Being Periyar

Vidya’s comments here enlightened me on the controversy about Kushboo starring in a movie on/about Periyar.

She asks,

And what abt the Kushboo-staring-in-Periyaar movie controvery?, makes no sense to me. As far as I know Periyaar had *different* views on *Karpu*. Now PMK is protesting that Kushboo not star in this movie only because her opinions on *it* vilified the sanctity of women in TN.

No, Vidya. You are wrong.

Just because Periyar “had *different* views on *Karpu*,” it doesn’t mean she can star in something as sacrosanct as a movie on/about Periyar.

It only means that Periyar can’t star in a movie on/about Periyar.

Hair Loss - II

Chapter 2: The Barber

He cuts my hair diligently, day and night. Mathematics is close to divinity, I used to think. And, now, I know, I was right. The precision with which He maintains the symmetry is amazing.
y² = 4ax is for the mortals. He sees it in a glance. Like, how those theorems came to Ramanujan off-the-cuff.

Today, He said stoically, “Ah, there, dear Zero, is one left on the right, which makes it, um, less symmetric, you know…”
I feigned ignorance, and timidly asked, “What is it that is, um, less symmetric?”
“Your face,” He said and plucked.

Yes, God cuts my hair.

As part of the ambitious “Hair Loss” series. Previous post on “Hair Loss”.

Note: Since I have reprised what I had said here, this also turns out to be an unqualified entry to the haircut blogathon. Predecessors elsewhere: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5.

Yesterday, I ordered for a new pair of glasses, deciding to change the ones I am wearing now which I bought more than two years ago (I forget if I went for a new frame too, or only changed my lens, back then), when I had not even stepped into my first job.
It felt good.

My Meta-life

The coffee had come a long while ago and I hadn’t picked it from my table. I was just thinking about my life, like any other day. A meta-life of sorts, I have.

Love is not even conspicuous by its absence. There is such a disconnection between me and the world around me that I have started failing in many an aspect of my daily life. This sort of alienation, I find, is puzzling by its lack of complexity. I have long become a person, who looks at one’s own life as a specimen and expresses things about, not oneself, but one’s life, and universe, if one fancies.

This looming sense of emptiness has been there for a long while, but, as one can apparently see, it hardly matters, as far as one holds up to something; with the help of which he can wade through life.

But in this state, I am afraid if I have lost that too. The only thing that excites me is films, listening to music, etcetera. All I am left with is just some pseudo-artistic inclinations to quench myself in vain. Honestly, someone whose bread-and-butter issue is settled, and is hard pressed to spend time in a “quality” way, is the perfect recipe for an aspiring artist. But, I don’t aspire to be anything because I am scared of aspirations. And, I think I am right doing that.

And, now, I am sipping my coffee that has gone cold, and planning to go to Vettaiyaadu Vilaiyaadu tonight.

P.S.:- As I resumed writing this, even the coffee was taken away without my noticing it. So I will stop here and get my fresh cup of coffee.

SQoTD #6

Why thank God it’s Friday when He’s going to give it anyway?

Ah, well, one may still thank Him because He’s indeed giving it anyway.

Is she hot?

Some questions which this blogger has been meaning to ask people for a long time now.

1. Who is Ayn Rand?
2. Why is everybody after her?
3. How did every soul in this sweet little world of this blogger, except himself, happen to read her?
4. While this blogger understands the teenagers’ adoration to works like The Catcher in the Rye, which address their youthful angst, this unconditional universal admiration among the youth for Ayn Rand is not really as obvious to him. (And, yeah, he is old.)

Some disclaimers that should have rather gone without saying.
1. This blogger hasn’t read The Catcher in the Rye as well.
2. He hardly reads books.
3. He might know the answer for all the questions above.

The blogger’s note: Though I was meaning to write this for quite sometime, it was this comment I wrote on a post at this much likeable blog (on which I first stumbled upon, I believe, during a discussion on God, no less, but didn’t read much then), that pushed the publish button.

I am the sort of reader (who can hardly be called so) who saw an Ayn Rand books[sic] at every house/place/room/blog he bumped on to, and never bothered to pick one up.
I can quote two reasons.
One, the word 'objectivism' to which she is associated to (and perhaps attributed to, as well) was very uncomfortable (and close to nauseating) for my taste, or the lack of it.
Two (and the truer reason), I hardly read.

Now, those were some really lousy loose words that were written in jest.
Neither am I very uncomfortable or baffled with an objectivistic outlook, nor do I find it remotely nauseating. Just that I don’t feel like it; leave aside, reading a book on it.

In fact, objectivism, when it makes sense talking about “selfishness” et al., seems too obvious; and hence becomes, um, trivial.

Rand fans, pardon my ignorance and do tell me what I have been missing all along.

P.S.:-
1. Not to mention that I find nothing uncomfortable or nauseating.
2. When I say ‘objectivism’, I mean whatever I could make out of it on hearsay.

Last modified (reframed the lines and added a little more) this post at 6:29 p.m. to induce a bit of objectivity to the post, much ironically.

From The Nocturnal Notes

I am like an art film.
I am an art film.

An IM Conversation on ‘The Meaning of Life’

Following is an all-important IM conversation I had with a friend of mine a while ago.
(Please note: It reeks of bad sentence structures, awful spellings, and has avoidable content in general.)

X (8/10/2006 6:27:12 PM): dude u have stopped putting status msg
Z (8/10/2006 6:27:28 PM): probably indicates i am stateless
X (8/10/2006 6:27:48 PM): how does it feel to be stateless
Z (8/10/2006 6:28:03 PM): it feels like being, um, stateless
X (8/10/2006 6:28:32 PM): k n apart frm taht it does not feel anything
Z (8/10/2006 6:28:52 PM): it does feel like nothing.
Z (8/10/2006 6:29:03 PM): so i can't say it doesn't feel like anything.
X (8/10/2006 6:30:24 PM): k nice u have come to terms with that, i m still struggling with that
Z (8/10/2006 6:30:40 PM): i have come to terms for a long time now.
Z (8/10/2006 6:31:01 PM): it doesn't feel any better actually. again something which i have come to terms with
X (8/10/2006 6:32:23 PM): kkk, yeah un know its like socialism , gud in theory but actually fcuked up in practice...u can think there is utopia, but it actaully there isnt .
Z (8/10/2006 6:33:37 PM): any theoretical representation can't reflect in one's pratice in entirety.
X (8/10/2006 6:35:10 PM): n plus theritical representations were invented to pacify the over zealous minds, to create an illusion of paralle universe...
Z (8/10/2006 6:36:33 PM): the game is for 90 minutes. and i am not sure if it's all fun.
X (8/10/2006 6:37:51 PM): nope it is not..its a wastefule expenditure of energy. but then agin it manages to create an illusion of fun..
Z (8/10/2006 6:38:29 PM): if fun is illusory, so is despair.
X (8/10/2006 6:40:03 PM): yeah its all v clinical,,certain hormones released, whihc fire some neuro transmitters n so on...
X (8/10/2006 6:40:18 PM): its more clinical then illusory
X (8/10/2006 6:40:21 PM): our emotions
Z (8/10/2006 6:40:54 PM): who cares if it's clinical or illusory? are they really that different?
X (8/10/2006 6:41:22 PM): hmm i guess illusion is an euphemism for clinical
X (8/10/2006 6:41:32 PM): after all everything is clinical
Z (8/10/2006 6:43:19 PM): so it ceases to hold any importance.
X (8/10/2006 6:43:39 PM): it ceases to be fantastic
Z (8/10/2006 6:44:28 PM): I meant, if every goddamn thing is biological or clinical, it ceases to be important.
X (8/10/2006 6:45:59 PM): no why unimportant. dont underestimate matter..take atoms for instance ..they make up X, without even realizing that they r making X...isint amazing
X (8/10/2006 6:46:24 PM): i mean the smallest structure inside ur body is lefeless
X (8/10/2006 6:46:30 PM): n u r aliove
Z (8/10/2006 6:47:05 PM): well, so? as far as you don't need any more help from it, how is it important for you?
Z (8/10/2006 6:47:16 PM): from the cell or atom, i mean
Z (8/10/2006 6:48:10 PM): more importantly, u can't have any more help from them.
X (8/10/2006 6:49:44 PM): i was thinking may be then can help me unlock the key to true happiness.. i mean the first thing which happens after ur body dgenerates is that all the constituent atoms fly away, wearing off ur body..all rite its their nature to be free, not bonded...but still then how n for wot reason they decide to come together n form complex strutures lie sun, earth , life ,emotoins
Z (8/10/2006 6:50:49 PM): why should there be any reason?
Z (8/10/2006 6:51:05 PM): we are probably here because God sneezed.
X (8/10/2006 6:52:14 PM): i mean why shoudlnt ther be one
Z (8/10/2006 6:53:08 PM): it's not that there shouldn't be. there could be. but why is it a must that it's tuned to our desires and needs
Z (8/10/2006 6:53:37 PM): again it's not that it shouldn't be
X (8/10/2006 6:53:57 PM): yes i ll tell ui why becoz its so depressing to know (n even though it si clinical) tath there isnt a reason
Z (8/10/2006 6:54:55 PM): then cook up a reason and believe it.
X (8/10/2006 6:55:31 PM): thats the hardest thing ...cuz i can always reason against sthing i reasoned for
Z (8/10/2006 6:56:50 PM): then that's what you are. Aren't you disillusioned with looking for meaning?
X (8/10/2006 6:57:30 PM): i think i m solving a puzzle
Z (8/10/2006 6:57:40 PM): i am disillusioned with disillusionments. i have run out of them.
X (8/10/2006 6:57:42 PM): i have the pieces but can get the bigger picture
Z (8/10/2006 6:57:49 PM): so i don't feel "cheated" at all.
X (8/10/2006 6:58:17 PM): hmm k for u have attained stoicism
X (8/10/2006 6:59:02 PM): but tell me b4 u ran out disillusionments, how did u feel
X (8/10/2006 6:59:20 PM): abt this whoel conspircay theory or wotever is ur explaination
Z (8/10/2006 6:59:45 PM): i had better things to do. i ran out of disillusionments just when i started feeling disillusioned. all in one go, i did batch processing.
Z (8/10/2006 6:59:58 PM): i had a big checklist of meanings and struck them all at once.
Z (8/10/2006 7:00:30 PM): checklist of meanings of life.

Ah, right.
I had a big checklist of the potential meanings of life and struck them all at once!
It was that easy, and such fun too; and, consequently, of least importance.

Random Unqualified Nihilistic Balderdash

Today something happened, which I very much expected and even wanted to happen. But, when it did happen, it closed the doors of what could have been an option for spending the next couple of years of my life a little differently.

Like I said elsewhere, I am terribly unsure of what I should do for the rest of my life. I have reached a stage in which I am assuredly aimless for all practical purposes and I am not sure how far I can go on like this with a smile, or a sneer for that matter, on my face intact.

Currently listening to “New York nagaram uRangum neram” (“நியூயார்க் நகரம் உறங்கும் நேரம்”) from Sillunu Oru Kaadhal (nicely sung by ARR).

Needless to say, I don’t connect to such melancholy as that is expressed in the song. I never, or mostly don’t, feel lonely. But, I am lonely. Love, it seems, is as much an alien concept as hatred. That probably explains why I just keep cracking bad jokes; and dine fervently at Adyar Ananda Bhavan.

On “identifying genius”

Sincere apologies to the man from Australia, who landed up here, looking for some help to “identify genius”.
This blogger is no authority on such stuff. Though, Google, way too blogger.com-friendly I should say, thinks otherwise.
This is just a little stupid blog that, on an average, gets 4 hits a day, and, as fate had it (and rued later), featured an unspeakably inconsequential post on “genius”.

Hair Loss - I

Prologue:
You are not your hair.
You are not even yourself.
Your hair isn't yours.
Your hair loss is yours, though.


Chapter 1: The Parabola

He closely examined his broad forehead in the mirror. He didn’t mind it being quite broad, at least, he didn’t use to, but the small inroads the barren space, passing itself as the forehead, has made diagonally beyond the temples on both sides of his forehead, thus forming an acute parabola of sorts, was bothering. He held his hair tight towards the rear side of his head. The signs were telling, even if it didn’t mean anything. He wondered if Nietzsche also had these inroads early in his life, and if it influenced his outlook of life.

“How did it all go? And more importantly, when the heck did it all go?” He wondered. It was quite depressing to know, a man could go bald just like that even before he realizes it. Just like that. Not that he has already gone bald, but the forehead sure has grown by a centimeter or so, in less than two years.

He wished he was warned, warned enough, by somebody. Somebody - his mom, his girlfriend, and here it has to be mentioned that he had none, his roommates during his college days, or the goddamn mirror – should have told him, at some point earlier.

But too late, it was. No “fortifying” shampoo or hair oil outwitted the parabola. He was reminded of the numerous marriages he attended in which the groom combed, or rather bristled, his hair letting it fall free over his forehead. And also about the really bad jokes he cracked, when he was in his college, at the Professor who taught Computer Networks. He reinstated, quite honestly, that the jokes were about the Prof’s startlingly juvenile idea about computers, leave aside computer networks, and never in anyway related to his gracefully dark pitch-bald head, hair adorning it only on the down end from one ear to another.

He was still looking at the mirror, carefully searched for any strands of hair left in and around those two singular regions.
Ah, there! There was one, a rather long one. He was stretching it straight so as to check its length, and, inadvertently plucked it. It slipped away from his hand.
And was lost.


Epilogue:
As they say, and now he knew why (or knew he will never know why), “Mayira Pochu!”