americans (for whom the use of peyote is protected by law), peyote can be used in ceremonial context by shamans and community doctors. They are supposed to have magical effects and could be used to combat social ills and diseases. It is also said in Native American circles that consuming peyote can lead a man to his destiny and gives them insight. I was thoroughly fascinated by this information so I wanted to know about lophophora cultivation. This is where I guess the fascination ends because all lophophora species are extremely slow growing, often taking up to thirty years to reach flowering age in the wild. Though human cultivated plants grow much faster.

I found this amazing blog on lophophora cultivation and also this. I have also found a list of vendors who sell seeds and infants that have just germinated. The only thing holding me back is the legal consequences of getting this shipment to India. Hopefully, I will figure out something. The calcutta atmosphere is ideal for lophophora growth ….. hot and humid, the composition of the soil can also be simulated. The germination rate of seeds is 70-90%. I guess all I have to do is wait for 15 odd years for my own plant to flower….and then divine nirvana!

- Leelay

The Crap Economist

I made a special observation about the multiplexes in the city. They are more like casinos. You enter and find yourself in a hyper-real world. Eyes widen in glee and hands start shaking. Who remembers what happened behind the doors of a casino anyway! It’s your time for time-out and you will happily forget the real world and the famished boy asking for two rupees at the red-light.

Everything looks perfect. Models on billboards with perfect teeth and good skin. Customised music, mellowed down to reflect the intended texture of any floor space. Bargains that are always too good to be true. Combo meals. Spatial arrangement of products and ad’s with the skimpy model behind that makes you do a double-take. Low-key products camouflaged with outstanding branding and strategically placed among superior peers, so you can easily cherry pick them. Food that more often than not looks way better than it actually tastes (they sometimes even induce your appetite). Inviting movie posters for otherwise intolerable movies, making them look larger than life. Hell!…even the people there look happier and more colorful than otherwise.

But all that jazz didn’t keep me blinded for long. I think of City Centre as an infinite sink. Whoever goes into it, drains his mullah in the sink (mind you very unknowingly). Everyday the sink gets more powerful and attractive and draws more people towards it. Trust me, you will find a way to put some money in the sink somehow. Be it a bottled water or something as harmless as an ice-cream, it doesn’t matter; the money goes to the sink. So even if there is no will, there is always a way!

Rethinking the situation, is it not more like Uncle Scrooge’s vault? Most people who enter, drop at least one gold coin, and the heap of gold keeps growing taller and mightier. Needless to say Scrooge and his nephews gets to do all the gold surfing.

I have been a big patron, I do not deny it, but how can I help? It’s a casino for god’s sake! It’s the best place in the desert and unlike mirages, they are all real.

But don’t stop spending! Who knows …. maybe I will be the one drafting ingenious retail strategies in the future.

Leelay

Given to fly

I've been listening to this song for the last couple of weeks. Almost compulsively. Constantly. There's something about the song thats very compelling. A true act of selflessness. The very definition of purpose.

Reminds me of this song by Live called 'Lightning crashes'. It's when you realise that the song is not so much about life and death, but about rising and falling. Not in the pathetic, glorified, silver screened, testosterone pumped, botox faced Rocky Balboa ( hey! I did like Rocky 4, but this was just too much!) way.

I was trying to make a point about the difference between tolerance and ignorance a few days back. I was telling someone how (ok, yes, drunk. happy? :o) ) they might appear to be the same thing but they are not. Well, yes, at the end of the day the result may be the same, but the fact that you know something might not work out the way you want it and still go for it (or not go for it) takes courage.

Dramatic.
I agree.

But I find my peace that way.

For the ignorant, you wont find the strange spot in the sky. You wont BE the strange spot in the sky.
I have a video of this song that plays in my head. It's in the same league as 'Do the evolution'. Pastels/frame sequence/blurred/stop motion/ film grain video. I hope I get to make it one day.

The other thing I got hooked onto was the story of Icarus. Although he personality traits of Icarus and the person in question in the song would be the opposite, it throws some light on the plot for a new graphic novel in the elseworlds (Icarus emerges from the sea -wiser, resurrected. - rub my hands in glee!! ;o) )

SK

...concrete jungle!

You are not merely who you are,
But a product of my perception -
My opinion of the "you" I see...
Through your countless veils of deception;
The concept of what is 'really' "real"
Is skewed and obscure.
And the plastic smiles that go around
Celebrate how much we endure.
Clouds of diplomacy hover between us,
As we engage in conversation.
Our thoughts and feelings trapped behind
'Masks' of our own creation!

Beneath the wafer-thin 'warm' exterior,
Are strong currents of ambition...
That drive us to where we will be from
With near-zero inhibition.
A Conscience is part of a dying species;
This is clearly the final stand.
With Ethics sentenced to the gallows,
There's now more cash-in-hand!
Almost with ease and a cheery disposition,
You stab your closest rival...
And plot the next few moves you'll make
On this chess-board called 'Survival'.

SR

Refrain

The other day I met a physicist - seemed like a really nice chap, actually i'm sure that he is.. its just that most times when I should keep my mouth shut I cant.. If i see even teeny weeny room for a punchline, I deliver.. I'm sure most people reading this blog would have figured that out. The problem (I usually realise this when I have recovered from the sheer joy of having effected the punchline and back to standing poise from being doubled over in peals of laughter) is that I have no sense of what to say when. I kill the context as long as I'm having a ball.

I only mean it in good spirit.
Generally its their anaemic smile that gives away their true, yellow disposition.

Ok, I'm coming to the point.
As soon I came to know this guy was a physicist, I'm telling him how he must be 'the half-life of the party!'

I agree, radioactive chemistry or physics was of no great consequence to us in school... except that we always noticed the potential of something radioactive to be able to rot life away or have serious capability to blow things up. The stuff that u look up to. Something with great purpose.

Just like the time we used to wonder if we can get enough AgCl to precipitate, maybe 4-5 test tubes, we could culture just about enough silver to buy some movie tickets at esplanade.

But he's a physicist. Should at least get the drift.

What has the world come to? cant even crack a joke without having a looming, obtuse cloud of silence showing up.

some people never learn!

SK

An invitation

After several failed attempts to get going with a blog I finally found a novel way to keep a blog going... instead of one bum doing all the writing (or none of it) ... get several lazybums to do it. So, from the literary talentpool of what-am -i-doing-!-should-have-been-a-writer friends (mostly having amazing foot-in-the-mouth mechanisms with self expression) here's an extended invitation to contribute to this blog with useless politically incorrect (hell yeah - u can sign ur article with ur pen name :o) ) information, expressions of thought, random banterings, curses invocation!!

SO - this has got to be a blog about all the stuff we talked about / never talked about , revelations (Ok yeah I do like the songs of Norah Jones..and maybe Andrea Corr too... besides blues) and opinions unasked for.

The bummer lifestyle of not having a place called home, staying apart from friends, (me and my luggage could put a ping pong ball in a korean court to shame) with all this shuttling I thought maybe this'd be one of the few things i'd get to do with u guys together. Sure not everyone in this blog would know each other.. but I'm pretty darn sure this melting pot of consciousness (or the lack of it!) would throw in some interesting articles.

SK

The Explanation...

Today, well-known mob hitman Johnny Two-Shoes admitted that he was once hired to kill a cow in a rice field using only two small porcelain figurines. Police reports indicate that this is the only known incident of a Knick-Knack Paddy Whack.