I stay near the airport, I see planes flying across my window. I only see them, my seeing and they flying are both free from each other. No bondages, no conditioning here, just seeing.

Night. Night.

Was driving through yesterday night, alone, eyes shut all around. Thick fog and lights. Different kinds. Those cars, those industries, those street lights, those intense lights to light up the bridge in ruin and men fixing its arcs; Yellow and white floating around in air hitting in whisps as I cut through them speeding. Manhattan lights through foggy air.  


Incredibly beautiful.


I had good cameras, and impassive eyes, intense and cutting through. But nothing registered in film, nothing wanted it to register; If there is anything, I want all the beauty to go. Not because its not welcome to the wind shields, but one cannot capture it all and also retain its beauty. Not even in memory, memory can never be objective to the beauty of now.


I am repeating myself. Perhaps its a time to quit writing here. Not because I am in shortage of stories, there are a million avenues I travel each day and many billions that are still. But in all the journies I experience the same nothings. I still refuse to journey your worlds unless invited for a stay over.


So long friends. If any. I am now ready for the plunge and I flow.


TC. Movies on.

Inseperable

If I am time; there is no fourth dimension outside literature - my story.

Culture is like pizza; hard baked crust topped with something cheesy; you can change the toppings and call them flavors of life.

A few sentences lost..

You knew what I was not saying..
You knew what you heard me say..
My words, an echo of your past..
Of Voices trailing and slipping away,
A shrill reflection,
Of your firming grasp.
You wrote our 'morrow,
From pages of your diary;
It had to be it, you reasoned,
A consistent, known, Universe;
Your reaction to your implications;


And I was speaking,
For I was my voice,
Born of the silences of a long burnt carcass,


I was speaking, and "perhaps" you listening;
But did we share the same tongue?
I forgot.

Soaking in the morning, splitting every night ; One had to wear a perfume, to dress nicely, to linger after; physical, and the memory fades, with the light.


This was it, everyday was our last act together.

All literature is shit. Don't know what is all this fuss about writing and movie making. Living the story and not noticing it doesn't need entertainment.


What is there to express if there is no call for expression?

Being without the becoming.

Just living, peacefully, efficiently, intensely.

Why can't
"I"
experience
"YOU",
Sense of other is strong
so is this
self consciousness.

Relationships and me
Me always in one
with one
and in one

A high
or a low
and I with you
if not with you then all by me
but always in one
apart from those I have
with a thought or
some tradition

The storm and then peace
and the will to look in to you
or
to be seen to you
in my emptiness
to your emptiness

The bells ring
in abundance
I chant
of what it would be like
if I wasn't here?
Of My relationships
if I wouldn't be in them?

Atlas Shrugged - The Movie.

From the promos, I thought Dagny would be disappointing, it turns out everyone and everything else is. Which is fitting in a way.


No Dagny is not what I imagined her to be neither is she exceptional here, yet she runs the motor of this film.


While translation to film was always tough, there is utter lack of imagination in this project, though, I enjoyed a few scenes for the recall value; This film should not have been made, at least not this way.


Atlas would surely shrug.


Watch it though, if only to support independent film making, like I do. 

Thinking about a journey that began without volition. In proliferation yesterday today & tomorrow. The three states appear.

The degree of superiority is a function of how you apply not what you have; hence is always within a framework.

Between the YOU and ME stands memory and memories. Running away helps not. I can't do anything about it. Education too helps not. Opposites mislead. I am never stuck with you but what lies between the ME & YOU.

Got a cigarette?
I know it helps not

A man who was a child
A woman who is lonely

Fade-in
Fade-out

I only see my problems
I only see me

Got a cigarette?

Fear of failure is an extremely egoistic stance. It indicates a lower self esteem.

My desires are ceaselessly self evident. I am alive and desires move.
(A window to an heartache, this is all there is to is)
A story based on a source called ME.

Notes.

It was a strange relationship. I could not leave him nor he me. Not because we needed each other for survival, at least not as normally stated, but because we understood each other. We were isolated by our decency, disillusioned by the mundane, and floated around in a zone where words seemed to have unique meanings that no one else could grasp. It was comical and serious beyond measures in turns to talk to people in the same language. Some were horrified with my sentences, and sometimes I was horrified – yet only they were capable of judgments which were often out of my grasp. And then we met and we could share our jokes. He would often respond to the exact nuances of my sentences in a way that he knew exactly those key words that had to be responded too, discarding the rest of the sentence. His response would be the exact idea that would progress the conversation forward and I could express everything I had long forgotten were inside me. It was a relief, it was joy. Perhaps I gave him the same luxury, without creating the hindrance of either judgment or confusion. We were clear to each other, and it was something that never happened before.

My ideas progressed after years of halting at the junction. The junction where you are not quite sure what is wrong with you, or with the world. Both are looking at each other in confusion, at the world and nature of suffering. Suffering not because some pain, real or imaginary, but the suffocation of words, words flung carelessly from the other side, a stone hitting the sensitive chord that seems to keep us bound, to different poles.

I was quite grateful to him and I was bound to these shared words. This was my utopia, where I found my affirmation that my words could mean only one thing, the exact thing I meant. Exact is often precise not accurate, but my emotions did not care for accuracy.

Notes.

Do I experience Order in myself or Chaos? Is that a question worth asking, or does it make sense to ask it? Something in me is decaying in confusion and something in me wants nothing to change. It is futile to say that I can observe them both and this observation liberates me from the consequences of either. I cannot remain untouched by anything that I become, and I become the object of my thoughts. The content of my senses is the exact nature of what its filling them at any moment of my existence. If I am immersed, I am no different from the object of my immersion. Then there is the link established, and strangely, if it is a living entity that is holding my attention, knowledge is constantly exchanged, there is no way to shield myself or shut the other off, because that immersion was a choice, and once immersed, there is no turning back, unless there is an external stimulus demanding it. This is not speculative, this is an honest exchange. Not a word spoken, even physical presence is immaterial. There is no controlling the exchange either, and this really discredits the whole process.

It is hardly surprising that experience is so easily dismissed “in light of science” or “In view of my material evidence”. Both are actually talking a different language while trying to build a common literature that is both measured and not measured while drafting their rule books. So much of experience can be hardly measured, and hence easily expended, but when the same happens to be something very intimately personal – it causes extreme anguish, and rational denial that is actually a kick in the gut every time the would threatens to heal and vanish. People want to keep that part alive and subject it to investigation when a higher and better understanding of life descends that invalidates this need to rationally kick this intimacy out of the self and memory as though it never existed. Sadly we are too busy with the so called “Social life” to realize that the realization will never come if its not already here, actually its already here and what you need is not suspension of belief, just an impartial indulgence to let the experience reach its logical conclusion before drawing your own logical conclusions about the causes or the effects or the inadequacy of both in disconnecting this intimacy as imaginary.

Yes Gravity is not a myth, and every time I fall there is no divine intervention to create the agency of gravity. But in my own personal space, I experience this gravity differently at different times. The weight of my body is not always objective, unless you want to predict my trajectory, sometimes you must let me indulge in my weightlessness without guilt. I respect you gravity, and it is homage to you that I allow myself to fly, anyone questioning my flight as something to be discarded because it is physically impossible can take a leak elsewhere.

Objectively speaking, the physics of it touches my emotion.

Notes.

Something is always left as a clue, and my mind is very perceptive to my own
clues. Perhaps if it were not typed out and were something written out in my own hand writing I could recognize it? Though I doubt that theory because my writing often changes its shape as well during my younger days. It was not until much later that my A’s were A’s. Which is a relief, because though you could never mistake an A for a B, often how and where you use it assigns many meanings to my A’s. Take away my clues and I am clueless, but then I always leave the clues. Its not a conscious decision, but perhaps no matter how much I disown everything I write, I know that it is my own, and I would like to recognize a familiar face when I see it. Youth was yesterday, and how often do we desperately want to hold on to it? The same structure, with the understanding of today -  a vile wish really, for change anything about yesterday, and today is never as it is now; and that is where things get really messy. So clues and hints are all I need to relish yesterday as today. And I like the surprise of discovering something that never was yesterday or today, but only in the act of looking back. It makes the whole idea very fascinating.

Notes.

It was like a broken voice that trailed off in past. Who knows when? And a body was created to preserve it and pounce on me in this exact moment. To Gift me an entire history that I had no interest in or use of. It was odd to know the details that I had known of this house then, even at the first going. Did I really care to know, perhaps not, and it was one of those times when I wished I had not been so sensitive. I inhabited it with a certain intimacy, an intimacy that was far from concrete or real. But was intimate nevertheless, one with an odd longing inherited as a legacy, a legacy of shared thought. Sometimes time matters less than we think it does.

This house, quite inhabits me.

Notes ...

Why do I write he asked. Well, I had no clear answer to this, somethings agitate me enough to write about them, not that there is any motive to the writing, but this is the way I prefer to act on this agitation. At least it’s a better alternative to breaking the skull of the person involved or having my heart punctured in agitation. It is rage, seething rage. While that accounts for a significant part of my writing, the rest, I will leave it unaccounted for. Not because it does not deserve elucidation, but there are too many reasons and often too insignificant after the fact that I rarely even recall what made me write something. Its fun, for years later when I see a scribbled paper with my thoughts, I read it with relish admiring the author or being in awe of him till the realization gets to me that it was probably my own writing, not that I have a high opinion of anything I write now, it is always later that something discovered loses its meaning as its germ was perhaps always there. What is self discovery anyhow except a redundant oxymoron?

Nothing important.

New York is breath taking. Sometimes I find it difficult to breath.


Going places is expensive, once I used to like going places, cities, people, women. Now I don't know what I can't stand, going places or just stand. Nothing has stopped though, I have a world to journey, all by myself.


I am now broke.


But I cant stop till I am broken. But I am the unbreakable, a tremendous momentum in motion.


Sometimes in all the worlds I see, I am simply exploring my backyard.


It's a tiny house of limitless possibilities.

My bad.

Sorry world, my bad, you don't need me. All that matters is that you are happy.

Participation never stops
Even a belief that seems a separate entity

Escape and you have
participated

Seeing life outside conceptual ideations and mentations
and you have participated

Manipulating search of love peace and joy
and you have participated

You choose to die
you participate

You choose to search eternal
you participate

Participation is unlimited
Awareness through it is unlimited
Both being timeless as they are
prior to my nine months

Acceptance of that 'ME'
or denial
is participation

Look at the entity
that does not want to be looked at

Media.

A scam.


Reinforces a popular opinion and assumes it cannot be wrong hence.


Do they even think? And where is the time to examine? Who has enough time to explain all reasons if they are not obvious to begin with?


Life isn't contextual, living as a culture is. Take out the context, nothing makes sense.


Live and let live. Let go. Just shut off the TV or find a channel that just reports an event without the opinions of the staff. 

Yes I have touched you and I have no illusions about it. Look, stand still, rather investigate about how all actions of yours in your past began. When your action began, who was it that was talking.

'tis the strangers who is always taking his chances. I have learnt to smile back at them, these strangers.

Colors and light
Needs remain a mystery
None without each other
And should I stare you
My needs would never
remain a mystery to you

Words.

If you cut out the obvious; it's so difficult to communicate with most; if you state the obvious it's so difficult to respect the need to communicate; all one is left with is humor and sealed lips. Is that rude?


Words are words; to the parrot, they create the illusion of meaning. It's difficult to tell a person from parrot, if the senses are sealed by trust. To someone alive and in good company; word is a cue to the intimacy deepened.

Vas - Bardo

Paradox is hope is uncertainity principle.

Uncertainty does not exist in nature, but the uncertainty principle operates on the observer. Now, this is a queer nature of the observing participant, it approximates to being pushed into places the entity is not supposed to be in, as law ordains such movement against the norm.
One looks at oneself in third person, and introduces a gap, that is counter intuitive yet compelling. It keeps the entity moving and making a jump against odds when the nap is snapped.


One travels right up to the boundary, and holds post. Stingily, like a boa holding onto its purse, coiled to its own weight without a wavering or lapse in imagining the rat beyond the wall. And then at some point, one may pass a feverent prayer, that the uncertainty principle finds him, and hopefully the wall is now to the back than the face. Would the universe look prettier? Perhaps, but then it would be easier to realize that beyond the periphery,  the world has certainly ended. There is certainly an after life. We just happened to be napping during the gap, and now moving again.


The observer justifies the illogical. The thought justifies itself.


Truth should sink in now or never, mostly never.


I must have entered a different world now, for all that was before isn’t to be now. Love?

A paradox is all about hope & hopes.

The only truth that occurs to me is that there is nothing that will never be known to me.
I cherish this opinion only.

The mind is essentially at peace. Truth neither exists in excess or in lacking.

Limited views are irresolute. You are neither coming nor going.

A stand point always perpetuates.
It is this that is happening.