Sentry Tower

While reading a magazine I came across an ad that said: "Win an ____ watch worth $449! Hurry!". I don't know why but it felt really odd. As if the value of the thing was merely monetary. It seemed out of place especially because it was a specially customized item, that usable and useful to a niche audience who would be aware of the value of the item. For example: as a biking enthusiast, I know that the chance to win a K&N filter goes far beyond it's price. This is because it's my interest in the sport and the utility of the thing in question that gives it (to me) a value that cannot be quantified by the mere monetary worth of it. We live in a world where even time is broken down into money. And oddly enough, that does little to increase any concept of the value of time.

There is something about a good bassline. Now I don't want to go into all the technical mumbo-jumbo of how it keeps the entire band 'tight' and the melody in rhythm and all that. If interested, just look it up on google. No. What I mean is, a good bassline will keep you tapped into the song right from the beginning and until the end. Since the bass sound is deeper, it resonates more  inside.  I really don't know the technical details as to how and what frequencies produce vibrations etc. I'm just trying to put down what I feel when I hear a brilliant bassline. I'm listening to  Strip the Soul (In Absentia)   by Porcupine Tree and it has a beautiful one. Even before the melody began, it had me hooked. The melodic arrangement just needs to fill in the gaps and it becomes a good song even if it's just passable. Here it's great so it's a good song to listen to. Electronica like that by Daft Punk is also noted for it's lovely basslines as is Deadmau

What if a right-handed person, who is a virgin, masturbates with his left hand? Is that infidelity? And if he can masturbate with both at the same time, does that constitute a threesome?

Hangovers are not just related to alcohol. The worst hangovers are related to good times. We've all experienced that feeling. The day after Diwali for some. When the debris from crackers litters the streets next morning. And it's a cool crisp morning with the sun shining. School starts the next day. Oh the pain! The buildup to an event, the anticipation, the rush is often as thrilling if not more, than the event itself. And consequently, the fall after the event is over is hard. It's tough. The mind refuses to leave such a happy event behind. It dwells endlessly (at least at first) to the days leading to the event, the event itself. One relives the good day(s) thousands of times. And life after seems drab in comparison. Then next time, we attempt to recreate the magic of last time. However, our expectations have increased. We want more. The same won't be enough anymore. And it never is the same. We work hard to set ourselves up for disappointment. The best of plans fall

I had to visit my college a few days ago. Something about getting my last two marksheets etc. I went there with Saboo, one of my three best friends from college (along with Saumya and Shantnu). After all the office-work had been concluded, we decided to eat in the college cafeteria or the 'Mech Canteen' as we call it or called it in our heyday. I did know that it was going to be a nostalgic experience what with going back to college again and especially since it's been just a few months after we'd passed out and all. But the sheer weight of memories that hit me once we drove into college (indeed just as soon as we passed the familiar streets leading to it) was staggering! I am usually prone to over-analyzing my thoughts and I usually try and quantify what and why I am feeling so that I can understand it better. However, this time I just let myself go. As we drove through the streets of Rohini, past metro walk, I remembered the many, many times I had been to that mal

I've been cheating. I've not been writing as regularly as I promised myself to write. Missed out days. It's more like a chore than anything else. Yet it may be the only worthwhile thing that I'm doing. At least these few months. I used to avidly recommend Train Theory to all and sundry. It is what saved me from going insane out of grief after my breakup (c. Dec-Mar 2011). Yet Train Theory has a catch. A very critical catch. It's more of a question of balance than anything else. But before all this confuses you, let me give a very basic outline of Train Theory. Train Theory When one travels in a train, one may observe a large building in view. The building may be huge in size and appear never ending. However, large as the building might appear to be, if one merely looks away from the window for a few moments, one will see that the building has receded into the distance and is considerably diminished in appearance. Soon after, the building disappears from all b

I wish my days were packed. The last two days passed away in a blur. Or so it seemed... Maybe it's because I don't remember them. Maybe because I wished to forget. They were the worst kind of days because I didn't have to make any effort to forget them. Because they were born to be obscure and insignificant. Oscar Wilde has rightly said, that boredom is the only true death.

What are the giant wheels that move the purpose of mankind as a whole? Has anybody seen them? What is it that motivates every man to get up everyday and work? Whatever be the work, each man has some sense of duty, responsibility, some scope of joy and pleasure in his everyday existence. What is the truth behind the toil? What are we all working towards? Or is it something that we are working against? Or are they just two sides of the same coin? In writing, I have found that my adherence to the rules, tones and customs of the written form of the language has resulted in my prose being; in general; ponderous and prosaic in nature. What do I do to remove this crushing stereotype? For some reason my mind revolts against writing in such a manner so as to make the sound of my voice resound in the head of the speaker. My very instinct is repelled by contemplation of employing such a means in writing. Yet I believe I shall soon have to resort to such devices to make my blog more readable.

The odd thing about being sick is that it makes you forget how you were when you were hale and hearty. In other words you feel as if you've been sick all your life. Which is why the flashbacks were weird. They were flashbacks of happiness. Now what was strange about these flashbacks was that they made me feel worse. Now I believe I have been obsessing quite extensively on the topic of memories and how they provide a room to escape into, a shield of sorts etc. These memories on the other hand had quite the opposite effect. I have been having them for quite sometime now and they come upon me very suddenly. If I can compare it to visual sensation: normally flashbacks are  triggered  by something. It's more of a sudden plunge into the pool of reminiscence or a vivid flight of sorts, for a few moments that may or may not seem long. Then one comes out of that pool affected by the images/sensation that one might have felt and thereby changed by them one moves on and soon forgets the

This is one I am still developing. Here it is as I think of it now. Assumption:   Each individual lives in a bubble. This bubble is our individuality. It is built up of whatever experiences we have lived through and whatever conclusions we have drawn in our years of life. Out of our weltanschauung as it were. These all comprise the material of the bubble, it's appearance, it's texture. The bubble can expand, contract, attain new dimensions and/or shapes. I believe that in most cases a gradual hardening occurs as a person gets older. The probable nature of change of the bubble will occur according to a particular logic. This is the 'nature' of the person involved. Or 'character'. If the logic of change is consistently traceable, then person is referred to as being of constant character. In most cases, interaction with other bubbles will cause a modification of the attributes. Hypothesis:  I believe that this is why no one person can truly look at the wo

We are all slaves of time. So much for stating the obvious. But really, I've been in a brooding mood for the past couple of weeks. I've had little to do and much to think about so even the tiniest of ideas begins fermenting inside my head. 'Fermenting' because wine is made of grapes, but grape juice is nothing like wine. Alright, enough about cliches too. Now, back to the topic. Slaves of time. Time controls our every move, etc etc. Yet we are all under the illusion that we are 'in control' of time. I noticed the other day (one might say rather late and too elementary after living for 21 years) that something that happened a second ago, a joke, a funny moment, a moment of understanding etc. is akin to something that happened ages ago in that nothing can really bring either of those moments back. Both are equally lost in time and confined to the vaults of memory. Forever. Now again, forgive me for stating the obvious, but it has a rather flattening effect on al

A friend told me that writing is a lot like assembly line production. You need to force yourself to write so that, by the time you actually have something to write about, you write it really nicely. Anyway, here begins my (hopefully sustained) sojourn into the world of assembly line writing. I'm listening to Yanni. Something symphonic. Yet it's more contemporary. The old masters are brilliant, but distant. Yanni is more relatable. Somehow. I wonder if music can have a generation gap... Scientists have discovered how 'pop' music is made: apparently a combination of certain frequencies can stimulate areas of the brain so that they 'light up' with activity. It's the same for a large percentage of the people and theoretically no one is immune to it. Maybe it has something to do with the evolution of human sensibilities as it were. Throughout millions of years, many of our tertiary sensibilities have evolved from things that were completely relevant 50,000 yea