Lesson # 1 - Teh Internetz.

So, we're back with Comic # 2, even though it's really Lesson # 1. Though if you were the discerning reader I would hope you were, you'd have noticed that the file name of the last one was "Honest does not work on teh internetz". Which would probably be the first lesson. Except I really can't be bothered.

I know I'm using pretty much the same setup for this comic, but I think it's a valuable lesson. Also, I had another comic lined up, but it isn't really internet related, except that it's based on a quote from Bash. Thought originality should take precedence over chronology.

Hope you guys like this one.

Washed Clean

Pristine, pure and frigid streams,
Of change and stasis that seems -
To describe the life of reform,
That must now become my norm.

Early mornings no longer escape,
Attention through heavy drapes,
That hide the lights and sounds,
Of the fucking early birds that abound.

Jarring sounds of helpful devices,
Averting a near certain crisis,
As people scramble to be awake -
There's far too much at stake.

Waiting for the space to arise,
Where we can wash our sleepy eyes,
And trudge the long walk of shame;
Girls of yesteryear are to blame [1]

Hopeful looks at mechanical chariots,
Of fire and pistons for those who buy 'em,
And rush for the fast filling spots,
Except for the haves; the poor have nots.

Entry to the hallowed halls of learning -
Sitting with day dreams, so full o' yearning,
The fires of ambition constantly burning,
But the motivations are always churning.

And finally, being saved by the bell -
This place being a customised, individual hell;
But soon we'll be well qualified to sell
Our services, to save clients from their acts fell.

Innocence dies at the midnight hour,
As for means of intoxication we scour -
Taking sustenance for the coming day,
As the toll for all our tortured minds we pay.

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[1] - This is hearsay, but was also corroborated. I was told in my first year that the current boys hostel was originally meant to be the girl's hostel, but within a few months those stalwart ladies of yesteryear complained of 'creepy crawlies' and the distance, and the men were forced into a swap we're still cursing. This was corroborated by an old building plan that used to be lying around in the Common Room.

This is pretty much a Law School only thing, at least in my head. But I'm sure a lot of people feel the same way about college in general. What really surprises me is the creeping realisation that many years down the line I'll probably consider this the best time of my life.

A (productive?) use for my time.

This is the first one. I might make more. I'm bored enough.

Random oddities in the Internet Era

The internet era is odd.

I'm online, chatting to someone who is a very close friend I ought to have stayed in touch with more, and Stumble threw up this amazing webcomic series called Last Place Comics.
I'm simultaneously reading Bash quotes online, and am astounded at the amount of funny things that one can find online.

Of course, I do occasionally think that the internet is a bit of a waste. Many have already said so, right? The amazing potential to do incredible things, but Aldous Huxley (in Brave New World, if I remember right) might have been the closest to predicting things when he surmised that in the future we'd all be cowed into submission by being flooded by inane information and base pleasures. Humankind is clearly not a species of the mind.

But when I think about the people from various parts of the world that I can speak to, get in touch with, comfort, start conversations, resolve issues, learn new things, find new sources of awesome, it all seems worthwhile.

Even though Al Gore thinks he invented it, kudos to the internet! :-)

Bad/Good determination - one indisputable instance

This is too amazing for words.

Wonder

Everytime I stop to think
And look within, trying to understand
The thoughts that go into who I am
Forever breaking away from the plan.

Am I a free spirit, ne'er to be held?
Or just a clumsy and unlucky oaf,
Who suffers times only fell -
These questions never stop,
And step into the inane;
Why must I only write poetry,
When most of my work remains?

There is some irony there,
Or maybe a lot -
I cannot know,
I'm just a dot -
Tiny and without depth,
In a world beyond perspective -
Wishing he was alive in another world,
Where Batman was truly the greatest detective.

So while I play the music in my head -
Yellow sung in Amber's squeaky voice;
I lie awake in my messy bed,
Thinking of the nature of choice.
Absurd as it is, I cannot figure
Why the circlets of silver and gold I treasure;
For they lock me in and mark me out,
Yet emotions mean I can't do without.

In any case, as I've sad 'ere before -
The secret of poetry,
It's very core -
Lies in knowing when it should end -
And yet I've overmade this, as I oft tend.
So without much ado,
I bid adieu -
To you, you, you and you.
--------------------------------------------

Silly whimsical poetry, but it's true - all this only happens when I'm up at night trying to get some damn work done on my bloody project. Mayhaps there is some merit in handwriting projects - Al Gore's 'information superhighway' won't be this temptation that's always around. However, it's good to know that the cell I'm in is now in full capacity, and has a new food cooling unit in it. :-)

Oh, and I've also realised that sketching doesn't happen unless you shouldn't be wanting it to happen. I took the pencils, took a sketchbook, went home for the holidays - and there was NO inspiration. None. And I'm back, without the sketchbook, and I'm making faces on ruled notebooks all day.

Someone has my puppet strings, and is being quite a jerk about it.

PS: Extra points for spotting the really sad pun.

Pandora

So here we go again, down the same old road to places less travelled. Yes, I'm sure Robert Frost doesn't quite like the rehashing (or as someone else might call it, 'rapeage') of his poetic lines. But frankly my dear, I don't give a damn. Life is too bloody short, isn't it?

I've been through a lot, and there's a lot more to go through - but that's life for you. It doesn't make me special, it doesn't make me anything, it just is. One of those basic facts that can't easily be escaped, however much society might wish it so. I'm deriving some measure of peace from the idea that these are paths and feelings that have previously been traversed, and problems I can solve and deal with just as well.
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PS: I'm on Google suggestions! Don't know how/why that happened. Odd, innit?

EDIT - This made NO sense. :-)

The End.

Over the rising and setting of many suns,
Many tales that have ended and begun -
Paths crossed and intermingled,
Sparks and stares that always did tingle;

Ideas and dreams that are long gone,
Cleaned away like wisps in a new dawn -
That burns and chases away hope,
While you rub your eyes trying to cope.

This is the end, beautiful friend -
A beginning, a middle, and conclusion that rends
Through the heart of a time
When things were greater and sublime.

Absurdist Stitch in Time Saves Rhyme

Rolling, scrolling -
Finding meaning - that's boring.
Dreaming and screaming,
Thoughts that are just teeming,
Begging for release.
Seeking the one that sees
Life, for what it truly is -
Madness, and bliss;
Dished in unequal measure.
In small moments we treasure,
And trends that we dread,
Like working in bed -
No rest, no recuperation,
No dealing with temptation;
Just whiling away time,
Writing absurdist rhyme.

Where'd all the good spelling go?

Despair

Everything you thought you had,
Has gone from worse to bad.
Lean to the side, whisper it quiet,
The end is sight,
Workin', all night around the clock.
Everything you thought you had,
Has gone from worse to bad.

Powderfinger, My Kinda Scene

----------------------------------------

Fingers groggily moving to show
This world the thoughts that keep us low
In endearing moments of doubt and pain
Which shall be back tomorrow again
To bring back epiphanies that stain
Consciousness but bring no gain
To the hopes and dreams which refrain
From being reality; my constant bane.

Despair mounts in this witching hour -
The sun fights through to soon tower
Burning all that lies beneath,
Destroying the cool night's shadowy sheath
While the mark upon my head as a wreath
Of thorns that do constantly keep
Me from reaching the arms of slumber
To the hopes and dreams torn asunder
From being reality; a victim of plunder.

The bandits march and think of victory
Mindful of what is soon to be history
The vain stand vanguards defending
Stupidity and ignorance unrelenting
In their attempt to keep preventing
The birthing of hope in minds thinking
That seek to cross thresholds blinking
Watching with eyes unbelieving
The hopes and dreams that need freeing
To become reality; no more deceiving.

On the threshold of love one must always despair
Of the twists and turns that always do wear
Down the resolve that you seek to hold true -
With life and hope, to begin anew
The dreams of being, and hopes of serenity
That, in this life, is the only true divinity.

------------------------------------

Saying yes to life even in its strangest and hardest problems; the will to life rejoicing over its own inexhaustibility even in the very sacrifice of its highest types - this is what I call Dionysian, that is what I understood as the bridge to the psychology of the tragic poet. Not in order to get rid of terror and pity, not in order to purge oneself of a dangerous effect by its vehement discharge, but in order to be oneself the eternal joy of becoming, beyond all terror and pity.

Nietzsche

V Hates You All.

Degenerates. Filthy scum who pollute the Earth with their pettiness and their disgusting need to fulfil their own base desires. I cannot stand you. I will not stand you. Those of you who choose to put your own selfish, emotional needs before the needs of others, acting unprofessionally to the extent of causing harm to people who are your colleagues. Those of you that see gain in spreading disinformation and stalling matters in an attempt to guide things in the direction in which you would like to see them go, so that you take the options away from those who ought to have it due to your petty incompetence. Those of you who take an innocent gesture to be something that you must express your concern for - though you care not for the person that you're defending. Just the person you wish to crucify.

You disgusting, revolting excuses for humanity - you dregs, you bottom-feeders, you retarded grovellers and haters who pollute this earth with your perfidious presence. You make excuses for all your vile actions, pretend to show reason when all you're doing behind your ugly visages is scheming for reasons that are obvious for anyone with half a brain cell. Your twisted notions of subtlety and your mob mentality with which you avidly seek to destroy the few people who are good around you in your environment. You betray the trusts of those around you with the ease with which others change clothes.

I hate you all.

Flying Fuckeroonis, this is REAL madness.

http://www.badassoftheweek.com/quarrelsome.html

Leonidas, eat your heart out.

PS: Love the description. Sounds like how I would have written it.

Freedom.

It's been a while. We'll take it slow.
You and me, together; let the music flow.
Day and night, the whispers sound -
"Did you hear? He's back around!"

It's time things were done, issues passed -
Silence is golden, and old thoughts crass.
Fresh steps do beckon, and pastures too -
It's time to be off doing something new.

I lost faith in myself, and my old self withdrew;
Loss of stability, and of grounding no news.
Time to shake off the old, and embrace the dawn,
Be ready to face the bright and early morn.

There was some weight to carry,
And some history too -
But that's done with,
No need to renew
Old ties that bind
And disgrace too
Time to be me
Find happiness,
Too.

Kill Valentine - for the right bloody reasons.

So, let's be clear about this - I hate Valentine's day. I hate it from the bottom of my heart. For a variety of reasons.


1. I despise the colour pink.
2. The notion of a little winged baby determining my actions through a little bow and arrow is barf-worthy.
3. There's no point to being, well, all lovey-dovey on one particular day because the card companies want it.
4. Why are you letting the women emotionally blackmail you into getting chocolate and flowers?
5. Be a man. Do the right thing.

However, I am a whole-hearted supporter of couple liberty. In other words, I absolutely believe in, and am ready to fight for, the right of a couple to be with each other, hold hands, make out, hug, yadda yadda, without being forced to marry each other. I think this entire idea of catching poor kids out for a walk or some such and leaving them 'married' in your diseased understanding of what constitutes marriage is sick and repulsive.

Hence, inspite of being a vocal opponent of Valentine's Day and nonsense of that order, I am actually inclined towards doing something for it. So, here's the deal - how about suggestions? What should I do for Valentine's day? (something I wouldn't normally do). However, there are some rules - no flowers, no pink, and definitely no undying declarations of love. I'm not into any of that. Anything else in the general spirit of Valentine's Day you can think of? Comment and let me know! You might get ringside seats to me doing said thing, and making a fool of myself.

*Shudders* I HATE VALENTINE'S DAY. But I gotta save it. So I can kill it for the right reasons.

Kind of accurate, isn't it? I love how the 'Zone of PAIN' encompasses both F-buddy and Friend without intruding on awkwardness.

When the World Ends.

He had always liked gloomy weather. The slow, soft feel it gave him. The nature of an overcast day, and the sweet melancholy it caused to move through him. The subtly self reflecting thoughts that would surround and cocoon him, while he strove to create something new and beautiful with his mind. As he worked on his creation, he whistled a slow tune. He recalled the times spent with her, when he'd banter - the slow exposure of intelligence, a kind of mating dance that moved through little words and silent smiles the other could not see, across a distance.

He loved working with his hands. The exertion generally gave him cause to know that something had been made, some part of him had been put into that which he had created. The way a person felt about something that was created from a scratch would never be completely understood or appreciated by anyone but a creator such as he was. The beauty he saw in the patterns, in the colour, in the swirls of his paint across his canvas showed him the grace and beauty of nature's creation that could only be truly appreciated by art - turned inside out, so the very essence of the world and its contents could be appreciated within.

A true artist can often be told by something as small as his ability to get his hands dirty. Newcomers will always hesitate to have paint on their fingers. They would be scared of the feeling, the sticky feeling of their medium on their hands. The amount you have on you can tell an observer how comfortable you are doing what you're doing. Artists will have gifted fingers, and more often than not they shall be covered in the mark of their art - clay, paint, stone dust ...

He smiled as he noted his own hands covered to his wrist in colour. While this might bother others, he was happy to feel his sticky hands. He was certain that this was the purpose, the understanding, the bonding of an artist with his medium. The complete rapture of not shaping, but knowing the shape the object wants to take. Of being a facilitator in bringing the vision that is communicated to your mind. It was nearly spiritual, as he was certain that there was an idea out there, just looking for a place to emerge into the world of the real. He loved being the vehicle for the idea.

He was certain that he was appreciated and understood, and that his works were the way things should be. He didn't think of this as hubris or excessive pride; while there was little he knew about political science, he found it amusing that he agreed with both Karl Marx and Ayn Rand when they spoke of pride in the creation of something. Of course, as in all things, creative minds can make new conclusions from the same starting point. He started as all artists did - with an empty space in which to put his creation. He looked at the roof of his small home, and saw how it was filled with his art, and it always pleased him. In this secluded part of the city, he could spend his time here blissfully imbibing the feel of the weather, and not be worried about sounds or any human presence.

He felt unique in what he did. He cherished the happiness he was certain he brought to everyone, since he was certain that since everyone lived miserable lives, art was the vehicle of relief for them. He sought to make a triumphant vision of the perfection of the human form, of freedom from all that in life that binds, that limits. He tapped into the ultimate freedom that has been given - the potential that is hardwired into each of us at birth. He tried to show how perfection was found in the way nature formed and nurtured the human body.

The processes that deluded millions into belief in God, when it was merely natural selection. God was in the little details - in the microbes, in the harsh world that shaped the way we would be born, and how we would die, and how we would live. He paid obeisance to the forces that moved our life. He liked to think of himself as a force, as was everyone with the control of anything. He just wished, sometimes, that he could completely control his reactions. But then, wasn't there humanity in the absence of control? In the lack of perfection? How could perfection be defined, unless it was in the absence of something?

Evolution, like everything, sows the seed for its own survival. Time carries on, as a concept we like to measure by ephemeral temporal phenomenon. And the human body is like a singular bright spark, before it vanishes into nothing. He hoped to bring that to life, by trying to put into pictures his thoughts on the frailty of the human body. For if nothing was done to deal with that which the human body could not cope with, another creature would soon superscede human will and thought. The dependence upon implements created through human ingenuity not attuned to making humankind more comforted as opposed to disposed towards survival, as well as the propensity to create destruction in unimaginable scales.

As he thought this, he saw the smoke trails in the sky, and he knew the end had come.
-----------------------------------------

Food.
Hunger.
Movement - trace sensations. Vibrations in the air - movement. Hide. HIDE.
Food. Move swiftly.
Reached food. Consume. Who knows when it would come next?
Run away. Extreme heat. Discomfort. Hot air moving away at swift speeds. Scuttle away.
Safety.
Darkness.

And so the meek, shall inherit the Earth. The small creatures we dismiss as irrelevant. The ones we do everything to get rid of, but make it their sole purpose to live. Civilized, or otherwise.

For evolution doesn't care much about intelligence. It cares about survival.

Loving by Numbers

We were following the signs.

Living by them and waiting for the fall.

We waited so well and patiently
Beginning and end - serendipity.

A start which was an intended end.
With a promise never to be seen again.
I fought those odds quoted, and won.

There was little to be said, and more felt;
In our little mobile world in which we dealt
Blows of sensation in bodily competition
With sighs of defeat; but never consternation.
I will miss the mirrored guilt of submission.

There were times when we found freedom
No dread of the future, as we saw them -
Parental censure and binding dodged.
Against the world, it seemed we fought
We fought the good fight, a little too well
Against each other, against ourselves
Wasted times, as I see them now.
What's done is done, anyhow.

All that begins must soon end.
The pain that seems to make our hearts rend.
The separation that comes by mutual consent
One we wouldn't have fathomed ere this dent
In our happy discord, our lovely personal chaos
Full of hope, love, and hilarious pathos
If the question is one of whom to blame
Neither of us can make that claim
To you, then, I dedicate this feeling
The one before which I'm constantly kneeling
My spirit stands strong, and I hope that lasts -
But you're the one who put it to task.
Never forget who I was.

When you're using Stumble too much.

Ode to the Nice Guys
This rant was written for the Wharton Undergraduate Journal

This is a tribute to the nice guys. The nice guys that finish last, that never become more than friends, that endure hours of whining and bitching about what assholes guys are, while disproving the very point. This is dedicated to those guys who always provide a shoulder to lean on but restrain themselves to tentative hugs, those guys who hold open doors and give reassuring pats on the back and sit patiently outside the changing room at department stores. This is in honor of the guys that obligingly reiterate how cute/beautiful/smart/funny/sexy their female friends are at the appropriate moment, because they know most girls need that litany of support. This is in honor of the guys with open minds, with laid-back attitudes, with honest concern. This is in honor of the guys who respect a girl’s every facet, from her privacy to her theology to her clothing style.

This is for the guys who escort their drunk, bewildered female friends back from parties and never take advantage once they’re at her door, for the guys who accompany girls to bars as buffers against the rest of the creepy male population, for the guys who know a girl is fishing for compliments but give them out anyway, for the guys who always play by the rules in a game where the rules favor cheaters, for the guys who are accredited as boyfriend material but somehow don’t end up being boyfriends, for all the nice guys who are overlooked, underestimated, and unappreciated, for all the nice guys who are manipulated, misled, and unjustly abandoned, this is for you.

This is for that time she left 40 urgent messages on your cell phone, and when you called her back, she spent three hours painstakingly dissecting two sentences her boyfriend said to her over dinner. And even though you thought her boyfriend was a chump and a jerk, you assured her that it was all ok and she shouldn’t worry about it. This is for that time she interrupted the best killing spree you’d ever orchestrated in GTA3 to rant about a rumor that romantically linked her and the guy she thinks is the most repulsive person in the world. And even though you thought it was immature and you had nothing against the guy, you paused the game for two hours and helped her concoct a counter-rumor to spread around the floor. This is also for that time she didn’t have a date, so after numerous vows that there was nothing “serious” between the two of you, she dragged you to a party where you knew nobody, the beer was awful, and she flirted shamelessly with you, justifying each fit of reckless teasing by announcing to everyone: “oh, but we’re just friends!” And even though you were invited purely as a symbolic warm body for her ego, you went anyways. Because you’re nice like that.

The nice guys don’t often get credit where credit is due. And perhaps more disturbing, the nice guys don’t seem to get laid as often as they should. And I wish I could logically explain this trend, but I can’t. From what I have observed on campus and what I have learned from talking to friends at other schools and in the workplace, the only conclusion I can form is that many girls are just illogical, manipulative bitches. Many of them claim they just want to date a nice guy, but when presented with such a specimen, they say irrational, confusing things such as “oh, he’s too nice to date” or “he would be a good boyfriend but he’s not for me” or “he already puts up with so much from me, I couldn’t possibly ask him out!” or the most frustrating of all: “no, it would ruin our friendship.” Yet, they continue to lament the lack of datable men in the world, and they expect their too-nice-to-date male friends to sympathize and apologize for the men that are jerks. Sorry, guys, girls like that are beyond my ability to fathom. I can’t figure out why the connection breaks down between what they say (I want a nice guy!) and what they do (I’m going to sleep with this complete ass now!). But one thing I can do, is say that the nice-guy-finishes-last phenomenon doesn’t last forever. There are definitely many girls who grow out of that train of thought and realize they should be dating the nice guys, not taking them for granted. The tricky part is finding those girls, and even trickier, finding the ones that are single.

So, until those girls are found, I propose a toast to all the nice guys. You know who you are, and I know you’re sick of hearing yourself described as ubiquitously nice. But the truth of the matter is, the world needs your patience in the department store, your holding open of doors, your party escorting services, your propensity to be a sucker for a pretty smile. For all the crazy, inane, absurd things you tolerate, for all the situations where you are the faceless, nameless hero, my accolades, my acknowledgement, and my gratitude go out to you. You do have credibility in this society, and your well deserved vindication is coming.

Fu-zu Jen, SEAS/WH, 2003

From http://www.stwing.upenn.edu/~jenf/writing/rant04.html, found using Stumble.

How to get past the blues ...

I have never been quite so amused. It seems like the perfect way to get past the initial hesitation that seems to plague every potential couple/hook-up/interest/you-know-what-I-mean.

Isn't it awesome? I suggest that it be printed and carried everywhere. If used correctly, it would be considered rather droll.