The Madman Experiment #1

Let's start with some facts. 5 respondents; 3 guys and 2 girls. Three abroad, two in Delhi. Two replied in Urdu (one guy and one girl; both abroad) and three in English (one guy abroad and a guy and a girl in Delhi).

You all can now figure out which one of those you are. Especially in whatever comes below.

Okay, here goes.

An unknown; something that I cannot even comprehend. Black? That seems like a a reasonable descriptor. Rather, blank. Not darkness; a void.

Khud maine husn ke haathon mein shokhi ka chhalakta jaam diya
Gaalon ku gulabon ka rutbaa; kaliyon ko labon ka naam diya
Aankhon ko diya saagar gehra
Tu aa ke mujhe pehchaan zara

The man agrees that this isn't his own. This was in the environment at the time, and I'm sure miss appreciates it. More clues below; you'll enjoy the song.

An interesting throwback to our previous discussion on a similar attempt, friend. Riddle me this : The story began with two brothers (eldest and youngest), with a sister in the middle. A sister who is always torn between the two though it is clear where she will eventually go. She is, after all one of the extremes of the Third. Where did her love lie?

What does could possibly be meant by this? Is it a personal question? That's the negative stand isn't it. That wasn't even a question. It was just a word. One that each individual must define for themselves. At the end of the day, though, whatever road you take, it's always a box of chocolates.

Attraction. But in a more ethereal sort of way. It's the kind that pulls you in without any sign that it's actually doing so. I doubt if you know that if you Google the term, 95% of image results are hot models on the cover of a magazine; mostly Caucasian (most look Russian). Er, that's really all I have to say about that.
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Hmm. I find it interesting that I connected each person's word with a specific memory about him/her if one came to mind; alternatively, I went with a word that I connected to my image of that person. Except the one fail, oh godly tesseract. Must do it blindly somehow, so each person's name and face is  not immediately above their word. It should be easy for you all to figure out which one yours is.

It's kinda retarded how boring this might be for those who don't have a word up there right now. All for the best; I personally feel this is fairly lousy. Perhaps due to in part to Le olde Talat Mahmood, who never fails to grant my mood sadder, perhaps more grey tones. And the Urdu words..

Who is mad? Me or the guy writing to all of you above?

If anyone catches three layers (at least three of you should, they're fairly obvious; walls is too basic a word), let me know and I'll owe you a beer.

Grammar seems to be the most coherent of all my posts, which must mean the man is evolving.

Ha.

**start cheerful MC tone**

That's it, folks. A big shout to all those who replied in time - thanks! To those who couldn't, there will hopefully be a next time! Good night and god bless!

**end cheerful MC tone**

That seat in the airplane

Perhaps it was best
Not to ask her to sit near me
What did that achieve? You ask
Not much, I'm afraid.

Thirty thousand feet above everyone
The first whiff of.. what?
Morning dew? Or was it her hair?
Who knows.

Perhaps there would be nothing
Never have been anything
Without that seat on the fated day
When whispers were exchanged about moments unknown.

Unknown, but new as a spring leaf
Those moments were water
Clear spring water
Pure, unbridled, merciful and merciless

Well, she sat
For a long time; there was talk
About things old and new
With whispers of things to come

Perhaps the invitation was my greatest mistake
Or the bloom of a new morning journey
I will never know; the moment has long passed
Perhaps it is best not to know.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

In it's original form. Written in a five minute fit.

Edit: Line #22 changed. Couldn't bear the cheese.

The 'Busy' Trap

From the NY Times Opinion page. Felt it was worth sharing here. Excellent read.

The ‘Busy’ Trap
Tim Kreider
June 30, 2012

If you live in America in the 21st century you’ve probably had to
listen to a lot of people tell you how busy they are. It’s become the
default response when you ask anyone how they’re doing: “Busy!” “So
busy.” “Crazy busy.” It is, pretty obviously, a boast disguised as a
complaint. And the stock response is a kind of congratulation: “That’s
a good problem to have,” or “Better than the opposite.”

Notice it isn’t generally people pulling back-to-back shifts in the
I.C.U. or commuting by bus to three minimum-wage jobs  who tell you
how busy they are; what those people are is not busy but tired.
Exhausted. Dead on their feet. It’s almost always people whose
lamented busyness is purely self-imposed: work and obligations they’ve
taken on voluntarily, classes and activities they’ve “encouraged”
their kids to participate in. They’re busy because of their own
ambition or drive or anxiety, because they’re addicted to busyness and
dread what they might have to face in its absence.

Almost everyone I know is busy. They feel anxious and guilty when they
aren’t either working or doing something to promote their work. They
schedule in time with friends the way students with 4.0 G.P.A.’s  make
sure to sign up for community service because it looks good on their
college applications. I recently wrote a friend to ask if he wanted to
do something this week, and he answered that he didn’t have a lot of
time but if something was going on to let him know and maybe he could
ditch work for a few hours. I wanted to clarify that my question had
not been a preliminary heads-up to some future invitation; this was
the invitation. But his busyness was like some vast churning noise
through which he was shouting out at me, and I gave up trying to shout
back over it.

Even children are busy now, scheduled down to the half-hour with
classes and extracurricular activities. They come home at the end of
the day as tired as grown-ups. I was a member of the latchkey
generation and had three hours of totally unstructured, largely
unsupervised time every afternoon, time I used to do everything from
surfing the World Book Encyclopedia to making animated films to
getting together with friends in the woods to chuck dirt clods
directly into one another’s eyes, all of which provided me with
important skills and insights that remain valuable to this day. Those
free hours became the model for how I wanted to live the rest of my
life.

The present hysteria is not a necessary or inevitable condition of
life; it’s something we’ve chosen, if only by our acquiescence to it.
Not long ago I  Skyped with a friend who was driven out of the city by
high rent and now has an artist’s residency in a small town in the
south of France. She described herself as happy and relaxed for the
first time in years. She still gets her work done, but it doesn’t
consume her entire day and brain. She says it feels like college — she
has a big circle of friends who all go out to the cafe together every
night. She has a boyfriend again. (She once ruefully summarized dating
in New York: “Everyone’s too busy and everyone thinks they can do
better.”) What she had mistakenly assumed was her personality —
driven, cranky, anxious and sad — turned out to be a deformative
effect of her environment. It’s not as if any of us wants to live like
this, any more than any one person wants to be part of a traffic jam
or stadium trampling or the hierarchy of cruelty in high school — it’s
something we collectively force one another to do.

Busyness serves as a kind of existential reassurance, a hedge against
emptiness; obviously your life cannot possibly be silly or trivial or
meaningless if you are so busy, completely booked, in demand every
hour of the day. I once knew a woman who interned at a magazine where
she wasn’t allowed to take lunch hours out, lest she be urgently
needed for some reason. This was an entertainment magazine whose
raison d’être was obviated when “menu” buttons appeared on remotes, so
it’s hard to see this pretense of indispensability as anything other
than a form of institutional self-delusion. More and more people in
this country no longer make or do anything tangible; if your job
wasn’t performed by a cat or a boa constrictor in a Richard Scarry
book I’m not sure I believe it’s necessary. I can’t help but wonder
whether all this histrionic exhaustion isn’t a way of covering up the
fact that most of what we do doesn’t matter.

I am not busy. I am the laziest ambitious person I know. Like most
writers, I feel like a reprobate who does not deserve to live on any
day that I do not write, but I also feel that four or five hours is
enough to earn my stay on the planet for one more day. On the best
ordinary days of my life, I write in the morning, go for a long bike
ride and run errands in the afternoon, and in the evening I see
friends, read or watch a movie. This, it seems to me, is a sane and
pleasant pace for a day. And if you call me up and ask whether I won’t
maybe blow off work and check out the new American Wing at the Met or
ogle girls in Central Park or just drink chilled pink minty cocktails
all day long, I will say, what time?

But just in the last few months, I’ve insidiously started, because of
professional obligations, to become busy. For the first time I was
able to tell people, with a straight face, that I was “too busy” to do
this or that thing they wanted me to do. I could see why people enjoy
this complaint; it makes you feel important, sought-after and
put-upon. Except that I hate actually being busy. Every morning my
in-box was full of e-mails asking me to do things I did not want to do
or presenting me with problems that I now had to solve. It got more
and more intolerable until finally I fled town to the Undisclosed
Location from which I’m writing this.

Here I am largely unmolested by obligations. There is no TV. To check
e-mail I have to drive to the library. I go a week at a time without
seeing anyone I know. I’ve remembered about buttercups, stink bugs and
the stars. I read. And I’m finally getting some real writing done for
the first time in months. It’s hard to find anything to say about life
without immersing yourself in the world, but it’s also just about
impossible to figure out what it might be, or how best to say it,
without getting the hell out of it again.

Idleness is not just a vacation, an indulgence or a vice; it is as
indispensable to the brain as vitamin D is to the body, and deprived
of it we suffer a mental affliction as disfiguring as rickets. The
space and quiet that idleness provides is a necessary condition for
standing back from life and seeing it whole, for making unexpected
connections and waiting for the wild summer lightning strikes of
inspiration — it is, paradoxically, necessary to getting any work
done. “Idle dreaming is often of the essence of what we do,” wrote
Thomas Pynchon in his essay on sloth. Archimedes’ “Eureka” in the
bath, Newton’s apple, Jekyll & Hyde and the benzene ring: history is
full of stories of inspirations that come in idle moments and dreams.
It almost makes you wonder whether loafers, goldbricks and no-accounts
aren’t responsible for more of the world’s great ideas, inventions and
masterpieces than the hardworking.

“The goal of the future is full unemployment, so we can play. That’s
why we have to destroy the present politico-economic system.” This may
sound like the pronouncement of some bong-smoking anarchist, but it
was actually Arthur C. Clarke, who found time between scuba diving and
pinball games to write “Childhood’s End” and think up communications
satellites. My old colleague Ted Rall recently wrote a column
proposing that we divorce income from work and give each citizen a
guaranteed paycheck, which sounds like the kind of lunatic notion
that’ll be considered a basic human right in about a century, like
abolition, universal suffrage and eight-hour workdays. The Puritans
turned work into a virtue, evidently forgetting that God invented it
as a punishment.

Perhaps the world would soon slide to ruin if everyone behaved as I
do. But I would suggest that an ideal human life lies somewhere
between my own defiant indolence and the rest of the world’s endless
frenetic hustle. My role is just to be a bad influence, the kid
standing outside the classroom window making faces at you at your
desk, urging you to just this once make some excuse and get out of
there, come outside and play. My own resolute idleness has mostly been
a luxury rather than a virtue, but I did make a conscious decision, a
long time ago, to choose time over money, since I’ve always understood
that the best investment of my limited time on earth was to spend it
with people I love. I suppose it’s possible I’ll lie on my deathbed
regretting that I didn’t work harder and say everything I had to say,
but I think what I’ll really wish is that I could have one more beer
with Chris, another long talk with Megan, one last good hard laugh
with Boyd. Life is too short to be busy.
---
Tim Kreider is the author of “We Learn Nothing,” a collection of
essays and cartoons. His cartoon, “The Pain — When Will It End?” has
been collected in three books by Fantagraphics.

Disclaimer:- Obviously, I do not claim any credit for this work in whole or in part.

The Madman - Drops of Blue Lava

Hello all,

Welcome to another season of the Madman. Today, our journey begins with grey disc-like objects till legs of stone make the disappearance of known objects possible. After removal of said objects, a mandatory tour of the greenish-purple white streets leads to nirvana. Rotating red roses remind me of the Iris, with it's purple-yellow loveliness, and of all that withered away with it. The blue moon is all I have left. That and a little bit of the stationary surrealism.

Voices call from the digital TV wall, rampaging through those selfsame rotating roses (yes, the very ones we heard from a moment ago). As night falls, the red turns to a gradual black, before the difference in color never existed. Fog, ice and iris (repeating themes is not my style!), all gone. But she was here a moment ago! Perhaps thrown to the trash in a bottle of water, as a memory of losing one's reflection.

Several points of a star all lead to infinity. As the infinity of the galaxy streams past, and the stars, all looked upon as being far away for far too long, are like little white specks of salt, the scientist tries to work around the number of commas in this sentence. He then flees back to the beginning of time and wishes to recreate it all. With a few, small, differences of course. As his attempts to return get progressively more petulant, his anger rises and he storms away, alone. Not the best combination, mind.

The painted green landscape of the still (really?) seas of the mind is obviously fake. Reality lies in a far deeper section, the one where drops of molten redness coalesce to form the core. The discoverer races down in a small ship of a single stalactite, but he must first get past the jagged blue spikes. As he successfully races away after sampling real loveliness, he cannot help but look back and wish things were otherwise. He tries to flit back, but the spikes are now closed to him once and for all. Perhaps, if the core were to show herself..

Cold and grey steel lurks on my bedspread, the kind spirits and mortals alike fear (burns one, cuts/bludgeons/slashes/smashes other). As the remorseless winds flow over the still, black waters of her, my look loses its once-fabled power. The Turn, which has occurred for possibly the last time, destroys and relieves at the same time. Yet a deeper fear is the return of the Gaze.. beauty and terror in one small package.

I do not like this imagery, and shall desist from writing more. I would bother mentioning that there are references in this one too, but with how interested You were in the first set, there seems to be a lack of point in doing so.

I love you too. Always.

PS: Around the bend, but make sure it's still a turn You can take.

Whoamg another new one.

I can't believe it!

Randomness + alliteration.

The trick to triumph is to try.

Limbo loves latent lavish lamentations.

The red rat's royal rotund rump reeks

Compartments kept concealed kill commonplace krill.

Sunshine sounds seem so surreal; the theater of trouble tells tall tales of ticking timebombs

Matches made in the mind must melt. Meld?

Opportunities of opulence = Opacity.

Associations abound above

The gaze still makes me shudder.

The Madman

Hello,

I'm back! Maybe.

This here is my first attempt at free association writing.

Begin -

Now! Go. 1, 2, 3. Keys of lime in the pie are perfect when Samson lost his hair and the locks that dread lord warcraft flying purple pigs and a pink pantaloon. Oh wait flamingos can fly too. The world in a baked form is the creep bunny of goose. Melancholy is the dirt drifter who drifts behind Jumper's Carrera while blowing horns with the bulls of yesteryear.

The ups and downs of a sine wave are like rolling hills or perhaps the setting in the treadmill was wrong. Running as free and fly as a wild bird in Montana would be the happy way to go. Even if I crash my own plane. This back of mine in large rolling giants with eyes made of cheese and the game never ends because the mouse always loses.

Peter and Valentine might never understand the value of having a brother. Perhaps they do. The lake is like a swarm of hyperspace where time loops into itself and the water moves like a surreal leaflet with words written on each drop. The many moods of man can maim the soul and then make it whole.

The wind from the sun blows my sails adrift while Arachnae watches from her slumber, waiting to pounce. Then I look upon her face and turn away. Which is harder? The look or the turn? Perhaps the lemon and the orange could grow on the same tree. Or perhaps, it was never meant to be.

I am alive. Life, the essence of humanity, drifts through the storms of white and the clouds of grey. As the blizzard envelops the land of elves, so turns a man in confusion with no knowledge of where to look. The gaze is as devastating as the turn, and he will lose either way. Then why, pray, does he try?

PS: References abound in the lines of madness written above. Discover them, if you can.

Snap! Thus returns the real world with its happiness and pain, joy and suffering. Here we must exist.

Disclaimer: This was written in exactly 10 minutes. I love you too.

Guess he should talk to Ray Charles.

Credits: Oglaf.com

Props: Vini