So, digging out the spirit of weekend from my backsack..
I finally managed to watch Michael Clayton yesterday (*throws down the imaginary sweat bead from the brow). Finally.
I chose to start this knuckle crackling post on a positive note (as opposed to venom spewing or morbid cussing with reg. to Real's CL exit last week). But five minutes later, as I laze around the bed trying to figure what to write about.. I realize I ve nothing much to say.
Yes, there is absolutely nothing in this wide world today that has caught my attention that I could shed a few lines on this blog about. I personally think bloggers should write more regularly than they actually do, but I lie distantly clueless. In a varied but oft told way.
You could always write on anything. Anything, like I usually do. But there lies a need for context somewhere. So, that is what we search for today. A context.
To architect a context.
March 16, 2008. A cold cloudy morning. A weightless hour. A sleepy soul. Wakey. There is a context waiting to be constructed.
Nope.
Let's talk about liberalism. It is said of liberalism (and a lot is said about liberalism) that the finest have fallen victims to its charms. In an unattended village north to the waters of social freedom, gathered a bunch of people in a park one night, wearing bright colored clothes. They all seemed to be young and east-worldly. Talking among themselves, they wondered about the poor and the unworthy. Of the suffering and the social authority. Of covering cellulite with socks and roads with tars. Of the need to understand the man next door and the unusual hopping of his dog. In the absence of fugitive thoughts, man's craving for carnage in his deep stemmed thoughts of freedom. They walked around in circles while they talked, people with beards scratching theirs when it seemed appropriate and those without, twitched their noses. People could see something brewing, a day when rosebuds grow in embroidered pottery. A day we all, can, understand David Cronenberg movies. A day when mechanical cycle rickshaws will replace internal combustion engined cars. A day with the huge orange sun. Then, there was silence. A bright light shone above them and the skies split. An old man in pyjamas coughed, "could you keep it quiet down there, am trying to catch some sleep here.. jeez?"
Then, they dispersed.
***
Mom (on seeing the pictures from Zermatt): 'Ekkada choosina same ade kadaa.. manchu.. kondalu.. anni urlaloni photolu oke la unnayi.. at least mana deggara different gudulu gopuraalu chudochu..'
P.S. It is one of the strange things in my family, we speak Telugu sometimes.. randomly.
I chose to start this knuckle crackling post on a positive note (as opposed to venom spewing or morbid cussing with reg. to Real's CL exit last week). But five minutes later, as I laze around the bed trying to figure what to write about.. I realize I ve nothing much to say.
Yes, there is absolutely nothing in this wide world today that has caught my attention that I could shed a few lines on this blog about. I personally think bloggers should write more regularly than they actually do, but I lie distantly clueless. In a varied but oft told way.
You could always write on anything. Anything, like I usually do. But there lies a need for context somewhere. So, that is what we search for today. A context.
To architect a context.
March 16, 2008. A cold cloudy morning. A weightless hour. A sleepy soul. Wakey. There is a context waiting to be constructed.
Nope.
Let's talk about liberalism. It is said of liberalism (and a lot is said about liberalism) that the finest have fallen victims to its charms. In an unattended village north to the waters of social freedom, gathered a bunch of people in a park one night, wearing bright colored clothes. They all seemed to be young and east-worldly. Talking among themselves, they wondered about the poor and the unworthy. Of the suffering and the social authority. Of covering cellulite with socks and roads with tars. Of the need to understand the man next door and the unusual hopping of his dog. In the absence of fugitive thoughts, man's craving for carnage in his deep stemmed thoughts of freedom. They walked around in circles while they talked, people with beards scratching theirs when it seemed appropriate and those without, twitched their noses. People could see something brewing, a day when rosebuds grow in embroidered pottery. A day we all, can, understand David Cronenberg movies. A day when mechanical cycle rickshaws will replace internal combustion engined cars. A day with the huge orange sun. Then, there was silence. A bright light shone above them and the skies split. An old man in pyjamas coughed, "could you keep it quiet down there, am trying to catch some sleep here.. jeez?"
Then, they dispersed.
***
Mom (on seeing the pictures from Zermatt): 'Ekkada choosina same ade kadaa.. manchu.. kondalu.. anni urlaloni photolu oke la unnayi.. at least mana deggara different gudulu gopuraalu chudochu..'
P.S. It is one of the strange things in my family, we speak Telugu sometimes.. randomly.
posted by Sharad Ragas at 4:51 PM
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