Sad Single's Day (15th February)

Greetings Infidels,

Long time, no see, eh? Well, how was Valentine's Day for you scallywags? No, I am not jealous, in fact, I am delighted. To not to be a part of a gullible pretentious fake holiday, just because someone declared that you have the right to marry for love. Why? Why, you ask? Well, because he could have done the community a favor and abolished the concept of marriage. Think of it, wedding industry is overpriced and makes much more than actually necessary all year 'round. It would be of best interest of everyone to just do away with the stupid sad expression if "I love you legally". She wants the pre-nup, he wants the Abbeyway... Nobody's happy. So, can we move on?

Yesterday, world, there were people. Dressed. In shades of reds and pinks that didn't even exist till last year. Holding boxes in the shapes of anatomically incorrect hearts. Flowers of such beauty that belonged on a farm show. Women in shoes with heels that (like a ferrari) aren't fit for Indian roads. Chocolates mercilessly eaten but not for the love that the CHOCOLATE deserves as an entity. I wouldn't love anyone with half the affection that I have for chocolates. Seriously, how could you? Going out for fancy dinners to fancy places, basically, just blowing whatever's left of your pocket money.

It's a sad sad event in human history. And to be honest, world. A single as for myself is often questioned. "Don't you have a Valentine's date?" "How come nobody's asked you yet?" "What do you mean you don't believe in Valentine's day?" "Don't you want somebody?"

The answers (in the chronological order) are "No", "No", "I don't believe in it means I don't believe in it", and "What for?"

And this is the last time I am openly declaring: I am NOT a cynic. I believe in love. I grew up in a household of love. My parents are a romantic couple, you know, the kind that holds hand when they cross the road, and have occasional date nights just to keep the going good, he gave her eighteen notes of love for Valentine's day. My younger brother (he's not even a year old yet) had a date for Valentine's day. We're a warm loving romantic family. But being the most radical member of the family, it is hereby my duty to question this: "why?"

He spends a lot of time with her all year 'round, why not take account of that? He gets her gifts out of the blue, she gets him gifts out of the blue, they go shopping together, they eat together, and if he's away and the moment he's free he's on the call with her, there's a healthy amount of music in their lives...

I have seen love happen, and I believe that love's out there. I just find it stupid that suddenly on one day in the whole year people suddenly pay more importance to it than anything else, you know. While the ACTUAL day is the day AFTER Valentine's Day.

I mean look at this, my friend has this huge surprise for his woman, He's wearing a half heart T, expects her to wear the other half heart, he buys her flowers, chocolates, cupcakes, teddybears, she's looking pretty... and this morning they had a fight. Just because he forgot to say "Goodnight" last night. *shakes my head*

THIS is the day when Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts' Club Band comes together to pass the judgement, "I hereby declare that upon your rejection, you are now eligible to be the proud member of the Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts' Club, and now you may hear the band perform."

This is the day when bars are flooded, and somewhere Roy Orbison's singing, "Only the lonely". This is the day when Chet Baker must have composed, "I guess she's the one, but not for me." This is the day the rejects unite to wallow in self misery, and get over it.

You know why? Because love happens. And just because you got dumped on the most overrated day of the year, it doesn't mean that things are never gonna work out. They will. You know why? Because everybody loves somebody sometime. And it's gonna happen. I have seen it happen. It DOES happen. It's never a fairy tale, it's never a cloud in the sky. It's a lot of work. A lot of commitment. A lot of keeping heads off the cloud and on the ground. But at the end of the day, the real deal's all there is. And all that is that it takes to be happy.

And here's to my goodbye, and happy Sad Single's Day.

Much love,
Maggie May

P.S. Switching from Neetzi to Maggie. Lemme know whaddya think? Muchos amore! :*

Monthlies

“I HATE YOU!”

“You don’t understand!”

“Why does this happen to me?”

“My ovaries are killing me!!!!”

Yes, yes, yes! It does happen to us! It’s the worst thing in the history to happen to us. Period (I’m not even joking). Now, I’m going to sum you up as to why it is important for you to behave around a woman during that time of the month. Thing is that this is the deadliest period… almost a test. IF you do all the right things at the right time… think about it, there is still the rest of the month to be on her good side *arm nudge*.

If you skip this article, *feminist scream* typical man! That is just so typical of you to ignore how we feel! But if you haven’t, *flirtatious grin* hello, handsome ;) …

I understand, it is an uncomfortable topic, but then again, you have to face it, you do expect to be married, or have a girlfriend. If you’re gay, chances are you have a mother/ sister/ neurotic best friend. You cannot escape the feminine monthlies. No! That just does not happen. So read on, don’t be selfish.

Cramps. I HATE them, and every woman just hates (emphasis on hate), HATES them. I don’t know, but it is terrible, you know, having my left side ovaries attacking my right side ovaries, hosting that internal war and damaging my body in turn. Sitting hurts, laying down hurts, standing hurts, laying on my back hurts more. EVERYTHING HURTS! So, if you are calling, and I don’t pick up your call, it is because I am busy. Busy not being able to move because of these damned cramps. My lower belly IS Mordor. There is not a place more deadly in the whole of the Middle Earth.

If you see me walk past you with a ginormous box of chocolates/ chocolate ice cream, (pro-tip), pretend you haven’t seen it. No, seriously. Unsee it. I am not a sugar chugging beast- chocolate understands me, satisfies my needs, doesn’t judge me, and loves me unconditionally. I remember I had this T-shirt with a gingerbread man drawn on it, and it said, “The perfect man, good to smell, sweet to eat, and if he gives you any grief, BITE HIS HEAD OFF”. I used to wear that t-shirt around on the second day. We need chocolate, it’s like, our kryptonite. And yes, you can shower me with all the chocolate you want, and I promise I’ll marry you!

Hormones, seriously? Okay, God, Mother Nature, whoever you are… WHY you do this? Why is it that around that time of the month, I have a sudden urge to get romantic while I’m on the murdering rampage? Seriously, is necrophilia a woman’s thing? I’m not even sure. It’s like, I hate men, but I won’t mind kissing one. I hate what a man has to say, but I’d love to hear a dirty joke in a male voice… Not every man can be Wolverine! Please! Stop giving me unrealistic expectations, I have suffered enough pain (pun intended)!

Now, boys, here’s an insider’s secret, if you don’t know what wings are…. Die. Please. Thing is, if you’re living with me, I’ll be in enough pain to not only not move, but also in too much pain to go get myself a pad. So, chances are, you would have to get one for a woman (not just me, but any woman) at some point of your life. And it is IMPORTANT to know which one she wears. You have to know the right one, there’s no getting round this one. You must. Treat it like your fundamental duty. And DO it!

Bleeding. This isn’t exactly the worst thing, but it is true. We bleed. For five days. We don’t die. We’re Jesus, we’re saviors… who want to kill you. Anyway, I hate this part the most. I sleep night one, wake up day two, look at my white sheets, and find a flag of Japan. Worst is shower. I go in there, warm water, calming my ovaries, calming the pain, taming the beast within (that sounds almost sexy, wow), and right after that, the race to get dry and get dressed begins. I don’t want a bloody blood stain on my legs! White pants don’t get work because of these. I ruined so many of my salwars because of them. And it feels bad. I had this medical condition, I bled more than an average girl, now it is somewhat normal for initial periods to be like that… I used to cry a lot. Having my uniform ruined, having my dress for my cousin’s wedding ruined, and having my favorite bed sheet ruined… it felt so horrible. It’s not even about the dress, it’s about that I’m bleeding, it hurts, and I can’t do anything about it.

God, things I’ll do for a snickers bar right now. So boys, if you find yourself in a conflict, the worst thing to say is, “are you on your period?” because it’s not even remotely funny. I’m serious as hell, I’ll kill you till you die. And then respawn you, and kill you again. Keep calm, and wait for the end of the scarlet tide. I promise I’ll be good. ;)

Tuberose

A vase at the center of the dining table. Empty. Waiting. The sound from the kitchen microwave. Three beeps. Another sound the of the door clicking open. A shutting sound following. A shadow taking the dish plate in one of the rooms. Inside that room there's a half eaten apple, and some crumpled up paper in the waste basket. A teenager at work. Sounds of surface of pencil rubbing against paper. The wall behind him is covered with caricatures drawn in pencil, some in felt. He doesn't know. He's just a kid.

The doorbell rings. He rushes up to the door, half rubbing the sweat off the fingers. He opens the door to a taller but gentler figure who hugs him. She's carrying a humble bundle of it all... groceries, condiments, things that everyone likes, and the little things that she likes. The young eyes scan the bag of condiments. He searches for bourbon biscuits like James Bond looking for war plans in a Soviet state. The mother only smiled and went to the kitchen.

You need to be careful with these, and make sure to cut just the right length. She has a pair of scissors in her hand, but her face bears an unsure frown. She goes to the table. Sounds of frisking the bag of groceries go on. She caresses his head as he smiles upon finding chocolates. Don't eat all at once- she said. Then she went back to the kitchen with the vase, while the excited kid runs back to the kitchen with the treats.

She measures the length of the stem against the length of the vase and after some quite sure approximations, she cuts it off. She fills the vase with water, and arranges them in a desirable fashion. She likes the smell of them, the color of them... She likes the fact that they need only a little bit of love to live long. And that she can love them long enough.

She places them on the table, and takes the bag of groceries to the kitchen. The little one is lending a helping hand.

A vase at the center of the dining table. With tuberose flowers, and fresh water.

-Neetzi

A little chat with the Bartender

"You look thirsty," he says.

"Your worst. Bitter. Rough. Strong."

"Cheap ale, I assume," he says as he pours it correctly.

He drops a glance at my indifference. I accept it with a make believe smile. Obviously, see through.

"Somethings are more disgraceful than a wrongly poured ale," he starts. I nod. To which he leaned with stance of a true barman, "what's botherin' ya?"

"It's a night alone."

"Well," he says moving back, "nothing wrong with that."

"No?... no!" I say shaking my head. "Just you're with what you don't want, want what you don't have... y'know..." I let my voice trail off. "I just want," I take a deep breath, a sip of that drink, about five seconds, "something that puts me to sleep the moment I hit the bed, and something bitter to make me forget that I'm alone."

He allows a momentary silence, listening it as if he's been there.

I'm not botherin' him really. I take that down in a single gulp. And there, I stop to ask, "how much?"

"Take that on the house," he says.

I raise a toast to him. This thing is really strong.

"You, a rookie?" he asks.

"First time alcoholic."

"That calls for one pint water, two pints paracetamol." I nod. Sure. Paracetamol. I eat that before food. What I could use is a decent smoke. There's a jukebox in the corner, playin' my song. One more night... Phil Collins.  "Like a river to the sea" and here I am....

I'm fucking missing you.

An Experiment...

When I was reading League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, I got an idea. I hope they don't sue me for this. Presenting yours faithfully's second person narrative, with all due apologies to Duforts, Elisa, H. G. Wells, League of Extraordinary Gentlemen and fathers, mothers and others of SteamPunk. #GoingToHellForThis.

Madam Dufort sits sipping her tea. Oh yes! She sips tea. She likes green tea. It is indeed very becoming of the rich folk, and I daresay, madam Dufort drinks tea because she is rich. She doesn't like the taste, the poor rich madam wants regular Earl Grey with more creamery, but no. Green tea is more becoming of the rich folk.

"Elisa," she calls to you in her strong voice, chiseled with nicotine vapours from her silver holder and chipped with her medication.

You walk without making a sound. Some unrest makes you feel that your apron is tightening around your waist. You hold your hands together, bow your head in a courtesy, and not utter a word. It is improper of you to speak, when you are not expected to talk.

"Elisa, I want you to prepare my ink and quill for the letter I am to write to Sir Hill," she takes a pause sips her tea. Oh, don't look up! She doesn't like you meeting her eye. "Also, tell Smith that Mrs. Fonde will be paying us a visit."

"Yes, Madam," you say.

You are aware of madam Dufort's eye for detail. That's why you keep your dress as grey as it is supposed to be and bleach your apron and headrest whenever you have a chance. "And Elisa," she says, "did you wipe your hands with your apron again while cleaning the book case?"

Oh dear! Madam told you she likes uniform to be proper. "Yes madam," you confess. A good servant must be honest, Elisa. And you are good, aren't you? God save you!

"Well, Madam Fonde might not find it graceful. Tell Smith his orders, and you brush that up, clear?"

"Yes, madam," you say, clearing up the tea tray. You make your way past the halls, trying to remember what day it is. And your gaze wanders outside. Sir Samuel is practicing archery. Aye, that does feel something, doesn't it, Elisa? Had you been not a servant, how blessed would it be?

"How blessed would it be, dear Elisa?" you hear a voice call out from behind you. You turn around to address it. "How very blessed would it be?"

"Who is it?" you say turning behind you.

"You obviously don't know me Elisa," calls out the voice. Oh, it is so very near, yet you cannot see.

"Well, are you man, God or beast?" ah, dear Elisa, too late to hold your tongue, aren't you?

"Ha-ha-ha!" he laughs! "Oh, simple servant girls know not what to say! That's so very dear of you, sweet Elisa. Yet, you know not who I am?"

"Bless you, no! I cannot even see you, how can I recognise you if I don't see you?" now, when did you last talk to voices with no face?

"C'est moi, Elisa. You may refer to me as, 'that man' or 'shadow' or 'the unseen'... haven't you heard of me ever?"

The unseen... is it? "Professor Griffin?" your eyes light up. The lesson in sciences when you still had a family... oh how could you forget your own teacher?

"Yes, dear child, it is I," he says, "but you haven't really fared well, I see."

"Elisa," a voice calls you from a distance. It is Mr. Smith, the butler.

"I shall talk to you later," says the voice.

Smith comes to you, "are you alright?" you nod to the old butler's concern.

"The Madam wants me to inform you of Madam Fonde's arrival this evening, and I must go and prepare her ink and quill. She is to write a letter to Sir Hill." You say as you go past him, through the great hall to the study. Sharpening the quill, and preparing the ink solutions, you let thoughts go in your head. What is your professor doing here? After faking his murder, the poor gent was given immortality by Gabriel. And how he convinced your father to train you in pagan sciences... and how your approach became so very unlike a true Victorian Christian. Dear! You did read the fate of Hyptia, now, didn't you? You wouldn't be her! That is why you agreed on serving the rich when your family died in an accident along with your teacher. Isn't it? Oh, the immortal can never die, Elisa, professor might have survived. And he managed to find you here!

There ought to be more of his allies around, of course. It is unlikely of him to... "Elisa," you here his voice again.

"Yes, professor?" you say. The part of your instinct so trained and thorough in warfare speaks.

"Whatever became of you, dear?"

"Oh, professor, Lord knows what has happened!" you cannot refrain from the pain it brings, good Elisa, "the fire 'twas! The fire that consumed mother, father, brother, Margarette, Heffer, you! Oh, professor... the fire 'twas that burned my life down!"

"Now now," says Griffin putting his hand on your shoulder, "I was there when it happened, and it was no fire, I tell you."

"But the estate was down to ashes!" you say.

"Elisa, the estate was burnt, yes. But your family's burial was ensured in Pagan tradition by me, I swear! Oh, no good, no good! They were murdered Elisa, and I tried to save your father, but the bullet passed through me... I couldn't stop it, though I tried! The black veiled isn't distracted, and I saw the Bearer leave. And when he set the estate on fire, I knew I had to escape! I did the best possible preparation for the corpses to go to heaven, Elisa. Lord knows they rest in peace."

You shed a tear. You can't help it. "But that doesn't answer my question, dear girl," he says.

"Elisa," calls a caustic voice, Madam Dufort. The ink is ready, the quill is chipped, you wipe your tears and straighten your face. "Ah, it is ready! You've even laid out fine paper!" you drop a glance at it. Surely the professor did it, "thankyou, dear. Bless you!" says madam Dufort as she sits to write. You drop a courtesy and leave.

Though royal parentage, you are a servant now, Elisa. You deal with truth as you've learnt from your teacher.

You make your way to servant quarters, now you must change your apron. "God, they make you walk so much!" says the voice behind you.

"I wouldn't complain, professor. Just like you taught me to."

"Very well. Now tell me..."

"The Duforts are Christian like everyone in this town, professor. We dislike them, truly. But without a family, and being too proud to beg, I went to the older estate in Gastonbury, only to learn that it has been forcefully acquired by the extremists who survived the Third War. I couldn't fight them with nothing in my hands, professor. I went to Belgium to master all that I could about dynamics and motion. And I did fare better than what they could ever expect. But my pagan identity was revealed and I fled back home to safety. The Duforts were looking for a servant, when they hired me. And one day, Smith recognised me for who I am. Without the surname, sir, I'm as good as any servant named Elisa. I do need someone to prove my identity."

"So you do, dear child, so you do," he says comforting you. "But what if they discover it?"

"Oh no, I cannot handle another war... I would move to somewhere again, of course!"

"But that's no good, is it, dear?" says Professor Griffin.

-Neetzi

An Evening Walk

Ever been out on a lovely monsoon evening? I'm quite sure you must have, everyone loves monsoon here. Especially yours faithfully.

By the way, hello! Hope all's well, and yes, c'est moi! Missed me?

Winds blow.
 

Aye, five pm, lovely evening with the sun has hidden behind the clouds- which have now darkened to shades beyond black and tinted in gold. It is the Gods of caprice that chose to keep it so, and it be Ye, Gods, bless us under Your darkness, which never fails to show us the needed light. 

~* 

Winds blow.

I already regret cutting my long black hair years ago. I miss tying them up in a braid to keep them off my face for a longer while. I don't know why, but though I'm quite disinterested in fashion, the hairdresser claims it to be 90's of the latest fashion, and his idea of a so-totally-you look. Somehow it convinces me; the present length, being to my shoulders. 

~* 

Winds blow. 

The sweet scent of laburnum flowers, and some out-of-season Gulmohar comes from the nearest trees. It's quite funny really, that these flowers bloom in the most beautiful scent and shape, yet they wilt while you carry them home. I have had better successes with carnations. And roses. And... 

~* 

Winds blow. 

Ripples are created in that puddle under that bench. Over the bench, the sleeping figure doesn't even shudder in response. Poverty has failed to sadden me, now. It's a part of them, and their society, which in turn, is a part of mine. We care to mutually, agree to not understand, and leave it to that. That's about it. 

~* 

Winds blow. 

And burns brighter the lamps in the Sai Sandhya nearby. A beautiful un-electronic (thankfully) evening of music, devotion, and elevation of a fakir to a king. God bless them, for they are simple folk. Bless them, for they are full of love. Bless them, for they hold affections for Him. 

~*

Winds blow.

Children run wild after a fallen guava, fighting to keep it. And as I sit and smile at distance, associating myself with that skinny girl who is more than willing to fight all these goofs off for the magic fruit (though that practically never happens). Some mockery, some giggles, a nose reddened in rage. They let her keep it none-the-less, mainly out of sisterly/ friendly affection. 

~* 

Winds blow. 

A light appears from the clouds. I count the seconds to an approximate figure. Five. The nearest thunderstorm is approximately 1.7 km away. I apply that one principle I learnt in fifth grade: speed of sound is 343 m/s in air. Multiplying the time difference between sighting of the storm and sound with the speed ought to give you a rough distance. 

~* 

Winds stop. 

A drizzle starts.
Light at first.
And it soon gains momentum. 

The children play in the rain, doing their silly dance, getting drenched, as their mothers call out to them. I hear them in a distance now. 

The devouts in the Mandir take it for a blessing. The Masjid nearby calls out for Aazan as well. A scent comes from Gurudwara, the smell of langar. 

I'm blessed. Right now, humanity has joined hands to thank Gods for the blessing called rain, as a summer shower cools down our ego; my unsuited haircut. 

~* 

Torrents blow.

~Neetzi

Nature of Events

Perhaps the greatest bafflement to human civilization is “what now” but it’s a rhetoric question. Isn’t it? Hey, people, hoping you all are as awesome as you’ve been. I am at the moment too lazy to make up an excuse for my lack of posts. But then again, I couldn’t be a little less nonchalant (I prefer the word honest, though). That and I doubt if serious issues are within my range of thought to cover. So, lately my life has been a decent dosage of some minor education, and a lot of learning going on. Perhaps, it’s a superpresence in the experience again which makes one more aware, and thus results in more learning.

So, today, I came across one of those Mad Men episodes (God bless YouTube!), the one where Roger Sterling (the white haired immature funny twack) took LSD. I always found the nature of drug use peculiar. I mean, okay, say what you like, but the basic reason as to WHY people take drugs remains just a very basic “want” to experience previously unexperienced dimension. Look around the 60’s (the best time period, and all who existed back then and lived to see Woodstock, know that you have my envy) and you will see the fact that the basic essence was of a revolution, creation of ideas, Athenian/ Bohemian lifestyle. Any idiot was free to move around reciting poetry or doing something as peculiar. The fact behind that was a deeper introspection and a demand for social freedom. Now, to experience the fact that it “could” be there, the Utopia that they wanted, the basic freedom to be independent of systems, and requirements… that wasn’t there, but they wanted to know what it was if it “could” be like that. The need was to experience the “what-if” moments.

Besides the forbidden nature of what I would comprehend, drugs also resulted in some of the finest music/ artistic/ literary/ poetic/ philosophic bits of that particular era. One favourite that I would take the trouble to talk of, is Jim Morison. We know his heroin addiction and his glorified death at a very young age. But then again, he experienced what wasn’t there, also, there was this lesser known Doors song “Heroin” with the kind of background music which would glorify the affect of the drug. Jimmy Page, is another example. I do not mean lyrics, but he spoke a very different language altogether. If one goes by the nature of the movement of the strings, they can meditate upon a very personal dimension that influenced him. Page had a history behind his bits.

A funny thing was, that these people took drugs to understand the nature of what could be or what would be. They took it, they made artistic and intellectual contributions (that have been attributed to them under their Wikipedia pages, and the pages of their respective biographies), but then again, there wasn’t much of a contribution to the general society. I mean, that time period did bring a huge idea into existence, which has already been practically applied before, but also it brought about a separate idea into being that one can make much of a thought. Also, a thought which was pretty useless in the long run (debates upon the topic are welcome).

Somehow, the nature of drug usage doesn’t hold much appeal to me. I would like to put forth my views to the readers about something that isn’t permanent. Now, what I feel normally about these things is, that drugs can take you on a wishful thinking of the perfect paradise, but it doesn’t keep the paradise, and when you’ll snap out of it, you’ll see that your perfect palace in the air is standing on a cloud, and now that it’s time to rain, your palace HAS to fall. That’s just not it what the basic existence of your paradise is about. No! Your paradise is yours. And it has the right to exist. Especially in your own dimension. If you need an external crutch to place it there, it’s just not being fair to your own self. Think about it, if the nature of thought isn’t strong, how can it be an opinion?

Mind is a very complex device. It thinks, it understands, it interprets, it forms and yet it is also being present. But, the thought and an anxiety of wanting to feel that again, it kinds of cut you out of the present world, and that’s when you question yourself. “Is this what I wanted?” “Is this alright the way it is?” “I don’t like, I don’t have to live with it.” “I do NOT have to live with it.” “Is it even real?” “Is that really me?” Your philanthropic castle suddenly encloses you in its gates refusing to open, and you literally pray for the storm to come and blow away the cloud, so that you can jump to the abyss, except for, this abyss won’t take you higher.

I do not believe in fiddling with the mind. That’s being unfair to your own thought. Think about it, just how self focused you can become in a way that is self destructive!

I never tried drugs, nor do I want to. But I have known people in my school to indulge in drug usage (though they were very much too-young-for-it) and the other things that I didn’t understand the reason behind. Part of the reason why people go to drugs is the lack of education. We say that, this is heroine, you shouldn’t take it/ this stuff is forbidden/ it’s off limits/ it’s addictive/ it’ll kill you. Well, even Aspirin is as lethal. But instead of giving them reasons on why they shouldn’t do it, it’s better to say what it is, what effects it has, and why it has a certain effect, a positive effect that it can have, an alternate way to have a similar positive effect without the side effect (which I will mention). That way, you give an individual a choice, that way, and let them know what it will be rather than having them to dwell upon the “what-if”.

An alternate to drug use is meditation. Well, the reason why they are consumed in the first place is to experience bliss, or a previously unexperienced dimension. If proper meditation is conducted with all the means and measures that it is meant to be done with, you can understand a wider reason to what a short lived fantasy is about. That, and your castle in the air will get a chance to stand on a firmer ground. I mean, as I talk of it, I myself have underwent a meditation program which is a seven day program followed by a forty days progress cycle by the IshaYoga. (Yes they are commercialised, but at least they have something to offer that can help. Damn capitalists!) They call it Shambhavi meditation. I tried one of those modern meditations, but then again, their effect is very short lived. These people give you a very Vedic meditation which is (in my opinion) a longer lasting effect, and also, a core changing point. Also, to each their own. You can go for self hypnosis, or one of those recorded journals. Either way, their effect is to register your thought and have it noted. Not controlling it. We control it in our day to day life very subconsciously. The only way is to let itself free, but still know what you’re doing. That’s what you’re trying to do through drugs, Jodie. Let yourself free!

This timeline, the 2012 period of the century we exist in, has given a lot of bizarre events. Probably, most of them is what public hate, the disagreement between generations, everything going public, nothing being personal anymore, that there is not a corner on this planet which is remote anymore (at least the landmass, we still don’t know much of the oceans), and the only thing that we don’t know is the nature’s camaflouge (she has “problems”), and all sorts of unimaginable things. Thanks to the modern technological media, we know that everything is connected to everything else. In fact, we are moving too fast in time, right now, and we don’t know where this cycle will end so that the next cycle of events can take place. This particular time period is pretty much like the spreading of continents looking for lands to occupy different lands. As if, now that we have the knowledge, we might just as well as take whatever we want and define boundaries between us and them, and we are facing nature’s resistance, and some out of us telling us that our forced control is wrong. Soon, we’ll fight among ourselves for power and resources, after which there will be a huge disaster and a meltdown, thereof. Coming to think of it, the economic crisis is directly in resonance with the event of establishment of empires in foreign countries, also the melt down which initiated the First World War. So, in this one year of awareness, we are torn apart between a conservative outlook of privacy and a modern pull out of openness, and we are existing in the middle path of this even. While some are struggling to maintain the conservatism, the openness has more theoretic takers than the practical ones. The psyche is weaving a thread of thought around convenience and that’s where we are, what we want. It’s a castle in air that we are very consciously placing on clouds but not on our clouds, on someone else’s. It’s always easier to fall on someone else, isn’t it?

I am not elaborating upon the mechanism of working as of now because the nature of the thought is very much of a long and boring diatribe, also, it is very much still unconstructed. But as far as I can think of it for now, time is moving in a symmetry to itself. The universe is moving in a symmetry. They say Woodstock is a once in a lifetime event. Look at Greek Bacchantes, or the Indian Shamans! There have always been replications at different time periods, so what we consider as a once in existence phenomena is a recurring thing. It has happened and it will always happen, because that is the nature of working. Just the nature of observation is alter, because, one hadn’t experience the event in those ages, so they took it for something new, just as we might. But that’s the nature of human thought! That is the way mind works! It has always been there, and it will always be there. Period. The existence is a very recurring phenomenon which is always beginning and always ending. Some might consider it never ending. The modern physics still struggles on the nature of time, though.

Peace!

-Neetz

Circus Of Fostered Notion

Usually this isn't so stressful to think. Except for moments like now. No. I'm not talking about an emotion, a feeling or a joust. I'm talking about rapture. Stark. Naked like expression, flowing in the wind, roaming about frenzy in a will to be embraced by any damned that extends his hand.

I don't have any idea what to write of these days (on blog). Social commentary, no matter how raunchy and interesting, but still becomes lifeless. Moving over to short story, well mum says that my sense of expression (streamline of thought or a cynical diatribe) is a bit too dry (as it is meant to be) and hence devoid of the true essence of expression, which she believes is emotion (I do not agree to that, though). So, I think I'll start commenting about random things (that's what I do on twitter (@NeetziDelta. if you'd like to know), and it works there) and silently wait for criticism and judgement.

I believe we all have an idea, which is from an external factor. It influences you, ONLY if you let it become an inspiration, if you let it enter your mind through other ways. It's like those few things which you can't get out of your head. As if, this child possesses a key to your house and comes and goes and roams about his/ her own will.

Once, in the middle of a concert, such an idea came to me. That band (my favorite, POTF), had put up their show, but as usual, they spoke in poetic yarns, and most of their songs focus around carnivals, circus, and wonders (in a diatribe of the kind of lives we lead, moving about a yarn for our own selves). So, that's where the idea of circus was firmly planted in my head. Coming to think of it, a similar experience was there when we were studying this poem by Shakespeare, "All the World's a Stage". A minor character, Touchstone gives this jest where he compares human life to characters of a long term play.

The poem was somewhere when I was thirteen and the concert was in November '11. But, that feeling, that eternal carnival remains... I don't know. I wrote two poems on it (I never share poetry on blog, so don't even ask), I wrote a diatribe (not really worth a post) and went on about a rant. Now, I think I'll rant about an eternal circus here too. PAY CLOSE ATTENTION!

GREETINGS my audience and I your humble entertainer, the light above me shines brighter than my own bright tone of adress to you! And Jesuits, among other bards, you are welcome to be entertained as well! Yes, step right up folks; be prepared, for everyone's on to be entertained!

Here stands the Ring Master! THE ONE WHO HAS POWER O'ER THE LION! The Circus works at his command! He is the one, and the all, his pride and his noted over the top laughter!

If you look over that corner, the world is feigning with laughter (and delight), the mirror of madness, and colorful tresses of the clowns, the jests, the fools! Ay, no show can beat that wonder of the clowns, my friends, and hope you won't agree more...

There's more to today’s evening, as the clowns proceed, to your entertainment, the mimes have agreed! Devoid of color and full of expressions, yes dearies, they are the meaningful dementia! They move silent and rampant, among you in riddles, figure-it-out or what? They are the moral sins, for how quiet and deadly and addictive they are... A ROUND OF APPLAUSE!

But look above and look up wide! The acrobats, my audience! Yes, up there, doing wonders, and down here, twisted and bent and smiling, and pleasant and full of awe they are...

Together this circus puts up a great show...

It's just like any other conversation, right? Waiting for someone to decipher it. Got the guts, my audience?

PEACE

-Neetzi

On Feminism

Step raaaaiiiiiight up folks, we got some business coming up. Don’t miss this show for anything cuz you’re eyes are all there to see the clown with the poise, NEEEEEEEEEETZI!

I kind of like circus and clowns. =P

Hello folks,

Why I like clowns? Because they are entertaining, they don’t care how ridiculous they are and what not? So, a friend and I were having this conversation. She was kind of sad that I’m on my writer’s block side, again. Of course, it’s the lack of content that drives me to this side of the line. So she says feminism. Alright, the first thing which comes to my mind is “female chauvinism” because that’s the take it becomes at many annoying moments, but yes, this issue is still strong.

I mean, well, I’m not a feminist. In the lines of the gender race, I don’t support anyone. I’m supportive to whose write, because everyone has a right to a valid opinion. In fact, in most cases both are right. However, it’s kind of exasperated. I mean, let’s face it, women get raped (even nuns!) and monks are forced to see disgrace. Things are on for both sides of the gender. More vividly and more sad for women, though.

It saddens my heart to see that people don’t care anymore. Bad things happen and there’s nothing we can do about it. I mean, we spread awareness for an issue, and damn, all those who can read/ write/ hear/ see/ understand/ feel know what they have to know, yet there are some goddamned things we cannot help. In many countries women don’t have right to vote. In my own country girls are killed the moment they are born.

We live in this world where women are taught not to be raped instead of teaching men not to rape. And IF it so happens that a woman gets in trouble, there’s this excuse that “she asked for it”. Well, okay, if she was outside a nightclub passed out, and in the red light district, maybe she shouldn’t be that drunk, but what about that Buddhist nun who was raped in Nepal? And here’s the heart of religion, she isn’t allowed to be a nun anymore!

I live in Delhi, and I hate it (more than any other place in the world), because they say that I’m safe if I get out of house before eight in the evening. After that I’m on my own. So, which means, If I’m out at seven fifty five in the evening, my safety is taken responsibility for, however, at eight five, it’s not. Isn’t that actually kind of the local security force?

My childhood passed in tranquility and peace of all the goodness in the world. My parents didn’t commit that crime of telling me fairy tales. They kept me on extremely kind and real ground level and I have been brought up under the goodness of the kindest of the moral obligations. I’ve been taught that look at the moment, the feel and then take my own decisions. I was never given a book of rules commanding what’s right and what’s wrong. Somehow, the fact that I’m in the world’s greatest democracy, and I’m only taught to be “in my limits because I’m a girl”, isn’t quite right.

I never support feminism, no matter how many atrocities are committed upon women. I have a valid point. Women suffer because they want to. They never raise a voice. They never set the limit, in the first place. They entertain a man’s ego and foster the damned beast. After all, why do they allow themselves to be dominated? Her idea of love becomes his idea of dominance and thus, the world goes on. She fosters the monster, feeds his ego, waits till it becomes a balloon, leaves him rampant on other women to suffer, and then cries silent tears on her own servitude gone waste. She wouldn’t leave, she just can’t. She has moral obligations, parents, society, kids. blah. The bottom line is, she’s NOT willing to take her own damn stand, and that’s where the feminist workers come. Really women, why do you have to be so insecure? Why can’t you just kick those nuts in the first place?

Anyway, I know this futile argument always trails off here. But here’s my last line, “you do NOT have to live like this. Period.”

Peace!

The Broken Cinderella

Here's poetry. I wrote it sometime back. I'm going to... bore you longer with what's to follow. It's called "The Broken Cinderella". I'm going to present it as a prose piece. Do tell me how it is.

((Prose))

She was happy, she was blessed, and she was elated. No one knew Cinderella was there, but she had no one to turn to, except the ghost of the father. Oh sure, it's the diatribe of the wretched ball: The "Royalty" and its morosity. But there was a desire, deep deep down which was a result of the haunts of a submissive rebel. No one to turn to, but the witch who spake of a spell, that would last till midnight. Her company all these years were the animals she had fostered with love, for no human would love her for who she was. Her insecurities, despite just how privileged she was, in terms of looks and intellect. Financial insecurity was a cripple.

She allowed all her life to be dominated, but this one decision she took on her own. She dared to defy the stepmother, the step sisters, their ever surpassing glory, only to fulfill her selfish desires. ONLY to shine, because she knew she couldn't. But deep inside, Cinderella was a crystal doll... a shattered crystal doll. Here she had nothing to carry, save the magic of the blessed witch, her rags, which were elusive to the coquettish as fashion, and rare and very aesthetic glass slippers. However, something had gone wrong with them. They were weak; they held a silent promise to break any moment.

No regrets, thought she. I’ve been brought up in isolation, and the regret has been borne far too long. I was a rebel, and I stand at the same spot again, I won’t let my will be shattered by my glass slippers.

And the music began, along with the rants of many women who were there. It became a comfortable tension, something she could take. Inner peace. There was some magic in that moment, and the music started, inviting the dance.

The music changed its course. Soon it was waltz, with an elated heart; she surrendered to the music, and swayed with rapture. However, a crack was sensed. Why did I come all the way? Thought she. The dress developed a minor rip, memories of the past and loneliness and death had come down to haunt her, and the glass slippers had developed a crack, all on the same night. In her heart she was beckoning to her prince, to seek her out, to accept her for the poor wretch she was, for she had not a penny to spare in her dowry. How dare she dream beyond her social standard?

Further movement is likely to cause damage, she realize that she should stay where she is without inviting any more trouble. She was looking her best, she was alone, but she was glory. She had finally bloomed. And in her gorgeous attire, no matter how frail may it be she loved the feeling of being herself. At this moment, more than ever. Suddenly, music went a few notes higher, but Cinderella was served by a more lucrative desire: the handsome Prince. His grace spoke of a more prominent language only royalties could.

Came an idea, as genuine as inspiration, as genuine as love itself. She started fostering the belief, that she shall meet him, sooner than late. She felt no compunction upon allowing her heart to be overpowered by infatuation. The tender Cinderella had fallen in love. And true and unbound as this desire, she was ready to fare him well, for she felt that if her love is true, it’d come back to her.

Began the waltz, and the Prince turned his eyes around the room and saw someone breathtaking. The dressing sense spoke of glories and fashions, her shoes spoke of frail antiquity. Her petite frame, big eyes and prominent features... Of course, who’d choose a town maiden, when there was a royalty present all for his eyes to see? Began the endless waltz; in that familiar tune; leading further still to the remnants of an endless continuum. The cracks of the glass slippers grew, and with each step Cinderella took, the shards started spreading its way across the floor. Hear this tale of the fleet of glass, and the blushing floor.

Silhouettes of the haunts of the past lives danced in the ball, in a mechanic infinitum, the world suddenly was drained of all the color, spare one.

A beauty with tainted grace and ever prominent patience, Cinderella bore the pain, only to be led by desire, only to give into sin, only to surrender to pleasure. The prince was charmed by the redness that surrounded him, that wide Carmen smile, which healed all the pains that the similar red of a… A carminative. What did the word mean, anyway?

However, Cinderella was haunted deep under that entire dazzle. The witch had already told her that the spell would last till midnight. The afterhours of madness had held both of them tied together.

Carminative… It seemed so wonderfully to describe that sensation of internal warmth, that glow, that physical self-satisfaction that came only by the taste of the lips of a sweetheart. It was intoxication, as true as the true wonders of alcohol, Carminative held the similar meaning. Carminative, the prince looked to meet the lips of the beauty he held in his arms, he held her by the threads of charms and chasms in a moment of frenzy, in the true glory of waltz.

Alas the fairy tale has lost its charm. She was ready to let it all go; it was just a mere fantasy. Carminative, each and every syllable of the word rang clearly in his mind. He imagined vaguely… it had something to do with carmen-carminis, still more vaguely with caro-carnis, and its numerous derivations (oh! The royal education, the barbarians!), like carnival and carnation.

Cinderella shrugged, but smiled, for all the Prince cared to see her lips flushed red with carmine dye.

She broke away from his embrace with a smile, and only looked over, to memorize each and every feature of that grandeur of his presence. Carminative--there was the idea of singing and the idea of flesh, rose-colored and warm, with a suggestion of the jollities of mi-Careme and the masked holidays of Venice. Carminative--the warmth, the glow, the interior ripeness were all in the word. Instead of which... At this point, Cinderella broke away from the embrace, for the clock had gone twelve, and the shards of glass had already gone inside her feet.

Sadder still, the true meaning of the word had hit the prince along with the abrupt leaving of Cinderella, the true meaning of the elusive carminative had hit the prince like a sledgehammer. Windtreibend. Strange, the charm of this one woman, who drained him out of logic. A mere attraction? No, it was genuine love, or an idea as appealing. But not a glass shoe left behind, not a trail of the strange visitor. But committed was the prince to find this new beloved of his.

 Every house in the Town is knocked; hopes to find her prevail, still.

The memories of this diatribe shall be rendered by isolation, motivated by regret, in hope of every moment, never to be back again.