The Sanctum

Welcome, traveller. This be the realm of Jay Niner, where everything be possible, and nothing ever happens. If, perchance, thou wisheth to tarry, then find thou a page from the Grimoire and read. For we are here in eternity, and we are in medias res.


Written while high #3

(Seriously, I'm stoned out of my wits.)


When it was raining in heaven,
You were going home by the nine-eleven.
The winds just ruffled your hair,
Filled with feathers from wings mortal eyes could not bear.
Our gazes swung to the mundane,
Automatically registering ourselves sane
Conforming to a society's views
Going against which leads to the noose.

Angels in heaven did battle to lose
While we of Earth think thoughts obtuse;
Ever self-serving, inward;
Nary a tendril towards that forward
Progress be damn'd, we'll wallow in the present
And never make a move without prior consent
When in the mind of a self there is but a spoon of sense
And we call lesser beings more dense
While we shackle ourselves to the chains of an age
Sprinkling our pizzas with parsley and sage.

Eidolons of misty rifts
Come marching past my usual drifts
Harken back to memory of old
Dragon-marching, strong and bold.
In formation jump the sty,
In formation march the rye.
In formation stoop to tie
And thus in our fates we die
Ever bound to that spinning wheel
While making for ourselves a celluloid reel
Of that we would leave behind.

Immortality comes at a price
When all's done, who tosses the dice?
WIsh we for wealth and power
Desire and greed, mistresses in our bower
Or leave behind our family's mark
Set a new stone with in the dark;
A descendancy foretold,
To newer times their allegiance sold.
That which was, shall never be;
If you can through the mists of time, see.


Droned Art #1

I used to say, whenever in times of immediate celebration or immediate reaction (such as when I was caught with my hands in someone else's... erm, cookie jar):

When in success, celebrate; when in doubt, delegate.

The thing about this philosophy is that it lets you get away with a lot of stuff. But if you're a hardcore BW person, a vanilla thinker, then this is obviously unethical. I say, it's political (which amounts to the same thing in these turbulent times). Many's the time I've foisted the responsibility of my own karnaame (n. hindi, used in a derogatory sense, "activities") unto someone else.
When in doubt, delegate. 
But what about when in success?
My celebration lies in depression.
The more I can convince myself that my life is a piece of shit, the better I can drink myself to hell and beyond. I know I'm a loser, it's just that it's easier to get drunk thataway.

But ya, coming to the dissection of my policy.
When in success, celebrate. When do you celebrate? Why do you celebrate? Why is joy so important in our lives?  If joy is so important, why do we have periods of unjoyful (if I may coin a term) moments in our lives?
Important questions all.
Which is why I tend to not question my policy but blindly follow it. Life's been good thus far.
Droning on, as someone said; drinking and stoning. 
While I look for another smoke, enjoy the work; I did it based on a design of how my version of prehistoric amoebae would look while high on acid.


Written while High#1

Severing bonds beyond all caring,
Thinking of you, memories a-searing;
I can call these few minutes my own;
When I am done, my mind's chilled to the bone
Fantasies wriggle through my perverted mind.
Some of them, like bone to the rind,
do go in directions unforseen,
Wherein I'm either sober, or plain mean.

Kublai Khan, welcoming his discoverer;
Ozymandiaz, remaining the usurper.
Marquis de Sade welcomes my lust-
And reduces it methodically, down to dust.
We all have our reasons nine;
All arranged in this fine line;
All's grey, what's neither white nor black.
And at the end of the day, look into the sack
And tell me, oh me, oh mine, what is that, on which we do dine
But a grey, gory, glorified sign,
Wherein the mind is not unmindfully blind
But artfully re-aligned?

Randomness is my cup of tea,
I can drown you in it, unlike the dead sea;
Scrolls there be from that place many.

No order do I need, nor chaos blatant,
Which doth on order run truely rampant
But a finely recovered artifice of old
The Ark of the Covenant, to me it's sold
Which I open, more chutiya me
The further I lift, the further it be
My goal, from centuries past,
Seemingly enough to remain half-mast
Above that endless ocean floor
An epitome of dichotomy with paradigm shifts galore.

We hop and we skip and we jump enough
When the time comes, everyone's tough
Down to the very bone of that matter-
But who, exactly, controls this batter?
I suppose he's as mad as a hatter
Only if he doesn't censor this
Neither complex nor ordered, but like a snake's hiss-
Utterly simple, and sudden to boot
Why, hell, I'd rather go to a point more moot.


Thinker's Lament

(Note: Too long since I waxed poetical. 'Namore shall it be.)

Why do we do, to that which we love-
Like open wings, we recieve their dove;
A message of ardour, of respect, of praise,
Turned sour like chocolate bouillabaisse,
Left in a swamp for a month.

The idea, dear reader, is not to confuse;
Nor to confound or to speak obtuse.
Why, I ask, do we to the self, distance
What is, in the self of the self a pittance?
Or is sadism ingrained affective?

Wronged, far away, she waits,
And memory serves her, she hates
I languish in my thorny crown;
Left in my self-disgust, pillowed with down,
Of utter confusion, and oh so mellow.

I did what I should, I severed a tie
Like husk from barley, or from rye
I left sweet memories in my wake
Was it for her, or for mine own sake?
Summer evenings bloom in my mind.

Was it so wrong, pray tell, convince;
I chopped my own feelings, did finely mince.
Was it not right, I reasoned and pleaded-
Thought that little ground returned, or ceded.
Better to lose rather than keep up appearances.

The smoke swirls, with patterns mystic;
In younger times they'd not be so cryptic.
With an elderly shaman by my side-
I'd the blasted sands of time ride.
And put an end to my old puzzle.

Every month, I remember the departed;
And my wounds itch, remembering being salted-
My heart reasons warm, but my mind reasons cold;
My turmoil insecure, my fire unbold.
Revolution, I thought, is a word misspoken.

No longer, it rebels, my mind, brazen, unjust;
Go back to your inane, everday lust.
Ponder not the mysteries of the past-
Fasten them to an unreturning ship's mast.
And let it go.



Nothing but Time in my hand

Another cigarette disappears into the ashtray. It's 12 now, and sometimes I need to keep track of the time. Daylight savings doesn't give a pair of dingo's balls if you're late for morning class or not.
It's been an odd weekend.
On one hand, the good thing is that I finally got Forsaken World to work. The problem was in updating the damn thing- thanks to the wifi in my hostel, downloading more than 10 mb was a problem, and updating the damn game was a lost cause- or so I thought. In any case, happy grinding. Whoops, pun unintended, ya dirty mind.
The bad thing, though, is more permanent- I got kicked out of a Tasmac. At times like those, I can almost hear Cliff Richards going "Congratulations, jubiliations". Sarcasm is joy.
Ahh... my old grandmammy, she used to say: "Monu, when you have nothing to do, remember, that you have nothing but time on your hands."
It's a good way to look at being bored. It was how I used to think back when I was in disgrace or grounded- 

I've got nothing, but time in my hand. 
Time ain't nothing, but grains of sand; 
All the world's got stuff to do- 
I'm the only guy, who hasn't a clue.
I've got nothing, but time in my hand.

And so on and so forth. It's a little ditty I used to sing- made it up as I went along. Years after, I forget the tune every few weeks.
It was that song, and my general tendency of getting up late in dubious places with even more dubious people that prompted me to say, to my friends back in Symbi- "Time ain't nothing but a whore, sewed shut. Thus the phrase, so little time, so little cunt." 
Explicit, I know. Obscene, sure. I try to keep the profanity to a minimum these days, past the rantblog phase of this memoir- but sometimes, why beat about the bush when a few choice words get the job done? Strangely, I feel a vicarious pleasure in the rare times when I can cuss in Hindi and someone actually understands me. I don't know.
Back in Pune, I'd cuss in malayalam, and I used to feel the same pleasure when someone wondered what I'd said. Now, I'm sure of one thing- I'm too north Indian for my own good. When I get dosas, I ask for bhel. When I get the formaldehyde that passes for coffee in my immediate vicinity, I ask for some decent ginger-spiked tea that the BPO dhabas that used to be open 24/7 back in Pune.
Someone once told me that Symbi was hell. I disagree fervently, now. Someone will tell me that ACJ is hell, and at some point in the future, I'm sure as shit going to disagree with equal fervor.
The problem is, one can't look ahead and say this sort of stuff- the art of foresight is not only wasted on this generation, but also lost. All we can do is make vague guesses. 
And until then, I'll just keep complaining. After all, hatred is just twisted love, and love is blind.
It's odd- that logic always made sense after a few shots, and now- it doesn't. Well, signing off.