Dream it, I am watching!

Wonderment, amusement, ricochet
Your gumption, devotion, giveaway
I was watching

You Toppled, hurt your knees,
Grabbed a palm, got back sleaze,
I was watching

Your lies, your pain, penchant, puzzles
Carnal instincts, rebellion, atheism, your chuckles
I was watching

Your defeats, victories, violence, abuse
Your battles, rage, cravings and misuse
I was watching

Your coitus, pleasures, blizzards
Between the sheets, the shivers, the kissers
I was watching

Your silence, her persistence
Her silence, your insistence
I was watching

Your melodies, your rhapsodies
your fantasies, your ecstasies
I was watching

Pay no mind to the times you have won an argument
And the dream gets closer
Trust me! I am watching

Be judged but offer no judgments
And the dream gets closer
Trust me! I am watching

They tell you to shut up, then whisper
Dwindling resources they say, then simper
Trust me! I am watching
Dig deep sun, if the water doesn’t show
Smile big son, if the laughter doesn't grow
Trust me! I am watching

Strike hard son, if the fountain doesn’t blow
pray strong son, if the sky doesn't snow
Trust me! I am watching

Come judgment day, keep your dignity
And the dream materializes
Coz Trust me son, I have been watching

How God fails to beat us!

He asks us to be forgiving. He asks us to be compassionate. I guess he wouldn’t do that if he knew what it feels like to lose to a man

He takes credit for things that I produced out of thin air, bare products that took birth exclusively from broken figments of my vividly explicit imagination. And yes, that includes nose nuggets, mucus and dandruff too. Disgusting?
Hold on to your hats then. More to come

A young woman drudges through incalculable pangs of morning sickness and a squeeze toy bladder that loses control and finally snaps herself open and unleashes her amniotically smeared baby onto this world. Squeaking and bawling and flickering like a dying flame, it comes out. Why does it cry? Does the pain that 5 pound son of a bitch inflicted suddenly invoke guilt? Don’t think so.
The mother waits for the first time her baby grabs her finger. The first time her baby suckles on her ample bosoms. Bites ’em nipples raw with the middle finger raised at the onlookers. And she grows into a mother with love she never knew existed inside her. With love irreplaceable, invincible, immortal.

And God claims he created kangaroos so we could become mothers?

He asks us to be forgiving. He asks us to be compassionate. I guess he wouldn’t do that if he knew what it feels like to do the time at your daughter’s wedding and send her off knowing she’s never coming back.

A musician spends years busting his back to create 3 minute melodies to entertain people absolutely oblivious to his effort or the fact that some music is actually playing in the background. You see, in concerts, dopies sneak up a shitload of ganja in their asses and wear shirts made out of rizla. All you gotta do is tear a handful from your shirt, pull an extra chunky jiff out your ass, roll, light and drag. And  days, months, years and a cathedral full of moolah that got sacrificed in preparation for the concert start to pay off, from both ends, the performer and the viewer.
Of course, the impact on the human ear – everlasting.

And God claims he created cuckoos so we could create music?
I say, we cultivated ganja so we could create music ;)

He asks us to be forgiving. He asks us to be compassionate. I guess he wouldn’t do that if he knew what it feels like to love someone to your bones and be forced to live without them all your life.

Talk about jaguars, Lamborghinis. Horse power, torque, suspension, hydraulics. I am sure God would take credit again. “I created horses right? Go ahead. You can build a Bentley now”
No God! We can’t. Not motivating enough.

We have engineers that grease up years under the chasis so we could create reliable brake linings. We have designers, glued to their monitors, hopped up on all possible alkaloid stimulants of the Solanaceae family, who spend half their ages wired up to come up with a unique design. Alas! The design lasts a couple months before an entirely different set of the same junkies from a different part of the world bring up a new badass design.

He asks us to be forgiving. He asks us to be compassionate. I guess he wouldn’t do that if he knew what it feels like to give up a life to save another

There is this thin bitchy line between a disease and its cure. You know what angels call it. Actually those suckers don’t even get to call it. They just receive orders from “Father” and pass the word along. So anyway, the thin line as perpetuated by angels is called Pain. God says he gave us pain so we could learn to love, appreciate relief, comfort, health, well being and shit.

No! Duh! That’s not why he gave us pain.
He gave us pain so he could control us. Keep us whining, moaning and suppressed so we could fail to unlock our true potential. He knew he had made a boo-boo when he created us. He gave us too much power. Power that would one day out run him. So he gave us pain. To significantly immobilize us, restrict us.

We shot a million monkeys into space to see the biological effects of space travel. Think about the pain, hunger and thirst those oblivious bastards must have suffered before they got sucked in an orbit and finally kicked the bucket. They were sacrificed so humans could breathe through a mask up there.

And God claims he created Ruppell’s Vultures so we could build rockets?

He asks us to be forgiving. He asks us to be compassionate. I guess he wouldn’t do that if he knew what it feels like to be human.

What about the unfortunate surgeon who gave up his life testing an anti-malarial drug on himself so we could smile when a mosquito bit us?
Medicine monkey? Not cool man!             

So the next time you build an airplane, don’t let God tell you that you could do it coz he created birds to throw you a nudge. Come on God! That’s just condescension up my hairy crack.

There’s a gazillion reasons why I created an airplane. Flying? Not one of them
 

Wouldn’t it be good

Wouldn’t it be good


to have a lizard that changed color to match your living room decor?

to have a Bengal Tiger for a pet that would smile at guests, guide them in and use his deathly paws to shift the living room furniture for seating?

to wake up, and have your spouses’, hair smell just the way they did when you first smelt them and fell in love?

to get a Johnny walker scotch kick from the same mundane black coffee that you’ve been sipping for years to knock you off your sleep?

to get that coveted six pack by just a dozen relaxed crunches at the gym?

to reach your office and have a gazillion white and red flowers decorated at your desk, and cards scattered around your paperwork, cards from you colleagues that just say, “Hi, have the best day buddy”?

to have your super naggy, ultra dejected boss smile and say, “Good Morning” for the first time in years that you spent bursting your ass for the conglomerate that promoted him CEO a week ago?

to just for one day, sit and relax at a bar, gulp a couple shots and have your mates not brag off their state of the art cell phones or recently slenderized girlfriends?

to have the love of your life show up at your doorstep, smiling and beautiful, aching to run into your arms and pile drive your soul into oblivion?

to have scaly venomous snakes mow your lawn while you sit back in your easy chair and stuff your mouth with chunks of mom made spaghetti?

to look into the mirror, strip naked, grab a handful of the delicious flab and be able to say, “Man! I am curvy and I love it”?

to be, for once, awarded 10,000 bucks for being successfully able to miss an indispensible deadline?

to have a fusillade of enticing, shimmering, glossy luxury cars pass by at collision distance and yet feel amazed at not being able to be aroused?

to just for one second, allow time to stand still, the brain projector to run and to flip through the reel of mental images showing clips of how beautiful your life has been and will be, if you just let go?

 

May be one last chunk!

The recipe for weight gain is actually quite simple. Watch enough T.V for about a week and you’ll begin to feel depressed. Hey! Not because you’re paranoid or you battled abandonment politics as a child. Na na na na! It’s simply something that television does to you. I wonder if they should change its name to ‘Psychoses Box’.

Anyway, once you have developed an eating disorder and you’re brimming with melancholy, you’ll painfully lose the urge to swap channels and anything they show on TV will become interesting as long as you don’t stop eating. You keep this up for a month. Nothing major happens. You know, body resists crap! However, if you keep doing this, the next thing you know, an assistant buyer tries to squeeze you out of a shoulder jumpsuit that you thought you’d wear on your special night! J

Sugar blues – yeah I get it! The harder you drudge, the more over strung they make you. That saucy image of a perfectly proportionate piece of round, googly, calorie loaded, buttered and toasted muffin has been camping inside your mental food compartments for a gazillion years. The picture is so clear you could beat Da Vinci if asked to draw.

Well, that’s the catch.

The next time you’re swamped with an urge to snack on a chunk of what may only be described as pure blubber along your sides, hips, chest and belly, grip your stacked abdomen layers or manboobs or hips, whatever works for you, and clench the fat as hard as it takes to suffocate the feeling. With your fists clasped tight against the fat, look in the mirror and feel disgraceful. Feel guilt. Feel ashamed. Feel self loathing. May be slap yourself a bit. Trust me, that will, sure as you’re born, kill the growling cells in your stomach.

Repeat this for about a month and a sudden fusillade of anti adipose behaviour shall become a habit. Over the course of a year, you’ll cut back 20 pounds. WORD! A little self inflicting behaviour may be complimentary. But again, it depends on how far along you are in the mental breakdown process.

Also, stop being a wuss and harness a little willpower to work out. But don’t count on it. It’ll simply help speed up the process.

So to sum up,

Hate your fat, you’ll start losing it.
Just remember not to start hating self. You might lose that too.

Shattered Dimensions

I woke up to an unexpected turbulence on my flight. I could hear some eargasmic feminine gibberish that seemed to come from above my head. Yup! Indian female flight attendants are really polite, so much so that their stereotyped short written flight regulations that seem to be coming from above our heads give us a hard on long before we get a chance to scan through their voluptuous bodies.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me indescribable pleasure announcing that we have just lost cabin pressure. We are stuck at 30000 feet. And the air pockets, Man! There’z a shitload of them and they are all nasty sons of bitches. Underneath your seat is a black Wikipedia offspring that should just about describe air pockets for you in case you feel like knowing the reason for your death”

To my disdainful surprise, the 5’10’’ hour glass attendant with big shining eyes, hair darker than a black hole, lips redder than raspberries, continued with a smile.

“Poor passengers! You can suck on the rubber choked oxygen masks that hang loose at your disposal. Just wrap the mask around your face, let your bleeding noses slide into the gas muzzle and breathe. But remember, first help yourselves and then watch your loved ones asphyxiate. Trust me, if you want to enjoy this flight, well, probably your last flight, you shouldn't run around hogging for masks or seats. Be calm and let death engulf you to the core. If you have a mask hanging near you, make sure you grab it before your spouse or kid. You don’t want to leave lone survivors now do you?

She said it, and in a jiffy, panic that had almost started to sprout was now exploding through the aircraft.

You see, when you’re on a plane flying a thousand miles an hour, subconsciously, you begin to trust the flight attendant. You stop panicking if she says ‘don’t panic’, even if the flaming noises from the aircraft’s engine scare the bejesus out of you. You calm yourself if she says ‘calm yourself’, even if your nose bursts bleeding and you feel razor blades slicing their way through your sonic stricken ears.

I have never experienced this, but you’d probably jump off the plane without a parachute if she says so.

But what do you do when your plane is going to crash and the cabin crew goes totally nuts?

The flight attendants laugh at your misery. The captain plays ‘Sepultura’ and ‘Children of Bodom’  on the speakers. The stewards start flirting with women who seem to be struggling to hold on to their babies while the aircraft plunges down and loses some more pressure. There’z the same old dreaded lightening outside. The aircraft slices its way down to perdition.

And just when you think this has to be the farthest humans can take their craziness, the slider digital mini television sets lodged in overhead sockets roll down with eloquence. This is what the message reads, “dear passenger, it was lovely having you aboard. We know the plane is going to crash and you have no choice what so ever. But thanks again for choosing ‘pan Indian’ airways. Hope you had a blast and we look forward to serving you again, may be in your next life”

When you’re on a plane and you feel you won’t make it down, you’re probably right. Coz folks! at such altitude and pressure, if something knocks down, there’s pretty much nothing you can do to avert what lies ahead. The pressure, the suction and the shitload of white fuel all smile waiting for the slightest hint of friction to explode the living daylights out of every last passenger on board.

So the point is you can either let go and revel in the entertainment that the flight crew brings up for you, or you can panic till the timer goes and you’re charred to point zero.

Imagine. If there were skilled flight crews specifically trained to prepare passengers for a crash that would kill them all. What if there were an aviation academy imparting skills and degrees on flight management in the few moments between a deadly airline mishap and a crash?

We have these degrees in aviation:

Bachelor in Aviation technology

Master in Aviation technology

Bachelor in aircraft management

Master in air traffic control

Aviation engineer

But imagine if we had these aviation degrees

Bachelor in post crash mid air dancing

Diploma in post explosive mid air seduction

Bachelor in pre explosive one minute lap dances

Master in pre explosive one minute lap dances

Diploma in wing suit base jumping without parachutes

Diploma in post crash mid air live reporting

and the like

You lock a bunch of people in a room and toss in a huge chunk of raw diamond

or

You put the same bunch on a crashing plane

Wonder what kills them first?

Scratch that itch!

The average human body is covered by about 20 square feet of skin. That makes up to about 2 square meters.

Funny, we never stop to think for a second before we vigorously scratch the heck out of it. Why would we?
Unless I have a history of an obsessive compulsive disorder running along my family lines, I know I wouldn’t blink before I’d scratch an itch. Nobody ever does. The itch stimulus and the scratch action are processes as linked to each other as the DNA coils that define our very existence.

Intu – mu – resting!
One would think.

Wait! Am I scribbling a bunch of bull-crap packed testimony on ways to scratch bodily itches?
HECK No!

Regular readers! You guessed it right! Mr Pain in the ass “Philosophical dimension” is back again. Well it’s my itch and forcing you to read through this is how I scratch it.

What is an itch?
Not technically. We all know how that ends.
An itch, on an emotional, paraphysical or a multi parallel level simply is an intelligence that impersonates an urge to express what’s underneath.

It’s a stimulus that something isn’t supposed to be around. It’s a signal that something needs to be scratched away. That there is a need for some action that would remove the cause or at least mitigate the itching. Well, had it been just the itch over the skin, literally the skin, in concern today, I’d be attending a homo erectus conference instead of scribbling this blog. Coz folks, come on! I don’t intend to put this on the world map.

Every one has emotions, but not everyone has emotional intelligence.

Consider this.
You feel like crying. A belch rumbles underneath your stomach. You almost taste acid in your mouth. Not an angel of God has balls to keep you from crying and letting the pain out. You’re just seconds away from scratching your emotional itch by weeping loud as heck.

But you don’t do it!

“Big boyz don’t cry”, that’s what we hear from within our guilty conscience and we helplessly move on. Little do we know that we never actually moved on but allowed that emotional itch to win over us.
The itch loiters around for a while, feeds on nutrients we provide to it in the form of baggage, past memories, guilt and self infliction. The suppressed itch, emotion, lingers over our skin undefeated long enough to grow into an infection that can no longer be scratched away. It spreads inside like a virus destined to cripple us to the core. Over the course of time, it floods our system with melancholy and we sit back in absolute despair wondering what the hell went wrong.

Looking back!
Had we reacted differently
“I feel like crying. I need to weep. Yeah I am going to do it”, and it comes running, smiling to us in a lightening bolt. Like a reflex, tears come rolling down and we weep like babies. A few hours pass by and to our amazement, the agony, the pain, the distress has been magically palliated. It feels like an analgesic slowly working our deranged mental sections. Ridding them off their pain. And we sleep the longest we ever have.
The morning after, things are back to normalcy. The sun shines with the same intensity. The glimmer in the sky reminds us that good’s still out there for us.

Isn’t this a better way to move on?
Arrest my case!

This was just one of the many many situations we let ourselves down by self repression.
Imagine. You get a thorn stuck in your shin. The doctor tells you it’s superficial and a slight prick would let it out. You refuse and let it stay to save yourself from that ‘slight prick’ the image of which has been multiplied to a thousand times dreadful than actual in your brain.
We make things complicated when sometimes all that’s needed from us is to let go and let out. We complain. We try. We push things. We only make it worse.

The next time you feel like crying, just let it out.
You have my word. You won’t run out of Sodium Chloride. Might as well end up throwing crap out of your body.

Some itches are meant to be scratched right away. They might embarrass you at that moment but you save yourself a lifetime of unrelenting guilt.
So scratch that itch.
It’s worth a shot! Ain’t it?

God! I got a problem wid ya

Belief, is a funny thing. Some people fold to it, some squeeze, some rage blood wars and some learn to appreciate it.

Me, well, I am still questioning it!

One of the most perpetuated of them all is the belief in the almighty. The GEE OOO DEEE. The Wonder man! He is supposed to posses superhuman qualities and perceives the world as if it were an ant on top of a tennis ball.

He is considered to be the alpha and the omega.

Why not the delta?
The Pai? Anyone?

Gimme a bunch of these symbols and I shit you not, I’d make a formula and snap the heck outta schizophrenic mathematicians.

Fellas! Brace yourselves coz, I do believe in God! I doubt the sexuality though. Why refer to God as a ‘he’ if Physics tells us ther’z an equal probability of him being a ‘she’

Hey! All you atheists reading this scribbling. Don’t walk away. I promise my belief in God is not going to convince you to start believing. It might as well force the believers to quit! J

My perception of GOD is of a sadist. Who likes to watch us suffer, while he rejoices us conjuring up the useless set of instincts he gives us to battle life’s troubles.
My perception of God is also of a lover who fixes the desires in opposition.
He sets the rules in contrast.
A quote from an Alpacino movie often pops into my head
“Look, but don’t touch”
“Touch, but don’t taste”
“Taste, but don’t swallow”

He gives us a fruit. Eloquently describes how quick it’ll melt in our mouths. Instigates a burning urge to eat. Salivates our mouths dry. And the moment we reach out to pluck it, he declares it forbidden.

God! Why Oh why?

First you give us the glance
Then you set our eyes ablaze when we stare.
You give us hunger.
Then you poison us when we eat.
You strike us with thirst.
Then you create the paradoxical mirage
You give us erection.
Then you make someone walk in on us while we secretly try to make deposits.

I have had enough of this polarity God!
Life is not a battery with terminals charged in opposition. I don’t think the hypocritical balance that you claim to render through your “yin and yang” does any good to us poor creatures. Crushing down a desire feels more painful than getting beaten down to the pulp by henchmen looking for a few bucks and a quick sodomy.

I want it and I want it all.
No conditions apply!
The day my wishes come true is the day I quit believing you exist!