Death of a Blog

This blog is closed. I blog elsewhere.

David Ruffin

Check out david ruffin from my blogroll, super funny.

Classroom escapades.

Immanuel Kant, the leading light of the enlightenment was particularly known for his influential thesis on the..........

Shit. I don’t want to do this. I don’t. I don’t. I don’t. This is a fucking waste of time. Really.

He is never going to get it, is he?

It’s all a fucking waste.

I’d rather go ogle the babes in the next building. At least they have nice tits.

Can’t I just shoot myself?

I’d rather be shooting hoops, or smoking pot or scoring with the chicks.

What’s it like on the other side? How can someone survive being that boring?

I can’t stand this class any more.

BANG!

Bang Bang. My baby never let me down.

It’s all over now.

Culpable homicide.

14 years. Yeah, that’s a lifetime all right.

A lifetime of utter boredom while being sodomized into prison bitchhood.

Yeah. That’s all it is. It’s all a fucking waste.

Why do it? Why? Haven’t we brought you up good and proper?

Didn’t we send you to good schools? Made sure you visited church every Sunday?

Aren’t we paying your way through college?

Haven’t we given you everything you ever wanted?

Maybe,

Just Maybe, if you stopped thinking about yourselves for one fucking moment, you’d realize that this is not about you? Why, why, does every thing have to be about you?

It’s about me. Yes. Yes. I fucking killed a man. Put a gun against his head. Pulled the trigger now he is dead. And all that kind of shit.

So what? What’s your problem pops? Its not about you anymore innit? Isn’t it time you realized it? I can fucking do whatever I Want.

It’s not about you. It’s about me.

I never wanted to go to some pansy assed school where people pranced around in coloured undies and diddled their arses in class.

I never wanted to spend Sunday mornings getting groped by the pastor. You knew he was gay. You still had to send me to his Sunday school classes.

What kind of frikking pervert fantasies were you having that you have come to judge me huh?

This is mine. All mine. I killed him. This cell is all mine. This is all I have. You have no fucking right to take it away from me with your pansy shit faced lawyers.

I earned it. Every bloody bit. And you can’t take it away from me. It’s not something you bought with your filthy money.

Yes Sir, I quite understand your position. You are a respectable representative of our community. Obviously this young man is very disturbed. He has far too many issues with authority figures. I suggest we send him away for observation. Preferably to a good discreet private clinic. Under the care of a suitable psychiatric. It would do him some good. Maybe we can arrange for a few visits from some experts before we can claim insanity and then…

I ain’t going to some fucking shitfaced three balled clinic. I ain’t. I earned my cell. I earned it.

It’s the only thing I ever earned in my life which you, my motherfucking pops didn’t pay for with his motherfucking filthy credit cards.

Coz I fucking killed a man. And I am god damned proud of it. And I ain’t going to let anyone take it away from me. If I did it once…

BANG.

Bang bang my baby shot me down.

Bang Bang. My baby never let me down.

Resurfacing.

I am not going to give any explanations. Period.

The last post.

I can’t create art any more. I am afraid of it. I have become impotent in a way. Barren. Infertile. All I can come close to are ideas. But ideas do not constitute art. We can find ideas in art, but somehow I would like to think of art as being something more than a collection of ideas. As being a part of life, while being distinct from it. While being something more, something which cannot be grasped by mere reason, but can be understood through itself alone. I feel scared, it is like almost like being castrated. I am debating whether or not to take up WIP, whether it will help at all. Whether or not I will be able to create again. Whether or not the ability to procreate can be regenerated for me in a classroom.

Once upon a time I wouldn’t have thought twice if asked to write something. It was easy. I even made a major life changing decision based on my abilities. While I do not regret that decision in the least, I find it hard to justify it now. I find it even harder to take further decisions bases on my earlier decision.

This blog has seen me through a lot of troubled times. The best times of my life. The most challenging times of my life. It has grown with me. Evolved with me. Been like a part of me. I have said things here which I wanted to say, but had no place to. I have said things here which I never should have said and had to later retract. I have tried to represent what is me, what is not me, lied like there was no tomorrow, spelled out the harsh truth when every one thought I was joking. Learned what can be thrown out onto the public sphere, and what should be kept private. I have learned a lot.

Dear reader, as you can see, even what I write now, fails to flow smoothly. The ideas do not connect. The words feel uncomfortable beside each other. the paragraphs above do not have a sense of continuity. It doesn’t feel natural enough. Artificial. Contrite and contrived. Like the painted hooker from Dev D. Unnatural and out of place.

For once in my life, I don’t know what to write. I am at a loss for words, I have no words to write what I want to. A reason for that could be that I no longer have the time to read. I return home too tired to think. I leave home early, for I sell myself out for the comforts of a car ride. I try to forget the emptiness of my life as much as I can while I am in college. But. I still don’t know what to write. Until I manage to figure out, I lay this blog down to rest, with thankings for giving me a platform to write this on, to put some of my troubles into words and let them loose.

Thank you.

This is utterly incoherent and meaningless. Those who read this are particularly deranged.

Of quotes and what not...

"History repeats itself, first as tragedy, second as farce". This is a particularly favourite quote of mine. As is "Philosophy is to the real world as masturbation is to sex." Both are Marx. But then again " there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosphy."


for the language of pain is the language of poetry else it is the stony refusal to speak, for words are often not enough.


I know that none of this makes much, sense, but it does to me, a lot. I don't know what I am trying to say, but most definitely there is more to these quotes than even meets my eye(w.r.t. myself, for no doubt that there is more to these quotes than I understand).

I can't sleep. My thoughts are weary and running helter skelter. There is so much I need to talk about, but I can't really do that with anyone, not even myself. Don't bother asking. I will ignore. The only thing that is helping me get through is my recent discovery... online net radio... the radio station Radio Swiss Jazz is playing, and life looks on meaninglessly...

Climbing the arbor magnus

The JOO really does push its students to explore new heights. Like up a tree.

I did something new today.
I climbed the arbor magnus in front of the dept. today to put up a banner.
As strange as it may seem I have never climbed a tree before, so in a way kinda reclaiming my long lost childhood I was. Once people finished with the usual lame statements about me being in my natural element, I quite enjoyed it up there. Lends a whole new perspective to view the happenings of the university. Other than getting bark all over my Nehru coat and subsequently smelling of tree trunk all day long, it was quite a fun experience.

Book Fair Haul

Book Fair Haul

G. I. Gurdjieff - Beelzebub's tales to his grandson.
Charles Baudelaire - Selected Poetry
Ogden Nash - The Best of Ogden Nash
Terry Pratchett - Hat full of sky
St. Augustine - City of God
Tom Holt - My Hero
Tom Holt - Who's Afraid of Beowulf
Turgenev - Fathers and Sons
Umberto Eco - On Literature
Umberto Eco - Turning back the clock
Umberto Eco - Conversations about the end of time
A Day in the country - Impressionism and the French Landscape

zoke. pliss to laff. or else.

One sunny day in January, 2009, an old man approached the White House from across Pennsylvania Avenue, where he'd been sitting on a park bench. He spoke to the U.S. Marine standing guard and said, "I would like to go in and meet with President Bush."

The Marine looked at the man and said, "Sir, Mr. Bush is no longer president and no longer resides here."

The old man said, "Okay", and walked away.

The following day, the same man approached the White House and said to the same Marine, "I would like to go in and meet with President Bush."

The Marine again told the man, "Sir, as I said yesterday, Mr. Bush is no longer president and no longer resides here."

The man thanked him and, again, just walked away.

The third day, the same man approached the White House and spoke to the very same U.S. Marine, saying "I would like to go in and meet with President Bush."

The Marine, understandably agitated at this point, looked at the man and said, "Sir, this is the third day in a row you have been here asking to speak to Mr. Bush. I've told you already that Mr. Bush is no longer the president and no longer resides here. Don't you

understand?"

The old man looked at the Marine and said, "Oh, I understand. I just love hearing it."

The Marine snapped to attention, saluted, and said, "See you tomorrow, Sir."

Desiré

I know I won't get it.
I know it will never happen.
Why do I still want it?
Why do I put up with the pain of not having it and still wanting it?
Desire is so god damned paradoxical.