I genuinely believe that all the “days” are a result of conspiracy between card makers, confectioners and the florists to make some extra sale. Valentine’s Day is no different. On the contrary, it is the festive season for aforementioned vocations. Though, it is also true that V-Day makes for a great joke amongst the wise singles. In a few days time, you will be able to laugh your asses off at the feeble attempts of the emos to chat up that Goth girl they've been eying for weeks.
Typically, the emo in question will spend even more time in its room than usual while making preparations for the big day. Such preparations may include actually cleaning the bloodstains off their sleeves; an act rarely recorded by the scientific community. They usually buy a card or bucket (it's pronounced bouquet) of flowers off the internet, as they don't want to risk going outside to the local florists and getting beaten up by the bajrang dal. Another commonly practiced ritual is to buy a box of chocolates, darker the better (Goths love black). But most crucial part is the poem, which is usually along the lines of
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Sugar is sweet
And so are you.
But the violets are wilting,
And the roses are dead.
The sugar bowl's empty,
And my wrists are stained red.
A less morbid variant reads something like:
“I love you. There, I said it. Now let me do it up your bum?”
After sending the love poem to the girlfriend anonymously, the two emos will meet, usually in the local cafe (which turns out to be 5 miles away), or the erstwhile secluded spots of campus, which do not turn out to be so secluded after all, what with vigilantes waiting for their prey. The female emo (femo) will feel sorry for the male emo's (memo) desperate attempts at winning her heart. Luckily, the femo has her hair fringe so far below her eyes that she cannot see how pathetic the memo is. Hence, the two get along pretty well. It's best to just leave them alone at this point, as they can lash out extremely violently when provoked, and wait for the femo to cut her hair.
Incidentally, as i was writing this, my gtalk notified me of an email from e-bay informing me of special Valentine’s Day offers...
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Patriotism
ai'm sure you've noticed that come 26th january or the 15th august and everyone is suddenly playing patriotic songs (they are also heard blaring from the loudspeakers). there is a sudden surge of patriotism in every indian, almost. but i can't help but wonder at the emptiness of these gestures. if you are patriotic, you should [i]do[/i] something for the country, rather than shout out your feelings. there was a parade in my college this morning. i was asked whether i'll go or not. i gave an honest answer - if i wake up, i'll go. the person was infuriated and labeled me unpatriotic. i asked a simple question. if, during the placements, schlumberger (one of the leading oil companies of the world) offers you or those of you who are going for the parade a job, who will decline? schlum usually employs people in foreign soils. so taking the job means leaving the country. most of the people who say they are patriotic will take the job (no one has declined schlum till now in my college).
i love my country as much as anyone of you. but i don't believe in blank show of it. i listen to patriotic songs when i want to, but usually it is not on the afore mentioned dates. i also know one thing. i won't leave my nation and waste the resources she has bestowed upon me on XYZ. patriotism doesn't mean going to the parades. it means respecting your country and her citizens.
i love my country as much as anyone of you. but i don't believe in blank show of it. i listen to patriotic songs when i want to, but usually it is not on the afore mentioned dates. i also know one thing. i won't leave my nation and waste the resources she has bestowed upon me on XYZ. patriotism doesn't mean going to the parades. it means respecting your country and her citizens.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Hangover Cures
What is it we are all going to be trying to make next Tuesday? New Year's Resolutions, if we are halfway sane.
In fact - if i may digress for a moment - it turns out that there may be a very good reason why we fail to keep our New Year's Resolutions other than the obvious abject feebleness of will. It's this. We can't remember what they are. Simple. And if we actually wrote them down, then we can't remember where we put the piece of paper, either. Oddly enough, the piece of paper has known to turn up again again exactly a year later when you're casting around for something on which to write the next year's abortive attempts to pull your life into some kind of shape. This is not, it turns out, a coincidence.
Incidentally, am I alone in finding the expression "it turns out" to be incredibly useful? It allows you to make swift, succinct, and authoritative connections between otherwise randomly unconnected statements without the trouble of explaining what your source or authority actual is. It's great. It's hugely better than its predecessors "I read somewhere that..." or the craven "they say that..." because it not only suggests that whatever flimsy bit of urban mythology you are passing on is actually based on brand new, ground breaking research, but that it is research in which you yourself were intimately involved. But again, with no actual authority anywhere in sight. Anyway, where was I?
It seems that the brain is affected by alcohol. Well, we know that, of course. and those who don't yet are about to find out. But there are different gradations to the effect, and herein lies the crux. The brain organises its memories like a kind of hologram (it turns out). To retrieve an image, you have to re-create the exact conditions in which it was captured. In the case of the hologram, it's the lighting, in case of the brain it is, or can be (it turns out), the amount of alcohol sloshing around in it. Things that happen to you or, frighteningly enough, that you yourself say or do while under the influence of alcohol will only be recalled to your memory when you are under the influence of that exact quantity of alcohol again. these memories are completely beyond the reach of your normal, sober mind. Which is why, after some ill-advised evening out, you will be the only person who is completely unaware of some barkingly stupid remark you made to someone whose feelings you care about deeply, or even just a bit. It is only weeks, months, or in the case of New Year's Eve, exactly a year later, that the occasion suddenly returns to your consciousness with a sickening whump and you realise why people have been avoiding you or meeting your eye with a glassy stare for so long. This often result in your saying "good grief" to yourself in a loud voice and reaching for a stiff drink. which leads you up to the next level of inebriation, where of course fresh shocks await your pleasure.
And the same is true on the way back down. There are certain memories that will only be registered by revisiting exactly the same state of dehydration as the one in which the original events occurred. Hence the New Year's Resolutions problem, which is that you never actually remember the resolution you made, or even wrote them down, until the exact same moment the following year, when you are horribly reminded of your complete failure to stick by them for more than seven minutes.
So what is the answer to this terrible, self-discipline. A monastic adherence to a regime of steamed vegetables, plain water, long walks, regular workouts, early nights, early mornings, and probably some kind of fragrant oils or something. but seriously, the thing we are most going to want on New Year's Day, and be desperately trying to remember how to make, is a good hangover cure, and especially one that doesn't involve diving through ice in the Arctic. The trouble is, we can never remember them when we want them, or even know where to find them. And the reason why we can never remember them when we want them is that when we heard about them we didn't actually need them, which isn't any help, for the reasons outlined above. Nauseating images involving egg yolks and Tabasco sauce swill through your brain but you are not really in any fit state to organise your thoughts. Which is why we need, urgently, to organise them now while there is still time. So this is an appeal for good, effective methods of freshening up the brain on the New Year's Day that don't involve actual cranial surgery.
In fact - if i may digress for a moment - it turns out that there may be a very good reason why we fail to keep our New Year's Resolutions other than the obvious abject feebleness of will. It's this. We can't remember what they are. Simple. And if we actually wrote them down, then we can't remember where we put the piece of paper, either. Oddly enough, the piece of paper has known to turn up again again exactly a year later when you're casting around for something on which to write the next year's abortive attempts to pull your life into some kind of shape. This is not, it turns out, a coincidence.
Incidentally, am I alone in finding the expression "it turns out" to be incredibly useful? It allows you to make swift, succinct, and authoritative connections between otherwise randomly unconnected statements without the trouble of explaining what your source or authority actual is. It's great. It's hugely better than its predecessors "I read somewhere that..." or the craven "they say that..." because it not only suggests that whatever flimsy bit of urban mythology you are passing on is actually based on brand new, ground breaking research, but that it is research in which you yourself were intimately involved. But again, with no actual authority anywhere in sight. Anyway, where was I?
It seems that the brain is affected by alcohol. Well, we know that, of course. and those who don't yet are about to find out. But there are different gradations to the effect, and herein lies the crux. The brain organises its memories like a kind of hologram (it turns out). To retrieve an image, you have to re-create the exact conditions in which it was captured. In the case of the hologram, it's the lighting, in case of the brain it is, or can be (it turns out), the amount of alcohol sloshing around in it. Things that happen to you or, frighteningly enough, that you yourself say or do while under the influence of alcohol will only be recalled to your memory when you are under the influence of that exact quantity of alcohol again. these memories are completely beyond the reach of your normal, sober mind. Which is why, after some ill-advised evening out, you will be the only person who is completely unaware of some barkingly stupid remark you made to someone whose feelings you care about deeply, or even just a bit. It is only weeks, months, or in the case of New Year's Eve, exactly a year later, that the occasion suddenly returns to your consciousness with a sickening whump and you realise why people have been avoiding you or meeting your eye with a glassy stare for so long. This often result in your saying "good grief" to yourself in a loud voice and reaching for a stiff drink. which leads you up to the next level of inebriation, where of course fresh shocks await your pleasure.
And the same is true on the way back down. There are certain memories that will only be registered by revisiting exactly the same state of dehydration as the one in which the original events occurred. Hence the New Year's Resolutions problem, which is that you never actually remember the resolution you made, or even wrote them down, until the exact same moment the following year, when you are horribly reminded of your complete failure to stick by them for more than seven minutes.
So what is the answer to this terrible, self-discipline. A monastic adherence to a regime of steamed vegetables, plain water, long walks, regular workouts, early nights, early mornings, and probably some kind of fragrant oils or something. but seriously, the thing we are most going to want on New Year's Day, and be desperately trying to remember how to make, is a good hangover cure, and especially one that doesn't involve diving through ice in the Arctic. The trouble is, we can never remember them when we want them, or even know where to find them. And the reason why we can never remember them when we want them is that when we heard about them we didn't actually need them, which isn't any help, for the reasons outlined above. Nauseating images involving egg yolks and Tabasco sauce swill through your brain but you are not really in any fit state to organise your thoughts. Which is why we need, urgently, to organise them now while there is still time. So this is an appeal for good, effective methods of freshening up the brain on the New Year's Day that don't involve actual cranial surgery.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Indian School Of Mines
The Indian School of Mines is another name for ISM, which is the acronym for Indian school of matiyaos. This institute of national importance was set up by the British in Dhanbad, a town famous for clean environment, fantabulous infrastructure and the only international airpot in the state. It was the mastermind of The Indian National Congress to reduce the average intelligence of Indians. Just like Zion in Matrix, where 3% of the people who do not accept the Matrix are gathered together to prevent dissent as a whole, ISMU was formed by the Government of India to gather at one place the 2% of the intelligentsia of the country, and dumb them down.
Admission
The geeks and nerds of India start preparing for IIT-JEE just after 10th standard of schooling. A very effective test of whether a guy is fit for clearing JEE is asking a very simple question: "Do you have a girlfriend?" A guy who says anything else other than "What's a girl?" would not get through the test. Girls are considered unfit to get into ISM, though some girls manage to get the application forms as they look like guys. To make sure no girl gets through the system by bribing to get the application forms, the applicants are required to specify their gender and affix a photograph in the application form. Those faces that resemble anything girly are not selected.
The entrance exam, IIT-JEE, is an extremely selective undergrad admission process (accepting less than 2% of their applicants). As they say, if the input is right, the output is automatically right. The six-hour Joint Entrance Exam held, as the name suggests, jointly conducted by IITs, ISMU and ITBHU, consists only of questions on Physics, Chemistry and Maths and not on other exotic details like booze, drugs, crime PrOn etc. which severely affect the quality of the incoming students. Since the Indians are well known for cramming up loads of information, questions in JEE are never repeated.
The ISM curricula are carefully decided so that there is no scope of learning anything. The students, then, take up alternate learning routes, most common being Pr0n. The ISMU alumni on knowing the tremendous potential of internet, provided all hostel rooms with free and unlimited internet connection. The ISMites are also forced to eat mess food that prepares them for the worst they can ever face in their life.
The guys also learn how to make 50 palladins in 25 minutes and get three terrorists per shot. Some of the creative minds also make a quick buck by selling MMS clips online. Since there are assignments to be submitted every now and then, the guys also learn how to use Google adeptly. Photocopying centres are provided for every 100 metres of road so that time wasted in photocopying assignments is minimized. Lecture classes are held from 8:00 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. IST (Indian Stretchable Time). It has been established by years of testing that the time can be stretched to as much as 30 minutes beyond provided it is backed by a cardinal excuse.
Life and culture (or lack thereof)
When entering the ISMU, a guy has two options. The first is to take up the common learning route described above. Since IIT-JEE makes sure a lot of mavericks are selected, many of them also end up being happy among them. The girls in ISMU, usually refered to as Non-Males and measured as parts of girl per million parts of guy, have to struggle keeping their identity as girl secret throughout their stay in ISMU. Sometimes they are forced to tell the truth, like when a gay ISMite proposes mistaking them for a guy.
The alumni of these institutes have been very sucessful across the world (more in USA than in India). Most of them either get frustrated or leave technical education to study management at IIMs, or start a company of their own totally unrelated to their major discipline. There are also a select few who develop a fetish for studies and end up in institutes like Massachusetts Institute of Technology.
“These guys are total studs. Just like me.”
~ Oscar Wilde on ISMites
“I love those guys.”
~ Oscar Wilde on ISMites
“Shhh....Meet me at the Mining dept. later tonight”
~ ISMite on Oscar Wilde
“ISM is t3h 133t God on ISM
“We are 'GAWDS'.”
~ ISMites on themselves
“Fuck”
A girl on seeing the IIT-JEE question paper
“DISCO? Fuck!”
~ An ISMite on DISCO
“You think getting into ISMU is difficult? Try getting out, bitch!”
~ disguntled ISMite on ISMU
Monday, October 01, 2007
Nightout
It was one of those nights when you wish you were asleep, keeping in mind that you have a lecture to attend the next morning, which you cannot miss as you had already done so a lot of times in the past. But my body didn’t want the sleep, what with the Sunday I slept through. So here I am sting at my desk, sipping at a hot mug of black coffee, and occasionally glancing through the window looking at the dawn breaking. I shall soon go out and enjoy the cool morning freshness. It is not something new to me. But it’s definitely a rare event in college. I am one of those guys who sleep early enough to wake up for the lectures the next day.
I watched Anatomy of a Murder.
Preminger shows a willingness to shake up the status quo with this trial drama – it feels bracingly realistic. Packed with astonishing dialog and bristly performances, this is essential cinema.
Paul Biegler (Stewart) is a small-town Michigan lawyer who agrees to defend a young soldier, Manion (Gazzara), who killed the man who raped his wife (Remick). The trial pits Biegler against a shrewd big-city DA (Scott) and a visiting judge (McCarthy hearing lawyer Welch) who's both smart and witty. Surprise witnesses, back-hallway dealings, unexpected flirtations, outrageous revelations--they're all here, although the truth always seems just out of reach.
This is expert filmmaking--beautifully shot and brilliantly written with a complexity and a sense of detail that we rarely see anymore. Yes, it's a very long film, but it's so compelling that we hardly feel the time passing. Characters are all layered and fascinating, with dark shadings and hilarious asides. Even the side roles have a life of their own. And the entire cast is flawless. Stewart’s was an intriguing character, and Remick's flirtatious minx is unforgettable (Jodie Foster's Oscar-winning role in The Accused, 30 years later, is a direct copy). And of course, one cannot ignore Duke Ellington's gorgeous jazz soundtrack.
In addition to technical and artistic excellence, the plot itself is utterly engaging. Sexual tension gurgles everywhere, along with a constant threat of violence and a gnawing dread that the truth will never emerge, regardless of what the jury decides. Preminger brings an assured gravitas to the screen as he explores the complexity of humanity – no one is all good or all bad. He intriguingly avoids the lawyer's opening and closing arguments and only shows the string of witnesses – just the facts, as it were – while quietly turning the screw tighter and tighter until the final subtle surprise. Perfection.
I watched Anatomy of a Murder.
Preminger shows a willingness to shake up the status quo with this trial drama – it feels bracingly realistic. Packed with astonishing dialog and bristly performances, this is essential cinema.
Paul Biegler (Stewart) is a small-town Michigan lawyer who agrees to defend a young soldier, Manion (Gazzara), who killed the man who raped his wife (Remick). The trial pits Biegler against a shrewd big-city DA (Scott) and a visiting judge (McCarthy hearing lawyer Welch) who's both smart and witty. Surprise witnesses, back-hallway dealings, unexpected flirtations, outrageous revelations--they're all here, although the truth always seems just out of reach.
This is expert filmmaking--beautifully shot and brilliantly written with a complexity and a sense of detail that we rarely see anymore. Yes, it's a very long film, but it's so compelling that we hardly feel the time passing. Characters are all layered and fascinating, with dark shadings and hilarious asides. Even the side roles have a life of their own. And the entire cast is flawless. Stewart’s was an intriguing character, and Remick's flirtatious minx is unforgettable (Jodie Foster's Oscar-winning role in The Accused, 30 years later, is a direct copy). And of course, one cannot ignore Duke Ellington's gorgeous jazz soundtrack.
In addition to technical and artistic excellence, the plot itself is utterly engaging. Sexual tension gurgles everywhere, along with a constant threat of violence and a gnawing dread that the truth will never emerge, regardless of what the jury decides. Preminger brings an assured gravitas to the screen as he explores the complexity of humanity – no one is all good or all bad. He intriguingly avoids the lawyer's opening and closing arguments and only shows the string of witnesses – just the facts, as it were – while quietly turning the screw tighter and tighter until the final subtle surprise. Perfection.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Dream
Stumbling back to wakefulness the dream already fading into nothing, just fragments, like shapes seen through thick mist; eyes blear and head and body feeling the muzzy numb that comes from over sleeping. I had dreamed of a house that was, in some way a poem, written by a poet who had killed herself for love, long ago. The coffee in the percolator is stone-cold. I pour myself a cup-full of dregs anyway, put it in the microwave and set the LED for 70 seconds. As the coffee goes round in the little metal box, I realize that the poem in my dream was both beautiful and true, and that it was genuinely important. I feel sleepily proud of myself. I add cream. The house was the poem. I remember hovering disembodied about the house's exterior, while the sonorous words licked around me in marvelous mellifluous cadences. The coffee is foully bitter, but it serves to drag me further into the waking world. Transitions. I was about to find a pen and scribe the poem down, when it occurs to me that I’ve lost the words. I don't even know what it was about. Oh well, easy come, easy go. I don't know why Sam Coleridge bitched so much about his man from parlock: he got 55 killer lines on paper before he got distracted, didn't he? And the stuff you bring back from the dreaming is free. "And wide this tumult Kubla heard from far ancestral voices prophesying war..." later I was unable to categorize the events that followed. Certainly I smelled gas. But by the time I smelled the gas I was already running through the bedroom, towards the fire escape. a sudden feeling of sheer disbelief as I realized that I had grabbed my wallet from the table, and that I was already shielding my face with my arms, as I jumped...a shattering of glass. I landed on the fire escape, my face stinging, my right arm wet with blood (the pain would come later), and over the side, hang down as far as i could...and then let go. Smash down jarred and shaken, to solid ground, bones aching, skin all scraped, bleeding and just run for dear life, and just run...just. Shit. That was too close...adrenaline-giddy, i stumble into the supermarket. Clothes first. Then shoes. Then out.
Sunday, September 09, 2007
Relationship Blues
There’s a new fashion in my college, definitely in my batch. A sudden spurt of blogs talking about a mature and sensitive topic like a girl boy relationship can be seen, so much so that it would seem to an outsider reading them that nothing less than a full fledged war is being waged within the boundaries of one of the most prestigious institutes of the country where students are reckoned mature enough to understand the complexities of life.
Let me begin by defining the term ‘girlfriend’ (the definition of boyfriend will follow). Is it merely a girl who is your friend? It is not. She would then merely be a ‘friend’. There is a certain amount of lust, eros, involved, which is not so with a friend (of course, it is a different matter if you have a feeling of lust towards your lady friend but are afraid to confess it, or if that is one sided). By lust here I don’t mean lust alone, in most cases love too is involved, but that love is predominantly erotic, as against agape, love that a friend feels towards another, a mother towards child and so on.
Now let us come to the point under consideration, the whole issue of girlfriends and boyfriends. Is keeping a girlfriend in fashion? A status symbol? More often than not it is, especially at present when teens are committing suicides for the sake of love not knowing what love is. However, let us not foil the genuine love between a man and a woman by saying that all lovers are following in a trend. Did Romeo think of impressing Mercutio when he fell in love with Juliet? Or was it Krishna trying to show off his Casanova skills to Balram when paying suit to Radha?
No one says anything when a boy talks with a boy, but then why do we hear Chinese whispers when he talks with a girl? Maybe because it is a taboo to talk with the members of opposite sex. Maybe because most children from the very childhood are taught that a friendship between a girl and a boy is not healthy. But is the discrimination justified? I don’t think so. On the contrary, I believe that a friendship between a man and a woman is one of the most beautiful one. They complement each other. I personally feel that women are emotionally more mature than men, and I go to them when in any crisis, be it a friend, my sister, or my mother. Similarly, I’ve heard from many a friend that men make better friends than women. Not every friendship is based on lust. There are numerous cases of platonic relationships, but somehow the society can’t comprehend it, and it brands them as ‘affairs’. Ridiculous! But the multitude can be pardoned for their anachronistic beliefs, but what do you do when a bunch of young intellectuals behave in a similar fashion? It is nothing short of blasphemy!
Now the question remains: is a physical relationship between a man and a woman wrong? No, it is not, given that the parties are legally sanctioned to indulge in such an activity. Sex is one of the basic needs, and lust one of the basic instincts of the animal kingdom. Indeed, Freud placed sex, along with food and shelter, at the bottom of the pyramid of success. Without them, no person can achieve contentment, and emotional security, unless of course he or she is a saint. Only recently a young lady belonging to this institute was found in a compromising position with a few male friends of hers in a hotel room. A lot of resentment was shown, and the institution decided to expel the lady in question. It is not only ethically, but legally wrong to do so. Ethically because an institution has no right to moral police consenting adults, legally because the act was done outside the premises of the institute with the permission of an adult person. Nowhere in the constitution does it say that threesome is illegal! What point am I driving at? Simply this: whether a man shows off his trophy, whether a man is in a relationship only to satiate his carnal desires, or whether a man is in it for emotional and intellectual support, as long as he is not harming his friend it should be no one else’s concern but his. The same goes for a woman. As for relationships, no one can define what a good relationship is, for if you get down to it, you’ll have to come up with a billion definitions, for every person has a different need which he seeks to satisfy from it. Of course the ones that are most readily shattered are the ones based on ‘trophy love’. But that doesn’t mean that it is bad, for there is no good and bad when it comes to relationships.
Let me begin by defining the term ‘girlfriend’ (the definition of boyfriend will follow). Is it merely a girl who is your friend? It is not. She would then merely be a ‘friend’. There is a certain amount of lust, eros, involved, which is not so with a friend (of course, it is a different matter if you have a feeling of lust towards your lady friend but are afraid to confess it, or if that is one sided). By lust here I don’t mean lust alone, in most cases love too is involved, but that love is predominantly erotic, as against agape, love that a friend feels towards another, a mother towards child and so on.
Now let us come to the point under consideration, the whole issue of girlfriends and boyfriends. Is keeping a girlfriend in fashion? A status symbol? More often than not it is, especially at present when teens are committing suicides for the sake of love not knowing what love is. However, let us not foil the genuine love between a man and a woman by saying that all lovers are following in a trend. Did Romeo think of impressing Mercutio when he fell in love with Juliet? Or was it Krishna trying to show off his Casanova skills to Balram when paying suit to Radha?
No one says anything when a boy talks with a boy, but then why do we hear Chinese whispers when he talks with a girl? Maybe because it is a taboo to talk with the members of opposite sex. Maybe because most children from the very childhood are taught that a friendship between a girl and a boy is not healthy. But is the discrimination justified? I don’t think so. On the contrary, I believe that a friendship between a man and a woman is one of the most beautiful one. They complement each other. I personally feel that women are emotionally more mature than men, and I go to them when in any crisis, be it a friend, my sister, or my mother. Similarly, I’ve heard from many a friend that men make better friends than women. Not every friendship is based on lust. There are numerous cases of platonic relationships, but somehow the society can’t comprehend it, and it brands them as ‘affairs’. Ridiculous! But the multitude can be pardoned for their anachronistic beliefs, but what do you do when a bunch of young intellectuals behave in a similar fashion? It is nothing short of blasphemy!
Now the question remains: is a physical relationship between a man and a woman wrong? No, it is not, given that the parties are legally sanctioned to indulge in such an activity. Sex is one of the basic needs, and lust one of the basic instincts of the animal kingdom. Indeed, Freud placed sex, along with food and shelter, at the bottom of the pyramid of success. Without them, no person can achieve contentment, and emotional security, unless of course he or she is a saint. Only recently a young lady belonging to this institute was found in a compromising position with a few male friends of hers in a hotel room. A lot of resentment was shown, and the institution decided to expel the lady in question. It is not only ethically, but legally wrong to do so. Ethically because an institution has no right to moral police consenting adults, legally because the act was done outside the premises of the institute with the permission of an adult person. Nowhere in the constitution does it say that threesome is illegal! What point am I driving at? Simply this: whether a man shows off his trophy, whether a man is in a relationship only to satiate his carnal desires, or whether a man is in it for emotional and intellectual support, as long as he is not harming his friend it should be no one else’s concern but his. The same goes for a woman. As for relationships, no one can define what a good relationship is, for if you get down to it, you’ll have to come up with a billion definitions, for every person has a different need which he seeks to satisfy from it. Of course the ones that are most readily shattered are the ones based on ‘trophy love’. But that doesn’t mean that it is bad, for there is no good and bad when it comes to relationships.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Nature and Us
You desire to live "according to Nature"? Oh, you noble Stoics, what fraud of words! Imagine to yourselves a being like Nature, boundlessly extravagant, boundlessly indifferent, without purpose or consideration, without pity or justice, at once fruitful and barren and uncertain: imagine to yourselves indifference as a power - how could you live in accordance with such indifference? To live – is not that just endeavouring to be otherwise than this Nature? Is not living valuing, preferring, being unjust, being limited, endeavouring to be different? And granted that your imperative, "living according to Nature," means actually the same as "living according to life” – how could you do differently? Why should you make a principle out of what you yourselves are, and must be? In reality, however, it is quite otherwise with you: while you pretend to read with rapture the canon of your law in Nature, you want something quite the contrary, you extraordinary stage-players and self-deluders! In your pride you wish to dictate your morals and ideals to Nature, to Nature herself, and to incorporate them therein; you insist that it shall be Nature "according to the Stoa," and would like everything to be made after your own image, as a vast, eternal glorification and generalism of Stoicism! With all your love for truth, you have forced yourselves so long, so persistently, and with such hypnotic rigidity to see Nature falsely, that is to say, Stoically, that you are no longer able to see it otherwise – and to crown all, some unfathomable superciliousness gives you the hope that because you are able to tyrannize over yourselves – Stoicism is self-tyranny – Nature will also allow herself to be tyrannized over: is not the Stoic a part of Nature? . . . But this is an old and everlasting story: what happened in old times with the Stoics still happens today, as soon as ever a philosophy begins to believe in itself. It always creates the world in its own image; it cannot do otherwise; philosophy is this tyrannical impulse itself, the most spiritual Will to Power, the will to "creation of the world," the will to the prime cause.
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