Archive for the 'Political contemplations' Category

The day I set my parrots free

Suddenly, I remember the day I set my parrots free. Its been over eight months now.

With each surge of life, a little more of that which we talk, and oh so ever often know, becomes Knowledge. Knowledge with a capital K, to distinguish it from knowledge. Captain K is that exclusive K, one that stands apart from corporal k in quality, and perhaps in a deconstruction of quantity. K is acquired through experience, k, through medial sources of information.

And as these little surges, as little waves which froth and bubble the seashore, as she sold seashells there (now why would anyone sell seashells on the seashore?), K up my life, each moment brings forth a drastic discovery. A discovery that: “ohmigosh! I’ve been doing thaaaat until now? ohmigosh ohmigosh ohmigosh! What do I do! Life is so hard! I cannot live! Suicide is the option!”

Of course, it, until now, is yet to result in a suicide, but with these little surges which cause this piling up of K, I change my life a little.

One such little surge of K made me realise that I had four parrots locked up in a big cage. Like, I really-had-four-parrots-caged-up-inhibiting-their-freedom-and-therefore-making-them-slaves-to-me-their-master. This realisation shocked me. Of course the values of liberty and equality needs to be upheld. Thankfully, and sadly, an incident sparked in my home terrain, where a cat killed one of my parakeets. That godsend horrible cat ripped the poor curious ‘ung one into smithereens. It was all a blaze of green and red. This made my parents realise that in spite of their best, they could not protect these poor little caged flying things round the clock. And therefore, as I was planning to timidly broach the topic of their freedom, my parents timidly approached me with the same. Overjoyed I, fixed a date for their release, and armed with a camera, we all fondled them for a last time, fed them, and set them free.

That’s quite a story, with a couple breaking up, and the heartbroken male coming back to spend two weeks in silent hope and mourning, and so on and so on. But this setting free incident makes me think of these values of liberty, freedom, freeness, et al.

Do these mental concepts (or, as some hardcore linguists might argue, linguistic concepts), if I may dare, mean anything to them green cuddly winged flybies? Is it an instinct? What is an instinct? Are instincts also constructs?

We all know how all animals rage to oppose capture. And we presume that these displays of aggressiveness are shudders that uphold the value of freedom, of free choice. Is it a move to keep the right to make their own decisions, or is it a move to oppose capture and probably instant death (in kingdom animalia minus Homo sapien sapiens, individuals don’t exactly capture animals to keep them as pets and cuddle them do they)? And therefore, if their move is just to escape death, are we not justified in capturing them and ‘taking care’ of them? Indeed, countless battles in the H. s. sapien world have been fought for freedom. Almost every battle. Kings defending their kingdoms through their soldiers. Nations defending their borders through armies. All trying to uphold their right to free choice. Or is that right to free choice just a farce? Oft quote we from the “animal world” to substantiate our quarrels, pogroms, and nukes. But is this instinct of freedom present at all in the animal world, or is it barely an instinct to aid survival? Of course, any child who came of age, let by its parents ‘free’ into the world will know how free-will is not exactly the best chance of an individual’s survival. Its basic logic that if all individuals in a kingdom followed the king’s advice, and surrendered their free-will to the Throne, no one had to die. If all conformed to the nation, there would be no prisons. What happens when both the king/nation/head and the subjects/citizens/parts are given free will is what we have in our world today – deaths, deaths, more deaths, way too many births leading to even more deaths.

At the very same time though, and now I chart across facts to observations and experience, the K, an interesting page in the Life of Pi reads that change and animals are not two signifiers that go hand in hand. Animals hate change. They do anything to oppose change. They want to lead their way in the same beaten path, over and over again, day after day, season after season. Of course, time is inconsequential here, its the rhythm which has to be maintained (lets not conform individuals outside the H. s. sapiens realm to constructs of sapienity, like time). An elephant wants to remain where it is, take a bath in the same river, traverse the same path over the seasons. A peacock wants to stay within its territory. A monkey in its fashion. (However, this proposal would put into serious question the theory of origin of life in one point and its consequent spreading, or rather, this proposal is seriously questioned by that theory). And from observation, and little little curious interactions with individuals outside the H. s. s. spectrum, I have to agree that Yann Martel has a point there. I have no readings or research to back up my claim, it is merely a subjective proposal. Now, put into this dimension, the H. s. s. world seems strikingly similar. It is to oppose change that kings oppose other kings, that systems clamp down deviants. But, how can that be when the mantra of the day is “change”? We vote for different political parties for change, Obama says “Yes we can” signifying a change from a noness to a canness, leadership gurus talk of making change a lifestyle, Robert Frost recites The Road Not Taken. But, think again, these keywords of change hide a system of not-change. Leadership gurus who ask wannabe leaders to make change their lifestyle support the not changing of the capitalist system which is catering to selfish dreams. Political parties who claim change, and a difference from their predecessors, are not talking of a change, but are talking of a not-change: roads shall be good, as they were, as they aren’t now, i.e., there shall be no change in their condition; development indices will increase, i.e., there shall be no change in the rate of change (or, in this context, “change” can be the same as expectation, and therefore, “change” is not change, but is just a shift from a physical state to a preferred mental state – like wanting to urinate, having a full bladder, and having urinated). Robert Frost asks not people to find really radical lifepaths, but to not change the process (or rate) of liberalisation. Humans have always opposed change. Oh come on, that value which reads in the “Well Being Scale” used by psychologists  “Are you comfortable with sudden ruptures and changes in plans?” is just a farce; no one can be comfortable with changes, they can barely be more used to changes in plans, and the more used one gets to changes in plans, those very changes form the individual’s not change zone, and therefore, those changes cease to become changes, and they become variables in an itinerary of not change.

And for not change, we need free will. “Freedom is the freedom to say no”, says Shantaram in the book by Gregory David Roberts (it must be a thought which must have germinated some time much earlier, surely, but this is my source). And therefore, is this instinct of survival a tussle for not change, which is linguistically abstracted with terms like free will and freedom? And ergo just Let It Be and not change anything? Don’t cage the bird? Once you caged it, don’t let it free? Or if it continues to struggle in captivity, let it free?

 

 

i still remember the day i set my parrots free. and they flew flew flew over the river, grass, and trees. one stood by to watch and see, if its mate would come back and their love could still be. but alas. i still remember the day i set my parrots free… are they truly happy? h…a… …p….d.. … … y. .    ? . .

GenMe

Hi. My name is Mohan, and this is my story. This is the story of my generation. The Generation Me.

The generation where when I had to submit an assignment, I got the information I craved at the click of a few buttons, a few thousand rupees, and mass destruction of the planet. Of course, the generation where also the few thousand rupees were seen as a worthwhile investment, cajoled by marketeers, and where the mass destruction is blissfully hidden. Thomas Gray shot it right when said ignorance is bliss. If bliss is the goal of life, the Generation Me’s mantra is ignorance.

At the click of a few more buttons, I had my five hundred word essay ready (Alt+Shift+W showed me the number of words). And off the assignment went. That which should have originally consisted of library sojourns, book references, and visits to a far off place which I’d never heard of, all done soullessly in a matter of fifteen mere minutes. Of course, this is the knowledge generation. The information generation. But ironically, the ignorant generation.

Ignorance is not for lack of information or knowledge. It is for lack of intellectual good. We are a generation “who intellectual good/ Have lost” (Dante, Inferno Canto III). We know that every time we board that flight, thousands of kilograms of jet fuel is being burnt. We know that that jet fuel has been pumped at the cost of lives in Nigeria. Lifes, which we know from Amnesty International’s annual reports as lives. We know that that pumping out of jet fuel has caused an insane economic class difference in Venezuela. And yet, we board that flight. We know that as we reach out for that bottle of Coca Cola, thousands of lives around the world have been forfeit to bring you that litre of crap, marketed as an alternative for water, and more popularly as a digestive aid. And yet we reach out. We know that every time we smile at the diamond ring on that beautiful glittering shelf, hundreds of lives have been laid behind in the blood mountains of Congo. And yet, we smile. We know that every time we take that piece of paper to doodle or scribble, in the name of creativity, in the name of expression, in the name of communication, in the name of psychotherapy, a tree five times older than you, on which lives thousands of organisms, is cut in the rainforests of Brazil. And yet, we take.

This is Generation Me.

I was questioned the other day about the “time for myself”. Time for myself? I spend my time theorising time. I spend my time trying to define the concept of time. I create a nonsensical entity, and spend the rest of my life trying to define that entity. I have time for everything outside of me. How can I have time for myself. Oh, you object? My dear friend, the body-builder, the fashion-model, the doctor, and the meditator, all are concerned barely about externalities; the body-builder and fashion-model about some perfect shape, the doctor about her/his medical object, the meditator about her/his calmness to go about her/his life – which is in all terms external.

It is ironical that the Generation Me does not have time for meselfs.

Oh no. I’m more concerned about theorising the probable causes and consequences of being a pseudo-activist by clicking Facebook buttons, and about combining quantum physics and bioengineering. About windmills in the Sahara, and monkeys in outer space. About the twitches and turns of Dow Jones and the latest developments at California Berkeley.

This is the Generation Me. And this is my story. I wish I had been writing this…

glimpses av2 – the world from 2677 SBC-ERS

[for Abhi and Arjun, who, this, can no longer see...]

Little yellow flowers border the introspecting brown iron fence.
Little pinks join them; to witness the crawling snakes, day a day, night a night.
I have no words to say, no speak to thought,
To capture this sleeping elephant rock,
This great spectacle
Seeming, in its bliss stupor to,
Cling on to another elephant peak;
Which in turn to an other,
And an other, settling to swim.

Suddenly, hidden by plumes of coconuts,
mangoes, and such other valley thriving crop…
Oy. paddy and sugar cane too?!

Its hot. A beary hay silo passes by.
Yup, eating his way through grass,
and probably children’s mothers in their desperate hopes to teach her children more words, to keep them from a brawling troll.

Words. words. words.
“Words are all I have, to take your heart away”
Really?
I cannot describe this land
In ease wit this Anglo Germanic tongue
As easily as once I did with the rivulets of Europa;
(with this same orange pencil, same white book)
I know I cannot hope to capture the lime fluorescent greenness of the juvenile paddy a pass;
There is something beyond in this stark bright illuminating suns rays playing hide ‘n seek with trainly windows
(that which has obfuscated logic thus far, and stings my curiosity.)
Yes, true.
But mean that, that I am structured of
phones, syns, and morphs?
["kvool draynks... vaateir..."
Ha! Describe that.]

The tog is almost empty.
And we soon pass the last terra firmatic elephant.
Hey! Suddenly it appears that the three (los tres)
are desperate in support of the drowning un.
Oi oi oi…
(Framed in aweificance by thick white plumes of cotton soft clods, and the oceany blue sky.
Where’s the jellyfish now?)

Hark! What is that which burns?

But wait, my orange friend,
Was that my tongue, or an other, I saw?
Am I already in embrace of my linguistic claw?
Namaskaram Kerala!
As I breathe into Kanjikode,
Where is my welcoming monsoon queen’s klem?
The sun just still shines…
(Tchaaayeee… Tchai tchayeee)

And so, I enter my region state,
A familiarity no doubt, they say,
Configured by the language mine.
Nay.
You jest.

For my land is mine for its greenness,
The countless chlorophylls that breathe air in my state,
And for its earth,
That gives rise to them green.
My land is mine for its water,
Flowing health from the mountains of blue dreams,
Illuminating, strengthening, and killing.
My land is mine for the butterfly’s smile,
For the coconut silhouettes in brown paddy aquadigms,
For the krrr krrrs of Cicadas singing at night,
For these mountains like elephants,
For elephants like loving mountains,
For the people, the thought,
For love,
In short, in a coconut shell,
For this lands energy.
["Tweet tweet, tweet tweet... Es em esss..." Palakkad Jn...]

How can you say it is for the langue?
You call that intellect?
Or is that insolence?
[and is this a discourse of knowing, or desperation? or of hate?]
A. K. Hamza sells chips, chips, more chips,
and of course, halwa, halwa, halwa…
(among other dirty imperialising bites…)

Kakas bite water drops off dripping manual taps,
And people smile on talking, ordering.
I might be hugged by the sweet melody of mine tongue,
Now enveloping like the first monsoon rains…
(“Kerala, Kerala, Kerala lottery tické, pooja tické, win-win lottery…”)
And political dialogues in seats a couple front
may enigmatically critique in powerful speaks…
But did the langue come first, or first the chicken?
I think the chicken;
(and that the langueists should get a life)

Black pipe on a yellow balustrade,
Carries the life of water,
As our snake slowly etches forward
Inscribing change in our universe.

And in my realm now, as slowly as this train moves,
I shall begin to settle to other affections of my selv
My addiction of the word, now satisfied.

Oh A and A for whom I this dedicate,
May love be with you,
And let this land’s energy too.

Drip drip drip drip
Coconut thatches that build this energy’s intellectocracy, fairocracy,
And small boys a playing cricket,
Whilst woman bent over love’s labour ploughing nature,
Red beats promising exercise,
Whilst the sun shine, this train and rivulets move,
the wind caressing my hair…
Peace out.


- neo garfield

In the Gulmohar seplets drift

I remember when we used to walk, hand in hand, through the streets of everyday busytude. People hurrying past, cars and buses honking, meandering, dust rising, winds taking, bliss settling… I remember how I used to scavenge on the ground for sepals of that majestic flower, that flower which proclaimed to be the forest’s greatest fear, and thus, greatest love – the flame, Gulmohar, or The Flame of the Forest. I remember how I used to separate those sepals into seplets, and scratch off its green inside to reveal a sticky fresh underside, which we then played with, using them as nail ornaments. And all that, not just for fun, but also with the interest of holding your hand a few moments longer…

Today, I saw a Gulmohar in full bloom. Standing tall on green grass, on the other side of the road. An army area; fenced out. Protected, and isolated. With no children like you and me to leap around and play. Simply, in full bloom. The seplets drift down, with no you, no me, to gather them, and make them love.

Today, you and me are worlds apart. We barely know each other. You talk so different, I hardly understand. I bet that I talk insanity, not given to understanding either. You have probably found others to hold your hand and play with you, and so probably have I (um, or maybe not.). Weird to see, be, change. Can things be the same?

Let us not ponder why they should be the same. We both cherish a longing memory of that sameness. The worth pondering is which asks, what is it really to ‘going back’? Truly think. We are here, now, perhaps worse off than that before, but can we make of the coming what it had been that before? Maybe we can, but you and I, we are not isolated lovers in a sterile universe. We are complex networks of people, places, memories, happenings…. And those networks, they will have to change with us. Or we end up in the pyre where all things returned do.

There is a Left and a Right. Must we chose one? Can we not have another, without having to negotiate? Perhaps there is a digital and a non-digital. But for all things practical, is there a viable non-digital? Perhaps there is trust, and then again, perhaps not. Can we see from here, and move? There are the good old days, and then, there are these hideous present. But for the way ahead, do we have to strive for those good old? Is that really a plausible? Can we not see the good from the old, and inherit a future taking off from this ghastly present?

Is there purpose in dwelling in the past, but to learn the happenings, so as to understand the present, and construct a what is to be? (and of course, for lovable memories?)

Not rules and code on top of rules and code to produce a new set of rules and code for another set of rules and code to build on. But reconciling with the what is yet to be for peace…

So perhaps we must just let the Gulmohar tree inside the wired off enclosure be. Let it be. And you and I, changed we are, and apart, once dancers of love, now partners in changing the world, perhaps we should see from here where we are, without hope or agenda of the past. So be it.

Today, as the rain rained, and wind blew, the little seplets drift gently to dance, and I remember you.

Oh yeah!


Must watch song by David Ippolito. Explains why he thinks Facebook is a Stupid Idiot.

Of course, I think that Facebook is a Stupid Idiot for all the different reasons…

I mean… Really… Do you want to be on Facebook?

After this song… And considering the fact that Facebook is one big bad multinational owned by a hormone [read 'economics'] driven twenty six year old? And also considering the fact that Facebook owns everything you put on it? Including last night’s party photos, where you were drunk like a fish? And the last “Love you too” private message you sent to your boyfriend? And your little poetry status message? And that depending on your privacy settings, that big bad multinational can use all your information for their publicity, or even sell it?

For me, friendship is about love. Its about remembering people’s birthdays if I care for them, not about receiving reminders. Its about talking to someone when I remember them, not finding them on my news feed. Its about having my closest friend tell me what has been happening and how (s)he feels, not about reading it from her ‘wall’. Its about reading whats in the news, not what my neighbour thinks about the news – I can ask her that if I wanted to. Its about having a physically-real farm, and a physically-real cow, and not about having a Farmville. (Come on folks, if you have two hours a day for Farmville, why not start a garden and see those physically-real tangible beautiful fragrant flowers and those eatable vegetables?)

Its about meeting a bygone friend in the middle of a forest (ok, lets be more realistic, in the middle of the grocery store?). Or giving a hug because I truly cherish the soul I hug, not to get points. Its about showing pictures – those fleeting events which we arrogantly try to capture – to people who know, not about tagging people and commenting on the X’s balding forehead. Its about letting people who care to ask where I am or what I’m doing, not about publishing that to the world. Please, its about going out there and actually doing something for that poor Panthera tigris and not about clicking a button!

Yes, this is a rant. But for me, its about the non-digital. Yes, the non-digital. Yes, I believe it exists.

Actually, no. Its not about the non-digital. Its about the person, the human, the energy, the force. Digits and non-digits do not play there.

And Ippolito and I have something in common. We both think Facebook is a Stupid Idiot.



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