An uncertain beggar
"Love is a many-splintered thing... don't be afraid now, just walk right in...."
That last one is from Ribbons, by Sisters of Mercy, a tune I'm beginning to appreciate more and more everyday. I don't know why.
I came to a conclusion yesterday. Knowing is pretty much a shitty deal. The more you know, the more things mindfuck you.
To summarize the conclusion: Minding your business is not going to help.
To summarize the summary of the conclusion: Monday mornings mindfuck.
Yesterday was a sunday, but not in my book. I don't know if any of you escaped Sunday school's clutches yesterday, but I sure didn't. I didn't stick around for the practicals, though, which was in itself a good thing. Apparently there was shit sold cheap there and mindfucking in obscene quantities.
I've got this philosophy; the more you think about something, the more it mindfucks you. It's a philosophy that arises from a typical epicurean; we epicureans are a sad lot, constantly begging to be entertained. We're the most uncertain of all beggars; turning to everything, everywhere; will this work? Will we divert our constantly wandering attention for a few precious moments?
Well, much as I'd like to say fuck that... I can't. And there are the dreary periods in medias res where you don't have shit to amuse you. This semester's a paradox in the true sense of the word.
Why? Because it's been utterly hectic, and at the same time it shows no sign of ending. Days after days of fucking limbo. What's so stupid is that each week's weaker than the last, with screenings and surprise assignments, and of all the fucking stupid things to happen, Dharmendra Sharma finds just a sunday to keep his class. Not that I'm saying it's his fault. Guy looked as mindfucked as me, probably having to travel all the way to Pune from Gujarat. Or wherever. Nah, fuck Pappa. It's that reserviour of endless mindfucking that orchestrates the whole mess, spider on his web, steady, safe, secure, bored.
There was this young fellow
Who thought at the administration he could bellow
And hope to hell they'd be a mite mellow
But he bit off more than he could swallow.
So he wandered in one sunday morning
His mind in limbo a-wandering
Another day with stupidity adorning
His brain's suffering wordlessly dawning.
Tempers flared and cocks inverted
And that was only for the boys, yes, perverted.
And so sleep over their brains delegated
Its minions captured their minds, corrogated.
And the sunday passed us by.
With nary a word nor a sigh.
And I possess a cock, therefore I shan't cry.
But in silence, die.
The only thing worse than a bad sunday is a bad week. So, do ya feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?
No, Clint Eastwood, I don't. For three lakhs I coulda bought all the movies I wanted to and screened them at home, instead of shit at college. Ameen Sayani is all very good, but that was so long ago, that even my parents have a hard time remembering. I fucking hate Rumpole of the Bailey- guy drinks and smokes while we have to abstain. Doordarshan should keep its nose in its business... public service broadcasts, my ass.
The worst part being, we have stuff like Monty Python, Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and so on sitting in the AV library. How come we're shown stuff like this again and again and again? Half the people aren't interested, the other half are asleep.
Oh, for fuck's sake.... how long will this fuck'd up sem go on? At least have the bloody decency to get over already.