If there's smoke, there's a liar

(not even crickets chirping, 05something)

It's one of those days where I feel like I went on heroin the night before because the day after feels chemically wrong. You see something funny and it's funny but it's just not funny. You talk to people hoping they won't figure you're on the fritz but all you can manage is a sentence out of context here and maybe there.You gnaw your teeth and your hand often reaches for the lighter. But you say no. Nicotine isn't bad but things aren't working between us anymore. It's time to part. A hug? One last time. A goodbye kiss? Couldn't hurt. A sordid five minutes later, you realize you're having your post-smoke smoke.
But not today. No cigarettes until I do my paper. No dinner even. Stomach grumbles. Maybe dinner. I'm tired. Mosquitoes love the legs. Half is done. Fuck half. Slave some more. Complete it. Grin widely and head towards the roof. But what of the cigarettes? Where are my cigarettes?
Then like a Meatloaf song, it all started coming back to me now.
Class was over and I'd gone to sit on the bench. I did pull out one deathstick. I did smoke one. And then I did leave the packet and my favourite lighter. and Forgot. Couldn't be worse. Wait, what the fuck is Celine Dion doing in my mind?
Come back down from the roof! Late? Very. Frustrated too. Very. Temper running low. Tempted to knock and ask the progenitor? Bad idea. Still tempting.
6 now. Bright idea. Car. Pack of 10. Sanity. Off I go. I shouldn't publish. I should. Smoking kills.

Ten Ten Ten

Almost There by Opus Orange playing, 0201 hours:

I've just returned from my rendezvous with the world's largest fort and it's completely wrung out the adventurous spirit from my exhausted body and then, to insult me, the incident robbed me of my will to go to class that starts less than six hours from now. I pretend to be upset now.
We were supposed to come back at 8 p.m. but somehow that didn't translate well with the shit fate had planned. The day starts out searingly hot (you do NOT want to sit in a car that's parked in the Clifton heat until you've airconditioned the car for five minutes prior) but it was going to get better. We were going to Ranikot.

Now Ranikot itself is very interesting. Wiki confirms that it IS indeed the largest "unexplored" fort, whatever that's supposed to mean. Students took to that description defiantly and couples insisted on exploring the nether regions of the fort. So they could explore nether regions elsewhere. But what's really a mystery is why the fort was built where it was built in the interior of Sindh. Nobody can answer who exactly built it and when and most importantly, what was it defending. It's desert on both sides! I'm sure it wasn't for the making out. That secret is now buried in these literal sands of time along with other such great secrets as "What is the Interior?", "Hyderabad: I'm not in the Interior!" and "Why is the Interior always so fucking hot?".

All this was great but..

One bus broke down. Then another. The AC broke in then another (mine, unfortunately). Half the food turned from the heat. No spoons or forks for the other half. Drivers refusing to drive. And last but definitely not the least: stupid kids. But that happens so often it's more of an accepted evil now.

Of the 17 hours I was away from home, 2 were spent at Ranikot. The rest were in hell. A hell without a bathroom. As imagined, the leak right after couldn't have been more cathartic.

It's late and I'm sleepy. A goodnight to you all and a fuck you, hit the road now please to 10/10/10.

Old School and the Devil's Tool

0126 hours, (Supa Scoopa and the Mighty Scoop from Desert Sessions playing):
I was watching the new Dexter episode and it got me thinking that I skip the opening credits to every show (except for the few that have a new gag every time) but I always end up going through the Dexter one, episode after episode. The accompanying eery score fits in to contextual perfection and everything about the sequence, from the shaving to the frying of eggs to the slices of orange to the tying the laces, whispers a dark intent to the audience. Dexter makes psychosis look easy. I love the show. I have it paused just so I could "blog" about loving the show. In fact I love it so much I'm going to go back to it.

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(useless dashes I made to signify the passing of time)

Speaking of blogging, a friend of mine just recently chanced upon phkd and decided that I was insane. Not for the flattering reasons of content but because, indignantly saying, of the fact that I just blog. Let's get some facts straight. I don't blog. I bog. And that too not often. Mentioned friend added I'm likely to kill myself because of this "bogging". He was convinced I'll find some tangible evidence of this correlation between suicide and blogging if I google hard enough. And I'm going to blog my suicide note. Apparently every literate person is suicidal because they are able to write a suicide note. And I'm crazy?

I've been bogging before blogging even came into play. The earliest entry on my now mutilated site is dated July 16th, 2002. Geek pride was on a high those days. I had a site with its very own cool address, no blogger blogspot wordpress bullshit. Gunsareblazing.com lasted for about a year before a man in Florida realized he did not pay $100 for internet registration and bandwidth. Going on it right now just sent me down a nostalgic hole, full of emo writings and high school. It's funny how the old site's called stimuli for insanity, which is exactly what my friend accused this blog of being. The site did have cryptic text all over and it was made in my A level days at Pats, a very defining time that set the tone for my actions and behaviour to this day. It felt like somebody tried to turn a very rusty switch on (or off, from a perspective) for a excruciating period of a year and then...then there was light. I learnt that sex and drugs and rock (not so much roll) are the Devil's tools. And should be used wisely. It was an adjustment that I dealt with with different hands and writing was found to be an effective way to rid teenage angsty shit. Writing words just seem to even out the flow. It introduces a little coherency to the wild. Talking is chaos and writing is order. But hardly in order. It's frustrating when the words don't come but so calming when they do. I'm never more comfortable than when in self-expression. Much contrary to allegations of insanity and suicide. Maybe crazy's comfortable too.

(a quick wiki told me I was wrong, the concept of blogging beat my "bogging" by three years)

All work and no sleep makes Jack not bother with a title

Jack hadn't slept, hoping class would be canceled. This fruitless optimism begot the beginnings of a very surreal day.

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I noticed that driving when deprived of sleep makes everything brighter. Like nuclear summer bright. It causes one to hear mention of one's mother and sister a lot from people otherwise fasting. Driving insanely, first to get to an already late class and then again to the comfort of a bed, casually dodging crossing pedestrians. Frankly, it's a lot like playing GTA. Minus the hookers.

The Flash in always on time

I get to class late, wearing a shirt with The Flash on it. The irony is missed and I'm grateful. It was Ethics and we were talking about the differences between the Classical and Socioeconomic view to management. The Classical view seemed fascist and myopic in its inability to comprehend social welfare. However, one can operate on a Classical level and still be socially charitable keeping in mind the concept of long-term profit. A man who completely embraces the socioeconomic view will do good for the sake of good. A Classical man, however, will do good too but with the expectations of the consequences somehow reimbursing him. But this brings even the staunchest socialists to the Classical floor because let's face it: nobody does good for the rainbows. Everyone wants something. Whether it's something tangible or even in, such as goodwill (from the said person or the public at large). In this life or the after or even the next.

To conclude, I would like to update everyone with the new poverty barometer: calories. 1200 to be exact. This means that people who can't manage 1200 calories a day are officially poor. This also mean that most of the female population went beneath the poverty line. The males and the whales now rule the world.

Writer's Blah

Dear Reader. "Readers" is too funny for even me.

I haven't written for a long time. I would call it writers' block but I'm not really a writer, I was more like a phone off the hook.
I was lying in bed a moment ago when I swear I could hear a jinn whispering, "pathaann ... pathaaaaan ... open your dukaaan" and I decided to listen to my delusions and write about how I can't write.
I remember how I was telling a friend in the 8th grade that there are these moments when you're talking to a girl on the phone when you're blank and have nothing to say and he told me to talk about exactly that, that awkward moment. The idea seemed brilliant until the girl started thinking I'm semi-retarded and started taking these romantic walks in the narrow corridors of the school with the talk-about-the-awkwardness friend. Awkward.

I was lying, I just made up the jinn. I couldn't sleep. I might have class tomorrow and might not and I'm an optimist.

saturday was a good day

University finals have dawned like a killer July sun and procrastinators stand united in worry. It was an exhausting week and just describing it in a half written post exhausted me. So I left it to rot with the other drafts. But last saturday something happened to completely capture my attention.
It was the Manchester derby and I was expecting the worse. A little history in my interest:
United had been coming first for some time before they got bumped off the spot by Chelsea. And then the Champions League was lost. The holes from Arsenal were gaining ground with each match. And then, we drew to Blackburn. It was realistically over. And then out of nowhere, the Spurs come out of the underdog shadow and defeats Arsenal. A little pressure is eased. Then they defeat Chelsea! And the competition is back on! And then, the match that was to cement United's standing firmly on to the road to victory: the match with Man City.
There are two clubs in Manchester. One is the shit and other's plain shitty. manchester city is a club that that's so shitty it doesn't even deserve the title case, forget the title. city came to United and they lost. We met them in the Carling Cup and they were decimated. And now they were promising revenge on the reverse fixture. I was a little scared, but Scholes came to me in my dreams and started "O ye of little faith..." I had class the time the match was on so I knew I was going to miss it. So the match begins and I'm checking livescore every minute and biting my nails. Actually the skin beneath the nails. Biting nails is nasty and unhygienic. And so is Adebayor. It's still nil nil right down to the 70th minute, just when my class gets off. I rush to my car and get inside and go to my friend's house to watch the match and I'm checking the watch to see if I'm too late and I think I am and she opens the door and suddenly I hear her dog go crazy and the TV inside screaming of cheer. I can hear Jenny bark out "SCHOLES!" cos thats all I'm hearing, ringing in my head. Wow, what a rush. Not only do we win the derby but also destroy Arsenal's chance of being second and narrow the gap with Chelsea at first. If it makes anyone feel any better, Arsenal will always be number 2 in my mind.

Exploration

 Searching for truth is easy. Accepting it is hard. - old Jedi saying

I’ve been told by a huge amount of people that I can’t drive. Sure, I’m rough but these claims are slanderous! I just remind them how according to unscrupulous research, the way I drive is in direct correlation to my performance in bed. I agree though, my driving is terrible. I once hit a motorcyclist trying to change his lanes into mine. I didn’t slow down because I was replying to a text I got from a friend. While driving in Karachi, it is essential for the driver to never admit his mistake lest he be eaten alive by the mob. Once he or she (but let’s get real: no woman has ever survived Saddar) truly masters the art of the Jedi mind trick, only then can he drive on the broken, dangerous roads of Karachi feeling safe. Driving in Karachi also requires infinite patience, so my trick is to become super aloof to the middle fingers and dirty looks. Or maybe the detached, fatalistic driving is what causes the finger to be raised in the first place. Oh well. *goes back to being aloof*

But it can’t be helped, thoughts of all kind collide in the insides of my skull till I become numb to thought. One thing that helps me calm and arrange my thoughts in a coherent manner is the subtle influence of good music and good music is only music that raises at least the hair on my forearms. That’s when duality of nature comes together in melodic cohesion and I’m at peace, transient and illusory as it is.

I believe in God, because if I didn’t my mind would tear around the seams. There are so many questions and there are so many things that cause that itch in my mind that if I didn’t believe, all those things would hurl in my brain and I’d be a vegetable with no hope and no motivation…with no Grand Plan. God to me is not really a historic notion but a rather rational one: a string tying up all the loose ends in the universe. It’s math, really. Without a Constant, the equation just falls apart. Everybody has their own constants. The heart, the story goes, is made to love. When it doesn’t find divinity, it finds other things in naivety.  A tribal dude might adhere to a constant culture perpetuated by his environment, Gordon Gecko had money, Don Juan had women (as an idea, not individuals) and even the atheist, his Seinfeld-ish belief in nothing. I’m guessing Aristotle had the right idea when he said that humans are only different from animals on account of inclusion of the rational soul, capable of reflection. But unlike animals, this part of the soul was placed in the heart rather than the mind. And anybody who’s ever fallen in love knows that nothing hurts quite like heartache. Music mends my abused mind while the idea of Allah Subhanta’allah tends to the black depths of my heart.

The balance we strike in leading our lives is illusory, changing to whims and frailty of society. But balance by definition is a compromise and compromise does not exist in perfection. Somebody’s wrong is some other body’s right, no pun intended. But we aren’t perfect creatures and we make do, our animal instincts and base desires on one side and our ideals of civility and purpose on the other. There is a line that divides the dark from the light where aspects of both sides come together to form a comfortable gray. The shade might vary from morality to morality, with our own perfect barcode as a benchmark to judge all other grays, “knowing the hand of God to be the promise of our own”.

When the history of DC Comics characters became so convoluted and ambiguous, DC ran an in-comic campaign to clean up house, killing off variations of known superheroes that were deemed too outdated and merging the characters of the ones that would seem about right. Histories were finally settled so a character could be traced to a linear source. The merging of the parallel multiverses into the comic universe we’re used to today was called Crisis on Infinite Earths. This is the event that established Clark Kent as Superman, vulnerable to kryptonite and way way faster than a speeding train. Apparently “faster than a train” had more of an impact in the 50’s than it did on me. The Crisis was used to end that aspect of Superman history by making it the history of another superman from another universe. In similar fashion, the balance that humans strike in their respective lives is a product of deliberate ideology. The mix of black and white that we reach to attend life, the focal point of our duality, is what I call the crisis line. This is the line where we decide what to keep and what to throw. This is the place where all our moral ambiguities come together and form character. Too human as it is.

Because we’re ours, we walk the crisis line. - Johnny Cash (almost)

I have an exam in the morning. Goodnight.

 

R.I.P.