The Final Cut

After one gig in New Orleans, a thief stole all of Pink Floyd’s equipment in a tractor/trailer. Included was Richard Wright’s organ with stacks of effects boxes, a personal assembly. Instead of trying to find all the components again, Richard decided to use conventional components.

Trawling the web enough will get such gems to fore.
This is sad. Because before we all started our slump into indie kitsch and despite whatever alternative shoegazing misanthrope we are listening to right now, in the beginning there was Pink Floyd. Period.

Romeo Must Die

Because You ask for reasons.

Yes, I can’t make it work. Not with you. Maybe, not with anyone else. Maybe, I’m cut out of a different cloth. Maybe, I’m more leather than lace. Yes, I am speaking your language to make it sink. Maybe, I can resist the wear and tear. Maybe, I’m as cold as you have me picked. But, I’m not yours. There are no maybes about that. I never was.

No, I can’t look pretty for your neanderthal buddies to pat your back on your “achievement”. No, I won’t stop taking the 5am one-way flights to unknown islands, on my own. No, you can’t protect me from myself. I would recommend you don’t even try. I need my time, my place. Your lack of comprehension about this spatial truth is not a peril of my making. Deal with it on your own. Yes, I will always love my cameras a little more than you. Maybe, coz they help me capture life in a far more pronounced way than you ever could.

No, I won’t dress garish and loud for your sister’s farce of an engagement ceremony. No, I won’t dance with your drunk as skunk relatives to prove that am deserving of a rank in their midst. No, I won’t send you pictures of my earrings and ask you if you like em so I can decide whether or not to pick em for myself. I picked my own apartment at 16, I don’t need help picking trinkets at 24.

Yes, I will always be a little clinical and detached. That doesn’t make me less humane, just more real. If you guage the difference(which I doubt, you do). Yes, I would recommend you brush up a little bit on your Strenberg to assimiliate that love is infact a combination of intimacy, commitment and passion. No, I don’t set an IQ pre-requiste for guys I date but I prefer if their’s isn’t entirely a single digit one.

Yes, I am more evolved and liberated than you’d like. Yes, that the a priori to my acceptance of the fact that you are still steeped in sexism and partiarchy. Yes, I do marvel at my own lack of cognizance vis-a-vis you, sometimes. Yes, I have learnt a few home truths.

No, I can’t stay with you and make it work because its too difficult to break away and find someone new. No, I don’t fear the single status. No, I don’t have a rewind button. No, I don’t care about your neurosis right now. Mine is pretty declivitous in itself.

No, you don’t get to judge me. You weren’t around when I was getting tumors removed from my arm and writhing in pain when I was put on mind controlling meds. Yes, I am different. Yes, I am better.

No, I am not enthralled by your messianic susurration. No, I don’t find your Robert Jordan’s-I-am-reborn-to-rescue-the-cosmos bullshit inspiring. Not even entertaining. Not when you run with your tail between you legs everytime you are faced with a real problem. Such as, getting dumped. You are as regular as chums. Please stop convincing of your “higher purpose”. Intelligence bereft bimbettes massaging your ego and whatnot is no yardstick of your emotional intelligence.

Yes, I have more brainpower. No, you can’t compete. You are unarmed. As you always were.

Yes, I did stoop far too low to accomodate you. Yes, you should be thankful.

No, I don’t have a “type”. I ‘d like to think people aren’t bacteria to be classified that scientifically.

No, I don’t taper. I walk out when I feel its not right. No, you can’t persuade me to reconsider.

Yes, you were one night stand. Understand, process, accept. Get over it.

No, I don’t love you and am not apologetic. No, I don’t condone your consistent “bitch-assness”. in the words of one Mr Sean P Diddy Combs.

Yes, I was caught up once. Yes, I am acidic and contemptuous when pushed. Yes, I am capable of absolution and peace. No, you can’t decide when I pick and what.

No, I am not a man’s mind in a woman’s body. Yes, you are incredibly incompetent with your (non-existent) sense of humor.

No, the Universe doesn’t consider you its kernel of wisdom. No, you are not saving anyone, not even yourself. No, I am not a conformist, but that doesn’t make me cynical either.

Yes, I can live without you. No, you aren’t a member of the chemical periodic table with the atomic number 8 assigned to you. Much as you’d like to imagine. Full of hot air, yes, you are.

No, you can’t come back. No, I don’t care. Yes, I’d like my space.

This is release. Depart. Now. I want one of me and none of you.

Les Assassins des Fauteuils Roulants

That was one of the reasons I really wanted to study French. It sounded supercool and I was almost 13. You can’t blame me.

DFW  is phenomenal. A geographically separated friend, while discussing this tragic news, mentioned how a lot of people never really got around to reading him little earlier than now. Why must it always boil down to sudden death for a brilliant author to be catapulted into the public gaze?
Though. Better late than never.

Infinite Jest was one of my first prized possessions. It came to me through someone who annoyed me, with unparalleled consistency, by calling me Madame Psychosis. While running through the boarding school’s hidden wildberry garden with shrubs that peeled off your epidermal layer in seconds of establishing contact with it.
Fun times.

It dawned upon me a lot later. The real meaning of that *endearment*. Ahem.

Now, I am must find myself a new copy of Girl With Curious Hair for my sister. She will learn to read it with comprehension in 5 years or so.

Where chilli powder aided gangrape counts as “molestation”

Loud silences really don’t convey much except a sense of defeat. This is more than apt in case of  Khairlanji verdict.

Giving its verdict in the 2006 Khairlanji case, the Sessions court has held eight people guilty of murder. It has, however, acquitted three.
Rape acquisition(sic) has not been proved. The court has said that the quantum of punishment will be pronounced on September 20.

Indian legal system makes for a perfect SNM submissive flogging partner, given the amount of beating it enjoys from barbaric scoundrels who repeatedly flaunt their entitled dicks in its face.

Let’s provide with some background as to why this decree smacks of serious B.S.

Here is what occured in a rural Maharastra hamlet.(Btw, Marathaman, Mr Raj-Who Better Than Maharashtrians-Thackrey is probably screwing a sheep right now.)

Surekha Bhotmange was running for her life but was dragged by a mob that stripped the Dalit woman and beat her mercilessly with wooden sticks and bicycle chains. Her head was then banged repeatedly against a wall to ensure her death, according to the CBI charge sheet in the Khairlanji killings that shocked the nation.

Surekha’s 17-year-old daughter Priyanka was dragged out of her hiding in a stable and done to death in a similar manner and so were her two young brothers Sudhir and Roshan – the latter partially blind. While thus killing the four members of the Bhotmange family, the frenzied group was hurling invectives referring to their caste.

( linkage)*

8 proven guilty. 3 left scot free. Charges pertaining to Scheduled Castes and Scheduled Tribes (Prevention of Atrocities) Act were thrown out of the court. Of course. Despite that I am not really inclinded towards politicising this whole painful situation, I can’t help feeling incredibly ill at the way this has been handled.

The worst part of the entire episode is that the rape charges against the men( who mercilessly butchered an entire family in public view) did not uphold in a court of law due to “lack of evidence”. It almost plays out like a mediocre Bollywood movie. Apparently, the horror inflicted on the Bhootmange women was merely considered  “molestation” . That’s legal for a little hanky-panky here and there, as this lawyer friend points out. It’s not a synonym for serious sexual assault. Not in the eyes of law, at least. Yes, just molestation. How is that for a particularly blood-curdling pun?
The mother-daughter pair was pinned down to the mud floor and chilli powder was thrown into their eyes to disorient them while they were raped.  Correct me if I am wrong but it’s not always about the quicksand justice meted out to such diabolical bastards(though a speedy judgement does help), it’s also about the real charges that should’ve been proven right in a court of law. Prosecution was sipping pinda coladas as opposed to working on the case?

 Rape is the one of the most toxic crimes and somehow people(read:men) can’t seem to fathom this.

Also, link this entire fiasco to the Dalit discontent that’s been bubbling in various parts of the state(and the country) for a while now. India claims to be constantly riled by what it so lovingly calls ”Naxalite nuisance”, yet it takes events like these to scratch the surface and enable us with the perspective to understand where does all this violence emerge from.
Keep passing such asinine verdicts and watch the surge rise.
Cheers!

 

*- This is an old news report from when this incident actually occured.