Test sidewiki 2
This tests where it publishes to
in reference to: Catalyst 3560 Switch Software Configuration Guide, Rel. 12.2(25)SEE - Configuring EtherChannels [Cisco Catalyst 3560 Series Switches] - Cisco Systems (view on Google Sidewiki)Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Thursday, November 09, 2006
The Season's Changed
The Season's changed,
The birds've disappeared,
The trees've shed their feathers, and
In tender nests, snow, now gathers.
The Season's changed,
The one-eyed undertaker,
Still reeking of country-liquor,
Pushed his cart to funeral pyres
Treading strewn petals, the tears of criers.
The Season's changed,
The merchant of Venus,
Spews curses - this spell of dryness,
His knowing eye, looking for buyers,
Of lewd pleasures, unspoken desires.
The birds've disappeared,
The trees've shed their feathers, and
In tender nests, snow, now gathers.
The Season's changed,
The one-eyed undertaker,
Still reeking of country-liquor,
Pushed his cart to funeral pyres
Treading strewn petals, the tears of criers.
The Season's changed,
The merchant of Venus,
Spews curses - this spell of dryness,
His knowing eye, looking for buyers,
Of lewd pleasures, unspoken desires.
Friday, October 27, 2006
Kafka on the shore...
Some of my favourite passages from Murakami's Novel: - the italics are from my birdbrain.
"That's why I like to listen to Schubert while I'm driving. Like I said, its because all the performances are imperfect. A dense artistic kind of imperfection stimulates your consciousness, keeps you alert. If I listen to some utterly perfect piece while driving, I might want to close my eyes and die right there and then" - Oshima
Wow, the day I have to listen to bad music to keep me alert on the roads - I better check into that asylum. But this really got me thinking about artistic "imperfection" in the first place.
I nod. " I know. But metaphors can reduce the distance"
"We are not metaphors."
"I know", I say. "But metaphors help eliminate what separates you and me."
A faint smile comes to her as she looks up at me.
"That's the oddest pickup line I've ever heard." - Kafka Tamura/Miss Saeki
" Anyone who falls in love is searching for the missing pieces of themselves. So anyone who's in love gets sad when they think of their lover." - Oshima
Can love really be that selfish?
"Everyone is losing something precious to us", he said after the phone stops ringing. "Lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we can never get back again. That's part of what it means to be alive." - Oshima
Oshima puts things into perspective. While touring on a motorcycle, I've felt my life should be like a ride. Long, mostly smooth - holding tight through the potholes and blind corners - but a glowing sense of purpose at the end. I guess that's the other part of what it means to be alive.
Kafka on the shore is a special book. I've always equated the reading of this book to my motorcycle trips . I want to finish it as quick as I can, but at the same time am afraid that it will end too soon. So many time I've had the feeling that it's better to travel than to arrive....
"That's why I like to listen to Schubert while I'm driving. Like I said, its because all the performances are imperfect. A dense artistic kind of imperfection stimulates your consciousness, keeps you alert. If I listen to some utterly perfect piece while driving, I might want to close my eyes and die right there and then" - Oshima
Wow, the day I have to listen to bad music to keep me alert on the roads - I better check into that asylum. But this really got me thinking about artistic "imperfection" in the first place.
I nod. " I know. But metaphors can reduce the distance"
"We are not metaphors."
"I know", I say. "But metaphors help eliminate what separates you and me."
A faint smile comes to her as she looks up at me.
"That's the oddest pickup line I've ever heard." - Kafka Tamura/Miss Saeki
" Anyone who falls in love is searching for the missing pieces of themselves. So anyone who's in love gets sad when they think of their lover." - Oshima
Can love really be that selfish?
"Everyone is losing something precious to us", he said after the phone stops ringing. "Lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we can never get back again. That's part of what it means to be alive." - Oshima
Oshima puts things into perspective. While touring on a motorcycle, I've felt my life should be like a ride. Long, mostly smooth - holding tight through the potholes and blind corners - but a glowing sense of purpose at the end. I guess that's the other part of what it means to be alive.
Kafka on the shore is a special book. I've always equated the reading of this book to my motorcycle trips . I want to finish it as quick as I can, but at the same time am afraid that it will end too soon. So many time I've had the feeling that it's better to travel than to arrive....
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Kanchipuram
Religion is the opiate of the masses.
- Karl Marx
“Life is ephemeral like the water on a lotus leaf. The entire world is devoured by sorrow and deceit; realize this now!” - This or something in a similar vein from the “Baja Govindam” is etched on one of the walls of the ‘Shankara Mutt’ at Kanchipuram in Tamilnadu. No one around seems to pay particular attention to this. They appear immersed in prayer, worrying about their own sorrows and probably seeking divine intervention rather than having thoughts of renouncing the world just then.
Kanchipuram is one of the 7 most sacred places of worship for the Hindus. I found myself in Kanchipuram enroute a whimsical ride from Bangalore to Chennai for the New Year’s. The ride itself had kept me in mighty good spirits by the time I reached Kanchipuram (despite a hitchhiker, I had given a ride to, who first wanted me to find him employment and later wanted me to pay him money to take a bus!). The beautiful roads had been a pleasure – stretching out for miles like a freshly laid carpet and just as inviting.
Reaching Kanchipuram fairly early and finding a nice little room in a hotel, I got out to explore the small town. Other than recently being in the news for the alleged murder committed by the current Shankaracharya and of course the ‘non-veg’ saris, I hardly knew anything about this place. Kanchipuram is steeped in history and tall temple towers are visible from most parts of the town in almost all directions. It struck me that most religious structures are tall – church steeples, Buddhist stupas, Egyptian/ Mayan temples, minarets of mosques, gopurams of hindu temples. Also, many places of worship are located on hills and high places – Mt.Abu, St Thomas Mt, Tirupati. Could this be so that the presiding temple would always be visible to most of the local populace and thereby induce the “fear of God” in them? I wonder if there is an anthropological explanation.
The first temple I entered was called the “Ulagalandha Perumal” (God who measured the earth *). It has got to do with the whole Mahabali story, but this version has Mahabali requesting the lord to leave his head peeking out of the ground. I strolled down to the “Kamakshi Amman” temple. Though I had my camera with me and cameras are strictly not allowed in the sanctum, the officer let me through (simple human decency so makes my day sometimes). I reciprocated by not taking any snaps. I then walked over to the “Shankar Mutt” where the earlier depressing quote from the “Baja Govindam” was etched on the wall. Another one said:”The hair is grey, the body is decrepit, the mouth is toothless, yet the old bag of desires moves on”. Now help me with this. The religion obviously condemns human desire and seems to especially in old age. But any day, I’d rather be a toothless Hugh Hefner, with desire to live on the moon than the guy waiting for deliverance into the supreme with nothing else occupying the mind. As I was leaving the mutt, a couple of musicians started tuning their instruments – a nadaswaram and a drum of some sort. I sat down beside them and watched. The performance began and the music began to fill the hall. The artist on the nadaswaram seemed to have lost himself in the music that he and the pipe created. Artist and instrument seemed an unbroken, lucid, uniform entity. The performance blew me to bits. The artist’s fervor and devotion in the form of his music entered my mind –at first seeping through and then in tumultuous barrage, bursting opening all doors -no mater how tightly locked. Something ridiculous bordering on funny happened at the mutt soon after. A female pachyderm- richly decorated – was paraded in front of a stone idol of one of the earlier Shankaracharyas - His Holiness Jagadguru Sri Chandra Shekharendra Saraswati(impressive huh?), I think. The priest gave the beast a fan and meanwhile the mahout started prodding the poor creature under her sensitive (I assume) thighs until she started fanning the idol. How proud is man of his superior intellect that makes him the master of all beasts, that can catch and tame a creature many times his size but I wonder if he will also look with contempt for such base use of the same intellect. Fanning an idol with an elephant! Give me a break.
I moved on to the “Ekambernath Temple” (Lord of the ‘one’ mango tree*). Easily the most impressive of the temples I had visited that day – both architecturally and historically. The temple dates to the pre-thousand A.Ds and had been built and rebuilt by the Kings of Chola and Pallava dynasty. Legend has it that a 3500 year old mango tree thrived there that had only 4 branches – each branch representing each veda. Each of the branches was supposed to yield mangoes of distinct flavor! All I saw was an old fallen tree and it surely had more than 4 branches. The temple has wonderful sculptured gargoyles and pillars along its corridors. A shiver ran down my spine when my hand brushed against a sculpture that is centuries old. I wonder about the hand that held it at while actually sculpting the piece – ephemeral life, maybe, but I think it’s worth it.
For Rs 5, I am permitted a special darshan and for Rs 15 I pick up a pamphlet called “The shrines of Kanchee”. I’m sure that humor was far away from the author’s mind when he wrote this, but the small book had me in splits. The grammar reminded me of stories from the “human digest” (badly written and very crude porn that we used to read in school).
The Kaileshwarnath temple was the last temple I visited at Kanchipuram. It is the only temple I saw that bore a sign from the Archeological society of India, declaring it a protected monument. There were not many devotees here, though there were a few tourists and wearing footwear into the temple seems to be alright. The sculptures here are mostly on sandstone and many of them reveal traces that indicate that they were once painted and colorful.
Back in my room I sit nursing a beer and thinking back about the beautiful things I had seen that day. My mind tries to do what we often see in movies when flashbacks come to focus - that tomorrow morning is festival day in golden town and tonight is one of calm excitement for the revelries that begin tomorrow…
- Karl Marx
“Life is ephemeral like the water on a lotus leaf. The entire world is devoured by sorrow and deceit; realize this now!” - This or something in a similar vein from the “Baja Govindam” is etched on one of the walls of the ‘Shankara Mutt’ at Kanchipuram in Tamilnadu. No one around seems to pay particular attention to this. They appear immersed in prayer, worrying about their own sorrows and probably seeking divine intervention rather than having thoughts of renouncing the world just then.
Kanchipuram is one of the 7 most sacred places of worship for the Hindus. I found myself in Kanchipuram enroute a whimsical ride from Bangalore to Chennai for the New Year’s. The ride itself had kept me in mighty good spirits by the time I reached Kanchipuram (despite a hitchhiker, I had given a ride to, who first wanted me to find him employment and later wanted me to pay him money to take a bus!). The beautiful roads had been a pleasure – stretching out for miles like a freshly laid carpet and just as inviting.
Reaching Kanchipuram fairly early and finding a nice little room in a hotel, I got out to explore the small town. Other than recently being in the news for the alleged murder committed by the current Shankaracharya and of course the ‘non-veg’ saris, I hardly knew anything about this place. Kanchipuram is steeped in history and tall temple towers are visible from most parts of the town in almost all directions. It struck me that most religious structures are tall – church steeples, Buddhist stupas, Egyptian/ Mayan temples, minarets of mosques, gopurams of hindu temples. Also, many places of worship are located on hills and high places – Mt.Abu, St Thomas Mt, Tirupati. Could this be so that the presiding temple would always be visible to most of the local populace and thereby induce the “fear of God” in them? I wonder if there is an anthropological explanation.
The first temple I entered was called the “Ulagalandha Perumal” (God who measured the earth *). It has got to do with the whole Mahabali story, but this version has Mahabali requesting the lord to leave his head peeking out of the ground. I strolled down to the “Kamakshi Amman” temple. Though I had my camera with me and cameras are strictly not allowed in the sanctum, the officer let me through (simple human decency so makes my day sometimes). I reciprocated by not taking any snaps. I then walked over to the “Shankar Mutt” where the earlier depressing quote from the “Baja Govindam” was etched on the wall. Another one said:”The hair is grey, the body is decrepit, the mouth is toothless, yet the old bag of desires moves on”. Now help me with this. The religion obviously condemns human desire and seems to especially in old age. But any day, I’d rather be a toothless Hugh Hefner, with desire to live on the moon than the guy waiting for deliverance into the supreme with nothing else occupying the mind. As I was leaving the mutt, a couple of musicians started tuning their instruments – a nadaswaram and a drum of some sort. I sat down beside them and watched. The performance began and the music began to fill the hall. The artist on the nadaswaram seemed to have lost himself in the music that he and the pipe created. Artist and instrument seemed an unbroken, lucid, uniform entity. The performance blew me to bits. The artist’s fervor and devotion in the form of his music entered my mind –at first seeping through and then in tumultuous barrage, bursting opening all doors -no mater how tightly locked. Something ridiculous bordering on funny happened at the mutt soon after. A female pachyderm- richly decorated – was paraded in front of a stone idol of one of the earlier Shankaracharyas - His Holiness Jagadguru Sri Chandra Shekharendra Saraswati(impressive huh?), I think. The priest gave the beast a fan and meanwhile the mahout started prodding the poor creature under her sensitive (I assume) thighs until she started fanning the idol. How proud is man of his superior intellect that makes him the master of all beasts, that can catch and tame a creature many times his size but I wonder if he will also look with contempt for such base use of the same intellect. Fanning an idol with an elephant! Give me a break.
I moved on to the “Ekambernath Temple” (Lord of the ‘one’ mango tree*). Easily the most impressive of the temples I had visited that day – both architecturally and historically. The temple dates to the pre-thousand A.Ds and had been built and rebuilt by the Kings of Chola and Pallava dynasty. Legend has it that a 3500 year old mango tree thrived there that had only 4 branches – each branch representing each veda. Each of the branches was supposed to yield mangoes of distinct flavor! All I saw was an old fallen tree and it surely had more than 4 branches. The temple has wonderful sculptured gargoyles and pillars along its corridors. A shiver ran down my spine when my hand brushed against a sculpture that is centuries old. I wonder about the hand that held it at while actually sculpting the piece – ephemeral life, maybe, but I think it’s worth it.
For Rs 5, I am permitted a special darshan and for Rs 15 I pick up a pamphlet called “The shrines of Kanchee”. I’m sure that humor was far away from the author’s mind when he wrote this, but the small book had me in splits. The grammar reminded me of stories from the “human digest” (badly written and very crude porn that we used to read in school).
The Kaileshwarnath temple was the last temple I visited at Kanchipuram. It is the only temple I saw that bore a sign from the Archeological society of India, declaring it a protected monument. There were not many devotees here, though there were a few tourists and wearing footwear into the temple seems to be alright. The sculptures here are mostly on sandstone and many of them reveal traces that indicate that they were once painted and colorful.
Back in my room I sit nursing a beer and thinking back about the beautiful things I had seen that day. My mind tries to do what we often see in movies when flashbacks come to focus - that tomorrow morning is festival day in golden town and tonight is one of calm excitement for the revelries that begin tomorrow…
Thursday, April 20, 2006
The Morning Wind
Violent, howling, impotent rage,
Relentless, never tiring, the cold morning wind,
Furious, like a lover-scorned of age,
Lashes,Lashes against the wall
Are you, like me, mad at the daily grind,
Yelling mute reminders and screaming sighs,
Of the days and years passing us by ?
Carpe Diem! Seize the day,
Is that what you are trying to say?
Or, like two lovers who can never be,
Their silent anguish render thee?
Violent, howling, impotent rage.
Relentless, never tiring, the cold morning wind,
Furious, like a lover-scorned of age,
Lashes,Lashes against the wall
Are you, like me, mad at the daily grind,
Yelling mute reminders and screaming sighs,
Of the days and years passing us by ?
Carpe Diem! Seize the day,
Is that what you are trying to say?
Or, like two lovers who can never be,
Their silent anguish render thee?
Violent, howling, impotent rage.
The Shifting Power-dime
I hate consultant-speak. Any given business presentation by any consultant has the same old buzz-words. "The Paradigm Shift" has to be there somewhere. I loved DBC Pierre's black and white explanation of what the paradigm shift really was.....
"Pa-ra-dime. You never heard of the pradigm shift? Example: You see a man with his hand up your granny's ass. What do you think?"
"Bastard"
"Right. Then you learn a deadly bug crawled up there, and the man has infact put aside his disgust to save granny. What do you think now?"
"Hero. You can tell he ain't met my nana."
"There you go, a paradigm shift. The action doesn't change - the information you use to judge it does. You were ready to crucify this guy because you didnt have the facts. Now you want to shake his hand."
"I dont think so".
- from 'Vernon God Little'
"Pa-ra-dime. You never heard of the pradigm shift? Example: You see a man with his hand up your granny's ass. What do you think?"
"Bastard"
"Right. Then you learn a deadly bug crawled up there, and the man has infact put aside his disgust to save granny. What do you think now?"
"Hero. You can tell he ain't met my nana."
"There you go, a paradigm shift. The action doesn't change - the information you use to judge it does. You were ready to crucify this guy because you didnt have the facts. Now you want to shake his hand."
"I dont think so".
- from 'Vernon God Little'
Naughty Emily
Exhaust Pipe Dreams….
“The guys who used to ride the Splendor are now buying a Bullet! What do they know about bikes?! Bas, petrol daala aur chalaya”
There is helplessness and contempt in his voice. The “Bullet” has been reduced to a mere tool of transport by the people he’s accusing. He is a passionate biker. I smile at him; I think I can understand. He’s just come back from a trip that clocked over 3000 km on the odometer. As we stand there talking bikes, rides and riding gear, I wonder how some people LIVE while the others live. The romantic, unpredictable biker – a present day Bedouin; wandering from waterhole to waterhole – who wouldn’t dig that? Soon we’ve exchanged numbers with the promise to ride together someday. Oh! The pity I feel for those who’s day-off is spent watching TV, shopping….. Or -God forbid! – working!!
It’s my first ride – I’m cruising down relatively slowly to break in my engine. I’d been listening to Take Five by the Dave Brubeck quartet over dinner the night before and now the tune is stuck in me. I try wishing it away but it forces its way back and bounces around in my head. I finally give up and start humming along. I break my journey every few hours to rest the machine. My peripatetic tribulations evoke the curiosity of the local populace. There is a palpable sense of respect, but it’s more of a mash of jealousy for the insane (at being oblivious to reality) and contempt for the extremely weak of mind (“How much mileage sir?”. “I’ve never checked – the manufacturer says 35-40 per liter” “Oh! You should have bought a car then sir!!”), that I sense from the curious strangers whose monotony I had broken that day. But hey! I’m sure not a soul would have bothered if I was making the trip in a 4 wheeled cage. I suddenly feel like Robert Frost’s Bear:
The world has room to make the bear feel free.
The universe seems cramped to you and me
Man acts like the poor bear in a cage,
That all day fights a nervous inward rage,
His mood rejecting all his mind suggests.
The free bear of course, not the one in the cage!
Maps fascinate me. The squiggly lines of unpredictable experiences beckons me, each time I pour upon these cartographer’s poems. Maps are such a wealth. Foreseeing my ride on a sheet of paper with red, blue and black lines for roads, rivers and railway tracks, sprinkled with unpronounceable (to my unpracticed tongue) names, fantasizing the wind on my chest as rider and machine eat up the miles…. Ah! I could redefine anticipation twice over; for tomorrow, I would be the locus that defines that line on the paper. Map makers – May their tribe increase
Motorcycling is very contemplative. It makes you look inwards as you are often left with yourself to make conversation with on a ride. I am perched upon my seat, riding down the highway, trying to keep my mind on the road and the traffic but it is difficult. Like a hot air balloon tethered to the ground, my mind wanders. Thoughts scream for attention within. “I’ve got to get home and do the laundry”. “How ridiculously self-important are we all”. “Hope my tappets are in tune”. “Damn! I’ve got to learn that guitar, if it’s the last thing I do”. “Oh! I love her so”. Each vying for primetime in the head. The eyes take in the scenery while the demons within fight it out. Just when I am about to dismiss these with my favorite Bogie line in Casablanca “….the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world…. “, a looming speed breaker (The authorities sure have a sick sense of humor about their placement) yanks the balloon back.
The hills of Krishnagiri have been cut through to make the highway. It reminds me of chocolate cake somehow. I stop at a small shop to make a phone call. I am greeted by the usual concern about the mileage as we (the bike and me) take a breather. “Where are you coming from?”, “Where are you going?” – What could I tell him? Our greatest philosophers haven’t been able to figure that one out. And me – I’m just a biker.
Growing up a single kid can be boring sometimes – trust me. I play a game I invented then. A-day-in-the-life-of. I am chatting with the vendor of tender coconuts, but I’m wondering about his day, his life…. He asks me if I am married. (Ha! You prudes of society! Personal question?! my foot) When I answer in the negative, he’s got his reason to what he thinks is a crazy journey….. When I could have just taken an overnight train! I’m only surprised however, when I evict the same response from some colleagues (read educated, intelligent individuals – well, at least our Human Resources folks think that!). This makes me wonder. If marriage is so restrictive and the people who are married seem to so envy my “freedom” – why remain chained? What keeps such people still married? Is it the sex? – doesn’t that get as routine as brushing the teeth? Is it love – for if this is love and love binds so, I’d rather remain unloved! Makes me wonder if Mendelssohn pictured pirates making hostages walk the gangplank when he composed the “Wedding March”! Taa-taaa-tada – SPLASH!!, you see! It would take genius to pull off so huge a prank. For all you know, “The Wedding March” should be supplanted by the first movement of Beethoven’s 5th with the ominous sounding “Tada-da-dum” proclaiming doom. Oh, hell.
The skies suddenly open up. The sound of the raindrops on my helmet, begins softly, like far off tom-toms. Slowly the crescendo builds – now snare drums, punctuated by thunder like crashing cymbals, on and on the music builds…. Soon it’s a stampede, cacophony, chaos. I pull over. I am now drenched and visibility is low. The setting sun and the lights of the oncoming vehicles don’t help too much either. I am drinking a cup of hot tea, watching the water drops sizzle and evaporate as they touch the engine. My bike looks stoic - so tolerant, so very dependable. The rain hardly ruffles its composure. I try to look at this picture stepping outside myself. The rain is incessant. The night is getting on. Rider and bike, they seem to look at each other and understand without a word being said.
I check for oil leaks and correct the tension of the chain. I start up the engine and listen for any odd noises. I wear my helmet and engage the gear. It is a long ride home and I seem to like it that way.
There is helplessness and contempt in his voice. The “Bullet” has been reduced to a mere tool of transport by the people he’s accusing. He is a passionate biker. I smile at him; I think I can understand. He’s just come back from a trip that clocked over 3000 km on the odometer. As we stand there talking bikes, rides and riding gear, I wonder how some people LIVE while the others live. The romantic, unpredictable biker – a present day Bedouin; wandering from waterhole to waterhole – who wouldn’t dig that? Soon we’ve exchanged numbers with the promise to ride together someday. Oh! The pity I feel for those who’s day-off is spent watching TV, shopping….. Or -God forbid! – working!!
It’s my first ride – I’m cruising down relatively slowly to break in my engine. I’d been listening to Take Five by the Dave Brubeck quartet over dinner the night before and now the tune is stuck in me. I try wishing it away but it forces its way back and bounces around in my head. I finally give up and start humming along. I break my journey every few hours to rest the machine. My peripatetic tribulations evoke the curiosity of the local populace. There is a palpable sense of respect, but it’s more of a mash of jealousy for the insane (at being oblivious to reality) and contempt for the extremely weak of mind (“How much mileage sir?”. “I’ve never checked – the manufacturer says 35-40 per liter” “Oh! You should have bought a car then sir!!”), that I sense from the curious strangers whose monotony I had broken that day. But hey! I’m sure not a soul would have bothered if I was making the trip in a 4 wheeled cage. I suddenly feel like Robert Frost’s Bear:
The world has room to make the bear feel free.
The universe seems cramped to you and me
Man acts like the poor bear in a cage,
That all day fights a nervous inward rage,
His mood rejecting all his mind suggests.
The free bear of course, not the one in the cage!
Maps fascinate me. The squiggly lines of unpredictable experiences beckons me, each time I pour upon these cartographer’s poems. Maps are such a wealth. Foreseeing my ride on a sheet of paper with red, blue and black lines for roads, rivers and railway tracks, sprinkled with unpronounceable (to my unpracticed tongue) names, fantasizing the wind on my chest as rider and machine eat up the miles…. Ah! I could redefine anticipation twice over; for tomorrow, I would be the locus that defines that line on the paper. Map makers – May their tribe increase
Motorcycling is very contemplative. It makes you look inwards as you are often left with yourself to make conversation with on a ride. I am perched upon my seat, riding down the highway, trying to keep my mind on the road and the traffic but it is difficult. Like a hot air balloon tethered to the ground, my mind wanders. Thoughts scream for attention within. “I’ve got to get home and do the laundry”. “How ridiculously self-important are we all”. “Hope my tappets are in tune”. “Damn! I’ve got to learn that guitar, if it’s the last thing I do”. “Oh! I love her so”. Each vying for primetime in the head. The eyes take in the scenery while the demons within fight it out. Just when I am about to dismiss these with my favorite Bogie line in Casablanca “….the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world…. “, a looming speed breaker (The authorities sure have a sick sense of humor about their placement) yanks the balloon back.
The hills of Krishnagiri have been cut through to make the highway. It reminds me of chocolate cake somehow. I stop at a small shop to make a phone call. I am greeted by the usual concern about the mileage as we (the bike and me) take a breather. “Where are you coming from?”, “Where are you going?” – What could I tell him? Our greatest philosophers haven’t been able to figure that one out. And me – I’m just a biker.
Growing up a single kid can be boring sometimes – trust me. I play a game I invented then. A-day-in-the-life-of. I am chatting with the vendor of tender coconuts, but I’m wondering about his day, his life…. He asks me if I am married. (Ha! You prudes of society! Personal question?! my foot) When I answer in the negative, he’s got his reason to what he thinks is a crazy journey….. When I could have just taken an overnight train! I’m only surprised however, when I evict the same response from some colleagues (read educated, intelligent individuals – well, at least our Human Resources folks think that!). This makes me wonder. If marriage is so restrictive and the people who are married seem to so envy my “freedom” – why remain chained? What keeps such people still married? Is it the sex? – doesn’t that get as routine as brushing the teeth? Is it love – for if this is love and love binds so, I’d rather remain unloved! Makes me wonder if Mendelssohn pictured pirates making hostages walk the gangplank when he composed the “Wedding March”! Taa-taaa-tada – SPLASH!!, you see! It would take genius to pull off so huge a prank. For all you know, “The Wedding March” should be supplanted by the first movement of Beethoven’s 5th with the ominous sounding “Tada-da-dum” proclaiming doom. Oh, hell.
The skies suddenly open up. The sound of the raindrops on my helmet, begins softly, like far off tom-toms. Slowly the crescendo builds – now snare drums, punctuated by thunder like crashing cymbals, on and on the music builds…. Soon it’s a stampede, cacophony, chaos. I pull over. I am now drenched and visibility is low. The setting sun and the lights of the oncoming vehicles don’t help too much either. I am drinking a cup of hot tea, watching the water drops sizzle and evaporate as they touch the engine. My bike looks stoic - so tolerant, so very dependable. The rain hardly ruffles its composure. I try to look at this picture stepping outside myself. The rain is incessant. The night is getting on. Rider and bike, they seem to look at each other and understand without a word being said.
I check for oil leaks and correct the tension of the chain. I start up the engine and listen for any odd noises. I wear my helmet and engage the gear. It is a long ride home and I seem to like it that way.
The Monty Python Prayer
Chaplain: Let us praise God. O Lord...
Congregation: O Lord...
Chaplain: ...Ooh, You are so big...
Congregation: ...ooh, You are so big...
Chaplain: ...So absolutely huge.
Congregation: ...So absolutely huge.
Chaplain: Gosh, we're all really impressed down here, I can tell You.
Congregation: Gosh, we're all really impressed down here, I can tell You.
Chaplain: Forgive us, O Lord, for this, our dreadful toadying, and...
Congregation: And barefaced flattery.
Chaplain: But You are so strong and, well, just so super.
Congregation: Fantastic.
Congregation: O Lord...
Chaplain: ...Ooh, You are so big...
Congregation: ...ooh, You are so big...
Chaplain: ...So absolutely huge.
Congregation: ...So absolutely huge.
Chaplain: Gosh, we're all really impressed down here, I can tell You.
Congregation: Gosh, we're all really impressed down here, I can tell You.
Chaplain: Forgive us, O Lord, for this, our dreadful toadying, and...
Congregation: And barefaced flattery.
Chaplain: But You are so strong and, well, just so super.
Congregation: Fantastic.
Just That It’s Delicate
“You’ve gotta listen to this!!” – The tone of his voice bordered on the frantic. Having heard this phrase a countless times from countless people who seem to want your stamp of approval on something ‘avant-garde’ they’ve heard and has the mass media excited, I almost ignored the suggestion. Usually the ‘finder’ forgets about the ‘find’ (musical or literary) in a matter of weeks (it’s a tried and trusted formula). However, this time there was a condescending feel to this oft heard advise when J told me “You’ve gotta listen to this!!” – almost like he was doing me a favor by letting me in on Damein Rice’s album; simply called “O”. Curious, I looked up the Irish troubadour on the internet. The at once stunning lyrics whetted my curiosity
“Stones taught me to fly
Love taught me to lie
Life taught me to die
So it's not hard to fall
When you float like a cannonball”
Lyrics that evocative had me excited. However, the media reviews, comparison to greats and the seemingly excessive praise had me guarded. Buying and listening to the album immediately assuaged all my wary thoughts. The album deserves all the praise it has received.
A review for an album that has been hailed by critics everywhere suffers the repeat of the accolades. It warrants a literary “wringing of the goose’s neck” – a journalistic device to present a popular theme in another light- to present to the reader a “never heard before” feel to the article. Damien Rice’s album was no different. The album has been dissected and analyzed to the extreme. It has always been difficult to separate art and the artist for the critic. Music, literature or painting does not end with the joy of beholding the art itself for the critic. She must jump into the skin of the artist and experience the “childbirth” for the satisfactory explanation of genius. “O” is one piece of music that should be enjoyed without trying to analyze the artist or the lyrics.
Each song is a very intimate experience. The songs seem to – almost forcefully – reach into your soul through your ears and lay it thread bare in front of you. The aural and visual imagery conjured by the lyrics are powerful. When Rice sings:
“Cold, Cold water surrounds me now”
followed by:
“Lord can you hear me now”
you feel a physical chill. You shudder and feel wet. That is what I meant by powerful lyrics. You can almost see the image of the dark calm water body without effort of vision.
Rice’s vocals are beautiful. Like a well aged vintage, his voice rolls in your ear’s palate and goes down so very smoothly. The heady feeling you get relishing the sounds (and sights – if you will) of this album is not far from the feeling of having ingested a rare and potent vintage. Only that, the album can be relished over and over unlike the wine.
You salivate when drinking in the sounds and words of the album. When Rice audibly sucks in his breath in “The Blower’s daughter”, you feel yourself doing the same unconsciously.
Art appreciation (visual or otherwise) is usually a very personal experience. A masterpiece is usually born when a chord is struck between the audience and the piece itself. It is something that needs to be experienced. Contemplating the flawlessness and sheer beauty of a Monet will stir emotions inside the observer that cannot be evoked by the roadside painting of an amateur. So it is with “O”. Thoughts that arise from listening to the tracks on the album may catch you by surprise. So be warned.
“Older chests reveal themselves
Like a crack in a wall
Starting small, and grow in time”
If asked to sum up the album in a single word, I can’t think of a more suitable word than “Delicate”. A very unpretentious album with no qualms about lack of social or political messages, “O” is a true example of “art for art’s sake”. Each song evokes in the listener some forgotten memory, some unspoken emotion. This is not an album you would want to listen with a bunch of acquaintances. It would be akin to undressing in front of strangers. The songs lay you soul with very little to cover itself up modestly.
“Still a little bit of your taste in my mouth
Still a little bit of you laced with my doubt”
Musically, the strength of the album is surely Rice’s powerful voice. The subtle strings complement the voice. Lisa Hannigan lends her voice to a few songs in the album and holds her own against Rice’s exquisite, balm-like vocals.
Rice has been compared to many of the industry greats from the past. His Van Morrisonesque, Blower’s daughter is compared to some of the songs in Morrison’s Astral Weeks where his love for an under aged girl were so beautifully rendered. The poetic metaphors in “O” have lent comparisons with Bob Dylan.
“Tiredness fuels empty thoughts
I find myself disposed
Brightness fills empty space
In search of inspiration”
“The Story of O” was written by Dominique Aury, (as "Pauline Reage") in 1954 . There are claims that it is THE most erotic story every written (though I vaguely suspect it will be way out of place in our times). Though the author of this review has not read the story of O, when Rice sings
“Amy come sit on my wall, read me the story of O”
one can only hope that the book does justice to the seducing lyrics of an album that, effortlessly denudes your thoughts in a listening. Jeez…You’ve gotta listen to this!!
“Stones taught me to fly
Love taught me to lie
Life taught me to die
So it's not hard to fall
When you float like a cannonball”
Lyrics that evocative had me excited. However, the media reviews, comparison to greats and the seemingly excessive praise had me guarded. Buying and listening to the album immediately assuaged all my wary thoughts. The album deserves all the praise it has received.
A review for an album that has been hailed by critics everywhere suffers the repeat of the accolades. It warrants a literary “wringing of the goose’s neck” – a journalistic device to present a popular theme in another light- to present to the reader a “never heard before” feel to the article. Damien Rice’s album was no different. The album has been dissected and analyzed to the extreme. It has always been difficult to separate art and the artist for the critic. Music, literature or painting does not end with the joy of beholding the art itself for the critic. She must jump into the skin of the artist and experience the “childbirth” for the satisfactory explanation of genius. “O” is one piece of music that should be enjoyed without trying to analyze the artist or the lyrics.
Each song is a very intimate experience. The songs seem to – almost forcefully – reach into your soul through your ears and lay it thread bare in front of you. The aural and visual imagery conjured by the lyrics are powerful. When Rice sings:
“Cold, Cold water surrounds me now”
followed by:
“Lord can you hear me now”
you feel a physical chill. You shudder and feel wet. That is what I meant by powerful lyrics. You can almost see the image of the dark calm water body without effort of vision.
Rice’s vocals are beautiful. Like a well aged vintage, his voice rolls in your ear’s palate and goes down so very smoothly. The heady feeling you get relishing the sounds (and sights – if you will) of this album is not far from the feeling of having ingested a rare and potent vintage. Only that, the album can be relished over and over unlike the wine.
You salivate when drinking in the sounds and words of the album. When Rice audibly sucks in his breath in “The Blower’s daughter”, you feel yourself doing the same unconsciously.
Art appreciation (visual or otherwise) is usually a very personal experience. A masterpiece is usually born when a chord is struck between the audience and the piece itself. It is something that needs to be experienced. Contemplating the flawlessness and sheer beauty of a Monet will stir emotions inside the observer that cannot be evoked by the roadside painting of an amateur. So it is with “O”. Thoughts that arise from listening to the tracks on the album may catch you by surprise. So be warned.
“Older chests reveal themselves
Like a crack in a wall
Starting small, and grow in time”
If asked to sum up the album in a single word, I can’t think of a more suitable word than “Delicate”. A very unpretentious album with no qualms about lack of social or political messages, “O” is a true example of “art for art’s sake”. Each song evokes in the listener some forgotten memory, some unspoken emotion. This is not an album you would want to listen with a bunch of acquaintances. It would be akin to undressing in front of strangers. The songs lay you soul with very little to cover itself up modestly.
“Still a little bit of your taste in my mouth
Still a little bit of you laced with my doubt”
Musically, the strength of the album is surely Rice’s powerful voice. The subtle strings complement the voice. Lisa Hannigan lends her voice to a few songs in the album and holds her own against Rice’s exquisite, balm-like vocals.
Rice has been compared to many of the industry greats from the past. His Van Morrisonesque, Blower’s daughter is compared to some of the songs in Morrison’s Astral Weeks where his love for an under aged girl were so beautifully rendered. The poetic metaphors in “O” have lent comparisons with Bob Dylan.
“Tiredness fuels empty thoughts
I find myself disposed
Brightness fills empty space
In search of inspiration”
“The Story of O” was written by Dominique Aury, (as "Pauline Reage") in 1954 . There are claims that it is THE most erotic story every written (though I vaguely suspect it will be way out of place in our times). Though the author of this review has not read the story of O, when Rice sings
“Amy come sit on my wall, read me the story of O”
one can only hope that the book does justice to the seducing lyrics of an album that, effortlessly denudes your thoughts in a listening. Jeez…You’ve gotta listen to this!!
O Behave!
Hillarious stuff
CLERK
(reading)
Danger Powers, personal effects.
AUSTIN
Actually, my name's Austin Powers.
CLERK
It says here, name Danger Powers.
AUSTIN
Danger's my middle name.
CLERK
OK, Austin Danger Powers: One blue
crushed-velvet suit. One frilly
lace cravat. One gold medallion
with peace symbol. One pair of
Italian shoes. One pair of tie-dyed
socks, purple. One vinyl recording
album: Tom Jones, Live at Las Vegas.
One Swedish-made penis enlarger pump.
AUSTIN
(embarrassed)
That's not mine.
CLERK
(reading)
One credit card receipt for Swedish-
made penis enlarger pump, signed
Austin Powers.
AUSTIN
I'm telling you, baby, that's not
mine.
CLERK
(reading)
One warranty card for Swedish-made
penis enlarger pump, filled out by
Austin Powers.
AUSTIN
I don't even know what this is.
This sort of thing ain't my bag,
baby.
CLERK
(reading)
One book: Swedish-Made Penis Enlarger
Pumps and Me: This Sort of Thing Is
My Bag, Baby, by Austin Powers.
The clerk shows the book to Austin, who is humiliated.
AUSTIN
OK, OK man, don't get heavy, I'll
sign. Just to get things moving,
baby.
CLERK
(reading)
Danger Powers, personal effects.
AUSTIN
Actually, my name's Austin Powers.
CLERK
It says here, name Danger Powers.
AUSTIN
Danger's my middle name.
CLERK
OK, Austin Danger Powers: One blue
crushed-velvet suit. One frilly
lace cravat. One gold medallion
with peace symbol. One pair of
Italian shoes. One pair of tie-dyed
socks, purple. One vinyl recording
album: Tom Jones, Live at Las Vegas.
One Swedish-made penis enlarger pump.
AUSTIN
(embarrassed)
That's not mine.
CLERK
(reading)
One credit card receipt for Swedish-
made penis enlarger pump, signed
Austin Powers.
AUSTIN
I'm telling you, baby, that's not
mine.
CLERK
(reading)
One warranty card for Swedish-made
penis enlarger pump, filled out by
Austin Powers.
AUSTIN
I don't even know what this is.
This sort of thing ain't my bag,
baby.
CLERK
(reading)
One book: Swedish-Made Penis Enlarger
Pumps and Me: This Sort of Thing Is
My Bag, Baby, by Austin Powers.
The clerk shows the book to Austin, who is humiliated.
AUSTIN
OK, OK man, don't get heavy, I'll
sign. Just to get things moving,
baby.