Unfulfilled promises

...being taken care of. The penultimate one from this post.


It gets easier to stay away the more you stay away.
The more you don't have a reason to be sitting in front of a computer eight hours a day. The more you stop watching the news or reading the paper or listening to the radio or surfing. The more you focus only on the next meal, or the book that you're reading, or the stack of films you want to go through. The more you stop accepting there's a world out there that will continue to exist whether you believe in it or not. The more you stare at the sky and realise you don't know how to tell how long it's been since you've been staring at it, except to be able to say that it's now morning or evening or night.

And such little things, and the lack of such minor skills, make you wonder again what sort of life you're leading - that we're all leading. Make you look closely at the little blocks on which we base our lives, and when you realise you do not understand what they were based on, make you look closer and closer, till you're squinting so hard that you get a horrible headache, but you keep peering, determined that if you ignore the pain long enough and hold out for a little more, it will all make sense...till suddenly, the pain breaks through to a level where the pain really doesn't affect you anymore (because pain only affects you when it's localised, when it shows up as one point of variance on a wider canvas of equilibrium; and this is a level where you are all pain, and pain is what you are) but you still lose focus and suddenly everything seems so unnatural.

And you draw back and look around, and for a few brief moments, everything that you accepted seems so...bizarre...that you wonder how you didn't notice it before, and how you've been carrying on all this while. Where you notice all the little incongruities and discontinuities and paradoxes that make up life, but which get brushed aside because "that's just how things are".

And the feeling soon fades, but it stays longer every time you return to that state; and getting to that state gets easier each time, till one day you realise you can see the world as it tries to be, and also as how it really is. And you walk around, and go through the motions, and you feel as if you're tapped into a different network, watching another picture, hearing a hidden symphony. And the two yous watch each other in their world, but do not look into the other's eyes.

And you wonder if everything exists simply because you believe in it, and not because it truly is.


There are times when you shouldn't write.
Times when the words come too easily, and too hurtfully. Times when they swarm out, and start attacking you with little nips, some sharper than others. Times when they huddle together to scheme openly, laughing as you try to muscle into the circle, and then form up into questions that you knew they would ask. Questions that you know that you should have asked, and find astonishing that you didn't. But deep-down, you also know why you didn't; know that the answers would tear open a world you rather have wished away. And so you turn the page, and shut the book, and wait till they wither away, all the while clenching yourself from trying to go help them and stop the noise, the clamour, the insidious promises and threats; just holding on till it all dies away.....and then holding on some more to make truly sure, make sure they're well and truly extinguished of any power, because you know better than to fall for that trick again.

There are times when you shouldn't think.
Times when when it's a mistake to think, when a fleeting trigger sets off a chase to recover that which you had long left tucked away, hidden in some imagined attic of the place you house your memories in. And when you naively pull out the dusty scene, and bring it into the light, you realise with growing alarm what it's really showing, and just how cleverly you have been lying to yourself. And as you look around and notice the hundreds of other times that lie hidden away, suppressed away, you begin to cry for all the betrayals that you've wrought with yourself. And before you begin to scream, screams which you know won't stop till you break completely, you throw what you hold away, and run away from there. And then you breathe, and pretend the calm of your memories was never disturbed by the imprint of questions that required answers that were too dark to let you carry on in ease, once you were touched and forced to look them in the mouth. And you choose your smile, and slip back into the dance, and forget that you ever came close to wondering why you never considered so many things.

There are times when you shouldn't feel.
Times when you cannot run anymore, and are caught up with and held down and pinned back and made to face it all. And you will struggle and writhe and scream for mercy, but they will crawl all over you and slip into you, passing into you through your skin, infecting you till you cannot think of anything but them, cannot think of anything but what they want you to, as they rampage around opening up and wringing all that is, in essence, you...till you cannot but look at yourself, cannot refuse to and recognise yourself and admit for once that, yes, yes, this is who I really am. And that's when the horror truly begins.

There are times when you shouldn't ... be.

PS. Will this style (Scout-meets-Falsie) do as an Urf? If not, somebody's got to suggest one. Space Bar promised, and is still pondering away and getting distracted by flowers.


Manual of Life....Alternative Sports No.4

Suicide Chess*
Variation of the popular game, in which players attempt to get their pieces captured, while simultaneously avoiding having to capture an opposing piece. The golden rule is that when an opportunity to capture a rival piece occurs, a player has to take it (in case of multiple targets, the player may decide which one to capture). The first player to have their 'king' piece check-mated, wins. Most enjoyably played in Blitz mode.

Peer versions - Suicide Checkers, Suicide Carrom, Suicide Monopoly.

* For Space Bar, who hates to lose complicated games.


F3 presents....Nut-orange-y chocolate fudge

This one's for chocoholics in desert towns (who, incidentally, need to reconsider their blog address) who keep demanding choccy recipes, a certain chocolate critic, and other unnamed chocolate-lovers and bhukkads.

Besides, seems like the ideal thing to describe at the end of a cold and depressing news week.

Time Required:
Preparation - 3 minutes
Cooking - 5-10 minutes
Ready to serve after - 1 hour

Keep ready:
Dark chocolate (70% minimum), 175 gm
Grated rind of 1 orange*
Condensed milk, 1/2 tin (200 g)
Walnuts, 50 gm*

Break up the chocolate and place in a thick bottomed pan. Heat on low, mixing in the orange rind and condensed milk. Stir slowly but continuously, removing from heat when chocolate melts.

Break the walnuts into itty-bitty pieces (best way is to put in bag and then just bash it with whatever's handy till it's done...or till your aggro is spent), and mix in. Pour out onto square tray, smoothen it, let it cool for 5 minutes, then refrigerate till it sets and is firm.

Cut into 2-inch squares, and serve chilled.

Why you should try this:
1) It requires minimal effort - no baking, beating eggs, whipping cream or any of that.
2) Dark chocolate and orange. What more could you ask for?

Focus on:
1) Cooking it very slowly, and making sure the chocolate doesn't stick.
2) Not adding any sugar - the condensed milk quite offsets the bitterness of the chocolate.

* Variations:
1) Mix in a good lug (4-6 tbsp) of your spirit of choice - brandy, rum, or vodka suggested.
2) Ditch the orange, mix in some Irish cream.
3) Ditch the walnuts, add equal amount of pistas. Or add both, but 25 gm each.


Obligatory bad joke of the month

Q: Why is a weird ascetic like a boozy, cylindrical cake?
A: Because they're both rum babas.


Fantasy blogger quiz teams

4-5 person teams. Identified from one's known circle of bloggers. Teams selected to cover as wide a range of knowledge on a subject as possible, and chosen on the basis of publicly-revealed knowledge and interests. The specialities listed indicate the blogger's strongest (perceived) niches - others in the team may also know stuff from those categories.

If you think you deserve a mention, then you should have blogged about it. And if you have, and it's still not reflected here, then obviously one has gone through your archives properly. ehh...it's a Friday. Tough shit. Places open for last two categories.

Falstaff - Classical Music/Art/Literature
Roswitha - Sport/20th century films and music
TR - History/Business/Travel/Science/Beverages
Pri - TV/Celebrity/Pop culture
??! - Trivia/Food
Punkster - Religion/Science/Gaming/Comics
Scout - TV/Pop culture/Music
Szerlem - History/Food/Travel

Falstaff - Western Classical
TR - Blues/jazz/classic rock
OTP - Bollywood/modern pop
Scout - Indie/New Age/other shite
Flaffy - Pop/South Indian films/Indian classical (?)
Pri - Pop, Hindi/South Indian films
KM - Classic rock/jazz/Indie

Falstaff - Poetry/Modern novels
??! - SF&F/Detective
Space Bar - Children's/Art/Crime/SF&F/Poetry
places open - Asian authors; Travel; Science; Business

Pri - Bollywood/South Indian
Space Bar - Arthouse/World Cinema
Roswitha - Hollywood
places still open - Sci-Fi; Thrillers; Horror; Comedy
OTP - Bollywood
Falstaff - Arthouse/World Cinema


Quip du Jour

It was a literal case of the sheets hitting the fans.
- Andrew Miller (Cricinfo)*

* Referring to corrugated iron rooftops
flying off and hurting spectators during the Eng/SL Test in Kandy.


Blog-addiction - Identification Method No. 11

If, in a public place of daily visitation, you suddenly wonder which of the people you see everyday have blogs of your own.

And if, on trying to evaluate the probability of one of them being a Diarist and you being featured as "anonymous daily face" in their posts, you get paranoid about what aspect of you is being noticed and (mis)judged, causing you to try to be bland and anonymous, which unfortunately just makes people think you're shifty.


The problem with philosophy is that all the answers seem right.