Pretty satisfied.

There are times, when I bang off a piece, what, three - perhaps four hundred words in all, and think to myself, gee, that's pretty good work you've got there. Not bad at all for a couple of hours of effort. I don't see why I couldn't be a writer myself.

And then I think of the way I feel about people who tell me they've disproved Einstein's theories using high-school math. Its so easy, they tell. All you have to do is think in a different way, and you could come up with a theory yourself. Except somewhere along the line there's a tiny glaring inconsistency screaming for attention like a child abandoned in a railway station. And the whole thing comes crashing down, and the pioneers of a new age slink away into mundane obscurity.

How would the wordsmiths of this age, people who toil over cadence and metre, who read and reread and edit and scrap and start all over again on a daily basis react if exposed to the excited babblings of a self-proclaimed gifted amateur, who writes in his spare time, no less, and claims to be as good as anybody out there? Would they clap, and shower him with praise, or smile and press a hidden button under their desk that is linked to a well-positioned trapdoor, or scream and rant and pull their hair out by the roots in frustration at this blasphemer, this heretic, this pretender at nobility from the noveau-riche proletariat?

It was recently that my grandmother was telling me of this economist who proved the pythagorean theorem. While my mental faculties were preparing a response, structured along the lines of, 'oh, bugger. not this again...', I was overridden, and asked to look at it first, before being snobbish and dismissive. And that is what I proceeded to do.

I think I now have a slight inkling of why the young english major from NYU had such a stricken look on his face when I told him I write in a blog from time to time. Perhaps it brought back memories of when he had been slapped with a dead fish. Perhaps he thought I was going to ask him to critique it. More likely, though, he was thinking, 'oh, no. not one of those again...'

We're not alone

Timestamp: 15:31, 28th of November, 2014
Workingtitle: We are not alone.

‘It takes all kinds to make a world. The fat ones, the short ones, the curious ones, the kind ones. The spectrum of our existential consciousness, is comprised of tiny bits of interactions with these variegated facets of humanity, like watching the light glint off fine cuts made in one of those sparkly thingies some people seem to like so much....’

‘For Chrissake, stop blathering on about such dashed nonsense. Don’t you have anything better to do? For example, figure out exactly what the subspace of good couplings is for the four-point functions?’

‘Ooh, look. There, to your four o’clock. My goodness, she’s so pretty. The way her hair falls across her face when she leans forward..’

‘Again with the humming. what is it with you crazy aes-sedai? And stop tugging on your earlobe. You look creepy. Okay, I need chocolate. And perhaps some ice-cream. And coffee!’

‘I want to run. Freely, without restraint. Over fields, and hillocks, and valleys. Past small stalls selling tea and biscuits, past bullocks drawing carts full of hay, past the straggling industries at the edge of civilisation, or, at least, the edge of wi-fi. I want to run past train stations, over flyovers, slide on railings, and vault over cars....’

‘Oookay, ignoring the weirdo with his orthogonal tangents for a moment, are we going to get coffee? I could do with some food too, while we’re at it.’

‘If you find her so perfectly fetching, then why don’t you go talk to her? It’s been too long that you’ve been hung up on M. Stop sulking.’

‘I want to run past faded graffiti on old buildings and dogs scavenging for thanksgiving leftovers. Past plastic-and-chrome bookstores that stock naught but bestsellers, and old smoky bars with a jazz quartet playing songs from a forgotten age....’

‘So, if you look at the two chiral vertex operators, in the fundamental representation and its dual, the only way they can couple is through the identity.’

‘What if this place had a moat?’

‘A coffee shop with a moat. Really?’

‘That would be so cool, we could throw those buggers in to the sharks when they act all pretentious. Oh, look, I’m reading Murakami. I’m so cool. I’m going to use words like reprobate and excrescence, quote obscure pieces like Janacek’s Sinfonietta, and talk about how the mundane and the metaphysical are inextricably linked.’

‘You hypocrite. You read Murakami and do all those things.’

‘Oh. Well, crap.’

‘So, are you going to talk to her? Or get coffee? Being hungry makes me ornery. Or is that being sleepy?’

‘Look. People you know, to your seven o’clock. D’you want to talk to them?’

‘Hm. Some company might be nice. Besides, I’ve been sitting here for too long. I’ll wave at them.’

‘Run, run, while you can. It’ll just be awkward for everyone if you wave. They didn’t expect to see you here, but then they’ll have to come sit with. Then it’ll just be silences, with bits of meaningless nothings floating in little boats of awkwardness, in a gravy sea of embarassments. Say you have an urgent appointment.’

‘Ah, yes, to the doctor! For herpes? An appendectomy?’

‘Oh, shut up. They didn’t see me.’

‘The relief, the relief. Methinks I feel faint.’

‘Of what use are these moments of utter eloquence if not to convince you to do stupid things?’

‘Like walk on that frozen lake?’

‘Don’t even remind me of that.’

‘Shutupshutupshutup...’

‘Run past hills, with little brooks and sheep grazing in their little bubbles of serenity and perpetual amazement..’

‘Or consternation. You know these sheep, they find a stream instead of their usual patch of grass and the next thing you know they’ve wandered up the hill and are trying to jump off a cliff.’

‘Stop indulging him.’

‘(or consternation), past mountains, with great big craggy peaks that are nigh-impossible to scale, and beyond...’

‘Sometimes, it takes all kinds to make up a person. Whispering, cajoling, needling, arguing, agreeing, temporising over trivialities together, pennies for thoughts, as we subconsciously influence what you call your own notion of free will. Whether you think its your memories, or your emotions, or your baggage, or God’s voice....’

‘Or a dyslexic Dog’s voice...’

‘Or that, or logic, or your own notion of free will. You are, of course, free to rationalise your actions any way you want it. But sometimes, if you feel brave, or adventurous, or curious, or simply lonely, do sit down in absolute silence, and listen to us, the voices in your head. For you are not alone.’

‘I want to run into space, to soar in the great big open sky with its uncountable finity of stars, past planets vast and gassy, and planets compact and tectonic, and stars mild and serene, and furious ones, flaring with tempers under little control.’

‘I want to run faster and faster, picking up momentum as I go along, leaving comets hurtling in my wake, as I approach the speed of light. And as light, I want to run to the edge of the universe. To the edge of infinity.’

‘And beyond...’

Ale n' wich #1

'I didn't know that I was drunk enough to philosophise about moral relativism.'

'You never do. It just sorta creeps up on you.'

'How d'you mean?', he said, cocking his head to one side, and trying to focus, giving up midway.
The cacophony of sounds from the background, the passionate screams, pointless within seconds, the screeches as a lucky shot lands a pool ball in an unsuspecting pocket, the incredulous exclamations as someone strikes up a conversation with an extraordinary story, the cries of rapture as your song comes on, completely unexpected, the sighs of disappointment at not finding two quarters for the next fusbal game, and the sideways glances at someone you wish you were here with, as you sip your drink and try to make conversation that your mind isn't really on, the heady mixture that makes up your sustenance in the dimly lit dive permeates it as it has on so many nights before.

'Well, there're so many things. Its like that last shot of whiskey that you'll think you'll have. It lingers on the tongue, hinting at possibilities of a disconnect so effective that you think you'll be swimming in a sea of unmoored emotion, drifting around in an effervescent haze as disembodied faces and fabricated memories dip and bob and weave past your insufficiently buoyed spirits.'

I'm not quite sure I understand, but I nod anyway. I don't think I am in any position to frame an argument, nor do I think that anything good will come out of it, even if i do. She leans over to whisper in my ear, and I can smell the shampoo from her hair and the beer from her mouth. 'It comes down to evolution. Morality is a toy model for adaptability, it enforces social compatibility in a system of constructs that dictate the quality of actions based on a system of absolutes that vary with time and circumstance in the most canonically abstruse of ways.'

She's close to my ear now, so close that I can feel her breath on it. She moves an iota, and nibbles on my ear. I remain still, unsure of how to react. The set of my experiences borders on the theoretical, on the abstract, my contact with reality leaves me bewildered, and surprised at my inaction. I expected to act. Perhaps badly, in a way that I would regret later, reminiscing of rash gestures and rude comment, hormonal and pheromonal, pushy and intrusive, bold and stupid. But fresh, nevertheless. Yet, I disappoint myself, once again. Hardly surprising.

I take a deep breath, and prepare to speak. It means nothing, requires no thought, takes no effort. Open my mouth, and utter nothings. My zephyr song.

Herrmit krab.

Oh, what do you know,
of the heady lassitude of spending time,
in the company of good friends?

Of lying 'pon the grasses green,
And shooting watermelon seeds,
at passing clouds that look like sheep.

Of roaming around broke,
penniless and destitute,
for food oh so cheap, oh so delicious.

Of talking through murky nights,
when the world shudders and quakes,
while you while away the time,
with a thought, a drink, and a song.

Of trudging wearily to the nearest town,
Robbed o' your wits, your possessions,
Taking solace in each others presence.

Of endless professions of undying love,
Promises made, broken, and made anew,
Staying static as the world warps,
Wondering why people change.

What do you know, O' friendless one,
joyless and solitary, stubborn and apathetic,
what do you know of joy and pain?

Sitting in your shell,
as you go about it all,
Looking, but not seeing.
As the ones who care,
slip away into obscurity,
in the mists of time.

Moonshine and monsters.

Glance at the sky,
overcast, cloudy,
as the moon tries
with its feeble light
to pierce the veils
and gaze back at you.

A thousand stars shrouded,
blinded by your luminiscence,
shine back at each other,
in ignorance of your darkness.

You look, and wonder, and imagine,
starry skies, clear and bright,
whether the little ones above notice,

the twinkle in your eye.

Majick lock-opening-thingamajigs

'Sure', he said.

'Freilich', he said.

'Of course it has to be magic. What else can it be?'

The mysterious customer, still standing in front of the counter, unaffected by the heat that aided his melting into an unsightly pile of cheese in front of her, turned the 'it' over in her hands. Her face was hidden, but her nimble fingers seemed bemused.

'Reallye?', she said.

'Da, really.', he replied. He didn't quite know what tone to take with her. In his line of work, he had had to deal with a number of women before. That number being five. Okay, fine, three. But he had gotten through those without being slapped, stolen from, spit upon, set on fire, or turned into a frog waiting for a kiss from a true love that didn't exist. Surviving, while not exactly the best recipe for boosting confidence, did help kick it up the hill a bit.

He wondered, looking at her well woven cloak, with its discreet golden threading, and the impressively elegant wooden cane she used, but didn't seem to need, what their origins were. Wooden sticks, he knew, were rather hard objects to impart a refined air to. She should, by all intents and purposes, be ridiculously rich. But the unfettered wealthy did not impart such intense scrutiny to trinkets. Heck, it should've been his lucky day. She should've just purchased, nay, appropriated a quarter of his shop. It was all junk anyway. But instead, she seemed to have no eye for aught but the mangled key that she kept turning over and over, as if she expected it to jump up and do a trick for her.

He was wondering if he should break the silence with yet another discreet reminder of their mortality, and that they should probably complete their transaction before they died of starvation, or the plague, or yet another publicity scheme thought of by their increasingly erratic liege-lord. But she looked up, and he caught his first glimpse of her eyes, framed by locks of her dark hair.

They were brown. Not the brown, though, that most normal folks had, but an intelligent brown, one that weighed, calculated, and gave off a hundred different meanings with a hundred different hues, with a twinkle of hidden merriment that lurked beneath. He decided that whatever he wanted to say, was not worth it. She spoke, in a low, lilting voice that would have been a song were it not for the words,

'Hwa bealucræft, galdorcwide, wiccecræeft, or dreócræft numol, þéos keye?'

He struggled with that. He hadn't heard the old tongue being spoken so fluently in a while, perhaps it was just the new tongue being murdered. Perhaps not. He shook his head, trying to clear the bells and chimes of wonder and alarm ringing in them, and concentrated on the words instead.

'O' scínlæ', he said, for he was now sure that was what she was, a sorceress. A real live one, apparently not on the run either, for she seemed not in any kind of hurry. 'The drýlác, the sorcery on this key I know not, it came into my hands through a quirk of fate, nothing more, and all I knew of it, you now do. If you want it, take it. There ain't no instruction manual included, I'm afraid. Not a lock that I could find to fit it into.'

Slightly mollified by his own diatribe, he continued, 'It does seem to be a rather odd key, though. I couldn't straighten it out, nor melt it down into slag, and that alone is enough to confirm that it has to be magical, and a strong one at that. That alone prompted me to not mess around with it anymore. Well, that, and the inscription near the top.'

She listened patiently, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She glanced at the inscription, and told him, in perfectly good lower tongue, 'I'll take it. How much would you like for it?'

He grinned back, now this, he could work with. 'Whatever you feel like giving, m'lady', he said.

'Well then, this should serve you well, should you figure out how to use it', she said, dropping a pouch on the counter, and smoothly scooping up the key. By the time he yelled that he didn't accept barter, she was no longer there, her swooshing skirts but a memory, were it not for the dull leather pouch on the countertop.

He opened it and looked inside, and removed an egg. An effing egg. Well, looked like he'd be having an omelette for breakfast tomorrow, he mused, thinking of that saying, how'd it go, 'when life gives you eggs...'

Outside, much farther away from the shop than a normal person would've been able to walk, or even run, she sat under the shade of an old tree, a gentle breeze ruffling the grass, and looked at the key, and smiled. The inscription read,
                                                        
'dréam on oþ dréams cymst sóþ.'

of blind men and monks.

It takes a lot out of people. Life does. There're all these ups, and downs, and at the end of a long dusty road, paved with the sweat and blood of years of toil, the next day is still as unpredictable as the very first. It's frustrating, sometimes. But that inherent, inexplicable uncertainty is what makes it fun, as well.

People talk about petty struggles, about great loves, about causes and passions. About the importance of conquest, and the journey being more important than the destination. About seizing the day, and living every day as if it were your last. About it being better than to have loved and lost than having been sued for sexual harassment. About contributing to society, and being punctual, and listening while other people talk. About what's for dinner, and did-you-see-what-she-was-wearing? About books, and film, and sport, and how the collatz conjecture can be proved. All right, maybe not the last.

Some, they say, are significant, and life-altering. Others, trivial. Though very few agree on which falls under what category. Johann Friedrich Herbart, while at Gottingen university, had outlined philosophy as the process of developing concepts. 'Partly as a consequence of the practical necessity to eliminate a contradiction or explain some matter, partly as a result of purely theoretical interest, a desire arises in him [man? dolphins? mice?] to correct, to amplify, to tie together - in general to put his concepts into good order. In other words, he begins to feel an urge to philosophise.'

I often wonder, though, considering that the majority of humankind tends to go through life without indulging in much of what is perceived in today's world as a waste of time, or a rich lad's passing fancy, whether these questions that we wonder about, are clear as day to the rest of us. Are we as blind men, trying to listen in vain for the colour blue?

A small clan of monks in the Himalayas presumably set out to find the meaning of life, the universe and everything. They hadn't had the opportunity to peruse Douglas Adam's monogram on the topic, and didn't realise they could have saved themselves a lot of time and instead have a snowball fight, and perhaps some tea afterwards.

Regardless, some meditated, standing on one leg for weeks on end while abstaining from food, and drink, and the passionate, lingering glances of the goats grazing on the hillside. Others read ancient texts on philosophy, and religion, and politics, and social constructs, and eventually went completely bonkers, renounced the ascetic lifestyle, sold their little mud pot, and went to work at wall street. I'm told they now drive ferraris, having found inner peace.

A particularly wise monk, driven to the edge in his pursuit for ultimate knowledge, literally, took it one step further, and jumped off a cliff. He may have found the answer he was looking for. Unfortunately, we'll never know.

 A wiser monk, looking at the unappetizing mess at the bottom of the cliff, concluded, with the brevity that is characteristic of the monks who speak, on average, about sixteen words a lifetime.

 'Life', he said, 'is not being dead.'