Isn’t today summer solstice ?

At least now I can think bit straight.  That two kaya butter toast, and savoury salty taste of butter (that health conscious like me miss) , is nothing less than heavenly. Coffee is below average, but will sustain my diurnal caffeine habits.

The point running in my mind is

  • Am I wasting my time ? Where is the fucking dent that I gonna make in the universe ?
  • Should I travel to London again ? Now that I know name of at least 3 Burroughs, thanks to Assassins creed game.  Lambeth, London City, Westminster, Whitehall. But the visa lasts 5 more months and tickets are around 1000 bucks.
  • I guess the pricing takes travelling to London , out of equation. Sigh. Some clarity in life.
  • The gym hours ! Where is the promised core, it is there I tell you, you just need to do chipping like Michelangelo did for his initial sculptures. Meh.
  • I think the current countenance of mind , can be blamed on the inheritance of a loss, the book is not exactly gloomy, but it is not a happy one too.

 

On indoor climbing day #5

  day #5
Climbed all small auto belays, except black 6b and Green 6b

Tried full wall red auto belay
gave up 3 more holds from top

Bouldering :
– Tried black one again, foot stepping is bad and very amateurish
– Tend to get both legs on same hold
– Difficulty switching between legs when going up
– Still using too much upper body
– Need more flexibility with legs
– Include rests ?? [http://www.rockandice.com/rock-climbing-training/attack-and-defend-tips-for-resting-rock-climbing]

On running …

 

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon, he woke up early and there was a missed call from his old founder’s institute friend, he asked him to come over for a hike across MacRithchie reservoir . Well, he was up for anything that involved hiking and running.
His nike running app had said 999.1 Km, he was 900 mts away from completing his 1000 kilometres.

One thousand kilometres is a lot , isn’t it ? Exactly thats what he thought too.Even he did not remembered when he started liking running, he started off as a mere 1-2 km jog around in NUS(National University Of Singapore) – his postgraduate university, and then before he knew he was clocking 5kms, 10 kms. And then he started pushing for 15kms, that was like one round of the pet macritchie grounds to and from from his house. One round of macritchie was 11.5kms. And like that suddenly he started running more frequently like twice or thrice a week , and then adding a long run over the weekend. He bought a north face hydration bag , and as an ode promised himself to get 13 miles under his shoes, and so he finished 21.5 kilometres. The fabled half marathon distance.
Seeing his data he started running in January 2013 , it was 3 years of running now.

2013 = 167.9 kms
2014 = 174.9 kms
2015 = 618.2 kms

As one can see Year 2015 was a real deal breaker, he clocked 5 half marathons and a marathon.Initially around February , it was preparing to climb kota kinabalu, and then trying to get 42kms in a week, for Kilimanjaro trek preparation .

Running gave him wings, when he was sprinting he could hear wind gushing across his ears, on his face, his feets in air, his mind focussed. It was his moksha from all things worldly, his 9 to 5 job laziness, that was when he raced ahead his old demons of breakup and complacence and mediocrity.  And when he was not sprinting, it was slow rhythm, the pleasant pace , slow right then left, easy breathing , mind numb, it was like getting in the zone. Probably that was the point when someone gets a runner’s high. Those endorphins start kicking in and you have this elation, this sense of wonder and wander too.

He soon realised that running on tracks gave best PB (personal best) timings. So he started getting crazy with 5k-10k sprints, and although it was not close to world record or something, it was better than his old self.

Around november last year he got inspired by his brother in law coming to run half marathon from Philippines, he signed up for his first marathon running. It was like butterflies in stomach again, that anxiety, that nervousness. Why the fuck did I signed up for this ? Forty two kilometres is a lot if you think about it, and that too within 8 hours.

Only way to face your fear , is may be prepare for it. So in went from hundred bucks for those compression socks, Garmin GPS watch, some more lighter runs. long excel sheets of logging in runs based on weeks and months. Sleeping early so as to get in waking before five rhythm.

And race day came and he conquered it.

And today after two months, he was sitting on couch, netflixing and thinking this is the good time to get this running blog up, for the sake of that 1000kms.

May be now that he had written, he would not be googling things like “why run ” or “why run marathon ” or “top 10 reasons to run “.

Screen Shot 2016-02-07 at 3.06.08 pm

Since he now moved to data and his engineering faculties have kicked in and overpowered the writer, Garmin has a quite impressive data crunching in its small watch.

Screen Shot 2016-02-07 at 3.14.43 pm

Longing…

He closed his eyes, and all the universe started
contracting. Like someone pressed rewind and everything was rushing back to big
bang days.

 

  An electric impulse went off, up his spine. Somewhere behind
the stage of his mind, his to-do list was waiting to make an appearance. 

He wanted to chuck work, and head to Indie film theatre in
island. All his recent cinema trips, were marked by stupid,  abysmal movies. Even much awaited Amitabh
Bacchan and Farhan , on screen shenanigans with 64 squares of chess failed to
impress him. As Raja Sen said it was meant to be a thriller, but somewhere the
scriptwriter forgot that, and audience were left with longing and hope that
something will happen now, and will give movie that oomph character that they
paid for. 

Now the cinephile in him longed for good old Godfather on
a big screen. 

Haiku 

WRITINGS 

Unsure of writings

Browsing ruins, cold and damp

Chance of revival?

 

DILEMMA ?

Tech, bank, security

Faltering partners, cloudbusrt

Fight or flight , dilemma ?

 

SARTRE

Swiping. Analysis.

What’s the point of this fog ?

Sartre and choices.

Myth of Sisyphus 

Rising,tram, 4 hours in the office or factory, meal, 4 hours of work, tram, meal, sleep and Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday according to the same rhythm. This path is easily followed most of the time.

But one day the ‘why’ arises, and everything begins in that weariness tinged with Amazement.

‘Begins’ this is important, weariness comes at the end of mechanical life but at the same time it inaugurates the impulse of consciousness.it awakens consciousness and provokes what follows.

What follows is the gradual return into the chain or it is the definitive awakening.

– Camus, The myth of Sisyphus 

Other days he would have given himself apt reason to smile at himself, the narcissistic one. And may be even pat himself for where he has come to.

The smile spread across his image from back window of rented uber, and he tried to remember when did he swipe right, rather than a bored non-chalant left. Or perhaps in desperation of getting his probability corrected. He was some sort of competitive now, but he always hated that feeling of being on the losing side.

Through the sad sordid days of getting drunk and barfing, to seclusions sought in lonely mountains. The mountains echoed his thoughts and empathize with him that he wasn’t alone in his longing. 
He happily remembered walking under the shadow of colosseum proud of himself for having seen it. And then when he travelled back, it was another old Monument. Like that in Sarnath from his hometown. For having so used to, it lost its significance. 
He held on to his soul, reading it in ikea lamp yellow light. It was still there, alive and happy after so many days. Still young.He would have made Pindar proud for sure 
“o my soul, do not aspire to immortal life, but exhaust the limit of the possible

Trippy with Beatles

Trippy
Lucy shudnt be in the sky
With diamonds
I picture myself in a train
In a station
But it’s urban utopia
Or dystopia
Tired face
Tired of their monotonous
Job
Lifestyle
Show me some spark man .

She is not a girl
Who misses much
Holland village
Remnants of boozing at bar
That fine Japanese
Single malt .

What is happiness
Arre it’s a warm gun rey

And now blackbirds
Are flying
How I missed them
Ob la di
Ob la da

The truth – short story

“You first said you want to go to the library and now you want to go this way.”, came the vexed reply in Tamil with a shade of broken English from the gatekeeper. The gatekeeper himself was as historic as the place was, with a set of pale eyes- whites of which were dirty, a face marked with wrinkles and scars, and a tumor-like affliction in the mouth. One could have categorically placed his countenance as uneasing if not scary!

He reiterated the clichéd getaway lines, to the gatekeeper
“Tamil terima, anna. I am new to this place.”

The mellowed gatekeeper reluctantly guided him in, getting his sign on visitor’s register. The place smelled peace and was achingly yet charmingly infused with shrieking silence. A cool quiet that felt intangible in the hot summer afternoon. But here it was, and he was already feeling blessed, and yes he tried to feel the nature like a gaia theorist with his eyes closed. There was a different kind of vibes in ether.
It was all green on both sides of the dilapidated asphalt road, with no sign of human inhabitation. Long grasses with jutting blades tried their best to engulf the horizon. The buildings were ancient, and a gardener was clearing the brown dried grass with a motor-blades. The humming sound sounded sinister, foreboding of lurking secrets. He listened mindfully to the sound made by his footsteps as he continued his nonchalant stroll.

An ancient building loomed in front, with a huge old wooden placard at the gate declaring “There is nothing higher than truth”.

He pondered on the veracity of the statement as he circled the main atrium of building twice. Like a planet wondering why it has been encircling sun since eons.

He ushered in without confidence into the secretary room, from which he could hear hushed tones. Two elderly ladies were chatting behind two huge mahogany desks. Each desk had an IBM desktop computer-neatly wrapped under transparent sheets as if it was too precious to touch. The sound of rusty typewriter mingled with the creaking of the ceiling fan.

“So are you a healer?”, the younger of two asked breaking the eerie silence.

“Healer??”, she definitely did not mean the psychic healer, it can’t be. But judging by her unfazed expression that was what she meant, to the boy’s utter amazement.
“Maybe I am clairvoyant, maybe? A bit. Not sure”, that was his till-now-kept-secret thought. Although he had shared it with few close friends who would have an understanding of it, else it was a secret.

She went on to explain the roots of organization handling him some centenary pamphlets 39 years old. The older of two ladies continued her recce on his face, suspiciously. His contrasting clothes gave him away, old navy capris with red converse sleepers. It was like Bill Gates attending Ku-Klux Klan meeting in a tuxedo.

“If you have enough karmas, you will become a member. Do not worry about it”.

A strange reply, coming in this age. But then it was very pertinent to the atmosphere. He would have laughed over it if someone would have said that at a cafe or restaurant. But this was coming from a secretary of an international office of Agnostics. It was like a movie scene, where the protagonist finds himself waking up in an old villa, having the answers to all strange things happening to him. Like Harry finding Dumbledore, or Frodo finding Gandalf.

He came out, with a red and a purple pamphlet, more unconfident than before. He sat there on a solitary bench beside the green shrub under the banyan tree and started reading through the pamphlets with rapt attention. He was lost. A sudden tinge at his calf skin caused by an unwary ant brought him back to the cement bench beside the green shrub under the banyan tree.

“Do you have a light?”
He noticed a girl in early twenties, she looked of south Indian descent, with big deep-set eyes, he would have named her Meenaxi.
She had an olive complexion and looked stunning yet enchanting in a deep v-neck tank top with fitting blue denim. He caught a whiff of her perfume, and a twitch in his heart told him that he was already smitten. She held a smoke elegantly between her delicate fingers.

“Do you have a light?”, she repeated carelessly.
“Umm…ahh….well no”.
“I suspected that you look like a kid.”, followed by a tinkering mocking laugh. “But kids don’t visit here”.
“Oh my gosh! You are reading about death, kid”, she glimpsed on the pamphlets.

The noun quoted was now confused, whether to continue his sublime mesmerization or retort to quip.
Choosing the second, he retorted, “I was until you interrupted me”,

“As life is interrupted by death”.

He mused on the depth of phrase and cleavage at the same time, balancing the conflicting thoughts.

“A human tends to propagate this theory, but death is a continuation, not an interruption.”
“Hmmm. So are you a celestial being? Huh! How come you adjust in this human world”.
“Believe me, it’s very tough !”, she replied casually after taking another whiff.

Was that a sarcasm or banter. Sarcasm, he concluded.
She was now smoking an unlit cigarette making brilliant smoke rings. She adjusted herself on the small bench, and ‘kid’ twitched to the corner. The universe was already laughing behind his back. He could have closed his eyes and felt her human aura, deciphered the aural color he saw and made things easy. But he decided to play it human, it was getting interesting.

A faint breeze touched his nose, unconsciously closing his pupils. He felt the wind on his physical body. He wanted to fly on this zephyr.
As he was flying a realization dawned upon him, there was no human aura in close vicinity. He concentrated hard on the darkness, trying to locate the luminous aural colors. No. They were absent. A pang of pain in his pupils ended his effort, and he came back to his physical body cement bench beside the green shrub under the banyan tree.
Opening his eyes he studied his neighbors face. doubting his amateur visions. She smiled back as if acknowledging his cognizance and challenging his abilities at the same time.
“It’s tough right?”
He was taken aback. This was the second time in a day when his secrets came out of cloak.
“What is tough?”, he fumbled.
“Adjusting in this human world, as you said”.

He was flummoxed.
She stood up, still holding the cigarette- now a crumpled piece. She glanced at the unburnt stub and threw it dexterously with her two fingers. The tobacco stub made a boomerang motion before crashing among the long grasses with jutting blades.

“Remember that there is nothing like an absolute truth !”

She turned around looking the kid in eyes. And within moments she was lost in darkening darkness of dawn down the dark asphalt path.

Oscar Wilde on art

The artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal the artist is art’s aim. The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things. The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography. Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault.

Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only beauty.

There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.

The nineteenth century dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeing his own face in a glass.

The nineteenth century dislike of romanticism is the rage of Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass. The moral life of man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium. No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved. No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style. No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything. Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art. Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art. From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician. From the point of view of feeling, the actor’s craft is the type. All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril. Those who read the symbol do so at their peril. It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors. Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital. When critics disagree, the artist is in accord with himself. We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.

All art is quite useless.

    -- Oscar Wilde
Preface to picture of Dorian Gray

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